Several years ago, during a casual conversation, an acquaintance brought up my supposed time teaching at the University of Maryland. She seemed doubtful when I clarified that while I was an alumnus, I had never actually taught there.
I started to imagine the persona she had constructed of me – a campus office filled with books, lengthy academic discussions with students about literature. When our conversation ended, my primary feeling was relief that she hadn’t recounted some profound impact my fictional class had on her life.
This imagined academic self, however, paled in comparison to my ex-biker-guy alter ego. This surprising identity emerged during a chat at an Irish bar in Bethesda with a former neighbor. He mentioned that a mutual friend had spotted me walking, noticing my distinctive limp – a consequence of ankylosing spondylitis, a form of arthritis I’ve lived with since 1973. “That guy’s an old biker,” his friend had declared about me.
“No way,” my former neighbor responded, disbelieving.
“No, seriously, the dude is definitely an old biker.”
His friend elaborated, describing horrific high-speed motorcycle accidents where riders were thrown onto the highway, handlebars shattering both hips, resulting in a limp exactly like mine. I found myself strangely captivated by this Biker Guy version of myself from a past, seemingly more adventurous era – roaring down open roads, heading towards unknown experiences.
Then there’s the Iranian version of me that sometimes appears.
“You speak Farsi?” A young man’s face lit up with hope as I exited the Metro station one day. I had to disappoint him, but he was just one of many Iranians who have mistaken me for a countryman. The blend of an Indian mother and a white American father can lead to children who, like me, are sometimes perceived as Iranian—or, in my sister’s case, Latina.
Another time, after a long walk of over 15 miles culminating at George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate, I encountered another misperception. I had frequently made this trek, appreciating the Potomac River views. Exhausted but content after a brisk five-hour walk, I bought a lemonade and rested on a bench near the entrance. (A surprising benefit of constant arthritic pain is that I can achieve a “runner’s high” simply from walking.)
It was then I overheard a tourist remark, “Bum.” He turned to his young son, pointed in my direction, and questioned, “What’s that?”
“Bum. Bum bum,” the child repeated, echoing his father. “He’s a bum.” Despite working 40-hour weeks, my mid-week days off apparently branded me as a “bum” in this stranger’s eyes. Too tired to argue, I remained silent. People will believe what they choose to believe.
These varied encounters are balanced by one that occurred on a winter evening around Bill Clinton’s first presidential inauguration. A doctor’s appointment had concluded, placing me near Farragut Square during rush hour. To avoid the crowds, I decided to eat at a bar and simply absorb the atmosphere. At one point, I overheard two women discussing the numerous famous musicians in town (followed by the unrelated statement: “My husband’s a Republican, but he doesn’t wear galoshes”).
People came and went. One man, clearly a regular who was chatting animatedly with the bartender, began to observe me. He seemed puzzled, as I didn’t fit into any category he recognized. I wasn’t drinking heavily, wasn’t flirting or trying to start conversations, simply enjoying a relaxed meal, slowly savoring a couple of beers.
Finally, as I was preparing to leave, he snapped his fingers, pointed directly at me across the room, and declared triumphantly: “You’re a writer!”
