Essences

Years ago, Zach taught me a game called Essences that he had learned back in college, in his a-cappella-singing-group days. Here's how it works:

One person leaves the room—far enough to be out of earshot.

While he or she is gone, the rest of the group decides who will be It. The twist is that anyone—including the person who has left the room—can be It.

After It has been chosen, the person comes back in and asks questions, in a very particular form, to discern It's identity. The questions go like this:

If this person were a _____, what kind of _____ would he or she be?

Everyone in the room takes a turn answering the question. This goes on until the person whose turn it is has correctly guessed who It is.

The idea of course, is to boil It down to his or her essences. The game is especially interesting for whomever happens to be It, because that person gets a window into what everyone else thinks of him or her. This can be equally fascinating when the other players know It well and when they are complete strangers, going only on first impressions. Actually, I think having a mix of the two is best.

I remember introducing this game to a group of our friends many years ago. In one round, I was It. One of the first questions was, "If this person were a car, what kind of car would he or she be?"

"A Ford Taurus with dual airbags," I heard someone say.

The answer came from someone who was just beginning to get to know me well, and I smarted when I heard it.

A Ford Taurus?

A Ford at all??

To me, a Ford Taurus meant unimaginative. Plays it safe. Gets good mileage to the gallon. Solid. Dependable. Dull.

And I think it is all those things. (Well, I haven't checked the fuel economy rating. But I bet it's better than the little foreign convertible roadster that I had in mind.)

Did that mean that I was all of those things??

Well, in this person's mind I was.

Ouch.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I saw why I came across as a mid-size family sedan and not a sporty coupe. And I realized that that wasn't such a bad thing. Better that than a Hummer or an oversized SUV (options that had not yet come into existence back then). At least none of the qualities was truly objectionable, even if few were particularly admirable.

I was reminded of Essences today because I am in the midst of an assignment for one of my classes in which each of us has to write a profile of a classmate. Normally, that wouldn't be so hard, but the catch here is that we have to write it for a specific publication and make it a piece that other people—not just the subject's mother—would want to read. Oh, and we're not supposed to focus on the fact that the person is a J-school student, which, as may be clear by now, is pretty much all any of us has time for during this all-consuming program.

The reason I thought of Essences is that the person who is writing my profile—in three successive drafts—is of course focusing on me as a two-time breast-cancer patient. I can't argue with that. If I were writing a profile of me, that's what I'd write about. But it just reminds me that that's how people think of me right now, and that's how they—old friends, family members, and new acquaintance alike—will probably think of me for the foreseeable future.

I was just starting to get to the point at which conversations did not reflexively begin with "How's your health?" when I was diagnosed for the second time. I was just starting to be able to meet new people and not have breast cancer be the very first thing to be discussed. I was just starting to think of myself as a writer first and a breast-cancer veteran second, or even third.

And, well, that's pretty much shot to hell. Because really, if you had to tell a complete stranger one notable thing about me right now, what would it be?

I thought so.