From ld231782@longs.lance.colostate.edu Sun Dec 5 03:06:00 1993 You think you have the right to lie to anyone who asks, `who are you?' I live in NYC, and am often approached by panhandlers. Approached is the wrong word, I guess I mean that I walk past them. Every person that walks by gets asked the same question: have any spare change? I choose to give to charity for a variety of personal reasons, but I typically don't respond -- at all -- to requests from panhandlers. I don't look at them or respond verbally to the question. Every now and again, when I don't respond at all, I get an insult fired off at me -- like, 'You could at *least* say no' or somesuch. I feel that so long as there's no reason to believe that the question is an "honest" one -- that is, there's nothing to signal the start of a conversation or a "relationship" ... I am, afterall, just walking by, and the next person behind me gets the same appeal -- there's no reason for me to respond, let alone with the "truth" ... I believe that answering a question like "who are you" can and should get different answers depending on the depth of the "relationship" involved. Is the question poser seeking some sort of "truth" ...? A "name" is simply a label, a tag, something to indirect through to access the "named" ... I'm sure we all know people whom we've called "Jack" the entire time we've known him, and suddenly one day we see Jack in a different situation and someone calls him John. Has Jack (*our* Jack) been "lying" to us? ----- One year I spent a summer at a visual arts workshop with a group of people who knew nothing of my past, and I was sure not to know them in the future (10 years later, I've had no contact with any of them). We gathered in a circle on the first day of activities and introduced ourselves after the leader read our names off a sheet. When my name was read, I just ignored it. My name was read three times, and then the leader went to the next name. At the end of the list, she asked "was there anyone whose name I didn't call" ... a woman put her hand up, and so did I. The leader took down our names, and we continued. That summer, I was "Nick" to everyone at the workshop. We worked in very close quarters, and the group of 40 or so quickly developed the kind of "trust" that's required in such intense situations. People needed to count on one another, and often spent sleepless nights together working on projects, helping each other explore their vision and response to the work we were doing, and generally becoming "friends" ... Inevitably, I was drawn to intimacy with one particular woman. It's one of those things you suddenly find yourself in. We shared many secrets, dark nights, heat. In the end, I was "found out" by some other of the staff. It's not even clear how many people "knew" all along. Even the staff member I worked closest with could have known, but for whatever reason never said a word. The fiction was nearly complete for 12 weeks. I did not intend to defraud, the "truth" was consistant. When word passed around that Nick was not my name, some refused to believe it. Some approached me later and started with "Nick ... er, Jordan ... er ... what do I call you?" I said it didn't matter to me, and most chose to call me Nick for the remainder of our time together. I received a few letters from that particular woman, a christmas card or two. I had to tell the place that receives my mail to look out for mail addressed to Nick Stames and route it to my box. We continued a correspondance, sharing some bits of the next phase of our lives, and she continued to call me Nick. I was, afterall, Nick to her. That's who she "knew" ... ----- Why do you care "who" I am? /jordan