IDENTITY THIEF
by Val Leichtman
“Boarding pass and ID, ma’am?”
My heart thuds in my ears. A painful lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow but my mouth is desert dry, my tongue sandpaper that sticks to the roof of my mouth a moment. As I pull out my wallet, the airline attendant behind the kiosk taps her foot and sighs loudly, blowing her platinum-dyed bangs up in a huff. I sift through my ID’s. Who do I want to be today?
Blonde, Cheryl Adams, 35, confident mother of 2? Tall, thin, always on-the-go advertising executive Maria Alvarez? Bohemian, Marly Davis, high-school dropout now playing the role of a starving artist? My fingers graze over each plastic coated card, each a different person I’ve chosen to play at some point in my life. I finally settle on one . . . my own, true driver’s license. I pull it out and stare at it a moment. I extend my hand holding my license to the attendant. It sticks to my sweaty palm a moment as she takes hold of the nearest edge. I fight the urge to recoil and run. I hold my breath as she inspects the information on the card.
She looks up, her mocha eyes piercing, seeing through my deception, I’m sure. There’s no way she’s gonna believe this one. I should’ve gone with—
My thoughts are interrupted as her cotton-candy-colored glossed lips break into a smile around her bleached teeth. “Welcome aboard, Ms . . .”
———
I am an identity thief. The above story is an utter piece of fiction, an allegory to depict a point, but the first sentence of this paragraph is completely true: I am an identity thief. No, I don’t have physical fake driver’s licenses or passports on me, but I do have multiple personas.
To my extended family, I’m “little Vallie,” a perpetual 12-year-old who agrees with everything anyone says about her grandmother’s deteriorating health even though her inner voice has its own opinions. To my friends, I’m Val, the aloof, argumentative 20-something-year-old whose “go-to” answer is “I don’t care” but in reality it’s too scary to have her own opinions because she doesn’t think she matter’s enough. At work, I’m Valerie who will agree to help anyone with just about any project, no matter what’s on her plate because she’s terrified of disappointing someone and her coworkers finally discovering she’s an impostor, that she’s not good enough to work with them. To my ex-husband, I’m . . . well, you get the idea.
The point is, over the years, I’ve created numerous identities that I slip into and out of like your favorite pair of flip flops. Depending on the situation, I float in and out of so many personalities that I don’t know which one is the real me and I’m exhausted because it always feels like someone is going to catch me in some sort of lie. The reality is that each persona is me. My real identity is all of them combined. However, when I try to just be me, I find myself like my earlier character—terrified that the people around me won’t believe my true identity. This fear causes me to go back to what I’m comfortable with—playing a persona.
I no longer just want to be comfortable. Bert reminded me today that growth only occurs outside the barriers of your comfort zone. I’m tired of hiding who I am. So, it’s time for me to get uncomfortable, stand up and just be me, even the parts of me that I don’t like. The only way to change those is to actually face them head on. So, even though I want to crawl under the nearest rock when I see it, here’s the most real I’ve been in awhile:
Hi, I’m Valerie. I’m the BOWA cry baby. Who are you?
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