Heartbreaker, You Got the Best of Me

There are some emotions that are so deep, so private, so personal that they can only be adequately expressed in an away message.  Your crush doesn't like you, no one understands you, daddy never hugged you enough and now he's dead. At any given moment, everyone's buddy list writhes with so much drama, heartbreak, and angst that they might as well change the name to "emo messages."

Niral and I have made a competition of finding the biggest trainwreck away message whenever we're both online at work.  They range from semi-cryptic (where only the emotion is obvious, but the cause gets glossed over - like smiley faces) to the restrained (lyrics to Mariah Carey songs or terrible quotes from Grey's Anatomy) to a hot, tranny mess (using phrases directly or indirectly aimed at a specific person - e.g. "Have some manners! You don't give someone a dirty sanchez and leave before the poop dries").  Yes, I realize there is another group that considers themselves "deep."  Don't get me started: they go on babel fish and translate their tranny messiness into Italian or French in hopes that it will make their problems look like a thinking man's dilemma.  In actuality, it screams, "Dear god, someone please ask me what this means."

Like most things, it's all fun and games until it happens to you.  For the past month I've been seeing a boy pretty regularly.  We talked everyday, had great conversations, had better dates, birds were singing the sky was blue.  Then he ended things the way 99.9% of gay men end things - they just cease all contact without warning.  It's not the first time it's happened to me - and I know very well it won't be the last - but I really liked this guy.  I got a little worked up about how things didn't work out and before I know what was happening I was on babel fish translating things into French.  The desire to put something in my away message was so great that I actually had to sign off to prevent myself from showing my full frontal emotional nudity to anyone with my screen name.

While I was desperate to find a more appropriate way to deal with my ride on the tranny mess express, Suzanne confessed to me that she wasn't sure if she liked the boy she had started dating.  Their relationship started around the same time I had started mine and she too had spent a lot of time with her guy. What exactly was she doing if after a month of intense dating she had only begun to think she maybe might like him?  Why was I so quick to get emotionally involved, while she was able to remain detached for so much longer?  I realized it wasn't what she was doing, but what he was doing.  As most boys do, he lavished Suz with attention.  And when someone gives you the type of attention you want, it's tough to tell if you like the person or the attention.

Suzanne has been dating boys much longer than I have, and somewhere along the way she must have learned this.  I suppose I didn't know him long enough to say that I actually like him, but at the very least, I knew enough to make me want to know more - unfortunately, the feeling wasn't mutual.  The frequent calls, texts and emails pretty much killed the level of mystery and distance that's needed for the beginning stages of any relationship.  While I'm not entirely happy with how he chose to end things, I can't blame him for wanting to.  He's had enough.

What really kills me is that it wasn't always that way.  At the end of our second date, we were leaving the restaurant and he suggested we take a walk instead of going our separate ways.  We walked and talked for 20 blocks until we reached Columbus Circle.  As we made our way down to the subway, it was clear to me he didn't want to go, even thought it was the natural breaking point.  On the train ride home, I remember thinking that I liked him in a way I had forgotten it was possible to like someone.  Now we've reached the final breaking point but I'm the one who doesn't want to say goodbye.  Add insult to injury, I'm not much better than the away messages I used to make fun of: instead of writing a three line away message while mascara streaked down my face, I've labored over a six paragraph post. 

At least it's not in French.

What are you going to do with it...?

Someone once said, “Ignorance is bliss.” For those of us who are blessed with the opportunity to learn and be educated, we are unfortunately—or fortunately—bound to becoming an asset to our community and to thinking on a more global level…as opposed to being selfish and narcissistic and living only in the world directly around us. When I was in tenth grade, I was identified as an “outstanding leader in my community and school.” Because of this I was granted to opportunity to attend the Hugh O’Brian Youth Leadership seminar in Central Pennsylvania (www.hoby.org). HOBY changed the way I thought about the world… it wasn’t just me anymore, it was a something bigger. I began to understand the importance of volunteering in my community and giving back to a world in which I was blessed to be one of the more fortunate members of society. I went back to HOBY every subsequent year in various roles, I did a lot of community service projects, and I assumed leadership responsibilities in my school and community in an effort to “change the world.” Though I didn’t necessarily move mountains at the time, I was definitely helping others around me and thinking beyond myself.

