October 19th, 2025
“Identity dispersion refers to the extent to which an individual’s self-concept is fragmented, inconsistent, or lacks coherence across different roles and contexts. In psychological and sociological terms, it describes a state where the meanings a person attaches to “who I am” vary widely depending on the situation — for example, feeling like one person at work, another at home, and someone entirely different among friends. While it’s natural for people to adapt aspects of themselves to fit different environments, identity dispersion becomes problematic when these variations feel disconnected or contradictory, leaving the person without a stable, integrated sense of self.”
The paragraph above describes the psychological concept of “identity dispersion”. My therapist has spoken to me about this topic. He in fact sent me this definition of the term. I tend to feel that the condition applies to me to some degree. Since I talked with the clinician about the subject, I have been thinking quite a bit about “who I am” and “who I was”. Identity is a difficult thing to understand. It’s like grasping at smoke.
I will start with Zen Buddhism. I started Zen meditation back in 2005, and although I almost never meditate with the sangha anymore, the teachings I received while I was actively engaged with Zen still resonate with me. One thing that I remember distinctly is the mantra that was suggested for sitting mediation. As a newbie, I learned that I could focus during meditation by softly asking, “What am I?” on my inbreath, and then saying, “Don’t know” on my outbreath. The mantra is deceptively simple. First, it asks a question for which there is no clear answer. Secondly, the response to the question is not “I don’t know”. It’s just “Don’t know”, because there is really no I that doesn’t know.
Zen assumes that there is no real identity. Who or what I am is just a constantly churning mix of the five skandhas, different aspects of a personality that fluctuate and morph constantly. I am not the person I was twenty years ago. I’m not even the person I was twenty seconds ago. My identity is a moving target, something I can’t maintain.
After thinking about it, I see that often my identity has been a function of my relationship with other people. There is a song by Paul Simon called “My Little Town.” It’s about a boy growing up in a dying industrial community. One verse goes like this:
“I never meant nothin’, I was just my father’s son
Savin’ my money
Dreamin’ of glory
Twitchin’ like a finger on the trigger of a gun”
That was my youth. That was me. I was just an extension of my dad’s life. My job was to work hard, be successful, and make him look good. Especially after I was accepted to West Point (United States Military Academy), I was somebody he could brag about at work or at the tavern. I can recall him often telling me, “Make me proud! You got my name, you know!” He was a “Frank”, so that’s what I became. I was always “Frank’s oldest boy”. Nothing more, nothing less.
Now, many years later, I am generally known as “Asher’s grandpa”. At the playground or at the Waldorf school, people often don’t know my name. However, they know I am Asher’s grandfather and caregiver. I’m okay with that. At this point in time, Asher needs me. He’s not quite five years old, and I provide him with love and stability. My life revolves around this little boy, so my identity is deeply connected with his.
I was a soldier. During that period of my life, my identity was often determined by my rank and my profession. I was “Captain Pauc”, an officer and a helicopter pilot. That was a time when I really did feel disconnection and contradiction in terms of what I was. A military officer by definition is an expert in the management of violence. I was never comfortable with that role. I couldn’t make that jive with my moral values. Alcohol abuse made the contradictions blur somewhat, but I that particular identity was a bad fit and I eventually was encouraged to find a different career path. I’m glad that I did.
Over the years, I have been many things: soldier, peace activist, father of a combat vet, husband, pilot, dock supervisor, advocate for migrants, representative in a parish council, non-Jewish member of a synagogue, Zen practitioner, marginally competent bass player, etc. The list goes on and on and on. I am different things to different people. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. I can relate to a diverse population.
The input about my identity that I get from others with whom I interact is often confusing. I have had some people tell me that I am a good person. I have also had others enthusiastically declare that I should burn in hell. So, who’s right? Who’s wrong? Are maybe both parties right to some degree?
So, what am I?
Don’t know.
Frank is Emptiness 