Human Connections

The other day I could have sworn I saw a former neighbor from Tokyo walking past the mosque on the way to the post office. A thin, frail little woman in slacks and a white blouse, she had her back to me, and as I passed her, I couldn't resist turning around as casually as I could, to see her face. And no, she wasn't Inoue-san; I didn't really expect her to be. But with her slight frame, bony shoulders, greying permed hair and hesitating way of walking, she could easily have been her sister from behind. Her Turkish sister. I've seen the woman a few times since that first occasion, and whenever I do, I think of Inoue san. God knows, she might be completely different from Inoue-san, who likes fishing, baseball, and flower arranging, but I can't help smiling at how much these two women resemble each other.

In one of my classes last term, I had a student who was a dead ringer for George Clooney. His smile -- playful, but a little self-deprecating, a certain intelligent intensity of expression -- everything about this kid reminded me of George Clooney. Thirty years younger, of course, and many shades darker: this boy is from Sri Lanka. I doubt that George Clooney can speak Tamil, but if he did, he'd be a bleached-out older version of this kid.

In an intermediate class I taught in Yokohama, I had both my aunt Alice Jane and my Uncle Leon in the very same class. The Japanese Alice Jane had shrewd, canny eyes and a pretty smile; her male counterpart had my Uncle Leon's keen expression, shock of thick white hair, and biting dry wit. The resemblances were so startling that I had to keep reminding myself that these two people were Japanese; they had never met before this class and could not possibly be my aunt and uncle, a couple of Caucasians residing in San Francisco. And yet it always amazed me that they never sat together. Didn't they know they were married?

One of my daughters' nursery school teachers looked so much like my Sunday school teacher, Mrs Hunt, that it was a struggle not to speak to her in English. Takahashi-san, the nursery school teacher, didn't know a word of English, but her laugh -- low and musical -- her pretty face, her kind, heavy-lidded eyes -- all of her features screamed Mrs Hunt. Mrs Hunt was African-American and Takahashi-san was Japanese, but when they were on the great assembly line that installs personalities and mannerisms, believe me: these two got the same package, and lucky them.

If you've ever seen the movie, Wag the Dog, the actor in it who plays Private William Schumann looks so much like one of my young Turks, a thin, blue-eyed boy with a keen, wild-eyed stare, that it honestly freaks me out. I will catch his eye in class from time to time and have to look away. I can't take any chances: I'm middle-aged and dumpy and, in short, entirely crazy Private Schumann's type.

I could go on and on and on here -- and I will, just a little. One of my daughter's nursery school friends, a little Japanese girl, looked just like Martin Sheen -- it was just so obvious I had to laugh every time I saw her, and yet I could hardly tell this child or her parents how closely she resembled a first-rate American actor -- a man in his sixties. The UPS delivery man from my neighborhood in San Francisco bore a striking resemblance to a doctor I once worked for in New York. And every other year, someone entirely trustworthy will claim they've seen my double somewhere. And given what I've noticed, I believe them: there's bound to be a couple dozen mes muddling around out there, in Bolivia, Bangladesh, Djibouti, Germany, and Portugal.

I've been around a little in my time, and it is my firm opinion that we're all related. I don't care if you're from Iceland and every single ancestor you can trace back to Adam and Eve was too; you might just be the dead ringer for someone in Swaziland. If you're from Madagascar, for all you know, your double might be one of my Turkish colleagues. And this is bound to be a widespread phenomenon: if I've seen all these likenesses in my own limited sphere, imagine all the ones I've missed. These resemblances trump everything: race, nationality, class, gender, age. And it isn't just physical features; in fact, sometimes it's not physical features at all. It's the way you talk, the way you smile, the way you duck your head when you apologize or shuffle when you walk. There's no way around it, folks: we are all really and truly one big family.

No wonder we can't get along.

Not Another Charity Appeal

After the recent natural disasters in China and Myanmar, Kanani reminds us to donate to the Red Cross.

If you're anything like me, you will groan inwardly at the thought of giving again. Not another charity appeal!

Last week, I stood out on the street with a plastic container and a sheaf of red stickers, collecting for Christian Aid. I started doing this a few years ago when a friend asked if I would join her, and although I feel spectacularly foolish as I stand out there holding my red and white container and adjusting my expression -- which is no mean feat -- I always enjoy doing this. This is not because I am a kind and charitable person. (I strive to be, but generally fall short of my own expectations.) No, I enjoy doing this because it gives me a chance to shamelessly people watch.

Saturday the 17th was damn cold here in our small Scottish town. It was rainy, too, and although I had an umbrella, I could not manage to hold it over my head and hold the container and sheaf of stickers, which were wet to begin with when I took over from the previous volunteer. I must have looked pretty pitiful standing there, trying rather unsuccessfully to keep the rain off me, working hard on my expression.

If you ever have to do anything like this yourself, I will tell you right now that getting the expression right is always harder than keeping your hands warm or keeping your feet from going numb -- both real considerations when you're standing still for two or three hours straight. You have to aim for humble, but confident, and it is essential to get the balance just right. Look too humble and people will despise you; look too confident and people will shun you. You are not allowed to shake or rattle your container, and verbal appeals for money are strictly forbidden; beseeching eye contact, too, is discouraged. As I stood there, I couldn't help but think of Empress Michiko of Japan, who has this look down to an art. Casting my eyes down, I kept a small, hopefully self-respecting smile on my face as though to say I am not a threat to you, but I do hope that you will give. From time to time, I fine-tuned this according to the passers-by, putting in just a suggestion of self-deprecation or plain, dumb stupidity. Both of these come naturally to me, so were not much of a strain.

And I shamelessly used my accent. Whenever anyone put money into my container I always thanked them and offered a sticker. In most cases, the donor would take a step back and look me up and down.

"What's an American doing in Scotland?" they would ask.

"Collecting for Christian Aid," I quipped. "And aren't you lucky I'm not a Canadian?" This made the nice ones smile and ask me where I was from.

"California. And no, I don't feel sorry for myself; I love this weather."

On three separate occasions, that comment got Christian Aid extra coins.

What I enjoy the most about collecting for charity is that I can never tell who will give and who will not. The people who look like generous, salt of the earth types often pass me by without so much as a glance. Proud, snooty-looking people often put money into my container without making a big deal of it; a few who can definitely afford to give generously (well known in this town for their ostentatious wealth) make a big deal of giving me the tiniest of donations.

One woman took real exception to me and my collecting can. "Your envelope was very big this year," she said angrily as she put ten pence into the can. (I tried not to look, but I couldn't help myself.)

I wanted to sympathize. I really do know how she feels; you get compassion fatigue when you've received your fifth charity appeal of the week. You think of your pitiful pension, the leaks in your roof, the two new tires you need and the scholarship your kid is not going to get for university. How will you ever find the money, and is it your fault that the world is so screwed up? That impoverished countries cannot or will not feed their own people; that selfish despots bleed their countries dry to purchase fancy cars and bathtubs made of gold?

"It's hard to give," I admitted. "You feel like there'll never be an end to it. But we've got roofs over our head and enough to eat and--"

The woman rolled her eyes at me and interrupted with a disgusted "Hmph!" Later, I saw her getting into a nice, new-looking Volvo across the street and I seethed inwardly: we bought our car secondhand off E-bay; the brakes don't work right; the windows don't always roll up; the throttle body is carbonized so the car tends to stall in lower gears. I wish we had a Volvo. Then I wondered if the angry woman in the Volvo wished she had a Jaguar.

Do any of us really realize how lucky we are?