Time passed, college came and went, grad school took me to another part of the country, I made the “big move”—and, through being so absorbed in my studies and “life” in general, I began to forget my importance to society. It became a lot more about “me” again and my HOBY enthusiasm became a dim light in my past—which was exactly what I didn’t want to happen, and was exactly what I preached others not to let life do to those who have so much to give.

So, here I was: 25 years old, two jobs, and no time for anything else in my schedule—and I decided it was time to get back to my HOBY roots and volunteer for the 2008 seminar. I couldn’t wait to cheer and meet my kids and gain back that enthusiasm I was so longing for... I couldn’t wait to see the look on everyone’s faces after they came home from the mock legislature or their community service project… I couldn’t wait to feel a sense of accomplishment on the last day when my kids didn’t want to leave and were so electrified with the HOBY spirit! …However, this year was a bit different for me. This year, I felt all of those things—but, I also felt a little more. This year, with some enlightenment from a friend, I realized that I had a new understanding of the question we asked our ambassadors on the final day of HOBY; that question was, “What are you going to do with it?” When I was a tenth grader confronted by this question, it meant something to me that was something very different than what it meant to me as a 25 year old. You see, at first glance, volunteering in your community, getting involved in your school, and joining organizations is only the first step. Because, after you’ve done all of those things—you’ve only begun the first step in becoming a leader. It’s not just about using your passions for the betterment of the greater good, but it is also absolving to be one of the greater good and pushing your limits daily in order to create change. Now, there is no step by step program for this… and I’m still not exactly sure where this enlightenment will take me, but, I’ve come to a point where there is no going back. I want to no longer be on the track to becoming a pawn to pop culture and the game of life, I want to take life by storm (!) and create my realities and opportunities for the common good.

Funnily enough, on my trek home from HOBY I happened to be on the subway and—because my ipod ran out of batteries—I was not listening to the noise of the latest pop song, but instead I was observant and open to what was going on around me. After about five minutes, I noticed a quote on one of the advertisement panels at the top of the train. (In an effort to educate, the MTA and the New York Poetry Society has created something called “Poetry in Motion” which is really a unique way to bring famous quotes to transit riders). This one was a quote by E.B White, who you may know as writer of the children’s book Charlotte’s Web, in which he says,

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter–the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last–the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion.”

So, what am I going to do with it, you may ask? For now, I am ready to get back to being a part of my global and local community, I am a ready for change, and I am ready to take my passions and my reignited HOBY flame and find my place not only in this big city, but in this big country, this big world.

A New York Minute - shorter than you think

So, I have two jobs. WHICH, wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except for I’m trying to have a social life as well. Unfortunately, working two jobs and going out leaves little room for sleep so I get about six hours per night during the regular work week. This is not at all interesting except for the fact that it has made me an insanely delirious person, though, I have yet to actually surpass the boundaries of my physical body. I suppose a heart attack or panic attack, or any attack for that matter may be the only way to tell if I am actually harming myself. To add insult to injury, I decided it would be a fantastic idea to stop eating solid foods for two days (well, it was supposed to be three, but I made it to what we’re calling two days) and try something called “juicing.” Juicing is really just giving your liver a break for a couple of days. (Although, my thought is if they added a little alcohol to the juice it might actually be a bit more enjoyable…). Instead, its things like kelp, spinach, almonds, parsley… truly nast-tastic. My point is, well, I don’t really have one. But, I will say that testing your body’s limits is a pretty unique process. Whether it be how long one can run until passing out, how many cookies one can I eat, or even how many jobs one can I acquire – the answer is always the same… It catches up with you in the end. So, I guess trying to balance life and work will always truly be a unique struggle, but for now I am trying my best while trying to stay healthy/beautiful/skinny/young.

