Thursday afternoon last week. I was about to start typing this entry and give an update on the new series on Chapel Probation. Geri texted saying her broken Cerec machine, the lifeblood of the dental practice that mills crowns on the spot, was dead and needed a part. The thing was, the only part available that wouldn’t take 2 weeks to get here was in Boise, Idaho. She asked if we knew anybody up there who could pick it up for us and maybe ship it down overnight. That sounded way too complicated.
I’m a Californian, through and through, and that means a few things, but mostly it means I have very little idea as to where Boise, Idaho is. We had been to Missoula, Montana about ten years ago on a fly-fishing trip, and I remembered the top arm of Idaho being close by. But Boise? Somewhere below that.
I looked at google maps and saw that Boise is a 14-hour drive from Pasadena. Oof. I did some calculations and figured I could get to Hawthorne, NV by around 10pm if I left at that moment, leaving a 7 hour drive the next morning to get to Boise. I threw some clothes and my toothbrush into a bag, gathered some fishing stuff just in case there was time to get a license and fish the famed Snake River in Idaho, and hopped in our truck. I was on the road to Boise. As I got onto the 210 freeway, I suddenly remembered that a friend had just been to Idaho to fish the Snake River. He’s an older Japanese American guy, and he was kicked out of a local bar because they didn’t want his kind, and he was yelled at by other White fishermen on the river who told him he didn’t belong out there. I had forgotten that I had decided I wouldn’t be going to Idaho any time soon. Oops.
The election had just happened, and I was keenly aware while looking at the map that I was heading through some pretty shitty rural areas. The first leg was familiar to me to Bishop, CA where I grew up fishing and camping. Sure it’s kind of a crusty area, but they get enough Asians passing through on their way to Mammoth for skiing, that being Asian isn’t a problem. The problem lay beyond Bishop. Instead of staying on 395 to Mammoth, I took the right turn half-way through town and headed northeast on Highway 6 towards Nevada. Rural Nevada. Rural, red state, MAGA Nevada.
As I arrived into the town of Hawthorne, my senses were all on high alert. I checked into my motel right next to a casino and was pleasantly surprised to see a Black woman behind the counter. It was around 11pm, and she had just come on shift. She was staring at her computer screen, though, and didn’t even acknowledge me. I stood there for a few minutes before she said without looking up that she was busy doing some work. Awesome. I told her in my most friendly voice that it was no problem. I could wait.
After five minutes, she looked up at me and seem to startle. I was wearing a baseball cap, and she hadn’t noticed I was Asian, I guess. She got it together and got me a room, asking if I had requested a “smoking” room. I showed her my reservation on my phone that indicated “non-smoking.” She sheepishly said there weren’t any more non-smoking rooms. So, I slept fitfully in a room that smelled like an ash tray. It was fine.
I got up at 6, knowing I had to get to the place in Boise by 3, which was actually 2 PST, so I was losing an hour. I pulled into the McDonald’s drive through and ordered a #1 meal with coffee. The voice on the speaker sounded friendly. The truck ahead of me had a huge order, so I waited about 10 minutes before I saw about 10 bags of food handed through the window. When I pulled up, the guy said, “Good morning. Sorry for the w…”
He scowled when my face registered in his brain. I smiled and said, “good morning!”
He handed me my coffee without a word before turning around to get my bag of food. He shoved the bag into my hands, still scowling, and slammed this little window. He looked downright pissed. I smiled and waved goodbye as he just stood there mad-dogging me. Clearly, I had upset him with my existence.
As I drove through some truly beautiful scenery through Nevada past Walker Lake and up into eastern Oregon, I felt two distinct emotions. I felt at home. I grew up going to the wilderness, and the mountains and lakes and streams were familiar sights. This was my land, too, goddamnit. There are a few tiny towns of just a few hundred people in this part of the country, but it’s still my country, too. I’m a fourth generation American. Not that anyone out there would recognize that. So, the second emotion was fear. My existence. My face. I’m a threat to these people who could both deny Covid was real and blame me for its bringing its devastation at the same time.
And here we’re back to this post and my work in writing and podcasting. All these people are Christian. All these people are White Christian Nationalists. Every tiny town had several churches for their 100-300 people. And these people would just love for Q-anon and far-right assholes to take over the government and enforce their draconian biblical values on us.
I got the equipment in Boise, Geri flew in to drive back with me, and we had one more special memory. Again in McDonald’s this time in my beloved Bishop. The kid cleaning the bathroom was arguing politics with a couple of older White guys sitting near the bathroom doors. The kid was hispanic, and I bristled at the optics of the two White guys engaging the young Brown man. But then we heard what he was saying. “We’re fucked no matter what,” he said, holding a mop in one hand and the bathroom door with the other as he leaned out towards the two White guys. “The leaders of South America and the democrats are lizard people…” Yeah. The kid was a sincere Q-Anon dipshit. Geri listened longer than I did, and she confirmed that the kid wasn’t joking. The White guys were laughing at him, but the kid was dead serious.
Thanks, Jesus. These are your people, man.
And then we headed home on the last leg of our 14-hour drive. Hence the title of this piece.
I should be announcing the title of my book very soon. I know. Finally. But we’re looking at cover design and finishing editing. The figurative homestretch.
I did a special episode of Chapel Probation with some old friends from college. We talked about Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship, and while there were some good things there, it was mostly bad. Especially for those who felt ashamed of being queer.
In the previous episode, I talked to the creator of the ExVangelical hashtag and host of the ExVangelical podcast, Blake Chastain. I love Blake. He’s one of the most thoughtful and caring humans I’ve met in the deconstruction world, and it was great to talk about his time at Indiana Wesleyan University.
And before that I talked with a former student, Eugene, an Asian American who spent his time at APU as a closeted bisexual man. We ended up re-imagining a beloved worship song as a gay anthem worthy of the finest clubs in Weho. You can hear the bit here with the “producer” freaking out or the song alone here.
And this week my old pal, Jenny Yang is on the After Hours segment, reminiscing about her time coming to APU to sing with my band and do standup. Long before she got all famous, she was working her craft with me and some friends at APU. You can see Jenny in 38 At The Garden, the documentary about Jeremy Lin, and she is one of the stars of the forthcoming Michelle Yeoh series, The Brothers Sun. She’s kicking ass, and it all started at…anyway, she’s kicking ass.
Just a few more regular episodes of Chapel Probation this season and several After Hours episodes should take us into the beginning of 2023. I’ll shift gears again to promote the book and start looking for speaking engagements.
If you have any connections to Religious Studies, Ethnic Studies, or Asian American Studies programs who might enjoy a witty, intelligent but approachable Japanese American with a new book about losing faith while teaching at an evangelical school as he becomes fully immersed in his Asian American community, let me know.
More to come. It’s getting real. Homestretch.
sucks to offend people with just your existence. so sweet and supportive of you to do the drive just for that one part. that's love, baby!