And Paul knew — understood with a bracing clarity — that he must sing Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On.” And so he began to hum at first, finding the tune, before he sang the first few lyrics — mumbled them, really, because he couldn’t quite remember them — but when he came to the chorus, Paul belted it out. He sang loudly, and his imperfect, ragged vocals echoed in that small and simple room.
What’s going on?
What’s going on?
What’s going on?
And, yes, Paul recognized that his singing — his spontaneous talent show — could easily be seen as troublesome. It could even be seen as crazy. Paul knew he wasn’t crazy. He was just sad, very sad. And he was trying to sing his way out of the sadness.
What’s going on?
What’s going on?
What’s going on?
The men kept staring at Paul. They wouldn’t smile. They wouldn’t even acknowledge the song. Why not? But then Paul remembered what had happened to Marvin Gaye. Broken, depressed, alcoholic, drug-addicted, Marvin had ended up living back home with his parents. Even as his last hit, “Sexual Healing,” was selling millions of copies, Marvin was sleeping in his parents’ house.
And, oh, how Marvin fought with his father. Day after day, Marvin Gaye Sr. and Marvin Gaye Jr. screamed at each other.
“What happened to you?”
“It’s all your fault.”
“You had it all and you lost it.”
“You’re wasting your life.”
“Where’s my money?”
“You have stolen from me.”
“You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you shit.”
Had any father and son ever disappointed each other so completely? But Paul couldn’t stop singing. Even as he remembered that Marvin Gaye Sr. had shot and killed his son — killed his song.
What’s going on?
What’s going on?
What’s going on?
And then it was over. Paul stopped singing. This was the wrong song. Yes, it was the worst possible song to be singing at this moment. There had to be a better one, but Paul couldn’t think of it, couldn’t even think of another inappropriate song. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember? Paul laughed at himself as he sat in the airport interrogation room. How had he come to this? Wasn’t Paul a great man who lived in a great country? Hadn’t he succeeded? Jesus, he was good at everything he had ever attempted. Well, he had failed at marriage, but couldn’t he be good at grief? Couldn’t he be an all-star griever? Couldn’t he, through his own fierce tears, tell his captors that he wasn’t going to die? Couldn’t he survive? Couldn’t he pause now and rest his voice — rest his soul — and then start singing again when he felt strong enough? Could he do that? Was he ever going to be that strong?
“Officers,” Paul said, “I’m very tired. Can I please have some time? The thing is, I’m sorry for everything. And I know this is no excuse, but I think — I realize now that I want to remember everything — every song, every article of clothing — because I’m afraid they will be forgotten.”
One of the men shook his head; the other turned his back and spoke into a cell phone.
Paul bowed his head with shame.
And then he spoke so softly that he wasn’t sure the men heard him. Paul thought of his wife and his daughters, of Sara Smile, and he said, “I don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want to be forgotten. Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me.”
On Airplanes
I am always amused
By those couples—
Lovers and spouses—
Who perform and ask
Others to perform
Musical chairs
Whenever they, by
Random seat selection,
Are separated
From each other.
“Can you switch
Seats with me?”
A woman asked me.
“So I can sit
With my husband?”
She wanted me,
A big man, who
Always books early,
And will gratefully
Pay extra for the exit row,
To trade my aisle seat
For her middle seat.
By asking me to change
My location for hers,
The woman is actually
Saying to me:
“Dear stranger, dear
Sir, my comfort is
More important than yours.
Dear solitary traveler,
My love and fear—
As contained
Within my marriage—
Are larger than yours.”
O, the insult!
O, the condescension!
And this is not
An isolated incident.
I’ve been asked
To trade seats
Twenty or thirty times
Over the years.
How dare you!
How dare you
Ask me to change
My life for you!
How imperial!
How colonial!
But, ah, here is
The strange truth:
Whenever I’m asked
To trade seats
For somebody else’s love,
I do, I always do.
Big Bang Theory
After our earliest ancestors crawled out of the oceans, how soon did they feel the desire to crawl back in?
At age nine, I stepped into the pool at the YWCA. I didn’t know how to swim, but the other Indian boys had grown salmon and eagle wings and could fly in water and sky.
Wouldn’t the crow, that ubiquitous trickster, make a more compelling and accurate national symbol for the United States than the bald eagle?
Okay, that Indian-boy salmon-and-eagle-wings transformation thing is bullshit, but I’m trying to tell a creation story here, and by definition all creation stories are bullshit. Scientifically speaking, we all descend from one man and woman who lived in what we now call Africa — yes, we are all African at our cores — but why should we all live with the same metaphorical creation story? The Kiowa think they were created when lightning struck the mud inside a log. I think the Hopis are crash-landed aliens who are still waiting for a rescue mission. Christians think God built everything in a week — well, in six days — and then rested. Yeah, like God created the universe in anticipation of the Sunday funny pages.
Q: In the singles bar, over nonalcoholic beer, what did the Palestinian say to the Israeli?
A: “Your holy war or mine?”
But wait, before I get too critical or metaphysical, let me return to that YWCA on Maple Street in Spokane, Washington. I stood alone in the shallow end while my big brother, cousins, best friend, and little warrior enemies swam in the deep end. I was so ashamed, but then our female swim instructors shouted my name and challenged me to dive off the five-foot board. Fuck that! I jumped out of the pool and ran into the locker room.
There is a myth that drowning is a peaceful death. I’ve heard people say, “I would just open my mouth and breathe death in.” In truth, drowning is torture. The fear of drowning is used as torture.
At the YWCA, I quickly dressed and waited for the other Indian boys, who mocked me for my aquatic cowardice and locked me in a towel bin. But I escaped and made it onto the bus that took us to the Fox Theater for a matinee showing of Jaws, the blockbuster that changed the way our country looks at sharks and at films.