Tuesday, August 18, 2020
The Right Kind of Fame
The Right Kind of Fame Iâm sitting with eight new friends in a sushi restaurant in downtown Fargo. Iâm in town to speak at a conference. The restaurantâs decorâ"drab walls, dim light, and wholesale furnitureâ"is not remarkable. The staff here is adequate, not exactly friendly, not exactly not. The food is exquisite, though. Iâm working my way through a salmon roll while my new friends from the conference make light conversation, joking and laughing about this and that. Not one for small talk, Iâm mostly listening. And masticating. A lifelong novice with chopsticks, I force another piece of sushi into my mouth and then feel a tap on my shoulder. A petite blond girl is standing behind me, a look of trepidation on her pretty features. She appears either excited or nervous or perhaps both at the same time. Maybe a decade younger than me, sheâs too stylish to be employed by this establishment: dark denim, a white jacket, an asymmetrical haircut. I attempt to say âhello,â but with a awkward mouth full of rice I sound like a drowning man. My friend Colin, seated to my right, picks up my slack: âSorry but heâs always this inarticulate around women.â I finally choke down the half-chewed salmon and squeeze out a tentative greeting: âHi.â âHi,â she responds with a bashful smile. âIâm sorry to bother you, but are you, umm ⦠are you the guy on the cover of this book?â Sheâs clutching a copy of Minimalism: Live a Meaningful Life, holding it proudly with both hands, presenting it like a doctor would a newborn to its mother. A few people at the table snicker. âUhh ⦠yes. Thatâs me,â I say, inspecting the cover as if verifying its authenticity. âWow! This is so cool. Would you sign it for me? And can I get a picture with you. Oh, this is so awesome. I canât believe it. I was just sitting over there reading your book and now youâre here. In this restaurant. In Fargo,â she says. I look over at Colin suspiciously, assuming heâs the one responsible for this practical joke. Sure, I get recognized from time to time, but come on: In a hole-in-the-wall sushi joint in North Dakota? In front of a bunch of impressive people who are clearly impressed by whatâs transpiring? By a pretty girl who just so happens to be reading my book at the same time Iâm in town for a conference? âReally?â I say, staring at Colin with incredulity. âWhat?â he asks, an innocent look on his face, almost batting his eyes. âYou set this up.â âSet what up?â âThis. You asked this girl to walk over here with my book.â âNo I didnât.â âCome on, man. No oneâs really going to believe this. The timing is too perfect to be plausible. Youâre making us look silly.â By now the rest of the table is listening, and the girl is still standing behind me, book in hand. âI have no idea what youâre talking about,â Colin insists. Heâs a terrible liar, so, by his shocked expression, I can see heâs telling the truth. He didnât set this up. This girl was not planted. None of this is rigged. Hmmm. This must be what it feels like to be ugh famous. Oh dear. I take the napkin off my lap and stand. âHi, Iâm Joshua.â âI know,â she laughs and extends a hand. âIâm Katie.â âIâm a hugger, Katie,â I say and open both arms. She gives me a big hug. âThanks for making me look much more impressive than I actually am, Katie.â She displays a white-toothed grin. âIâm only about halfway through the book, but it has already put things into a new perspective for me. Itâs like Iâm asking myself all these new questionsâ"questions I never even thought about asking before. You know, like about my material possessions, and about what Iâm passionate about, and questions about my relationships. Itâs like this whole new way of looking at things.â Thatâs when it clicked for me: Itâs not me whoâs famous. I am not whatâs interesting to people. Rather, itâs the message thatâs compelling, and Im just the messenger. And Iâm fine with that. In fact, I imagine itâd be miserable to be truly famousâ"that is, to be famous for the sake of being famous. Several examples come to mind: Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, the entire cast of Jersey Shore. Those people are well known only because they are famous, not for what they stand for, not for adding value to peopleâs lives. (N.B. Im not saying theyre bad people; its just that I wouldnt want to be in their situations.) However, whenever Iâm recognized in public, itâs usually accompanied by âArenât you one of The Minimalists?â or âDidnât you write that Minimalism book?â or âThank you for your blog.â Truth be told, I never thought Iâd be a public figure of any sort. Not even close. But now that I am eminent to a (very) small degree, Iâm happy that what Iâm known for is the right thing. Each time Iâm recognized, Iâm reminded that our message is spreadingâ"a message I sincerely believe in. We all have an identity, but what we often donât realize is that our identities are shaped by our daily actions. My daily actions of the last several years have made me a messenger for simple livingâ"a designation I wear with pride. Standing next to Katie as we pose for a photo together, I notice Iâm a foot taller than her, which seems apropos since she isnt taking a picture with me anyway; she wants a photo next to minimalismâ"a movement taller than us all. âThe Right Kind of Fameâ was originally a passage in Everything That Remains, but its chapter was one of many that didnât make the final draft, so I decided to share it here instead. For more essays from The Minimalists, subscribe for free via email.
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