When Hawaiians first arrived to what would be their new home, they arrived by sea, continuing the fundamental human tradition of migration over ocean waters. This past summer, in continuing with this long and rich tradition, seven Polynesian vessels arrived in beautiful, pristine Hanalei Bay, Kauai. Each vessel hailed from a different Polynesian nation and for the first time ever, these many nations came together in a display of solidarity of values and cultures to make the trek from their respective countries over ocean waters. Each nation (New Zealand, Tahiti, Samoa, Cook Islands, among others) sent representatives to travel on double-hulled sailing canoes constructed in the tradition of their ancient forbearers (picture the raft on which Kevin Costner spent most of the film Waterworld, and you'll have an idea of how they look). They met, and using the stars to navigate, travelled the Pacific Ocean to arrive in unison in Hawaii on July 6th. It was the first time in 800 years such an event has taken place in Kauai. They came with a message of love, human solidarity, and oceanic awareness. On July 7th, to the serene, sublime sound of traditional Hawaiian horns, set sail again, making the several week trek to San Francisco. From there they would travel to San Diego, to the Galapagos Islands, and finally return to their native homes.
As fate would have it, I saw this historic event. I visited someone very special in Kauai. In describing him, I will call him Hawaii. Hawaii and I happened upon Hanalei Bay, and, as the sun set over the ocean, as the mountain, appropriately named Puff the Magic Dragon, breathed fire into the sky, we sat on the shore and watched. We watched as these 7 vessels carried their brave travelers into the night and the unknown.
In watching this, I couldn't help but feel a sense of amazement and awe and wonder. I felt like a child. I felt purified. There was something so symbolic about this: that this, what I saw before me, was the very essence of life. There was something so viscerally human about it. I wondered, what courage it must have took for these men and women to put themselves at the whim of the elements. Thousands of years ago, men and women set forth similarly, into the unknown, going in hopes of a new, better life somewhere. Only, then there were no maps of the globe, there was no knowledge of the world as a whole. Did they have some sublime understanding that we have since lost in this modern era? Did they read signs we no longer have an awareness of? Or did they just hope, and go, likewise putting themselves at the whim and mercy of whatever unknowns came their way?
Living in New York, one forgets there is a bigger, wider world out there. One often takes for granted daily human interactions, which might otherwise, elsewhere in the world, be valued. One can easily lose sight of what's truly important about life. New York is an animal, and gay New York is as much of an animal as well. You're no longer human; now, you're gay. You're no longer an American; now, you're a New Yorker. There are social expectations, accepted behaviors and standards of life which, anywhere else, would quite probably be unaccepted.
It must have taken courage for the occupants of those seven vessels to go forth into the unknown, into the night, with only what provisions they brought with them, and the bounty of the sea to provide for them.
After Alonzo passed, everything seemed different. The daily drama of life did not interest me. All that did interest me was... sleep. And life. I did not wish to disregard life in any way. I did not wish to bring disrespect to any one, especially not my students. I was afraid. This time last year, one of my former students committed suicide. I never found out why. Like Alonzo, he, too, was a beautiful soul. In treating others, in light of Alonzo's death, I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of hurting someone's feelings, of causing pain. At the same time, I wanted to reconnect with my friends. My family. When I wasn't busy, exhausting myself to stay occupied, I slept. I slept hard. I slept deep. The hardest moments in light of someone's death are those moments you spend alone, in the dark, at the mercy of your own thoughts.
In a word, the aftermath was confusion. It was a slow road for me to find my voice. To find a reason to genuinely smile. Most of the time, I found myself going through motions. I didn't make sense to me. My best mate died and yet, life was still going on. How would I cope? I didn't write, then. I waited for some time to gather my thoughts. I had no patience for those who'd say something insensitively, and I further had no patience for bullshit. Friday I visited Superman and at around 4 in the morning I left. Whether it was the feeling of boredom I found washing over me, or my having placed myself in a situation which was intensely confused and illogical, I left. On the drive home, I thought to myself: as I grieve, is it really the best choice for me to seek a partner? And, in retrospect, as Superman made it plain in bits and pieces that he was wholly unsure of me as a potential Lois Lane, the option of which he later stated was never even on the table (will spare the gay drama), why was I chasing those who did not put me on top of the world in the way I deserve, in the way that I'd just as soon treat him?
Christmas. And no snow. No snow... no Zo... no boyfriend to seek comfort in. The holiday was bittersweet. One week had past since Zo's burial. I found solace in the giving of gifts and in my family. When I write, I do not write down every experience or moment. This blog has a focus, and although it is an outlet for me, it is about being single and gay living in New York City. I will spare the many other subtle yet intricate moments of my Christmas time...
Over dinner, the conversation turned to how this Christmas felt different. There had been so much change. Family that normally spend the entire time at the house were dispersed, coming and going. One of my family commented on the changes. I found myself quoting, "The only constant in this universe is change."
Later on that night, as I sat watching It's a Wonderful Life with my aunt, I found myself thinking about choices and relationships. I thought about the many models of relationships in my life... why different individuals got together with other individuals... what makes them stay in their relationship... what makes the relationship work... how easy it is to fall into that ill precipice of mal-communication with one's partner. I thought about the choices different folks in my life have made. I thought about my own choices. Zo should not have passed. He was on this earth for too short a time and I selfishly want him back, here, now, in the way I remember him. As George Bailey woefully debated the merits of his own life before an angel helps him to see that every choice has a purpose and his life, in all its subtle complexities, had a purpose, too, and he should see his life objectively, for what it really is, I wondered... it is ever too late to start over? Can one have a legitimate second... or even third chance at life? Life is short and precious, as I had been reminded all-too-bluntly the previous week. Could I, like those ancient maritime travelers seeking new life through the unknown, seek a new beginning? What would that new beginning look like and... had I already started that journey?
I have been 'making moves' for weeks to improve my life in the future. What I realized in the days to follow Christmas Eve, is that life is a journey and although we all may be moving toward our own destinations, wherever and whatever that might be, a new start is had and can be had inside of one's own self. It doesn't have to be an elaborate process. Sure, prepare for the future. But change can happen inside of yourself whenever you want it, if your open to it, and if you're willing to admit to some hard truths about yourself. It's honest. It's visceral. It's a change of your way of thinking. I've always subscribed to this philosophy, although I've stumbled and faltered many, many times. But re-realizing this, breathing it, living it, came out of the confusion which had set in when Zo passed.
Being single in New York is not easy. Especially if you're wanting to maintain your own values. Some may see that is being stubborn, closed, defensive, or uncompromising. Upon reflecting over these past few weeks, months and years, I realized I am who I am and that's alright. I am open to and ready to give and receive love. Gay male culture... hell, culture in New York in general, is now so sex laden (and believe me... I'm not adverse to sex... believe me...) that it's almost abnormal if you say you want to fall in love. And, unfortunately, our culture has seemed to cause such a schism in love, it's almost unrecognizable. There are so many variable definitions of the word for so many... except, there really isn't. There's many manifestations of love, but love is love, no matter how one slices it. There is nothing wrong with wanting to fall in love. It doesn't mean you don't love yourself or lack something within yourself that you are open to or actively seeking love. Like traveling across the ocean from one place to another, love is a natural part of the human experience, whether you're gay, straight, bisexual, however you identify. Nor does it mean you're a prude when it comes to sex or that you aren't physically attractive or that you're not open or the opposite, you're desperate or only care about finding that one... it may just mean you have certain standards and you know what you want. I can spend a quiet night at home on a Friday and be fine. I can go on multiple dates or have sex with different partners and that doesn't make me any less of a person or change what I want. I can not do that, too, and it doesn't make me any better or worse than someone who chooses to do that.
Change starts from within. This week, I put an end to some detrimental relationships... forgave someone who wronged me in the past... spent time with friends... spent time with myself... and sent love and light out into the universe.
It's fitting that tomorrow is New Years Eve. I can't tell you what the new year, or even tomorrow, will bring for me or anyone else. The future is the unknown and all I have is my entire self to go into that unknown with. And as tomorrow brings the dawn of the last day of 2011 before we head into the prophetic 2012, this young lad will be making a few resolutions to accompany the changes he makes within himself on a daily basis. And although I will continue to make moves to make bigger changes, to improve my life, I will breathe change with every new day. I will continue bettering myself. I will continue being unapologetically open to finding love. As I travel across the ocean, I will not fear the night, or the endless horizon. Instead, I will embrace the endless beauty and gaze at the starry sky.
In the meantime, what will I wear tomorrow night? Where will I end up ringing in the New Year? And... who am I kissing at midnight?
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Ashes to Ashes.
Sometimes in life, the unthinkable occurs.
Alonzo Schoolfield was my best friend in this life. On Wednesday, December 14, 2011, Alonzo passed on. He was 29 years old. He is survived by his mother, aunt, sister, brother, nephews, cousins, and countless friends. He was one of the most beautiful souls I've been privileged to come across. I loved him.
Out of respect for his and his family's privacy, I will not discuss the conditions by which he passed on. I will only discuss my relationship to him.
I've known Alonzo ever since middle school. In Mount Vernon, my hometown, located 20 minutes from Manhattan in lower Westchester County just outside of the Bronx, there were two middle schools while we were growing up. I went to Franko. Alonzo went to Davis. I met Alonzo in FHA, Future Homemakers of America. We'd gone on a field trip upstate for a conference. We clicked.
Alonzo and I spent the next four years of our high school career developing a bond. We'd seen each other through ... so much. We grew up together and in front of each other. He was one of the first (if not the first) person I came out to (when I was bisexual). We went through phases together. We shared secrets. We shared laughs. We shared tears. We shared adventures. We shared life.
Life went on, and we somehow managed to remain close, overcoming the challenges of distance that going to university provided. I'd drive down often. He'd come to visit me.
Alonzo was the glue that held people together. He had a way about him, a light. He brought people together. He made us laugh. He had this way of making anyone he met feel on top of the world. People met him and never forgot him. He had a presence. And when someone would meet him for the first time, he had this way of making that person immediately feel like they were his best friend. I laugh: it was almost a curse - Alonzo attracted people, they'd gravitate toward him, whether he wanted them to or not. But those who really knew him... knew him. They saw into him. He was open and revealed himself, baring his soul at one time or another. We knew his ways, his quirks, his habits, what made him mad, what made him laugh, and he knew ours.
And he'd fight for you. I've seen him cross 6th Avenue traffic at warp speed, criss-crossing in and out of cars, to save a friend from doing something that would've been detrimental to that person. Anyone who underestimated Alonzo was in for a surprise. At 6 feet tall, although Alonzo was pretty, Alonzo was formidable, and if necessary, he could slap a bitch up or with a shrewd tongue, outtalk the best of them. At the Big Cup, a coffee shop I dragged him, Ayana, and Jamila (mutual friends and sisters) to often, I lent a woman my cell phone when she asked to make one call, claiming duress. 20 minutes later, she was still on it. Indignant, Ayana grabbed the phone out of the woman's hand and we all walked out. The woman ran after us, calling out, "Can I give you some money for the calls?" Alonzo retorted, "How 'bout you use that money to buy a cell phone, honey!"
Although Alonzo loved attention, he was in essence humble. This made him complicated. He'd rock out, but deep down, he didn't realize just how much he brought to people's lives. Or at least, he didn't flaunt it. Throughout his life, Alonzo gave counsel. He often spoke of having his own talk show. The ratings would have been through the roof. The world will miss out.
Ayana, Jamila, an ex of mine, and I, drove down south to save Alonzo once. I'll spare the details. When he and I would argue, this would be something I used as defense. God, the arguments he and I had. We argued like we were married. After a time, we'd always come back to each other. We'd pick up right where we left off: after an argument, or even, after months of not seeing each other. I digress. As it turns out, despite having rescued him on that occasion, and probably on others, he really rescued me. He rescued us. He saved me. He made me see who I was, even when I didn't want to see it. He listened. He counseled. Because of him, I was a better person.
I am grateful for the individuals in whom he confided. Those who were there for him when I was not. I wish... I am filled with regret. I wish I could go back in time and spend every waking moment with him. Or at least, every moment when he encouraged me to come out and I stayed in, or when I could have called and didn't... I wish I could have all of that back. I am terrified I will forget. I hold onto and cherish these memories that I have of him, these few and happy memories. They aren't enough. I want more. I know, though, that I am being selfish.
I have done many bad things in my life. I have hurt people I love. Alonzo accepted me through everything. He gathered our group when I was losing myself with the Ex and came to Brooklyn to see me. He gathered our group again when it was happening again with BG, another ex, and came to Brooklyn to see me. I was so foolish, so selfish, so ungrateful -- I didn't see then what I see now. Every moment, every single breath, every single smile is so important. There is no time for trivial pursuits in this lifetime. Alonzo knew that.
The holidays are tough now. Two years ago, Kirk, a friend from high school I cared for very much, passed away. Last year, two people I loved passed within two weeks of each other. When Ayana and Jamila's aunt died, I was a coward. She was the second to pass on, and I ran away from it. I was in such pain that I avoided acknowledging reality. In doing so, I was not there for the people I love. Alonzo tried to get me to see that just my having been there, or calling, would have been enough. I was foolish and didn't want to hear any of it. I am sorry for this. I will regret this and the time lost that resulted from this. I will regret not having been there for Ayana's two beautiful children.
A week after, I found out a former student of mine passed away. He committed suicide. No one knows why. This affected me greatly. I felt like I was losing control over life. I wanted to die, too. I felt I should no longer teach. I felt that I could have somehow stopped it. I subsequently began taking control over my life by inflicting pain onto BG when I broke up with him on Christmas Eve. I am sorry for having done this. I was hurting and losing control over... everything.
One year into the future: Alonzo. God. I sit here and write this. I wish I could see his face again.
Two days before Alonzo went into the hospital, he and I, as usual, had a fight. I haven't been able to really say this out loud, and I know it doesn't make sense, but God, I feel so guilty. I feel, perhaps irrationally so, that what I said induced additional stress, thereby contributing to Alonzo's going into the hospital. I am filled with regret. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take it all back.
The last time I saw Alonzo alive, his eyes were open. I sat in his hospital room alone. I was looking down at my phone. When I looked up, I was startled. Alonzo stared right at me, right into my eyes. It was a rare moment when he made eye contact. I begged him to wake up and get better... to fight. Every fiber of my being has to believe he saw me and knew I was present, there, in that moment. I felt him. I felt him for the first time in months. I went over to him and, although I'd had moments when I'd talk to him before this, I reiterated how much I loved him. I told him that although he could not speak, I knew he could hear me. When I got up to leave, he looked into my eyes once more. Deep down, I was scared. I didn't want to admit it, but I somehow knew it was going to be the last time I'd see him alive. I said goodbye.
On Wednesday afternoon, Ayana called me while at work. She said she had bad news. She said Alonzo passed. I was alone in my classroom. The sun was streaming through my windows. It was unusually peaceful. I didn't know what to say. I regained a sense of control, gathered my things, and attempted to leave the building. I was intercepted by some colleagues, some friends, and I immediately began to cry. They brought me into the stairwell, away from the prying eyes of students who remained after school. I collapsed and I wailed. I had trouble breathing. I could not believe it. My friend, my brother, was gone. Colleagues came in and out of the stairwell investigating what was happening. At some point, my principal gave me a cup of water. I barely remember any of it; it all happened so quickly, it was a blur.
I drove to the hospital. It became all too real when the woman at the check-in asked if I had contacted the family. I said I knew, but would it be possible to see him. She said they weren't allowing it.
I managed to get through that night. That night, I visited Alonzo's mom. I then spent time with Jamila and Nise. We went shopping. I slept over a friend's house, if one could call it sleeping. I tossed and turned. I went to work the next day, and amazingly, arrived on time. They didn't expect me in, having called a substitute teacher in for me. I kept busy. I didn't want to think. That night, I joined a friend, Oso, out for drinks. We met at the Ritz in Hell's Kitchen. Deciding the atmosphere wasn't conducive to discussion, we decided to walk to a nearby bar, ironically called Therapy. We never made it to Therapy, though. En route, we passed a clothing store called Tagg. They were having a Christmas Party and were offering anyone free drinks. We, of course, took full advantage of this. We drank, we took our pictures with a ripped Santa, we bought ties... the entire time I wished Zo was there. I gave my phone number to several boys there. All I heard in my mind was my Zoboy saying, "Oh, you whore!" It was bittersweet, the smile which crept onto my face at this thought. Afterward, we went to Vinyl, a trendy little restaurant with a musical motif. We could have sworn Lance Bass sat nearby. I bid Oso goodbye and drove home to fall asleep into a stupor.
Friday, I went to the service. My cousin, who'd met Alonzo several times, came to support me. My roommate, a friend of Alonzo's since 5th grade, rode with me, as did one of his cousin's and another friend. We arrived. I hugged everyone who loved Alonzo. Because they loved him, I loved them. I avoided looking at him for some time, until finally I looked up to see him in his casket. He was beautiful. He was at peace. I stared. I wanted to burn this last image of him into my memory. I never wanted to forget him.
The service was beautiful, although the damn preacher called him Alfonso. By the fifth time, the entire congregation, in unison, bellowed "Alonzo!" Only Alonzo, only Alonzo.
I wasn't using this as a time to grow closer to those I'd hurt in the past, but I couldn't help but pour out my love of Alonzo onto them. I think he would have wanted us to be there for each other and I think we all were. We drove to the cemetery. His plot overlooks a highway. He used to love road-trips. I think it was an appropriate and beautiful spot for him. They released doves and one of his best friend's... his brother for all intents and purposes, someone I am incredibly thankful for, read.
Later, we ate and commiserated. We talked. We talked about Alonzo. While at his house, I found myself longing for companionship... someone who I was in love with to speak to. I texted the Dancer who had stood me up on a date 3 times. I asked him what I had done. He explained to me that he couldn't talk because he was at work and he'd get back to me later. I didn't hold my breath. I heard Alonzo's voice in my head... counseling me... asking me why I felt the need to do that. I was empty. I needed love. At least, I thought I did.
I went with my cousin to Brooklyn and joined her at an artist party at an artist space called the Third Ward. I kept mostly to myself. As I drank wine, I found myself creeping into an empty computer room. I found myself staring at pictures of Zo on Facebook. I missed him.
I went with my cousin back to her loft and ate dinner with she, her partner and their friend. I bid them goodbye and found myself in a cab headed up to Hell's Kitchen to meet one of the boys I gave my number to. A 30 dollar cab ride later, I was in a basement apartment amid gays galore. I was greeted by a guy who said it was his birthday (it was in fact his friend's birthday) and I had to "give him a present." I responded in turn, "Happy Birthday," to which he revealed the truth, that it wasn't his, and said he'd still take sex or drugs. I informed him I couldn't help him with either and quickly walked away to find the open bar. I had a drink and chatted it up with a guy called Guy, a wide-eyed Boston dancer who, unlike 99% of the guys there, actually had something intelligible and sincere to say. We exchanged numbers and he sweetly asked to have dinner with me, saying he wanted to get to know me better.
I found the boy I was invited by in the small open patio in the back of the apartment. He was giving his phone number to another guy. Total turn off, especially as he knew I was there looking for him. I asked him later on if I had intruded on his mack, to which he defensively responded, "I am single!" He then implied I was being insecure. I explained it didn't phase me one way or another... it may not have been a turn on but he was fully able to 'do him,' and it really didn't bother me. He owed me nothing.
We walked over to his friend's one-room apartment a block away. The guy whose important it was began changing and putting on make up for the forthcoming evening. He then showed me porn on, to my amazement, public access. Then the bartender from the evening before at Tagg showed up. Coincidentally, he was also on the previous week's cover of Next. They began a whirlwind of fast-talking, pointless conversation that reminded me of the conversations I think I might have had when I was 21. It was a ballet of hair product, shirtlessness, and discussion about their latest conquests. I was quiet. I just didn't feel like talking, and being dressed still in the outfit I wore to Zo's service, I wasn't quite physically prepared to be 'out and about.' Still, I went with it.
We went to the Ritz, which was packed. Too packed. I felt cramped. Drinks were constantly threatening the purple shirt I wore. We left and found ourselves at Posh, where the boy I was with began conversing with the guy to whom he gave his number earlier in the night... no doubt it was a planned rendezvous. I conversed with an older gay guy who attempted to grab my ass. I removed his hand and quickly told him I didn't vibe with that. Finally, last-call. I joined the boy, let's call him Brian, and his friend outside. At the conclusion of their cigarette, I bid them farewell. Brian's friend looked appalled. He asked if I was really leaving and I responded yes. Did they think I was going to sleep with either of them?
Sometimes you just need to go home alone and it was clear that these boys didn't understand this concept. And although I have more night's alone than not, I wasn't willing to compensate for the emptiness I felt by fucking a complete stranger. Still, I felt a void. As I took a cab home, along the Westside Highway, I began to cry. Alonzo loved the Westside Highway. How many nights did he and I make the trek to the Village down along this highway? I began wondering, would the pain go away? How would I fill this emptiness? Could I? Was it possible? And how long would it take to regain a sense of normalcy? How long would it take until I didn't want to join him?
Back at home, in my bed, staring at my alarm clock. 4:30am. The day had been long. I was exhausted. I slept only because of exhaustion.
The next day, I woke up and immediately got out of the house. I had to keep busy. I went Christmas shopping in White Plains. While there at the mall, I greeted a good friend of Alonzo's. I asked him how he was but he heard something else. It occurred to me that maybe he wasn't ready to face it, maybe that's why he responded having maybe heard me say something else. I realized I wasn't ready to face it. After everything, the past few months, the past two years, it still seemed so sudden. So senseless. I drove to the City to meet coworkers and friends for Sushi. Cosmo after cosmo, I found my thoughts turning back to Alonzo. Here we were at Bamboo 52, the restaurant where I had my birthday this past June, a time I loved, and yet, here we were again, only the mood was so different for me. One by one, my coworkers left until finally, I bid my Jen, who was celebrating her end-of-semester, goodbye. I went next store to Therapy. I had half of a cosmo and drove home.
Harlem. Alone at home. I didn't know what to do. I texted Superman. I texted the Dancer. I texted the Ex. The Ex responded. I felt foolish but I was so lonely. I was so desperate for someone, anyone, to take the pain away. To fill the emptiness. I asked him over, saying I needed company, sparing all details. He said he would in an hour. By 7am, I realized he wasn't coming and I fell asleep. I explained to him via text that I had needed him and he hurt me by not showing up. Not showing up with me was reaching epidemic proportions. I'm not sure what I expected, though. After all, he is THE Ex for a reason. His diligence in 'coming through' and being forthright wasn't his strongest feature.
The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through my drawn shades. I wanted to avoid the day, but I forced myself out. I drove to the Upper West Side. Superman texted me, wishing me a Happy Sunday. I informed him that I called him last night. He said he was out and about in Brooklyn. I found myself upset at this. Why didn't he invite me? Wasn't he into me, too? Didn't he say he wanted me to be more open. I then realized that I was depending on others to help me get through the pain... others, who weren't friends, who were pseudo-love interests. I heard Alonzo in my head. Why was I doing this? What did I expect to come of this? Wasn't it okay for him, Superman, to have a life, too? I suppose I was upset because I'd told Superman about my best friend's passing and I would have thought that empathy and sensitivity would have resulted... after all, I've received an outpouring of support from friends I haven't spoken to in months, even years. Even another ex, a sweetheart, Geoff, someone I love very much, expressed sympathy. I realized, then, standing there staring "Uptown Cats," cats that were up for adoption, that the support was coming from friends... real friends... not hook-ups or potential love interests. I realized then that even Superman couldn't save you from everything. Sometimes you had to be your own Superman. Sometimes you had to take the love and support your friends gave you and carry on.
The Ex, at this very moment, texted me apologizing for having stood me up and asked me to grab a bite. I didn't respond at first and then I told him that what bothered me was that, as usual, his story didn't make sense (insert useless details here). Seven hours later, he texted, "I apologise," again. The adage, "Take it with a grain of salt," comes to mind. Coincidentally, five minutes after he texted his first apologies, the Dancer texted his reasoning for having been M.I.A. He was scared. He gave a ultra-brief description as to why, to which I followed up with a few questions. I am still waiting for a response. I won't hold my breath.
I hear Zo's voice: "Maybe you need to love yourself, Pete, before you love others. Maybe you're looking for others to fill what you need to realize you already have in you." What was it Wendy Williams or Ru Paul or one of them would say? "If you can't love yourself, how in the hell you gon' love someone else? Can I get an Amen!"
Zo was right when he'd say that. I was looking, I have looked, I do look, for others to fulfill some void in me when, the entire time, I have it within me to do that. My best moments in my life are when I do the things that make me happy. I see guys searching for love on-line, in the street, hell, even on Facebook... when really, love will happen when you love yourself. Only then can one truly know that the person they are with loves them for them, and vise versa, and not because that other person is fulfilling some emptiness. Sure, our partners fulfill different roles in our lives. But I for one want to know that I didn't choose my partner out of some desperation or out of a place of emptiness or codependency. I am woman, hear me roar.
Alonzo's death will, like my love life, like the reformations of my past mistakes in my friendships, have to be taken one day at a time. I love Alonzo. He is my heart. He brought out the best in everyone. As I live my life now, he will still bring out the best in me. Despite his loss, he is not gone. We carry him on in us. In our memories. In our shared stories. And In our hearts.
This is dedicated to my best friend. Alonzo... Zoboy... I think of you now. I will think of you everyday. I cannot wait to see you again, whenever and where ever that will be.
And tonight? I am putting on jazz, having a cup of coffee, and going to bed, alone, sans text messages with anyone other than friends.
Alonzo Schoolfield was my best friend in this life. On Wednesday, December 14, 2011, Alonzo passed on. He was 29 years old. He is survived by his mother, aunt, sister, brother, nephews, cousins, and countless friends. He was one of the most beautiful souls I've been privileged to come across. I loved him.
Out of respect for his and his family's privacy, I will not discuss the conditions by which he passed on. I will only discuss my relationship to him.
I've known Alonzo ever since middle school. In Mount Vernon, my hometown, located 20 minutes from Manhattan in lower Westchester County just outside of the Bronx, there were two middle schools while we were growing up. I went to Franko. Alonzo went to Davis. I met Alonzo in FHA, Future Homemakers of America. We'd gone on a field trip upstate for a conference. We clicked.
Alonzo and I spent the next four years of our high school career developing a bond. We'd seen each other through ... so much. We grew up together and in front of each other. He was one of the first (if not the first) person I came out to (when I was bisexual). We went through phases together. We shared secrets. We shared laughs. We shared tears. We shared adventures. We shared life.
Life went on, and we somehow managed to remain close, overcoming the challenges of distance that going to university provided. I'd drive down often. He'd come to visit me.
Alonzo was the glue that held people together. He had a way about him, a light. He brought people together. He made us laugh. He had this way of making anyone he met feel on top of the world. People met him and never forgot him. He had a presence. And when someone would meet him for the first time, he had this way of making that person immediately feel like they were his best friend. I laugh: it was almost a curse - Alonzo attracted people, they'd gravitate toward him, whether he wanted them to or not. But those who really knew him... knew him. They saw into him. He was open and revealed himself, baring his soul at one time or another. We knew his ways, his quirks, his habits, what made him mad, what made him laugh, and he knew ours.
And he'd fight for you. I've seen him cross 6th Avenue traffic at warp speed, criss-crossing in and out of cars, to save a friend from doing something that would've been detrimental to that person. Anyone who underestimated Alonzo was in for a surprise. At 6 feet tall, although Alonzo was pretty, Alonzo was formidable, and if necessary, he could slap a bitch up or with a shrewd tongue, outtalk the best of them. At the Big Cup, a coffee shop I dragged him, Ayana, and Jamila (mutual friends and sisters) to often, I lent a woman my cell phone when she asked to make one call, claiming duress. 20 minutes later, she was still on it. Indignant, Ayana grabbed the phone out of the woman's hand and we all walked out. The woman ran after us, calling out, "Can I give you some money for the calls?" Alonzo retorted, "How 'bout you use that money to buy a cell phone, honey!"
Although Alonzo loved attention, he was in essence humble. This made him complicated. He'd rock out, but deep down, he didn't realize just how much he brought to people's lives. Or at least, he didn't flaunt it. Throughout his life, Alonzo gave counsel. He often spoke of having his own talk show. The ratings would have been through the roof. The world will miss out.
Ayana, Jamila, an ex of mine, and I, drove down south to save Alonzo once. I'll spare the details. When he and I would argue, this would be something I used as defense. God, the arguments he and I had. We argued like we were married. After a time, we'd always come back to each other. We'd pick up right where we left off: after an argument, or even, after months of not seeing each other. I digress. As it turns out, despite having rescued him on that occasion, and probably on others, he really rescued me. He rescued us. He saved me. He made me see who I was, even when I didn't want to see it. He listened. He counseled. Because of him, I was a better person.
I am grateful for the individuals in whom he confided. Those who were there for him when I was not. I wish... I am filled with regret. I wish I could go back in time and spend every waking moment with him. Or at least, every moment when he encouraged me to come out and I stayed in, or when I could have called and didn't... I wish I could have all of that back. I am terrified I will forget. I hold onto and cherish these memories that I have of him, these few and happy memories. They aren't enough. I want more. I know, though, that I am being selfish.
I have done many bad things in my life. I have hurt people I love. Alonzo accepted me through everything. He gathered our group when I was losing myself with the Ex and came to Brooklyn to see me. He gathered our group again when it was happening again with BG, another ex, and came to Brooklyn to see me. I was so foolish, so selfish, so ungrateful -- I didn't see then what I see now. Every moment, every single breath, every single smile is so important. There is no time for trivial pursuits in this lifetime. Alonzo knew that.
The holidays are tough now. Two years ago, Kirk, a friend from high school I cared for very much, passed away. Last year, two people I loved passed within two weeks of each other. When Ayana and Jamila's aunt died, I was a coward. She was the second to pass on, and I ran away from it. I was in such pain that I avoided acknowledging reality. In doing so, I was not there for the people I love. Alonzo tried to get me to see that just my having been there, or calling, would have been enough. I was foolish and didn't want to hear any of it. I am sorry for this. I will regret this and the time lost that resulted from this. I will regret not having been there for Ayana's two beautiful children.
