We know intuitively that the scenes that stay with us slowly become a part of who we are, but I recently found myself wondering exactly how and why it happens. So I took some time to think about the most memorable scenes I’ve read and how they’ve helped inform my identity. Here’s a peek into my journey. Note that this post may contain some spoilers. As I continued to think about the scenes that have lingered with me, I started to discern a common theme among them: friendship. Before I discovered the stories of Ramona Quimby, I read and reread all of Russell Hoban’s children’s books that center around a badger named Frances and her friends and family. In A Bargain for Frances, Frances is tricked into spending all her savings to buy her friend Thelma’s used tea set. The same day, she catches Thelma buying a better tea set with the money Frances paid her. Even at a young age, I commiserated with Frances in that moment of betrayal. Similarly, when I was much older and read Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club, I understood the exhaustion felt by June when she finally acknowledges that the sneaky insults aimed at her by Waverly, an old family acquaintance, are indications that the connection between the two women isn’t the kind June wants. Scenes like this have helped me identify my limits in a relationship. On the other hand, an encounter I read about just a few months ago in Sanderia Faye’s Mourner’s Bench illustrates the most beautiful aspect of friendship. When young Sarah says good-bye to her best friend, Malika, who’s moving away, she offers to let Malika read her journal. She tells Malika, “You can take it and read it so you will know the bad things I did.” When Malika tells Sarah, “I don’t need to know that, Sarah. I know you,” it brought tears — and still brings tears — to my eyes, reminding me that friends who accept all of you are the ones worth holding onto. Since I read The Joy Luck Club in the early 1990s, I’ve come across many more books featuring AAPI characters — many, although not all, of them who are very much like me. When reading these stories, I sometimes feel seen in a comforting way, but other times I feel unsettlingly exposed. This is how I felt earlier this year when I read Days of Distraction by Alexandra Chang. In one scene, the protagonist comes across comments online about an AAPI actress who’s catching heat for speaking out about damaging AAPI stereotypes when the actress herself is dating a white man. The critiques are extreme, but as I read them, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Before I met my husband, I’d almost exclusively dated white men. I began to feel uncomfortable. Had I, in fact, been engaging in a kind of white worship that manifests itself in Asian communities? Should I, as someone who married a non-Asian, feel less qualified in advocating for other AAPI women? As disquieting as being challenged in this way makes me feel, it also make me feel seen in a refreshingly honest way. It’s not just my AAPI identity that I recognize in books. When I read The Ensemble by Aja Gabel, I saw my experiences reflected in both the characters and in the world of classical music they inhabit. As a former violinist and graduate of a highly competitive music conservatory, I felt less lonely when reading a scene between two musicians wondering wistfully what it might have been like to be average college students, partying during the week and not choosing friends “based on their ability to play, and losing them for similar reasons.” At the same time, I felt painfully found out when another character knows he’ll never be as naturally talented as the people around him — that he’ll always have to work a little bit harder to be not quite as good. This imposter syndrome is something I’ve felt not only in music, but in many other endeavors as well. The second scene is actually a couple of incidents that take place in A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest Gaines. The first is a conversation between Grant Wiggins, a teacher who’d come back to his tight-knit Cajun community after many years of being away, and Jefferson, a young man who’s been wrongfully sentenced to death before he’s even had a chance to grow up. Wiggins reveals that although he’s the one who’s technically “free,” he’s actually bound by the limits of racial discrimination. In a later scene, Jefferson pens a letter in his journal to Wiggins, who’d been trying unsuccessfully to get Jefferson to write for months. In the missive, Jefferson shows his growth from a young man who believed his existence didn’t matter to an adult with solid opinions and a strong mind. Together, these scenes give meaning to the relationship that started reluctantly, but solidified over time. It still makes me rethink the concept of freedom — how much of it is external and how much of it is internal? What does it mean to be respected? What is true justice? It’s also a compelling example of how time and persistence can help an important relationship blossom. Another moment of humor that’s never far from my mind takes place in Elif Batumen’s The Idiot. In it, the narrator perfectly describes an awkward situation I’ve found myself in so many times. In just a couple of sentences, she sums it up: “Helen, the fiction editor, was petite and cute, with a down-to-earth manner. I could see she wanted me to like her, and I did like her. Without knowing how to demonstrate it through any speech act, I towered over her mutely, trying to project goodwill.” Like the pageant scene, it’s a scene that’s given me joy time and time again. These are just a handful of the literary scenes that have lingered with me over the years. I’m certain there have been other ones I’ve now forgotten, but that have still unknowingly shaped me. After all, the most important thing these scenes offer is not necessarily what happens in them, but how they make us feel long after we read them. Some of these scenes take on new meanings as we age and experience more life, some of them are tied to important life milestones, and some of them continue to make us smile. No matter what role they play in our lives, the scenes that stay with us leave their mark on the way we think, feel, and move through the world.
