One time I met this guy at Crazy Mama's, a post punk south campus bar back in the 80's, and somehow ended up back at his place having sex. Since I had mostly been sleeping with women, I was always a bit surprised by how quickly men move. (Same thing straight women, which I am guessing is because they are used to sleeping with the men who move too fast.) Like suddenly we are getting it on and I am thinking, How did this happen?
He was pretty. Usually when I am attracted to a boy, it is because he is pretty. I like the long curly hair. He was very skinny, slightly smaller than me. He stood out from the usual Mama's crowd, where everyone tried to out-punk each other, prove who could wear the most black, have the most piercings, have the most crazy mohawk or chopped up hair, and eye liner was big back then. No, Mike was just wearing jeans and a long, faded flannel shirt. His ordinariness made him extraordinary to me.
I remember following him down the alley to his apartment. I remember drinking beer out of his refrigerator. I remember making out on his couch for awhile. I remember he had a room mate. Who suddenly came home. I remember we had to move to the bedroom. I remember the sex as that drunken sex that started quickly, over with quickly.
And I remember telling him I had to leave.
Go home. Get some sleep.
It really freaked him out. He tried to protest. At the same time, I could tell he was sort of thrilled. Wait, I get to fuck you and then we're done and I don't have to deal with cuddling or some girl waking up in my bed trying to have breakfast trying to become my girlfriend wondering when I'm going to call her again? Wait. What? He was saying, You really don't have to go. All while he was walking me straight to the front door. I shrugged, Look we're done here, I want to go home and sleep in my own bed. I was pretty clear in my own head: This is a one-night stand, we don't have to pretend to bond.
So of course I ran into him the next night and of course I ended up at his apartment again.
This time when I got up to leave, he protested bigger. I finally told him, Um I have something to tell you I'm a lesbian, this is fun for me but I'm not making it a habit you're great and all but it's not going to turn into a regular thing. (I mean, how could he think hooking up with a girl at a bar and immediately having sex with her was going to turn into a regular thing? If he wanted a regular thing, I'm supposed to get a phone call for a date or something and he didn't even ask for my number. Isn't that the way straight people worked?) He looked puzzled, trying to make sense of what I was saying, finally asking, Well, you mean you're....bisexual?
Me: No.
Him: But we just had sex. A lot of sex. Two nights.
Me: Yeah, the best way to explain this to you is men are much easier to deal with than women so sometimes I fuck men.
Him:
Me: I mean, with lesbians, you have to fucking take them out to coffee for three weeks and actually get to know them before they sleep with you. With guys, I can just meet you in a bar that night. Like we did.
Him: So that makes you bisexual.
Me: No.
Him:
Me: It makes me a lesbian who fucks men.
This takes a while to sink in. Finally,
Him: But if I am a guy a lesbian is fucking, what does that make me?
Me:
Him:
Me: Lucky.
We laughed. What guy is going to argue with that logic?
So of course I ran into him the next night and of course I ended up at his apartment again.
This time he took me out to his balcony. This time he brought out food. This time there wasn't any cheap beer from the fridge. This time he opened a bottle of wine. This time he actually wanted to talk about himself. He told me he was going to OSU studying to be a teacher and right now was doing the student teaching part, how working with the kids terrified him. He told me he was from Lima or Findley or some other Ohio small town. He told me his girlfriend had just broken up with him the week before. He told me he hated his room mate and as soon as he got a job teaching, he was moving out.
After we were kissing, he started crying, asking, I'm never going to be able to satisfy you, am I?
No. No, Mike, you're not.
That third night, I spent the night. Woke up and went to breakfast. Walked up and down High Street together. We exchanged numbers. He was really beautiful. He was really funny. He was really nice.
I never used anyone for sex again.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Fire Fighter
Not many people know this about me, but I spent almost two years of my life training to be a firefighter. That it happened between the ages of four and six is beside the point. Firefighting training is like lifeguard training. I never stop scanning the horizon for emergency just as the teenage lifeguard never relaxes at the beach.
My dad was a volunteer firefighter at Greenwich Village Fire Department. We lived with this thing we called The Monitor and it would go off anytime and alert my dad and his buddies about some local fire. Back in the early seventies, if you called 911, you depended on these guys to roll out of bed, perhaps half drunk or exhausted from a double shift at the steel mill, to come save your house. I got to hang out with them.
When my dad worked midnight, he came home around 7am and went to bed. My mom went to work at the bank, my sister went to school, and when I didn't have to go to day-school, I watched PBS all morning. My dad got up around noon and we had lunch and we watched The Young and The Restless. (I was already in love with Ashley, the first Ashley who people later said was actually a man; this should have been an early warning.) When the sands finally fell through the hour glass, we got ready to walk over to the firehall.
For some reason, if we got in my dad's truck, all the back country roads, stop signs and red lights, twisting behind the mall and interstate, going to the firehall took twenty minutes, but if we cut across back yards, dashed through the farmer's fields (who didn't like trespassers; I lived my whole life in fear of The Farmer, who I never, ever saw) and ran across the interstate exit curve (twice), up a brush-covered embankment, we could get there in ten minutes. My dad entertained me along the way, playing step-on-your-shadow and teaching me S-T-O-P, my very first reading word.
We always approached from the back, reaching a newly-laid gravel parking lot. Crunch, crunch, crunch, we opened the back door into a hall used for wedding receptions, bingo, and saturday night dances with a local cover band my parents loved called Freedom Child. I liked to hold my daddy's hand at this point because I was (am) afraid of the dark, but after my eyes adjusted, I ran down a long side hallway to the old-fashioned coke machine, first checking for any coins in the change slot, then banging on all the wide buttons, hoping to make a coke fall on accident, finally turning around to my dad with pleading eyes. Sometimes I'd get a coke (the little green bottle kind (do they still make those?) and I struggled awkwardly with the bottle opener that was right there on the machine), but mostly not; my parents were quite frugal and considered coke from a machine a waste of money.
