"Hindsight is...well you know, it's a bitch," was the California DMV associate's tactful response to my query of how I was supposed to renew my registration since I was 3,000 miles away and they were requiring a California smog inspection. Before you take off on an eight month road trip across America to hawk shower curtain rings, be warned that the California Department of Motor Vehicles has very little sympathy for the plight of the traveling salesman, my adopted profession to rationalize why my car was so far away and not returning in time for a smog inspection. I was going to go with indie rock star on a low budget tour, but thought I would find more understanding for the Willie Lomans of this world. I was wrong. Feeling forced into malfeasance, I felt no shame in packing a little snow over my tags and rolling the dice, but the strong arm of my grandfather's conscience persuaded me to legalize it (I told you we were occasional rivals).
So I journeyed to Wadena for the nearest licensing bureau to register for Minnesota license plates, where I found their service to be lacking in all the charm of California's DMV. Not only did they smile, look me in the eye, say thank you, and refrain from belittling my intelligence and spitting on my shoes, but they actually restored my title with my given name of Marcus, replacing Marcos, the alleged legal owner of my car for the past three years.
Although it had its perks, improved dancing and ballad singing, I never did feel all that comfortable as Marcos. I have found a great comfort in being returned to my original Marcus status, for which I am most grateful to the state of Minnesota. It would be unjust to cast the entire blame for the misappropriation of my identity on the California DMV since the confusion began much earlier with Senorita Johnson's high school Spanish class. I am guilty as well, perpetuating the persona with post graduate Latin American explorations. Actually, when I come to think of it, the ascension of Marcos may date all the way back to the third grade with my acceptance of my Phoenix YMCA Basketball League Certificate of Participation.
The Minnesota title of registration will only be temporary, however, I hope to retain the sense of self that I am finding in the serenity of this rural escape of my forefathers. As if shedding the roles foisted upon by school, by work, by relationships, I feel lighter, stripped down to the elemental Marcus. I was once told, "In LA it is perhaps better to have a persona than a personality" (*). I now see the truth in that statement. In order to survive the ocean of egos and competitors it is smarter to reserve your true self for only a trusted inner circle of friends. A necessary practice, hiding your real nature away seems logical, but I fear it is detrimental to ones satisfaction and joy. Of course, I think it is quite possible to retain your true self in a metropolis. Those are the people who thrive, who shine.
Living in a cabin of my relatives, everyday I pass a picture of 3 year old Marcus that my aunt has hanging in the hall. I strive to find and take this Marcus with me after I leave my seclusion, and I am beginning to believe that we are not who the world molds, we are not even who we ourselves craft, but we are who we have always been.
1 comment:
I don't even remember saying that to you, but damn, I'll take credit. It seems wise.
Strangely, the California DMV fucked up my personality, too - they moved my birthday back three days, and now I can't seem to figure out how to prove they're wrong since all my IDs list my birthday as March 8th.
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