So I think the neighbor above me has tuberculosis.
I'm totally speculating here, of course. Because, duh, people in the city who are neighbors hardly talk to each other and when they do it's all: "Hey..." and then little if any eye contact. Well, that's my experience, anyway. I did meet one neighbor once. He was a pretty nice guy. It was at my old place when I first moved here. But then he asked if he could borrow money and I was all: "Dude, I'm a college art student... I don't think so..." and then he stopped talking to me. It's not like when I was a kid and had neighbors who were second family to me. I literally have a neighbor that I call "Other Mom" because that is what she was... her daughters are like sisters.
Anyway, tuberculosis... my neighbor. Yeah.
So, I say this to my friend Megan.
"I think he has T.B.?"
"How do you know?"
"Well... I don't. I only imagine. I mean, do people even get that anymore? Anyway, I can actually hear him hacking up all day. And it's not just a gentle hack. It's like "I think my lung and perhaps my gallbladder is coming up too" kind of hack."
"Huh..."
"So, I was going to go up and check on him... 'cause, you know, he lives alone!"
"Uh huh..." (She gives me a this is not a good idea look because, you know, T.B is contagious and all).
"But then I was like... what if I get T.B. and then I am hacking up stuff in my apartment... and then... I start thinking about how no one would know that I was hacking up stuff in my apartment... or possible choking or even slipping in the bathtub because now I live alone and not a lot of people call me as often as Dave used to when we were together and then I will rot or like that Sex And The City episode where Miranda thinks her cat is going to eat her because that's a rumor she heard about someone who died in their apartment without anyone knowing..."
"OK. Byron. This is what we will do. A) You leave T.B. alone B) I will call you every three days to make sure you are OK... this is what you do... you check in on each other."
And she has. Or my friend Jeff has or my friend Josh has or my friend Michele has or my brother. Someone has been checking in with me to make sure I am not diseased or being eaten by a cat I don't have or just to say hi and ask me how I am doing.
Because, unlike the T.B. guy and me, I have good neighbors... who happen not to live in the same building with me and are friends, but there like the neighbors I grew up with as a kid. Like family. The people I would do anything for. The people I consider lucky to have in my life.
And, also, like T.B guy and me. Do not tap dance on the hardwood floor at six in the morning causing me to wake up and be crabby.
In one day it's December first. And I do not have a Christmas tree.
In an apartment in the city, this is normal. Many people do not spend the money or time shoving a fake or real pine tree in to their small spaces. Many people don't take the time to string lights and match ornaments and do all of this while listening to Christmas music.
But I am not one of those people.
But this year, I just don't feel like I deserve Christmas.
A year ago I had put my very first real Christmas tree in the small living room of Dave and my apartment. It was a surprise. My brother and I rented a truck and drove to a normally vacant parking lot that they turn in to little faux forests during the holidays and bent tree branches and needles and shook them and finally strapped it to the truck and lugged home a seven footer.
Dave was still at work and when he walked in the door to find a giant tree in the middle of our living room, he was speechless.
And for an entire month we had that pine tree smell that you only can really get in your house once a year. It felt like Christmas. I wanted our first Christmas living together to be one of those memorable ones you see on T.V. You know, where people make the most out of the holiday because it was a momentous occasion. Christmas in the same house is a momentous occasion.
This year is not like that. And this is OK. But, without a tree it doesn't feel right. It doesn't make sense. I can step out side and walk down sidewalks while catching glimpses of trees in people's windows. I can see decorations at the stores I shop at. I can even hear the holiday music playing at the coffee shops I hang at.
But when you step in to my apartment, you will not know what holiday it is. It could Easter. It could be President's Day. It could even be Labor Day. It's funny how your apartments can do that... fool you in to thinking it's another day. Or not special day at all.
But, right now, I just want to remember the tree from last year. It was pretty. It was momentous. It was my first tree with someone I loved. Another tree can't replace that.
11.28.07
I promise I will not use my blog as a forum.
So. Yeah. Apparently this is just my bulletin board now. I'm all about screaming what I'm doing. So, I vow(ha... I don't vow... I can't do that...) but I will try to write something with more substance in the coming weeks now that I don't have as many events happening.
