The Plus 1 Syndrome

2014 was turning out to be the year of love... for everyone but me. It seemed like everywhere I looked, Cupid was whizzing by.

Shortly after New Years, I arrived home from work one day to find an invitation to a wedding in the mail.

A week later, another wedding invitation arrived.

And the next week.

And again.

And a Bachelorette Party invite.

And a baby shower notification.

On Facebook, friends were changing statuses from "single" to "in a relationship;" and from "in a relationship" to "engaged" faster than Britney's 24 hour marriage.

Expressions of love were everywhere. And my checkbook was thinning.

Was Valentine on ecstasy this year? Was he shouting from the rooftops, 'hey, it's 2-14-14, bitches!'

Just this past Monday, another friend impressed upon me her most recent venture: she and her fiance were relocating into a fabulous two bedroom apartment in a Connecticut complex, complete with heated pool, on-site covered parking, dry-cleaning service, yoga studio, game room, and a washer and dryer in unit.

I was and I am happy for each coupling, life-event, and expression of love (even if my wallet may groan)... but as the invites for others in my life mounted, I couldn't help but feel a certain... anxiousness.

At 31 years and 9 months, was my time running out? Had I become complacent in my single-hood? I wondered, do gay men have a biological clock? And if so, was mine rapidly approaching ticking its last toc? Does the desire to couple force us into relationships too quickly?

After dating here and there, I boyfriended. Despite the quickness with which this coupling occurred, I admit, I was eager to develop something. Friends had seen posts on Facebook and communicated their... trepidation... for me over my newest love: 'It's nothing you're saying, Pete... there are some red flags in some of his posts. Just... go slow. If it's real, there's no need to rush.'

I can't say I entirely disagreed. Yet, when it's visceral and passionate, the only thing you find yourself wanting to do is be around the other person. It's like an intoxication or an addiction. You want more the more you have.

As this new relationship developed, I pictured my future with him. What would this be like in five years? Ten years? I imagined me introducing him to my family. I imagined meeting his. I pictured invitations in the mail with the label, "Mr. Me + one," instead of simply, "Mr. Me." It's an exciting thought, having someone you're falling for next to your own name. If I had a biological clock, it suddenly felt like it stopped... as if, I had all the time in the world now.

I pushed through with greater expediency than what I was used to in order to develop a close bond with him. It was easy in some ways; it was difficult in others. Forming trust takes time. Revealing yourself takes time, too; yet, despite this, I wanted this relationship. I wanted it to work. It's not that I had hidden myself, by any means. In fact, I am probably more resolved and honest in who I am, about who I am, now, than I'd been in prior relationships.

I sought counsel from friends to ensure I didn't make mistakes I'd made in the past. I was told I had grown significantly as a person. I was also reminded of the importance of me staying me so I can both be me in this newfound relationship and contribute myself as an individual to this new partnership.

As a writer, I write to process and express. I've been told it's a downfall. Sometimes, I'm more expressive in my writing than in person. It's something I am working on. Eh, we all have issues, I suppose. When I do write, I write with deliberate and precise wording. Usually, that is. The only time I don't write what I mean is when I am making a sexual innuendo; and never, ever is it to reveal personal information about another person without consent or speak disparagingly.

Sometimes, I forget how what I say or write affects the very real people around me, or about whom I write. This was brought to my attention in valid points by my boyfriend. He showed me how what I said affected him.

And through this all, did I really see him as a person? Had I fallen in love with him or with the idea of being in a relationship again? If it were the latter, that wouldn't be fair to him.

Still ill after days of battling whatever malady afflicted him, he was off to work. Luckily, he was given off upon arrival. He called me up and I invited him over. We had such a sweet date night. He cooked. I cracked eggs. We watched a movie. We kissed. It was the perfect low-key night after a long, tenuous weekend. We'd made up. Yup... in love with him. 

That next morning, I went to work... I dropped him off at home and hurried to my job. Mondays are my long day at work. When I arrived home after a dizzying day, I crashed onto my couch and immediately fell asleep... still in work clothes. No easy feat when you're wearing a Banana Republic cashmere sweater, button-down, tie, and khakis. I slept through every text and phone call for some time, and when I awoke, I realized how tired I still was. Life laboriously lapped itself onto my energies, sapping my strength as a mosquito drinks the blood of its victims. I needed to combat this heavy burden of responsibilities by using what little free time I had to recover some of the sleep I needed to have some semblance of energy to meet the next few days ahead.

I decided I'd turn in early after dinner. A change of clothes and some Trader Joe chicken nuggets in the oven later, I called my boyfriend back. He had called me while I slept. Without getting into details of the conversation, we joked some. I expressed how tired I was, despite having just taken a nap. We talked off an on a few times that night. Later, we had a friendly disagreement about communication. If I heard him right, he felt he shouldn't have to ask me as a boyfriend to essentially 'be there' with him while he was sick. He's probably right. Though, I felt if he wanted me there, he should communicate that to me... I wasn't a mind reader and I needed him to tell me what he wanted. Besides, we'd just seen each other that morning. I explained that I am the type to need some alone time and space. Being an introvert, alone time is sort of essential to my well-being... and if I am not well, I can't take care of anyone else effectively, let alone go into work and do my job teaching 90 very unique and individual human beings. I wish... I wish I could. I wish I had more energy.

To his credit, he also has a demanding job. I never meant to make him feel, if I had, that my job was better than his or his was better than mine. If anything, I envy in a lot of ways the freedoms his job seems to allow. When he leaves work, like so many in so many fields, he doesn't have to bring work home with him... or at least, not a ton, it seems. When I leave work... I always have more work to do. Our jobs are just different. Unfortunately for me, finding the balance between life and work is a perpetual struggle. I've lost many a potential relationship over this. It seems, I may have lost another from this, too.

I read this and I hear the words echoing in my ears: 'you play victim, really well.' Do I? Is this true? If it is... it's not my intention. Ever. Maybe this is something else I need to work on, too. Where's that mirror when you need it to face yourself?

I saw a picture of me that had just been posted. After the weekend, I jokingly texted saying I wanted to talk about this posting of pictures of me where, in my mind, I looked hideous. And, indeed, I wanted to address the sarcasm I sensed in our most recent discussion about me as a good boyfriend.

I lit a candle, took a shower, and fell to sleep. Sometime in the evening I awoke to flickering candle-light. I sleepily used the bathroom. I found my phone where I'd left it and put it on airplane mode as I customarily do, ignoring the notifications I had received, wanting to return to sleep quickly. My alarm was already set for the next day.

The next day, I awoke feeling refreshed. I jumped out of bed to my alarm, grabbed my phone, and went back into bed, letting my alarm play several times. In the cold of my room, my bed was inviting. After snoozing for awhile, I finally forced myself to come to consciousness. I turned my phone off airplane mode. Notifications popped up one by one. I went into my texts to read the texts I'd missed throughout the night and there, amid my texts were his texts. I had been 'playing games.' I had pissed him off. I had hurt him. And now, I had been dumped.

The night before, I was with someone who said he loved me. Someone who I can say I did, too. In earnest, I will for some time. Feelings may change, but they never truly go away... at least, not the good parts.

I was stunned awake. I didn't know what to think. I lied in bed piecing together what happened... what led to this decision... what had been this sequence of events. Was it my fault? I was tired... was it anyone's fault? I checked my Facebook. It's a funny thing: I was still in a relationship... only... where a name had been, there was now no one. I was in a relationship... with myself. Humiliated, I changed my status: unlike every card and update I'd seen in 2014, my 2014 was turning into a sham. I updated my status from 'in a relationship' back to 'single.'

He told me he didn't want to hear from me ever. I ignored this at first. I texted him immediately... 'I just got this. I'm confused.' But after a shower and some thought, I respected his space. I wouldn't contact him if that's what he wanted.

Maybe I should have gone after him. Maybe I should have reached out and tried to explain all of this. In the end, maybe we're just in different places... and that's okay. Maybe even though we want many of the same things, how we're willing to get there is too different. Contrary to popular belief, I don't live by my phone. I actually rather like turning it off for hours at a time. I ignored this propensity often in this relationship. I tried to meet the intensity of this new relationship with equal fervor, but such intensity isn't in me to maintain with consistency. I wish it were. I wish I could supply him with everything he needed and everything he deserved.

He was and is a good guy. I have absolutely no complaints about him. Sometimes, people are just in different places. Over the course of the day, I felt a range of emotions: sadness, furiousness, confusion... understanding. I had been broken up with in a text message over a misunderstanding. Rather than ask if I were okay, assumptions were made. That's not something I can fix and I have to accept that. I'm also not judging any actions or how anything happened. I can only know what's right for me. If someone is truly in love with someone... in my book... a break-up text wouldn't have been the answer. That mirrored for me so much of what was real in that relationship. Then again, everyone is different. Then again, maybe if I had cared more, I'd have gone over there... or showed up after work, despite the request to stay way. Maybe he wanted more: to see what I would do. Maybe there was nothing more to it: just a break-up.

Sometimes, you have to know when to say enough is enough. In the beginning, intensity is great. But that's one thing. Drama, arguing, and butting heads over anything is another. I don't blame him. I don't blame me. And I can venture that anyone on the outside will see the situation as they choose, which tends to happen no matter what. We're just two different people... wonderful in our own ways... needing to grow in our own ways.

Later that day, I came home. My body: tense. My mind: exhausted. I had checked his Facebook page more times than I could count, feeling a range of emotions. I reflected on past relationships. Some things would have put me over the edge... instead, I recognized my feelings, felt them for a moment, and moved on. I would not dwell in the underlying sadness this was inevitably causing me. When I arrived home, I ordered Chinese.

While binging on lo mein enough for five, I noticed how quiet my apartment was. My roommate was out; the place was all mine. It's a funny thing... even in a brief, intense relationship, you get used to someone. You get used to their presence: their sound, their smell, their laugh, their smile, their talk... everything. Now, the apartment was stone cold silent. I wanted to cry out of some despair I was feeling, but after a moment, I realized, this quiet was okay. If you can't be with yourself in the silence, how can you be with someone else? If not yourself, who else? I didn't need to explode, impress, compensate, forget, or do anything other than just 'be.'

Listening to Telepopmusik's, "Breathe," I know I'll be alright. I know he will, too. Though the whole experience may in time seem frivolous and silly in terms of the perhaps melodramatic descriptions with which I've painted it, the experience is still real, valid, and important to me. While I am very sensitive, to which I've been criticized time and time again, and ironically, told I lack sensitivity in many other areas of life, I'd rather feel too much than too little. I value who I am and how I exist in the world because my goal is always to make myself a better person. This isn't a victim talking; this is a survivor. After all life has dealt me, whether through my own fault or no fault of my own, I am still here, I am still trying, and I am climbing through the struggle.

I don't see myself as a man or a woman or any gender or sex. I know what I like, and I gravitate toward the particular qualities I like and the orientation to which I am accustomed for better or worse. I actually think it takes a lot within persons to admit who they are in totality to themselves; to embrace all of who they are, to work through their issues, to better themselves, and within this process, this willingness, this willpower is true strength. Still, sometimes I feel so weak, too. I like who I am. I know who I am. I am comfortable in my own skin. I am fine being vulnerable and being strong and being intense and calm and focused and spontaneous. I'm not perfect. I'm not a bad looking dude, but I'm not cocky either. I have what's important in life in my soul and, at the same time, I am bad-ass, sexy, sexual, and engaged with many of the illusions many people assign importance onto in life. In short, my validation is within me. When I find a partner, I will find someone who challenges and completes me; someone who brings the best out in me. Someone who sees me for me, imperfections and all, and sees it as sexy as any supermodel with a six pack may be. Someone who is honest. Someone who is sensitive and gentle and strong and true. And someone successful in their own right.

I don't know if I will ever find that one who will say I am the one. Who will be my one. Lord knows, I've dated couples before. I may end up with a two. That'll make for a hell of a blog. This relationship was amazing. It just surpassed in length my relationship with Stevie, which had equally been as glorious and riddled with challenges in their own right. I appreciate everything this relationship has taught me. In the end, this blog isn't about anyone other than me... my growth... my evolution... my process... and what I learn from being single (or not single).

I don't know if I am reaching a point where my biological clock is drastically changing or stopping altogether, assuming I have an internal drive to couple. Maybe it's not a biological clock at all. Maybe, instead, it's just me... maturing? Whatever it is... despite dreams of my own wedding... despite the very strong desire of having someone added as my plus one, in the end, it's not whether or not there is a name on the invite next to yours; it's having an invite with just your name and being totally fine with just that. Sometimes no plus one is a plus in its own right.

Even so, I took the batteries out of every clock in the house. Something about that tic-toc ticking makes it hard to sing, 'No day but today,' from Rent in my head with absolute serenity.

Through a glass darkly...

This is probably one of my worst blogs because so much has happened. I need to write more and more consistently often. It's hard for me being such a private person, so I avoid writing all the particulars. I also did not take the time to edit this. 

New York City is a city of numbers. Are you north of 96th or south? Which block do you live on? Do you work out at the New York Sports Club on 145? How many bedroom are in your place? 2? Which train do you take to work? The 4 or 5. How much money do you make per year? How much do you have saved? How many countries have you visited? What's the interest rate on your loan? How much did your mutual fund increase? Cabbie, take me to 23rd and 8th. I've had 5 partners. The longest I've been with someone was 2 years. I had 6 orgasms last night. We had sex 3 times in 2 hours. Numbers are everywhere.

Finding that "one" in a city of 8 million is almost as impossible as finding that perfect rent controlled two bedroom with quiet neighbors, on-site parking, wood floors and a sun-lit view overlooking the park. I can take years of back-breaking, laborious searching to sift through the options.

Having more options doesn't make the job any easier or go by any faster. In fact, it seems to make the task more daunting. More options means more opportunities to "sift." It's like shopping for new shoes; in a small shoe-shop, you have less to try on. You have fewer options and therefore make a decision one way or another much more quickly. In a large shoe store, you spend more time browsing, trying on different pairs, and because you have more options, your standards become more refined. You start demanding out of the bevy of options perfection. Accepting a less-than-perfect pair that fits becomes an option less entertained. But does having more actually give us less? Does that perfect "pair of shoes" exist? Has having so much for so long made us numb to what is real?

New Years. After a night with friend and chef extraordinaire, Menachem, I resolved to actively start dating again. I was interested in someone for some time but nothing seemed to be panning out. So I decided it was time to put myself back into the game. And I did. Being gay and single in the gay mecca that is New York, it would seem dates would be a dime a dozen. While for some, I am sure that is true. For me, an average-looking guy who doesn't spend every waking minute doing squats at the gym (more power to those who have the time and energy to do so), finding a guy that meets my standards, peeks my interest, and with whom there's a strong attraction among the numbers proves difficult. It's easier to log on to a social networking app and meet a guy for a random hook-up than it is to meet for a cup of coffee. Though, even hooking up in Harlem had been proving cumbersome. It seems I don't represent well on an app, but in person, I do alright. In fact, most think I am attractive in person and not on an app. Short of a serendipitous encounter, such as like one I had on the train during my week off in December, when, upon returning from the Museum, a tall, dark and handsome young gentleman began a conversation with me out of the blue on the train, meeting men in Manhattan requires the dreaded dive into the deep section of the pool: going to venues where casually meeting someone is almost an expectation. However, even that, with a demanding job like mine, which requires hours of off-hours work, finding the time and energy and space to put one's self 'out there' is actually rather difficult. When not working for work, most of my free-time and energy is devoted to sleeping, eating, catching up with friends and family, running errands and life. Besides, how much money do I really make where a weekly outing is even feasible?

Somehow, though, it happened. So near to New Years, I met someone with whom I could pursue this resolution on a consistent basis. He and I met on one of those 'social networking' apps. After some back and forth, it was discovered that we had a common interest... or, more like, a common mistake. He was the ex of my ex. Actually, he was the ex of "the Ex." In a city of 8 million people, of course one would expect to become romantically involved with your ex's ex. Intrigued by this discovery of shared history, we agreed to go on a date.

One date turned into several. And each time, we spoke less and less of our mutual experiences with the ex. It felt good. It felt real. It felt adult. We always met for dinner at a new restaurant each time. He even cooked dinner for me, something which I had to post excitedly on Facebook. Yet, something was missing.

February and Valentine's Day: I was, yet again, without a Valentine. I did, however, have one saving grace this year: I would go on yet another trip alone. A few years ago, I'd spent nearly a week in Key West, where I met Stevie, who I had a brief but doomed relationship with. Doomed only because shortly after meeting Stevie, Stevie relocated to Hawaii. Several time zones and a world apart don't make having a relationship very easy for one who isn't a millionaire. The trip wasn't a loss whatsoever, despite this reality check. I'd gone to Florida to recharge and reboot. This year, I'd do the same: I would go to Florida again to soak up some sun, rest, and be with myself after weeks upon weeks of non-stop work and a deplorable winter season. I made plans to go, convinced Menachem to join me there when he was able, and flew off. I didn't go there with any romantic intentions. I went there to just "be."

The first day I arrived, romance found me. Staying at my resort was a beautiful soul from Brazil. Instantly, there had been an attraction. By the second day, we were in our hotel's pool together. He spoke very little English and I speak no Portuguese; yet, somehow, we managed. I used my knowledge of Italian, Spanish and lots of hand signals to communicate. And it worked. We managed. And through it all, in this sunlit space, something utterly natural and amazing happened: I fell in love. It was instant; it was easy; and it was, of course, fleeting. Like Stevie, he would return to Brazil and I to snow-burdened New York. So, there were no expectations. I'd like to think the feeling was mutual, but either way, falling in love does something good for the soul. It was something I'd been missing for a couple years. He left the next day, though not before he and I spent some alone time together. I met my good friend Oso while in Florida. Funny enough, we talked about finding that special someone, too. Seems to be a recurring theme. Menachem joined me a few days later and helped me round out a blissful week with some debauchery, lap dances by some gorgeous strippers, and dancing. As Menachem went on a date in Florida, I flew home.

The next day, I went on Facebook. Something must have been different that day. I began speaking with a new and very attractive man, Ted. Unlike many on my Facebook, I'd actually met Ted in person several months earlier, though the conditions of our meeting were less than optimal. While waiting for a cab to go home on 10th and 29th after a night out with Menachem filled with double d's (dancing and debauchery), two gentlemen passed by. They had clearly been having a good time, too. So much so that one of them initiated free-flowing conversation with Menachem. Details aside, I was happy for Menachem's encounter. Menachem had met Ted. I voyeuristically stood as the encounter took place. Thinking nothing of it, Menachem and I hailed a cab and headed home uptown.

Menachem and Ted had planned on meeting, but after weeks of failed rendezvouses and misaligned stars for the pair, that meeting never happened. Menachem moved on. So did Ted.

I had friended Ted subsequent to that meeting with no intentions beyond investigating a guy my friend was interested in. I followed Ted's many posts on Facebook, including those describing in detail several dates he had gone on with other guys. I had an idea of who he was, though a person is not their Facebook page.

Back from Florida. That night, Ted and I began talking for the first time. It started off simple enough, but there was an immediate attraction. We video-chatted for what seemed like an hour or more. I found out much. He was a Leo with the same birthday as Zoboy. This fact was hard for me to ignore. Finally, we agreed to meet. He and I would meet that Thursday in pursuit of our mutual interest in one another.

Thursday arrived. And there was no Ted. I attributed this missing in action to a loss of interest. Friday came and I still hadn't heard from him. Finally, I did. He said he had dropped his phone and it had cracked. He wanted to still meet. I agreed. We set a time. Again, I hadn't heard from him. Was this a recurring pattern? After witnessing how Menachem hadn't been able to meet with him after several attempts, it seemed like it might be. Time had passed. When I finally heard from him, he said his phone had been lost. He had been given a new phone from a friend and hadn't yet activated it.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt, despite my gut telling me otherwise. Communicating through Facebook, I agreed to meet him for a third time. This time, we did. We met and there was an instant physical attraction. I ignored the series of unfortunate events which seemed to deter our initial encounter and went with it. There was a certain passion that was missing from my dates with the ex of the Ex. Ted intrigued me. He was sensitive and intense and unique. He was present.

March is a month for madness. Basketball... the ides of March... the transition from winter to Spring. Diving into the deep end before I could swim was no exception. After a few times meeting, we agreed to date exclusively. One Saturday night, we'd made plans to go on a real date. Up until that point, we'd only had one date, which was an impromptu dinner. He bought us tickets to an event at Pacha. We'd meet his friends in the Lower East Side for dinner and cocktails and then cab it over to Pacha. We began the night at Fat Buddha, a restaurant and bar populated by a mixed crowd of singles and partners. Ted worked with the bartender at his restaurant nearby. 6 dumplings, 2 spring rolls, a bowl of edamame and many shots of tequilla later, we decided to rendevous with another one of Ted's coworkers. After a few drinks at another restaurant, we decided to walk to his place nearby. After many a drink there, we called it a night. I hailed a cab and took us back to my place, preferring some alone time and sleep to dancing until the wee hours of the morning. That's when it happened. Whether it was the thrill of 'updating my profile' for the first time in years from 'single' to 'in a relationship,' or the simplicity of knowing I could invest my time and energy into one person, or just the attraction I had felt for him since we'd first met, we agreed to be boyfriends. It was fast. We talked about how fast it had happened. But we decided to take a shot at it. I didn't care to see anyone else. Neither did he. Just like that, the ex of the Ex was excommunicated. So were the other men I'd been seeing off and on.

We had our first fight over an issue of ex's. We resolved it quickly, in spite of certain things an ex of his had said... his honesty about it was reassuring. Additionally, he gave me a key to his apartment and he became very expressive about his feelings.

A short time later, Ted became ill. Sick with a flu, I brought him soup and the like to help him feel better. The next day after work, I immediately drove over to check on him. Ced was surprised by my coming.

We laid in his bed together watching a movie. I wanted to pounce on him. It had been a few days since we'd had any alone time. We talked and over the course of the conversation, our light and airy talk turned serious. I asked him if he wanted me to leave. He was sick and in my mind maybe he needed to be alone rather than have another person to deal with. We argued a bit. I decided I'd stay. I fell asleep and awoke to an apology from him. I apologized, too. I didn't understand how the situation had turned out. It was senseless. We cuddled a bit and somehow we talked about my family. He jokingly said he wanted me to bring back food from my family's house. I had dinner there the night before. He asked if my mom and dad were there. I'm not sure why, but that question put me on edge. It wasn't his fault; he doesn't know the history behind my parents. I didn't know why then, but the questions caused me to be defensive. On top of it, he started to initiate some 'alone time' with me. Only, it was never finished. I wondered why. Was it me? I felt in that moment that what had just happened was becoming more common. I felt myself close up. He sensed this and asked me what was wrong. I didn't want to make it about me since he was sick so I avoided it. Finally, I said it. He became immediately incensed. He seemed baffled by my comment and I, in turn, was confused that he didn't want to discuss it logically. He said he didn't understand why I was challenging him. Something about that word resonated deeply with me. In my mind, we were supposed to be partners... equal, even in spite of the newness of our relationship. In my mind, being so new, we should always be all over each other. For all of these reasons, and to give him space to be while he was sick, I told him I thought it'd be better if I were to leave. He agreed. And I did. Just like that, I left.

We hadn't spoken in over a day. I know it seems silly, but we had gone from spending every day together to absolute silence. Maybe we had gone too fast. Maybe it was a sign of an unhealthy dynamic that had unintentionally been created by the both of us. Had I not learned from the experiences of my past?

I reached out to him Saturday. He said he missed me but needed some time.

I didn't want to repeat past mistakes. What was it about this that was bringing out so many underlying issues so quickly? I had come so far. I decided to do what any good writer would do: research. I called my ex, Ty. We hadn't spoken in some time. I asked if he'd meet me for coffee and he did.

Over coffee, he asked why I had suddenly reached out. I explained that I knew I didn't have any right to ask him anything, but I wanted to know what I was like to be with when he and I were together... what his issues were with me. I wanted to know what I had done wrong so as to not repeat the same mistakes. Two hours later, I found that I was making some of the same mistakes with Ted, making new ones with Ted, and preventing others. I was glad for Ty's openness and honesty. It was an eye-opening experience for me. And, I feel I become closer to someone who I hope will be a good friend for the rest of my life.

Being open to criticism isn't easy. Taking a good and honest hard look at yourself can be terrifying. No body is perfect, at all. Being with someone means accepting those 'perfect imperfections,' and being constantly open to growing in the process. It means them accepting them too with patience and kindness and dignity. It means seeing what is acceptable and not. It also means being honest with yourself and the person you're with about what it is you want. Looking at yourself, you may not like what you see. You may not want to find out all those flaws. More and more, as I grow into my 30s, I find myself embracing these traits rather than turning away from them. I accept myself, flaws and all, and I am unapologetic about who I am and what I need to work on. At the end of the day, I used to think I'd need to be alone for as long as it took to work on who I am as a human being... but if I went with that approach, I'd avoid being in love for a very long time.

I want to see where this leads with Ted, but I think he and I need to take a step back and slow down a bit.

Still sick, Ted and I finally spoke. It had been a couple days. Rough days. Giving someone space can be challenging for a person that wants answers immediately. Yet, I am the first to tout taking time to process. He said he didn't have the energy for us to have that conversation just yet. I have to respect that. Certainly, if I were feeling ill, I wouldn't want to have that discussion either. Our schedules being what they are, it's unlikely we will see each other any time soon. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe the time apart is healthy for us. In fact, I know it is.

There isn't one way for any relationship. Everyone is different. And no one's relationship is perfect. Relationships take time, energy, the building of trust, maintaining who you yourself is as an individual, communication, openness, and honesty. I believe no relationship can be built on lies or omissions. In speaking with another friend, I was reminded how important it is to be open to what transpires. I'd like to think I am.

In the meantime, as it stands with all my feelings, complexities, peculiarities, and quirks, having taken a good hard look at myself, it seems I am no longer single and writing in New York City. It appears that out of the millions of options, out of the countless numbers, I've narrowed down to one with whom I am resolved to slowly develop a relationship and grow in love and peace. I don't know what the future will bring, but I know I'll be alright no matter what.