We made our way to the kitchen where a handful of guys hung out drinking coffee. I slinked over to the corner and waited until giant hands (not necessarily my dad's) scooped up my armpits and placed me on the countertop. Once on my perch, I disappeared; the men forgot about me. There was Don Baker and Bill Ilenfeld and a guy named Vern, who my sister always had a crush on. The men joked and cursed and eventually a woman, one of the wives who helped organize bingo night or family potluck, would stick her head in and remind them, gentlemen, yins are talkin' in front of a child, and their eyes fell on me while they sheepishly grinned at each other.
But then their talk turned into code, I got bored and flipped over onto my stomach, my legs dangling over the edge until I took a chance and dropped. I creeped over to my dad, pulled his pant leg and whisper-asked, could I go tinkle, and he whisper-asked, do you need any help. My answer was always no because I really didn't need to go. See, the hallway to the restrooms was also the hallway that led to the trucks.
After I finished, I tiptoed back to the door of the kitchen, making sure they returned to their no-child zone bantering and I knew my dad forgot about me. As silent as a four year old who wants to crawl on fire trucks, I opened the door to the garage, slipped in, and held onto the doorknob until it slowly closed behind me. Then I was free. To do whatever I wanted.
Have you ever been alone with three gorgeous firetrucks, able to do whatever you wanted? I imagined The Monitor going off and I jumped on the back to grab hold of the long chrome handle, leaning my body side to side as we raced to the scene, whirring my imitation siren. Then I ran to the front and hopped onto the passenger side runner, hanging on again, swinging my body wide as the truck made another turn. Next moving to the driver's seat, grabbing the over-sized steering wheel to take the truck on more wide turns. (There were always a lot of wide turns when we were racing to the scene.) Once we got there, I used my tree climbing ability to spider down the side of the truck to the spouts where the hoses attached. I fastened my hoses and turned to my burning house, wrestling my body with the violent sprayer to save the day, schprshhhhhhhh sound effects coming out of my mouth. When my pretend fire was out, I was spent and I loved to climb up the giant yellow truck (the newest, shiniest addition) and lay in the middle of the neatly folded hoses until my dad came looking for me. I wasn't supposed to be in the garage by myself (my mother's rule) but my dad never scolded when he found me.
My dad took me to a few real fires. I remember a grass fire emergency. And I remember he took me to an intentional burning, a great big house on the corner of Duffy Road and Newcastle ( it became a bank, now a gas station). Later, in third grade at Northwest Elementary, I remember once the volunteers dressed up in their firefighting clothes and brought the big yellow truck to show the kids. Everyone was all excited but I hung back, nonplussed. I already knew every inch of that truck. I always used to shake my head at the other kids who said, when I grow up I'm going to be a firefighter, and thought they were idiots. In my mind, you either are one or you're not.
As an adult, I fought my own house fire. The toaster oven went up in flames, scorching a taco shell. (Black and Decker later informed me, never put a taco shell in a toaster oven. um, Thanks). Grabbing baby Stella and running out the front door to call for help never once crossed my mind. I instructed Eva to do that and after I ensured their safety, I flew back to the kitchen (my body gracefully careening to take the pivot through the door, the wide turn I'd prepared for all those years ago) and grabbed the extinguisher out from under the sink and doused the miniture oven and the ominous flames creeping up the curtains. The fire did some smoke damage, but if we had waited for the professionals to show up, we may have lost the whole kitchen.
I know I missed my calling. Something happens in panic-inducing situations, a calmness comes over me and a clear action plan presents itself in my mind. Everything moves in slow motion.
A child pretending is a child practicing.
My dad was a volunteer firefighter at Greenwich Village Fire Department. We lived with this thing we called The Monitor and it would go off anytime and alert my dad and his buddies about some local fire. Back in the early seventies, if you called 911, you depended on these guys to roll out of bed, perhaps half drunk or exhausted from a double shift at the steel mill, to come save your house. I got to hang out with them.
When my dad worked midnight, he came home around 7am and went to bed. My mom went to work at the bank, my sister went to school, and when I didn't have to go to day-school, I watched PBS all morning. My dad got up around noon and we had lunch and we watched The Young and The Restless. (I was already in love with Ashley, the first Ashley who people later said was actually a man; this should have been an early warning.) When the sands finally fell through the hour glass, we got ready to walk over to the firehall.
For some reason, if we got in my dad's truck, all the back country roads, stop signs and red lights, twisting behind the mall and interstate, going to the firehall took twenty minutes, but if we cut across back yards, dashed through the farmer's fields (who didn't like trespassers; I lived my whole life in fear of The Farmer, who I never, ever saw) and ran across the interstate exit curve (twice), up a brush-covered embankment, we could get there in ten minutes. My dad entertained me along the way, playing step-on-your-shadow and teaching me S-T-O-P, my very first reading word.
We always approached from the back, reaching a newly-laid gravel parking lot. Crunch, crunch, crunch, we opened the back door into a hall used for wedding receptions, bingo, and saturday night dances with a local cover band my parents loved called Freedom Child. I liked to hold my daddy's hand at this point because I was (am) afraid of the dark, but after my eyes adjusted, I ran down a long side hallway to the old-fashioned coke machine, first checking for any coins in the change slot, then banging on all the wide buttons, hoping to make a coke fall on accident, finally turning around to my dad with pleading eyes. Sometimes I'd get a coke (the little green bottle kind (do they still make those?) and I struggled awkwardly with the bottle opener that was right there on the machine), but mostly not; my parents were quite frugal and considered coke from a machine a waste of money.
We made our way to the kitchen where a handful of guys hung out drinking coffee. I slinked over to the corner and waited until giant hands (not necessarily my dad's) scooped up my armpits and placed me on the countertop. Once on my perch, I disappeared; the men forgot about me. There was Don Baker and Bill Ilenfeld and a guy named Vern, who my sister always had a crush on. The men joked and cursed and eventually a woman, one of the wives who helped organize bingo night or family potluck, would stick her head in and remind them, gentlemen, yins are talkin' in front of a child, and their eyes fell on me while they sheepishly grinned at each other.
But then their talk turned into code, I got bored and flipped over onto my stomach, my legs dangling over the edge until I took a chance and dropped. I creeped over to my dad, pulled his pant leg and whisper-asked, could I go tinkle, and he whisper-asked, do you need any help. My answer was always no because I really didn't need to go. See, the hallway to the restrooms was also the hallway that led to the trucks.
