Stories from the Edge: Under the Surface

Unexpected moments at the edge of everyday life in two parts—a crowded waiting room, a casual encounter—that reveal the undercurrents shaping this American life.

Part I — On Growing Old in America

It was my regular check‑up visit, and I know I haven’t been watching what I eat—especially over the holidays, when it’s easy to fall off the wagon. So naturally, I’m terrified of that condescending weighing scale at my doctor’s office.

My solution? Wear the lightest clothes humanly possible. Indonesian lightweight pants. Bamboo socks from Nara, Japan. Okinatsu Tiger minimalist shoes. All strategically chosen to beat the scale by at least half a pound.

After an elaborate virtual check-in process—which asks the strangest questions—I arrive to find an unusually long line in the waiting room.

But let’s talk about that check-in for a second.

“Did you have 4 or more alcoholic drinks in one night in the past year?”

Who the heck remembers? I noted 5 drinks.

Then it asked: “Have you had 5 or more drinks in one sitting?”

It doesn’t believe me. Thanks, now the system thinks I drink like 20 in a night or something. How is this going to help the doctor?

Anyway, I arrive to find lots of patients standing. An irritated, distraught older woman is at the front desk—she’s been calling with no answer and couldn’t get an appointment. She’s in pain, she says. They search. The earliest opening? Fifteen days out.

I’m still standing in line with a few others, waiting to be marked “present,” waiting to be seated, waiting to be shuffled through waiting rooms, waiting to be judged by condescending weighing machines and other vital-sign contraptions... all so I can hopefully see the doc in time.

Then something shifts.

Standing there, I feel this wave of sympathy for the elders. Here’s this old lady with a walking stick, shriveled skin, and a shivering voice—being unsympathetically told to go back home. I don’t think she drove herself here. I don’t think anyone’s waiting for her outside.

It’s a stark contrast to my dad in India, who had two of his three sons fly in internationally just to take him to his doctor’s checkup.

If this isn’t a break in the American healthcare system, what is?

(I’ve written about this before—how we treat our elderly says everything about us.)

And why can’t the front office staff ask all of us waiting in line if we’d be willing to switch our appointments with her? Maybe a page they should take from airline counters at airports, where they bribe us to switch flights.

So I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.

I realized how hard it is to raise your hand and say something. We overthink these kinds of things when it comes to good Samaritanship.

I called out from behind the line to the confused front office lady—who probably thought I was about to make a ruckus because my appointment was getting delayed. Instead, I said:

“I can switch with her if that’s possible. Mine’s not that urgent. I can take the appointment two weeks from now.”

I felt the eyes of the crowd on me.

The old lady turned around and said, “That’s very kind of you,” and blessed me.

The front office manager looked surprised, quickly checked her computer to make sure the machine agreed, and said, “That will work.” Then she thanked me for my kindness too.

I turned around and walked towards the door. This younger, beefed-up dude said, “Way to go, man...”

I said, “Thank you, man,” and walked out with my head held high.

Then, driving home, the doubts crept in.

Would I still be charged for my “visit” since I’d already checked in?

Would the front office lady remember to send my new appointment confirmation?

More than anything, I wondered how much I don’t trust the U.S. healthcare system. How much it cares so little for its elderly.

Part II — On Belonging in a Country of Immigrants

Do you know who a bigot is? A bigot is the one who asks a culturally insensitive question. He’s the biggest fool in the room.

This guy was a little drunk—let’s just call him John—and the alcohol brought out his true colors. He starts with, “How long have you been here?” Then, “What’s your religion?” All of it building up to the strangest, most offensive question I’ve been asked in my 20 years living this American life: “Are you comfortable in this country?”

This man, in a country built by immigrants, in all his audacity wants to know if I am comfortable here. What, I wonder, has prompted his curiosity? Is it the color of my skin? Because he can’t pronounce my name, which clearly doesn’t sound Christian? He asks again: “Are you comfortable in this country?”

I ask him, “What do you mean by ‘comfortable’? What comfort are you talking about?” He can’t comprehend. He fumbles, retracts, and says he just wants everybody to be nice, that everyone should be taken care of. He wants me to know he’s okay with me being here. That I’m okay. I am allowed to be okay, to be comfortable here, in his America.

The audacity to ask that of someone who has lived here for years, who is a citizen of the United States. Then he asks about India. “I want to go to India. It’s a big country, a lot of people.” He asks, “What is the primary religion there?”

I tell him, “We’ve got all kinds of people. We’ve got all religions. There are Hindus, Christians and…” Before I can even finish, he jumps to, “Do you celebrate Christmas? Do you exchange gifts with your neighbors?” I explain that in India, we celebrate all religions. That’s the beauty of India. We can celebrate Eid, Christmas, Diwali. Christmas, in fact, is a national holiday and schools often close for a vacation around that time. Our bankers send us plum cakes for Christmas. Our neighbors bring over their homemade wine and other treats. We put up Christmas stars on our houses to celebrate with our Christian neighbors. That’s India. While there are some Indian states where the Hindu majority is predominant and sometimes causes communal tension, India is a secular nation by its Constitution.​

He heard me, but he wasn’t listening, and he circles back to the key question he wanted me to answer: “Are you comfortable in this country?” And again I ask, “What is comfort? What do you mean by comfort?” He says, “I just want to make sure everybody’s nice.” I tell him, politics aside, comfort is a human thing. You and I can be neighbors and be comfortable with each other. That’s what the world needs. Not national fabric, but human fabric. Being nice.​

He says, “Yeah, yeah, I just want everybody to know we live as nice people.” But underneath all his admittance about niceness is the same undertone of a mindset that’s seems to be a prevailing theme: You are the outsider. I am the one who decides if you belong.​

In the US, there are two main ride-share companies: Lyft and Uber. Lyft likes to present itself as the more liberal company. Think about the pink mustache. It’s all about being fun, inclusive, for everybody. It leans into Pride, into the LGBTQ community, into this image of openness and acceptance. It is also often more affordable than Uber.​

“We’re different from Uber,” they’d say. “We’re Lyft. We’re for everyone.” So if John prefers to ride Lyft, does that mean he believes in their values and mission? Does it make him any less racist? No. He’s still a racist—just a cheaper one.

Thanks for reading.

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Cover Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash