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“So, Tim is going to meet the President this week” my wife said, in the days leading up to a bill-signing I was invited to. We were at a playground with our daughter and two friends who also have a child her age. My wife had been doing this to everyone we’d encountered that day, as I had only been invited the day before. Among the more playful responses she’d received, the most common was “…of what?.” I would chime in on cue with “of the United States as a matter of fact.” And stretch my imaginary suspenders for high fallutin’ effect. Sometimes I would substitute pretend suspenders for dusting invisible cool off my left shoulder with my right hand. Eventually it would come out that President Biden would be signing a bill, and that I’d be witnessing it. So, it wasn’t like me and Uncle Joe would be hanging out in the Blue Room, swapping stories from Delaware. However we played it though, the follow up question was always the same: “Why you?” Why me indeed…
I was half way down the Northeast Corridor with a half bagel and a dozen butterflies in my stomach when that question would hit me the hardest: Why actually me? Me and suits didn’t mix. Me and politicians didn’t mix. Me and fancy occasions and good behavior and representing my family, and representing all Asians everywhere on a national stage did not, in general, mix. So why me? I’d been in such denial about it as a matter of fact that I’d subconsciously omitted mentioning it to my parents. No love lost there, my two beautiful parents were dyed-in-the-wool Regan Republicans. And why wouldn’t they be? They were Taiwanese immigrants who came to the U.S. in the early 70s with as much goodwill as their four pockets could hold. They learned a new language in their 30s, created their own community and eventually carved a path that would put my brother and me through college and graduate school. I’m not saying they didn’t have their share of privilege, these are the same folks who, when I jokingly posted on social media that they have weekly dinners with the Taiwanese President, chastised me because “it’s only once a month.” Regardless, if there’s a more acute, “more-perfect” American narrative, I don’t know what that is. So, yeah. Didn’t call the parents. I mean, even if I wanted to… where would I begin?
Forgot to bring a phone charger. Had to buy one at the train station.
In April I’d received a call from a good friend and mentor. I’m going to drop his name now, but only because it’ll be important later on. It was David Henry Hwang. “Hey Tim,” said Tony-winning, living-legend and godfather of Asian American theater arts, David Henry Hwang. “The AAPI caucus really loved your video from the Lunar New Year celebration and we’re running out of people we can ask to do free stuff. Would you write a song for us for Heritage Month? It pays nothing but the bright side is it probably won’t do anything for your career.”
Well with an invitation like that…
So we talked a little bit about what we wanted the song to do- which was fundamentally to galvanize voters to turn out for the mid-terms. That was the why. The how and what of it all was left up to me. So I started thinking. Sure, the song could sing about victory, or sing about justice or sing about patriotism, duty, service. All galvanizing ideas. I went with guilt. Oh yes, guilt. That beautiful, complex, oft-ugly sentiment that any child of an Asian immigrant knew intimately. Guilt. The great thing about guilt was that it transcended. You didn’t even have to have an Asian parent to know guilt. Are you Jewish? You probably know about guilt. Are you Catholic? You probably know about guilt. Are you gay, Black, trans, or have an MFA in musical theater writing from the Tisch School of the Arts? You probably know about guilt. Are you Patrick Bateman? Okay if you’re Patrick Bateman you probably don’t know about guilt, (ironic, since you’re guilty) but you definitely still like a bop of a tune, so I crossed my fingers and set to work.
For a song about guilt, the result was super boppy:
Keeper of Legacy, Featuring Joan Almedilla, Christine Toy Johnson, Raymond J. Lee, Josh Dela Cruz, Jose Llana and Jaygee Macapugay. Arranged by Isaac Harlan.
You might notice from the video, the remote nature of how everything was shot. And it is to the credit of Joan Almedilla, Christine Toy Johnson, Raymond J. Lee, Josh Dela Cruz, Jose Llana and Jaygee Macapugay that it happened at all. Because imagine having the following conversation umpteen times, over the course of seven days:
ME: Hey my beautiful Asian-American friend who is super talented and super busy and way too good for this, how are you? I got asked to write this song for the DNC’s virtual Heritage Month celebration and just found out I was supposed to cast and edit it too! Wanna learn some music and put yourself on camera? It doesn’t pay anything but on the other hand it’ll do nothing for your career.
YOU: Well, I’m super busy? I’m actually in previews or rehearsal or on-the-road or shooting my immensely popular TV show for which I am number one on the call sheet, and I haven’t slept in like, six days.
