the day Jim became Marcus

We’ve talked about identity quite a bit, but today something really weird happened. Jim told us that his real name is Marcus. WHATT?? Why would you have people call you Jim if your name is Marcus. Well, Jim (Marcus) explained that his middle name (Jim) came first on his American passport, and so that’s how his named appears on ACES. He said that it has just been easier to go by Jim.


This kind of changed my perception of how important a person’s name is to their identity. Whether he was called Jim or Marcus wasn’t really all that big of a difference, but it got me thinking. What if my name wasn’t Haley? What if Charlie’s name wasn’t Charlie. Would our personalities be different? Would we act differently? Do we identify ourselves based on the name that we are given?


This also made me think about when I was abroad and my Italian professor couldn’t pronounce my name. The H gave him such trouble. It was slightly amusing to hear him struggle each day. Ahh-Lee. He would call me. It was silly. But it was interesting in a way. The hard H of my name was something that so clearly marked me as American and made me wonder about Jim. Did going by Jim make him feel more American or did it make him feel like he was an outsider?


Also, while I’m on the topic of identity and abroad, since Chaz went on a whole long schpeel about his murce (man purse) and how it made him feel so in the French circle, I should probably tell you about my attempt to fit in while I was in Florence. I thought that the only way I was ever going to look, act and feel like a local was if I wore a leather jacket and a scarf. So, I set off on the journey to find la giacca di pelle perfetta. I searched long and hard, until I stumbled upon Massimo. I tried on probably every jacket in the store. It had to be perfect. It had to make me look Italian. Two hours later, I immerged from the store clad in leather, kissing Massimo on the left then the right cheek, “Ciao Ciao!” I said to him. And as I strolled through the leather market back to my apartment, I finally felt like I was one of them. I waved to the venders as I normally did, but this time they responded to me in Italian. I guess there are a lot of things that contribute to a person’s identity. For the Fiorentinas, the leather jacket meant I was one of them.


I guess for Marcus, going by Jim makes him one of us (Americans).

An American in Paris or How I Bought A Murse

During my time in Paris last year, I experienced a sense of US and THEM. It is interesting to me how much the way that I dressed determined the way that I was perceived and how I was able to enact a high degree of personal agency in changing which line of the US/THEM I found myself standing in.

Upon my arrival, I stuck out like a sore thumb. As you can see from this picture, I was pretty American looking: with my backwards hat, fleece vest, baggy clothes, and overly enthusiastic facial expressions. I expected and initially embraced my American-ness; however, it started to impede me improving my French and making French friends. The longer I was there the more I wanted to practice my French and see if I was fluent. Most Parisians, seeing that I looked American, spoke to me in English. I finally broke down and asked my host family why they thought I looked so American. The answer: my clothes.

My clothes had been keeping me outside of the group of US and made me a THEM, just like the other “human kinds” Berreby explores in his chapter Understanding the Tribal Mind. Parisians would make initial judgments when they looked at me and they would label me as a THEM. Someone who couldn’t speak the language, who didn’t understand the culture: an outsider. I knew it was time for a wardrobe make-over. I had to become a THEM, no matter what.

It was a struggle to try on my first pair of skinny jeans (both literally and figuratively) but I noticed a change in the way that people approached me when I traded in my GAP blue jeans for my H & M black ones. There were less sideways glances and noses in the air when I got on the metro or when I walked into my classes. Next I traded my bulky backpack for a Longchamp briefcase (affectionately nicknamed the “murse”) and lastly I abandoned my Northface fleeces for a more mature black military-ish peacoat. By my last few days in Paris, I had completely transformed (my long hair also fit in with the bohemian teenagers I became friends with). I felt Parisian and I felt like a member of the group of “US”, fully embraced by other French people: no dirty looks or mocking American accents. It felt great to belong again.

Then I experienced a reverse culture shock upon my return to Duke in January. I came back to all of my American friends, some who stayed in Durham and others who were abroad as well, and I noticed that I looked like a THEM again. My transformation was ill-received: how could I wear my skinny jeans and v-neck t-shirts amongst a fraternity of pastel polos and khaki shorts? Instead of adjusting myself like I had in Paris, I explained to my friends that this is how I dressed, that my time in France was important and that I liked feeling European. The feeling of being a THEM faded and I was welcomed back into the US. “The feelings that you belong is something that comes and goes” (Berreby 214) and it might have meant that my “murse” didn’t belong, but just as I have been an US before I left for France, I still was when I returned. I took control of the US-THEM code, just as Berreby says that each individual has the power to do, and I was able to maintain an US feeling even though I might have looked like a THEM (and I still might). These groupings of US/THEM can be artificially created and the differences that the mind (and the eye) sees may not be as much as a reality as we think on first glance.