In later years I was mistaken for my brother, which always mystified me since he is taller, has a larger frame, and just plain old doesn't look like me.* Sometimes I wonder why we don't look more similar. Cousins, maybe, but not brothers.
The sad thing was, I actually knew Joe Chang from a class we'd both had, and he looked nothing like me; he was shorter, heavier, did not wear glasses, and—to me, the clincher—was Chinese, not Japanese.
Sometimes, I have to admit, it works in my favor. While in my thirties, I was standing on a street corner in Dupont Circle, back then the gay neighborhood in Washington, D.C., when a handsome man directed a flirty "Hiiii!" towards me as he approached. I responded, momentarily confused. When he implied a shared understanding about a couple things, I said, "I think you're mistaking me for someone else." I thought, this is where he drops the smile, mutters a "sorry" and walks off, and I steeled myself for the inevitable rejection. Instead, his smile remained and he continued talking to me as the light changed and he accompanied me across the street.
Half a block later we stopped since he was actually headed in the opposite direction, and he suggested we get together sometime. I couldn't believe it; this only happened in the movies. He told me his name and said he was "in the book." (This was long before cell phones or the Internet, and for those too young to remember such a time, "in the book" was a common phrase meaning you were listed in the annual directory published by the phone company.) After we'd gone our separate ways, he tested me, yelling, "Hey! What's my last name?" I answered correctly. There was no way I was going to forget it!
(Yes, we did meet, but it didn't go anywhere.)
Even now, I am occasionally the subject of mistaken identity. I was at Bodega Prime, a breakfast spot in Santa Fe, a year ago, standing in line to place my order, when I noticed a woman looking at me from a table across the room. She waved. I knew there was no one behind me or on the other side, so I hesitantly waved back. While waiting for my food, I wondered who she was, who she thought I was, and whether I should choose a table on the opposite side of the restaurant (what I wanted to do) or be bold and sit near her (what I thought I should do).
The entire approach to my visit that week was to be socially bold, so I took a breath and walked straight to their table. After exchanging hellos, the woman said, "You probably don't remember us. You probably shook a hundred hands."
I didn't know what to say beyond the obvious, so I waited for her to supply a clue: the event, someone's name, or the venue of our supposed meeting. The only place where I'd met people that week—and I'd only been in Santa Fe a couple days—was at a gallery opening, and I'd only shaken four or five hands there. I was almost positive hers was not one of them.
Instead of a little help, though, she only said:
"And here you are—a rock star."
Now, my mind tells me that what she really said was, "And here you are, like a rock star." But I really can't say for sure. She thought I was some kind of celebrity, but I'm not sure if it was literally a rock star.
Either way, I still had no clue how to respond, and it felt like too much time had passed to extricate myself cleanly, so I changed the subject, thinking I'd get away with it under the guise of modesty.
"What are you all having this morning? Is it good?" I asked, eyeing their plates. And after another 30 seconds of chitchat, I graciously excused myself and sat a few tables away from her.
Ponder as I might through breakfast, I reached no conclusions about what had just happened, whether or not I had met this person before, who she thought I could be, or if there was anything more I should do.
Later, one Facebook friend commented, "That was so nice of you to play along and make someone feel happy that they'd met someone famous."
Nice? I'd been feeling guilty since the moment I'd walked away from her. I'd never intentionally allowed myself to be thought of as someone else, whether by a stranger who knew a former classmate or a handsome man I'd benefit from fooling. By keeping mum about being an ordinary non-A-lister, wasn't I selfishly enjoying the attention, and maybe adoration, of someone who would be embarrassed, disappointed, and possibly angry, had she known I wasn't any kind of celebrity, rock star or not?
As I thought about it, however, I felt more and more like shrugging. Besides the cowardly rationalization that I'd most likely never see her again, it was also highly unlikely she'd see the real person she'd mistaken me for and engage him enough to discover that I'd been an unknowing imposter. And I hadn't said anything to intentionally perpetuate the masquerade. (In fact, I hadn't responded at all.) No harm, no foul. And like my friend had said, maybe i had inadvertently given her a small moment of positivity, a fun story to share with friends, who would have no way of knowing she hadn't actually met anyone important or famous.
Being mistaken for someone else isn't that big a deal and certainly wasn't negative in any of these encounters. In two of them, it connected me with people I would not otherwise have known. In that sense, having an additional persona can only be a win.
I may not be Joe Chang, but I'm happy to meet you, anyway.
*In an ironic twist, it now strikes me that the photo I chose to highlight these differences actually makes us look the same height and frame, and I recall that the reason I wanted a picture that day was that we had both chosen to wear grey jeans and a cobalt blue polo shirt.
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