But then again. It's my website. So there.
TONIGHT. RED KIVA @7pm (Address: 1108 W. Randolph) $10.00 at the door. Four talented performers(that includes me!) alone with live music mixed in with the stories.
So, here's me on television.
You would think being on T.V. would be strange because, oh, people can watch you and then they think they know you. You would think being on T.V would be strange because, you know, you see yourself in a different way. These would all be true. But what makes being on T.V. strange is that, with all this snappy technology we've got, people can Tivo you and then send you quotes via a) Myspace b) Text Message c) Emails d) Voicemails e)In person. And this is fine. Because you were on television and you have to expect people to do this. But when it's strangers it's even more funny... because to hear people you've never met before say something to you at a bar like: "So, yeah, saw you on T.V. Loved when you said...." and then quote you word for word. And then I say something like: "Did you get that quote on the first try...? And then they respond with: "Nope. It's saved on my Tivo. I love that show... I watched it a couple of times!"
What is even more weird?
When your grandma says: "You look good on T.V. You should be like that Brad Pitt guy... he's sexy."
I wrote too much. Too many things happening at one time. Too many viewers. Kaboom. Blog breaks.
What else happened: We lost all the blog entries. I use "we" in the way you would use "we" if you we were all in this together. You know, like a corporation. Yes, like a corporation of Byron Flitsch's. Imagine it. No cubicals. Tons of copy machines so we could totally play with them and lots of supply closets with nice pens and pencils(none of those BICS or #2's).
So, this means we really don't have any history together.
Now, I know this isn't true. I have almost three years of blogging underneath me... but there is that feeling, like having things lost in a fire or stolen in a mugging, that just hangs here.
But you have to go on.
So, yes. I'm back.
So, no. I did not give up on Nanoplomo... or whatever it is. (Trust me. I'm sad.)
And, yes, I missed you too.
And yes, I'm back.
For good.
11.16.07
YAH!!! This week is, apparently, all about self-promotion! Yah! I'm on TV!
Sometimes I pretend I'm V.I.P.
You know, a "Visually Identifiable Person". Someone is walking down the street and they go: "Oh my GOD! Is that really you Mr. Byron Flitsch?" And then they race up to me and say something like: "I really loved you in so and so! You were great!"
My "so and so" would totally be being on PBS--public television. And I would be on that show I discussed early this summer called Check Please.
If five years ago you would have told me I'd be writing for a magazine here in the city and then told me I'd be getting to go to a spa for a major hook-up in the pedicure department I would have said something arty to you--see, I went to an art school.
But in five years, a lot can change.
If you live in Chicago pick up your New City while sipping coffee. For those of you who do not live in the city read my piece online.
Hold it. Not in the whole "Oh! I'm a pretty doctor who's dating another pretty doctor or pretending that my boyfriend's hand isn't broken so he can't do surgery or let's dig in to someone's liver!"
I'm talking about music. Even if you don't watch the show, they set every scene to really fantastic music that makes the moment seem even more spectacular.
I have been setting my life to music.
See, this isn't new. I've always imagined my life with a soundtrack. But, lately, the soundtrack has been following me everywhere.
PICTURE IT:
It's night and I am walking. The pavement is freshly wet from a quick rain. The reflections of street lights and restaurant neon signs reflect in the puddles. I have a warm coat wrapped around me with my hands in the pockets. As I round the corner only two blocks from my apartment I see a couple holding hands. They have their fingers wrapped in to each others like a corset and they are briskly walking. I skim around them keeping my eyes straight ahead with hands still in pockets. But really thinking about how everything still stays the same even if it's not the same for you.
PAUSE.
I don't necessarily need an ipod in my ears to feel this music. Sometimes, it all just pops in to my head. Or sometimes it's as if a store or a bar or a restaurant knows that I am stepping in to the place.
PICTURE IT: The other night I walk in to a local bar to meet my good friend for a glass of wine. On the way there I had spent the majority of time thinking about how everything moves too fast. It's the holidays and it's winter and holy shit I am twenty-five.