And, in this city, I need all the help I can get.

Nobody's Gonna Rain on My Parade

     At one point or another all of my friends have asked me why I'm single.  Even when I came out to my mother, her first words were, "Sweetheart, I know. I throw you a Wonder Woman themed birthday party every year.  The real question is why you haven't found someone fabulous?"  I'm not foolish enough to believe this constant barrage is because I'm so amazing that boys should be lining up.  I'm just at that age when everyone becomes so relationship obsessed that "Can you believe this weather" gets replaced with "Who are you dating" as the acceptable ice breaker in the elevator or at the urinal.  It's not that they want to talk about my relationship as much as they want to talk about any relationship, especially if that means they can talk about theirs.  I've learned to return the question as soon as it's asked of me, because apparently, the best part about relationships is talking about being in one.  Still, I can't deny that my hesitation to put myself out there has to do with my college boyfriend ending his break-up speech with, "You're going to make someone really happy one day."

     I was furious.  Among the standard list of break-up grievances, I was livid that he didn't think it necessary to use original material.  I'm going to make someone happy one day?  Is that the best cliche he could come up with?  Why didn't he save us both some trouble and text me a form letter asking if we could still be friends? (Although, I shouldn't complain.  This was the same boy who told me - in all seriousness - that Jesus wanted us to be together.  I guess it all evens out.)  But nearly three years later, the words are still with me.  I'm "going" to make someone happy.  Future tense.  I have the potential, but I'm not living up to it in the present moment.  The problem was I had tried so hard, just as I had in my few previous relationships and all of them ended the same way: they could see the potential, but in the end I didn't meet it.

     From a young age, I've had an intense desire to please.  I suppose it's partly because I've always been stared at.  And not in a good way.  Until college, I had enough acne to make a horse faint and was what the casual observer would call morbidly obese.  Add in the fact that I'm a homosexual who is well over six feet tall and people tend to notice.  Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that I had to seek the approval of others and not the other way around.  You can imagine how this effected my dating technique and taste in men.  "Yes, I believe Jesus wants us to be together, too.  Isn't he the best?  In fact, Jesus set me up on my last three dates."  It may have hurt when he broke up with me, but I can't say he was wrong to do it.

     Recently, I ended my dating dry spell with a guy who was tall, intelligent, and very well=off. On paper he was delightful, but in person he was less so: half way through the appetizer he had gone through all the text messages on my cell phone; during the entree he declared most of my interests were not masculine enough to be talked about publicly; and by dessert he had knowingly and unapologetically insulted my best friend.  Incredibly, my reaction to all of this was to tailor what I said so he'd like me more, but I caught myself.  I did not like this guy and I certainly would not like the kind of guy he was apparently attracted to.  Why was I so willing to deny my love for all things Barbra and Liza for this schmuck?

     When the check came, he asked if I wanted to go grab a drink at the bar next door.  I had given a schizophrenic performance during the meal: hyper masculine in the beginning and flaming queen at the end.  Why would he like that?  Maybe I had misjudged.  Maybe it could work out - and maybe if I censored myself a little he would like me enough to start a relationship.  All relationships are built on compromise, right?  I left the restaurant without him. I'm going to make someone very happy someday.  And I'll be damned if that someone is anyone but me.