A week after, I found out a former student of mine passed away. He committed suicide. No one knows why. This affected me greatly. I felt like I was losing control over life. I wanted to die, too. I felt I should no longer teach. I felt that I could have somehow stopped it. I subsequently began taking control over my life by inflicting pain onto BG when I broke up with him on Christmas Eve. I am sorry for having done this. I was hurting and losing control over... everything.
One year into the future: Alonzo. God. I sit here and write this. I wish I could see his face again.
Two days before Alonzo went into the hospital, he and I, as usual, had a fight. I haven't been able to really say this out loud, and I know it doesn't make sense, but God, I feel so guilty. I feel, perhaps irrationally so, that what I said induced additional stress, thereby contributing to Alonzo's going into the hospital. I am filled with regret. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take it all back.
The last time I saw Alonzo alive, his eyes were open. I sat in his hospital room alone. I was looking down at my phone. When I looked up, I was startled. Alonzo stared right at me, right into my eyes. It was a rare moment when he made eye contact. I begged him to wake up and get better... to fight. Every fiber of my being has to believe he saw me and knew I was present, there, in that moment. I felt him. I felt him for the first time in months. I went over to him and, although I'd had moments when I'd talk to him before this, I reiterated how much I loved him. I told him that although he could not speak, I knew he could hear me. When I got up to leave, he looked into my eyes once more. Deep down, I was scared. I didn't want to admit it, but I somehow knew it was going to be the last time I'd see him alive. I said goodbye.
On Wednesday afternoon, Ayana called me while at work. She said she had bad news. She said Alonzo passed. I was alone in my classroom. The sun was streaming through my windows. It was unusually peaceful. I didn't know what to say. I regained a sense of control, gathered my things, and attempted to leave the building. I was intercepted by some colleagues, some friends, and I immediately began to cry. They brought me into the stairwell, away from the prying eyes of students who remained after school. I collapsed and I wailed. I had trouble breathing. I could not believe it. My friend, my brother, was gone. Colleagues came in and out of the stairwell investigating what was happening. At some point, my principal gave me a cup of water. I barely remember any of it; it all happened so quickly, it was a blur.
I drove to the hospital. It became all too real when the woman at the check-in asked if I had contacted the family. I said I knew, but would it be possible to see him. She said they weren't allowing it.
I managed to get through that night. That night, I visited Alonzo's mom. I then spent time with Jamila and Nise. We went shopping. I slept over a friend's house, if one could call it sleeping. I tossed and turned. I went to work the next day, and amazingly, arrived on time. They didn't expect me in, having called a substitute teacher in for me. I kept busy. I didn't want to think. That night, I joined a friend, Oso, out for drinks. We met at the Ritz in Hell's Kitchen. Deciding the atmosphere wasn't conducive to discussion, we decided to walk to a nearby bar, ironically called Therapy. We never made it to Therapy, though. En route, we passed a clothing store called Tagg. They were having a Christmas Party and were offering anyone free drinks. We, of course, took full advantage of this. We drank, we took our pictures with a ripped Santa, we bought ties... the entire time I wished Zo was there. I gave my phone number to several boys there. All I heard in my mind was my Zoboy saying, "Oh, you whore!" It was bittersweet, the smile which crept onto my face at this thought. Afterward, we went to Vinyl, a trendy little restaurant with a musical motif. We could have sworn Lance Bass sat nearby. I bid Oso goodbye and drove home to fall asleep into a stupor.
Friday, I went to the service. My cousin, who'd met Alonzo several times, came to support me. My roommate, a friend of Alonzo's since 5th grade, rode with me, as did one of his cousin's and another friend. We arrived. I hugged everyone who loved Alonzo. Because they loved him, I loved them. I avoided looking at him for some time, until finally I looked up to see him in his casket. He was beautiful. He was at peace. I stared. I wanted to burn this last image of him into my memory. I never wanted to forget him.
The service was beautiful, although the damn preacher called him Alfonso. By the fifth time, the entire congregation, in unison, bellowed "Alonzo!" Only Alonzo, only Alonzo.
I wasn't using this as a time to grow closer to those I'd hurt in the past, but I couldn't help but pour out my love of Alonzo onto them. I think he would have wanted us to be there for each other and I think we all were. We drove to the cemetery. His plot overlooks a highway. He used to love road-trips. I think it was an appropriate and beautiful spot for him. They released doves and one of his best friend's... his brother for all intents and purposes, someone I am incredibly thankful for, read.
Later, we ate and commiserated. We talked. We talked about Alonzo. While at his house, I found myself longing for companionship... someone who I was in love with to speak to. I texted the Dancer who had stood me up on a date 3 times. I asked him what I had done. He explained to me that he couldn't talk because he was at work and he'd get back to me later. I didn't hold my breath. I heard Alonzo's voice in my head... counseling me... asking me why I felt the need to do that. I was empty. I needed love. At least, I thought I did.
I went with my cousin to Brooklyn and joined her at an artist party at an artist space called the Third Ward. I kept mostly to myself. As I drank wine, I found myself creeping into an empty computer room. I found myself staring at pictures of Zo on Facebook. I missed him.
I went with my cousin back to her loft and ate dinner with she, her partner and their friend. I bid them goodbye and found myself in a cab headed up to Hell's Kitchen to meet one of the boys I gave my number to. A 30 dollar cab ride later, I was in a basement apartment amid gays galore. I was greeted by a guy who said it was his birthday (it was in fact his friend's birthday) and I had to "give him a present." I responded in turn, "Happy Birthday," to which he revealed the truth, that it wasn't his, and said he'd still take sex or drugs. I informed him I couldn't help him with either and quickly walked away to find the open bar. I had a drink and chatted it up with a guy called Guy, a wide-eyed Boston dancer who, unlike 99% of the guys there, actually had something intelligible and sincere to say. We exchanged numbers and he sweetly asked to have dinner with me, saying he wanted to get to know me better.
I found the boy I was invited by in the small open patio in the back of the apartment. He was giving his phone number to another guy. Total turn off, especially as he knew I was there looking for him. I asked him later on if I had intruded on his mack, to which he defensively responded, "I am single!" He then implied I was being insecure. I explained it didn't phase me one way or another... it may not have been a turn on but he was fully able to 'do him,' and it really didn't bother me. He owed me nothing.
We walked over to his friend's one-room apartment a block away. The guy whose important it was began changing and putting on make up for the forthcoming evening. He then showed me porn on, to my amazement, public access. Then the bartender from the evening before at Tagg showed up. Coincidentally, he was also on the previous week's cover of Next. They began a whirlwind of fast-talking, pointless conversation that reminded me of the conversations I think I might have had when I was 21. It was a ballet of hair product, shirtlessness, and discussion about their latest conquests. I was quiet. I just didn't feel like talking, and being dressed still in the outfit I wore to Zo's service, I wasn't quite physically prepared to be 'out and about.' Still, I went with it.
We went to the Ritz, which was packed. Too packed. I felt cramped. Drinks were constantly threatening the purple shirt I wore. We left and found ourselves at Posh, where the boy I was with began conversing with the guy to whom he gave his number earlier in the night... no doubt it was a planned rendezvous. I conversed with an older gay guy who attempted to grab my ass. I removed his hand and quickly told him I didn't vibe with that. Finally, last-call. I joined the boy, let's call him Brian, and his friend outside. At the conclusion of their cigarette, I bid them farewell. Brian's friend looked appalled. He asked if I was really leaving and I responded yes. Did they think I was going to sleep with either of them?
Sometimes you just need to go home alone and it was clear that these boys didn't understand this concept. And although I have more night's alone than not, I wasn't willing to compensate for the emptiness I felt by fucking a complete stranger. Still, I felt a void. As I took a cab home, along the Westside Highway, I began to cry. Alonzo loved the Westside Highway. How many nights did he and I make the trek to the Village down along this highway? I began wondering, would the pain go away? How would I fill this emptiness? Could I? Was it possible? And how long would it take to regain a sense of normalcy? How long would it take until I didn't want to join him?
Back at home, in my bed, staring at my alarm clock. 4:30am. The day had been long. I was exhausted. I slept only because of exhaustion.
The next day, I woke up and immediately got out of the house. I had to keep busy. I went Christmas shopping in White Plains. While there at the mall, I greeted a good friend of Alonzo's. I asked him how he was but he heard something else. It occurred to me that maybe he wasn't ready to face it, maybe that's why he responded having maybe heard me say something else. I realized I wasn't ready to face it. After everything, the past few months, the past two years, it still seemed so sudden. So senseless. I drove to the City to meet coworkers and friends for Sushi. Cosmo after cosmo, I found my thoughts turning back to Alonzo. Here we were at Bamboo 52, the restaurant where I had my birthday this past June, a time I loved, and yet, here we were again, only the mood was so different for me. One by one, my coworkers left until finally, I bid my Jen, who was celebrating her end-of-semester, goodbye. I went next store to Therapy. I had half of a cosmo and drove home.
Harlem. Alone at home. I didn't know what to do. I texted Superman. I texted the Dancer. I texted the Ex. The Ex responded. I felt foolish but I was so lonely. I was so desperate for someone, anyone, to take the pain away. To fill the emptiness. I asked him over, saying I needed company, sparing all details. He said he would in an hour. By 7am, I realized he wasn't coming and I fell asleep. I explained to him via text that I had needed him and he hurt me by not showing up. Not showing up with me was reaching epidemic proportions. I'm not sure what I expected, though. After all, he is THE Ex for a reason. His diligence in 'coming through' and being forthright wasn't his strongest feature.
The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through my drawn shades. I wanted to avoid the day, but I forced myself out. I drove to the Upper West Side. Superman texted me, wishing me a Happy Sunday. I informed him that I called him last night. He said he was out and about in Brooklyn. I found myself upset at this. Why didn't he invite me? Wasn't he into me, too? Didn't he say he wanted me to be more open. I then realized that I was depending on others to help me get through the pain... others, who weren't friends, who were pseudo-love interests. I heard Alonzo in my head. Why was I doing this? What did I expect to come of this? Wasn't it okay for him, Superman, to have a life, too? I suppose I was upset because I'd told Superman about my best friend's passing and I would have thought that empathy and sensitivity would have resulted... after all, I've received an outpouring of support from friends I haven't spoken to in months, even years. Even another ex, a sweetheart, Geoff, someone I love very much, expressed sympathy. I realized, then, standing there staring "Uptown Cats," cats that were up for adoption, that the support was coming from friends... real friends... not hook-ups or potential love interests. I realized then that even Superman couldn't save you from everything. Sometimes you had to be your own Superman. Sometimes you had to take the love and support your friends gave you and carry on.