I enter the bar and this song plays as I skim the place looking for my blond friend who's leaning against an exposed brick wall. She smiles and waves runs up to me to give me a huge hug and we start filling each other in with all the stuff that is keeping our lives full. There are people loudly chatting. There are people sipping. Laughing. Kissing. Smiling. Hanging. Everything that had been on my mind slowly disappears.
PAUSE.
It's not that I have no life. I'd like to think I have a great life. It's just sometimes life and all it's moments--big or small--seem to call for a bit of ambiance.
Even those times when I'm alone in bed and falling asleep after a long day.
I can lay there. The glow of the alley seeps through the blinds. My eyes are heavy. But I'm still thinking. That's what I seem to do a lot these days. Think. And thinking is so much easier when it comes with music.
And sometimes you can step out of yourself, especially when it's a fantastic song. You can watch from the sidelines. Look at yourself as if you were a show. It's easier to go through things when it's not really you going through it.
Taxi's are expensive. The public transportation in this city has become as unpredictable as Britney Spear's next move, owning a car and trying to find parking is like plugging two leaks with one finger.
So many of us resort to our feet.
Walking in to the city has always been one of my favorite things. If you know where you're going, you can discover streets you didn't know existed and houses to envy.
And you have plenty of time to think.
Last night I took the long way home from Websters Wine Bar. The streets were quiet and it was one of those warm November nights where you are teased in to believeing that this winter just won't be as bad as the last. Home was about an hour away and lately I've been in no rush to get back. So a walk seemed great.
I plugged my ipod in to my ears and started following streets lights and sidewalks through neighborhood streets that were off the beaten path. I started to just think. About anything really. I thought about everything that had happened recently. I thought about how in almost a few weeks I have to start Christmas shopping and how all the tourists in the city at that time make Christmas shopping not that fun. I thought about how I needed new sheets and how I want to go to Europe sometime soon. I thought about how, as I passed three story homes that could be found in Dwell Magazine, my apartment is so little in comparison. I thought about all the mistakes I may have made in the past months. I thought about all the people I may be angry at when it comes to being forgiven for the mistakes I made.
And as I rounded a corner to cut through an alley. Surrounded by garages on one side and and brick walls after brick walls on the other, the yellow of street lights lit the alley with a yellow so bright it was as if the sun was closer to the the Earth. I thought about how life can be tough in so many ways.
And then I saw her. A woman probably in her early thirties. She was wrapped in what looked like blankets that had gone through a paper shredder. She was wearing a winter hat and sleeping in between a dumpster and a brick wall.
She wasn't alone. She had a little girl with her. At least eight or nine.
When you live in the city you have options for getting around. Taxi cabs are a treat once in a while. The public transportation isn't as bad is it could be and driving a car would be a dream if it could happen.
And sometimes you have to walk. And no matter how you get around you have to realize at least you have these options. And sometimes when you walk you realize that options aren't as hard as they can be and worries can be so self-involved.
And sometimes, you can change perspective all in flash. You can decide that the options you have are better than other's options. Christmas shopping looks fun. Even having the possibility of going to Europe is refreshing and the idea that home-- even if there is no one there waiting for you like there used to be--is there waiting for you... and you can't wait to be with it.
Today I am going to brag about my new computer I just bought. If you can't handle that you should look away. If you can handle it then look what I can do!
That's right. Not only will I efficiently accomplish all my work on this thing, I can also indulge in the fact that my computer totally allows me to be a model any single moment I call for it.
In a really important meeting. MODEL!
In a really not important meeting. MODEL!
During someone's explanation of the Theory of Relativity. MODEL!
During a really sad episode of Grey's Anatomy. MODEL!
Ok. Maybe not the last one. You shouldn't model during the super important things in life.
I have this calender on my fridge that I color code with markers. Red is for teaching. Cyan is for 2nd Story. Purple is for Boys From Jupiter. Light Blue is for New City Magazine. Orange is for this photo studio I work at once in a while. Green is for other performances I am doing, magenta is for deadlines and yellow is for my personal life.