After I finished, I tiptoed back to the door of the kitchen, making sure they returned to their no-child zone bantering and I knew my dad forgot about me. As silent as a four year old who wants to crawl on fire trucks, I opened the door to the garage, slipped in, and held onto the doorknob until it slowly closed behind me. Then I was free. To do whatever I wanted.
Have you ever been alone with three gorgeous firetrucks, able to do whatever you wanted? I imagined The Monitor going off and I jumped on the back to grab hold of the long chrome handle, leaning my body side to side as we raced to the scene, whirring my imitation siren. Then I ran to the front and hopped onto the passenger side runner, hanging on again, swinging my body wide as the truck made another turn. Next moving to the driver's seat, grabbing the over-sized steering wheel to take the truck on more wide turns. (There were always a lot of wide turns when we were racing to the scene.) Once we got there, I used my tree climbing ability to spider down the side of the truck to the spouts where the hoses attached. I fastened my hoses and turned to my burning house, wrestling my body with the violent sprayer to save the day, schprshhhhhhhh sound effects coming out of my mouth. When my pretend fire was out, I was spent and I loved to climb up the giant yellow truck (the newest, shiniest addition) and lay in the middle of the neatly folded hoses until my dad came looking for me. I wasn't supposed to be in the garage by myself (my mother's rule) but my dad never scolded when he found me.
My dad took me to a few real fires. I remember a grass fire emergency. And I remember he took me to an intentional burning, a great big house on the corner of Duffy Road and Newcastle ( it became a bank, now a gas station). Later, in third grade at Northwest Elementary, I remember once the volunteers dressed up in their firefighting clothes and brought the big yellow truck to show the kids. Everyone was all excited but I hung back, nonplussed. I already knew every inch of that truck. I always used to shake my head at the other kids who said, when I grow up I'm going to be a firefighter, and thought they were idiots. In my mind, you either are one or you're not.
As an adult, I fought my own house fire. The toaster oven went up in flames, scorching a taco shell. (Black and Decker later informed me, never put a taco shell in a toaster oven. um, Thanks). Grabbing baby Stella and running out the front door to call for help never once crossed my mind. I instructed Eva to do that and after I ensured their safety, I flew back to the kitchen (my body gracefully careening to take the pivot through the door, the wide turn I'd prepared for all those years ago) and grabbed the extinguisher out from under the sink and doused the miniture oven and the ominous flames creeping up the curtains. The fire did some smoke damage, but if we had waited for the professionals to show up, we may have lost the whole kitchen.
I know I missed my calling. Something happens in panic-inducing situations, a calmness comes over me and a clear action plan presents itself in my mind. Everything moves in slow motion.
A child pretending is a child practicing.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Wipe Out
I wiped out on my razor scooter a few weeks ago and it was the best feeling in the world. I totally wish you could have seen it. I stood up and laughed, jumped back on, and kept going. Just to show everybody I was fine. After a few blocks, I sat down on some steps and immediately Facebooked about it, telling my most amused and delighted friends: It finally happened. The fabric of my work pants torn at the knees. The blood running down my shins.
I never felt more alive.
(Why can't I feel this way about heartbreak?)
I remember the fantabulous crashes from my youth. And how we all celebrated when some kid made a most awesome Wipe Out. I once catapulted over my bike handles and flew down the steepest hill in my neighborhood, dragging my face along the side of the road, coming up with gravel embedded in my cheek. Admiration from one kid to another: Cool wipe out. We wore our skinned knees and elbows like badges of honor.
I've never gotten seriously hurt or broken any bones and I have a theory about this: I don't try to stop myself when I fall. I feel the Wipe Out coming and I go limp, letting my knees drag across the pavement, holding up my wrists. The moment the skateboard or scooter jams, the split second I'm aware This Is Going To Hurt Like Hell, I let myself go with complete abandon. I do not even think twice about jumping right back on my ride and pushing away as fast as I can. I never shed a tear.
(Why can't I feel this way about heartbreak?)
The same week I so gloriously wiped out on my razor scooter, some girl took a wrecking ball to my heart. I realize I write the action verbs like she caused all this, but I know I blew it. In a colossal way. She even warned me about what was going to happen but I proceeded as if I were somehow different. My endless terminal uniqueness.
After everything explodes, I am reduced to sobbing and chanting through the tears, Never Again, Never Again, I am never ever ever telling anyone I like them, I am never even allowing myself to like anyone, fuck everything, fuck everyone. Several minutes of this, I suddenly realize the energy and wish I am sending into the universe. I drop to the floor, wince from the pain where my one knee is still raw from the crash, and insist on whispering a new prayer: Soft heart, soft heart, soft heart, please divine source of all life, I take it all back, do not close my heart no matter how many times I trust it to the wrong person, soft heart, soft heart, soft heart, I must keep my soft open heart....
As I shift the weight off my sore knee, it hits me. With my scooter, with my skateboard, I fall with abandon. I even EXPECT to get hurt. And I LOVE it when I do. Someone suggests that maybe a forty-five year old woman should not be buzzing through The Short North on a razor scooter, that maybe I should go ahead and pay for that parking pass. There's NO Way I will ever even entertain the idea of quitting.
(What if I start thinking of falling with my heart the way I think of my body flying across the sidewalk? Expect to get hurt and even love it when I do?)
I ride my razor scooter with no fear. I mean, I'm not in the middle of the street or anything stupid. But if I have fear, I lose balance and I especially lose the joy of gliding through the world. When I have fear, when I hesitate, that's usually when I crash. I ride both-footed and the crash happened when I was doing my stutter step full speed to switch feet. I discovered this the very next day when I almost crash again. I didn't remember what made me fall, but my body did. My feet hesitate during the skip to the other foot and I laugh, realizing my mistake. Now I have to take my brain out of thinking about it too much. If I am full of fear, I cannot accomplish such a feat with the usual style and grace.
(Same thing Heart. I know that fear got in my way, made me overreact, over correct. Crash.)
