Esther: the Queen of Secret Identities
Nowhere else in the ancient corpus do we see a secret identity so fully fledged as with the eponymous heroine in the story of Purim.
By MATTHEW GOLDBERG
Contributing WriterPub. 15 March 2025
The secret identity is most often associated with the realms of comics, pulp, and manga—three closely linked mediums which found their footing in the twentieth century. And when researching how these genres came to adopt the secret identity as their own, one title kept coming up: The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy.
Set amid the French Revolution’s Reign of Terror, the story introduces us to Sir Percy Blakeney. To onlookers, he’s nothing more than a vacuous fop, a navel-gazing aristocrat incapable of posing a threat. Even his wife thinks as much and has come to resent him as such. But the daft Sir Percy is merely a cover for his alter-ego: the Scarlet Pimpernel, a daring hero known by his floral insignia. With cunning ability and a team of sidekicks, he undermines the authorities of the First Republic, fights on behalf of the dispossessed, and wins the admiration of many, including his unsuspecting wife.
All the staples of the trope are there—an alter ego is crafted to enable heroic exploits. And as is often the case, that dual identity has a way of complicating the hero’s love life.
One can easily draw a line from the Scarlet Pimpernel to billionaire playboys like Bruce Wayne, signature calling cards like the “Z” of Zorro, and complicated romances like those between Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Indeed, no less an authority than Stan Lee once said, “The Scarlet Pimpernel was the first superhero I read about. The first character who could be called a superhero.”
But while the Scarlet Pimpernel may have been the first superhero, and may have ushered the secret identity into the world of comics, the trope itself can be traced back much further, to a certain Jewish woman in ancient Persia.
Hadassah vs. Esther must be literature’s first secret identity. Sure, there are older stories which flirt with aspects of the trope. In the Torah alone we see the likes of Jacob dawning a disguise, Joseph taking an Egyptian name, and Moses dealing with what could be described as “identity issues.” But nowhere else in the ancient corpus do we see a secret identity so fully fledged, as with the eponymous heroine in the story of Purim.
And with this change of names came a change of customs. Because as anyone who’s visited one knows: a Persian harem is no place for a crypto-Jew. Sure, the entertainment may be stimulating, but the kosher menu leaves much to be desired.
What’s more, her dual identity led to complications in her love life. Because let’s face it, any time your partner calls for the eradication of your people, one could be forgiven for interpreting that as a red flag.
But what’s so striking about the Hadassah vs. Esther dichotomy is that even while setting the stage for secret identities to come, she in many ways flips the trope on its head.
Whenever a protagonist cultivates an overt, “super” identity, that identity tells us something about what makes the hero powerful. For instance, the Scarlet Pimpernel signifies the virtues of Sir Percy’s native England. Zorro, the Spanish word for “fox,” represents his cunning swagger. And Spider-Man is in fact a male hominid with arachnid tendencies.
And in every case—or so it seems—it is the external, “super” identity which confronts evil: Spider-Man saves the day while Peter Parker can’t find a date to the prom. However, in the case of Esther, this phenomenon is decidedly reversed.
For example, we all know someone—or have been that someone—who, when in the throes of an unrequited infatuation, can’t help but think, “If only they knew the real me.” Sure, it might be a bit cringe, but such cringe is a fact of life. Likewise, in the event we do win the love of another, a part of us might say, “Thank goodness they don’t know the real me.” Which is about as funny as it is just sad. And who hasn’t had one too many glasses of Manischewitz, only to wake up the next morning and think, “That wasn’t really me last night.”
But on an empirical level, such statements, common though they may be, are patently absurd. It was you who got spurned just as it was you who found love. If it wasn’t you, then who was it? And you can deny what happened at the party last night, but that empty bottle of Manny Grape suggests otherwise. Empirically, it was all you.
But as Esther reminds us, strict empiricism is insufficient in describing the totality of human experience. One of the most intimate things we can tell each other is something like, “When I’m with you, I feel like I can be myself.” And of all the people who’ve been blessed to hear such words, not one has ever replied, “What do you mean by that? Aren’t you yourself no matter who you’re with?” We understand the sentiment of such words because we’ve all been given a true self.
Jewish thought has understood this since the beginning.
If we take the VHS tape that is Judaism, and rewind it back to day one, we meet a man named Abraham. We’re first introduced to him in parsha Lech Lecha, which roughly means, “Go to yourself.” These eponymous words appear in the opening lines, just as God is calling on him to leave everything behind and journey out to the Promised Land. Abraham’s story—the call he answers—is as much about outward adventure as it is internal discovery.
But why is it so important that Abraham, at seventy-five years old, set out to find his true self? Isn’t that what college is for?