Today I poured water in my favorite mug and leaned back on the counter looking at my calender from afar. The dates sort of blurred and all that was in focus where all the different colors.
Sometimes it's a reality check seeing your life hanging right in front of you. Sometimes, when you think you're having a bad day or a bad week or a bad month, you can see something like a filled calender with stuff you have worked so hard to get in to your life and remind yourself how pretty your life really is. Quiet colorful, really.
When you live in the city this is a big deal. This is like road trip big deal. This is like you are going to bond on this experience of going to IKEA big deal.
Josh, he's a good friend. He's been there for me through all of this. Plus, he's a business partner and we have this synergy. You know, that energy that is created when two people just get each other perfectly. We finish each others sentences. We tell jokes only the other gets and we make each other feel better in times of need. He's pretty much the perfect boyfriend.
Except he's straight.
So, we're in the car listening to the radio.
"So, I was thinking." I say. "I think you would be my perfect boyfriend."
Josh is silent. (He doesn't mind these conversations. He's a cool guy.)
"I mean. Look at us. We don't fight. We get each other's humor and we don't need to fill silences with something. Plus we can go shopping at IKEA together!"
Josh is silent.
"What?"
"Nothing." He says.
"What?"
...well... I just don't think we are like a relationship."
"WHA??!??!"
"See, you do some things that, if I were seeing you all the time every single day, I would totally hate which would most likely cause us to break up."
"Like what?"
"I dunno..."
"Like what? What do I do?" I shriek while making a sharp right turn on to the interstate.
"Nothing... I'm just saying... being friends with someone is different than being with someone..."
I sit and sulk for a second.
"Like what!? What do I do that bugs you?"
I realize this. Josh is a smart man. A real smart man. He will not tell me the things that annoy him because then I would apologize about those things or dwell on those things or quiz him on instances about those things.
I also realize this. IKEA is even farther away when you try to figure out what it is that drives Josh nuts enough to faux break up with you.
One of my students is due to have her baby any day.
She has been out of school on bed rest. She's fifteen.
I just discovered this week that three other of my students are freshly pregnant and in nine months will be three more fifteen year old mothers.
As I tell the kids to open their journals and start jotting down anything they have on their mind(I call this the "burp-up." The stuff you have to get out of the system before you start writing the good stuff)the kids are feverishly writing. As they do this I notice the empty desk where the ready to give birth girl usually sits. For the previous three weeks she had been sitting there with a belly the size of a watermelon and getting up to pee every seven seconds.
But in my mind, she's still there.
A week ago we were chatting in the hall when I asked her if she knew what the baby was and if she was excited to have it.
"It's a boy and no."
"You're not excited to have it?"
"No. I don't want it."
"You don't! How come?"
"She looks at me and I swear I see her answer in her face. The way she still looks like a little kid that doesn't even have her driver's license. Her eyes just said: "Dude, you know I'm only fifteen and about to have a baby boy and have to take care of it while doing my homework and that's even if I decide to stay in school."
"I dunno." She says as she heads out the door to go home.
When people ask me how teaching is going I smile and tell them it has changed my life. Those who have never taught say to me: "Wow, it must have. I mean, helping all of those kids trying to get somewhere with their lives must be so darn inspiring."
But those who have taught will know the real answer. Teaching is selfish. Sure, it's about passing your brains on to someone else. But, these kids are learning half the stuff that they are teaching me. Sometimes when I get home after the long day and I am in my apartment I imagine, I try to imagine, their lives as my life. I imagine having a baby that I have to pick up from a babysitter. I imagine having to figure out dinner for a little mouth. I imagine having to dodge the gang banging streets and taking the long ways to avoid the drug dealers. I even try to imagine being fifteen and having to deal with all these things.
And I can't.
And what I am learning is that what I am trying to be is not a teacher. I am trying to be a super hero. In my dream world I would swoop in and scoop up all the kids and start them fresh. Show them they don't have to have a baby to prove to a guy that she really loves him. I would erase their beliefs of what their futures should be and replace them with dreams and aspirations. I would be a different type of teacher. I wouldn't teach them how to write a poem. I would teach them how to live the best life they could ever live.