I'm taking a break from FB interactions during the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur because every year I use this time as a space to find mindfulness. But the truth is I could no longer pretend I am OK. I am not OK. I am heartbroken. I cried everyday for the last two weeks. A few friends protest: But you don't want a girlfriend anyways. And they're right. I don't. But that doesn't change the facts on the ground. I liked someone. It didn't work out. She's gone.
This happens repeatedly in my life and I always respond by immediately being with someone else. I am seeking change in my life so I know the only way towards a different path is to change the pattern. For the first time in my life, post-heartbreak, I insist on aloneness.
I choose to regard the heartbreak the same way I feel the skinned knee. I'm holding it up for everyone to see. If it's painful, I must become willing not just to endure it but also to let it awaken my heart and soften me. Instead of running from the fall and the pain, I am going to embrace it.
The key is: It's no big deal. With my mind, I can make a big deal out of myself, out of my pain. Or, just like the scooter crash, I get up and shrug. It's even funny. It's even something to share with the people who love me.
I let my heart race. Fly across the universe. Cool Wipe Out.
I never felt more alive.
(Why can't I feel this way about heartbreak?)
I remember the fantabulous crashes from my youth. And how we all celebrated when some kid made a most awesome Wipe Out. I once catapulted over my bike handles and flew down the steepest hill in my neighborhood, dragging my face along the side of the road, coming up with gravel embedded in my cheek. Admiration from one kid to another: Cool wipe out. We wore our skinned knees and elbows like badges of honor.
I've never gotten seriously hurt or broken any bones and I have a theory about this: I don't try to stop myself when I fall. I feel the Wipe Out coming and I go limp, letting my knees drag across the pavement, holding up my wrists. The moment the skateboard or scooter jams, the split second I'm aware This Is Going To Hurt Like Hell, I let myself go with complete abandon. I do not even think twice about jumping right back on my ride and pushing away as fast as I can. I never shed a tear.
(Why can't I feel this way about heartbreak?)
The same week I so gloriously wiped out on my razor scooter, some girl took a wrecking ball to my heart. I realize I write the action verbs like she caused all this, but I know I blew it. In a colossal way. She even warned me about what was going to happen but I proceeded as if I were somehow different. My endless terminal uniqueness.
After everything explodes, I am reduced to sobbing and chanting through the tears, Never Again, Never Again, I am never ever ever telling anyone I like them, I am never even allowing myself to like anyone, fuck everything, fuck everyone. Several minutes of this, I suddenly realize the energy and wish I am sending into the universe. I drop to the floor, wince from the pain where my one knee is still raw from the crash, and insist on whispering a new prayer: Soft heart, soft heart, soft heart, please divine source of all life, I take it all back, do not close my heart no matter how many times I trust it to the wrong person, soft heart, soft heart, soft heart, I must keep my soft open heart....
As I shift the weight off my sore knee, it hits me. With my scooter, with my skateboard, I fall with abandon. I even EXPECT to get hurt. And I LOVE it when I do. Someone suggests that maybe a forty-five year old woman should not be buzzing through The Short North on a razor scooter, that maybe I should go ahead and pay for that parking pass. There's NO Way I will ever even entertain the idea of quitting.
(What if I start thinking of falling with my heart the way I think of my body flying across the sidewalk? Expect to get hurt and even love it when I do?)
I ride my razor scooter with no fear. I mean, I'm not in the middle of the street or anything stupid. But if I have fear, I lose balance and I especially lose the joy of gliding through the world. When I have fear, when I hesitate, that's usually when I crash. I ride both-footed and the crash happened when I was doing my stutter step full speed to switch feet. I discovered this the very next day when I almost crash again. I didn't remember what made me fall, but my body did. My feet hesitate during the skip to the other foot and I laugh, realizing my mistake. Now I have to take my brain out of thinking about it too much. If I am full of fear, I cannot accomplish such a feat with the usual style and grace.
(Same thing Heart. I know that fear got in my way, made me overreact, over correct. Crash.)
I'm taking a break from FB interactions during the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur because every year I use this time as a space to find mindfulness. But the truth is I could no longer pretend I am OK. I am not OK. I am heartbroken. I cried everyday for the last two weeks. A few friends protest: But you don't want a girlfriend anyways. And they're right. I don't. But that doesn't change the facts on the ground. I liked someone. It didn't work out. She's gone.
This happens repeatedly in my life and I always respond by immediately being with someone else. I am seeking change in my life so I know the only way towards a different path is to change the pattern. For the first time in my life, post-heartbreak, I insist on aloneness.
I choose to regard the heartbreak the same way I feel the skinned knee. I'm holding it up for everyone to see. If it's painful, I must become willing not just to endure it but also to let it awaken my heart and soften me. Instead of running from the fall and the pain, I am going to embrace it.
The key is: It's no big deal. With my mind, I can make a big deal out of myself, out of my pain. Or, just like the scooter crash, I get up and shrug. It's even funny. It's even something to share with the people who love me.
I let my heart race. Fly across the universe. Cool Wipe Out.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Figuring out Queer
“Oh, you never want to go to a school like Vasser, or any of The Seven Sisters, because they’re all full of lesbians,” declared my best friend. We were standing in the hallway of my high school sometime in 1984 and I remember a few other kids were there and even a guidance counselor, nodding his head in agreement. It is my earliest memory of a consciousness of being gay, of actually identifying with that word: Lesbian. I remember thinking clearly: That’s where I MUST go, and, When I get to college, I can tell people, until then, I MUST keep it a secret. But college, college, college, I can finally be free in college.
I think about the thoughts that led up to this moment. I have an early memory of being at Myrtle Beach, floating on a raft on my stomach with my head resting on my hands, looking at the people on the beach and thinking, I’m not like them, any of them, and I have to hide it, I have to keep myself a secret. I was eight.
I remember in all my family’s travels across the country, when no one I knew was around, introducing myself to strangers as a boy. I wanted so badly to be a boy. First to have their freedom, next to have their girlfriends.
I remember watching soap operas and falling in love with Laura and thinking, I would be so much much better for her than Luke or Scotty. I dreamed myself as the perfect boyfriend all through my childhood. I remember how in all the childhood games, I insisted on being Chachi or Joe Hardy or Luke Skywalker.
