Amazon Cart Identity Crisis
I was browsing the Forbes website the other day when I came across a headline about “lipstick lesbians.” I never heard of that term before. After a quick Google search, I found out that lipstick lesbians embody a more traditionally feminine look (dresses, heels, makeup, and, of course, lipstick) compared to other types of lesbians.
Down the LGBT rabbit hole I went. I soon discovered something called a “chapstick lesbian,” a lesbian with a casual, slightly masculine appearance. It got thinking. People are increasingly identifying themselves based on consumer products. Lipstick lesbian. Chapstick lesbian. Subaru boyfriend. Stanley Cup girl. Carhartt hipster.
Many people seem to know what those terms mean. I didn’t. I had to look them up. Maybe I’m getting old, or just out of touch. But the trend is odd when you really think about it.
Historically, our identities were forged through sacrifice: religion, nation, family, and vocation. A man might find his identity in being a Catholic, an American, a father, a husband, and a farmer. A woman might obtain hers from being a Protestant, a Texan, a wife, a mother, and maybe being the best singer in the church choir. Those labels were earned through faith, commitment, and sweat equity.
Today, we basically get our identities from our Amazon carts. Seriously, when did a water tumbler become a personality? We treat identity like it’s something that can be purchased and delivered to our doorstep.
It’s everywhere. There are entire communities based around spiritual attachment to brand-name items. The Stanley Cup girl is typically a metropolitan woman carrying an oversized tumbler in various colors. A Subaru boyfriend is the outdoorsy, flannel-wearing type who is low-drama, low-maintenance, and dependable, like a Subaru. The Carhartt hipster buys clothing originally made for welders and construction workers and wears it to Starbucks, sipping a caramel macchiato and eating a slice of avocado toast.
As it turns out, it’s not about the product. Some will say it is, but it’s not. It’s about belonging. Humans are communal creatures. We need an identity. It helps us connect with the people, places, and symbols around us. The problem is that our identities, which for most of history came from faith, lineage, or location, now come from skin-deep attributes or consumerism.
After the Industrial Revolution, our nation’s faith weakened. The market and its slick snake oil salesmen were eager to step in and fill the void. Advertisers figured out that they weren’t just selling mascara; they were selling the promise of feminine glory. Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline. They weren’t just selling the truck; they sold rugged masculinity. Built. Ford. Tough.
The dot-com and social media eras added jet fuel to the fire. Across the internet, people eagerly attached their identities to multi-million-dollar brands. We now have Yeti dads, Lululemon moms, Peloton moms, air fryer evangelists, and even rappers like Gucci Mane (get it?).
It’s funny and sad at the same time. It’s funny seeing the hypocrisy. Some of the same people who bellyache about the ills of capitalism and greedy corporations proudly wrap their identities around those same corporations. It’s sad because these identities are thin and disposable. There’s no work, no sacrifice, no sharpening of iron.
Consumer identities are attractive because they are effortless to adopt. Real identity requires a fierce level of sacrifice and commitment. A man becomes a good father by sacrificing for his children. A person becomes a mature Christian through years of repentance and obedience. However, becoming a Carhartt hipster just requires a trip to Walmart. It’s a cheap form of belonging.
But that belonging evaporates quickly. Consumerism cannot satisfy the soul. King Solomon once said, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Like a drug addict looking for their next high, the Stanley Cup girl becomes a girl of another product when Stanley Cups aren’t popular anymore. Identity built on consumption is like a bottomless pit because consumption itself is endless. There’s always another product, another trend, and another group to join.
I used to be a part of the consumer cult. Sometimes I think back on all the money I spent on sneakers, baseball caps, and video games, and I shake my head in disgust.
There is a darker corner of the consumer-identity world worth discussing. Think about the Instagram baddie, the OnlyFans girl, and the Passport Bro. Different aesthetics, same concept.
The Instagram baddie attaches herself to an app that, with the right angles, lighting, and filters, can make her look like a superstar. The OnlyFans girl prostitutes herself to anyone with a phone and a bank account. The Passport bro builds his identity around leaving the American dating market to fly overseas to find women he thinks are more traditional. To marry? Usually not. Often, just to pursue the same casual encounters he criticizes at home.
From afar, they look like completely different tribes. Look closer, and you will see identities crafted by consumer markets and sexual economics. To the Instagram baddie, attention becomes currency. To the OnlyFans girl, desire and sexual fantasy become currency. For the Passport bro, relationships become sexual transactions. For the chapstick and lipstick lesbians, sexual preference becomes their idol.
I’m not trying to be a finger-wagging, holier-than-thou critic here. I find it tragic. Beneath the Lululemon moms' affinity for leggings and the Passport bro’s quest for sex lies the same question: Do I matter?
That’s a sobering question to ponder. Many will avoid the retrospection and instead optimize themself for the algorithm. But that’s not the answer.
The desire for identity isn’t the problem. It’s deeply human. The problem is where we go looking for it. When identity is detached from God, people look to the world around them—status, sexuality, aesthetics, skin color, and consumer goods.
The answer lies in a collection of sixty-six books. Scripture does not define a person by what they buy, what they look like, or what tribe they belong to, but rather who they belong to spiritually. “You are not your own,” writes the Apostle Paul. “You were bought with a price.” Christ bought us with His blood. Nike and Stanley can’t compete with that.
A Christian’s identity begins with a simple truth: you are a child of God. Once you realize that, the whole consumer identity game starts to look a little silly.
Not evil, just…small. Insignificant.
A man who knows he belongs to Christ doesn’t need a truck to tell him who he is. A woman who knows she belongs to Christ doesn’t need a tumbler to tell her who she is.
Their identity didn’t come from a shopping cart.
It came from a cross.
Written by Vincent Williams
He is a former Music Director at Windy City Underground radio, on-air talent at Logik Radio, as well as board operator, sound engineer and videographer. Writing has always been an integral part of Vincent's life. He is a life-long Chicagoland resident, a pro wrestling fan, a zodiac Cancer and lover of anything mint flavored.
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