On Being Who You Are and Finding Your People

On comedy shows, finding friends on Bumble and good books

I am about to begin a ten hour flight and I have several books, the entire second season of Bridgerton, snacks, notebooks, and multiple pens ready to keep me company. My seat companion has a book of puzzles and a single pencil.

It has been far too short a trip to South Africa, and I am both sad and excited to go home. I congratulate myself out loud for getting my bag in the overhead compartment unassisted but no one notices my accomplishment. After a few hours in the airport alone, I am hungry for conversation and curious about what brings the crisp looking man in the seat beside me to Johannesburg. Despite my question, he does not look at me right away, focusing instead on pulling on flight socks from a compartment by his seat and tucking his brown loafers away. I do the same, but instead of creating order, my pink socks tucked into my blue sneakers insist on bobbing up; my shoes are in an uneven line and the whole thing looks messy. I turn to look at his shoes and his shoes look subdued.  I can easily imagine a younger version of him at school wearing uniforms and ties.

The quieter he is, the more the questions spill out of me unprompted. I want to know what kind of business he has, why he was in Johannesburg, what he will do during his Frankfurt layover, what it is like in Australia, if it’s still cold in Chicago. I have stories and questions, but my companion is utterly unmoved by my stellar personality. He does not want to hear anything I have to say. Instead he folds over the page of his puzzle book and taps his pencil on the page, waiting for me to finish speaking. I can see plainly on his face that he wants silence and peace.

This shouldn’t matter so much when it is just someone you are sitting beside on a plane. But even then, the feeling of not being appreciated or understood is a feeling I find difficult. It is hard when I sense someone finds my enthusiasm and chatter too much. In those moments it can feel like the right thing to do is to moderate who I am and to tuck pieces of me away. To be less “me”. Sometimes this can sparked by noticing I find certain things harder than other people do, or by telling long stories or by caring about things that feel niche. Sometimes it is sparked from just plain anxiety.

I mention this because I have been thinking about how we lose tremendous contributions and gifts when we do not lean into “our specific genius”, a phrase I learnt from guest speaker Morẹ́nikẹ́ Ọláòṣebìkan in my social innovation program several weeks ago. When we force ourselves to match our surrounding environments, or take others disinterest to be commentary on our own worthiness, much is lost in the process. We lose out precious lifespan to doubt and uncertainty, and the world more broadly loses out on contributions we don’t feel safe enough to share.

During my South Africa trip I found myself one day at a jazz concert of the artist Mandisi Dyantyis with my brother in law and husband for a birthday celebration. Before the show I hadn’t had a chance to look up the artist or his songs.  All I knew was that he was very talented, and we could bring our own snacks to the concert. But as we sprawled out in the sunshine and the concert began, I was surprised to realise that everything - from the song lyrics to the artist banter with the audience was in isiXhosa.  As each new song began and with nearly every line of each song, the crowd jumped up, swayed, cried, danced cheered and sung along. These were songs that were loved, well-known, and cherished.

People had tears in their eyes as they sung along, the collaboration between Mandisi and the pianist and drummer in his band was an extraordinary example of teamwork and improvisation, the songs were beautiful (we eventually found found one of the songs translated on Lyric Genius) and the power of his voice was exceptional. At first I admit I thought, “how can none of the songs be in English?” But soon enough I realized that my lack of knowledge was irrelevant. For me, the concert proclaimed loudly: “This is my offering. Whether you like it or not isn’t that important. The right people will.” And sure enough, they did.

The same night, I went to the Comedians Without Borders night at the Johannesburg International Comedy Festival which featured Akau Jambo from South Sudan, Q Dube from Zimbabwe, Salvado from Uganda, alongside other artists. It was probably one of the best nights of comedy I’ve ever experienced, with each comedian in the lineup delivering sharp, specific, and intelligent commentary on their home and on South Africa. At the same time, I had never heard of any of these comedians before and judging from the less than half full theatre, many other people perusing the festival lineup hadn’t heard of them either. To perform in such an environment, knowing that many people have not heard of you, and likely do not know a lot about your context or country takes courage, and everyone who performed that night fully embraced the gift of their contributions and gave the night their all. By sharing their unique experiences (for example Akau Jambo spoke about what it was like living in a country that is eleven years old), brilliance and magic was created.

