Mary's non-fiction has been published in MotherVerse, Glassfire, and Eclectica. She won the Killie Writer
of the Year prize and the United Kingdom Noise Association's Short Story Competition in 2006, and her
poetry has appeared in Flashquake and Midwest Literary Magazine. She is currently finishing a novel
which was one of the finalists in the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook Novel Writing Competition, and she
won first prize in the Charnwood Arts 2008 miniWORDS Poetry Competition. Mary writes a weekly blog,
Resident Alien, http://witzl.blogspot.com/
of the Year prize and the United Kingdom Noise Association's Short Story Competition in 2006, and her
poetry has appeared in Flashquake and Midwest Literary Magazine. She is currently finishing a novel
which was one of the finalists in the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook Novel Writing Competition, and she
won first prize in the Charnwood Arts 2008 miniWORDS Poetry Competition. Mary writes a weekly blog,
Resident Alien, http://witzl.blogspot.com/
Human Connections
The other day I could have sworn I saw a former neighbor from Tokyo walking past the mosque on the way
to the post office. A thin, frail little woman in slacks and a white blouse, she had her back to me, and as I
passed her, I couldn't resist turning around to see her face. And no, she wasn't Inoue-san; of course I
didn't really expect her to be. But with her slight frame, bony shoulders, greying permed hair and hesitating
way of walking, she could easily have been her sister from behind. Her Turkish sister. I've seen the woman
a few times since that first occasion, and whenever I do, I think of Inoue-san. God knows, she might be
completely different from Inoue-san, who likes fishing, baseball, and flower arranging, but it’s still eerie how
much these two women resemble each other.
In one of my classes last term, I had a student who was a dead ringer for George Clooney. His smile —
playful, but a little self-deprecating, a certain intelligent intensity of expression — everything about this kid
reminded me of George Clooney. Thirty years younger, of course, and many shades darker: this boy is
from Sri Lanka. I very much doubt that George Clooney can speak Tamil, but if he did, I promise you he'd
be a bleached-out older version of this kid.
In an intermediate class I taught in Yokohama, I had both my Aunt Alice Jane and my Uncle Leon in the very
same class. The Japanese Alice Jane had shrewd, canny eyes and a pretty smile; her male counterpart had
my Uncle Leon's keen expression, shock of thick white hair, and biting dry wit. The resemblances were so
startling that I had to keep reminding myself that these two people were Japanese; they had never met
before this class and could not possibly be my aunt and uncle, a couple of Caucasians residing in San
Francisco. Once in a while, I actually slipped up and asked one of them about the other’s habits or opinions,
making them furrow their brows and stare at me like I was nuts. Sometimes I found myself wondering why
it was they never sat together. Didn't they know they were married?
One of my daughters' nursery school teachers looked so much like my Sunday school teacher, Mrs Hunt,
that it was a struggle not to speak to her in English. Takahashi-san, the nursery school teacher, didn't
know a word of English, but her laugh — low and musical — her pretty face, her kind, heavy-lidded eyes —
all of her features screamed Mrs Hunt. Mrs Hunt was African-American and Takahashi-san was Japanese,
but when they were on the great assembly line that installs personalities and mannerisms, believe me:
these two got essentially the same package, and lucky them.
If you've ever seen the movie, Wag the Dog, the actor in it who plays Private William Schumann looks so
much like one of my young Turks, a thin, blue-eyed boy with a keen, wild-eyed stare, that it honestly freaks
me out. I will catch his eye in class from time to time and have to look away. I can't take any chances: I'm
middle-aged and dumpy and, in short, entirely crazy Private Schumann's type. Private Mehmet Schumann,
that is.
I could go on and on and on here — and I will, just a little. One of my daughter's nursery school friends, a
little Japanese girl, looked just like Martin Sheen — it was just so obvious I had to laugh every time I saw
her, and yet I could hardly tell this child or her parents how closely their pretty little daughter resembled a
first-rate American actor — a man in his sixties. The UPS delivery man from my neighborhood in San
Francisco bore a striking resemblance to a doctor I once worked for in New York. And every other year,
someone entirely trustworthy will swear they've seen my double somewhere. And given what I've noticed, I
believe them: I’m bound to have a couple dozen doppelgangers muddling around out there, in Bolivia,
Bangladesh, Djibouti, Germany, and Portugal.
I've been around a little in my time; I’ve lived in five different countries and visited dozens more, and it is
my firm conviction that we're all related. I don't care if you're from Iceland and every single ancestor you
can trace was too; you might just be the dead ringer for someone in Swaziland. If you're from Thailand, for
all you know, your double might be one of my Turkish colleagues. And this is bound to be a widespread
phenomenon: if I've seen all these likenesses in my own limited sphere, imagine all the ones I've missed.
