August 2004

Hailyn Nielsen • True Identity

"Well, what was in there?” inquired my mother as she screeched the car to a halt in the Target parking lot.

My heart skipped a beat as I mentally tallied the various components of my wallet. "Everything,” I timidly and anxiously replied. A few motherly maledictions later, we about-faced and began retracing our steps, hoping to determine at what point during the drive my wallet had fallen off the roof of the car.

Westbound on the highway, I began to think about how a wallet can provide details about its owner’s vices, personality, and identity. First, there are the superficial physical characteristics. My driver’s license reveals that I’m 5’9” with green eyes, I’m from Des Moines, and my birthdate is April 12, 1984. The prescription behind the wallet, which I desperately need to get filled, reveals the extent of my blindness should I be caught without my glasses or contacts. My blood donor card shows I’m O-positive.

The second step in any wallet interrogation unearths more general personality characteristics. My voter registration card reveals my political tendencies, while my student ID loyally reports the institution of my matriculation. However, the credit cards hold the real secrets. The magnetic strip of my Express card is worn out. In somewhat better condition are the Victoria’s Secret Angel, Kohl’s, J.C. Penney, and Abercrombie cards. Then there’s the “License to Bitch” card, a birthday gift from my sister, which declares, “THE BEARER OF THIS CARD IS HEREBY GRANTED UNLIMITED BITCHING PRIVILEGES...to...RAG, RAG, RAG, especially on days ending in ‘Y.’” I have, on occasion, been called upon to produce this credential.

Though they testify to one’s retail patronage and sense of style, credit cards only show a person’s general characteristics. Receipts, scribbles, and miscellaneous items provide the juicy details. All my favorite foods are represented in my wallet, via the "Frequent Noodler” card to Z’Marik’s restaurant in downtown Iowa City (I’m only three meals away from my free bowl), the Pagliai’s Pizza gift certificate, and the index card with the recipe for my favorite summer BBQ side dish—Potatoes O’Brien.

It wouldn’t be difficult to assume my numerical identity—bank accounts, a student ID number, a Social Security number, a PIN number.... But, with my wallet, someone could also steal my personal identity, my likes and dislikes, my passions, right down to my taste in cuisine, music, and my career plans. From the ticket stub for the A Perfect Circle concert I attended, anyone could accurately guess what type of music I prefer. A University Book Store receipt for Logic and Discrete Mathematics reveals that I study computer science. My Nature subscription renewal form and a small set of flashcards detailing the structures of amino acids manifest that I am, undoubtedly, a science geek.

"Have you seen Hailyn’s wallet?” asks my mom curtly as she pulls back into our driveway and almost runs over my dad.

"No,” he says, “but some guy just called for her saying he has.”

Relieved, I rush into the house to return the call of the Good Samaritan who keenly spotted my organizer in a Des Moines gutter, stopped to pick it up, and, thankfully, phoned me to arrange for its safe return.

When I arrive home hugging my wallet, my dad smiles, “You know, that thing says a lot about you.”

"I know! I was just thinking about that,” I begin. “My IDs, receipts, and everything else really show what kind of person I am.”

He laughs. “That’s right, and your wallet lying helplessly in the middle of a busy street shows exactly the kind of stupid, absent-minded, no common sense, late-for-her-own-funeral, would-lose-her-head-if-it-wasn’t-attached kind of person that you are.”

I smile. That’s a good point

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