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"We all look alike" was an inside family joke when I was growing up. It was an easy, mildly amusing, ironic way to explain the annoying confusion, ignorance, and/or apathy of non-Asians in telling us Asians apart from one another. Anything ending in "ese" was interchangeable—which in the '60's and 70's meant only Japanese and Chinese, but in later years would encompass Koreans, Filipinos, Thai, Vietnamese, or any other Asian.
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.
I was in a restaurant near the campus of the University of Minnesota one day, and someone walked by my booth, suddenly pivoted 90 degrees to face me and my friends, bending his knees and pointing at me รก la James Bond with a pistol, and shouted, "Joe Chang!" I looked at him stoically and intoned, "No." He pivoted back, his expression frozen, and moved on.
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.
As I left church today, a woman was sitting outside the door. I braced myself for what would surely be a request for money. "Sir," she said as I walked past her quickly, "please buy me something to eat." My reflexes spit out all the usual responses in my mind:
- You can't help everyone who asks. (Last night, three people asked me for money, all within as many blocks of the same street.)
- They only want alcohol.
- It will only encourage them to return and make it their post.
But as I continued on my way, her words echoed in my mind: "Please buy me something to eat." And I heard sincere desperation in her tone. This was honestly the first time in 30 years of living in DC that someone had asked me for food rather than money. She was not after alcohol, and she wasn't trying to scam me; she was hungry, plain and simple. And this wasn't the kind of hunger that makes you blurt out happily, "I'm starving!" on the way to the restaurant on 14th Street that's the new hot place for brunch. This was the kind of aching, gnawing, all-consuming hunger that is not satisfied on a consistent basis. We all know what it's like to be hungry, but we also know that it is within our own power and usually timing to ameliorate it.
This was something I could do, and easily. I was headed to Whole Foods, anyway. Heck, it didn't even have to be a sacrifice, since I could buy this woman lunch and eat what I had at home instead. I weighed the time required to walk back and tell her, against the time it would take to just keep going and return. Even if I asked her to wait, there was no guarantee she would believe me and stay...so I picked up my pace and kept going.
In Acts 9, after seeing the Lord on the road to Damascus, "something like scales fell from Saul's eyes, and he could see again." As I neared Whole Foods, I suddenly saw things more clearly. That I had just bought a lemon-ginger dark chocolate bar for myself, on a whim. That I was going to Whole Foods to buy white birch firewood because it burns better than standard hardwood in the fireplace in my "luxury condo." That I could buy lunch for someone else and not even think twice about the cost, and that I would be doing so instead of going to a nice restaurant for brunch with friends - as I did almost every Sunday, again, without even considering what I might spend. I was astounded and excited in my reset perspective and worried about getting back to church before the woman left.
Unfortunately, she had, by the time I got back. I shoulda, shoulda, shoulda...and now I have a sandwich and drink for tomorrow. Sometimes you just have to act rather than overthinking it, to do as the Spirit moves you. Damn this need to analyze and be sure all the time!
I will hope and pray she returns next week, and if she does, God help me, I won't hesitate this time.
People jaywalk all the time. Everyone knows that. I myself jaywalk - but only when it doesn't inconvenience any driver, and only when I am responsible for myself and not anyone with me.
Tourists in DC push jaywalking to the extreme, as if they have some invisible force field around them, making them impervious to cars going 35, headed straight towards them. The larger their numbers, the more they believe in their safety and right to stop traffic.
But this year's prize goes to the woman who crossed against the signal at the Lincoln Memorial this afternoon, looking straight at me and playing chicken with me and several other fast approaching drivers - while she pulled her small children along with her.
Can someone tell me what kind of fucked-up thinking makes it worth using your own small children as human shields so you won't have to wait thirty seconds for the light to change?
It wasn't like we were several blocks away (which would still not have made it right); we were less than a block's distance from her when she started across the street. This was at the northwest corner of the Lincoln Memorial, a stretch of roadway where there is rarely a break in the traffic coming from or headed towards the Memorial Bridge, a major artery across the Potomac connecting Virginia and DC. After decades of dangerous situations involving tourists coming out of caravans of buses parked illegally on the opposite side of the road, a traffic light was finally installed. There is no vehicular cross traffic at this light - no intersection exists - so there is no other reason to stop traffic. Of course, this dumb-shit mother couldn't be expected to understand that that light was put there solely for her safety.