ME: All fair. And I totally understand. But I would owe you big time. Also, it’s not so much for me as for um… well All Asian Americans Everywhere Including Your Family and Friends Even If They Didn’t Vote Democrat. No pressure.
YOU: …I mean…
ME: It’s for David Henry Hwang.
YOU: Oh! When do you need it by?
ME: Three days. Thank you so much I will owe you so big!
YOU: Yeah, just send me the track. And thanks for including me, it’s really nice to be included.
End scene.
Not long after the song debuted, I got a text from Bel Leong-Hong, the chair of the AAPI caucus. We’d spoken before, emailed, and I’d seen her on video, but we’d never met in person.
“Keep an eye out for an email from the White House.” It read.
“…wait, what?”
“I wanted to show you my appreciation for all your work, so I put you on a guest list for a bill-signing. It’s regarding Congresswoman Grace Meng’s legislation towards a National Asian American and NHPI museum.”
“…wait, what??”
“Yeah just… you know, check your spam filter. And let me know if you don’t hear from them. It’ll come today or tomorrow. Smiley face emoji.”
“Wait. …what? How did you…? What?”
“Don’t worry about it. I took care of it. Sunglasses emoji. Oh also, David can’t make it, but you’ll get to meet Parag too! Looking forward to meeting in person!”
“…who even are you?”
“I’m just an old Chinese lady. Winky face emoji. See you Monday.”
The invite came on a Saturday, and by Monday I was on an Amtrak to Washington DC, bagels, butterflies and all. Turned out, a bill signing was a lot like an industry reading on steroids. There was live music, beautiful monologues, the remembrance of things that came before, and enthusiastic applause and appreciation. In lieu of music stands, there was a platform, a podium, a desk for the actual signing, four rows of chairs for the audience and behind them, a small army of press. Cameras rolling. On its own terms it was a really special day! I met some fantastic public servants, said my thank-yous and got a really great story out of it.
And then I got the tug on my sleeve. It was Bel.
“You have to come with me right away.”
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“The President wants to meet you.”
“…of what?”
“President Biden. Wants to meet you.” She said again. “Just give this man your name and do whatever he says. Hurry though, there’s not much time.”
We were ushered out a side door of the East Room and into… some other room. Which was blue. It was a blue room. It was the Blue Room. Inside of which were more photographers, videographers, Secret Service, White House Staff… and Vice President Harris and President Biden. What were they doing there? Well to be honest it looked like they were just shooting the shit, waiting around for some rando songwriter. But the truth is, they were waiting for Bel. And when they saw her, their faces lit up. Who was this badass? This badass was grabbing my sleeve and pushing me towards the man in blue.
“Mister President, this was the man who wrote the song about all of your accomplishments.” She said.
What was happening? No, seriously, what was happening? This folksy guy with white hair and the blue suit that I’d seen on TV was shaking my hand, smiling at me saying… something. What was he saying? Get out of your head Tim, pay attention! You’ll wanna write about this later.
“Joe Biden. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Tim Huang. It’s such a pleasure. I’m a big fan of your administration.”
“Hey, thanks so much! I hear you wrote a song about me.”
“I did! I’m pretty sure you’ll get to hear it. It’s a good song. Also, go Delaware!”
“Is that what it’s called?” asked Vice President Harris.
“No, I’m actually from there. I was just saying ‘go Delaware’ like… go Delaware.”
For a second time, the President’s face lit up. “You’re from Delaware?”
“I am! I was educated at the Tatnall School.”
“No kidding. I have a grandkid there right now. We have a home not far from there.”
“Yeah, I know! We talk about it all the time!”
“You do?”
“We do! It’s like, part of our collective identity. We’ve been talking about it since I lived there!”
“Wow, that’s really nice.”
“And- this might be apocryphal sir, but my father the neurosurgeon claims to have consulted on your case when you had your aneurysm in the 80s. I’m not sure how real that is, dads like to impress their sons.”
“Oh no, it wasn’t the 80s, it was the 90s and I know exactly who that guy is.”
“You do?”
“Oh yeah. Here’s the story. See, I had been having these headaches? And went to get checked out and was misdiagnosed. I won’t tell you by who. But I was misdiagnosed. Anyway this guy said it was because I’d been exercising incorrectly” he mimed a chin-up. “So it was business as usual and before I knew it I was in the hospital. So then, my people, they said to me ‘well there’s two guys you could get right now. There’s this local guy, or the guy from Delaware.’ And I was like ‘let’s get the guy from Delaware.’ And we brought him in.”
