Am I Really Me?

For as long as I can remember I have been interested in and perplexed by identity, especially my own. Now that I am in my seventies, I don’t know who the hell I have become and find it impossible to connect with any of the myriad personas that populate my history on this godforsaken planet.

When I was in my twenties I drew unemployment benefits on three occasions, not because I could not find a job, but because I did not like working. In The Life of Henry Fuckit, I drew on these experiences to explore what it means to claim you are who you think you are and not someone else.

Henry waited his turn. For three hours he waited his turn and then went through for registration.

By contrast, this room was in semi-darkness. A profusion of pot plants crowded the windows and the light was filtered and crepuscular, as in the depths of a forest. Giant ferns grew in troughs around the walls, creepers hung from the ceiling, leaves brushed his face.

"Come and sit down and answer the questions."

His eyes were adjusting and he was aware of two desks facing each other. Isolated midway between them was a straight-backed chair. He sat facing one man, his back to the other. A lamp snapped on and he flinched at the intensity of 200 watts.

"We now fill in the registration form for unemployed white males."

It was hard to make out his features but his voice, flat with boredom and contempt, sounded that of a middle-aged Afrikaner. The tiresome details were extracted from Henry one after the other in a long stream of questions and answers. Surname, title, first names, date of birth, place of birth, nationality, identity number, father's names and dates, mother's names and dates, nationalities, educational qualifications, military service, history of employment, last employer, reason for termination of employment, Unemployment Insurance Fund number. He confabulated freely in order to assist the flow and finally it was done.

"UIF card and ID."

"Huh?"

"Unemployment card and ID."

Henry handed them over. The man examined them under the lamp, paying close attention to the photograph. There was a long pause.

"How do I know you are who you are? Or rather, how can I satisfy myself that you are, in actual fact, the person you claim to be? This is a serious matter and we cannot issue benefits to just anybody who comes in here and makes a claim."

"But that's my identity document you're holding in your hand. Which I gave you."

"What does that prove?"

"Jesus, it proves that I'm Henry Fuckit."

"You don't seem to understand, my friend. Just because you hand me this Henry Fuckit's ID, do you expect me to believe that it was Henry Fuckit himself who handed it to me? Do you take me for a fool?"

"I didn't say you were a fool. I'm not even insinuating you're a fool. Alright. I give you Henry Fuckit's ID. You look at the photograph, you look at me. Is it a true likeness?"

"A true likeness! Ha, ha, ha. What is a true likeness? What is truth?"

"With a photograph, a true likeness is an accurate visual representation of the person photographed. Truth is elusive of exact description or proof, but it's based on the notion of 'correct description'. It is correct to describe that photograph as an accurate visual representation of me. And Henry Fuckit. One and the same."

"Don't get simplistic with me, pal. You know that I know that we both know truth is entirely subjective. This might be a true likeness to someone who couldn't give a damn about the truth, but to a person insisting upon correspondence between statement and actuality this doesn't look much like you at all. In fact, you look considerably older than this Fuckit in the photograph."

"Fuck it, that's because the photo was taken back in 1969 when I was only nineteen. Time has elapsed and now I'm twenty-six. I've aged."

"Exactly. Quod erat demonstrandum. How could the picture of a nineteen-year-old possibly be a true likeness of a twenty-six-year-old? Answer me that. And anyway, it's abundantly redundant to make any such assertion. Either this is you, or it isn't you. I'm not prepared to deal with a true likeness of the original person; I must have the actual person himself."

"Look, I can't believe this, that you don't understand the accepted methodology employed not only in South Africa but in every other country in the world. Millions and millions and millions of ID's, driver's licenses, passports, permits, you name it, they all depend on the black and white mugshot as the standard means of identifying an individual. I had my photograph taken, I went to a police station and handed it to a uniformed officer of the law. He examined it, ran his raptorial gaze over my physiognomy, re-examined it. Then he said, are you Henry Fuckit? And I said, yes. Then he said, then say after me: I…I. Henry Fuckit…Henry Fuckit. Do hereby swear…Do hereby swear. That…That. I…I. Henry Fuckit…Henry Fuckit. Am…Am. Henry Fuckit. Henry Fuckit. So help me God. So help me God. Then this thug took his tjap, spat on it, smashed it down on the inkpad, smashed it down on the back of my photo, and laboriously signed his stupid name all over it. There we are. Standard procedure all over the world. If you wanted to, you could dismantle my ID and discover this piece of authenticating proof for yourself."