Confessions of Indecision

 Suggested listening accompaniment: Adele's, "One and Only."  

When #Hamlet said, "To be or not to be," he began a soul-searching inquisition wrought with arguably the most odious dilemma: #indecision.

#Choices aren't easy. Do I give him my number or not? Do I invite him back to my place or not? Do I stay where I am or do I move on? Do I go to the gym or stay home? Do I stay with him or break up? Do I move to Queens, Jersey, or Harlem? Cream or milk? Peanut butter or jelly? And while some pursue more gluttonous avenues: why choose when you can have both (peanut butter and jelly)? Still others remain stagnant, making the choice to do nothing at all.

And why not? In a society where seconds mean millions and time isn't merely a luxury, but rather a loaded gun constantly pointed at our temples, making choices has boiled down for many to mountainous life or death situations. And understandably so. In a world that moves so fast with so many variables, how do you make an informed choice? How do you overcome the fear and dread of choosing?

Hamlet's plight caused such internal conflict that inaction resulted. Several months ago, I began a private and urgent journey toward actualizing a decision I'd finally made for myself. I'd returned from an amazing, unforgettable search into my resilience, my drive, determination, adaptability, sense of adventure, and renewed search for good, spirituality, and self, all in the name of my reluctant entrance into my thirtieth year of life.

What I found in Costa Rica was life. What I found in Peru was accomplishment. And Mexico? I found Tequila in Mexico. And throughout, I found the good of the world, and, more that is mine to own privately.

#Ghandi once said, “If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. … We need not wait to see what others do.” I returned ready to enact the change I wished to seek within my life. Early in the summer, YOLO was indeed my motto. To a certain extent, the principle remained the same. If we as people believe this is the one life we have to live, then why not enjoy every moment of it. We can make the world, and our lives, the way we want them to be.

And in that regard, a good friend, Stevie, inspired me. Stevie picked up his life in Key West and moved thousands of miles away. If he believed he could do it, if he could take that leap of faith, despite the risks, setbacks, sacrifices, and all in the name of pursuing happiness as he defines it for himself, then why couldn't I? Why couldn't I get up off of my ass and do it too?

With resolve, I tried. The moment I returned, I went out with my charismatic, trendy, and fabulous friend, Oso. Oso, in education, as well, and I met for a cocktail at Therapy. What happened next determined the next phase of my life. I met Tyree, the amazing actor, singer, writer, philosopher, and server at Bubba Gump Shrimp in Times Square at the time.

I was ready to date. I'd made the decision. I wanted to fall in love. Ty was there, we connected, and we tried. After a month of steady dating, we made the decision to see only each other. After several months of what became sporadic exclusivity, I made the decision for the both of us that we'd be friends.

During our exclusivity, I took a second job, and decided for my betterment, in the spirit of all I'd experienced over the summer, to make a drastic change in my life: I was going to take a PhD. I did everything I could to make this happen. I applied, studied for and retook my GREs, gathered my recommendations, and submitted it all in hopes that my choice wouldn't be in vain. I'd change my life for the better, to be happy living the life I wanted for myself, all while serving a greater good: educational reform.

Sometimes things don't work out the way we plan.

The opening lines of Richard III, spoken by Gloucester, says, "Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York; [...]" It was indeed a terribly difficult, long winter, stretching on and on like an endless night with no end in sight. Richard was an unhappy king, living in a world less than smitten with him as their ruler. And although we can all become plagued by unhappiness, blaming others and in fact, often the world, for our lots in life, we, whether by action or through inaction, make the very choices and decisions which oftentimes affect and dictate our lives.

It's true that we may not have control over much that happens around us. But one thing I've grown to realize - I mean, really realize - is that what we can control, or at the very least, mitigate, is our reactions to the events affecting and afflicting our lives.

I tried. But as the days grew shorter and the nights grew longer, and longer still, I sank rather much like Ophelia into a pool of self-pity, despair, and, of course, inaction brought on by a focused pursuit to one and only one end. It's funny: no matter how much you convince yourself of the many options you are simultaneously pursuing, like someone with OCD, you find yourself obsessing unknowingly about one option which, in actuality, isn't an option until, well, it is.

During this, Brandon Lacy Campos, a renowned author and activist in the queer community, a spirit of light and love, someone I'd only had the privilege of knowing an all-too-short time passed away. He passed away around the same time that someone of similar strength and fortitude, love and light, laughter and fierce, fierce fabulosity also passed the year before: Alonzo. Several years earlier, I'd lost others, all around that same time of year. As many began to celebrate the mysteries and joys of giving in the spirit of whatever holiday they celebrated (Kwanza, Chanukah, Christmas...), I grieve and mourn, sometimes publicly, but often very privately in my own way.

How does one act to change when one's actions are confused in and of themselves, and, all the while, everything surrounding is working aggressively to pull one down?

Working two jobs (one of which maintains such wrong-doing, misgiving and toxicity that its existence pulls at the very fabric of the conscientious soul); pressured to study for a difficult test in an area that is altogether challenging for reasons too numerous to enumerate here; working through the self-induced excuses of a failing romance, and soon later, a breakup; trying to overcome weeks of sleep and peace deprivation directly caused by the two year old demonic energizer bunny living above me whose favorite pastime was and is mimicking the bass sounds of an after-hours nightclub from sun-up past sun-down; finding energy amid loathsome financial and vitamin d decline; suppressing those faculties related to grieving; and negotiating all of the other very real life stuff took its toll. The icing on the cake came just around my test when I was informed that a student of mine had made claims of sexual misconduct on my part. I've since been formally absolved of all accusations, but only after an investigation which had gone on, unbeknown to me, since November, only to come to light after the new year.

It was the longest winter I'd experienced in my life. And like Hamlet, I truly questioned whether or not I should be or not be.

Perspective is a funny thing. When we gain a moment to breathe, slow down the life or death pace of decision making and our humanity returns, affording organically, after some healing time, clarity. And suddenly, like Fergie bitten by the love-bug in "Clumsy," we're back.

#Holden Caulfield, the protagonist in J.D. Salinger's, The Catcher in the Rye, was consumed with angst. Only, it wasn't that he lacked options - not really. But he's sensitivity permitted him to recognize, at least, and arguably, unconsciously, that the options available to him were all plagued with some toxic facet. He called it phoniness. Whatever the symptom, the root is the same. And for those of us faced with choices polluted by some toxic aspect, sometimes we resort to what seems like the quickest fix; sometimes that quick fix is staying put, sometimes it's whatever option seems to avail of itself in the moment, sometimes it's the very action of deliberating itself, questioning with no end in sight.

This week I found my #voice again. I discovered a distorted, distraught, desensitized version of the voice that stepped (perhaps, in overconfidence) out of a month long trip south of the equator. Admitting to yourself that despite it all - the heartache, the rejection, the depression, the anxiety, the malevolence, the wrong-doing, the aggression, and the toxicity - at the end of the day, the options you seek begin and end within yourself, is the hardest thing to do.

Sometimes what you least expect to catalyze #change, when you least expect it, does. After over a week off from my general responsibilities, a little sleep, a little peace, I've found, yet again, a long-lost voice. And although I recognize that at this point I have very few real options in front of me, one thing is for certain: I have in front of me more possibilities of paths down which to travel than I can count and the one choice I have definitively is how I approach, perceive, and react to these possibilities and my current situations.

#Life is short. And it won't always be easy. If you realize you can mitigate and control your reactions to given situations, and if you're willing to let go of all the bonds that bog you down, knowing there are more risks than you can count, you take a leap of faith, then possibilities became apparent, choices manifest, and happiness... pervasive and continuous happiness within each and every moment will exist in your core.

If only Hamlet had realized these truths sooner. Maybe then he and Ophelia could've gone steady, moved to Tuscany, opened up an Olive Farm, had a few kids, and lived happily ever after.

Juggling Act

#Romance is so enticing; we yearn for it. Even the best of us have been known to sneak in a Lifetime movie now and again. I, myself, rarely fantasize. I've never imagined being picked up in a town-car, driven to buy a fantastic and ultra stylish suit on Madison Avenue and then brought (in said suit) to a romantic bistro or rooftop restaurant overlooking the Hudson to eat oysters and gourmet cuisine, and then brought into said town-car to a private helicopter ride around the island, where I would sip champagne and be handed roses, culminating after landing with a drive, no longer in his town-car, but in his private Audi or convertible something or another, listening to the most amazing music, driven for drinks at some swanky lounge, and then finally, to his private penthouse apartment or brownstone or yacht, where the passionate night would continue, only to end with breakfast in bed... Alright, I may have thought about it once or twice. Maybe.

