Stories are identity.
Every individual, culture, religion, race has their own story, and one of the fastest ways to build empathy is to hear those stories. We know who we are based on the stories we tell each other (and ourselves!) about ourselves. The power of belonging is preserved through story— religious stories, family history, and cultural heritage all share this thread, drawing on where we’ve been to inform where we are now.
Experience is the one truly objective component of life. Every thought, label, or judgement comes after an experience has occurred. Even the story that is told about the experience is subjective, a mixture of biased perception, faulty memory and the complex interplay of sensory and psychological digestion. The only objective piece is that an experience has occurred.
But does that mean that stories, which are liable to contain factually “false” information, are not true? No, at least not in a way that matters. The purpose of identity-based storytelling is not to convey absolute fact. Rather, the purpose is to show who you are. Which details stand out, how it made you feel, the way that you deliver the information. All of these are a glimpse into your true character, into your identity.
Take a story I shared in a recent essay about working with American composer Morten Lauridsen. The transcendent experience sticks out in my memory, yet I’m sure that other people who were there would remember things differently. This reveals a lot about who I am, in one story. I believe deeply in the mystical power of music, and that musical experience is impossible to recreate. There is only that rehearsal, that performance, that energy, once and forever. The deepness of the connection that I felt with my other choristers is a feeling that I have sought to chase by becoming a choir director myself.
Yet, is that dependent on what exactly the choir director said to us? Or when exactly Lauridsen came to the piano during the rehearsal? Or even the piece we were singing? No. To some, those pieces of information may be of vital importance. It’s part of their experience. But, to me, the feeling is what was important. And my recounting of the story focuses on that.
Experience is objective, and stories are the subjective reflection of those experiences. This subjectivity shows truth— our truth. The you that currently operates in the world is the intersection of all of your experiences and the stories surrounding them. The desire for “objective truth” is often misguided— there is no such thing, apart from lived experience. The rest, any thought process or labeling, comes after. And is equally, if not more, important.
Stoic philosopher Epictetus has a quip that captures the essence here:
It is not things that upset us, but our judgements about those things.
Events, experiences, externals are objective and neutral; internal perceptions, judgements, and stories are subjective. If we focus on which parts of our narrative we tell ourselves most frequently, if we reflect on what stands out and which themes recur, we are able to exercise control over our identity.
It is true that stories are identity, but we control how we recount them. We control what matters to us. We determine our truth and how to add it to the narrative of humanity.
Edited by Jeremy Harr and Abigail McKay Cherry
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