The only reasonable explanation for her breathtaking stupidity was arrogance - the belief that her time, even thirty seconds of it, was worth far more than mine or that of all the other drivers around me, and that therefore, she had the right to stop all traffic, regardless of the signal. This is really the height of arrogance. Not surprising in this city, though it's not what you would expect from a tourist (which makes me postulate that she was a local. I think most tourists know when they're being stupid, even while behaving stupidly.)
Should I have stopped? Probably. Was it stupid to keep driving right past her as she reached the median? Probably. Was it worth the risk of hitting someone just for the sake of making a point? No. I'm sure that while I was thinking she couldn't possibly be stupid enough to actually keep walking, she was thinking I couldn't possibly be stupid enough to keep driving.
But let's not forget, she created the situation of her own free will. This was not like NYC, where every day, masses of working people jaywalk with hostile drivers barreling down on them. If you're going to play chicken with your own life and assume all personal risk, go ahead. But don't take anyone with you, especially not children. And certainly not your own.
The signs of fall are unmistakeable. Outside my bedroom window, the Japanese maple is chartreuse, on its way to gold, and the giant cherry tree is tinged with yellow and orange as a prelude to its flaming red glory; the mornings and evenings have turned cool and the days are pleasantly warmed by the slanting sun - and the 2014-2015 PEN/Faulkner Reading Series began last night!
While I have attended the readings for many years, this may have been the first time I went to the season kickoff, and I found myself more excited than usual. I suddenly realized that for me it was like finally getting to a concert on time instead of arriving late. And how fitting that the first reading featured four emerging writers hosted by an established name, nascent careers serving as a metaphor for a reading series at the beginning of a season, and vice versa.
Each of the writers read an excerpt of a story just published in the Virginia Quarterly Review, and Ann Beattie, the moderator, then asked each a question about their work. It was an enjoyable evening, and it whet my appetite both for reading the rest of each story and for attending more of the reading series.
As I was starting to think about these things while walking back to the Metro after the reading, I was struck by the luminous quality of the quiet autumn night on Capitol Hill.
The Hill takes on a different character at night, one not seen by camera-toting, t-shirt clad people spilling out of a caravan of buses. The brick sidewalks in deep shadow and streetlight, the quiet streets of Victorian and Federal row houses, the dramatic spotlighting of churches and Government buildings, are all starkly on display when the only sound is one's footsteps.
It was also nice to not feel such a bifurcation between my writer self and my photographer self and to sense an easier fluidity between the two. They may be different, but they're not oil and water.
Having picked up a copy of the VQR at the reception, I did read more of
the writers' work before going to bed and again this morning, and I was
impressed and inspired. It was just the charge I needed to jump-start
my own writing (starting with this
piece) after taking several months off! Part of this was re-engaging with the literary community and
being reminded that even though writing itself is a solitary pursuit,
telling stories is not - in fact, it's very much the opposite.
It was a night of great expectations - for these four talented writers, for the reading series ahead, and for my own development in this new year. Thanks to
PEN/Faulkner for doing so much to feed the literary community in D.C.!
Today the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby, which sought to limit reproductive health care coverage of its employees based on religious freedom. Let's just cut to the chase. This particular ruling may be about a very specific, "narrow" situation that will only happen on "rare" occasion. But as we all know, Supreme Court rulings are precedent-setting. It's a slippery slope that will allow certain "closely-held," "faith-based" companies to pick and choose what laws they will comply with, as long as they claim religious freedom as the reason.
I am a born-again Christian. I believe Jesus Christ died for my sins. I believe He rose from the dead and that the way to eternal life with God is through a relationship with Jesus. I've memorized lots of Scripture, read the Bible cover to cover more than once, and been "slain in the Spirit" several times. But this is a whacked-out ruling.
Just because a company is owned by people with certain beliefs does not mean that company should be allowed to cherry pick which Federal laws it wants to or does not want to obey. Employment law applies to all employees; otherwise, what's the point?
