A Part of Things

I've been seeing a Portuguese man for a little over a month now, quite casually, as I'm not sure of either of our intentions and also because I never have the time. We don't text much outside of seeing each other once a week, and I feel no anxiety or impulsivity about that, which is uncharacteristic of me. His own insouciance is an endlessly fascinating attribute that I am forever poking at to discover its authenticity, as if no real person could be that relaxed and still manage to hold down a job or fold their laundry.

He's newly divorced, and moved away from it all, and seems to be quietly reveling in being able to wander down to Rainey Street in the evenings and listen to live music and not take care of his son every second of the day. He's amicable, almost zen about the situation, and finds amusement in the intensity of my devotions to the various activities that take up all my waking hours. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been overly sensitive that time he didn't share my sentiment about the importance of parking lot racing. But the reality is, I don't need someone who's going to race me. I need someone who's going to lift their margarita when my car goes by, and later say, "Look at you, so fast," and kiss me on the forehead. I need to be placated, with love.

He's been in the U.S. over twenty years already, but still maintains all the Portuguese about him, and never tells people he's from Texas. Most recently, I've tried to explain to him how I've started telling people I'm from Texas when I travel, even though I'm not from Texas, but I kind of want to be, but also, I don't really know what to say. He's never confused about what to say. He always says he's from Portugal.

I've been practicing being from somewhere, being part of something, being who I say I am. I think I've been practicing my whole life. When do I get the black belt? When do I graduate? When does someone say, here's your membership card, please come inside?

I was strolling through the drivers' meeting at our last autocross as announcements were made. I saw a fellow racer, and complimented his personalized shirt, a special order the group had made to advertise their alliance with a community of racers local to Austin. He asked me if I bought one, and I had said no, and when he asked why, I said I didn't feel like I was a part of it all. I could see he was briefly vexed by this answer, since it wasn't as if the group had any requirements for joining other than to simply show up and drive and be very unserious afterwards. I then said, "Maybe if I was faster," and I could tell he found this even more absurd and made a joke. I laughed politely and walked away. Maybe if I was faster.

I don't know when I'm part of something. No one gives you any guidelines. There is an age old debate about whether you've been to a place if you've only had a layover at the airport. I've had people who said that counts, people who say you need to leave the airport, people who say you need to spend at least an hour in the city - the scale of requirements grows and grows the more you listen. But this is all made up, isn't it?

Occasionally you are assisted in determining whether you are part of something when a degree or award or license is handed out, but in the grand scheme of affirmations, most of life offers none of these tangible benchmarks. So then I think, is the criteria simply when you say you are a racecar driver, an author, a Texan, a horse trainer? Does thinking make it so?

I am reminded, in vicarious embarrassment, of all the people I have known who were terrible at things. Terrible writers, skaters, rowers, drivers, riders, artists, bakers, dancers. Once, I was standing on a dock at a boathouse on the San Francisco bay, watching a poorly assembled crew row their shell, rocking from port to starboard, slamming into the water and then rising above it. I cringed, and the coxswain who was not aboard with them that day said, "But they are having fun, aren't they?"

Does having fun make them rowers though, I thought. I rowed in graduate school and I was much better than them and yet I don't remember having that much fun. I read somewhere that right now, someone who is much worse at whatever you think you are unqualified to do is doing it and finding success. The difference between them and you is that in your world, sucking at something places limitations on your ability to succeed whereas in theirs, it's irrelevant. They're a part of it and you're not, simply because they decided they were.

But if only it were simple. We had gotten on the elevator of his condo complex to go down four floors, and two older women were already in it. When he saw the first floor button was already pushed, he said, "Ah, we are going to the same place."

One of the women replied, "Where are you from, with that lovely accent?"

And he said, "I am from Portugal."

She looked at me then and said, "And where are you from?"

"I'm from California," I said, too loudly it seemed in that cramped elevator, and I felt instantly displaced. He laughed, although I wasn't certain if he was laughing because I had an obvious valley accent, or because I had forgotten to say I was from Texas.

I'm always forgetting to be a part of things.