The Ex, at this very moment, texted me apologizing for having stood me up and asked me to grab a bite. I didn't respond at first and then I told him that what bothered me was that, as usual, his story didn't make sense (insert useless details here). Seven hours later, he texted, "I apologise," again. The adage, "Take it with a grain of salt," comes to mind. Coincidentally, five minutes after he texted his first apologies, the Dancer texted his reasoning for having been M.I.A. He was scared. He gave a ultra-brief description as to why, to which I followed up with a few questions. I am still waiting for a response. I won't hold my breath.
I hear Zo's voice: "Maybe you need to love yourself, Pete, before you love others. Maybe you're looking for others to fill what you need to realize you already have in you." What was it Wendy Williams or Ru Paul or one of them would say? "If you can't love yourself, how in the hell you gon' love someone else? Can I get an Amen!"
Zo was right when he'd say that. I was looking, I have looked, I do look, for others to fulfill some void in me when, the entire time, I have it within me to do that. My best moments in my life are when I do the things that make me happy. I see guys searching for love on-line, in the street, hell, even on Facebook... when really, love will happen when you love yourself. Only then can one truly know that the person they are with loves them for them, and vise versa, and not because that other person is fulfilling some emptiness. Sure, our partners fulfill different roles in our lives. But I for one want to know that I didn't choose my partner out of some desperation or out of a place of emptiness or codependency. I am woman, hear me roar.
Alonzo's death will, like my love life, like the reformations of my past mistakes in my friendships, have to be taken one day at a time. I love Alonzo. He is my heart. He brought out the best in everyone. As I live my life now, he will still bring out the best in me. Despite his loss, he is not gone. We carry him on in us. In our memories. In our shared stories. And In our hearts.
This is dedicated to my best friend. Alonzo... Zoboy... I think of you now. I will think of you everyday. I cannot wait to see you again, whenever and where ever that will be.
And tonight? I am putting on jazz, having a cup of coffee, and going to bed, alone, sans text messages with anyone other than friends.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Mona Lisa and the 'Full-on-Monet'
The Mona Lisa or La Gioconda is widely recognized as one of the most influential paintings in the art world. Painted between 1503 and 1519 by the revered Leonardo da Vinci, the Mona Lisa depicts a seated figure of a woman enigmatically smiling, staring directly at the painting's onlookers. There seem to be few who have not at least heard of this painting and there seem to be few who have not seen it. Mona Lisa is, undoubtedly, a celebrity.
She's also hyped up. I remember seeing this painting in text books growing up. In fact, I don't remember when I first learned of her - she appears to be locked in my memory for as far back as I can recall. In every image, the painting - she - seems larger than life. I'd always imagined some large canvas of her - big enough to make her seem real. This, of course, isn't true. When I visited the Louvre several years ago with a traveling companion, we had been warned beforehand of the Mona Lisa Danger: thousands upon thousands of visitors visit the Louvre each year and many briskly, intently make a bee-line directly for the Mona Lisa. As one walks though room after room, galleria after galleria to get a glimpse of her, one misses the thousands of beautiful, influential variety of art. My friend and I fell prey to this lure, and as warned, as predicted, we rushed, nearly ran, to see the painting.
And it was beautiful. And there was mystery. But there was a certain disappointment, too. As I stood in the galleria behind throngs of museum-goers, the painting was not larger-than-life. It's small: 30 by 21 inches. It's behind a thick plate of glass. And like any good celebrity, there were "no pictures, please." Though beautiful, the Mona Lisa turned out to be a 'Full-on-Monet' (Clueless, 1995) in some ways: from far away (seeing her in a text book on the other side of the world), she was beautiful, captivating, alluring. Up close? She turned out to be less than expected... disappointing.
And from one museum to another, our class went on our field trip to the American Museum of Natural History in Manhattan. Our day went relatively without incident (with the exception of a distraught student nearly walking off the subway train mid-trip to the museum from school; as well as, my coworker Lauren sarcastically referencing my recent encounter with the Clap by clapping blatantly yet surreptitiously throughout the day every chance she could. I believe at one point, some of my students unknowing as to why Lauren was clapping, joined in... how wonderful!). Our kids went about their scavenger hunt Science assignment and concluded the day with Whoopi Goldberg's narration of the sun in the massive globe planetarium. As I sat in the darkness of the planetarium staring up into the billions of stars, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, my mind turned to the mysteries of love. Almost 30 years old, every relationship I have had has disintegrated for one reason or another. The word "love" has been used by me toward another human being on more than occasion, and yet, here I was... alone... flying through space... terrifyingly hearing this God-like voice named Whoopi only, wondering if I would ever fall in love again; or, would every subsequent relationship go 'super nova?'
And, from the stars to the stairs. One of our kids had been digging around in her bag throughout the day, denying to my coworker that she had an ipod (which we do not allow). Her hyperactivity, disrespect, and blatant 'testing' pressed me to the boiling point. I went super nova. I firmly explained... the Italian finger pointing and waving... the disrespectful nature of her attitude all day. She had literally been disrespectful to every teach on our trip, even when approached calmly (which I had done earlier). Her hyperactivity and refusal to acknowledge directives given by us made her an embarrassment. I wanted to humble her. And as she fought tears, and as my voice had more bass and force in it than the Big Bang, the entire 7th grade quietly stared at this scene... this image of forceful reprimand. I was going to show her.
I finished my tirade and let her rejoin her group, seemingly unaffected. I realized, standing there under this representation of the sun, that I had actually been in the dark. I put this energy into the universe to exercise authority and power and yet, I had never felt more powerless. Although this student had legitimately acted in a manner that drew looks and stares from others, I was the one who was now embarrassing. All because I wanted to project an image onto her and onto my kids. I felt ashamed. I had compromised myself, all as result of a student who, at the end of the day, was doing what research and memory suggest as being typical, challenging authority and the world around her. And like so many uncertain adolescents, she was 'trying on' attitudes, personalities, and images as one tries on different shoes.
Field trips are more exhausting than teaching. At home, I laid in bed and did not awaken until that evening. The rain poured outside my window. At some point, a friend, Miles, texted me. He asked how I was and if I was available to have a glass of wine. I normally do not do this during the week, but I was filled with energy and agreed to meet him at a low-key gay bar called the Toolbox for a drink, despite the rain and work the next day.
I met Miles through an ex. A penchant for grammatical correctness and a decent glass of wine, Miles, a well-spoken young actor and singer, had been one of my ex's few friends that I felt sincerely engaged me. I felt empathetic for Miles, too. When I met him, I was sitting around a table of young gay men, my ex across from me, at the friend's house of my ex - a friend who abhorred the ground I walked on and treated me in kind. At one point, my ex and this friend began texting each other criticisms about Miles. Miles realized this and, very classily handled it with a laugh. Still, I felt kinship, empathizing with the immature way he was being treated. At the time, I avoided passing judgement - perhaps, this caddy behavior was socially accepted in my group? How many times had my best friend and I called each other bitch and whore out of love? In retrospect, it was a different kind of treatment, one I can firmly say now is not indicative of actual friendship.
Miles and I caught up. He told me about his life over these past few months. Gloria Estefan's new song, Wepa, played on the television screens. While he and I conversed, I began noticing the men around the bar. Two older Trannies sat to my right in hideous wigs. To my left, older gay men conversed. Who were these people? What were they after? Did they have someone? What image were they trying to convey, to whom and why?
The next evening, at a Mexican restaurant in Hell's Kitchen, I had dinner with a friend I affectionately call the Professor. The Professor is a young intellectual who has been through a series of unfortunate events over this past year. We also hadn't seen each other in some time. I told him of my future career plans. He told me about his life. As I sat there, listening to this amazing guy recount each unfortunate instance, my mind began to wander. I looked around the restaurant. Couples sat every where, many of whom were gay. It seemed like every person there was more concerned with their phones or what was happening around them, with the exception of a straight couple at the bar: the man was busy staring dreamily into the woman's eyes, his hand moving up her thigh. I was pretty sure I was inferring correctly what he was concerned with. I was also pretty sure, watching man of the gay guys there, that many were on on Grindr, a 'social service' app on phones.
It occurred to me that every one was looking for something. Everyone was conveying an image. The previous few days swirled through my head. What was it about image? Why do so many seem to have this closed-minded attitude, this wall, which prevents them from being truly open to others beyond this image they've created as being their Mr. Right? Did I have a Mr. Right in the back of my mind? I remembered all of the times I have said to others, "I have high standards." What did that mean? I'd let myself be hurt before - or at least, I took a risk and lost. Was that why I was so particular about the person I wanted? And then it hit me, I was projecting an image. Every day. We all are, whether consciously or not. We influence the perceptions and choices of perception of others by how we carry ourselves, what we say. We become so fearful of saying the wrong thing, we hold who we are inside back. We care too much, or for some, too little. In short, "image" is everything: how we are affects the perceptions of others.
Sometimes it ends up working to our advantage, sometimes it doesn't. I thought of the images many of my coworkers and myself have of our kids. It's always interesting to me to see who teachers say they are fond of and why. I include myself in this. One student of mine is looked upon as being very... intellectually challenged. I don't know why, but for some reason, he's gravitated to me and I to him. In some ways, I feel like a father-figure. Just the other day, he came to me with a cut on his hand and I put a band-aid on it. He does have some learning disabilities and exhibits understanding and the behaviors of a second grader. I try to see the best in him and all of my kids. We wouldn't fault a student in a wheel chair for being unable to reach high on a shelf to get a book. We'd accommodate that student. I see it the same way with this particular student. It's similarly not his "fault," despite his size, or propensity to attempt adulthood interaction vis-a-vis obscenities. It's who he is. I accept that. Still, I am human and I struggle maintaining this approach with all of my 60 kids. Some... get under my skin. It's with them I proactively try to control my feelings as maintain a very professional relationship. Kids can't argue with professionalism. It's neither like nor dislike. It's neutral.
