On non-singular identities
And other realizations, in three scenes
Scene 1
I’m sitting in front of my laptop, looking at someone I’ve never met before. She’s in her kitchen (because I can see the beautiful refrigerator and glossy cabinets behind her) while I’m at my dining room table, where I’ve spent the past two years doing a variety of things, including Zoom meetings. Except in this case, I get to talk to someone whose book I’m really excited about—Madhushree Ghosh, the author of Khabaar: An Immigrant Journey of Food, Memory, and Family. (You can read my profile on her here.) She writes about the very things I’m interested in: food and family, the very essence of this newsletter.
I was able to connect with Madhushree through her publicist, who had reached out to me and my team at BooknBrunch because she had a book coming out, and did we want to chat with her, they asked. When I saw its beautiful cover, I said yes immediately.
She smiles at me through her screen, and we spend an hour talking about her book and her journey towards becoming an author. I find out that she’s not just an author—she also has a day job as an oncology diagnostics strategist, that she has advanced degrees in biochemistry. I can tell that she likes her job and has no plans to leave it. But she also likes writing about her culture and experiences as an immigrant to the U.S.
About halfway through, she asks me what I like to write about. I reply that I generally write about food, family and books, and rattle off a few outlets that I’ve been published in. It’s very similar to what she writes about, I say. She nods and smiles as if she understood.
You see, she was the first author I’ve spoken to (and I’ve chatted with quite a few) who actually wanted to know more about me. The first who seemed genuinely interested in what I’m trying to do. It’s not to say that other authors aren’t curious, but generally our interviews are about them, not me.
I realize after speaking with her that she’s also the first author I’ve met who seems perfectly content with being both a writer and a day job holder. Unlike many who dreams of writing or doing creative work full time (“going all in,” as they say), she doesn’t need to solidify herself into one side. “I’m 51 years old,” she says, “So I no longer give a shit.” I love that. Her wisdom and self-confidence speaks volumes.
Scene 2
Several weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, I find myself in front of a screen again. But this time I’m looking at the faces of 10-12 people as a participant of an event hosted by Mark of Article Club. We’re all here to discuss an essay written by Devin Kelly, who was also in attendance. For the next hour, we break into small groups and discuss.
As we take our turns around the (virtual) room, it occurs to me that I had an epiphany, the kind that wouldn’t have been possible had I not read the essay. That is—something can be painful and joyful at the same time. I mumble something about the experience of being a new parent, the first moments of your child’s life and right after you bring the baby home from the hospital. The weeks that follow your child’s birth is harrowing and sleep-deprived, and neither you nor your partner (if you have one) knows anything about childrearing, and yet, you’re expected to figure it out. It’s an incredibly difficult adjustment but one filled with joy because now you have this beautiful little human that you made together, and you’re overwhelmed by the fact that they’re here, their soft skin grazing your body, their lungs filled with noise, and their bodies filled with need for milk. I remember those moments and how hard it was but I also treasure it immensely.
Scene 3
It’s the first Monday in May, and I find myself at my work office for the first time ever. It’s hard to believe that I’d never been in this office before, but I was hired on during the pandemic, so I started my job virtually. Since then, there hasn’t been a need to physically show up in the office, as everyone had been working at home.
In downtown Portland, the birds are singing, the grass is green, and cars are whizzing by me. All normal for a spring day, except there aren’t as many people as I used to see.
Years ago, I worked at this university and went to the office every weekday. Then I left for another job. The campus was bustling with activity then. But now…not so much. There is still the occasional construction worker or someone in a uniform, fixing things, but seeing the peace and quietness of what was once a powerful, busy hub is jarring to me.
I buzz myself into my office building only to find that I cannot get into my department’s office. Luckily, someone lets me in. I spend the next fifteen minutes making phone calls until someone in campus security gives me access to my badge. I stick around for a while, feeling disconnected and creeped out because a) none of my colleagues are there, and b) the silence is eerie. So eerie that I can hear my own thoughts and breathing. What’s the point of being here? I wonder to myself.
I do the kind of work that is not front-people facing so the main interactions I get with people is via email or chat. I don’t need to be in the office necessarily, but the higher-ups (my boss and her bosses) think we do. We need to revitalize the campus, bring it back to its main purpose: the usage of physical space and its available resources.
But they don’t get it.
While I love being in the physical presence of an institution, seeing its workers, seeing progress being made on new buildings and landscapers planting trees and flowers and students milling about, sipping their coffees, looking on their phones or having conversations at outdoor cafes, it’s also worth noting that the office culture will never be the same. And it won’t be that way for a very long time.
This realization made me a little sad. And a little bit glad. I was struck by this duality of feelings. How can I feel both sad and glad at the same time?
To me, the beauty of being a human means that we are multifaceted beings with a variety of interests, feelings and experiences. We are always changing and evolving. I know I am.
I think of life as a series of phases. Just like how we go through certain natural phases (for example: puberty, childbirth, menopause) we also go through mental phases and social phases. Marriages. Births. Deaths. Divorces. Illnesses. Recoveries. As with experiences, big or small, comes the potential for interests and values to change. We are not simply one way or the other, and we shouldn’t have to be.
End credits
Last month, I read a beautiful longform essay by Brandon Taylor, author of Filthy Animals and Real Life. It was about photography, friendship, care work, and talking to strangers, but really, it was more about taking risks by talking to strangers and using his photography as another way to look at the world aside from writing. It was about loving two things at once. As someone who was once obsessed with taking photos (and still am, but I don’t take photos as often anymore), I was struck by what he said about photography and writing as a duality of experiences.
“Photography allows me to love writing on better, healthier terms. I’m able to write when I write and when I can’t, I don’t take it so personally. Writing used to be the thing that I did when my real job didn’t go well. And then it became my real job and I had no way to survive the difficulties and random cruelties of this calling. But now I have a way out. An alternative means of expression.”
In case you missed it…
Question of the week:
What sources of inspiration have you found that spoke to the duality of things, that gave you the freedom to be both of something?
Lovely piece. I enjoyed reading this very much.