Names, Identity, and Monkeys
A rant on a neglected element of who we are
If my name weren’t Silvio, I don’t know what it would be. This sounds like a riddle, or a paradox, or the written equivalent of one of those drawings by Escher. If I had a different name, of course I’d know what it is; it wouldn’t be my name otherwise. But if my parents hadn’t given me this name, what other name would fit my face and body and personality and voice? What other name would identify my persona? Would I have acted or talked differently, with a different name? And would I have had the same destiny?
I was reading Murakami’s “Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey” the other day, a short story that I’m sure many are familiar with. In it, the protagonist spends a night at this falling-apart, ramshackled, dilapidated inn where, soaked in the hot-spring bath, he meets a talking monkey. The monkey says he works at the inn and explains that he was raised in a human family, in Shinagawa, a part of Tokyo, where he learned to speak the human language and develop an appreciation for classical music, in particular Bruckner’s Symphonies. He then opens up and confesses that he never felt “a speck of sexual desire for female monkeys” and that he “could only love human females”. But that was a problem, because they obviously didn’t reciprocate (“there was no way I could expect human females to respond to my desires”). So he had to find another method of ridding himself of his unfulfilled desires, and started stealing the names of the women he fell for. After inquiring about the details of how he practically does that (“I need something with the person’s name actually written on it. An I.D. is ideal. [...] A name tag will work, too.”), the protagonist then asks what happens to the women whose name has been stolen.
Sometimes they find they can’t remember their name. Quite inconvenient, a real bother, as you might imagine. And they may not even recognize their name for what it is. In some cases, they suffer through something close to an identity crisis. And it’s all my fault, since I stole that person’s name. I feel very sorry about that. I often feel the weight of a guilty conscience bearing down on me. I know it’s wrong, yet I can’t stop myself. I’m not trying to excuse my actions, but my dopamine levels force me to do it. Like there’s a voice telling me, ‘Hey, go ahead, steal the name. It’s not like it’s illegal or anything.’ [...] I know I’m just a lowly monkey, but I never do anything unseemly. I make the name of the woman I love a part of me—that’s plenty for me. I agree it’s a bit perverted, but it’s also a completely pure, platonic act. I simply possess a great love for that name inside me, secretly. Like a gentle breeze wafting over a meadow.
Knowing Murakami, I wasn’t surprised at how surreal the story sounds. He’s not new to talking animals and strange, mysterious situations. But this idea of stealing someone’s name made me think that if there’s something we take for granted in our identity, that’s our name. Maybe because it’s been there since the moment we’re born, the first thing we were given after life itself. Or maybe because we couldn’t imagine our face, or re-running our life, with another name. It doesn’t define anything about who we are, but without it we’re not who we are. Curious. And weird, a little.
The Shinagawa Monkey must have thought that, out of all that can be stolen, probably the name is the most personal thing, the most immediately evident tile of the mosaic that’s our identity. The one that could create some sort of intimate connection with these women he fell for, in absence of anything else. I don’t know, I’m left thinking that, besides the fantasy and the surrealism, there may be something unexpectedly clever there.
I’ve written before that I see identity as a container that we decide what to fill with. Largely, we choose to fill it with big things like nationality, religion, political beliefs, or a job. Also, with not-so-big (but big to our eyes nonetheless) things like the football team we root for. And of course we let these big things speak to who we are. But in a way, if I identify myself as an “Italian catholic liberal writer who’s a fan of Inter Milan”, I’m being lazy. The message I’m sending out to the world is I belong to these tribes and they unequivocally provide a definition of me that’s easy and immediate to convey. And since I’m unable to find (or communicate) anything more explanatory, I let these pre-packaged identifiers do the trick. It’s like personal identity by proxy. The other message that I’m sending out is I need to define myself, as without a definition I won’t have a place in this world. Finally, there’s a way more important message, one that always lurks below the surface, which is I don’t know who I am.
