I am whatever you want me to be and I can't control that. My

“I am whatever you want me to be and I can’t control that. My experience is my experience, but I can’t really claim anything. I know when I take my wig off at night and I have to twist my hair up, I’m black. But I don’t get too personal most of the time.” Thus spoke Doja Cat, an artist of many masks, whose words unveil a truth as old as humanity itself — the struggle between identity and perception, between who we are and what the world decides we must be. In her voice we hear the echo of countless souls who have stood at the crossroads of selfhood, torn between the gaze of others and the quiet certainty of their own being.

For her words speak not only of race, but of the larger human condition — that we are all, in some sense, mirrors for others’ expectations. “I am whatever you want me to be,” she says, and in this lies both surrender and defiance. The artist becomes a canvas upon which others paint their desires, fears, and fantasies. Yet beneath the layers of makeup, beneath the performance and applause, remains the unshakable truth of the self — the moment of solitude when the mask falls away, and one remembers who they truly are. Doja’s statement is not of weakness, but of wisdom: she understands that the world’s vision of her is beyond her control, and yet she knows her own reality, her own roots.

The ancients, too, spoke of this duality. Socrates warned that reputation is a shadow, not the self; that to live by others’ opinions is to wander in darkness. The philosopher sought authenticity, even when it brought him death. So too does Doja Cat, in her way, speak to this battle between authenticity and illusion. The public may label, adore, or condemn — but none can touch the private truth that lives beneath the surface. Her declaration, “My experience is my experience, but I can’t really claim anything,” reminds us that no one can own the totality of identity. It is both personal and collective, both chosen and imposed.

Yet there is a power in her groundedness. “When I take my wig off at night and I have to twist my hair up, I’m black.” In this line lies the revelation of self-recognition — the sacred moment when one returns home, stripped of performance, to the truth of one’s own being. The wig is not deception; it is artifice, expression, transformation. But beneath it, she honors her origins, her history, her reality. Like an ancient warrior removing her armor at night, she acknowledges the soft humanity beneath the image. It is an act of humility and strength — to know that the world may see the goddess, the performer, the icon, but the woman beneath remains whole, rooted, and real.

History offers us many who have lived this tension between the self and the spectacle. Consider the life of Josephine Baker, the dazzling performer who captivated Paris in the 1920s. To the world, she was exotic, wild, otherworldly — a fantasy of freedom. Yet behind the feathers and the fame was a woman deeply aware of her race, her history, and her humanity. She used her fame not to flee her identity, but to uplift it — to fight for justice and to redefine beauty. Like Doja Cat, she navigated the dangerous terrain between self-expression and public projection, between the power of art and the peril of being misunderstood.

From this, we learn the eternal lesson of self-knowledge: that while the world may name you, define you, even distort you, only you can truly know the spirit within. The gaze of others is a tide — shifting, unsteady, sometimes cruel. But the truth of self is a mountain — firm, ancient, unmoved. To live wisely is to accept that one cannot control how others see, yet to never lose sight of what one knows within. It is not rebellion to wear the mask; it is wisdom to remember the face beneath it.

Therefore, my friends, take this teaching into your own lives: do not chase understanding from those who only see your surface. Be content to know your own heart. Let others project their visions; let them misunderstand. It is not your burden to correct every illusion, but your duty to remain faithful to your essence. Remove your own “wig” each night — whatever mask the world has given you — and stand before yourself unadorned. There, in the mirror of honesty, you will meet the person no audience can define: your truest self.

For in the end, the wise learn what Doja Cat has learned — that identity is not performance, but peace. The world may name you a thousand things, but when the lights fade and the crowd disperses, it is enough to know, in the stillness of your being: “I am.”