I met Robert Chabon while working as a concierge at a Pearl
District condominium building in Northwest Portland. Robert, his wife Shelly,
and their son Andrew are the only tenants I remember fondly and miss. While
other tenants were friendly enough -- greeting me by name, or at least trying
to (Meredith and Meridawn were two variations I heard) -- and generous, buying
me lattes from the Starbucks across the street, my conversations with them had
a short shelf life. In contrast, my conversations with Robert could have
continued, to my delight, well past the end of my shift.
We talked about literature. I remember we discussed H.L.
Mencken, W.G. Sebald, and Patrick White, just to name a few. Whenever he recommended
a book, I would jot it down, buy it for my Kindle, or walk over to Powell’s
Books and buy a used copy. We talked about many other authors; it’s impossible
to recall all of them. Once he asked me what I was reading, and I told him
William Maxwell. He commented that most people didn’t know who William Maxwell
was. Only “people like us” knew who he was. I felt exhilarated to be put in the
same category as him. “People like us,” I repeated to myself, letting my pride
swell. Robert Chabon was brilliant. To be like him in any respect, especially to
have comparable knowledge of and passion for literature, was a tremendous
honor.
I had ample time for writing at that job, especially in the
early morning when the condo dwellers were still asleep. In a conversation with
Robert it came out that I was an aspiring writer. Robert asked me to share my
writing with him, offering his appraisal of my work as naturally as someone
might tell a house guest to help themselves to whatever’s in the fridge. I
believe he told me to prepare a ten-page sample. So I did. He warned me that he
was going to be honest in his critique, staring at me intently before he took
my pages to make sure I understood. After I’d braced myself for his brutally
honest feedback, he came back to me, saying that I had “a real ability.” He
assured me that he wouldn’t lie to me and smiled, as if my writing had given
him real pleasure. He lingered at the front desk to tell me again that I had
real ability.
To help me better understand how serious he was, he told me a
story. He said all his sons had shown him their writing and Michael was the
only one he encouraged to pursue a writing career. “My other sons I told to go
to law school,” he said. His son, Michael, is the Pulitzer Prize winning writer
of “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.” I couldn’t believe he was now
putting me in the same category as his son. I had ability, he said. Like
Michael Chabon. I didn’t need to go to law school. Not that I would have
anyway. Robert recognized so much potential in me; I was radiant with promise I
hadn’t felt since childhood, back when confidence came so easily.
Robert had all sons and no daughters. I had no father. I
knew our friendship consisted of book talks at the concierge desk and nothing
more, but I secretly envied his sons for having such a wonderful father and I
liked to pretend that he was my father too.
I acquired an interest in 1950s racial segregation and the
advent of the Civil Rights movement through my conversations with Robert. He
told me about a girl named Gloria Lockerman, a contestant on the show, “The Sixty-Four
Thousand Dollar Question.” When I told him I wanted to write a young adult
novel about her with the historical context being the beginning of the Civil
Rights movement, he thought that was a great idea and began asking me, “How’s
Gloria doing?” as a way of checking my progress.
Robert talked to me about America in the 50s. He became an
ally for his black classmates when his Washington D.C. high school was integrated. A
fascination with child prodigies influenced culture back then. When he was a
boy, he was featured on a radio show called “Juvenile Jury.” It didn’t surprise
me that he was a brilliant child, selected to be on a radio show with other
brilliant children. After all, he was a brilliant man, a doctor and a lawyer,
passionate about justice, possessing a vast and ever-expanding knowledge of
literature.
When his son Michael visited Portland, Robert gave him my
stories to read. He reported back to me that Michael was “enthusiastic about my
abilities” and that “he said only good things.” I self-published a small comic
book about my experiences living in Qatar and shared it with Robert, along with
some drawings of my dreams. Robert told me that Michael asked if he could keep
my self-published book. He said he saw Michael pack it in his bag before he
left for the airport. When I met Michael, I noticed he had that same smile and
personable quality that his father possessed, that ability to make the subject
of his attention feel wonderfully interesting. The dream drawings received no
comment from either Michael or Robert, so I assume they weren’t as
well-received. I knew from reading one of his essays that Michael Chabon hates
dreams; my dream comics apparently failed to change his mind. But it was worth
a try.
Now I’m taking an online writing class and my work is
subject to thorough feedback, which I find both exhausting and gratifying. The
feedback is usually positive, but last week, my confidence was shaken. I was
scared to submit my work. I reminded myself, “Michael Chabon is a fan of my
writing.” Then I thought about Robert and realized it gave me more pleasure to
say that Robert Chabon was a fan of my writing. Without Robert’s guidance, I
don’t know if Michael Chabon, as the world knows him, would have existed. Robert
is the man from whom I felt a kind of parental approval, which boosted my
confidence.
I just read that Robert passed away on March 22nd.
I wish everyone could have such a wise, supportive mentor in their lives. The
short time that I knew him was a gift to me and I am forever grateful. I will
do my best to honor him and continue to write well. Otherwise, I may have to go
to law school.