And to be like Abraham—to be willing to stand on the other side—one must have a sense of true self.
If a baby wants something, or is distressed in any way, he won’t hesitate to cry out for his mother. And assuming the mother is “good enough” (a term coined by Winnicott in opposition to any notion of the “perfect mother”) she will comfort her child. Through this process, the baby will develop a sense that his wants and feelings are real and meaningful. And should he express them, he trusts he’ll be met with the affection and understanding he craves. It is this perception of omnipotence (I feel hungry, I cry, my hunger goes away) which instills a sense of “I” within the child.
So profound is this bond, that as Winnicott put it, “If you set out to describe a baby, you will find you are describing a baby and someone. A baby cannot exist alone, but is essentially part of a relationship.”
It can be said the baby is in a state of oneness with the mother.
But this state of omnipotent oneness can’t last forever. Gradually, we come to draw a distinction between “me” and “not me.” Whereas an infant is blissfully unaware of the existence of others, before long, we become conscious that expressions of our true self might not be accepted or accommodated by those around us.
We become painfully aware of this when our authentic expression is met with rejection, disappointment, or withheld affection. But we want to be loved. Our true selves are sensitive to this pain. And so, in an unconscious process, we curate a false self to comply with the wants and feelings of others.
In its proper place, this is a good thing.
For instance, most people have been at work and had a colleague ask, “How are you?” While such questions may be polite, in the event you’re consumed by thoughts of your ex, it’s probably best to keep your true self hidden. It’s probably best just to say, “I’m good.”
Likewise, one of the most curious injunctions in Judaism is that when celebrating Sukkot, one is not just asked to be happy, but commanded. While the image of prodding an Eeyore-like individual to cheer up may be amusing, it does perhaps speak to the importance of a false self. Sukkot is designated as, "The season of our rejoicing." On any given day during Sukkot, a Jew may find himself feeling bitter or despondent—c'est la vie. However, if he brings this bitterness into the sukkah, he risks interfering with his companions’ happiness. For the sake of their rejoicing—which he truly desires—he must evince a false self.
But the false self is only good insofar as it serves the true self.
In the first example, such information could be devastating if it fell into the wrong hands. In describing children who have had their true selves exploited, Winnicott describes an annihilating effect. But adults are not immune from this. When sensitive, deeply personal information is shared, we open ourselves up to the possibility of being taken advantage of. And such painful experiences can be a hindrance to the development of future relationships. A false self is needed to avoid such experiences.
And in the second example, the man knows he’s bitter, but on a deeper, truer level, he knows what Sukkot is all about. By picking himself up and putting on a false self, he can fulfill his authentic desire to encourage the happiness of those around him. And in doing so, he will be instilled with a sense of meaning and “aliveness.” For that is what true selves do: they imbue life with a sense of “realness” and vitality.
But according to Winnicott, some people lose touch with their true self, and go through life as a false self only.
Maybe we never got enough of that omnipotent oneness. Maybe from an early age, the only way to receive affection was by complying with the wants of those around us. And then as we got older, the only thing which felt remotely “real” was the approval of others. What started as a child’s defense mechanism, has instead led us to lose touch with our true self, to the point it sinks into the unconscious.
In describing such cases, Winnicott offers the example of an actor who can perform on stage, but when the curtains close, is completely at a loss. Such a person may possess all the trappings of a conventionally successful life, but they won’t have that sense of “aliveness” which comes from the true self. When everyone else is just an audience member, such a person will struggle to build meaningful relationships. Lacking in authentic desire, such a person won’t be able to orient themselves except at the whims of those around them. They will become an agent of compliance, for that is what false selves do: they comply.
In other words: if you lose your true self, you lose your chutzpah.
When elucidating how he’d be judged in the world to come, Rabbi Zushya of Hanipol said, “When I get to heaven, they will not ask me, ‘Zushya, why were you not more like Moses?’ They will ask me, ‘Zushya, why were you not more like Zushya?’”
Or as Rabbi Morgensztern of Kotzk so shrewdly stated, “If I am I because I am I, and you are you because you are you, then I am I and you are you. But if I am I because you are you, and you are you because I am I, then I am not I and you are not you!”
And in his commentary on the Ark of the Covenant being covered in gold—not just on the outside, but on the inside too—Rava reasoned, “Any Torah scholar whose inside is not like his outside, is not to be considered a Torah scholar.”
Like Esther, we’ve all been given these true selves—these secret identities—so that when the time comes, we may fight for what’s right, even if it’s just us against the world. Especially if it’s just us against the world. What’s more, we’re called upon to experience and vivify the secret identities of others. But to do that requires vulnerability, and vulnerability is an act of faith. As Winnicott put it, “It is a joy to be hidden, and a disaster not to be found.”
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