I looked on the screen of my phone, which I too had placed on the table along with 90% of the restaurant and realized the past few months had caused me to lose a part of myself. I had let my hair grow longer than it'd been for a while. I was unshaven and unkempt. I hadn't been eating as well as I was over the summer when I focused on nothing but my health and well-being. I hadn't been to the gym. Two months of personal hardship had consumed my time and emotional energy (and I wouldn't change having directed my energies where I have). Still, I was finally getting back on track. Instead of focusing 90% of my energy on my job and the people I love, and 10% on me, I was moving again toward balance... doing things that make me happy: Yoga, thinking about my future career plans, reading, and enjoying a cup of coffee in the sunshine. It's a work in progress - and I will undoubtedly fall prey to giving more of my time to my kids than to myself, but realizing this predilection, I can use that awareness to do something about it.
The next day, I visited my best friend in the hospital again. His image... there aren't words. I spent time with him, talked to him and sent him every piece of love in me. Despite being exhausted from work, I left feeling better for having made the time to go see him after having not in about a week and a half. I drove to my family's house and ate dinner. My uncle asked about my love life. I replied, "What love life?" He asked further and I explained that it was hard finding someone who wanted the same things as myself, someone who'd compliment and challenge me, someone who would love me for me, see me for me and let me see them for them, someone who wouldn't pressure me to be what I am not, someone who was curious and wanted more out of life, to share his life, to experience life with me, and someone who was balanced, too. I explained that I rarely found time to go out where I could potentially meet guys, and that really, I was comfortable letting life happen without actively seeking love. I thought to myself, it's sad how so many put these defenses up, reluctant to say that they too want to fall in love. Maybe they don't know what they want. Maybe they don't want love. Maybe, their ideas of love differ from others... I explained this, saying I preferred to focus on myself anyway until I met someone who would let me give of myself to him and in turn, give of himself to me. He sat there for a moment and simply cautioned, "Be wise in your decisions and who you end up with." He had been there to witness two heartbreaks of mine. Maybe three times a charm?
The weekend came. Friday evening I found myself staring up at the underside of the sun once again at the Rose Center in the American Museum of Natural History. Jason and Katherine, two coworkers of mine, and myself went to the opening of an exhibition, a party for educators. The exhibition, "Beyond Planet Earth," showcased humanity's potential in cost-effectively and safely traveling beyond Earth to the moon, Mars, asteroids and more. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. I sat crossed-legged on the floor listening to the host speak about the exhibition, one of several glasses of free wine, munching on delicious and fresh finger-foods, and I imagined unlimited possibilities. And if man could imagine and design these amazing ideas, and actually evolve to where we are -- having been in space, seen deep into the cosmos without leaving our own backyard thanks to the Hubble, and so much more -- it would be possible for me to find a love that genuinely fit with who I am as a human being. Someone who wants and values the same things in life.
Katherine left early. Jason and I toured the exhibit and slowly made our way through the empty museum back to the Rose Center. Somewhere between birds of the Northeast and primates, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the people in my life. I stared at a skeletal structure of a human child and a primate. The similarities were uncanny. In that moment, I realized something that I espouse often, but that I hadn't internally, viscerally felt in some time: everything changes. Although people have come in and out of my life, and although I have had a bevy of experiences that have affected me in seemingly positive and negative ways, I appreciate and I am grateful for all of it. I almost gave Jason a plutonic hug, but I reframed: the image of two guys hugging, one of whom is straight, in a darkened, closing museum might seem suspicious to the nearby security guard.
We found ourselves in the Rose Center once again. While waiting for Jason to get his coat, I finally began looking around at the teachers there. I had been so enthralled in the science of the exhibition. I realized that there, under this gigantic ball, I was in a sea of gay men, each one projecting an image of who they are onto the world in that moment by virtue of a million variable factors which, I'd imagine, sociologists, psychologists and anthropologists would all agree is the case of any human being, whether they intentionally project these images or not. Suddenly, I turned to find myself in conversation with two gay men, one of whom was the spitting image of the vampire with dreadlocks in the film, Twilight. We talked about the exhibit and laughed a bit and with that, I left. Whereas, several years ago, I might pursue something... anything... with one or both of these men, I didn't. I said my goodbyes to Jason, and walked through the Upper West Side toward my car. Even there, the buildings themselves, conveyed in that moment a sense of something, an image of superior gentrification and social class. Wasn't that just my perception, though? Wasn't I the one to make that inference?
I spent my Friday evening falling asleep listening to the rain. The next day, I met with Superman. I call him Superman because he seems to have no end of energy. I enjoyed my time, though I felt a chasm. There is a sordid series of somewhat tumultuous events that have led me to this ambiguous place of interaction which we now were. Sometime around 5 a.m, Superman and I battled. He revealed my kryptonite, something which I have accepted within myself as being a part of myself, despite constantly working at it: that is, in previous relationships, I've been told I was often pensive and introspective, revealing information in inconsistent frequencies, allowing my personality to shine at different times. My acceptance had been this: I become okay with myself insomuch that I didn't need to put on a show for anyone... if I needed to be quiet or wasn't engaged, I was quiet, and instead of feeling guilty or wrong for that, I became fine with it. If I was vocal, interactive, and 'the life of the party,' as my friend Beth has observed in me on several occasions, that's what I was.
The battle, my kryptonite, was this: Superman essentially felt I hadn't been as forthcoming with information, that I didn't need to worry about others perceptions of me and that he would accept me for me regardless of whatever it was I said. In so many words, he essentially said he couldn't relate to me and as such, felt a distance. This might explain the several moments of silence we had. Silence is a funny thing: I've become a person who is okay with moments of silence. But then, how am I supposed to get to know someone if there are moments? How am I supposed to have that person get to know me? Superman and I debated for about an hour, and after several valid points were made on his behalf, as well as mine, I realized he was right... Without realizing it, my previous relationships caused my younger, inexperienced, somewhat naive self to put up certain defenses... walls... in order to protect and convey this image of myself... this image that any one time is just that, an image: a portion of who I am, not who I am in entirety. Without going into the injects of the conversation, I realized he had a need for something: communication. And wherever that need is coming from, I wasn't giving him that. It wasn't intentional, of course. I "walked away" feeling challenged and a bit raw. I could never guarantee I would provide him, or anyone, with whatever level of communication they deemed as respectful or common sense, because I am a person, imperfectly. Nor could he or anyone guarantee me anything, for that same reason. But I can offer and require in any relationship, plutonic, romantic, or otherwise, acceptance and understanding. Trust is not built in a day and I am not in a rush to force a level of trust to exist because it wouldn't be deep necessarily. I am fine with letting trust develop organically. For Superman's part, I think there was no development because I was not offering me - for whatever reason... an unconscious fear, a wall that had been built, exhaustion, just not thinking things through...
I left the debate feeling good -- being one's self is a beautiful thing. And whatever image one projects, whether intentional or unintentional, perceptions will always form, and those perceptions are out of your control, but not out of your sphere of influence by virtue of your ability to communicate, relate, connect, convince, and express. And although the mystery and allure of Mona is enticing, the idea that putting all of your cards on the table at once is a bad tactic... it's not something that is consistent with my values. Honesty and communication have been and always will trump the manipulation that many exercise through dishonesty. I will be who I am, whatever that is, however that is perceived, irrespective of the image that may be conveyed and I hope to utilize the ability to communicate to exchange those things that make me me with others.
Mona is more of a "Monet" than a da Vinci, and whatever image she conveys with her smile and direct stare, it'd be nice to hear who she is from her own mouth. Until then, isn't she just an object? Someone to be perceived however others want? Powerless? That mysterious smile will only get her so far...
She's also hyped up. I remember seeing this painting in text books growing up. In fact, I don't remember when I first learned of her - she appears to be locked in my memory for as far back as I can recall. In every image, the painting - she - seems larger than life. I'd always imagined some large canvas of her - big enough to make her seem real. This, of course, isn't true. When I visited the Louvre several years ago with a traveling companion, we had been warned beforehand of the Mona Lisa Danger: thousands upon thousands of visitors visit the Louvre each year and many briskly, intently make a bee-line directly for the Mona Lisa. As one walks though room after room, galleria after galleria to get a glimpse of her, one misses the thousands of beautiful, influential variety of art. My friend and I fell prey to this lure, and as warned, as predicted, we rushed, nearly ran, to see the painting.
And it was beautiful. And there was mystery. But there was a certain disappointment, too. As I stood in the galleria behind throngs of museum-goers, the painting was not larger-than-life. It's small: 30 by 21 inches. It's behind a thick plate of glass. And like any good celebrity, there were "no pictures, please." Though beautiful, the Mona Lisa turned out to be a 'Full-on-Monet' (Clueless, 1995) in some ways: from far away (seeing her in a text book on the other side of the world), she was beautiful, captivating, alluring. Up close? She turned out to be less than expected... disappointing.
And from one museum to another, our class went on our field trip to the American Museum of Natural History in Manhattan. Our day went relatively without incident (with the exception of a distraught student nearly walking off the subway train mid-trip to the museum from school; as well as, my coworker Lauren sarcastically referencing my recent encounter with the Clap by clapping blatantly yet surreptitiously throughout the day every chance she could. I believe at one point, some of my students unknowing as to why Lauren was clapping, joined in... how wonderful!). Our kids went about their scavenger hunt Science assignment and concluded the day with Whoopi Goldberg's narration of the sun in the massive globe planetarium. As I sat in the darkness of the planetarium staring up into the billions of stars, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, my mind turned to the mysteries of love. Almost 30 years old, every relationship I have had has disintegrated for one reason or another. The word "love" has been used by me toward another human being on more than occasion, and yet, here I was... alone... flying through space... terrifyingly hearing this God-like voice named Whoopi only, wondering if I would ever fall in love again; or, would every subsequent relationship go 'super nova?'