It's nice to whisk someone off of their feet, especially when you don't even know you're doing it. And it's just as nice, maybe nicer, to be whisked off your own feet. And as nice as the above fantasy sounds, sometimes it's the little things that go underestimated and unnoticed. Have we become so saturated with images of Mr. Big and other studs that we've forgotten the reality of the day-to-day? Do we expect perfection... in every which way: looks? Financial stability and excess? Spiritual and mental fortitude? Self-awareness and security? Have our expectations surpassed what's realistic for the 99% in exchange for holding out for a Mr. Robert Redford in Indecent Proposal? Insert extremely long diatribe about The Ex here.

Luckily, I've been in such shitty relationships that a circus clown could look to me. Even luckier, T is nowhere near to a circus clown. So on Thursday night when I called him to confirm our plans to meet on Friday, I was pleasantly surprised. I asked over text if he and I could speak on my house phone - an ominous text to receive I would imagine. Of course he said sure, and so, when I finally did call, I was a bit surprised at first: he was somewhere... a bar? Somewhere loud. But what surprised me more was, unlike previous partners, he actually stopped what he was doing to step out into a quiet spot to talk. T: 1. Exes: 0.

Without having to really delve into, he explained to me what was going on... having a post-work cocktail with coworkers. T: 2. Exes: 0. I asked what we wanted to do the next day. His reply? Don't worry. I've got it covered.

Beg your pardon?

He had it covered. What did that mean? What does that mean? How does one have what covered? This was relatively foreign to me. He went on: we would meet up according to my schedule. When I asked what he meant, he explained that if I needed to go home after work and rest, we could meet up later on. If I wanted to meet him immediately after work, we could do that, too. I should preface, before I go on, that he does have a life of his own and he wasn't giving up his time out of desperation: he simply had off, had the time, and, well, what? Wanted to... make me happy? My mind was abuzz, aghast, absolutely stunned... what did it all mean? I had to talk it through: "So, what does this all mean? I can meet you whenever?"

His words? "It's all about what you want."

DING, DING, DING! T: 20 points. The Exes? 0. The Ex himself, Diablo incarnate (insert excessively long diatribe about The Ex while referencing The Exorcist, Friday the 13th, Saw, and Child's Play)? Well... he has a -13. Or was it -666? I digress.

As a smile crept across my face, and like a schoolgirl talking to her first crush, I smothered my smile as best I could and elected to play upon the cool of TLC's Crazy, Sexy, Cool album. So, I asked him what we would do? It was a surprise, he said. He didn't want to reveal much, but he said it would entail dinner and drinks.

The next evening couldn't come fast enough. Listening to the Think Like a Man soundtrack, I drove into Chelsea to meet him. We would have dinner at a small, Italian bistro with brick walls, several types of pasta, and of course, wine. Timing is everything, they say and two moments after I entered the restaurant, he followed in. I turned, saw him standing there, and kissed him.

Though I was tired from an exhausting week, the conversation still flowed, with a few moments of comfortable silence. He ate pasta. I ate lobster with pasta. I sipped wine and we, goofy as could be, stared into each others eyes. We continued the night with a drink here and a margarita there, only to end at the Clearview Cinema on 23rd where we watched in literary fascination and nerdy unison the film version of The Perks of Being a Wallflower. He had borrowed my copy the previous weekend and had already finished reading it. Watching Charlie negotiate his inner monologue, we negotiated how to lean upon one another without giving ourselves or each other a neck cramp.

As we left, we debated the ultimate question: whose place? Yours? Mine? We chose mine and ended up there 20 minutes later (have to love nighttime traffic in the City - there wasn't any). The next morning, after an evening of cuddling in bed, we awoke and fell asleep and awoke and fell asleep and talked, and talked some more, and talked some more, and... well, let's keep some things private. After all, this is the internet. In short, we spent the day in bed... learning each other. We finally made a plan: we would go for breakfast (yours truly was craving chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and high fructose corn syrup posing as maple syrup). Breakfast at 3 pm? Yep. We sure did.

Here's the thing with romance: it sneaks up on you. You don't know when it will infiltrate your life, but when it does, it is like a drug. Addictive. When you meet someone with whom you click... with whom there isn't any pretense... with whom you can be yourself... talk about science fiction, watch Netflix in bed, talk books, writing, have sexual chemistry, and have a mutual love of food, and of course, share your histories, your pain, yourselves... yowzah! I laid in bed, felt relaxed, and really, felt like I could lay there forever without a care.

Our plan was to eat and then part ways. The beautiful thing about romance is also the downfall, perhaps. Now - my history? My history would show that I have had a tendency to make poor choices in the name of love. Giving of myself, all of myself, to the person with whom I am convincing myself will lead to love or with whom I had convinced myself I was in #love already (not to invalidate my previous experiences, but I know what love is, and a lot of what I've had has not been love: think of it as asking for bacon and getting turkey bacon or asking for a juicy, meaty hamburger, and being handed a veggie burger... or asking for a ripe and fresh piece of fruit and being handed a moldy banana...). In any case, the day, the night previous, had been so subtle yet so concrete in its amazement, that I wanted, like an addictive drug, more.

And after the meal? Picture Thanksgiving. I was wiped out. Why don't we go back to my place, watch a movie, and then you can go home. I'll do work for work after, because, after all, that's all I seem to do: work. Work. Work.

Now, despite my best intentions, when we awoke to the end of our movie in bed, I didn't want to leave his side. I didn't want to call it a night yet. I convinced myself it was okay, quickly, and we made plans to go see Paranormal Activity 4.

After dessert and wine outside at a well-done corporate rendition of an Italian ristorante, we saw our movie. Again, not calling it quits, whose place was posed and again we ended back at mine for a second evening of cuddling. Only this time, I didn't sleep so well.

Whether it was the air conditioner, the insurmountable amount of stuff I had to get done for life, or the work I had to do for work, I was equally tired and anxious. I knew it was my doing, but I didn't and I don't feel it was a bad choice at all: sometimes, ya just need a break from life in order to be better at what you do: work to live not live to work, that sort of thing. Still, I couldn't help but wonder, with romance being so appealing, with affectionate being so infectious, with cuddling being so contagious, and with dreamy eyed staring being so stunning, how does one balance romance and life? Is it possible? Do you have to live together to make it happen, since then you theoretically are around your partner all of the time so there is less planning involved? Is there a perfect #balance? Is this an exclusively #gay issue? Or is it always a rushed struggle? It doesn't feel so overwhelming at all to spend time with T. For me, though, a Cancer, and an individual who needs order at home and significant amounts of 'me' time, I wonder if there is a way to achieve a balance, especially so early on in a relationship of such romantic proportions. I'm sure there is; my fear is that I already see him seldom: on the weekends with the oh-too-occasional mid-week encounter. I'm sure if I lived in Manhattan, it'd be easier.

That next morning, after tidying up my place a bit, with T's help (point again!), I drove him home. The morning was beautiful. The air was crisp. The vanilla chai he bought me was necessary. And when I arrived at work, job number 2, I felt inspired. I would not write, in my spare moments, a disparaging, dark, brooding, Hamletesque poem of intensely dramatic imagery and Virgina Woolf sentence structures; instead, I'd write the beginning page to a story of love conquering all-odds. When the mood strikes to write, ya gotta go with it.

Funny enough, somehow, thinking about the time that passes between my seeing my boy, what sits in my gut is not a nervousness, insecurity, or jealousy, as though my not seeing him as often as I'd like will result in the quick and speedy demise of us. I feel rather secure. I look forward to seeing him. I look forward to having time to do me and share with him. 

And if it does not work out with T, I can say confidently I've made a friend for life. After all, the best relationships are where you can be friends with your partner, that person with whom the struggle to find balance between life and romance is a welcome one.

Still, I have to wonder, will I ever get to that Master Pangloss best of all possible worlds version of balance between my relationship and my own individual life, responsibilities, obligations, and the like? The jury is out on that. In the meantime, I'll start putting in requests for my next life. Perhaps, in my next life, this Cancerian will return as a Libra. They seem to do better with the whole juggling act.

Real Education Means Real Challenges

#Education is vital. I think about it often. When I see an adolescent on the train mistreat another person, a total stranger, I think to myself, my, my, how? How did this... happen?
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Do we want to improve our kids?

Do we want to improve ourselves?

Whether you're a businessperson, a fry-cook, an accountant, a parent, or a teacher, we are all educators in our own right.

I once heard it said that the quality of a teacher preparation program does not make a difference insomuch as getting hired, teaching, and in terms of what you learn.

I entirely disagree. 

Just as military service is mandated in some countries, I believe that teacher education service should be mandated for all. I have many reasons for this. I will not go into these reasons at this time except to say that such a restructuring of priorities in our country, in the world, would result in a completely changed culture; those in power, who wish to remain in power, do so through various modes, including the perpetuation of ignorance, and the permeation of opiates among the masses, such as reality television, or the idea that you need certain objects, materials, goods, resources, in order to be happy, whole, and complete within society. Much of it is just plain bullshit, in the end. 

