We met at my friend Inna’s 27th birthday party. Javier was hovering over the
hors d’oeuvres. I went up to him. “Like nachos?” I said.
“Yeah.” He said. He seemed uncomfortable until I asked him what he did for a
living. Then the flood gates opened. He was a teacher. He went on about public
school reform, curriculum assessments, MCAS. I suppressed a yawn. He didn’t ask
me one question. Why is it that men love to talk about themselves? And why in
heaven’s name do women pretend to be remotely interested? We are too kind.
In addition to learning about the structure of pilot schools in Boston, I
learned that Javier had been married before, had lived in Puerto Rico where he’d
earned his SCUBA license and worked as an industrial chemist before deciding his
true passion was teaching and came to study at Harvard. I nodded and smiled.
“Uh-hunh,” I said, scanning him. His hair was brown, curly, the texture of
sheep’s wool. His eyes were almost black. He pronounced “tortilla”
“tor-tea-jya.” I suspected he was Latin. It made my heart flutter.
“Where are you from?” I asked, cutting him off mid some story about educational
“rubricks.”
“Bloomfield, New Jersey.”
I tried again, “No, I mean where were you born?
“Costa Rica.”
“Costa Rica? My sister’s best friend’s been there. She says The Cloud Forest is
beautiful.” Oops. Faux pas. I’d reduced Costa Rica to a sound bite: The Cloud
Forest. It’s so easy to reduce. Columbia is coffee and cartels, India is
spiritual and overcrowded, Italy is men who know how to dress and farm houses in need of American renovation. These places—known to the
millions who live there as “home”—are known to Americans as beautiful countries,
peaceful and good to visit or as beautiful countries, but war-torn, corrupt and
bad to visit.
Javier said, “When I’m there I mostly hang out with relatives.”
“You’ve never seen The Cloud Forest?”
“No, I’ve never seen it.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah,” Javier said, unconvinced. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go.
Tomorrow is a school day, but I’ve had a great time talking with you. Can I get
your number?” I handed him my card. He looked at it. “You’re middle name is
Hawkins? Elizabeth Hawkins Miller. That’s very high brow.”
“Oh, you should hear the rest of the names in my family. We’re old school.”
“Okay, hit me.”
“Well, there’s my cousin Neil Porter Miller, my sister Lucy Kennedy Miller, John
Hawkins Miller, my father; Julian Kennedy Miller, his father; J.O. Miller, his
father—all of whom went to Yale University. Somebody way back when actually
helped found Yale and the city of New Haven. Then there’s Franklin Hawkins,
Julia Davenport Stevens, David Fackler Stevens, Peter Julian…”
“Any of them come over on the Mayflower?”
“Oh, of course.”
Last article: What If?
My life is busy. I’ve got to go to work, eat right, exercise, see friends, and keep up with current events. I’ve got to write, edit and review things. There are certainly people who do more—heads of state, tycoons, parents of young children—but I’m tired at the end of the day. Being married and in the workforce is stressful. What will it be like when I am in charge of a small country, or for that matter—a small child? (Read more...)
ing him. His hair was brown, curly, the texture of
sheep’s wool. His eyes were almost black. He pronounced “tortilla”
“tor-tea-jya.” I suspected he was Latin. It made my heart flutter. 
