You're Just LIke Me

Posted by Julie Hersh on 15 October 2010 | 0 Comments

Tags: talks, namaste

Since my last post I’ve done talks in Dallas (University of Texas at Dallas, Essential Energy, Classic Residence by Hyatt and St. Michael’s) as well as in Houston (Menninger Clinic and Barnes and Noble) and Tyler, TX (East Texas Book Fest). The settings ranged from Neimen Marcus, with me strategically placed between stunning shoes with heels my knees prohibited years ago, to a room for psychiatric patients and staff to a church parlor.  Audience members varied, college students to the elderly, many women, but a surprising number of men.  

In my speeches, there’s always moment when I hear myself talking and wonder if the dead silence proves engagement or total boredom. I plug forward. Someone laughs at one of my jokes. The room exhales. Then the questions emerge, one by one, gaining momentum, increasing with intensity. At the end, someone inevitably pulls me aside and says the same thing I hear after every talk: You’re just like me.

Funny thing is, I’ve hear the same comment from girls in their late teens, young mothers, empty nesters and those on walkers. I’ve even had men tell me I’m just like them. Visions of Woody Allen in “Zelig” pop into my head. My first taste of  “you’re just like me” was when a 16 year-old girl, dressed in black, dark makeup, various punctures said, “This is so WEIRD. I feel like I know you. You think like me. Like, I know all this morbid stuff about you and here you are right in front of me. And you actually look HAPPY.” I was dumfounded. How could a 16 year-old girl possibly relate to a story about a married-with-children-middle-aged woman in crisis? But she did. She bugged me about my next book. “Write it fast,” she told me. “I’ll read anything you write.”

When writing Struck by Living, I had the strange feeling I wasn’t writing, but merely transcribing. I’d see the scene in my head, hear the voices, smell the smells and let my fingers race on the keyboard. Of course it took many frustrating days for any one of the finger-flying days, but the book taps into something. What is it? A universal search for identity? A need for connection?  A feeling of isolation because of a disease one fears does not exist? A need to be understood? I’m not sure.

Perhaps the answer lies in being human and allowing others to be the same. Maybe the “you’re just like me” is an Americanized version of  “namaste.” I’ve heard many interpretations of the word namaste, but my favorite is: I acknowledge the light in you as I acknowledge the light in myself.  We are all human, but at the same time within each of us there is a divine spark. It’s comforting to know that despite all the materialism and bad news in the word, people still feel a connection that transcends our physical shells. We are all spiritual beings. Namaste dear readers, I appreciate your eyes, ears and compassion with which you have listened.