Would You Like to Shake My Hand?!

Just some story about a girl. Kinda...

When I was in New York, I had a conversation with a friend about what was more difficult when writing. To make your reader laugh or To make your reader cry. After a while, I think we agreed that it's difficult to write in general. But I don't know. What do you think?

The other day, I was reading War Dances by Sherman Alexie in a Borders and I really appreciated his style and thought I'd try to mimic the way he vocalizes candid and introspective thoughts. I think he's got a good grasp on how to write about, what my cousin would call, "real shit" without being begrudgingly emo about it. So here goes the fruit of my weekend: a bootleg version of Alexie.

I was glad she stood beside me because I couldn’t get myself to look at her directly.

I liked the way she smiled.

An uncomfortable introduction made me regret adopting this bad habit of seeking out handshakes for every possible occasion. A few of my personal favorites: a teacher and his twelve-year-old son, cute girl waiting for a drink at the bar, barista trying to hand me my coffee—completely inappropriate, awkward, yet strangely hilarious. But this is neither the time nor place. I try my best to be myself, whatever that may be. But my guard has been up for too long to remember what myself is.

Hi, my name is John. Would you like to shake my hand. Real smooth, stupid.

I think about my aunt and wonder if she would have laughed at the situation. Poking my twelve-year-old belly fat that I once acquired from my adolescent Hot-Pocket addiction, I remember her telling me not to worry, you will be also be popular among the girls like your brother.

Yet a decade later, moments like these help me believe that the characteristics of our 12-year-old selves hardly change. The process is much too trying. When we are young, our liberty to dream is blunted by the insecurities of growing up. Where we suddenly become aware of sharp corners. We meet racism. We compare. We learn how Icarus died. And our frightful inhibitions meet their credence.

By the time we grow up, we are free to be whom we’ve always wanted. We read Malcolm X. We learn to love the struggle of our parents. We show off our crooked teeth. We admire our ethnic. We dare to pat down our wax-wings.

And how easily our pillars of confidence fall apart with something so insignificant.

Today it is a smile.

I am distracted by a man of tall stature who recommends a prayer before the meal. I cringe. Old man wants to pray? If you ever catch yourself in a similar situation, make a run to the bathroom if you can. Whenever old Korean men like these want to bless a meal, it can take anywhere between three minutes to thirty. To make it worse, if you are like most Korean Americans, you usually have no idea what they’re saying until the very end, when you are cued to announce Amen in unison with everyone else. But please don’t underestimate the timing. A well-placed Amen, if only for a moment, can make you feel as Korean as the guy with thick black-rimmed glasses and Converse Chucks.

The prayer is as I expected. And by the time it's over, she is gone. She leaves without notice. Maybe for a phone call. Maybe for a cigarette. Maybe she was the only one in her right mind to leave before the icebreakers started.

I didn’t even get to catch her name, but it’s probably better this way.