All My Exes...

I was in Houston this past weekend, my first time in Texas. I don't usually use real names on my blog in the name of anonymity, but I believe in giving credit where credit is due.

The people of Houston really struck me as friendly. Friendly is an understatement. It's more than that. There's a genuine quality to when someone greets you, or smiles at you, that is not found just anywhere. There is a warm, human energy that one cannot fake-give or fake-reciprocate.

My uncle Vinton* and I were at his bank in the waiting area. Most of the comfy chairs were taken. He was the odd man out.

In a little while, my aunt Lynn** spotted an available seat and urged Vinton to take it. They were both a little hesitant and timid (immigrant mentality - always unsure if we're entitled in the country we call home), uncertain if the man who had left was going to return.

"What man?" I asked.

"The man with the long legs," said Lynn. I hadn't noticed.

Vinton took the chair. More people eventually left the waiting area. Now we were all by ourselves, just the three of us, with plenty of chairs.

Just then, the man with long legs returned. Might I add: the white man with long legs.

Uncle Vinton jumped to his feet then, almost as if he'd been shocked by an unexpectedly violent current. Mr. Long Legs gestured Uncle Vinton to sit back down, assuring him it was fine, gesturing that he himself would take the adjacent seat.

"You and I," Mr. Long Legs said with an easy smile, gesturing between his chest and Vinton's. "We're the same."

I don't think I could've been more touched in that moment. In this political climate, there was nothing a white man could have said to an Asian immigrant who obviously looked very different and acted quite out of place that would have meant more to the entire immigrant community. The true spirit of inclusivity. Who could ask for more in their wildest dream?!?

This man, tall and tanned and dressed in a way sort of reminiscent of Guy Fieri, complete with colorful sunglasses, might have been mistaken by someone like me to fit that white nationalist profile. I felt ashamed then, to have formed judgment based on zero facts.

In the afternoon that same day, we came upon an event known as the blessing of the fleet. Apparently it is an annual waterfront affair where a priest blesses the yachts and boats to kick off warm weather season, and they sail around the harbor blasting music and throwing beads ashore to celebrate.

Clueless outsiders that we were, we piled up to try to take a peek. I was behind a couple of white ladies who had gotten there first, and I dared not encroach on their territory.

One of the ladies noticed me with the eye on the back of her head, and invited me to get closer to the edge of the lookout. I politely declined first, feeling undeserving, even though there was clearly enough room for three spectators. It struck me as silly then, and I inched forward.

We got to chatting about the event. The lady mentioned that they "made their way down" and were glad that they did.

"Oh, where were you coming down from?" I asked, expecting something like Tennessee or Georgia or some exotic state (geography is not my forte).

"Oh, just Houston." The lady replied. And laughed quietly.

I laughed along, somehow feeling stupid and like I had invaded her privacy. I didn't stay much longer after that.

A few minutes later, when we were getting ready to leave the restaurant, I heard a voice asking me a question I couldn't quite process because it seemed out of nowhere because I didn't see a face associated with the voice.

Then I heard it. "Where are you from?" But not in a way like "So... what are you?" or "Where are you really from?"

It was the lady I was chatting with earlier. I understood immediately that she was simply inquiring from where I had traveled to this spot on this day, since I had asked her. She made a point to continue the interchange. She made a choice because it was a moment of honest human interaction and connection, albeit brief and, in the large scheme of things, arguably insignificant.

"California," I responded.

She nodded and smiled, satisfied. I was, in turn, satisfied by her satisfaction.

It was beautiful.


*Not his real name
**Not her real name