“For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.”
Virginia Woolf
There is something to be said for anonymity.
Now of course, me, being me, prone to navel gazing, cannot help but acknowledge the irony of this confession when stated on an eponymous site that’s considered public consumption.
But yes, anonymity has its benefits.
I’m sure Winona Ryder wished for a little anonymity when hit with a compulsion for shoplifting. Hugh Grant when he decided to play naughty and pick up a hooker to prove he could be “bad boy” enough to hold on to the attention of the well known philandering E. Hurley. And the list goes on and on.
Who wouldn’t want anonymity when a shame associated with weakness in character is involved.
And in acts of good, greatness, genius, and generosity? Anonymity comes with a bit of smug pride. There’s some humility, I suppose in anonymity when these things happen. But also an extraordinary lonliness.
And here’s where we disect the semantics of social construnct that differentiate anonymity and invisibility.
Whereas anonymity may imply choice and volition, will and intention to be nameless. Invisibility, in my experience at least, has felt moreso like a condition forced upon oneself due to social circumstance beyond the subject’s control.
Subject. Verb. Adjective.
Consider this.
And woman, when choosing to have a name, of one’s own, how significant is that in determining one’s fate. When choosing to give up part or all of one’s name to do great things. To project an identity based on a name. Or to grow into the greatness of a name that one was born to.
George Sand. vs Madonna. Vs Roger Nelson aka “The Artist Formerly Known as the Artist Formerly Known As Prince”
And for a woman to give up part of their name in marriage. Hyphenate? Keep your own last name? Create an amalgamated hybrid. Better than selling your name for a dot.com or softdrink, I suppose. My name, Min Jung, wasn’t even the name I was born with. My father paid someone to come up with a luckier name for myself when I was still a baby. In my lifetime, I’ve reinvented myself with some tweak to my name over each new stage in my life. As if by giving myself a new name, I could be a different person.
What happens when you reach a certain point where you can’t reinvent yourself anymore and you tire of who you are. Or at least who people think you are at this point in your life. I wonder if this is what actors feel like when they’ve been typecast. But me, I’m no actor. Not really, anyway. But I’m toeing the line of feeling extraordinary lonely and hunger for anonymity and the opportunity for reinvention, while ensnared in a social/digital environment that prohibits this. A gilded cage of my own making.
You’re here. You know who I am. But not really. You know who I choose to let you believe that I am. But I’m not even that. Am I the party girl who kisses the boys and makes them cry? Sometimes. Am I the diva with a bon mot and harsh words to emasculate otherwise charming lotharios? Sometime. Am I the girl who sometimes wakes up crying at night because the bed’s too wide, big and cold? Why yes. That’s me too. Am I weak for wanting and hoping for certain thngs I can never have? Yes. Am I angry and likely to throw things? Yes, I’ve been that person too. Am I the girl who’s always thinking about her father and his health, who still wears her mother’s wedding ring as a reminder for the sanctity of family, the filiality to one’s parents, and the will to honor their work, lives, and reputations. Yes. The girl who confesses too much about her inner workings and occasionally too much about her digestive tract? Most definitely. That catty bitch who ate all the nachos when no one else was looking. Yo. The girl who talks of spirituality and faith in god but swears like a sailer and is capable of sins that would make caligula blush? A smiths fan, certainly, but I stole that convo piece from Ms. Harpold and there you go, I’m not even as witty or smart as you might have previously thought. That’d be me. A monster? Maybe I have been unkind to you. Depending on who you are, I may feel sorry for that. See? There I go being someone that I’d rather not be again.
Tonight I’m typing while listening to Miles Davis – It Never Entered My Mind. A tune that, were it not tied to name or cult of personality, would still be tenderly lovely, tremblingly compelling in soft honesty and sentiment, would still be great. To thank Mr. Davis for his contribution to my life at this very moment, perhaps I would be just an anonymous fan. I would have liked that very much.
