Reflections of my one Asian-Canadian friend (2 of 2): Me.

Like a year ago, we went to the undergrad year-end exhibition opening night at the art school where I have taught and will teach, and we enjoyed wine and hors d’oeuvres and wandered around and looked at all the different pieces.

I mostly remember a potato mounted to a wall that ran around on an irregular squiggly path, likely through some magnetic track embedded beneath the plaster.

He doesn’t remember that at all.

That said, he remembers this entire wall covered carefully in someone’s planner pages and posted over with endless notes on things-to-do.

There, he was like, “I hope that never’s my life.”

“That’s already my life,” I was like.

I don’t remember that artwork or exchange at all though, though he does, vividly. 

He says it was a moment of revelation about me.