All the sex education books told me having crushes on girls was entirely “normal” for the pre-teen and no indication of future aberrant behavior. I don’t know at what point I realized I didn’t have to be a boy to have a girlfriend. I could actually be a girl and have a girlfriend.
And how did I know “gay” even existed? Again the early memories started with television. The National Enquirer blowing up about Billie Jean King. Rod Stewart having his stomach pumped. A councilman shot in San Francisco. My sister explaining the meaning of the lyrics of “Lola.” The first time I heard the word “faggot” hurled at another kid was on the bus in fourth grade and my best friend had to explain all the words: gay, faggot, dyke, lesbian, queer. (My best friend did a lot of reading and had a way more worldly household.) Martina Navratilova sent me to the tennis courts. Then Boy George appeared on MTV and when my father saw him, he muttered, What a fruit. I looked at Culture Club and knew that was me; I didn’t have the hair or the make up and certainly not the style but I knew we were still the same.
As I was entering my senior year, I was losing a different best friend to college. She left me with this parting advice: Hey, there’s a girl I know from theater, you’ll probably meet her at the Thespian picnic, she’s had a really hard time because everyone is calling her a lesbian. I don’t know if she actually IS a lesbian, well, yes, I do, she definitely is, but do you think you could try to be friends with her?
Could I be friends with her? Oh my god I was so excited to meet a real live lesbian who was actually my age. This year I sent her a message on FB asking, I think you’re the first person I came out to, do you remember what I said? She wrote back: You looked at me and told me that you were not gay and then you leaned over and kissed me.
I don’t remember this, but I totally trust her version of events, especially since that sounds EXACTLY like something I would do.
I regret how after that kissing, I spiralled into a wave of self hatred which led me to reject my gay friends, hook up with a very sweet boy, and write suicide notes. I was sure I was going to hell for being gay and the only thing that kept me from killing myself was that I also knew I would go to hell for killing myself.
That time in my life completely informs my spirituality today:
How we NEVER know how things are going to turn out. We know nothing. I was seventeen and I was sure, absolutely certain, I was going to hell. A mere four years later, I was dancing with a hundred thousand queers in front of City Hall in San Francisco, thinking THANK GOD I AM GAY. I imagine someone whispering to that 17 year old girl curled up, miserable on her bedroom floor: You are perfect and soon you are going to be sooooo happy. If I find myself stuck in some kind of despair, I think of these mere four years and the distance traveled to get to such a place of acceptance and it doesn’t take four years anymore, thank goodness.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Somewhere Safe
I put my bank card somewhere safe so of course I can't find it now. Does anyone else do this? I put my wedding ring somewhere safe. I put the gold necklace my mother-in-law gave me somewhere safe. Somewhere safe in my house there is some wonderful stuff. If only I could find somewhere safe.
When I was nineteen, I ran away from home with the woman I planned to marry and spend the rest of life. My first big grown up Love. We got an apartment together, opened joint bank accounts, and laid around talking about soul mates and forever. In 1987, we were politically aware enough and madly in love enough to dream about Gay Marriage. I remember insane passion when we were trying to avoid getting caught in college and at our summer job. Once we moved in together, the passion dissipates, the immature fighting starts. She left me after a year and a half for our only other friend in Columbus, OH, a beautiful boy who worked with us. I could hardly blame her; the heart wants what the heart wants. She told me we couldn't be friends, that she loved me too much, that she'd never move on if I stayed in her life. I watched them pack up and leave together and when they left, I had no friends.
When I was 23, I tried the great big let's spend the rest of our lives together once more. This time we lasted four years. Again with the wild crazy passion for about a year, again with the boredom, again with the fighting. About two years in, she started cheating on me and when I figured it out and all the crying subsided, we decided we really loved each other so we would try an Open Marriage.
(Here's the thing about growing up gay late 20th century: As you are realizing you are gay, you are realizing everything you've ever been told is a lie. Everything. Everything about gender and the sexes and sex and love and marriage. If something as big as the institution of heterosexuality is a complete lie, maybe every institution needs to come down with it. I was ready to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Plus, I didn't want to lose another girlfriend. I am not a jealous person. I have abandonment issues. If you promise you're not going to leave me, I really don't care who you fuck. Connection is so much more important to me than ownership.)
This story does not end well. My partner wasn't just a cheater, she was mean and abusive. Probably not the best person with whom to have an open marriage. For example, I wasn't allowed to see anyone else. While my understanding of non-monogamy was about openness, honesty, and the opportunity to widen the circle of love in our life. Her understanding of having another girlfriend was because I wasn't enough. She justified her extra girlfriend in all the ways I didn't meet her needs. I also found myself helping the other two work out their problems. I vividly remember the Steelers were in the play offs for the first time in years and I wanted to get home but they got into a big fight and I was trapped in the car counseling my partner and her other lover. Blah. I promised myself: Never Again.
As I exited this relationship, I thought - If I had asked her to marry me, if gay marriage was on the table, she would have said no and saved me a lot of trouble. This is one of the reasons I started really pushing marriage equality. The gays should have the right to ask their lover, Will you marry me? No? Ok, next. I decided then and there, no relationship without Marriage.
And then came marriage. Again with the great big crazy passion at the beginning. By the time we hit the boring part, we were planning a wedding to distract us. And then it was always on to the next thing, Stella, three babies at once, car seats, family vacation, preschool, kindergarten. I discovered marriage is a little like driving in the summer with the windows up and no air conditioning. Just as we were about the cross the finish line of every kid in kindergarten, along came a carjacker. This time I cheated.
I'm not sure where this all leaves me. Go back a story, where I said yesterday I am fine being single forever. I am not, however, fine never having sex in my life so I am left sorting out what that kind of connection means to me and how to proceed.
I sure as fuck am never getting married again. If given the opportunity to gay marry, I would have married three times so maybe driving that car does not suit me. I mean, I had a great wife. For all the things I tried to make wrong about her or wrong about us together, it really comes down to having nothing to do with her and everything to do with my own personal misery at being trapped in a relationship. I make a list of everything I want in a spouse and then sit back and laugh at myself because guess what? She fills it.
