Out walking the other day, I met a former colleague who was with his dog. Politely conversing, I asked the dog’s name. He told me that, in fact, his dog had two names, together signaling a former governor of our state, who was the man’s ancestor.

I mumbled something about that being a lot for a dog to live up to and resumed my walk. However, my deeper realization was that points had been scored. Through a canine companion, the fellow had revealed his own distinguished lineage. My role, as the audience in this little drama, was to incorporate that information into future understandings of him.

All too human, most of us engage in the same kinds of impression management, at least in certain circumstances. We feel the need to tell others who we are, so that they will adjust their visions of us and, ideally, treat us differently than they have been treating us to this point.

In this post, I consider how and when we make claims of this sort—or have them made for us. Our intention in doing so is to have this information adhere as defining aspects of self or what I call “badges of identity.” So equipped, and like travelers with various cards in their wallets, we flash different credentials to move in and out of the world’s social spaces.

Our social identities—the names, traits, associations, and life histories that others grant us—involve many kinds of assessments. People think of us as having certain physiological features, including a distinctive appearance, health status, and set of abilities. If any of these changes suddenly, they—and we—are disconcerted. The same can be said of our connections to the physical environment. It is understood that we live at a certain address, have identifiable possessions, and move in certain terrains.........

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