Italian
It is the cry of protest from the boss in the film “The Untouchables.” Setting aside the film and the context in which the phrase was spoken, it is still interesting to note the juxtaposition between two meanings: futility and value. In other words, the allure of the badge: what appears, and what has an intimate and profound meaning.
We often see a small sign emerging from the collar of a jacket or on the scarf that wraps around the neck, which we call a badge. It is an ostentatious manifestation of an idea, or something that has been given or awarded to us for merits or career. It is what we want to be distinguished from others who do not have it. Indeed, the badge: ideology, honor, value.
The badge reminds us, but above all highlights, what we think and who we are, or have been. An object of little value in itself, but of significant meaning. That’s how it should be. Sometimes, however, it is just a sign of conformity: it serves to make people believe that one thinks in a certain way, even when that is not really the case.
This small object pinned like a brooch must be noticed, otherwise what would be the point? It encapsulates a synthesis of our self: what others need to know about us and how, consequently, they should judge us. It is a communicative shortcut, a condensed form of our identity exposed to the public.
We also have other signs, hidden or visible: socks of a certain color, ties of a certain brand, pocket squares with one, two, or three points. They are like symbolic tattoos that remind, first ourselves and then others, who we are, what we do, and how we want to differentiate ourselves or conform to a group. Symbols of ephemeral vanity, but essential for us.
Invisible and hidden signs, symbols of something that only we know how to decipher, but that can intrigue others. The Ego, in a sign, hides the vanity of standing out. And it is precisely here that ambiguity resides.
On one hand, the badge should be the proud synthesis of a journey, but on the other hand, it often slips into superficial conformity. It becomes the “passport” to a group, a signal sent to the world to say: “Don’t worry, I think like you,” even when one’s inner conviction wavers. That small point of light on the chest serves to have us judged before we even open our mouths.
In an era of flaunted images, the badge remains the last bastion of a belonging that seeks visibility. But one question remains: how much of that value truly belongs to the man and how much, instead, is just the reflection of the metal on the jacket?
The need to stand out is opposed by the desire for anonymity. “The clothes don’t make the man,” as the proverb goes. And “those who preach do not practice” calls to mind the hypocrisy of appearances. Dressing casually can be more distinctive of well-being and wealth than wearing a suit and tie bought at a department store. Patches and rips on pants can indicate neglect and poverty, or a refined and sought-after fashion.
In all these operations of disguise, it is difficult to stand out and to distinguish. It then becomes preferable to be unrecognizable: the desire to hide and to prefer anonymity over apparent visibility. I disguise myself as an ordinary person to avoid the spotlight, but also to feel freer, more open, and available for encounters with others.
“Live secretly,” teaches Epicurus. To see what the world is like, the Buddha must leave his royal palace: only then can he know reality, feel joy and pain, and grasp its flavor and horror.
No one can enter your secret garden, just as you cannot intrude without invitation into others’. Perhaps a digital transparency, which exposes us more to the risk of being scammed in our identity, is to be preferred over defenseless and indefensible passwords.
But no one will ever be skilled enough to steal that true one from us, which no badge could represent. Our identity is not written on a piece of paper, nor can it truly be expressed through a vain display of self, sometimes ridiculous and pathetic.
My account does not have a password. There is no need for one: it is still inaccessible to known or unknown “pathological disruptors,” because it requires my living consent.