I digress. Insomuch that a society exists as a result of its culture, its culture, a reflection of any given society's core values, exists because of education, in turn. At length, our society in America has gone to shit in many ways. I won't provide the ways in which our culture has spiraled at this time except to say, I'd be willing to debate the issue with any one at any time. 

In order to effectuate culture, to actualize knowledge, to encourage free-thinking at odds with the insurmountable modes of oppression that currently surreptitiously exist within our society, we need quality teachers. My Master's thesis was on this very subject. I can say, whole-heartedily, that good quality teachers result from quality teacher preparation programs based on empirical observation, qualitative and quantitative analysis of various data collected, and the most logical and objective conclusions elicited from that data. Any one who claims that quality preparation programs does not affect teacher quality within the classroom has not experienced, in my opinion, a quality program whereby the difference was clear and palpable. To claim that much of the practice is learned on the job is entirely untrue, but there is so much, so very much, that is learned given the instruction of concept, theory, and then application of pedagogical strategy in real, authentic situations with a variety of opportunities to explore, explain, and reflect upon practices experimented upon. Professional development is critical, but the quality of development depends on the quality of the planning of said development, the determination of the need of said development for any given population of teachers, and the delivery of development in conjunction with teaming strategies, learning activities, time allotted and so forth. In short, "p.d." is better than nothing, but is a poorer substitute for ongoing quality teacher preparation programs. The reality is there are multiple factors that determine a teacher's success and the quality of a program only increases the odds of success. We must look at ourselves as teachers and ask if 1. we would get a job at a nonpublic school that prides itself on its student success rate (extenuating circumstances and variables permitted), and 2. would we be successful at our current school were it not for any number of in-school factors? Did our program adequately prepare us? How did it prepare us? Did it provide multiple avenues of reflection, approach, and experimentation? Did we receive multiple forms of feedback from our academic advisors, teachers, and the like? How often were we in the classroom? How many different pedagogical structures did we practice and then, how many did we push ourselves to utilize despite what might be a natural inclination to us, such as "yelling" as a classroom strategy versus calm speak; or something like the importance of student observation and what we do with that data? Or how we team? Or how we provide feedback? Or why the prepared environment is very important? Or why optimism is and will always be more powerful than negativity? Or how we differentiate to meet our students needs? In short, a quality preparation program will push us to do what is not easy, but what is challenging, what is right, given the complex realities of today's world, and the truth in our common value and belief: that all individuals have a right to a quality public education and that all students, anywhere, can learn given that we provide the right conditions, given that we study how they learn best, given that we understand why they 'do' whatever it is they do, and so forth.

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As professional educators, we must choose to remind ourselves of these facts, especially if we "dislike" a student: 

1. Our first job is to educate. Everyone. Plain and simple. 

2. They are not 'our' kids and we are not their parents; it is not up to us to treat even the most troublesome student beyond a practicum of professional conduct. 

3. We are in the service of education; these kids, and their parents, are our clients. Just as we beco

me irate when mistreated by someone hired to perform a service, and defer to the customer is always right mentality, so too do our kids and we must treat them accordingly: completely neutral and professional. Tone, words, insinuation all carry meaning inferred by our kids and translated accordingly, which thereby causes reaction. We must then recognize we were the impetus of that reaction, whether the child, who is a child, had, like an "annoying" client, said or done anything to precipitate a response from us. This is why there are steps, procedures, and codes of conducts teachers must follow. 

4. Our students are children. We are the adults. Period. We must behave as the example and exemplar at all times. Sinking down to a childlike level is not the same as showing a child you understand but remaining the adult in a given situation. Childlike behavior will illicit childlike reactions. Adult behavior will command respect. This begs the question, what is an adult and what does an adult behave like, questions that would be explored in various programs that teach teachers more than content and basic instructional strategies, but philosophy, theory, history of the development of said points and so on.

5. We must model those behaviors we wish to instill into and see practiced by our students always, regularly, and consistently. How we react to a given situstion will to determine the students future reactions, and thereby may or may not cause problems for us later on, for their own kids when they have them, and for society. This means always taking the high road. Educators are revered as sources of what is good and right and true in society, and that means approaching any given situation, if we want our society to evolve, rationally, calmly, with reverence and respect, with stewardship, with focus, and with positive and realistic high road mentality. Remember our values aren't and don't have to be our kids for those reasons aforementioned. 

6. We must observe, observe, observe and analyze those observations outside of bias to inform our actions, determine reasons for behaviors, and give us understanding. 

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So, we must determine a common language of decency, expectation, uplift, and motivation. Do we motivate through scare tactics? Do we motivate through engagement? Do we force that which a child is not ready to learn? Do we make assuptions about what we think a child should know by now and where do those assumptions stem from? If we espouse multiple intelligences and differentiation, that applies to every aspect of an individual, including behavior. It is not for us as educators to make the case that they need to know a behavior now because they will learn it later on, on the street, outside of school. They are not our own kids! And even though certain life lessons may be learned in raw and unsafe ways, we must model ways to 'deal' and react with grace, dignity, true strength, the strength that helps kids to rise above and not degrade, to critically analyze, to not succumb to emotion but to treat others with kindness and strength of conviction and heart, even in the face of brutality, danger, and monstrous inequality. We must model firmly how Rosa and Martin and other educated greats have acted. 

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In short, yes school is more than academic content, but there is a fine line between what we believe is right and what is right based on guidelines, certain truths, and facts. We can ignore this and succumb, as so many educators do, without realizing it, to the slow demise of complacency and jaded cynicism. Or we can always and constantly work, never taking anything for granted, and evolving within our professional practice by pushing our thought process. Do we want to sink into becoming those teachers we always said we never want to be? Or do we see the difficult and unyielding work ahead and continue in a pursuit of collegiate excellence within our practices? No teacher ever said they wanted to become 'bad' and in our hearts, we all mean well. But meaning well, nowadays, isn't good enough. We have to meet the challenges head-on to prepare our kids to compete in a global society, think critically, become contributing members of society, become life-long learners and thinkers, and find inner peace. No teacher strives to be bad, but complacency is a cancer: It happens slowly and without warning. The realization to a teacher that they've become everything they never wanted to be happens never or when it is too late. Quality preparation programs, ongoing professional growth, the establishment of a culture of collegiality and rigorous academic pursuits, with kids at the heart of every conversation, all contribute to effective teaching and thus, effective schools. 

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In the end, it's hard, thankless, exhausting work. We must see that, recognize it, stare it dead on and say, do we meet the challenge? How do we support each other in meeting the challenge? And what will our future be if we do not? We must look into our crystal ball of cause and effect and say what type of human being are we 'manufacturing' into the world given our current practices? And, do we blame that image that we see on ourselves or on everything else, and why? Because it is easy? Because we have accepted defeat? Education... real education... means real challenges. 

What is love? Oh, baby, don't hurt me...

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Dear Blog,

What's the T?

In two words: Totally Tantalizing.

Some say singlehood affords many opportunities. Self-indulgence. Travel. Sex.

Since I've last written, certainly I have engaged in singlehood. More than some. Less than others.

This was the summer of my TLT: Total Life Transformation.

When you're single in NY for some time - correction: when you're single anywhere for some time - you often find yourself cataloging your options, priorities, and desires.

This past May began a new chapter. Like many New Yorkers, the choice of staying put or moving apartments was on my doorstep. New Yorkers love change. New pair of shoes. New hairstyle. New foodie fad. And without exception, new apartment. My choice was clear: do I renew my lease, or do I leave my fabulous Harlem pad with exposed brick, granite countertop, porn-star shower, and stainless steal appliances? Weighing the pros and cons was a process. Roommates who never paid? Con. Roommate who did pay? Pro. Exposed brick? Double pro. Relatively easy parking for an atypical driver in New York? Pro. Loud noise at 4 am on a work night? Double con. Easy access to dates, sex, and the like vis-a-vis sordid trips to bars or maximum ten minutes on Grindr? I suppose that last is all dependent upon your perspective.

After debating for some time and a failed, albeit enjoyably challenging dalliance with he who I shall refer to as the Activist, I elected to get out of Dodge. In typical New York fashion, I needed a change. Two years in one spot was one year too long.

The reality was, I hated what the apartment came to be: a constant reminder of... pain. I had moved in there with an ex who, without my realizing it, I'd tried forcing into someone he just wasn't. With him, as is often the case, the bad memories were louder than the good. That apartment saw sex, drugs, rock and roll, The Ex (gone back to momentarily  like a cigarette smoker dips into a pack for another fag), and, of course, the passing of my best friend.

I needed to get out.

New York City suburbs are a strange sort of area. But, they were exactly what the doctor ordered. I contacted a good friend from a previous life who happened to be a realtor in a prestigious and affluent Westchester suburb not but fifteen minutes from Harlem by car. I told him I was in the market for a flat, that I was broke, my credit was poor, and I didn't currently have a down-payment. He helped.