Weeks after that show, I am trying to hold onto the lesson of that night by seeking out others on a similar path and life stage as I am right now, who are asking similar questions of their life. They are not at all identical events, but seeing how vulnerable and fully themselves each person was that evening, has made me more curious about being more vulnerable with others during not just infrequent catch-ups, but regular gatherings of joy.

Which raises an interesting question: how do adults meet new people in a pandemic and outside of post-secondary education? A few months ago when quarantining from COVID alone in Chicago, I signed up for Bumble to meet other people. (There was something about being unable to see anyone that made me keen to make plans and remind myself that quarantine would end.) I never ended up meeting anyone because everyone in my area and age category seemed to be into long intense workouts and that is not my thing (if you’d like to start a slow walking/beginner hiking group though I’m there!), but I’m still keen to meet like-minded folks and have conversations in particular about how others are trying to do equity work well - with excellence and with their health intact at the same time.

In the past I’ve made wonderful friendships through my old blog, my audio stories and bookclub. Would you be interested in a bookclub through this newsletter? Or in-person gatherings? Let me know in the comments below.

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Favourites since we last spoke:

Love Marriage by Monica Ali: This book follows the story of a couple Yasmin and Joe, who are engaged and is about their individual (but mostly Joe’s) journeys to heal come to terms with their family histories so that they can come together as whole people. The book starts out with both families meeting and Yasmin embarrassed about how her in-laws might view her family, and over the course of the novel delves into the baggage each person holds, their assumptions, their fears, their attempts to heal, and ultimately demonstrates that the truth is always complex.

I enjoyed this read. I also found it plodding along at times, or found myself squeamish about where the story was going, but overall, I found the therapy parts of the book fascinating, especially the parts told from the therapist’s point of view. It was also fascinating to read about a man trying to heal and take steps to be in therapy and go from intellectualizing about theoretical concepts about healing to bravely facing himself. If you are a reader who does not like Muslim characters struggling or not practicing their faith, this book may not be for you, because the characters here are flawed, struggling and trying. This is also the first book of Monica Ali that I have read and liked. (My other attempt was Brick Lane years ago and I hated it). So if you aren’t a fan of the author, this book feels different.

A Place of Refuge by Asmaa Hussein: Last week I spent a full day reading “A Place of Refuge” and found myself unable to move away from the book. It is the month of Ramadan right now and I found the book to be an incredible, compassionate, beautiful, loving, powerful read. I haven’t read a book “about Islam” for ages and ages, and this was exactly what I needed. It talked about grief in relatable ways, it was a reminder of the importance of vulnerability and  overall, I found it a well worth it Ramadan read.

The Crane Wife by C.J Hauser: Over the holiday I read C.J Hauser’s incredible essay from 2019 titled “The Crane Wife” and published in the Paris Review. Over one million people have read this essay and I’ve read it more than four times now.  After I read it,  I pre-ordered her forthcoming essay collection of the same name due in July 2022 and watched this wonderful conversation of C.J Hauser in conversation with author Charlie Gilmour.  The essay is about author C.J Hauser calling off her wedding and going to study whooping cranes afterwards, and is a stunning essay that combines descriptions of her experiences with meditations on what it means to ask for more and see your own needs as valid when you are told that they are not.

Find Joy in Any Job: Why am I Unhappy at Work? (HBR IdeaCast): This podcast by the Harvard Business Review is about finding joy in work by crafting your role around the 20% that you like, rather than leaving workplaces and trying to find joy elsewhere. The thesis of this podcast is that joy cannot be found in one particular role, but rather in seeking to exercise your agency in spheres that are within your control.

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