You Can’t Be Serious(64)

I actually began to worry about just how stoked my father was, to be honest. I didn’t want his excitement to get the best of him, so before we left our hotel, I pulled him aside and said, “Dad listen, there are going to be a lot of famous people backstage, okay? If there’s someone you’d like to meet, pull me aside and tell me so I can figure out if it’s appropriate to bother them… If it is, then I’ll introduce you. Don’t go up to people in the greenroom and gawk.”

This really offended my father. “You think I don’t know this?” he asked indignantly. “I get so annoyed when other people do these things to you! I would never do that to somebody else.”

I immediately felt bad. My dad was right—I knew he understood.

We checked in with security and made our way to a tastefully sofaed seating area inside the tent. I set my backpack down on a white wooden end table, and when I turned around, my father was missing.

I quickly scanned the room to locate him and was horrified by what I saw. Dad had somehow made it halfway across the cavernous tent and was standing six inches away from Tiger Woods, enthusiastically taking pictures with his boxy, early-generation digital camera. Flash and everything.

By the time I got to him, Tiger had noticed Dad creeping and was angling his face away from the camera. But Dad continued to aim for the best shot. Jjjjt!—his flash went off again. Jjjjt! Another flash.

I grabbed the camera and dragged him back. “What the hell, Dad? You JUST said you wouldn’t do this!!”

“Do what?” he said, genuinely unaware—deep in his heart—of any wrongdoing.

“You said you’d be respectful of people. I told you there would be celebrities here, and you shouldn’t bother them. You agreed with me!”

My dad looked me in the eye as if I was the biggest idiot in the world and exclaimed, “Yes, but this is Tiger Woods.”

Apparently our verbal contract didn’t apply to Tiger. He was in a category all his own. I sat my dad down on the sofa and went over the entire concert lineup. Was there anyone else on this list who would fall under the same category as Tiger Woods?

“Ashley Judd?”

“No.”

“Shakira?”

“No.”

“Garth Brooks?”

“Who is that?”

“Queen Latifah?”

“No, we already met her. Her mom lives next door to Falgu Auntie.” (This is true. I have an auntie who lives next door to Queen Latifah’s mom in New Jersey.)

“Tom Hanks?”

“Tom Hanks is here? I want to meet Tom Hanks!”

Luckily, Tom Hanks is the nicest guy you’ll ever talk to. I asked him if he’d mind saying hello to my folks, and he was so gracious. My dad got his photo, and things calmed down. With Tiger and Tom out of the way, my parents were able to focus on why we were there: the inaugural concert, which was about to start. They took their seats with my brother and Dan in the audience, and I reported to the performers’ hold room—the space where you wait before being sent out onstage.

The hold room for this event was in the civil rights museum that makes up the basement of the Lincoln Memorial. Even with the heavily armed Secret Service assault team stationed in the back, it felt serene, as if you could feel the presence of our nation’s complicated history in this one little room. Plaques of quotes from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. adorned the walls. Footage of African Americans being beaten and hosed for standing up for their rights played on the TV screens that make up the permanent exhibits. Nonviolent civil disobedience. I immediately thought of the trip to Gandhi’s Sabarmati ashram with Bapaji, and the dinner table stories Grandma and Grandpa told me. As I stood with the other performers—all of us different colors and creeds—waiting for our cues to take the stage and celebrate the inauguration of America’s first Black president, I reflected.

Marveling at how much change had happened in our country, and how much further we had to go, I thought about people I met on the campaign who didn’t have health care, who had lost their jobs, were kicked out of the military for their sexual orientation or had faced discrimination for their gender identity. I felt hopeful about our incoming president’s leadership, which would take us a bit further down the long path of progress. Moved by the fact that Dad came to America with just twelve dollars and a dream, I wondered, What must my parents be thinking, sitting out there on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial?

My mom answered that question when I saw her an hour and a half later: “I never imagined in a million years that my son would be up there doing that. Very few people, especially immigrants, get to share these moments. It was so special. It was the best moment of my life.”



* * *



After the concert, the Obamas asked all the performers and our families to gather backstage so they could say hello. My parents, brother, and manager stood with me in the rope line next to people like Tiger Woods and Tom Hanks (and Shakira “No,” and Garth Brooks, “Who?”). It actually felt like we fit in. We belonged here. In light of some of my darker experiences in middle school and Hollywood, this was not a feeling I was always used to. Yet here we were, included on a historic, patriotic day.

The president-elect worked his way down the rope line. He was laid-back and every bit his charming self. “We’re a long way from Des Moines,” I joked. He made it a point to thank my parents, chat with Pulin, and show appreciation to Dan “for letting me borrow Kal for so long during the campaign.”