Within about a month of making an inquiry with him, I found my new place. A quiet suburban flat in need of much homosexualization (the previous renters had a kid, a penchant for horrible furniture, and allowed the place to fall into deplorable disrepair under their stay). Bluejays pranced in the courtyard, crickets twiddled at night, and street light rarely seeped in. After picturing which 'Color Splash' colors would go where and what items (of which I am still acquiring slowly) would adequately suit this art deco 1920's style apartment, I told my realtor friend I wanted the place. And, through the magic of lightening-quick NY-minute financial saving and wee bit of unexpected parental support, I made it happen. I  moved to the burbs. All while working during my very busy time of my year.

Somehow, during this time, my colleagues slash girlfriends and I planned a trip of epic proportions: we were to go to Central and South America during the summer for an adventure, which for me, a poor and humble public servant awaiting love's knock on his door, was only and barely surmounted by Armstrong's trip to the moon. Costa Rica, Peru, concluding for another friend's nuptials in Mexico at an all-inclusive resort were our itinerary.

And time marched on. I moved. I painted. I worked. I dated. And summer suddenly happened. I bowed out of Pride as well as my birthday, which happens each year around the same time as Pride. It didn't seem right to ring in my 30th and celebrate Pride when I wasn't actually proud; I wanted my best friend there, physically, to help in celebration. My girlfriend's Lauren and Arleni wouldn't have it. They gave me my first ever surprise birthday party. It was perfect. Some old friends from work. Some new friends from work. Libation. Cake. Laughter.

And the summer began. It would go by quicker than New Years, it seemed, and I'd barely have a chance to rest. Between bachelorette parties, birthdays, a date sprinkled here and there, and many day trips, it flew by. South America was here before I knew it.

Something changed in me on that trip. I can't quite put my finger on it, but at mile 25 of the Inca Trail in Peru, as I climbed, sweat dripping, over that final crest to see in the valley beneath Machu Picchu, I fell, or rose (or both) into some sort of transcendental plain. Whether from fatigue or adrenaline, desire and want and need, or actual metaphysical metamorphosis, I found myself... somewhere else. I found... myself. Quietly, I absorbed within me something I'd only experienced a few other times in life; as when I found myself arrived in Venice along the canal at the train station for the first time, where I stood amazed that I... me... had come so far as to be standing somewhere I'd never pictured I would ever be before.

And after that long trip, a trip of purification and cleansing, I found myself amid innocent debauchery in Mexico: sun-kissed along white beaches, pina colada in hand, I drifted into ecstasy and relaxation unlike anything I'd experienced for many moons.

After: Reality, here I came.

And I did. Ready, I fought my way into a new year of work, with new priorities and a new sense of self. Summer was over. And I was healthy, ready, energized, lookin' good, and able. My TLT was officially a success! I had transformed. I was finally and fully greeting 30.

Meanwhile, on August 8th, while I was somewhere below the equator, someone I would come to meet was on his way to New York in his relocation. A sort of mini-TLT for himself.

The universe has a funny way of giving signs, some times. I don't know what the sign is, necessarily, but it's there. August 8th was... is... my best friend's birthday.

Tee and I met on a random night at the bar Therapy. You know the story: boy goes out with his gay friend, other boy goes out with his gay friends, boy stares at boy, boy walks away, boy comes back, boy talks to boy, boy flirts with boy, boy goes dancing with boy, boy kisses boy and the rest is history. I think Oprah did a special on it once.

In any event, Tee and I would go out on several dates after meeting; and in meeting the stereotype of a Southern Gentleman, which he is, most certainly, Tee would offer to and actually pay for much of our goings outs, hold doors open, listen to me, ask questions, stare me in the eyes, make me laugh, and treat me with a genuine respect, patience, and understanding, which I appreciate. If I'd write this blog more-so, I'd get into the details. But this isn't Carrie's Sex and the City column.

Most recently, Tee and I went out to see Rocky Horror. Afterward, we went for drinks at a local Chelsea gay bar.

"Tee, do you want to be exclusive?"
After a brief and penchant pause, "Ya know, it's been on my mind. After I brought it up that last time, I respected that you didn't dive right in. I appreciate it. But it's been on my mind."
And as if seconds were minor eternities, a long sigh met me with baited, though concealed, breath, "I do. I really do." Sealed, next, with a kiss.

Sometimes in life, you just gotta grab what you want by the balls. Figuratively speaking, of course.

And I did. We did. It's new. It's different. It's good. At least, it feels good, and right, and true. And he makes me smile. Genuinely. And he makes me feel amazing. And he makes me forget... everything that has gone wrong. We've already had some of the tough conversations. And as he said when I left him, 'there will be good times and bad times... but I'm excited to see where it goes.' And as I said to him, 'Right now, I just want to learn you, and have you learn me.' And it's true. I do. Despite the nervousness... of which, there isn't much. I feel safe, wanted, and respected by him; and he is kind, and studly, and I smart, and talented, and I can only hope he feels the same way I do.

We spent two amazing days together. What did we do? Well, a lot of nothing. How great that is. 

I don't know where it'll go... but, sometimes the best moments in life are the most exciting, wrought with the most risk and danger, like a white water rafting trip in Costa Rica, or a night time hike without light through the Peruvian Amazon. Change... real change... isn't always easy. I can't help but wonder if New Yorkers change 'stuff' so much to avoid changing the real stuff. The stuff that matters. The stuff that is only recognized in the deep silence of solitude. Despite the fear brought on by previous, dramatic, ever-so-tragic experiences, I'm pushing forward. Pushing through. After all, I am a New Yorker: tough as nails, so tough that I can move to and make work the suburbs. So tough, I can work my ass off at my job. So tough, I can be alone, but now, can be with someone else and remain me. So tough, my doubts only add fuel to my exploration. So tough, I can change.

However this turns out, it seems a fitting last chapter to my TLT. What's next after my TLT? I dunno, but I am excited to see how the "Tee" works out.

Yours,

Not-so-Single Anymore.

Beautiful Chaotic: Convalescence.

"America was born out of a dream." What is it? Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness? I will return to this momentarily. Indulge my tangled web, if you would.

I haven't written in some time. These past few months have been-- tenuous. Tumultuous. I very nearly almost made what many would have considered a very rash decision on my part. In typical p. fashion, I almost left New York completely. Needless to say, I am not ready to pack up and escape just yet. I elected with much deliberation to confront those challenges and obstacles plaguing me: my job, for one, a constant fatigue, another, a dwindling self-worth, a third, and perhaps, paramount to all, the passing of my best friend. And like any facing any challenge, hermit or omnipresent Facebookian, Mr. Popularity or invalid... life and time, those metaphysical, transcendentally concrete things, were constantly there, being friends and oftentimes, foes.

In short: issues. A barrage of them. Always present. Always lingering, guiding, directing, malevolently motivating... How does one deal?

This so-called Cancerian crab crawled in and out of his shell many o' times. Somehow, I still managed to smile sincerely. Somehow, I was still "hard, not too, too hard" [Des'ree. "You Gotta Be"]. I faced a choice. Crawl inside, and away, or survive. Those hard shells are good for something, I suppose.

I chose survive. I went into a sort of survival mode. Sure, I dated. Sure, I found moments of laughter amid the sadness, which I accepted, confronted, breathed, lived (I will return to this also momentarily, bear with me). What is survival mode? It means different things for different people. You see, as a teacher, I live and accept a very regulated and relegated life. Many people in other industries similarly come to terms with this. And conversely, I know many teachers who somehow find ways to do their jobs, to do their jobs well, and not live in such a fashion (more power to em'!). I, for one, found it very difficult to deal with tragedy and still work. In fact, I chose to go into work the very next day after finding out about my friend's passing. And, as it so happened, I was at work when I found out. A part of me through myself into work to forget, to distract, to consume; another part of me wanted to crawl into myself, sleep, close the shades and lower the blinds and order take-out. I worked. I forced myself to (somehow, miraculously, not that it actually matters -- and I won't delve into the subject here and now -- my kids' [students'] scores improved this year). Because I chose to do that, because I chose to work, I never gave myself time to deal, to feel, and to heal. Grief and coming to terms with the passing of a loved one manifests in many ways; time is both a companion and a mocking, sardonic pest. Hence, I went into survival mode. This meant, for me, survive until you have time. For teachers, you get time when the kids do: summer. 

As the months passed, my writing dwindled, I found myself conflicted, even nerve-racked: Do I move there to that new place? I could do it. This is my last year in NY. Let me run away to a tropical island. Let me scream, 'fuck it all!' and forget everyone and everything I care for. Let me run away from the struggles, the torments, the pains, the reminders, the everything. Somehow, in all of this, whether as a result of certain friends, family, the beautiful kids I taught, or any combination of many elements, I was tricked by life into living. I dealt with challenges. I dealt with obstacles. I worked. I laughed. I grew. I loved (not as often as I would've liked, but ya can't have it all). I lived. I lived hard. Fast. I made what I consider to have been some good choices. And many a bad one. And I concluded: I needed a new scene. I needed peace within my home. 