"Dismantle the document? Wilfully damage state property? That is a punishable offence, and the incitement of others to commit such offences is also a crime and subject to a fine, or imprisonment, or both. So, you had better not talk about dismantling documents."

"Alright then, don't dismantle the bloody document. What I'm trying to tell you is that, in accordance with international practice, this photograph was certified as a true likeness of me, Henry Fuckit, and to this day bears upon its reverse side an official stamp plus the signature of a duly authorised bearer of public office."

"And what about forgery?"

"Forgery?! Forgery!? The photograph is a fraudulent imitation of life? Is that what you're saying? Are you trying to paraphrase Picasso? Art is a lie which allows us to realise the truth? Is that what you're saying?"

"No, I don't know this Picasso you're talking about. What I'm saying is that I need better evidence that you are who you claim to be. We are living in very dangerous times and the Republic is being attacked from all sides as well as from within. You might even be a communist spy trying to infiltrate the Department of Labour."

"If you won't accept documentary evidence, what will you accept? Must I bring witnesses to vouchsafe for me?"

"What use would that be? Perjury is as rife as forgery these days."

Henry capitulated. The tension went out of his body and he took on the appearance of a ragdoll. His feet slid forward, his legs splayed outwards, his head lolled on his chest and his arms dangled straight down, limp hands loosely appendaged at the wrist. He couldn't argue any more. This clerk was probably just carrying out orders. Make it as difficult as possible to become registered and advance along the path toward receipt of benefits. Protect the Fund from being sucked dry by the workshy parasites, the indolent dregs of society. It was understandable. Or did he sincerely mistrust the effectiveness of photographs, sworn statements, declarations, and the like as tools in separating the genuine from the fake? If so, Henry didn't blame him. Maybe he was something of a metaphysician by inclination, constantly searching for the true nature of reality, forever struggling to sort out the real from the apparent.

"Distinguishing characteristics."

"What?"

"Have you no distinguishing characteristics? No amputations, harelips, humps, that kind of thing?"

"Shit, no. Thank God."

"No cleft palates, no club feet?"

"No."

"No flatfeet? A claw-foot, possibly?"

"Uh-uh."

"Polydactyly?"

"Extra digits? Not last time I counted. Ten plus ten equals twenty."

"No third foot, additional testicle, anything like that?"

"No, nothing like that."

"An extra rib, maybe?"

"Only the original two dozen."

"How's your neck? You don't appear wry-necked."

"Torticollis? No, no trace of it."

"How about curvature of the spine? No kyphosis, lordosis, or scoliosis?"

"Maybe a bit of temporary kyphosis sometimes, when the world weighs too heavily on my shoulders. Nothing permanent though."

"Look, I'm trying to help you. A distinguishing characteristic would set you apart and make you uniquely Henry Fuckit. Are you quite sure you've got no malformation or deformity. Think hard. No structural defects?"

"Not that I'm aware of, no."

"Quite certain there's no deviation of form from the normal?"

"No. Look I'm just a normal, nondescript, miserable fucker."

"Mmm. Well that's a pity. What about scars? From a major operation. Or stab wounds? We find a lot of that amongst the Coloureds. Have you ever been struck with a machete? Many blacks have excellent panga scars."

"Well…no. No scars."

"Then I can't see how we can help you unless…."

"Yes? Unless?"

"Unless we provide you with a scar ourselves. Nothing serious, really. More of a brand. My colleague used to be a farmer in the Free State and he marked all his own cattle. Hundreds. It would also prove to us that you're serious about not being able to find work. He has the correct instruments."

At the sound of a desk drawer being opened behind him Henry jerked upright in alarm. He had forgotten about the other clerk but now he could feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of his neck.

"No, no! Nothing serious? Imagine the pain. Shit no. It won't be necessary. I've just remembered I might have a scar or two… on my thighs."

"Fantastic. Kobus, get your camera ready."
With bitter embarrassment, Henry lowered his trousers and bent over. The light was beamed onto the area in question and a tripod was placed in position.

"That's perfect. Just stay like that but look over your shoulder so we've got your face in the picture. That's it. One more. Right. Distinguishing characteristic: scarred buttocks. Proceed to Room 39 for Final Clearance."

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.