“No way.”
“It’s true. He probably saved my life.”
“Wow! I’ll be sure to bring it up next time we talk.”
A look of pure joy came across the President’s face. “You mean… he’s… he’s still around?”
“Sure is!”
“Let’s call him!”
“…right… right now?”
I peeked out of the corner of my eye. An aide was looking at her watch. We were burning minutes.
“Maybe we can all get into place for the photos while you call your dad.” She said, ushering me into camera-ready position.
I pulled out my phone. Dialed my parent’s landline, quickly hung up. Someone needed me to smile and I can’t do two things at once. Where did my phone go? Camera shutters clicked. Someone called out orders. I repositioned. We took more photos. Someone handed me back my phone, ringing. These guys were not fucking around. I put the phone on speaker, and as it rang, the President grabbed it out of my hand. The answering machine picked up.
“Let me try dad’s cell. They don’t always answer the landline.” I said. “We’ll just try this once and if it doesn’t work, we can chalk it up.” I dialed, put it back on speaker. Again, the President took it out of my hands. The phone rang.
“Hello?” Came the voice from the other line. My dad!
“Hi dad?” Said Joe Biden.
“Son?”
I steadied the President’s hand as I talked to my dad.
“Hey dad, it’s me. Um… there’s someone here who wants to say hello to you.”
“Hey dad, it’s Joe Biden. I just wanted to say thank you for saving my life.”
For the next four hours the President of the United States talked to my dad. Later that day I would look back at the call log to discover that it lasted three and a half minutes, but trust me. It was hours. Hours of the President telling my dad how I’d made good, and my dad volleying back saying he thought Biden was doing a great job, especially when it came to foreign policy. Like ya do. Hours of me being visibly shaken, asking myself what is happening right now, mouthing to Vice President Harris “what is happening right now?” and seeing her roll her eyes as if to say “just go with it- this is what he does.” And then watching both of them do a very similar dance with Parag, who is incredibly under-represented in this story, but trust me, was a total rock-star that whole day and now one of my ride-or-dies.
On our way out of the White House, the Secret Service said “Have a good day, and tell all your friends you shut down the White House for fifteen minutes, this was an unscheduled visit!” We walked to the street. “Farther, please.” They waved us. “We can’t resume operation until you’re clear.” We walked to the end of the block. “Still farther please.” they called after us. We turned the corner, and it was done.
Days later my dad would Zoom me to say “I had no idea you were so famous!”
“Neither did I!!” I’d respond. And we would have a good laugh. Like nearly everyone else who found out, my dad was saying in his disarming and edifying way “why you?” And as you saw, I had no real answer. But it’s half a year later, after the official White House images were sent to me, after President Biden heard the song and wrote me a nice letter quoting it back to me (framed, up on my wall) after the midterms, that I’ve come to know that the truth is a little more nuanced and a lot more satisfying than “I wrote a song for the DNC and they went apeshit over it.”
After our meeting with the President, Bel, Parag and I went to lunch. We sat outdoors, had some appetizers and drinks and recapped the events that had just transpired over and over, each time adding more layers- peppering in parts of our inner monologues, cross referencing each one’s experience with our own. If you’re Chinese or have read up on your Maxine Hong Kingston, we were basically Talking Story. I for one, was relieved to discover that I had not ousted Tony-winner, living legend and godfather of all Asian American theater arts David Henry Hwang from the experience, who was opening a show out of town. (Which, I know that sounds really conceited. Like, who would ever let that happen? But still.) And I was thrilled to break bread with members of the Creative Committee of the AAPI caucus. But the whole time I kept staring at Bel.
“Who are you?” We had collectively witnessed the biggest flex I’d ever seen anyone make, and none of us were talking about it.
“I’m just an old Chinese lady.” She kept saying.
My old Chinese was a little rusty, but I think I got what she meant: In the same way my first instinct when talking to the President was to honor my father, in the same way that my singers honored David, and David honored Bel, all of us were just walking through a door that someone before us had been holding open. And in turn, making sure the people following behind would get to walk through it too. It makes a little more sense to carry someone if you yourself have been carried. So why me? Because Joan Almedilla. Because Christine Toy Johnson. Because Raymond J. Lee and Josh Dela Cruz. Because Jose Llana and Jaygee Macapugay. Because David Henry Hwang, Bel Leong-Hong and Parag Parikh. Because my dad. Because all of us.