And, from the stars to the stairs. One of our kids had been digging around in her bag throughout the day, denying to my coworker that she had an ipod (which we do not allow). Her hyperactivity, disrespect, and blatant 'testing' pressed me to the boiling point. I went super nova. I firmly explained... the Italian finger pointing and waving... the disrespectful nature of her attitude all day. She had literally been disrespectful to every teach on our trip, even when approached calmly (which I had done earlier). Her hyperactivity and refusal to acknowledge directives given by us made her an embarrassment. I wanted to humble her. And as she fought tears, and as my voice had more bass and force in it than the Big Bang, the entire 7th grade quietly stared at this scene... this image of forceful reprimand. I was going to show her.
I finished my tirade and let her rejoin her group, seemingly unaffected. I realized, standing there under this representation of the sun, that I had actually been in the dark. I put this energy into the universe to exercise authority and power and yet, I had never felt more powerless. Although this student had legitimately acted in a manner that drew looks and stares from others, I was the one who was now embarrassing. All because I wanted to project an image onto her and onto my kids. I felt ashamed. I had compromised myself, all as result of a student who, at the end of the day, was doing what research and memory suggest as being typical, challenging authority and the world around her. And like so many uncertain adolescents, she was 'trying on' attitudes, personalities, and images as one tries on different shoes.
Field trips are more exhausting than teaching. At home, I laid in bed and did not awaken until that evening. The rain poured outside my window. At some point, a friend, Miles, texted me. He asked how I was and if I was available to have a glass of wine. I normally do not do this during the week, but I was filled with energy and agreed to meet him at a low-key gay bar called the Toolbox for a drink, despite the rain and work the next day.
I met Miles through an ex. A penchant for grammatical correctness and a decent glass of wine, Miles, a well-spoken young actor and singer, had been one of my ex's few friends that I felt sincerely engaged me. I felt empathetic for Miles, too. When I met him, I was sitting around a table of young gay men, my ex across from me, at the friend's house of my ex - a friend who abhorred the ground I walked on and treated me in kind. At one point, my ex and this friend began texting each other criticisms about Miles. Miles realized this and, very classily handled it with a laugh. Still, I felt kinship, empathizing with the immature way he was being treated. At the time, I avoided passing judgement - perhaps, this caddy behavior was socially accepted in my group? How many times had my best friend and I called each other bitch and whore out of love? In retrospect, it was a different kind of treatment, one I can firmly say now is not indicative of actual friendship.
Miles and I caught up. He told me about his life over these past few months. Gloria Estefan's new song, Wepa, played on the television screens. While he and I conversed, I began noticing the men around the bar. Two older Trannies sat to my right in hideous wigs. To my left, older gay men conversed. Who were these people? What were they after? Did they have someone? What image were they trying to convey, to whom and why?
The next evening, at a Mexican restaurant in Hell's Kitchen, I had dinner with a friend I affectionately call the Professor. The Professor is a young intellectual who has been through a series of unfortunate events over this past year. We also hadn't seen each other in some time. I told him of my future career plans. He told me about his life. As I sat there, listening to this amazing guy recount each unfortunate instance, my mind began to wander. I looked around the restaurant. Couples sat every where, many of whom were gay. It seemed like every person there was more concerned with their phones or what was happening around them, with the exception of a straight couple at the bar: the man was busy staring dreamily into the woman's eyes, his hand moving up her thigh. I was pretty sure I was inferring correctly what he was concerned with. I was also pretty sure, watching man of the gay guys there, that many were on on Grindr, a 'social service' app on phones.
It occurred to me that every one was looking for something. Everyone was conveying an image. The previous few days swirled through my head. What was it about image? Why do so many seem to have this closed-minded attitude, this wall, which prevents them from being truly open to others beyond this image they've created as being their Mr. Right? Did I have a Mr. Right in the back of my mind? I remembered all of the times I have said to others, "I have high standards." What did that mean? I'd let myself be hurt before - or at least, I took a risk and lost. Was that why I was so particular about the person I wanted? And then it hit me, I was projecting an image. Every day. We all are, whether consciously or not. We influence the perceptions and choices of perception of others by how we carry ourselves, what we say. We become so fearful of saying the wrong thing, we hold who we are inside back. We care too much, or for some, too little. In short, "image" is everything: how we are affects the perceptions of others.
Sometimes it ends up working to our advantage, sometimes it doesn't. I thought of the images many of my coworkers and myself have of our kids. It's always interesting to me to see who teachers say they are fond of and why. I include myself in this. One student of mine is looked upon as being very... intellectually challenged. I don't know why, but for some reason, he's gravitated to me and I to him. In some ways, I feel like a father-figure. Just the other day, he came to me with a cut on his hand and I put a band-aid on it. He does have some learning disabilities and exhibits understanding and the behaviors of a second grader. I try to see the best in him and all of my kids. We wouldn't fault a student in a wheel chair for being unable to reach high on a shelf to get a book. We'd accommodate that student. I see it the same way with this particular student. It's similarly not his "fault," despite his size, or propensity to attempt adulthood interaction vis-a-vis obscenities. It's who he is. I accept that. Still, I am human and I struggle maintaining this approach with all of my 60 kids. Some... get under my skin. It's with them I proactively try to control my feelings as maintain a very professional relationship. Kids can't argue with professionalism. It's neither like nor dislike. It's neutral.
I looked on the screen of my phone, which I too had placed on the table along with 90% of the restaurant and realized the past few months had caused me to lose a part of myself. I had let my hair grow longer than it'd been for a while. I was unshaven and unkempt. I hadn't been eating as well as I was over the summer when I focused on nothing but my health and well-being. I hadn't been to the gym. Two months of personal hardship had consumed my time and emotional energy (and I wouldn't change having directed my energies where I have). Still, I was finally getting back on track. Instead of focusing 90% of my energy on my job and the people I love, and 10% on me, I was moving again toward balance... doing things that make me happy: Yoga, thinking about my future career plans, reading, and enjoying a cup of coffee in the sunshine. It's a work in progress - and I will undoubtedly fall prey to giving more of my time to my kids than to myself, but realizing this predilection, I can use that awareness to do something about it.
The next day, I visited my best friend in the hospital again. His image... there aren't words. I spent time with him, talked to him and sent him every piece of love in me. Despite being exhausted from work, I left feeling better for having made the time to go see him after having not in about a week and a half. I drove to my family's house and ate dinner. My uncle asked about my love life. I replied, "What love life?" He asked further and I explained that it was hard finding someone who wanted the same things as myself, someone who'd compliment and challenge me, someone who would love me for me, see me for me and let me see them for them, someone who wouldn't pressure me to be what I am not, someone who was curious and wanted more out of life, to share his life, to experience life with me, and someone who was balanced, too. I explained that I rarely found time to go out where I could potentially meet guys, and that really, I was comfortable letting life happen without actively seeking love. I thought to myself, it's sad how so many put these defenses up, reluctant to say that they too want to fall in love. Maybe they don't know what they want. Maybe they don't want love. Maybe, their ideas of love differ from others... I explained this, saying I preferred to focus on myself anyway until I met someone who would let me give of myself to him and in turn, give of himself to me. He sat there for a moment and simply cautioned, "Be wise in your decisions and who you end up with." He had been there to witness two heartbreaks of mine. Maybe three times a charm?
The weekend came. Friday evening I found myself staring up at the underside of the sun once again at the Rose Center in the American Museum of Natural History. Jason and Katherine, two coworkers of mine, and myself went to the opening of an exhibition, a party for educators. The exhibition, "Beyond Planet Earth," showcased humanity's potential in cost-effectively and safely traveling beyond Earth to the moon, Mars, asteroids and more. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. I sat crossed-legged on the floor listening to the host speak about the exhibition, one of several glasses of free wine, munching on delicious and fresh finger-foods, and I imagined unlimited possibilities. And if man could imagine and design these amazing ideas, and actually evolve to where we are -- having been in space, seen deep into the cosmos without leaving our own backyard thanks to the Hubble, and so much more -- it would be possible for me to find a love that genuinely fit with who I am as a human being. Someone who wants and values the same things in life.
Katherine left early. Jason and I toured the exhibit and slowly made our way through the empty museum back to the Rose Center. Somewhere between birds of the Northeast and primates, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the people in my life. I stared at a skeletal structure of a human child and a primate. The similarities were uncanny. In that moment, I realized something that I espouse often, but that I hadn't internally, viscerally felt in some time: everything changes. Although people have come in and out of my life, and although I have had a bevy of experiences that have affected me in seemingly positive and negative ways, I appreciate and I am grateful for all of it. I almost gave Jason a plutonic hug, but I reframed: the image of two guys hugging, one of whom is straight, in a darkened, closing museum might seem suspicious to the nearby security guard.
We found ourselves in the Rose Center once again. While waiting for Jason to get his coat, I finally began looking around at the teachers there. I had been so enthralled in the science of the exhibition. I realized that there, under this gigantic ball, I was in a sea of gay men, each one projecting an image of who they are onto the world in that moment by virtue of a million variable factors which, I'd imagine, sociologists, psychologists and anthropologists would all agree is the case of any human being, whether they intentionally project these images or not. Suddenly, I turned to find myself in conversation with two gay men, one of whom was the spitting image of the vampire with dreadlocks in the film, Twilight. We talked about the exhibit and laughed a bit and with that, I left. Whereas, several years ago, I might pursue something... anything... with one or both of these men, I didn't. I said my goodbyes to Jason, and walked through the Upper West Side toward my car. Even there, the buildings themselves, conveyed in that moment a sense of something, an image of superior gentrification and social class. Wasn't that just my perception, though? Wasn't I the one to make that inference?
I spent my Friday evening falling asleep listening to the rain. The next day, I met with Superman. I call him Superman because he seems to have no end of energy. I enjoyed my time, though I felt a chasm. There is a sordid series of somewhat tumultuous events that have led me to this ambiguous place of interaction which we now were. Sometime around 5 a.m, Superman and I battled. He revealed my kryptonite, something which I have accepted within myself as being a part of myself, despite constantly working at it: that is, in previous relationships, I've been told I was often pensive and introspective, revealing information in inconsistent frequencies, allowing my personality to shine at different times. My acceptance had been this: I become okay with myself insomuch that I didn't need to put on a show for anyone... if I needed to be quiet or wasn't engaged, I was quiet, and instead of feeling guilty or wrong for that, I became fine with it. If I was vocal, interactive, and 'the life of the party,' as my friend Beth has observed in me on several occasions, that's what I was.
