Dual

June 17th, 2026

I don’t know what I am.

Zen Buddhism says that in our absolute reality, each of us are the whole universe and nothing simultaneously; in our individual, relative versions of reality, however, I believe the entire point of our existence is to discover who we actually are before we’re gone.

Usually when we define ourselves, we have to say: I am this thing; I am not that thing. But if we do dig deeper, we start to experience a collapse of this kind of dualism. And when that line between two formally distinct sides is blurred or smudged or erased altogether, it can take us further away from concrete identity, which may be helpful in a spiritual, attachment-severing sense, but is a total bummer when it comes to figuring out who we are in the here and now.

I always think about this when I visit Faribault, and when I contemplate the complexity of being a man.

So what does it mean to be from somewhere? For those of you who don’t know me well or read everything I write (how dare you), I am of, at least, two distinct places: I was born in Minneapolis, the big city, and I moved to Faribault, a small town, halfway through the third grade. I never had the interconnected roots that the other kids in Faribault had; I always felt like an outsider, which makes sense when many of the children around you have known each other from before they left their respective wombs.

Interestingly enough, though, I always claim Faribault as my hometown, even though I wasn’t born there and have always felt more city in my blood than country (which might actually just be all the microplastics). I sincerely couldn’t tell you where I belong; my entire past feels as fluid as the Mississippi (or Straight) river.

This might seem trivial to some, but I’ve been watching the World Cup religiously and you can see and feel how people connect when they totally know where they’re from: in their bodies, through their hearts, down to their bones. Nationally, I’m a U.S. fan; genetically, I root for Germany, Norway, and Denmark (who missed the Cup this year). I have a inkling of where I was drawn from on the bigger page; I struggle to see which panels my lines fit into today.

So what does it mean to be of a particular sex or to have a specific gender role based on cultural and time-specific context? For me, being a man is being both dog and trainer; in fact, I’ve been able to deal with quite a bit of shame and guilt by realizing this duality, and finally accepting my responsibilities for both roles. But acceptance of both animal and non-animal qualities isn’t conductive to male identity-building; it can distort our perspective, make societal life even more confusing and, if used with resignation, can lead to countless excuses and refusal of personal accountability.

Said the alcoholic.

Look, I have a lot of empathy for men today, but it doesn’t mean I have to feel bad for them; a lot of the toxic masculinity and giant-sized narcissism we face is self-perpetuated and just plain gross, a ton of guys tying their own shoelaces together and blaming the world for tripping them over. It’s easy to be lonely when you treat everybody around you as wrong and less-than; a little dash of humility and a sprinkle of decency and sugar go a long way.

All of this to say: I don’t know how many people are doing this work anymore. This whole “knowing thyself” work. The work of figuring out who we were, who we are, who we want to be and, most importantly, why.

As I watch countless people around me scroll to death and defer all of their own potential feelings, thoughts, and/or opinions to AI or social media’s feelings, thoughts, and/or opinions, I don’t wonder why so many feel so alone and without any purpose. We make our own purpose and then we make it together, in real life, with the identities we discover and forge and then rediscover perpetually.

So, again, I don’t know what I am.

But I do know that the whole point of this life is to look into it as deeply and passionately and truly as I can before I leave this borrowed body behind.