“Races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.” This quote from Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude was on my mind today to write about. It is a major tension in the novel whether fate is determined by external factors such as prophecy or destiny or one’s own choices or free will. Is what we call identity something we are born with? What happens if I deny my roots? If I change my name to Johnny for example, and change the color of my skin and eyes—you know what I mean, the facade—do I really become Johnny? I have always wanted to be a buddhist monk meditating somewhere in South Asia in my dreams. If I do so, is that really going to be me? Or am I going to be rootless and fragile endlessly swept around like tumbleweeds in a desert?