The Things That Define You

By chance, by choice, or otherwise

We, as denizens of the waning first quarter of the twenty-first century, live in the “Great Age of Identity.”

Modern society has decided (or more accurately, a small cadre of postmodernist ivory tower academics have decided, and the Twittersphere took it and ran with it) that labels are paramount. Whereas people used to define themselves by their name, their hometown, their religion, or perhaps their profession, now it all comes down to socioeconomic, gender, sexual and political preference, or ethnic or race-based indicators.

Individuality is out. Group identity is in.

I’m not convinced this is particularly useful, and it certainly doesn’t seem like a productive path towards achieving societal harmony, yet nonetheless, that’s where we are.

So it got me thinking. How do I define myself? What factors are most essential to me being me, to being “Colby”?

Well, here are the first three that came to mind. Which, like guessing on a multiple choice test, means they’re probably the right ones. Then again, maybe they just happen to be what I’ve been writing about lately. Either way’s okay by me. Which is as it should be, being as they’re about me.

Anyway, they are:

• Atheist
• Stoner
• Libertarian

Let’s unpack these one by one.

Atheist: This one used to consume me and animate me much more than it does now, yet it still fully defines me. I think the question of the existence (or non-existence) of a deity or deities, or of anything supernatural (literally, beyond or outside the laws of physics), as well as the form that might take, and the consequent demands or obligations or expectations placed on humanity, is truly the most important question in the universe. I just feel that I’ve answered it to my satisfaction.

I still keep an open mind. I think the lingering scientific mysteries of consciousness and the multiverse leave open a few doors for what most would call “spiritual happenings.” But as far as dogma, ritual, clergy, fundamentalism, fanaticism, and the non-separation of church and state go, no thank you. Hard pass. And full resistance.

Stoner: You can get a more detailed take here, here, here, and especially, here, but suffice to say, I truly appreciate the penetrating view that partaking of cannabis gives me into the inner and outer realms of existence. I revel in it. It defines my tone and manner of speech, of writing, of music and photography, of playing Legos with my kids, of bathing placidly in the forest or sitting alone on a mountaintop. I dig it.

It also feeds a bit into my natural neuroticism. And that’s okay. It kind of tempers it or takes it in cool directions. That is, when it’s not making me massively overthink things. But I like thinking, and thinking about all kinds of things.

Things like how weed makes parties and concerts waaaay more enjoyable. And how, whenever I’m on it, music sounds better. Food tastes better. And sex is divine. Like I said, I dig it.

Libertarian: Now this one, thanks to assholes like Rand Paul, along with a wholesale abandonment of classical liberalism by the Left, may raise some people’s shackles. So allow me to explain.

Freedom. Period. I’m talking Braveheart. I’m talking Patrick Henry. I’m talking John Stuart Mill. Read On Liberty and if you don’t like it, I’m sorry, but we can’t be friends.

Okay, we can. I try to get along with everyone. But if you ever narc me out for smoking a joint somewhere I’m not supposed to, watch yourself. I simply can’t abide arbitrary restrictions imposed upon my life.

It must run in my blood. My great to the eighth power grandfather — named, appropriately enough, Thomas Powers — fought against tyranny in the American Revolution. He’s my homeboy. “Give me liberty or give me death” and “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees” are words to live by. (Or die by, as the case may be. But either way, legit.)

So that’s three. But who’s counting? There can be no arbitrary limits to defining something as complex as a human being. So here are a few more, which, like the subtitle, are a mixture of chosen and otherwise.

Man: Okay, I’ll be honest. Being able to stand and pee is an incalculably wonderful blessing, clearly bestowed by Zeus, Vishnu, Odin, and the great god Bumba combined (the latter of which, according to the Kuba people of Central Africa, vomited the world into existence. Nice.)

There’s no way around it — even if none of them exist (which, I’m confident they don’t) — it’s a crucial capacity in a thirsty, thirsty world. Especially when the world is your urinal — which it most assuredly is.

