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I was born a poor, black child —Steve Martin, 1977 The absurdity of that comic statement, from Steve Martin’s stand-up routine , is realized by the fact that he wasn’t actually born a poor, black child. Obvious, I know. Then again, you may not who Steve Martin is; however , his racial identity did become a central plot point behind his 1979 movie, The Jerk. In the movie, Martin was raised by a poor, black family in the southern United States. Sheltered from the world outside him and from the fact that he isn’t black, he decides to leave the nest, so to speak, to experience the world around him, and to live in a world in which he belonged—a white world. The fundamentals within the story (I won’t deconstruct them further) can be seen in a number of different stories throughout the ages, most notably as a pop culture reference—Superman. A Kryptonian boy crash-lands on earth and is raised by human parents. From the get-go, Superman (Clark Kent) is strong and aware of his powers at an early age. Steve Martin’s character in The Jerk isn’t aware he isn’t black, a fact he doesn’t realize until his adoptive mother finally has had enough of his lack of rhythm and lets him in on the obvious secret. In a way, I think The Jerk relates to my own childhood. For a brief stint, I actually thought I was blue. Blue, you ask? Yes, blue. Grover from Sesame Street was, back then, my best TV friend. And, as a child raised on TV programming, I was presented with a model that my four-year-old brain couldn’t really grasp. 135 sonny assu Personal Totems 136 raven That which is presented to you on TV isn’t always the truth—obviously. Not that thinking I was blue for a while was a morally changing experience for a four-year-old, but it does mirror another interesting part of my history. Growing up at the pinnacle of television pop culture, I was blissfully unaware of the rich cultural heritage to which I belonged. Born in May of 1975, I was the product of my mother’s summer love when she was quite young. Luckily, I was born into a family and a culture that valued keeping adoption within the family, so I was raised by my grandparents. By the time I began to realize I wasn’t blue, I began to form memories of relationships. And the strongest I had and still have is of my sister, who, in fact, came memorably to my aid one fall afternoon. I had come home from school to discover, in an era of rarely locked doors, that the side door was locked. Puzzled, I walked around to the back to check out the sliding door, which was also locked. Being the crafty kid that I was, I noticed that the kitchen window was open, so I slid my (then) small frame through. I was either bewildered as to why my Mom and Dad weren’t home or I was hungry, so I picked up the telephone and dialed the only number I could think of—that of my sister. I can’t recall the details of the conversation, but I’m sure it had something to do with both my inability to open up a can of Chef Boyardee and her questioning me about why my parents weren’t home. When you’re seven, falling into a predictable routine is commonplace: get up, go to school, come home. Also: Mom wakes you up; Mom makes you breakfast. Then: you rip your pants on the fence; you go through the day not caring that the said pants are ripped; you hop the same fence again; you come home. Finally: Mom gives you a snack, then dinner; you sleep. Repeat the next day. So I was also a bit worried as to why neither my Mom nor my Dad were home. Shortly after our telephone call, Dani, my sister, came to see me. Our subsequent conversation is one that I clearly remember. It’s one of those memories that someone is likely unable to forget. After learning that I was left alone, Dani had come over with her boyfriend and his incredibly cool car (I credit him and The Dukes of Hazzard for my love of 1960s–1980s muscle cars. But I digress). I remember that...

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