I never want to be dependent on anyone else again unless I am very old and it's one of my kids.
I believe our dreams and promises of forever are inevitably at odds with our sexual beings. Especially women. Right now pharmaceutical companies are working on a pill which will increase a woman's desire for her husband. Not that there's anything wrong with her actual libido. A man needs Viagra because his body is failing. A woman's biochemistry may be completely normal, but we are pathologizing the fact of women's natural sexuality. A cure for the monotony of monogamy. All the scientific research about women's desire shows how when we are in a state of safety, desire dissipates. Disappears. Completely. And it happens much more quickly for women than men. The main reason this happens is because people are trapped. You don't have sex with me because you desire me, you have sex with me because I'm the only one you're allowed to have sex with and that really bores the shit out of us. Within the bounds of great big committed relationship, the heat of being desired grows remote. The choice of me is no longer being made. Blah.
While the dream of "you complete me" sounds really compelling in the beginning, this isn't love. This is an inner child seeking reassurance - tell me I'm special, tell me I'm perfect, tell me it's forever no matter what. At this point, I believe crossing over to the space where I surrender safety, acknowledge that I am navigating my life alone, supported by the love of my family and friends, but inescapably alone, letting go of the longing to depend and be protected, is the only space where pure eros can thrive.
I can't find my bank card, my wedding band, the gold necklace my mother-in-law gave me. I put them somewhere safe. It's the things I love without possession that stay in my life. On my wrist are bracelets I gathered over the years. Eva made me a collection of the kids' names in Hebrew. My sister gave me a leather charm bracelet for Christmas. Gigi gave me three matching silver bracelets for my birthday several years ago. I toss them onto the nightstand or in a desk drawer or on the bathroom sink or in the little notch of my car door. I don't think twice about any of them. I never try to put them anywhere safe. I never lose
them and they never leave me.
When I was nineteen, I ran away from home with the woman I planned to marry and spend the rest of life. My first big grown up Love. We got an apartment together, opened joint bank accounts, and laid around talking about soul mates and forever. In 1987, we were politically aware enough and madly in love enough to dream about Gay Marriage. I remember insane passion when we were trying to avoid getting caught in college and at our summer job. Once we moved in together, the passion dissipates, the immature fighting starts. She left me after a year and a half for our only other friend in Columbus, OH, a beautiful boy who worked with us. I could hardly blame her; the heart wants what the heart wants. She told me we couldn't be friends, that she loved me too much, that she'd never move on if I stayed in her life. I watched them pack up and leave together and when they left, I had no friends.
When I was 23, I tried the great big let's spend the rest of our lives together once more. This time we lasted four years. Again with the wild crazy passion for about a year, again with the boredom, again with the fighting. About two years in, she started cheating on me and when I figured it out and all the crying subsided, we decided we really loved each other so we would try an Open Marriage.
(Here's the thing about growing up gay late 20th century: As you are realizing you are gay, you are realizing everything you've ever been told is a lie. Everything. Everything about gender and the sexes and sex and love and marriage. If something as big as the institution of heterosexuality is a complete lie, maybe every institution needs to come down with it. I was ready to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Plus, I didn't want to lose another girlfriend. I am not a jealous person. I have abandonment issues. If you promise you're not going to leave me, I really don't care who you fuck. Connection is so much more important to me than ownership.)
This story does not end well. My partner wasn't just a cheater, she was mean and abusive. Probably not the best person with whom to have an open marriage. For example, I wasn't allowed to see anyone else. While my understanding of non-monogamy was about openness, honesty, and the opportunity to widen the circle of love in our life. Her understanding of having another girlfriend was because I wasn't enough. She justified her extra girlfriend in all the ways I didn't meet her needs. I also found myself helping the other two work out their problems. I vividly remember the Steelers were in the play offs for the first time in years and I wanted to get home but they got into a big fight and I was trapped in the car counseling my partner and her other lover. Blah. I promised myself: Never Again.
As I exited this relationship, I thought - If I had asked her to marry me, if gay marriage was on the table, she would have said no and saved me a lot of trouble. This is one of the reasons I started really pushing marriage equality. The gays should have the right to ask their lover, Will you marry me? No? Ok, next. I decided then and there, no relationship without Marriage.
And then came marriage. Again with the great big crazy passion at the beginning. By the time we hit the boring part, we were planning a wedding to distract us. And then it was always on to the next thing, Stella, three babies at once, car seats, family vacation, preschool, kindergarten. I discovered marriage is a little like driving in the summer with the windows up and no air conditioning. Just as we were about the cross the finish line of every kid in kindergarten, along came a carjacker. This time I cheated.
I'm not sure where this all leaves me. Go back a story, where I said yesterday I am fine being single forever. I am not, however, fine never having sex in my life so I am left sorting out what that kind of connection means to me and how to proceed.
I sure as fuck am never getting married again. If given the opportunity to gay marry, I would have married three times so maybe driving that car does not suit me. I mean, I had a great wife. For all the things I tried to make wrong about her or wrong about us together, it really comes down to having nothing to do with her and everything to do with my own personal misery at being trapped in a relationship. I make a list of everything I want in a spouse and then sit back and laugh at myself because guess what? She fills it.
I never want to be dependent on anyone else again unless I am very old and it's one of my kids.
I believe our dreams and promises of forever are inevitably at odds with our sexual beings. Especially women. Right now pharmaceutical companies are working on a pill which will increase a woman's desire for her husband. Not that there's anything wrong with her actual libido. A man needs Viagra because his body is failing. A woman's biochemistry may be completely normal, but we are pathologizing the fact of women's natural sexuality. A cure for the monotony of monogamy. All the scientific research about women's desire shows how when we are in a state of safety, desire dissipates. Disappears. Completely. And it happens much more quickly for women than men. The main reason this happens is because people are trapped. You don't have sex with me because you desire me, you have sex with me because I'm the only one you're allowed to have sex with and that really bores the shit out of us. Within the bounds of great big committed relationship, the heat of being desired grows remote. The choice of me is no longer being made. Blah.
