So Much Can Happen in an Ordinary Afternoon
By Garrison Keillor, Garrison Keillor's Website
13 April 19
I have been struggling this week, looking deep within myself, questioning my
own values, asking myself: should I go public with the incident in 2009 when
Michelle Obama put her arm around me at a luncheon in Washington? She was
posing for photographs with the attendees and I had been the guest speaker
and I was told to stand next to her and I did and she put her left arm
around my back and pulled me toward her and squeezed. It was a perceptible
squeeze. I didn't say anything at the time but I remember feeling that this
was her idea, not mine, that I probably would've preferred to shake her
hand, but what are you going to say to the First Lady? "Get your arm off
me"?
She didn't place her forehead against mine or kiss the back of my head,
nothing like that, but the squeeze was unmistakable and intimated
familiarity.
I don't come from a huggy family. My wife does. I don't. In my family, a pat
on the back is considered sufficient, but when my wife walks into a room
full of Keillors, she goes from one to another, throwing her arms out and
clutching them to her, and they have to stand there and accept it or else
look like soreheads.
People like us - white, Anglo, Midwestern, formal, reluctant to make eye
contact, uptight, stiff, boring - are ridiculed, by comedians of color and
also colorless comedians, and we have learned not to object. "Where's your
sense of humor?" people would say, so we laugh at the stereotype even though
we don't find it funny.
I don't go around smiling. It doesn't mean I'm unhappy; it's simply the
culture I was born in. The photographs of my ancestors that we kept on the
piano showed solemn bearded men and severe women and their gloomy children,
no incisors visible whatsoever. My dad and uncles didn't smile a lot. They
associated smileyness with salesmen trying to charm you into buying a
ten-year-old Dodge with a loose clutch and rust around the bumpers. I went
off to college and, in order to be hip, read existential writers about the
indifference of the universe to human suffering, while chain-smoking Luckies
and drinking espresso, which tends to solemnize a person as well.
On account of my seriousness, people are always asking, "What's wrong? Is
something the matter?" I call this demeanorism, judging people by their
facial expression. Inside, I'm pretty lighthearted but on the outside, I
look as if I've been struck by a baseball bat and am trying to remember my
name.
The squeeze that I experienced was ten years ago and I'm not saying it was
traumatic but I do wish she would take ownership of it and express some
regret at having ignored my feelings, and then I have a sudden sensation in
my rear end, a suspicious flatness, and I reach back and there is no wallet
there, and suddenly I'm up and running from room to room, checking pockets,
looking under tables, calling up cafes I've patronized the past couple days.
This is the bright red wallet my wife bought me after I left a black wallet
on the seat of a taxicab late one night and it occurs to me that this wallet
loss, coming a month after the previous, may be what convinces her I need
help. Tomorrow there'll be a power-of-attorney form to sign and consultation
with a series of people in white uniforms who take notes as I'm put through
a battery of tests involving matching shapes on little wooden cubes, and my
wife, who loves me dearly, will break the news gently. There is a care
center that specializes in elderly men with cognitive issues. It's called
Sunnyvale and it has a triple-A rating from the AARP and there is
shuffleboard and checkers and color TV in every room and a sing-along on
Saturday nights where the elderly gather to sing Grateful Dead and Rolling
Stones hits.
For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe Michelle Obama reached around me to
lift my wallet out of my back pocket.
And then I find it. It's in the freezer. I set it down when I was getting
out the frozen waffles this morning.
Ignore whatever I was saying before. I am okay. Wallet, cellphone, house
keys. This is all a man needs. Wallet, cellphone, house keys. It's spring.
We're going to be okay.
Miriam's comment: This is posted specifically for old people who have a
sense of humor.