Many are perfectly content with this state of things, and I’m in no way maintaining that they should change their views on identity, if any. In fact, I guess many don’t even think about identity, and they continue to live a fulfilling life and gosh -- sometimes I’d love to be like that. But we like to think, do we not?
And so, long ago, I refused to let any one of these (supposedly) big things take too much space in my identity container. They’re in there, undeniably -- I am Italian and I do have liberal political views and I am a fan of Inter Milan, after all. But, in the grand scheme of things of who I am, I decided they would be minor. I convinced myself that I wouldn’t wage a war to defend them, and I started to continuously test and reevaluate them to see whether they should stay or go. At the root of it all there’s a simple belief: nothing’s carved out in stone; given enough convincing evidence, I eagerly change my mind.
Yesterday, I stumbled upon a Jim Carrey video on Instagram. I guess he was responding to some interview question that wasn’t included. He said “I find it all so abstract. Why am I an American? Why am I a Canadian? What is that? What does that mean? Somebody put a line down and said ‘this is that’. We’re so much more. We’re born into a family, so we’re told what our family name is, and then our parents choose a name, and they say ‘your name will be Joel. It means the awesomeness of Yahweh, you know, and you have to live up to that, dude. We’re counting on you not to make us look bad. You’re going to go to Harvard and you’re going to be a doctor. And by the way you’re a Catholic, or you’re a Jew, or you’re whatever you are’. These are abstract structures that you’re given and are supposed to hold you together somehow, you know. And I’ve just given them up.” It resonated strongly.
So, what shall we make space for in our identity container? Whatever makes us us, I guess. I don’t think big things like a political credo or a religion make us us -- they just give us a label, they grant us an affiliation, they place us in a tribe. And that’s fine, if we’re comfortable. But who are we, really? It’s okay if we don’t know: there’s fascination in a continuous quest, I think. And not knowing is better than pre-packaging and labeling. Once you label me, you negate me, said Kierkegaard. What really identifies us are small things. Our things. Things that place us in a tribe of one. Maybe not really one, maybe a lot of people like to look at airplanes in the sky wondering where they’re headed and who’s in there, or walk at night looking at lightened windows and imagine what’s going on behind them, or twirl their hair when concentrating. Small things. Our things. Actions and behaviors, likes and dislikes, more than beliefs and words. All of it glued together by our name.
If it hasn’t been stolen by a monkey.
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The other day my mom asked me if I liked my name, or if I would have preferred to be named something else. This sent me on some interesting musings, and I landed somewhere similar than you: I wouldn't, I couldn't be named anything else. Great, more articulate musings from you. Thought that maybe your book could be on identity?
Coincidentally, I stayed in the Shinagawa area while in Tokyo, I didn't talk to any monkeys though
This was beautiful Silvio.
I love all your writing but your ideas on identity always fascinate me the most. I’ve been thinking about keeping my identity small (or just putting small things in my identity box) ever since your essay.
I’ve seen in lived experience how people who identify with something become more fragile. “I’m a traveller and I’m worldly and love travel”. Or “I’m a health enthusiast and work out every day” or whatnot. And they have to fight to defend it. And some times they have to work to fill that identity they’ve created - often then doing things that aren’t natural or aligned.
And I think you’re spot on with labeling. The minute we label something, we no longer look at it. Think about it. We just put it in a box and assume it’s like all the other things in that box that we understand. A shortcut by our brains to deal with the complexity of the world but a dangerous one nonetheless.
In Awareness, de Mello wrote:
“The great Krishnamurti put it so well when he said, “The day you teach the child the name of the bird, the child will never see that bird again.” How true! The first time the child sees that fluffy, alive, moving object, and you say to him, Sparrow,” then tomorrow when the child sees another fluffy, moving object similar to it he says, “Oh, sparrows. I’ve seen sparrows. I’m bored by sparrows.”
If you don’t look at things through your concepts, you’ll never be bored. Every single thing is unique. Every sparrow is unlike every other sparrow despite the similarities.”
Apologies for the long comment. But beautiful piece :)