While the dream of "you complete me" sounds really compelling in the beginning, this isn't love. This is an inner child seeking reassurance - tell me I'm special, tell me I'm perfect, tell me it's forever no matter what. At this point, I believe crossing over to the space where I surrender safety, acknowledge that I am navigating my life alone, supported by the love of my family and friends, but inescapably alone, letting go of the longing to depend and be protected, is the only space where pure eros can thrive.
I can't find my bank card, my wedding band, the gold necklace my mother-in-law gave me. I put them somewhere safe. It's the things I love without possession that stay in my life. On my wrist are bracelets I gathered over the years. Eva made me a collection of the kids' names in Hebrew. My sister gave me a leather charm bracelet for Christmas. Gigi gave me three matching silver bracelets for my birthday several years ago. I toss them onto the nightstand or in a desk drawer or on the bathroom sink or in the little notch of my car door. I don't think twice about any of them. I never try to put them anywhere safe. I never lose
them and they never leave me.
Monday, May 13, 2013
For the Sake of the Kids
I didn't expect it to happen. I have low expectations these days when it comes to anything having to do with my First Wife. I took the kids to Little Minyan for Kol Nidre. Bought them some new clothes and shoes. Warned Eva. Since this is usually her stomping grounds. Our daughter asked her once, Is is ok if Mama takes us to services at Little Minyan sometimes too? As if it's something I need permission for. Like I said, I went with low expectations.
This was one of those times I had to put on Katie Perry's Firework for the car ride, just to give me a breath of self-confidence.
Everyone recognizes my kids so I was forced to introduce myself: The Other Mom. Jessica, the sort of rabbi, who was once my friend but defriended me and was the "spiritual leader" of my First Wife's second wedding, gave me a half-hearted wave. Then services began. Luckily my son was tired because he stayed beside me the whole time and I really needed that. We discovered little pieces of paper (for notes?) in the pew in front of us and he spent the entire time doing origami. I showed him how to make a frog. Eva and Amy appeared about five minutes after everything started. They sat behind me where Georgia and Scarlett had already established themselves, having checked with me that they could escape if they got bored. When Stella saw them, she left me to go curl up in her Ema's lap. I have to admit: I am petty. I decided right before services (and even made a point to TELL God) that even though I know I am supposed to pray for the ability to forgive Amy, forget it, I'm never forgiving her. Especially if she never acknowledges she did anything wrong to me. And Eva refuses to forgive me. And now I can't forgive her for not forgiving me and yes, it's an endless circle of rat poison. (Anne Lamott says Not Forgiving someone is like eating the rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.) That was my state of mind pre-Kol Nidre. Nope. No Way. Hardened Heart. Not Gonna Do It.
Everyone recognizes my kids so I was forced to introduce myself: The Other Mom. Jessica, the sort of rabbi, who was once my friend but defriended me and was the "spiritual leader" of my First Wife's second wedding, gave me a half-hearted wave. Then services began. Luckily my son was tired because he stayed beside me the whole time and I really needed that. We discovered little pieces of paper (for notes?) in the pew in front of us and he spent the entire time doing origami. I showed him how to make a frog. Eva and Amy appeared about five minutes after everything started. They sat behind me where Georgia and Scarlett had already established themselves, having checked with me that they could escape if they got bored. When Stella saw them, she left me to go curl up in her Ema's lap. I have to admit: I am petty. I decided right before services (and even made a point to TELL God) that even though I know I am supposed to pray for the ability to forgive Amy, forget it, I'm never forgiving her. Especially if she never acknowledges she did anything wrong to me. And Eva refuses to forgive me. And now I can't forgive her for not forgiving me and yes, it's an endless circle of rat poison. (Anne Lamott says Not Forgiving someone is like eating the rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.) That was my state of mind pre-Kol Nidre. Nope. No Way. Hardened Heart. Not Gonna Do It.
In case you don't know, pretty much the whole point of this holiday is atonement and forgiveness. Jews don't go to confession year round; we starve ourselves and stand up in services for fifty hours in a row, praying for forgiveness and the ability to forgive others. I practiced the previous ten years but I knew this year was only a physical show. For the sake of the kids.
There was this super long piano and cello solo. Beautiful and all. But c'mon. Really? And we had to stand for the whole thing. I was like, WHAT is the point of making us stand for twenty minutes? As soon as I asked the question, I quickly answered myself - I know, I know: To make us focus. And perhaps to make us sorry. Really Really Sorry. But sheesh. I finally gave Zeke permission to sit. With his origami frogs. I didn't realize it at the time, only made the connection later, but it was on the last note, the very last strung out cello note, the denouement, the final settling of the song that my heart softened the teensiest bit. A crack where the light came in. I thought, Well at least that last note made standing the whole time sort of worth it. Ok, we got to finally sit down for a minute. But then they had a kid open the Ark and stand with The Torah for the eternity of reading the community Kol Nidre. Back to more standing.
There was this super long piano and cello solo. Beautiful and all. But c'mon. Really? And we had to stand for the whole thing. I was like, WHAT is the point of making us stand for twenty minutes? As soon as I asked the question, I quickly answered myself - I know, I know: To make us focus. And perhaps to make us sorry. Really Really Sorry. But sheesh. I finally gave Zeke permission to sit. With his origami frogs. I didn't realize it at the time, only made the connection later, but it was on the last note, the very last strung out cello note, the denouement, the final settling of the song that my heart softened the teensiest bit. A crack where the light came in. I thought, Well at least that last note made standing the whole time sort of worth it. Ok, we got to finally sit down for a minute. But then they had a kid open the Ark and stand with The Torah for the eternity of reading the community Kol Nidre. Back to more standing.
For most of this reading, I worried about the kid, standing there forever with the weight of The Torah. It was a back and forth, call and response thing. Sometimes readers happened in the congregation, quite spontaneously, but the last reading was done together. It built us up to forgiving "vows we could not keep." That's when I started to pay attention.
Vows. We. Could. Not. Keep.
And then the last paragraph, I suddenly became aware: We are standing only a few feet away from each other, reading aloud a prayer for forgiveness and for the ability to forgive. And I know Eva. Better than even The New Wife. We stood next to each other reciting these prayers for 12 years. I know she is reading out loud too. And together we are reading out loud in a sacred space with a Minyan of Jews. And perhaps even beginning a new set of vows.
