The floor beneath my feet feels like it’s shifting. Have I had it all wrong? Does Ryan actually…respectwhat I do?
Or is he just doing what any good publicist would do, and committing to the gig?
After reciting my brief bio, Ryan invites the crowd to welcome me to the stage. As we pass each other on my way to the podium, he gives me a nod that looks affable, as though we’re friendly colleagues. But it takes him a few extra seconds to peel his gaze from mine, raising more than one question in my mind—ones I’ll never be able to ask.
Most people applaud but there are a distinct few who don’t. Not uncommon, in my experience. Some people just aren’t demonstrative. It’s nothing personal.
The reading goes smoothly—I chose a crowd-pleasing passage from chapter four, an inspiring anecdote from a Pakistani financial analyst who broke the cycle of comparing his successes against others’—and I talk a bit about the most memorable interviews I did in the process of researching for the book.
Shanthi’s phone stays trained on me the entire time. I’m so used to being on display that it’s second nature to keep the delicate balance of professional and approachable in my expression. Ryanwatches intently, and when the Q and A portion begins, he stands sentry by my side as people begin to line up in front of the audience.
“Hi, Ana,” says the first person, a diminutive woman with dark curls, wearing jeans and an olive-green T-shirt, a copy of the book clutched in her white-knuckled hands. This woman is a ticket holder, I’d put my money on it. “I just want to say thank you for your podcast. It’s been a real help for me and my brother in dealing with our dad. He…” She swallows. “He doesn’t really understand that life here is different than back home. He moved us to America so we could have more opportunities, but he expects us to pursue a career of his choosing. My question is, how did you convince your parents to let you choose your own path?”
If I had to list the top five questions I get when we put out AMA calls, this one would be among them. It’s so common for parents to dictate the direction their kids’ lives take—and not just immigrant parents. Living most of your life in one cultural context and raising your kids in a completely different one, yet expecting the rules of your old world to apply (impossibly) to theirs, is tough to reconcile. First- and second-generation kids have to assume different, often oppositional, roles at the same time. Having one foot in their family’s culture, and the other in this North American one. Belonging to both and to neither.
Mar and I count ourselves fortunate that our parents were generally easygoing about a lot of things when we were growing up. They enrolled us in local public schools, encouraged us to befriend American kids. They understood it was important for us to integrate with the culture surrounding us.
Sure, there were things that set us apart. Our friends brought ham-and-cheese sandwiches to school and plugged their noses at our lahmejouns and boregs (their loss). We spent Saturdays in Armenian school while other kids went to gymnastics or soccer. There was the time my friend Kaitlin rooted through our fridgeduring a study session and exclaimed that zero percent of the yogurt containers contained yogurt. (Why buy Tupperware when groceries come in perfectly good food storage containers?)
But having met so many children of immigrants over the years, I’ve realized we had it easy in so many ways. We didn’t face overt racism or macroaggressions or threats of deportation, for one thing, but we were also lucky as far as the weight of familial expectations went. I pushed myself much harder than my parents ever pushed me, striving for achievement after achievement through my entire school career. Being a top student was my priority, my identity. My way of trying to brighten Mom and Dad’s days, of proving to them that everything they’d sacrificed was worth it.
Have I felt Mom’s disappointment since leaving medicine? Sure. But she doesn’t understand that it wasn’t so much a choice on my part as a need, absolute and stemming from deep down in my soul after the bomb that detonated my entire world. Medicine was entangled in so many complex emotions and memories that my residency felt like jumping back into the steaming detritus every day. Ihadto take an alternate road, one that would pull me out of the wreckage, provide me air to breathe. Whether or not it was the right choice was beside the point.
“It’s not easy,” I answer. “And I know there is potentially a lot at stake. But big life choices can be a trade-off. One path may please your father but lead you astray in terms of what you want for yourself, whereas another can fulfill your soul but disappoint him. You are never going to change the way your father thinks—all you can do is change the way you respond to him. It’s your life, and you have to choose what will meet your greatest needs.”
The woman smiles and heads back to her seat. From behind me, I feel the palpable energy of Ryan’s gaze as he recognizes his own words from this morning. He shouldn’t be surprised I took them to heart. I’m an equal-opportunity sponge when it comes to absorbing wisdom.
The next person up is a sixtyish white man with ruddy cheeks, in a worn corduroy jacket and a newsboy cap. “Your book is based on a—a video, I believe?” he says, squinting disbelievingly in my general direction but not quite meeting my eyes.
“Well, no,” I say. “It’s based on the experience of—”
“I don’t understand when books became so meaningless,” he interjects. “In my day, you had to have something of value to contribute to the world to get a book published. Now any pretty face can post some video of themselves talking about god knows what and get paid to write a ‘book’ that pollutes fine shops like this.”
The way he saidbook,like it had air quotes around it, does not escape me. And I doubt thisfine shopwould stock mine unless under duress.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “This book is not about the video, as I said, it’s about the experience of being raised—”
“What’s next, will that British toddler or his finger-biting brother write a book?”
I’d actually read thatis my first thought, followed quickly byWho does this guy think he is?My hackles are up, my mind swimming with images of derisive review headlines; of Daniel Fox sneering at me from across a table, a recorder propped between us; of Ryan slamming my proposal shut on Woodsworth’s boardroom table.
Ryan leans across me to speak into the mic. “Sir, if you don’t have something of value to contribute, I suggest you step aside and allow the next person to ask their question.”
“Now, hold on just a minute,” the man barks. “This is a public event. I am a paying customer at this store, and I’ve seen the likes of Frederic Gold and Irving Dunham here. Authors whose booksmattered,whose books made a difference to society—”
I stiffen, my fight response ignited even as a voice at the edges of my subconscious whispers doubt into my mind, willing me to withdraw. A voice I silence, rallying to shut this doucheface down.
But Ryan beats me to it.
“Ms. Movilian’s book released only two days ago,” he says, his tone measured, “but the hundreds of reader reviews already pouring in disprove your claim that it doesn’t matter or make a difference to society. This book has touched readers from all walks of life, has been described as a beacon for a demographic of Americans whose inner struggles have been fought alone untilSo Proud of Youdrew them into the open. Her work makes people feel less alone in a lonely world, empowers them to take emotional control of their lives, gives them hope where it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find. If that doesn’t matter, I don’t know what does.”
It’s as if Ryan’s words have sucked all the noise out of the room, reducing the entire bookstore to a single frequency, a faint throbbing sound like bass through a distant subwoofer.
I don’t quite hear what the man grumbles as he relinquishes the microphone to return to his seat, or leave the store, who even cares. My heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through my body. I hold tight to the sides of the podium to stop my fingers from trembling. I barely hear the next person’s question, which Ryan helpfully repeats from less than a foot away, where he’s remained, close, the tickle of his breath against my ear the only sensation I feel.
Chapter 5
The cursor blinks a staccato rhythm on the laptop screen. As it has been for the twenty minutes since I sat at the hotel room desk, willing inspiration to strike. But the dang document remains blank. Which is not great, considering Alison is expecting my essay forParadetomorrow, I haven’t written a single word yet, and I normally do my best work while riding the buzz after an event.
