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of human life is its fundamentally dialogical character. We become full human agents, capable of understanding ourselves, and hence of defining our identity, through our acquisition of rich human languages of expression.”1 These “languages” aren’t just the spattering of words we happen to know (if so, Annyong would be in big trouble in the Bluth household!). Taylor has in mind a much broader notion of language that captures all those things that allow us to express and define ourselves: our interests, our goals, and even our artistic and professional projects. A language, in this sense, is any systematic expression of who one is—of “where one stands.” (Hell, even a commitment to the Sudden Valley Housing Development, or the Cornballer, might count.) As Taylor goes on to point out, “people do not acquire the languages needed for self-definition on their own. Rather, we are introduced to them through others who matter to us . . . the genesis of the human mind is in this sense not monological, not something each person accomplishes on his or her own, but dialogical.”2

Identities, then, aren’t the sorts of things we can pull up by our own bootstraps, to contort an expression irresponsibly (c’mon!). To have an identity that allows a modicum of self-respect, others must recognize this identity as valid and fulfilling. This is a point the German philosopher G. W. F. Hegel (1770–1831) famously made in his master/slave dialectic: We can flourish as human beings only to the extent that we’re recognized by others; such recognition is basic to human well-being. (As promised by the section title, I won’t quote Hegel. His work is as difficult to read as Fünke’s bestselling The Man Inside Me, albeit for mostly different reasons.)

The absence of recognition is the source of a lot of misery. The Bluth clan knows this all too well. Tobias, for example, wants to be recognized as a victim of a debilitating condition (never-nudity—there are literally dozens of us!). No one takes his condition seriously, however, and he’s left with an identity that isn’t acknowledged by the world around him. Likewise, Gob is a magician, but not one that anyone takes seriously—and not being taken seriously is a situation that is recurrent in Gob’s life as much as it is in Buster’s. Neither brother is regarded as recognition-worthy in anything they pursue. Who would call Gob a successful magician, let alone an illusionist? And let’s not forget Gob’s failed businesses (Bees? Beads?! We’ll see who makes more honey! Bzzzz.). Who would dare to call Buster an academic with expertise in cartography (“the mapping of uncharted territories”) and seventeenth-century agrarian economics (“are we at all concerned about an uprising?”)? Certainly touching yourself is not a scholarly pursuit. I mean, c’mon!

But even when we’re recognized by others as having an identity—as being a businessman, or an illusionist, or an academic, or an analrapist—this doesn’t mean that everything’s going to be hunky dory. Identity can go bad in another way: Some of the identities that we take on involve devaluation (It’s hard to read “analrapist” in any way but a negative one, even when we change the pronunciation). In other words, being recognized as having an identity isn’t enough to have a fulfilling and self-respecting existence. We’ve also got to be recognized as having identities that are worth having. And here’s the big issue: most identities are normative—that is, we implicitly evaluate most of the identities that we find ourselves taking on. Lupe, Franklin, Gob, and Buster can help us see this.

It Ain’t Easy Bein’ White

Some of the things that make us who we are can be picked up and put down at will: You can be an Arrested Development fan or not; you can be an advocate of “Caged Wisdom” or you can completely ignore it. In this sense, an identity is just a way of understanding oneself. As the contemporary philosophy Georgia Warnke has claimed, identity is really a way of interpreting oneself.3 As such, identities can be fun and fantastic things—they can embody our understanding