Your Call Has Been Forwarded: On Digital Identity

A childhood friend messaged the other day asking whether my mother had changed phone numbers. I replied and passed along her contact information. Earlier that autumn, I had gone through a change in phone numbers, myself, and I learned not only the frustration of the AT&T surcharge but the joy of accessing a new life, all via a simple +1.

The first string of messages struck at 21:50 on October 14th:

Yo g
Wdy yofay
Today
Tryna go to UW GAME ?

I asked who the owner of this (206) area code is. It was, of course, Mikey g, who proceeded to ask: How’s your gunshot did it heal up already? (Mikey g must have sensed I fabricated my response, for he no longer replied.)

10 days later, Jay (216) slid in with a Hey. I told him there was reason to believe he had the wrong number. Ain’t you 26? I told him I’m eighteen. Oh he must have changed his cell. Sorry love. I told him that it was ok and to have a wonderful life.

The messages stopped until around Halloween, when I received an invitation to “The Final Apple Cup House Party on November 25th” from another (206) number:

At Sam’s parents house from kick off ‘till whenever my friends with children need to get back to their children (so like midnight) take uber.

This time, I did not reply. Although a short-lived hobby, I stopped emulating whoever Mikey and Jay and so-called Sam were attempting to contact.

Those who were close to the former owner of my cell number must’ve also caught on. The only people left contacting me were up to no good, having to do with illicit photos from a (212) of a woman’s rear end covered in vandalised dollar bills and Chinese business proposals from a (424) and a (949) addressing me by the name of Mr. Liu:

Hello, Mr. Liu, I’m sorry to contact you in this presumptuous way. I asked for your phone number from Linda. I contacted you to promote our cooperation as soon as possible!

Hello, Mr. Liu, if it is not convenient for you now, please give me your email address and I will send you the medical equipment quotation that you need to purchase this time. I sincerely hope to have the opportunity to cooperate with you.

The spam messages, however, all seemed to refer to the same name: After further review Devon, you can still accept newer amounts over $3250 this weekend msg STOP to end.

I had seen that name before, from Josiah (234), writing, Hi Devon, I was going through my contacts and I found your number and I just decided to say hi. It’s been a long while, what happened? And from an (803), reaching out to say, Just saw your name in a bar bathroom in Brooklyn (this is Katie from years ago—I go by Drusilla now.)

There was a real person attached to this number, a person whose life remained constant despite the change in cell numbers. I later realised that the same must have been happening to me. My personal identity was not lost, and yet it remained inaccessible to persons attempting to identify me.

Personal identity, in the eyes of John Locke, consists of “the same thinking thing in different times and places.” It becomes difficult to pinpoint personal identity when one assumes an identity that is neither personal nor consistent across time and place. Modern technology, in particular, has much to do with constructing a fragile form of personal identity—a single self existing in multiple guises and narratives. In some cases—a catfish, a shape-shifter, whatever one may call it—there is also a sense of imposterism.

Is it imposterism, or symbolism? Edward Delia argues that “to some degree, we all live in different symbolic universes outside our immediate social milieu,” when discussing philosophy in the contemporary world (which he deemed a “society of strangers.”) Boston College’s Richard Kearney further argues that we are living in “an age of excarnation (flesh becoming image) that delivers connectivity but not necessarily closeness.” And it’s true. As satisfying as it is to trace back another (digital) identity, it becomes increasingly difficult to reconstruct a holistic image of Devon, let alone feel a sense of human-to-human familiarity, although various facets of the self are funnelled into the same iMessage inbox.

It is only now I have learned the (206) area codes and the UW Game and the Apple Cup—a college football rivalry game between the University of Washington and Washington State University—are all connected. It is only now I can see the continuities and the narratives unfold, piece together remnants of a life I did not live. I would never know how my gunshot healed nor if Devon made it to the Final Apple Cup House Party.

I could be as connected to Devon as I pleased, but I would never feel close to him. And whoever received my missed calls and texts likely didn’t consider the flesh behind the number either.

So, take this as a warning: update cell numbers frequently.