Tiny Stone, Bigger Ripple or the Weight of a Minor Incident

Street parking where I live is cruel and the sight of a car carelessly or inconsiderately parked makes me upset sometimes. Sometimes it's not a big deal because one can spot  and claim empty spots. Certain times are bad. That's how the minor incident unfolded. After having dropped my son off at school, coming back, crossing Mission Street, going east on10th, I turned right on a neighborhood alley. As I neared the 12th Street, I noticed, with frustration, a white car parked wasting space behind and front. I was about to lift my foot off the break and move on when I noticed a man approaching the white car. I hoped he would be leaving. He reached car, opened the back trunk and fished out what looked like architectural sheets (there's a lot of construction going on around my neighborhood). So reversing my car by a few feet, thinking, ah, godsend, an angel, I ask him politely if he could either move his car a bit forward or backwards, so a space could be made for another car. He acknowledges me before giving me the most bogus answers anyone could've come up with. Here, I'm thinking, here's an educated-looking man, perhaps an architect, or a draftsman, even electrical engineer, someone with a civic and rational sense, and probably with a bit of respect for someone his father's age, but no, none of that seemed to be part of the equation, his moral education. First he says, there's a yellow line and that he doesn't want to get a ticket. I tell him it's fine as I know there's yellow in patches and is not enforced. I park here almost everyday, I tell him, and add, that the little stretch from the garage to the end of the street accommodates three cars. They way you have parked is wasting a space someone could've used. No, nothing doing. He apologizes, Sorry, man! and excuses himself, closes the back trunk of his car. As he walked away, I felt angry and couldn't resist calling him an idiot. Thank you, he replies as he walks away. I drive to a whole different part of the neighborhood and finally park my car. On my way back, I leave a note on his windshield: That was a very selfish behavior! 

I said to myself, Not the first time and not the last time. By the the time I got home, or when left for work later, I'd hoped to put the incident behind me. 

One could say the world is what it is or has always been. A little worse or a little better. At a given moment in time. On a given day. One could agree. One could disagree and move on. No need to waste emotional energy on a minor incident. On a fairly normal day, one might run into a nice person and perhaps one will remember the kindness of the stranger or forget it since memory, especially human memory, has been known to fade from time to time. On the other hand, one might run into an obnoxious person, have one's day spoiled, feel sorry for both. By the time one hits the sack, the obnoxious person has been left behind obscured by the day's dust clouds. The next sunrise brings a new start, love of family, strength of friends, empathy of coworkers, neighbors, pleasure of books, music, emails, phone calls, coffee, food, walks. Remember, I'm talking about incidents of minor nature, not something that's serious, life threatening, spirit breaking. 

Minor incidents, too, strangely, occasionally, have the power to expose their full weight and flex their intimidating muscles.

The anger I'd felt towards that uncaring person wasn't fizzling. I wasn't sure how to process my anger, but I took a couple of photographs and further realized how bogus his answers were because his car was already on a yellow zone (the zone is not enforces here and it's broken and choppy). If he had moved the car forward to the end line, his car would've been a little less on yellow. I couldn't help thinking about the motives of his callousness. Was he confused? Did he act on a racist impulse? Was it arrogance (which often comes from being educated, with a degree from a good college)? Was it callousness/selfishness courtesy of American-style capitalism? 

With all those questions sloshing around my head, I realize we're living in a very sensitive time. The level of distrust is high and so is the feeling of otherness. That doesn't mean that kindness and caring has totally gone out the window, but an individual's sense of safety and belonging has worn thin. If that unfortunate man had simply moved his car, that would've gone a long way in making me feel that he and I were part of the same society and part of the process of repairing the broken system. In times of stress and distrust, it is imperative that we act with kindness towards others. As I write this, I'm trying to forgive that person and forget the incident. But I know it won't be easy as every time I walk past that spot of our minor confrontation, I'm reminded of his selfishness! 

Three days of almost bliss in Seattle for AWP!

I had gone to the AWP conference last year in Philadelphia and realized how exciting it was to be around other writers, to run into old friends and make a few new ones. Last year I was on a panel with other South Asian American Writers. I managed to attend a few interesting panels and spend time with friends, especially my old friend Vivek Narayanan. I was determined to visit AWP again in 2023 and so on March 8, I left San Francisco 5:45 AM to reach Seattle the same day and I did despite some nervousness towards the end as darkness and rain appeared all around.