Home is very important to many. For me, a cancer, an Italian, a gay, a teacher, a ...  keep adding on to the list those labels to which I self-identify and those to which you assign without my permission (or my care), home is of paramount importance. It's my sanctuary. My place of peace. My place of rest. My place of play. My home-base of operations. It's where I keep my shit. And I like it to be beautiful within my own defined parameters of beauty. Living in Harlem was amazing. Harlem was and is alive. Vibrant. Words that spring to mind when I think of it are real, raw, movement, transference, uplift, downtrodden, struggle, beautiful, musical, magical. But - it was time to close the chapter. Instead of leaving New York City altogether, instead of leaving my job at the close of the academic year and irresponsibly running away, instead of etc. etc. etc., I would move elsewhere nearby.

The energy in my apartment in Harlem was confused. Draining. Negative. Perplexed. I needed something more... convex. Whole. Pure. Fresh. Quiet. The apartment was noisy. It has seen a lot happen in the past two years. It witnessed many manifestations of myself; some incarnations I'd say are still me, and some, I am not proud of (who the fuck was I?). I moved to a more sublimely peaceful apartment, all to myself, painted it over time (and still now) what I wanted to. Heard birds in the morning. Crickets or nothing at night. I slept. I dreamt. I had and faced my nightmares. All that. And all before the finale of the academic year. Somehow I managed. 

And then summer. And an approaching wedding. And an approaching milestone birthday. And an amazing forthcoming trip. And I could breathe. And I could process. And I could be healthy. And I was. And I am. And I am still living, proudly, boldly, humbly. And I am exercising, and eating right, and motivated, and sleeping, and being, and organizing, and unpacking boxes from having moved several months ago, and enjoying! It was cathartic. And although it's not perfect, it's what I needed. 

And today. Today is the Fourth of July in the year Two Thousand and Twelve. Wow. 

I began today with a great smoothie, a beautiful run, a decent work out, a dynamite bbq, a fun shopping excursion for an amazing wedding in which I am honored to be the best man... what more can one ask. From my new home and time with the family in the suburbs, I found myself performing a best man duty, and made a trip to Brooklyn. 

I am one to believe in signs... metaphors written in the fabric of our lives. I choose to see connections, whether real or imagined, because, why the fuck not? Life would be rather dull and bland if one didn't indulge one's own spirituality, deeper critical thinking, imagination, our human core... I made a stop at a local coffee spot. I haven't drank coffee in over a week. I didn't really need one but for some reason, something told me to stop. I did. When I stood there, on line, a mother and her daughter were in front of me. The daughter, who had to be four or five, picked up a glass bottle of an iced coffee drink, and brought it to her mother, excitedly exclaiming, "I want this! I want this!" The mother calmly told her to put it back... It wasn't so much a premonition, or even a wish, as it was a certainty: this will happen... now! Splat! Coffee and glass everywhere. The little girl's face was priceless. Almost as priceless as the barista who would have to clean it up. My inner p. scolded the child, though more-so the mother, with a wagging finger. All I could do was smile and wipe the glass from off my bare sandaled feet. The barista  gritted her teeth and politely said as I approached the counter (mom was whisking little girl to the bathroom to clean her up), "I'll just be a moment." Mop in hand, she hopped up and down in a ballet of frustrated rage over the puddle. Finally, she exclaimed, "Order your drink, it's totally on us today!" I smiled, thanked her, ordered my free drink, and left. 

So why tell this anecdote? Out of chaos, even painful chaos, can and does result order... the pleasant surprise... the necessary unexpected. Chaos is as much a friend as order is. We need both. I choose to live in one more than the other, though, but I recognize the value in the spontaneous... the anarchy. Too much "order" ain't fun anyway. What would a roller coaster be like if you knew every single twist, turn, and loop?

This year has been chaotic, to say the least. I am thankful for this. I am thankful for the time I was given with my best friend. I want him physically back with me every single moment of every single day and I do not expect that to change. But I know that he would want me to be happy in this life. He would want me to celebrate. Although I didn't celebrate my birthday as I would've were he here, I still lived it. 

I drove to Brooklyn and found myself on a barb-wired rooftop with new friends and loved ones, surrounded three hundred and sixty degrees by fireworks, buildings with clapping onlookers on roofs, lightening, floating lanterns, and a foreboding blood orange moon. 

There was something both magical, and somehow sad about the entire thing. As I said, I believe in signs. I've lived long enough, read enough, seen enough, experienced enough to know that coincidences can be and are more than that. Several thousand years ago, the Mayans made predictions about astronomical phenomena without the aid of known modern technological instruments. They predicted that in 2012, a new era within their calendar would happen with a momentous celestial occurrence. They did not call it an apocalypse in the Biblical sense of the word, as the popular media continue to portray it. It's more of a... change in seasons. Winter becomes Spring.  

Everything seems like it has been leading up to (like it was meant to!) some shift. Mayans, like many cultures, even ours until recently (I won't delve into the wayward effects of materialism and the like here and now in changing our connections, interconnectivity, our ability to really see...) saw the connections between things that many in their own ignorance choose not to see, invalidate, see as disparate, allow ignorance to overtake them, remain either by choice, by victimization, or by larger circumstance to be uneducated... miseducated. All of the chaos within the past several decades... hell, within the past several millennia, for as long as history has been recorded, seems in some grand scheme, in some grand designer, to have led to this moment, to this here and now, purposefully. And that's the key - there is a purpose. Without the process... without the experience of chaos... the resulting peace, pace, change, transformation, all of it, will not be accepted, indulged, manifested accordingly. Simply, the broken bottle will yield the free drink. 

As I stood there, surrounded by all of these images, taking it all in... celebrating life, being reminded of war, recognizing centuries of continued and perpetuated oppression and hypocrisy, and then viewing a firey moon that almost plainly predicted, this could very likely be the last 4th of July in celebration of the United States, as we know it, I wondered, like my own experience in life, would the process, would the chaos, whatever that looks like, be so bad? Would it be painful? Would it be worth it? Will it even happen? Is it happening now? And what will the aftermath... the result... the change look like? Will I... be... to see and experience it? Will I survive it? 

Acclaimed author Toni Morrison said recently when asked in an interview what she would change about the American Dream that she would first, change the notion that it is a "dream," and secondly, and more intriguing to me, that she would change this ingrained notion that we as Americans have the right to "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness" to "Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of [something like] Integrity." I thought this was very interesting, and for me, more preferable. Still, integrity, like happiness, has variable and subjective definitions. But more than that was this notion that she seemed to ensconce, this idea that, Americans used to be citizens (American citizens), and now we are much more primarily considered as consumers (the American consumer[ism]). 

We are afraid of the unknown in America. Of change. As a society, as a culture, the statistics support this idea (and no, I'm not going to include an MLA Works Cited page to prove this; it's only a blog and not a dissertation). Rather than feel sadness, confront it, this idea of the Pursuit of Happiness has been twisted and warped into some right to be happy... that we have to and must feel happiness all of the time. We must not fill the void (or vessel perhaps is a better word) of our selves with anything remotely perceived as contrary to positivity and radiant happiness. Sadness must be avoided, never confronted. We can easily pop a pill now to assure that right to pursue happiness in accordance with the American Dream, as though it were an opiate to the masses (and I use this phrase purposefully). And what is this dream, now? According to the facts, it is wholly consumerism. It's buying things. More and more things. Filling our lives with stuff. Convincing ourselves that we need certain belongings in order to be happy, in order to validate our worth, our success, and hell, even our own very existence. We are told we need property of some sort, like a nice new car or a big fancy house (and I beg to make the argument that property, as it was defined in the original authorship of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Property, which was both land ownership as well as slave ownership, is not all too dissimilar from many Americans' contemporary, vexing notions of relationships, education, and even sex [see 50 Shades of Grey]).  Or is it not seeing or dealing with the beggar at your car window on the GW onramp. Avoiding that which makes our lives the slightest bit uncomfortable. In short: avoiding any ounce of chaos in preference of comfort. 

Maybe whoever we are, wherever we are, whatever we are experiencing... whether it's a breakup, a catastrophe, a tragedy... even the end of a country or the world as we know it as prophesized by an ancient society... maybe we need to remember that no matter what, we still have ourselves... our right to live however we choose... and our right to exist. And so long as we are mindful of every species' right to the same, to coexist, we can embrace the chaos... confront it... at least, within ourselves, knowing that moving through it, surviving it, transgressing it, evolving within it, reflecting on our states of being, will lead to peace, rest, a smile, a laugh, love, prosperity, connection, ultimately true harmony... and maybe even, a free drink.