What Would Whoopi Do?

    I straighten up from stuffing my foot into an uncooperative sneaker. I tumble my way through the security check point at the Mineta San Jose International Airport. I am wrestling with my shoes, struggling to reclaim the correct ubiquitous black rolling bag, and waiting for my laptop and other belongings to flow through the mouth of the conveyor tunnel, when, it happens. “Hey, Whoopi, Whoopi! They checked your bags, too?”

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    This occurs often when I travel; its frequency increases when I step foot into an airport. People mistake me for Whoopi Goldberg. I, for one, don’t see it. Whoopi has no eyebrows, folks. Look at me closely, I do.

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Any Airport, USA

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    So, I am in the airport—Any Airport USA. I will be stopped, two or three times, before I reach my gate. “Yo, Whoopi.” “Excuse me, you look just like that actress, what’s her name? Whoopi Goldberg. You know, she’s my favorite actress. She was so wonderful in “The Color Purple.’ Did you see that movie? Are you her? May I have your autograph?” Sure you can. But I’m not Whoopi Goldberg.

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Let Us Pause for a Moment of Multicultural Diplomacy

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    A year ago, on my way to visit my sister and her family in Los Angeles, a small Vietnamese woman walked up me in the airport with a big smile on her face. “You Whoopi?” I smile. She waves vigorously to her family.

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    Seven more people crowded around me. I am beginning to feel like an exotic animal in a zoo. I can feel someone behind me tugging on one of my locks. My internal siren goes off. “Warning, warning. Step away from the hair.” I am feeling the faint beginnings of a panic attack. Oh my God, I have walked into a petting zoo, and I have become the main attraction.

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    I’m sure any woman who has been pregnant can relate. Don’t you just hate when people approach you and rub your belly—like you are a good luck charm? Don’t you just want to spray them with mace? Wouldn’t you appreciate it if they would ask permission to touch and pat on you? I feel the same way. Don’t touch my locks.

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    What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do?

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    The teen-age son of the Vietnamese family, sporting tattoos and piercings, begins to circle me. He is carefully inspecting my hair as his elders continue to point at me and whisper, “Whoopi. Whoopi.”

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Young pierced guy is shaking his head in approval and in appreciation of my locks. I can see the lightbulb over his head. “Maybe, I’ll get me some of those. Yeah, Dude, that will really freak out my parents.”

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    “Where’d you get your locks,” he asks. “Where’d you buy your locks?” Buy?! He thinks my hair is fake! He thinks my locks are a weave.

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    I do not have time to explain to him that my locks are symbolic of my self-avowed emancipation from European standards of beauty. I do not have enough time to tell him that my locks are an integral part of my spiritual life. I would like to tell him that when I meditate, I envision some of my locks entering the ground and spreading out like the roots of a tree, while the other locks stretch up and out into the sky like branches.

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    I want to tell him my locks are my antennae to my Higher Power. Please don’t touch them because I do not want the energy of others to interfere with my divine connection. I almost regret that there is not enough time to engage.

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There's Always One in the Crowd 

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    As I am trying to figure out which line to get in next, a standard issue white bald businessman behind me peers at my hair and says: “You look just like Whoopi Goldberg. I loved her on Hollywood Squares. Gee, I wish I had enough hair to wear mine like that!”

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    My ears begin to burn. I hear the siren. “Beep. Beep. WWWD? WWWD? What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do?”

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    I bite my tongue. A retort is pressing against my pursed lips. “Sure,” I want to say. “I bet back-in-the-day, you wanted to sing “Mr. Bojangles” and dance like Sammy Davis Jr., too. Huh?”

Instead, I say: “I love Whoopi, too. She’s my idol. I want to be just like her when I grow up.” As I am walking away, I hear him ask: “Can we take a picture together? ” I act like I do not hear him.

Almost on the Plane

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    The waiting area of a commuter flight is small with few seats. When I arrive, there is little girl wearing shoes with winking neon lights. She is entertaining herself by twirling around and falling. Every time she takes a step, the running lights circle the soles of her psychedelic shoes, flash orange and blue. I think they made a tinkling sound, too. 

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She was twirling and running around in circles, falling down, and gleefully screaming: “Whoopi! Whoopi!” Clearly, she is having big fun, and I am delighted to watch her.

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    I am smiling, at no one in particular, and thinking: This little kid is going to be dropping acid and taking Quaaludes in 10 years. She is enjoying that dizzy feeling way too much. I’m thinking shall I warn her mother, when the mommy actually approaches me. Her face is turning shades of pink. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

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    I’m confused. I’m so confused. Why is she apologizing to me?

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    “I’m sorry. My daughter thinks you’re Whoopi Goldberg. Her favorite video is a Sesame Street show with Whoopi and and the Muppets."

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     WWWD? What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do? Unlike me, I can’t imagine Whoopi walking anywhere with an impenetrable shield around her. Whoopi exudes openness. I smile, a genuine grin. I laugh. I am amused. “Well, that’s a relief,” I say. “At least she didn’t mistake me for Big Bird.”

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    Even as I am settling in my seat on the plane, I am contemplating the WWWD question. What would Whoopi do if people invaded her privacy in an airport and said: “You look just like that writer in Santa Cruz. What’s her name? You know, the one with the hair like yours: YaYa Bowmann,”

Whoopi would say: “I am. D’ya want to take my picture.”