Are we now going to see some extremist group thumb their nose at Equal Employment Opportunity law and keep their African American employees in the mailroom or deny them promotions because they believe that blacks are a lower order? Are Muslim-owned companies going to be free to hire only men if they believe women should stay indoors? Is Hobby Lobby now going to openly refuse to hire or promote gay people? Or to freely fire them (which is actually perfectly legal, since the Employment Non-Discrimination Act keeps failing to pass in Congress - not that it would matter, now that this ruling can be used to fight any lawsuit over it)?
A spokeswoman (woman!) said that this ruling is a victory for "all" people, no matter what your opinion. Never mind that that makes no fundamental sense - this ruling is only a victory for straight, fundamentalist men who think their beliefs should trump civic law. This woman might change her mind over Plan B coverage if her sister - or daughter - worked for Hobby Lobby and found herself pregnant after a brutal home invasion and it took several days wading through government bureaucracy to get alternative coverage.
When people decide which laws should apply only to others - or, as with marriage equality, which laws only apply to them - that is more a sign of the breakdown of democracy (or, dare I say, society?) than anything else in recent years. And much scarier than anything Ben Percy can think up. This ruling is truly frightening, because it is real.
Last night at his PEN/Faulkner reading on Capitol Hill, Richard Ford quoted Lewis Lapham as saying, "Nothing necessarily follows anything." He and Washington Post book critic Ron Charles were "onstage" (in a church) in conversation about whether a character's action can rightly be deemed believable or not. Ford's position was basically that he was the writer, so he could make the character do whatever he wanted him to do.
What a freeing moment for me as a writer.
At the reception afterwards, standing in front of him at the book-signing table, I said, "It was great to hear you say that, because at the summer writing workshops I attend, someone always says, 'Well, I don't believe the character would do that.'"
Ford looked up and said, "Well, now you know the answer!"
(Allow me a brief digression to share this with you: I'm shaking hands with celebrated novelist Richard Ford, yes, that Richard Ford, who wrote Independence Day, the book that won both the Pulitzer Prize AND the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction - the first time any book had won both - and he is signing that same lauded book, writing a personal greeting to me...and I am nervous, tripping over my tongue, telling him I write fiction, too - how embarrassing, did I just tell him that?! - and he looks up at me and asks where I go for my summer workshops, and I say, "Provincetown, the Fine Arts Work Center," and he says, "Oh, yes!" and then goes back to finishing my inscription. (He lives in New England, after all.) He is somewhat intimidating, tall and grey-haired, such a literary luminary, but it's mostly his eyes - those blue-grey eyes that are so pale you can almost see into his head, like maybe you could catch a glimpse of some of his ideas, some of the magic and style of his writing, though it's almost frightening to look. But I'm completely won over by his warmth, so genuine and patient, the way he looks right at you when he's talking to you, the way he takes his time with you, even though he's never seen you before, and when he says, "It's nice to meet you" and "thank you for coming," he takes his time, and you get the strong feeling he really means it - as if he hasn't already said it to the twenty people before you and as if he isn't going to say it to the fifty people behind you...as if he's not a 70 year-old famous writer who could probably use the rest more than you but won't get to bed until long after you. Despite his austere publicity photos, Richard Ford is one very nice man.)
Why do writers always challenge other writers in questioning the behavior of their characters? Sure, actions usually need the support of motivation, but sometimes people do stuff seemingly out of left field. Would anyone have thought the following plausible?
- A young boy considered a "normal kid" by the neighbors goes on a slashing spree one day at school, severely injuring many, and gets charged as an adult
- A young couple takes their baby and toddler child on a boat into the open ocean, intending to sail around the world
- A grad student waiting for his wife to travel cross-country to join him in married student housing drops out of grad school and returns home to help her raise the child fathered by his (former) best friend
Though none of these seems particularly likely, all of them did happen in real life. But workshop people would tear plots like these to shreds, claiming he/they "wouldn't do that." Is human behavior that predictable? Do we always know what people are or are not going to do?
And do we want to write or read only stories in which everyone behaves as expected and no one does anything surprising? ZZZZZZZZZ Not me!
Thanks, Richard Ford, for giving me the freedom to let my characters do strange, inappropriate, fascinating things that keep the reader turning pages!
PHOTO CREDIT: Amazon.com
