The Uber driver called himself Anakin. When we met at our pick up point I smiled and said, “Anakin, eh?” We both chuckled. I suspect he was relieved that I didn’t make the obvious Star Wars jokes. I find it best in general to avoid both the predictable and the tedious. Not that I’m always successful in that regard.
It was as enjoyable an Uber trip as it gets. Our dynamic was immediately light and easy. We clicked the way strangers sometimes do when they know that their time is limited; exchanging witty banter like the precious commodity it is for similarly synched souls. We totally cracked each other up.
I figured that he likely chose to call himself Anakin because his real name would be tough for most Americans to pronounce, or perhaps because his actual name may have cost him some business. But I’m only speculating. I suppose that a name like Anakin doesn’t ring Middle Eastern to potentially uneasy Uber riders who might opt to select a Steve who pops up at 5 minutes away over a Khattab who shows at 2 minutes closer. Even enlightened humans who handily utilize an Uber app can be burdened by the weight of unaddressed or unrecognized prejudice.
When Anakin’s Uber drove by a certain familiar place on the freeway, the LDS San Diego Temple suddenly loomed large, right there in all it’s glory-all bright, white and Disney-like; taking my breath a way for a moment, as it always does. I excitedly blurted out, “Oh! There’s the temple!” I had no agenda. Sometimes I just blurt.
Anakin’s demeanor changed on the quick. He mumbled “Mormons” under his breath, bringing an unexpected chill to the temperate California air.
It’s strange the way so many emotions can be experienced as wheels spin over a short span of road. I felt jarred, embarrassed, perplexed, defensive, sad and eager to reconnect all at once.
Those six seconds of slow motion silence felt like the car was sinking into a sickly black patch of gooey tar on the sunny road that day.
Anakin’s thick accent broke the silence, his voice flat and heavy. “You’re Mormon.”
I heard myself say something then that I hadn’t thought of first. Often my words just flow more quickly than my brain works. It’s a gift and a curse I’ve learned to live with.
“Mormonism is my tribe. My religion is love,” is what I heard myself say. It was true. It sat well with me. And I liked it. Anakin glanced back at me in the rear-view mirror. Maybe he was trying to get a read on my sincerity. Maybe he wanted to put a face to his own baggage of unease. But almost as quickly as our brown eyes locked, I thought I saw his darkness lift.
“My religion is love…” he quietly repeated, as his attention eased back to the road. He was nodding.
Anakin liked that idea too. He said so. I believed him. We were both relieved. The easy lighthearted banter resumed as we enjoyed each other’s nonsense during the remaining miles to our destination.
Our smiles were genuine upon parting. I liked Anakin. I hope he’s well and blessed. Our forty-minute friendship had hit a little bump in the road. No biggie. Our encounter was real and meaningful. And really, who can ask for more than a surprise glimpse of life’s complexities, of humanity, connection, and a few hearty laughs from a random Uber driver in San Diego who calls himself Anakin.
This post was written by my beloved friend, Renee, who is definitely a similarly synched soul. We’ve been connected since the middle-school days of flirting with twitterpated boys and Bonnie Bell lip smackers. The biggest bump in our friendship is our propensity to laugh until our stomachs hurt. I’ll just say that’s my ab workout and call it good. I am happily Mormon but also feel as though my religion is love.