Blonde Widow

When I first decided to pluck the hair of my widow’s peak, I didn’t really think[1] about the consequences of my actions. I didn’t really think about the severe hardships that growing a widow’s peak back in would eventually incur in my life. And, I didn’t really think about the fact that growing a widow’s peak back in would require me at some point to dye my hair BROWN.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with what exactly a widow’s peak is, I would like to take this opportunity to educate you. A widow’s peak, as described from the invaluable source, Answers.com is, “A V-shaped point formed by the hair near the top of the human forehead.” About six years ago, in a tremendous hair bout, I decided I would pluck a little bit of the hair in my widow’s peak (which by the way was hardly a widow’s peak at all). So, I did it. Some moments later, I began to see that by simply plucking my hair line I had truly made a mess of my life. From that day on, about every four to five days, I would have to add plucking my widow’s peak to my grooming routine. Often, weeks would go by when I would neglect the “peak” and would hear puzzled inquires from my loved ones such as, “what is that thing..?” and “… ya got something on your forehead.” Of course, I would briskly dismiss these formalities with a simple “I don’t know what you’re talking about” and try to change the subject. Years went by. Years of plucking.

Finally I realized that I couldn’t go through my entire life plucking my widow’s peak… I mean, how far could I take this one? Marriage? Children? I could just hear myself screaming to my kids downstairs, “Stop crying!! Mommy has to just pluck her godd**m widow’s peak and then we can have ice cream with rainbow sprinkles!!” Wow.

So, I decided to quit cold turkey. Unfortunately, my hair was blonde and my widow’s peak was a tad darker. And by a “tad darker” I mean my widow’s peak was black--- and that was when I realized that I had only one choice: to dye my hair dark.

I had made a mistake like this before one hot summer eve at my college alma mater, but how quickly we forget how minute changes in our physical appearance can affect our lives. Needless to say, I became a “pretty” brunette and my widow’s peak grew a little longer…. But, at the end of the day, I was never and could never be a brunette. And, after four whole months of “doing my time” as my wise friend once explained to me, I was done. DONE. (Yeah, I know that’s not the correct usage of the word, I know it should be finished, but “finished” doesn’t quite explain how I felt about being brunette).

So, I made the appointment, dropped the $400, (was unhappy and went back two days later to become more blonde—right, of course) and finally I was me again. Me.

My name is Suzanne, and I am not—and will never be —a brunette… I am a blonde. So, New York City, look out 'cause....

...we haven’t even met yet.

(as for the widow’s peak, she's doing well, but I’ll keep you updated).

---

[1] All italicized phrases to be performed in a classic voice impersonation of Dame Barbara Streisand.

My Favorite Pinksweater

Vanessa frantically texted me on Saturday morning.  She was about to get on a flight to visit her new born nephew in Iowa, but it looked as if she would have to flap her arms to get the plane off the ground.  "I'm sitting in the front row, back row, cockpit and bathroom all at the same time," she wrote when she mustered up the courage to get on board.  I imagined it was one of those small planes that television leads you to believe are always filled with chickens, goats and a smelly Greek-speaking farmer or two.  A few moments later, she let me know the plane was crowded, but with slightly different company.  The University of Iowa was doing a production of Saturday Night Fever and the props had to be hand delivered. Vanessa was surrounded by disco balls and bell bottoms.

The two years that Vanessa has lived in the city can be most accurately described as a shit storm.  She has thrown some epic dinner parties, which usually end with her floors being covered in beer, scrabble letters, hot wax, and the occasional open flame; she has accidentally gotten us into SNL cast parties; hosted impromptu tours through the abandoned buildings of Williamsburg; and taken me and her boyfriend lesbian speed-dating.

The stories that have come out of spending time with Vanessa are absurd to the point of being offensive. They are often so unbelievable that my roommates have come to the conclusion that my friendship with Vanessa is an elaborate lie to hide my secret double life.  To my roommates "going to hang out with Vanessa" is my way of saying "I'm going to have sex with hooker donkeys.  But I'm too ashamed to tell you the truth."

I'll admit that I embellish some facts, rearrange some events to make a story sound more over-the-top than it really was.  I suppose it stems out of a deep rooted fear of boring people and constant demands from friends and family to "be funny." But rarely do I ever flat out lie.  Besides, what makes a more entertaining story than sex with hooker donkeys?  I wouldn't be able to keep that to myself any more than the plethora of std's they would give me.

