Identity refers to our sense of who we are as individuals and as members of social groups. It also refers to our sense of how others may perceive and label us.

In other words, who am I? As Walt Whitman put it, we contain multitudes.

First, the basics. Gender: Female Sexual orientation: Hetero Age: Here, I fit into several categories. I’m a senior citizen. I’m a (wise?) elder, I hope with at least a modicum of wisdom. I’m a baby boomer who insists that the best music ever is the sixties rock and roll I listened to with a transistor radio glued to my ear. I’m Jewish to my core, meaning, I can’t imagine being not-Jewish. It’s very much who I am, from my Eastern European lineage to my childhood in a very Jewish Providence, RI, where the dads lined up Sunday mornings at Miller’s Delicatessen for all the fixin’s – bagels, lox, cream cheese, and whitefish – for post-Sunday school breakfast.

My identity- and here’s where the labels by others come in – is that of an active 73-year-old woman who doesn’t appear to be her age. I allow myself to believe those who react with surprise when they learn the number of rings on this tree. It’s mostly dumb luck and genetics. Or yes, it could be my imagination. I probably look every minute of my 73 years. Still, while I don’t go around boasting about what I believe to be my youthful-ish appearance, I secretly (though I guess the secret’s out now) revel in it, “it” being a youthfulness I probably don’t actually possess.

And now it grows a bit more complicated. I play host to a chronic illness, which has taken over my body, no wait, that’s not it. It’s taken over my life. I can no longer hike for two or three hours; i can still manage one hour, but who knows how long that will last. And then I need to take it easier the following day, or my legs will be aching like crazy.

I’m a retiree. Although, kinda not really. See, despite all intentions to throw myself into retirement-esque activities, instead I’ve given myself a job – something I secretly (another secret out) call Andi Brown Enterprises, which consists of this blog you’re reading; plus my podcast, Parky Conversations; and my speaking engagements, where I talk about – what else?- living with Parkinson’s.

Did I do this counter-intuitive thing in order to retain my identity as an industrious person? One who is finding new ways to identify and execute creative opportunities? Who the hell knows? I’ll just say that this identity thing is confusing.

On to the next one, the biggie. They even have not one but two names for this new group I’m an unwitting part of. I’m a PwP – Person with Parkinson’s. And I’m a Parky, a sobriquet some find offensive, thinking it renders this unpleasantness “cute.” I get that, but I disagree. Just to get through the day, I think it’s helpful to punch the pain into feebleness and ineffectualness. Using the term Parky is a giant fuck you to the disease, and all its pain, twitching, apathy and depression. As a friend in my boxing class put it, “Boxing makes me feel like a real badass. Don’t mess with me, Parkinson’s.”

How about the badass moniker? Yeah, I could own that one.

Speaking of names, how do we identify with the one bestowed upon us by others, i.e. our parents? My full name is Andrea Rachel Brown, and I’ve always been called Andi, except by teachers, who always used the formal forms of our names in the classroom.

Over the years, a significant number of friends have swapped childhood nicknames for what I’m guessing they think a more dignified or mature moniker. But when my childhood pal Lulu informed me that she was now Louisa, I felt a bit of a pang. It was almost as if she’d died. Okay, that’s an overstatement but seriously, who would this Louisa be? It took me a while to understand and accept that Louisa was here to stay, and that she’d still be the Lulu I knew and loved.

For a brief period in my twenties, I considered becoming Rachel, my middle name, but at the end of the day, I stuck with Andrea/Andi, despite its being mispronounced by almost everyone upon meeting me, especially every Uber driver I’ve ever met, who, no matter their country of origin, all seem to think we’re in Italy, where my name, usually masculine, is pronounced onDRAYah. Why that’s become the default pronunciation in the US I’ll probably never know but for the record, I’m formally AN-dree-a. And I think Andi is an identity that suits me just fine. It is, like me, short, to the point, and a bit sassy.

And…in case you missed one or more of my Parky Conversations podcasts, here you go. Enjoy and learn!