LIFE

The Taxi Driver Knew

To be seen by someone who knows nothing about you

Photo by Denise Johnson on Unsplash

Three conversations halted me today. One was in a taxi as I made my way back from a meeting to my house. It was a 15-minute ride and the driver—a man in his 50s—began with a compliment. “You look like you just came from an important meeting.” I emitted a giggle. “Why do you say that, sir?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s the way you dress. You look like a CEO.”

I looked down at my attire. From top to bottom, I was all grey. Knitted top with a body-hugging silhouette and tapered pants. My feet sported a pair of light caramel loafers. I thought I looked like a grey marker pen. Nondescript.

The driver continued to ask me about local politics. Malaysian taxi drivers love to strike conversations. The younger ones preferred to know about your hobbies, families, and career. The older ones would dive into geopolitics. It’s up to you to decide how to maneuver and to survive the ride.

Turning 50, I have little to no care about what anyone thinks about anything. Myself included. You ask, I answer. The driver asked what I thought about the local economy; I gave my two cents. But one can’t dispute the inflation without connecting to global affairs.

To open the can of worms called global affairs, one cannot rule out discussing the prime minister. To discuss the prime minister, one cannot omit the decisions he has made. To discuss the decisions the prime minister has made, one cannot avoid being critical about the right, the wrong, and the stupid.

To make the end of my spiel, I quipped, “But that’s just my two cents. It matters little what I think.” I find that ending with that sentiment always saves the day. Even contrarians would calm down and agree to disagree.

It was his next comment that switched on the chandeliers in my mental living room. “Are you a writer?”

By golly, I thought. I leaned forward. “Uncle, what makes you think I am a writer?” I was willing to wait a whole hour for the answer.

“From the way you described things. The way you pieced everything together. From the way you chose your words. You could see the whole picture.”

“Oh,” I was bewildered. “You think that’s unusual with others?”

“Not many people want to see the whole picture. They pick what’s convenient.”

Alas, I had arrived at my destination.

The second conversation that got me was with Claude. I shared with Claude my chat with the taxi driver and it reminded me of other moments where a stranger saw what took decades for me to claim for myself. Claude highlighted the irony for me to be seen most accurately by strangers who know nothing about me.

As an Asian daughter sandwiched by three brothers raised in a patriarchal society, I have spent most of my adult life convincing my parents, namely my high-profile father, of the architecture of credentials and expertise I’ve achieved because it felt like the world we live in needed proof. And no matter how much I did achieve, it was never good enough. At least in my head.

My father sees my brothers as directors and executives. He sees me as a perpetual seven-year-old. Recently, my dear father shared with my date my teenage antics, which included my parking tickets, my speeding tickets, and the time he was called in for my discipline problems. The ground opened up in our living room and I threw myself in.

Here was a taxi driver who, in fifteen minutes, gathered enough data points and intuition to not see my doctorate, the governor, or the consultant. Least of all, a seven-year-old who neglected to return her library books (which is strangely my father’s favorite story to recount to anyone with a pair of ears). He saw the writer in me. The one people hardly recognize in a society made up of STEM cells.

This man in traffic didn’t need any proof. He just listened and he knew.

Funny how that sounds. It’s even funnier how that feels.

The third moment happened in the kitchen with an old, familiar knock.

A reader added an article written in 2023, *A String of Words,* to her reading list. I’d forgotten many essays I’d written over the years. This was among them.

A few sections took me by surprise. Surprise at the lens I wore and the words I used to describe a younger version of myself. This time it wasn’t a stranger recognizing me—it was my older self at the traffic light staring at my younger self crossing at the zebra lines.

So when people ask, what do you do? The last thing you tell them is you’re a writer. It makes little to no sense. If you do copywriting, you say you’re in advertising. If you write features or novels, you mention the name of your publisher. If you write on Medium, you’ll need to explain what Medium Corp is. If you’re a blogger, best you don’t say anything at all. That’s like writing in your diary and navel-gazing. And yes, no one gives a shit about your navel, unless it’s filthy or infected.

I chuckled at how unhinged I sounded.

And then I came across this paragraph:

In the years I taught Creative Writing, I extended to my students unorthodox advice writers in the West may contest. I expressed that writing shouldn’t be placed on a pedestal. It’s not an aim to be a great writer. They shouldn’t carve out an obsession to see a struggling writer as a romanticized occupation. They shouldn’t pin writing, no matter how much they love it, as their be-all and end-all. A writer is a writer. We are all writers. Just keep learning to write better through living better.

There I was, advising my students to bury the very essence of a passion that a taxi driver complimented me for. But my cynicism is as thick as my love for Thai food. I like to think that my head and my heart are working in creative symmetry, that passion alone is not driving the bus. I felt it when I read the following paragraph:

Unlike my Asian predecessors, I don’t disagree that writing pays peanuts. But I believe in the power of words and the relevance of writers. There is mystic and consoling energy in storytelling. We can use words to shape our thoughts and use them for the greater good.

Let’s not forget that all the revolutions we’ve come to know were inspired by letters before bullets and missiles took over. It was through the writings of the Enlighteners that we were introduced to the core ideas of modern democracies, including civil society, human and civil rights, and separation of powers.

This morning, I came across an inspiring piece by dear Joe Guay—Dispatches From the Guay Life!—in his latest, *It’s About Time I Stop Downplaying My Talents and Fully Thrive in Them*. He reminded me how important positive self-talk is. Problem is, why do we often talk down on ourselves when others see the light shining through us? We work hard on our life’s architecture yet we knock ourselves down with a sledgehammer we purchased ourselves.

No, Joe. No, no, no. No more. Drop the persona that never really served you. Instead, why not walk into every situation with the confidence that you belong there and have so much to offer? It isn’t arrogance or bragging. No, this is the energy every collaborator wants and needs out of a colleague. Give them the confidence that they made the correct choice in using you for writing, acting, singing, organizing, whatever.

Oh, how I resonate truly, madly, and deeply with this sublime paragraph:

I have no kids, a solid relationship built on deep love and respect, a new home sanctuary that isn’t breaking the bank and a flexible schedule that others could only dream of. There’s nothing holding me back, nothing in the way, no one else’s feelings or priorities to consider. This can be an artist’s nirvana! Enough with the imaginary roadblocks.

Joe ended with a perfect denouement.

So perhaps the “It’s About Time” portion of this writing prompt should instead be retitled “NOW Is the Time” for me. Despite global chaos, wars, and upheaval, I’ve found a peace, a certainty within myself, and I’m ready to throw my contributions—all of them, all that I’ve got—at the world.

You certainly should, Joe!

I think what’s marvelous about Medium is we get to receive, celebrate, and motivate the goodness and talent of our writing comrades because, like the taxi driver, we are the unrehearsed mirror, the contrast between how you’re credentialed versus how you’re instinctively perceived. As readers, we have no agenda other than to name you, celebrate you, and to offer you the hug, the pat, and the nudge.

To be mentioned in Joe’s piece as an inspiration reminds me of a deeper thread underneath our presence here on Medium: we recognize each other as writers, as fighters, as people who, in our respective worlds, have had to fight versions of ourselves. Here, on Medium, we know exactly who we are. We are writers. And that’s a superpower.

But for what it’s worth, It’s a wholesome vindication to look back at one’s life, read my essays, and to have a conversation with a stranger and say, “He just listened and he knew.”

I think that’s the Universe’s way of saying, “I’ve not forgotten you.” And that in itself is a marvelous feeling worth writing about.

Prologue:

Back at you, Joe Guay — Dispatches From the Guay Life!

And to all my writer friends here on Medium. Keep up the good fight to use our words for the greater good in the world.