Curtis leaned back in his seat, empty lunch plates scattered between us on a plastic-lined kitchen table.
“You know, I was really dreading this,” he admitted. “But it was way more pleasant than I expected.”
I froze, eyes wide. What was that supposed to mean? I wondered. We’d spent more than an hour together so far, sharing a meal while I asked him questions about life in a small town and growing up as part of a Native American tribe. I’d really enjoyed our conversation, and learned a lot — and like any person I interviewed on the road, I didn’t want them to dread the conversation one bit.
“Oh really?” I asked. “Well, I’m sorry you were dreading it. I really liked talking with you.”
He peered back at me through a pair of wire-framed glasses and smiled, waving a hand dismissively at my apology.
“Don’t worry about it,” Curtis said. “It’s just…every time someone comes into town and wants to talk to a real live Indian, they’re sent my way.”
I paused, unsure of what to say. After all, I’d made my way into this kitchen through a series of happenstance events, and from an outsider’s view: it certainly did look like I was seeking to speak with him based on his identity alone.
While I was staying in small-town Oklahoma, I met Richard, a filmmaking student working on a documentary. Part of his interest was capturing interviews with members of a Native American tribe, which led him to ask about where to meet them while we had coffee around a family’s kitchen table.
“Well if you’re looking for an Indian, you gotta talk with Curtis Davis,” one of the men said. “He ran the barbershop for the longest time, and now his son took it over. He loves to talk.”
Richard and I made eye contact: we’d both experienced how difficult it could be to get people to commit to talking on camera. A potential interview subject who loved to talk? That was too tempting to give up.
“Where would I find him?” Richard asked.
“Well, I can call over to his son Brian if you want, he can sorta vet you out,” he said.
Richard nodded: yeah, that would be great, thank you.
We sat quietly while he dialed the town over to talk with Brian: a jovial greeting and boisterous laughter as he wheeled, dealed, and secured an interview for later that morning. I looked at Richard: cool if I tag along? He nodded, shrugging — fine with him.
“Alright, well, I’ll send them over around 11 then,” he said. “Talk to ya later.”
Clicking off the phone, he gave Richard the details, and before long — we were off to the barbershop to meet Brian. A half-hour later, Richard and I parted ways for the last time: he had another interview to get to a town over and with Brian’s stamp of approval, I was heading to see Curtis over lunch before moving on to my next stop.
This is how we got to the end of more than an hour of conversation, questions about the Comanche tribe and its impact on his life and childhood, how he and his wife raised their family in a small town, and his thoughts about the country as it stands today.
The interview felt remarkably similar to many conversations I’ve had on the road: I poked and prodded, prying my way into a better understanding of one person’s experience in their town and their country through their life. As we wrapped up, I felt like I was floating on cloud nine; the ecstasy of a good interview brings a physiological response — a palpable pulsing in my veins.
So when Curtis admitted he was dreading the conversation, my heart sank. When I learned that he worried I saw him for only his Native American identity, my heart ached. While I was interested in how it impacts his experience in the country, I knew that it was only part of his experience — and I’d worked hard to treat it as such.
Just like I’ve done in interviews in the months before, I was focusing on the micro-level above all else. I had this theory that by taking it down to the individual experience, we could find the common experiences that stitch us together as Americans. If I got too in the weeds with data and analytics, if I assigned an entire identity experience off of one conversation, it threatened to disrupt my entire project.
“I hope I didn’t make you feel that way,” I said, finding the words to speak.
My eyes felt wide in their sockets.
“No, no,” he said. “That’s what I’m saying. This was great. Usually when people come out of their way to meet me, they’re confused why I’m not in a teepee. Or wearing a headdress. Or…”
“Well, rest assured, I was not expecting a teepee or a headdress,” I said.
I continued, nodding emphatically: I am so, so thrilled to have met you exactly as you are. I really enjoyed our conversation.
“Why yes, Emily,” he said. “Me too. Come back anytime.”
We stood up from the table and hugged goodbye as I assured him I would in fact come back again one day. Down the stairs and into the sunlight of a bright spring day, I looked back at the Victorian house on a quiet small town street. The air was warm against my skin and ecstasy continued to bubble in my veins until I broke into a smile.
Once again, I proved it to myself: that getting beyond the labels we use to divide us, I could find a deeper understanding of another person in this country.
It wasn’t about filling in the blanks of my own expectations, but instead expecting that people would surprise me every time. It was finding comfort in knowing that we were more alike than different, but those differences deserved to be celebrated (not feared) all the same. By being open to their own stories, I walk away fulfilled after every meandering, yet oddly intimate conversation.
I spun in a circle and slid into my car.
It may not be the fastest way, the most analytical, or the most polished — but it was my way.
And it feels right to be forging my own path.
