I don’t know who Sara is besides that she in some way must resemble me. I am a short brown woman living in a Seattle apartment building, and now I know there are two of us. I also know that she pronounces her name the Spanish way, where the r is hard almost like a d. Sara, a name that holds both the hard and soft in four letters. Sada, Sada, who looks a little like me but is not me. Sara, whose name I mouth as my tongue taps the roof of my mouth to form the da sound. Sara, who must make an effort to correct people who mispronounce her name. As I am walking up the stairs, I wonder if she ever contemplated just saying, “The hell with it. I am not going to correct people who mispronounce my name.” My name, my own name, is often misspelled and mispronounced, but most of the time, I shrug it off until I begin to bristle with annoyance.
At my door, I have to do some careful shifting of my work bag, lunch bag, and the handful of mail I have in my hand. I stuff my mail into the lunch bag. It’s bills, and I want to pretend they don’t exist for a bit longer. I wonder if Sara is good at managing her money. Does she have student loans? Or more importantly, has she paid hers off? Is Sara good at numbers? Are the clocks in her apartment set at the right time, unlike mine, which blink an incorrect time. Even my laptop clock seems to gain time. I tell people that it must know I am always late.
I dump my bags on the floor and take off my shoes. I don’t have to worry about anyone else but me tripping over my bags. And what about Sara? Does Sara live alone? Does she date? I wonder what Sara might do if her date told her she had a ghetto accent? Then changed it to “Latina accent.” Would she have a better reaction than me? Something more than stunned silence. A sputter of confusion. Something more than asking for clarification. Does she ever feel on display when a white woman or man reaches for her ears, invading her space to get a closer look at her large colorful earrings, as if they are examining her, trying to place her into some category. I want to tell those hands reaching toward me that I am not easily quantifiable. There are no “Made In” stickers on my earrings or any part of my body. I want to tell someone who will understand. Do you understand this, Sara? Can you help me make sense of this feeling of being made to feel both invisible and exoticized?
I can’t help but wonder if Sara would have had better reactions to my most recent Seattle dates. There was the hyper vegan who asked me if I was wearing feathers in my ears. He seemed disappointed when I told him they were shells. Then he remarked, “So you are part Indian, right? Because you are dark.” I had no words. Opened then closed my mouth. I laughed. I wanted to tell him that it didn’t work like that, but I didn’t have the energy to educate a near stranger over bright purple berry smoothies. Then there was the black guy who asked me out on a date and told me he wanted to date someone outside his race because he was “adventurous.” I wanted to tell him I was not a roller coaster to ride or a mountain to climb. He mentioned something about me being “spicy,” and I frowned but wanted to spit out something real and ugly.
Sara—who is not me but looks a little like me if you were here in my half-furnished apartment—I’d tell you that I feel a little less lonely knowing that you are out there in this city that is so green and wet but has left my insides dry. I sit on my new couch, but I’m not comfortable because my apartment looks too plain, too white, too absent of memory or history. I grab my keys and walk out the door. I don’t know where I’m going. I wander the gray carpeted halls of my apartment building. I climb the stairs to the next floor. I’ve never been on this floor, but it looks exactly the same as my floor. The same gray carpeted floor, layout, tan painted walls, and black trim. I walk slowly through the halls repeatedly mouthing Sara’s name in a whisper until it is a quiet chant. The da sound gives me pleasure, like there is a little drum in my mouth.
I aimlessly continue walking. I don’t see anyone who could be Sara. I don’t see anyone. I decide if I do see Sara, I’m going to ask her if she is from here or somewhere else. Is there still a bit of desert grit in her teeth? Does she know what it’s like to be from a broken city that you still love even as it takes and takes. It’s a city that easily slips into violence and lashes out at the weak, but you still love it even as it gives you a bit of peace to be away. It’s different here. Hard in another way. I could have used Sara last week when I was at my neighborhood farmers’ market. Seeing her face would have calmed me. Instead of it being a nice outing, I became anxious because everyone looked so happy and white. I made my way around fancy strollers, spoiled dogs, and stands of organic fruit and vegetables. It all made me want to scream. I wanted to scream at them that they weren’t real. They looked too happy and content to know what was going on in the world or in the reality of my city I was always leaving for some reason or another. I felt tears coming that were angry and sad. I had to walk quickly away from everyone until the crowd thinned. I haven’t been back.
I walk back to the stairs and go up another floor to the roof. Most of the time, I forget the building has a roof deck because of the weather. There is the black patio furniture with white pillows that I remember from when I first toured the building before I moved in. The sky is relatively clear today. I can look out and see mountains to the south and water to the east. And of course, there are buildings upon buildings, but also lots of green trees. At least the air feels fresh and my nose no longer gets sore from being dry. I have stopped chanting Sara’s name, but I know it doesn’t mean that I want to see her any less. My mouth is at rest, but the desire is still there. The door to the roof deck opens. I turn to see if it is Sara, who looks like me but is not me; Sara, who lives here but can’t be found; Sara, whose name forms in my mouth like an incantation; Sara, who I will wait for because I need to know she exists.