These resemblances trump everything: race, nationality, class, gender, age. And it isn't just physical
features; in fact, sometimes it's not physical features at all. It's the way you talk, the way you smile, the
timbre of your voice, the way you duck your head when you apologize or shuffle when you walk. There's no
way around it, folks: we are all really and truly one big family.
No wonder we can't get along.
The other day I could have sworn I saw a former neighbor from Tokyo walking past the mosque on the way
to the post office. A thin, frail little woman in slacks and a white blouse, she had her back to me, and as I
passed her, I couldn't resist turning around to see her face. And no, she wasn't Inoue-san; of course I
didn't really expect her to be. But with her slight frame, bony shoulders, greying permed hair and hesitating
way of walking, she could easily have been her sister from behind. Her Turkish sister. I've seen the woman
a few times since that first occasion, and whenever I do, I think of Inoue-san. God knows, she might be
completely different from Inoue-san, who likes fishing, baseball, and flower arranging, but it’s still eerie how
much these two women resemble each other.
In one of my classes last term, I had a student who was a dead ringer for George Clooney. His smile —
playful, but a little self-deprecating, a certain intelligent intensity of expression — everything about this kid
reminded me of George Clooney. Thirty years younger, of course, and many shades darker: this boy is
from Sri Lanka. I very much doubt that George Clooney can speak Tamil, but if he did, I promise you he'd
be a bleached-out older version of this kid.
In an intermediate class I taught in Yokohama, I had both my Aunt Alice Jane and my Uncle Leon in the very
same class. The Japanese Alice Jane had shrewd, canny eyes and a pretty smile; her male counterpart had
my Uncle Leon's keen expression, shock of thick white hair, and biting dry wit. The resemblances were so
startling that I had to keep reminding myself that these two people were Japanese; they had never met
before this class and could not possibly be my aunt and uncle, a couple of Caucasians residing in San
Francisco. Once in a while, I actually slipped up and asked one of them about the other’s habits or opinions,
making them furrow their brows and stare at me like I was nuts. Sometimes I found myself wondering why
it was they never sat together. Didn't they know they were married?
One of my daughters' nursery school teachers looked so much like my Sunday school teacher, Mrs Hunt,
that it was a struggle not to speak to her in English. Takahashi-san, the nursery school teacher, didn't
know a word of English, but her laugh — low and musical — her pretty face, her kind, heavy-lidded eyes —
all of her features screamed Mrs Hunt. Mrs Hunt was African-American and Takahashi-san was Japanese,
but when they were on the great assembly line that installs personalities and mannerisms, believe me:
these two got essentially the same package, and lucky them.
If you've ever seen the movie, Wag the Dog, the actor in it who plays Private William Schumann looks so
much like one of my young Turks, a thin, blue-eyed boy with a keen, wild-eyed stare, that it honestly freaks
me out. I will catch his eye in class from time to time and have to look away. I can't take any chances: I'm
middle-aged and dumpy and, in short, entirely crazy Private Schumann's type. Private Mehmet Schumann,
that is.
I could go on and on and on here — and I will, just a little. One of my daughter's nursery school friends, a
little Japanese girl, looked just like Martin Sheen — it was just so obvious I had to laugh every time I saw
her, and yet I could hardly tell this child or her parents how closely their pretty little daughter resembled a
first-rate American actor — a man in his sixties. The UPS delivery man from my neighborhood in San
Francisco bore a striking resemblance to a doctor I once worked for in New York. And every other year,
someone entirely trustworthy will swear they've seen my double somewhere. And given what I've noticed, I
believe them: I’m bound to have a couple dozen doppelgangers muddling around out there, in Bolivia,
Bangladesh, Djibouti, Germany, and Portugal.
I've been around a little in my time; I’ve lived in five different countries and visited dozens more, and it is
my firm conviction that we're all related. I don't care if you're from Iceland and every single ancestor you
can trace was too; you might just be the dead ringer for someone in Swaziland. If you're from Thailand, for
all you know, your double might be one of my Turkish colleagues. And this is bound to be a widespread
phenomenon: if I've seen all these likenesses in my own limited sphere, imagine all the ones I've missed.
These resemblances trump everything: race, nationality, class, gender, age. And it isn't just physical
features; in fact, sometimes it's not physical features at all. It's the way you talk, the way you smile, the
timbre of your voice, the way you duck your head when you apologize or shuffle when you walk. There's no
way around it, folks: we are all really and truly one big family.
No wonder we can't get along.
Mary Whitsell