 

I stayed with my wife Amna Ali's nephews in a nearby city of Redmond. 

 

Amna Ali was initially supposed to come along, but decided not to because she didn't feel right leaving our fairly confident 12-year-old boy home alone. That meant I had to sit at the Weavers Press table all by myself, all day long. I had friends at a nearby table though, wonderful folks running the combined space for Chicago Quarterly Review and Catamaran Review. But before I settled down, my neighbors on the right-hand side table Word Crafters in Eugene introduced themselves and offered to look after my table if I needed food or bathroom break. It started slow making me wondered if the rest of the day and the days after that were going to be as boring. 

 

The game changed the moment Syed Afzal Haider showed up with his wife Janice. I cheered up. Soon after my friend Elizabeth McKenzie and her husband Steve had arrived too, assisting CQR and Catamaran, waving hellos at me. Just when I thought I'd faint of hunger, Janice showed up with pizza and insisted that I eat half of the pie. Godsend! As my body regained energy, a nonstop stream of fellow writers kept pouring in. Syed Afzal Haider accompanied me several times and we caught up on many personal and literary issues. Many young students of writing of South Asian background stopped by to chat, wondering about the motive behind having a press dedicated to publishing South Asian American writers. I had a wonderful time speaking with them. Vivek Narayanan showed up on Friday and spent many hours with me at the desk.

 

Writers from South Asian and other backgrounds made a stop to say hello. There were San Francisco and Bay Area folks and there were those whom I had either not met before face to face or had only met once or twice. I may not remember everyone who came by to hug or shake hands but the ones I remember include my old friend Cesar Love (poet), Maw Shein Win (poet), Heather Bourbeau (poet), Shadab Zeest Hashmi (poet), Zeina Hashem Beck (poet), Deema Shahabi (poet), Chris Cook (journalist/prose writer), Sarika Mehta (interpreter), who introduced me to her friend Allison deFreese (poet/translator), Tauheed Zaman (prose writer), Torsa Ghosal (fiction), Kathleen Wood (fiction), Rajika Bhandari (prose writer), Kate Jessica Raphael (mystery), Nawaaz Ahmed (fiction), Priya Subberwal (fiction), Mira Vijayann (fiction), and Christine Marie Lauder (fiction), who teaches at Habib University in Karachi. Then arrived Chaitali Sen (fiction), Oindrila Mukherjee (fiction), Faisal Mohyuddin (poet), Rooja Mohassessy (poet), Karla Heubner (fiction) and Douglas
Kearney (poet). It was nice to run into Kazim Ali (poet) and be introduced to Malvika Jolly (poet) at bar by Vivek and Faisal. 

The funniest moment, I believed, came when a man in his late thirties arrived at the desk and after a brief conversation, I asked him where he'd come from. When he replied Colombia, I overacted and exclaimed, From the land of Senor Marquez? While he smiled, nodded, I pretended to get and said, Can I touch your feet? I was honored to meet one of the sweetest poets I have ever met, Claudia Castro Luna, who was the WA State Poet Laureate (2018 - 2021) among other feathers in her cap. The high point came when Vivek and I noticed that Charles Johnson, whose Middle Passage I had recently finished (and Vivek being a big fan of his Oxherding Tale), had finally arrived at the Chicago Quarterly Review table. Vivek didn't mind parting with his magnum opus After for Mr. Johnson's pleasure who gladly accepted the book and quickly took our picture to text it to the distinguished Prof. Amritjit Singh, a common friend. I texted him and it seemed he never got our photo. I had briefly joked with a passerby, a man with an amazing handlebar mustache, on the first day. Two mornings later I spotted him outside a cafe near the Convention Center. He came to the table to buy a few titles and I told him I saw him working his magic on a woman. He corrected me that it was the other way around. It told him he should've thanked his mustache. 

 

It has taken me thirty plus years to start exploring North West when I took a trip to Portland by car, stopping along the way in small towns and big towns such as Ashland and Eugene. I have developed a small-time affection for a very small town called Weed. One of the three exits the town offers, there's a tiny espresso cubbyhole that I like to stop by while refueling. But on my way, I ended up taking a different exit and to my surprise found a young woman actually reading a book behind counter when not serving a customer. I asked for her permission before taking her picture for future generation who may not know the phenomenon of reading a book while at work instead of gawking at the phone.