Our concept of “self” is an artificial construct. One need not be a Buddhist to embrace the fundamental truth of this observation. I am not a nihilist—I exist— but that “I” exists only relationally. I am a product of my experiences, of my relationships, of my values, of my circumstances. Because all those things change constantly, there is no unchanging “I.” Indeed, to the extent our sense of self is meaningful, it is a self that goes through an endless series of deaths and rebirths. The self that exists in one moment is gone the next. Efforts to impose continuity on this process don’t survive logical scrutiny—there’s not a cell in my body that was there the day I was born; there’s not a thought in my brain that was there when I was an infant, or even a child; there’s not a single aspect of my character that hasn’t changed multiple times over the years. “I” am always dying and being reborn. The question isn’t whether this happens, but whether it happens for good or ill.
In the fall, I took my son to Boston Common for an outdoor worship service. Prior to the service, we provided lunch to the homeless people who had gathered to pray. My son and I developed a system for distributing lunches: as the line moved, I asked what people would like to eat (there was a choice of sandwiches), then I gave my son the right sandwich and had him hand it to the recipient. It worked wonderfully. Maybe my son learned something that will stick with him, but more immediately, the people received their free meal with a dignity I could not possibly have afforded them—the delight on their face was unmistakable, and it was a lot more profound than the “wow, what a cute kid” sentiment that young children often evoke.
I understand the distance between my brain chemistry and a homeless person’s is no thicker than a c—t hair. Unfortunately, after 37 years living in this society, some part of society’s wrong-headed judgments have become part of me. Something in my eyes would have betrayed those judgments to many people in that lunch line. These judgments, as loathsome as I find them to be, are part of who “I” am.
In recent weeks, I’ve realized that I’m a profoundly selfish person. My selfishness manifests itself in many ways. I measure the worth of other people mostly by what they can do for me. I am motivated to do work I enjoy, I can be prodded to do work that must be done right away, but if I have work to do that’s neither interesting nor pressing, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell it will get done, no matter how handsomely I’m paid to do it. And in large part because of my profound selfishness, my marriage will never be anything more than a child-rearing artifice. After eleven years of struggle, my wife and I have hurt each other too much to hope for more than that.
It gets worse. Recently, I’ve realized that my daughter—Daddy’s little girl, my pride and joy—is already dead for all intents and purposes. No, my daughter isn’t going to die imminently; she has several years of life left, maybe more. But the girl I held in that neurologist’s office that awful day six years ago, the girl who endured a bone-marrow transplant with courage I can only imagine having, the girl whose excitement was palpable when she met Mickey Mouse on her Make-A-Wish trip to Disney World, the girl I look forward to holding in my armchair every Christmas morning—she’s gone. Forever. I’m not her Daddy anymore. Now, I’m the father of a child who sometimes shows affection for me, but more often doesn’t; a child who sometimes giggles when an old friend visits, but more often turns away to watch TV; a child who once inspired many teachers, therapists and aides to go beyond the call of duty to reach her potential, but whose newer aides mostly see her as someone to be babysat and kept out of trouble.
In other words, the “self” I like to see when I look in the mirror either never existed (the hardworking person who cares about homeless people), or is perishing before my eyes (the good husband, the proud father). This is all part of the natural, continuous cycle of death and rebirth. And it would bother me less if I wasn’t so invested in a notion of “self” that is disconnected from reality. If I ever was the person I always wanted to be, that “I” would perish instantly. Here’s hoping the ugly person I’ve discovered I am at the moment perishes no less quickly.