The battle, my kryptonite, was this: Superman essentially felt I hadn't been as forthcoming with information, that I didn't need to worry about others perceptions of me and that he would accept me for me regardless of whatever it was I said. In so many words, he essentially said he couldn't relate to me and as such, felt a distance. This might explain the several moments of silence we had. Silence is a funny thing: I've become a person who is okay with moments of silence. But then, how am I supposed to get to know someone if there are moments? How am I supposed to have that person get to know me? Superman and I debated for about an hour, and after several valid points were made on his behalf, as well as mine, I realized he was right... Without realizing it, my previous relationships caused my younger, inexperienced, somewhat naive self to put up certain defenses... walls... in order to protect and convey this image of myself... this image that any one time is just that, an image: a portion of who I am, not who I am in entirety. Without going into the injects of the conversation, I realized he had a need for something: communication. And wherever that need is coming from, I wasn't giving him that. It wasn't intentional, of course. I "walked away" feeling challenged and a bit raw. I could never guarantee I would provide him, or anyone, with whatever level of communication they deemed as respectful or common sense, because I am a person, imperfectly. Nor could he or anyone guarantee me anything, for that same reason. But I can offer and require in any relationship, plutonic, romantic, or otherwise, acceptance and understanding. Trust is not built in a day and I am not in a rush to force a level of trust to exist because it wouldn't be deep necessarily. I am fine with letting trust develop organically. For Superman's part, I think there was no development because I was not offering me - for whatever reason... an unconscious fear, a wall that had been built, exhaustion, just not thinking things through...
I left the debate feeling good -- being one's self is a beautiful thing. And whatever image one projects, whether intentional or unintentional, perceptions will always form, and those perceptions are out of your control, but not out of your sphere of influence by virtue of your ability to communicate, relate, connect, convince, and express. And although the mystery and allure of Mona is enticing, the idea that putting all of your cards on the table at once is a bad tactic... it's not something that is consistent with my values. Honesty and communication have been and always will trump the manipulation that many exercise through dishonesty. I will be who I am, whatever that is, however that is perceived, irrespective of the image that may be conveyed and I hope to utilize the ability to communicate to exchange those things that make me me with others.
Mona is more of a "Monet" than a da Vinci, and whatever image she conveys with her smile and direct stare, it'd be nice to hear who she is from her own mouth. Until then, isn't she just an object? Someone to be perceived however others want? Powerless? That mysterious smile will only get her so far...
Monday, December 5, 2011
This is a blog, for the lonely...
Being single and gay in New York City is not easy. It's filled with twists, turns, temptations and, inevitably, heartbreak. After a while, being single becomes a way of life. You start accepting the Saturday nights alone as the norm. You find yourself being the third wheel more often than you'd care to admit. There's the dreaded, "Why don't you come over and have dinner with us?" pity invitation. And everywhere you go, it seems like there are only relationships: The couple kissing on a wall late at night, the minimalist lighting candle-lit dinner for two displayed in the window of an ultra-chic restaurant -- is that what I am supposed to look like? Is that love? And of course, the hand-holding couple blocking your way on a crowded sidewalk. You hurry by, annoyed they weren't considerate enough to notice the effect of their hand-holding, but really, you wish it were you.
Us... it's funny. Being single... you start remembering the previous "us" that you yourself used to be a part of. Even if that us wasn't the best, you start wishing you were in that us once again, just to feel less... me, myself and I.
Lately, I've been spending more and more time with myself. Ironically, when you are in a relationship, you sometimes wish you had more time to yourself.
It's not so bad, though, ensuring one's own sanity by spending time with that one person you should always be able to count on... yourself. What is it they say? If you can't love yourself, how the hell are you going to love someone else?
This "me" time has entailed trips to visit old friends, long mid-day naps, midnight movies with myself just to avoid the throngs of irksome hormone drenched teenagers whose narration of a film ultimately ruins the experience, and reading books.
Despite the me time, winter in NY is the worst time to be single. Tis the season to hibernate. This hibernation includes curling up under blankets watching movies on Netflix, enjoying home-cooked evening meals and glasses of wine, splurging on an exotic getaway just to sit by a pool and catch a tan... yet, when you're single, you're forced to prepare for the upcoming summer. This means, becoming a gym bunny. Braving the elements to walk to the local Equinox, or, in my impoverished case, NYSC.
It's that, or get fat.
I've been avoiding of late the gym, and those other gay forums: those other jungle captivities where we gays prowl for mates: the bar.
This weekend was no exception to any of the above. I was single and, whether as a result of the cold, or the massive migraine stemming from the five hour examination I took on Saturday, I stayed in. Sometimes you just have to spend some time all alone, with yourself, a good book, and a glass of wine. And that's what I did. What's the alternative? Spending dollars upon dollars on drinks at a bar that looks like any other bar? Having inebriated, frivolous conversation? Other temptations?
The weekend must end...
When you're a teacher, life is never completely predictable. Every day... every hour holds unexpected surprises. Monday morning began as any typical Monday. I groggily awoke, staring at the blue projection of the time on my ceiling, debating the day. My morning routine had included Starbucks, but an unfortunate rendezvous with a ticket-happy traffic officer has forced me to become reacquainted with my Mr. Coffee. I probably should have taken a previous cue from not one, not two, but three happenstance run-ins with the Ex, but I didn't. One of these run-ins occurred at Starbucks en route to work a few months prior.
I went through my day incident free, with the 9am exception in which a hyper-active student attempted to drive through me at warp speed. Upon blocking her entry into my classroom, she exclaimed, "Come on!" Knowing this student, as I do, I decided we weren't going to have 'this' today, nor were we starting the week this way. "Do you see me smiling?" She 'sucked her teeth.' "Excuse me, you need to calm yourself down..." she turned around at this point... "... and turn around and face me, without the attitude, please, because I have more attitude in my one little pinky than you have in your entire body, so get it together." At this she turned her body, faced me, slowly raised her gaze to meet my unblinking one, and waited. I then said, "Thank you. Now, let's try this again. Good morning," to which I extended my hand and waited for her to shake it. She responded, calmly, "I can't, I have too much in my hands and I'll drop my books." "Fair enough..." She entered.
Fair enough.
Every other student usually gets a handshake when they enter. Or a high five (hand clap).
The day continued. I rarely gain an opportunity to take or make calls during the day. At lunch, I used the opportunity of reprieve to make check my voicemail. I noticed I'd received several voicemails from the same number. I called and checked... after listening to several older voicemails (I had voicemails), I finally got to the number which called throughout the day. It was my doctor. He called to tell me that my annual blood-work came back, and, bluntly, explained I tested positive for Chlamydia. Oh, joy. Just in time for the holidays. This hand clapper had the clap.
But, I had to scratch my head. Who was party to this... holiday present? Sex is often a topic that isn't much discussed, but for the moment, let's pretend the Puritans landed elsewhere. I couldn't remember who was responsible (aside from the obvious me, myself and I). I decided I must have had this without realizing it for some time (how many weeks?). I would have to now take the time out to go downtown to my pharmacy and pick up the bitter prescription.
The day progressed as usual: staff meeting, crying student after school, impromptu G.E.D. class substitution, to which I was personally mortified (how did our educational institutions fail these literally illiterate adults?). I forced myself to take the drive downtown.
My pharmacist handed me the prescription with the slyest smile, "Don't worry, baby, it's only one time. Knock it right out." "Thanks, ma'am."
I decided I needed a drink. Why not? Being single allows these things doesn't it? It allows those who fail to return calls to not do so... it allows those who send mixed signals to do so... and it certainly should allow those of us "me, myself, and I's" to have a drink when we find out with a Thunderclap that we have... the clap.
I walked over to Meatpacking, stopping at a Church to pray. I prayed. I prayed for my friend.
Cold nights in Meatpacking is high heals, fur coats, and cars filled with single, straight White men seeking their mates. I decided I'd find my friend, David. David works at a restaurant called Catch, a swanky place where the doorman looks like an Armani model and escorts you to the elevator, which takes you to the second floor, where the first level of the restaurant is. When the doors opened, I almost gasped. "So this is where the money is," I heard myself whisper. From wall to wall, men and women ate, drank and mingled in designer couture. For a moment, I forgot it was Monday, and almost sat at the bar.
Meanwhile, David was nowhere to be found. I left. It was time to seek sustenance. I decided on a more suitable, low-key Thai place. En route, I called C. C is a new friend who didn't seem to mind that I had C, and asked if he could see me that evening. I declined. But I began thinking, being single in New York, what won't a single guy do to not feel... lonely?
I sat in the Thai restaurant and it occurred to me, I was the only single guy there, eating alone. To my left, a gay couple munched on Pad Thai. To my right, a very attractive young couple pretended to eat, and, in stereotypical fashion, she feigned interest in his vapid, self-indulged conversation. Both were clearly models.
I found myself staring at a woman who clumsily came in to pick up her take-out. She noticed me staring and began acting a way that, foreign to me, I attributed to invitation. Her body language suggested that if I'd gone over and talked to her, I would have gotten a date. She even did the classic, 'look back' upon exiting the establishment. I perfected this move! Little did she realize...
I stopped by Starbucks for a Chai tea and drove home, windows down, engendering the illusion of freedom, even if just for the fifteen minutes it took me to drive home. New Jersey and the George Washington glittered over the dark Hudson to the left of the West Side Highway, and to the right, tall sky scrapers invited intrigue and speculation. "Moves Like Jagger" came on the radio. Next, some sentimental song. Then an even more sentimental Mariah Carey song, which reminded me of the close friend I said a prayer for earlier.
And as I drove home, wind through my hair, Chlamydia in my belly, antibiotic in my bag, and Mariah on the radio belting, "When you left, I lost a part of me / it's still so hard to believe / come back baby, please, cuz' / we belong together..." I couldn't help but let the tears in my eyes go, and smile a little. I may be single. I may be lonely. I may be poor. I may have an STD. But, in that moment, I realized: I am me. I know who I am, I'm not pretending, I have nothing but love to give and receive, I have goals and direction, I'm adaptable, I'm curious, and I'm comfortable being alone. I think my friend would be happy to hear that. And after he gave me a clap on the hands, he'd smile, "I can't believe you have the clap. You whore."
When you're single, and even when you're not... every day is a new day. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
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