And I won’t apologize for either of these things. Unless the latter was on your rose bushes. Sorry about that. But otherwise, I’m just spreading phosphoric goodwill (in a time when lack of that critical nutrient will soon be the next climate change-level crisis. Seriously.)

Other than that, though, being a dude doesn’t mean all that much to me. I think guys and gals — while different in important and beautiful ways — are exactly the same as far as being humans with the exact same rights, responsibilities, opportunities, and dignity. Full stop. Anything less is a travesty.

I’m still glad I can stand and pee, though.

Father: That baby in the opening image? Oh, man. My entire world. What’s the point of having lived if no one cares that you did so after you’re gone? If there’s no one on which to impart your wisdom, no one to inherit all the cool fossils and crystals and stuff you’ve collected on your various adventures? And no one to listen with rapt attention and admiration as you tell them stories of those adventures?

I’m not saying parenthood is the only path to that, but it’s surely the most tried and true. And it happens to be the path I took. Plus, making babies is fun. Or at least, it’s fun trying to.

Lady’s Man: Speaking of what it takes to make babies, this is one rare area of life I categorically refuse to write about, as guaranteed entertaining and salacious as I can promise you those tales would be. But I don’t kiss and tell the Internet. Sorry, would-be vicarians.

Let’s just say I’m rocking the right side of the Pareto principle. Or, as Chris Rock memorably put it: Ten percent of guys are doing ninety percent of the fucking. No complaints there.

American: Any pride I once felt about this has steadily diminished over the course of my life, both from the actions the country has undertaken — foreign and domestic equally — and the more fully fleshed out knowledge I’ve gained of its past actions. I’m more of a Cascadian nationalist if anything. But the U.S. is not yet hopeless. It still has a chance. I’d still far rather be American than Russian or Chinese or Syrian or North Korean or South Sudanese. Hands down.

Intellectual: I once wrote in my journal, “Intelligence can be a curse. But lack of it is surely worse.” On top of being born with a fortunate cerebral capacity, I’m very thankful to have had the opportunity to gain a quality education in a lucrative field. And I’ve dove into the “education of life” tenfold and of my own accord since the formal segment concluded. Ignorance may be bliss, but intelligence is a curse I’ll take any day.

Traveler: For many of the best years of my life, before forced to succumb to societal expectations of having consistent gainful employment, this is what completely defined me. Occupation? Mochilero. Length of stay? Indefinite. I’ve proudly been to forty countries on five continents. I speak three languages with fluency and can order a beer in a dozen more.

I’ve motorcycled from Bangkok to Malaysia and back. I’ve sailed a schooner from Brazil to South Africa. I’ve evacuated Machu Picchu on a military chopper, and I’ve fought off a mugger attack in Jo’burg with brass knuckles. Travel is life distilled to its vital essence.

It’s the single best thing anyone can do to expand their mind and their literal and metaphorical horizons both. It’s hard to want to bomb people you’ve laughed with and broke bread with. Travel is the ultimate antidote to jingoism. I would fully support forcibly deporting every single American upon their eighteenth birthday for one full year to go out and see the world and interact with its diverse inhabitants. And to do so while not carrying a machine gun. I swear world peace would ensue.

Book Nerd: Like many of the readers and writers here on Medium, I absolutely love books, and I have since I was child. I own thousands of them and have read at least half of them, many of them more than once. I’m pretty much the poster child for the Japanese term tsundoku (積ん読), “the phenomenon of acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one’s home without reading them.”

That’s me to a tee. I figure I’ll get to them when I’m old and bored, or in between fending off machete-wielding cannibal hordes during the Apocalypse. But regardless, I acquire more books every week it seems, and I have no plans to stop — even if it means owning more than I could possibly read in seven lifetimes.

So there you have it. The things that define me. The things that make me me. I’m sure I’ve missed some, but that’s okay. They’re a part of me all the same.

How about you? What defines you as person, as a unique individual traveling through this journey we call life? I’d love to hear about it.

The grand diversity of human experience is what makes people so damned interesting, for all our myriad flaws. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Would you?

Colby Hess is a freelance writer and photographer from Seattle, and author of the freethinker children’s book The Stranger of Wigglesworth.

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