Once I ordered my eighteen-dollar breakfast burrito and seven-dollar oat milk cappuccino, I chose a table on the patio, half sun, half shade—a spot with a 360-degree view, carefully selected to indulge my never-satisfied nature. Perhaps channeling some deep-seated artist archetype within my psyche, I placed my notebook and pen right on the table in case inspiration struck. This is the kind of posture I picked up after discovering cafés littéraires when I was fifteen—you know, those spots where artists and intellectuals hang out and get into these really lively discussions during their downtime. I keep it up just in case I ever stumble into one of these gatherings.
Nearby, an older Korean man with a gentle smile approached a young Asian woman absorbed in her phone. The man's smile was reminiscent of a grandfather visiting his grandchild. He greeted her softly, cautiously, with a mumbled “beautiful day,” as if sunshine was an anomaly in LA. She looked up at him, confused as to why someone would choose to start a conversation out of the blue. Don’t you know we live in LA?
He introduced himself as Pastor Han and asked if the young woman attended church. She said that she was already Christian and returned to doomscrolling on her phone, hoping that was enough to end the conversation. Unfazed, he continued to inquire about her name, origin, and church affiliation, to which she responded dismissively with a kind of cruelty that only a hormonal adolescent can summon up. He then gave her a pamphlet about his church in Koreatown and told the young woman to come by to “find growth within the community.”
What a beautiful thought, I said to myself. To be held in the cradle of the universe while you learn to navigate the quirks of living and master the nuances of life. To find yourself and lose yourself, to discover and rediscover who you are, all within the safety of a group’s protection. That has been a foreign concept to me since I left home. One of the downsides of being an immigrant is how hard it is to find a community that wants to hold you, nourish you, and help you grow. Many of us left because we didn’t feel that was possible back home, and when we arrived here, not all of us were lucky enough to find a congregation like the one Pastor Han was offering to the young woman—a place to find growth within the community—hopefully with very little to no strings attached.
Then Pastor Han said bye and walked toward me. I looked up kind of excited, half shy, half curious, waiting to be invited, to behold, or perhaps even saved...but he passed right by me without a word, not showing any interest in extending his invitation.
Was I not worthy of salvation?
Was it because I don't look Asian? If that, I have to clarify: I am Asian. I was born in Iran, located in the continent of Asia; therefore, I am Asian. At least, I thought so before leaving the continent of Asia. I took offense at being denied the option to check the Asian category on the countless applications I've filled out since I immigrated here. I will fight anyone who wants to correct me on that.
I am Asian. Asia is a big continent.
Or maybe Pastor Han dismissed me without inviting me to join his faith because of my non-Christian-looking face, large brown eyes, and thick black eyebrows, more like someone who might've been saved by Mohammed. Which, again, I took offense at because how does he know that I was saved by him? Mohammed might've saved my brothers or father, but he was definitely not there to save my ass.
Or maybe Pastor Han walked away without inviting me to meet Jesus because of my intensity: my short black hair, black eyeliner, black outfit, my red lips. Maybe he thought that I would not be the right candidate for saving. This lemon isn't worth the squeeze. Or maybe it was my 'I don't give a fuck' or 'I fucking fuck your shit up if you get close to me' vibe that prevented him from wanting to guide me, to help me grow in his community, to be saved by Jesus.
And to that, I do not take offense. I would say right on, Pastor Han, you got that one right.
Great ❤️