Unfortunately, Vanessa won't be taking a flight back to the city anytime soon. After some quality time with the baby, she's taking the shit storm on an international road show.  My weekends will certainly lose an element of ridiculousness.  Who knows - I may find plenty of my own shenanigans to get into, but regardless of whether my weekends will need embellishing or not, I'm going to miss her.

Bring It On

When I was a young boy, years ago, I used to dream of living in New York City. (I'm twenty-four years old. I've come to a point in my life where I can say "years ago" and it actually means "years ago." (i.e. "Oh, of course, Club Shelter. I went there years ago," or "Years ago, I was often mistaken for a lesbian.")) Somehow, to me, New York City was this incredible force that would solve all of my problems and even moreso, elevate me to levels of fabulousness that I could only imagine. Weekend trips to New York in high school were always filled with thoughts of my future life there. And, to you "NYC-is-the-best" skeptics, my idealization of NYC wasn't all based on cultural/media propaganda or geographical bias (as, I certainly did grow up right outside New York City). There was some of my own logic that went into perceiving New York City as paradise.

That is, it's undeniable that New York City is a veritable "best-of capital" of the world. Arguably, NYC is home to the best food, the best nightlife, the best art, the best theater, the best music, the best fashion, the best ________. Fill in the blank. Chances are New York City is at the top of the list; or at least pretty close. And in housing all of these "bests", NYC, in some way, houses the best people in the world.

This was my logic. I thought, if I could be amongst the best, I would become the best. I would find a great job. I would find cultural edification. And, there was also the issue of love. I thought, with statistical certainty, there would be a greater volume of queer people in New York City. And there wouldn't be as much ingrained racism in the dating-culture in New York; the people there were more worldly and wouldn't look at me differently for being brown-skinned. The numbers would be in my favor in New York City.

On September 11, 2007, a day marred with the memory of destruction and violence, my two best friends and I moved to Manhattan. It was, no exaggeration, a dream come true.

"Here I am, New York City," I thought. "Bring on the energy. Bring on the people. Bring on the Life."

It has been seven months now. I can't say nothing has happened. I got a great job with a major pharmaceutical company. I'm almost sure that wouldn't have happened if I wasn't in New York. I worked at Dolce & Gabbana. I met some great people. I got some amazing clothes. I went to a few memorable parties. I essentially got everything I wanted. But for the past few weeks, I've been wondering, "Is this all?"

I wondered, "where's the feeling of excitement that used to seem synonymous with this city? Where's the feeling of certainty that I'm spending the days of my precious youth prudently? And, where's my great transforming love?"

But the truth is, I was being hasty. Like the buds appearing on trees, I've been finding traces of hopefulness surfacing in myself after a very long absence (one that extended far past the onset of last winter). And my questions were good; they have kept me treading on the path towards contentment and self-betterment. If I got everything I wanted now; what kind of story would that be?

I'll tell you: a mighty boring one.

The question is not, "Is this all"? The question is, "Where do I look next?" Because, what is the most remarkable thing about New York City and its "bests", is the assurance of limitless chance. Anything is possible. Anything.

And that is the answer to my first two questions. Excitement is the feeling of liveliness in the light of possibility. Sometimes our dreams come true and in their wake, we forget what they have afforded us. Now that I live in New York City, it's harder to recognize it, but nothing has changed: New York still remains a pressure-cooker filled with millions of rare and high-quality molecules waiting to react. I have to keep reminding myself of that. And of course, providing myself with the most opportunity possible is reason enough to feel certain of the prudent use of my youth.

As far as "transforming love" goes; well damn girl, I love New York City a whole lot. But I don't know if she's going to cut it. I'll have to get back to you on this one. For the time being, 2 out of 3 ain't bad.

With my eyes open, and my blessings counted, I feel like I'm on my way. So I'll say it again:

Here I am, New York. Bring on the energy. Bring on the people. Bring on the Life.