Of course I started to cry. Because I always fucking cry. When we sat down, I put my arm around my son and smiled through the tears at the plague of frogs littering the church pew.
A friend tells me: Forgiveness isn't easy. Hearing people say things out loud in front of a congregation that they need forgiveness when I believe that YES..YOU NEED TO ASK FORGIVENESS FOR THIS YOU PRICK..is powerful. And the person saying it knows that I know that I need to forgive and be forgiven. And then, I start, a little, to forgive. Some things can never truly be forgiven, but like with all mitzvot, the more I practice the "easier" it becomes.
A deep sigh. I realize forgiveness is more like acceptance. Never warm and fuzzy. It all started with my acceptance of my obligation (to take my kids to this service) and moved to ACCEPTANCE and then God nudges us in the right direction: Stop swallowing the rat poison.
We left not too long after. Stella complaining that she needed to go to bed. And I was a little less angry than when I arrived.
Ring the bell that still can ring.
There's a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in......
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
I Love Being Not Right
So one of my big life lessons is all about how I know absolutely nothing.
A perfect example: When I was 17, I wanted to kill myself because I was in the process of realizing I am gay. Flash forward five years and I am dancing in the streets of San Francisco with my hands in the air, singing along with Crystal Waters (Live) at the end of the day of a giant gay pride march, thinking to myself: THANK GOD I am gay because straight people never get to do this except maybe at weddings.
(side note to self: maybe this is really why gay people want in on the whole wedding thing, more places to dance with our hands in the air.)
Anyways. Now when I find myself super-depressed (like even this afternoon when I was crying at the end of The Iron Lady which is a movie not at all about England but more about having a great big true love in life who shares everything and realizing I totally fucked that up for myself and dammit I really hate Catherine and Heathcliff right now, and yes I'm probably going to bleed tomorrow morning), I remind myself how in the blink of an eye I went from suicidal depression with ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY my life was going to be so miserable and I was going straight to hell to a life where I celebrate myself and totally sing the body electric on most nights (and now days).
In this past week, I am confronted AGAIN with another way I was so wrong.
And it makes my heart sing.
Eva has this brother, my kids' uncle, who never really said much of anything to me throughout the beginnings of our marriage, mostly because I came along right about the time he developed complete teenage disdain for anything having to do with his family. One time, we were at some great big function where he was sitting sullenly next to me on the couch in a room full of relatives when suddenly he was inspired to start telling me about his art and his whole rant eventually led to him insisting to Eva and me about what it's going to be like when his art is hanging in MOMA. Yes, this idiot late teenager who grunted when his mother helped him set up an art show at the local JCC seemed to be having a manic breakdown right in front of me with what I interpreted as full blown delusions of grandeur. Afterwards, Eva and I talked at length about our concern for his mental health.
I am very pleased to report ten years later - I was so wrong. He's not in MOMA yet. But it's surely not a dream I believe crazy.
Because there's THIS <<<<<click and make sure you scroll down and watch the video if you want your mind blown. And after that video, find the other ones HERE.
It continues to be my life lesson: I know nothing. We never know what's coming. Don't piss on someone else's dream, even if it's only in your mind. We never know what people are going to do. We think we know. We think we can look at patterns of behavior and predict outcomes. And it is SO HARD to believe that people can change. But they do it all the time. Sometimes they change back. And forth. And keep moving forth. Which is sort of what Jake's art is doing - everything is in a state of constant change, how the story starts, you never know how it's going to end, the picture in flux. We know nothing.
One of the promises of my recovery: I will be amazed before I am half way through....and I am.
A perfect example: When I was 17, I wanted to kill myself because I was in the process of realizing I am gay. Flash forward five years and I am dancing in the streets of San Francisco with my hands in the air, singing along with Crystal Waters (Live) at the end of the day of a giant gay pride march, thinking to myself: THANK GOD I am gay because straight people never get to do this except maybe at weddings.
(side note to self: maybe this is really why gay people want in on the whole wedding thing, more places to dance with our hands in the air.)
Anyways. Now when I find myself super-depressed (like even this afternoon when I was crying at the end of The Iron Lady which is a movie not at all about England but more about having a great big true love in life who shares everything and realizing I totally fucked that up for myself and dammit I really hate Catherine and Heathcliff right now, and yes I'm probably going to bleed tomorrow morning), I remind myself how in the blink of an eye I went from suicidal depression with ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY my life was going to be so miserable and I was going straight to hell to a life where I celebrate myself and totally sing the body electric on most nights (and now days).
In this past week, I am confronted AGAIN with another way I was so wrong.
And it makes my heart sing.
Eva has this brother, my kids' uncle, who never really said much of anything to me throughout the beginnings of our marriage, mostly because I came along right about the time he developed complete teenage disdain for anything having to do with his family. One time, we were at some great big function where he was sitting sullenly next to me on the couch in a room full of relatives when suddenly he was inspired to start telling me about his art and his whole rant eventually led to him insisting to Eva and me about what it's going to be like when his art is hanging in MOMA. Yes, this idiot late teenager who grunted when his mother helped him set up an art show at the local JCC seemed to be having a manic breakdown right in front of me with what I interpreted as full blown delusions of grandeur. Afterwards, Eva and I talked at length about our concern for his mental health.
I am very pleased to report ten years later - I was so wrong. He's not in MOMA yet. But it's surely not a dream I believe crazy.
Because there's THIS <<<<<click and make sure you scroll down and watch the video if you want your mind blown. And after that video, find the other ones HERE.
It continues to be my life lesson: I know nothing. We never know what's coming. Don't piss on someone else's dream, even if it's only in your mind. We never know what people are going to do. We think we know. We think we can look at patterns of behavior and predict outcomes. And it is SO HARD to believe that people can change. But they do it all the time. Sometimes they change back. And forth. And keep moving forth. Which is sort of what Jake's art is doing - everything is in a state of constant change, how the story starts, you never know how it's going to end, the picture in flux. We know nothing.
One of the promises of my recovery: I will be amazed before I am half way through....and I am.
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