Resilience

A few nights ago, TheMan and I ventured out for our first dinner in Providence.  We had chosen Mediterraneo, a popular restaurant in Federal Hill, an area known for great Italian dining.  I enjoyed the meal and the wine, but not as much as I enjoyed the rare outing with my husband all to myself, without the kids crawling all over us or diaper changes and boo-boos demanding our attention.  It was also nice to hear one of my favorite sounds again, the din of a crowded restaurant.  Clinking wine glasses, laughter, forks gently scraping plates, specials being recited in amplified Italian accents, sipping, savoring, mmm . . . joy.

Afterwards, it felt good to walk off dinner a bit and explore the rest of “The Hill.”  TheMan seemed to enjoy my delight when we happened upon a certain boutique clothing store wherein two fabulous men, both named Michael, waited on me hand and foot with all manner of couture and compliments.  The Michaels gave an impressive display of fashion, but an even more striking demonstration of salesmanship, in that everything they chose for me was exactly my size and somehow able to mystify me into thinking that I actually had somewhere I could wear these beautiful clothes.  Sure, in Las Vegas the occasional charity ball gave me an excuse to pretend I lived in Project Runway universe, but here in Portsmouth, the closest thing to a runway is a landing dock and wearing your DARK jeans is the height of chic.

I hadn’t realized how bad TheMan must have felt for me playing single mom during his recent string of long business trips until he cheerfully told the Michaels, “We’ll take them all,” despite my wide-eyed objection.  He reminded me that we did have a wedding in Washington DC to attend in two months, and that since he was in the wedding party, he would be wearing a tuxedo.  Try as I might, I couldn’t have pulled off dark jeans with ANYTHING if I wanted to stand next to TheMan in a tuxedo.

We said goodbye to my new style gurus, and I made a mental note of the location so I could return soon.  I offered to carry my new, carefully wrapped garments, but TheMan proudly swung the hangers on hooked fingers over his shoulder, and grabbed my hand from his other side.  Sure, I was being spoiled on this occasion, but he was taking a different kind of pleasure in knowing he could give his wife some happiness in the gesture.  I was reminded of the reason behind my alias for him.  But ultimately he’s “TheMan” more for the genuine goodheartedness behind everything he does.

As we walked more, I felt at home wading through sidewalks crowded from happy weekend patrons spilling out of cafes and bars.  We were exploring unfamiliar territory, and we hadn’t enjoyed that thrill together for too long.  I was giddy when we got back to the car, ready to head back to the island for a last drink at a local bar.

Once we arrived at a bar called “Pour Judgement” in Newport, I checked my watch.  We could stay about 30 minutes at the bar before we had to head back and let our babysitter off.  We settled into a couple of seats at the bar where I could see from the backbar mirror a scattering of people in casual groupings.  It was perfect for us – a vibrant social spot where we could cap off our evening with some local people-watching.  TheMan slipped easily into witty bar conversation that always made me laugh a little too loud while he merely smiled.  Considering how many bars we’ve been to since we started dating, and TheMan’s career in the wine & spirits industry, we should have been less surprised when a man pressed into the space between us and began talking as if entitled to join our conversation.

“Hey, did you guys . . .” He was in his sixties at least, and he was slurring slightly.  “Did, uh, dj’you guys meet on that . . . you know, website?”

“What was that?” TheMan said, amused and smiling at him but acknowledging my suspicious look with a quick glance my way.

“Yeah, y’know . . . behind the nipa hut . . . the nipa hut.”

I had already started to look away, resolved to let TheMan have a little fun with the intruder, when I heard the words, “nipa hut,” a term well-known by Filipinos meaning a native house made of bamboo.  An older caucasion male like him would most probably know that phrase if he’d been stationed in the Philippines for military deployment or if it was some coy name of the type of mail-order bride services that found many willing candidates from my poor home country.  If the latter were true in his case, it screamed “Hi, I’m a Pathetic, Lonely Loser”, but I was nevertheless offended instantly.

“What?  Did you say nipa hut?” I spat out the words.

“Yes . . . ha, yes, she knows what I mean!”

TheMan was clueless and checking my face to determine whether he should still be nice or knock this weird guy on his ass.

“Huh . . .” I muttered, and I turned back to my drink shaking my head.  I contemplated the perfect night I’d just had with my amazing husband, and I couldn’t believe this ignorant moron was going to end it this way.

By the time I emerged from deep thought, Pathetic-Lonely-Loser was gone and TheMan was stirring his cocktail quietly.  He knew from experience not to prod me into conversation before I was ready.  Eventually, he did his best to change the subject, commenting on something, anything else in the bar that could divert me from the disturbing interruption that just happened.  But I was bothered, and it was getting late, and PLL was nowhere to be seen, so we settled our bill and left.  We walked quietly in the cool air, but once in the car I was feigning anxiousness at being late for the babysitter in order to cover up my irritation.  I was taking it out on TheMan.  Bad me.

I wish I could say this was the first time I’d heard a comment like PLL’s, the kind with (probably) no harm intended but stinging nonetheless. Or I wish I could say that there was a time when I’d abandoned caution and spewed much vile abuse at the source of a comment that would disregard all the honor of my heritage.  Being an Asian-American female has been a double-edged sword.  As a group, we continuously make important advances in society, and yet we are extremely misunderstood, often mischaracterized as servile mutes or exotic sexual playthings.  Being neither of those stereotypes, I could have found reasons to lock horns with every prejudiced ignoramus that crossed my path.  But that’s not my way.  I’ve learned to choose my battles and, on fortuitous occasion, to educate rather than to beat down.  An African-American studies professor once made very clear to me a practical difference between racism (the act) and prejudism (the attitude), and he forced me to own up to my own prejudices.  So I try to understand when others’ views don’t match my own.  Thankfully, this ordeal by Pathetic-Lonely-Loser did not meet my criteria for engaging in combat.

Just before getting home, I realized our blissful evening was in real danger of getting overshadowed by PLL’s own brand of “pour judgment”.  With a deep breath, I reminded myself that the world was still learning, and choosing to live in rural America meant sometimes encountering the kind of close-mindedness that comes with solitary living.

TheMan, however, has since been back to the bar in Newport, and made it clear to me that he was looking for PLL.

Uh-oh.

Gratitude Journal Entry – A 5 star day
Things I’m thankful for today:
. TheMan
. Stores that provide high heels in dressing rooms
. Open-mindedness
. Empowerment of women http://www.gabnet.org/