Identity is a two-way street, and it doesn’t favour the individual. That I feel that I have a particular identity—suave, debonair, witty, and charmant—is all well and good, and feel-good self-help advisors will tell you it’s how you feel about yourself, but this self-assessment is meaningless outside the context of society.

I know a lot of celebrities who are famous to the world but ordinary mums and dads to their kids, who don’t know the difference. Showing my age, I remember well the scene in the Roots miniseries where Kunta Kinte attempts to assert his identity against his master’s whip and the insistence that his received name would be Toby. Whilst most of us aren’t facing whips, we are subjected to the prejudice and attitudes of others who impose their version of our identity.

In some cases, a Black man can play the Uncle Tom and assimilate into the White world. I’m think of Carton from Prince of Bel Air. Perhaps this assimilation is authentic; perhaps it comes at the expense of his very soul. And this isn’t limited to race. We can recall Sartre’s waiter playing the role, assuming performance boundaries to remain employed. Having lived in Los Angeles for a couple decades, I’ve met more than my fair share of waitstaff self-identifying and actors and screenwriters. And the service was excellent.