Horcruxes

Without a doubt, a “horcrux” is a nasty thing. As any Harry Potter enthusiast knows, a horcrux is a piece of the soul that resides in an external object, possibly in another person. We can have many of them and, so long as one survives, we cannot die. The nasty part is we have to commit murder to create one. An ugly bargain, to be sure, and only an evil person—think Voldemort—would be willing to accept it.

The concept of horcruxes, as offered by J. K. Rowling, can become useful to us if we stipulate a few modifications. What if we’re not talking about slivers of our “soul”—that’s too obscure for me—but about “compartments” in our identity. And what if we don’t have to kill to make them? In fact, what if we don’t have to do much of anything? Say they just spring into existence as we grow and widen our contact with people. No, I’m not suggesting that one might invade our being while we’re sitting next to a stranger on a bus. What I have in mind is repeated exposure to certain people, like parents, grandparents, and siblings—to anyone who propinquity throws in our path, like little Bobby down the street or our 8th-grade history teacher.

Because children are defenseless, horcruxes, both wounding and benevolent, take root easily. Think of young David Copperfield, who internalizes the cruel presence of Mr. Murdstone but also the loving presence of Peggotty. As David grows, Dickens makes him an exemplar of virtue, and this is where the story departs from reality. Like it or not, David will always have a piece of Murdstone buried in him. At an unforeseeable time, somehow, it will appear in a flash of darkness. Hopefully, Peggotty’s gentle affection will express itself more often.

As we approach adolescence, something different happens. Our sense of what’s pleasing and what isn’t, moderated by the horcruxes already settled in, gives us more control over whom we will confide in, love, and avoid. And so it goes throughout adulthood: we take more and more care about whom we lease mind-space to. Because this process is, as I see it, universal, there is reciprocity with those we hold dear: a part of them inhabits us, and a part of us inhabits them. Moreover, the compartments of our identities also find a home in everyone we are close to—our companions, our children, our friends, and, to a diminishing degree, their friends and children. In this way, we are interlaced with one another through generations.

Advances in medicine may give our progeny much longer lives, but immortality will forever remain a fantasy. The best we can do is find a home in the minds we touch.

Identity

Caitlyn Jenner, nee Bruce, drew powerfully on our sympathy when she described a body and brain at odds over gender identity. We came to understand how an emotional imperative can drive one mad in a society that damns any expression of it. No wonder the suicide rate among transgenders was so high! Caitlyn’s brave declaration, “This is who I am,” gave us hope that the horror of this conflict would in time subside. In her words we could hear the anthem “I Am What I Am.”

The case of Rachel Dolezal seemed quite a different story. It’s about racial identity. She thinks of herself as physically and culturally black even though her ancestry is European. Compassion is harder to come by because we know there is no more superficial discriminator of human beings than racial characteristics. How much could her perception of her “inherent” race matter when race is only skin deep? I turned this question over for quite a while and concluded that inherence is a pointless distinction. For the sake of argument, let’s suppose Caitlyn’s dilemma was dictated entirely by Nature: she’s the victim of her genes. Let’s further suppose the contrary for Rachel. Her dilemma is solely the workings of Nurture: she loved her adopted black brothers; her mind was open to the pain of racism; she came to see whites as insensitive and oppressive; she struggled with racial self-loathing and reverse-racist thoughts. Would it make any sense to conclude that Caitlyn’s sense of identity was authentic and Rachel’s was not? No, experience is imprinted on our wiring, so it’s no less a contributor to identity than inheritance.

Identity is a complex construct, the sum of many elements. It’s not just about gender or race or sexual preference. Only a simpleton would think its boundaries stopped there. Yes, identity comprehends how we see ourselves sexually and racially, but more importantly, spiritually, morally, socially, and politically. It not only connects us to our passions—the arts, sciences, sports, humor, food, travel—but to our apathies as well. It is nothing less than the lens through which we see ourselves and the world that is our context. In short, identity is our reality.

It’s a glorious thing that Nature and Nurture bond so variously to produce unique identities. We should celebrate it. That we often do the opposite, that we invoke superstition and scripture to discriminate against identity types, is among the most repugnant themes in the human story. Only in exceptional cases is acceptance the wrong prescription for dealing with out-of-the-mainstream identity types. I’m thinking of the wretches whose identities are so shattered that they only feel secure by assuming another identity—a Christ, a Da Vinci, a Queen Victoria. Then there are the avenging angels among us, the assassins and terrorists; the sociopaths; and the criminals for whom violence is as natural as breathing. These are truly cases of identity dysfunction. Only here is isolation warranted, solely for our own safety. But still, out of common humanity, we must do whatever we can to reclaim these broken lives.

Some readers think they may suffer from a dysfunction I’ll call “identity quandary.” It’s the problem that begets the desperate question, “Who am I?” Supposedly it’s treatable by going on an unsystematic quest to “find” oneself. I hold a different opinion. All that’s required is an attitude adjustment. This was best expressed by George Bernard Shaw: Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.