Sandwiched between the desire to design a postmodern Don Quixote and the ever-challenging world of reality, my final semester as an undergraduate has commenced. This is what I look like at this juncture:
Although I’ve always prided myself in selecting courses that challenge my personage and sanity, I feel that I have outdone myself this semester; clearly in the most positive way:
Contemporary Feminist Poets of Great Britain and Ireland.
Native American History.
Philosophy of Moral Issues: Focusing on surrogate motherhood, abortion and affirmative action.
Even before removing myself from the U.S. of A, I have constructed an environment in which I, a middle-class white male, am no longer the center of influence, or rather, the majority. Whatever will I do? Dress in black-face? Begin estrogen treatment? I don’t necessarily see either happening. In fact, as usual, I see the future washing over me unnoticed. Subtly growing into the same person I have always been…
On that note, I briefly considered shifting my name towards its more formal version (ie, Ben to Benjamin). My inaction is undoubtedly a result of self-realization. Since day one, the first day of my life, I have been Ben. This name has become a term for the inner-essense of myself. Obviously there is false hope in the search for uniqueness. To clarify, there is no search. It’s semi-snowflake theory stuff. Fingerprint business. Anyway. I am Ben. And although Julius Keen, in many ways, is my unadulterated id, Ben is the superego. A name change would shake the narcissistic rock of individuality to which I have clung for so, so long.