But what these kids don't know: They are the real superheroes. My superheroes. They must have powers up their sleeves to survive all they have to live through. That's the only way I can imagine being in their places because that's the only way they have to be able to make it...because...
I don't know how they do it.
I just don't know how they will do it.
When you are freshly single you also want a fresh start. New sheets. New smell. New life.
There is no way better to do this than to go shopping.
There is no better place to go to than to a bookstore.
You can peruse every section all the while being inspired by books and covers and titles you stumble upon. Your next path in life.
"Maybe I'll take cooking classes somewhere." I say to my friend Michele while skimming through a cookbook section at the bookstore. Bright pages of food photographs make me think this is a good place to start. Learning how to cook as the new me.
"Yeah. No. It might be fun, but it's more fun to just eat."
My friend Michele, she's my party girl. The feel good friend. Beautiful, out-going, will never leave you behind. She will also tell you how it is.
"You should do something insane. You should just pack up everything and go to some exotic country where you can live with a tribe and just totally chill out. Michelle says to me as we turn down the foreign language aisle.
"Or, um, I could, you know, enjoy running water and just learn a language. How about Japanese!" I pick up a Japanese book set that screams that I can learn the language in two days with no problem.
"Eh, tribes and exotic countries make better stories." Michelle says as she starts paging through a French book.
I start to imagine a life that she suggests. Cashing in my life savings and giving up lattes and busy streets and debit cards and nights out until four in the morning. I imagine myself in some quiet savanna at night with crickets chirping, stars blinking and a soft warm wind blowing over my body. I would be lying on my back looking straight up to the stars and hearing nothing but moving grass.
I could even be that kind of writer. One of those writers that disappears for years and writes while gone. He comes back with a million different stories about skinning zebras or cleaning water for tribes that have been desperate. I would journal by candle light and sleep in a tent made by palm leaves. Every once in a while I could send a bit of mail back to the states where my mom and close friends would pass the news that I am doing well and enjoying the delicacy of insects for dinner.
For a moment is sounds so perfect. I can see myself boarding a plane and turning around waving to everyone from my life mouthing "I'll see you soon!". And as the plane would take off I would watch as Chicago's skyline would disintegrate in to a little model town, like a train set, and await what is ahead of me.
Some sort of new adventure. A fresh start to life.
"But, really, you can't do that." Michele says as we take the stairs down to the magazine section. "I would miss you too much. You're needed here."
We page through art magazines and then fashion magazines and then which ever magazine have the prettiest covers. And life goes on without crickets. Without any exotic tribes. Without any soft warm air. Without some adventure across the world.
Because I still have adventures waiting for me here or at least people who want me here. Plus, running away has never seemed to work for me in the past. I hate running away. It gives me blisters.
And, really, I'm not sure how long I really could live without a latte and good magazine. Really.
There are moments that will remind you that you are freshly single. A chicken breast will be in that moment.
See, I'm going to a wedding in three weeks. It's back in Wisconsin and it's for a friend that I have known for years. I got the invitation in the beginning of October and it was addressed to both Dave and myself.
I sent back the response card that we both would be attending and would enjoy the chicken breast.
And that's fine. It's cool. I had no idea all this was going to happen in the following weeks.
But then there is that second where you realize: "Holy crap. You are alone."
"You aren't alone." My brother says to me on the phone when I realize I have to either a) find a date to bring to this wedding to not waste a chicken or b) call the bride and let her know that I won't have a date which would lead to her asking why and then would lead to me telling her what happened which would totally be a weird thing to say to someone who is about to commit her life to someone else.
"But, I am."
"No. You're not. You have me."
I have a brother. A cool brother. A brother that is two years younger than me. We talk every day and we text just as often. We have that friendship people work so hard for with their college roommates or best friends from childhood. He says stupid things that I will laugh at because there is twenty three years of inside jokes that don't even need to be said aloud. He'll let me scream in to my phone when I'm mad at the world. He'll put me in my place when I get over dramatic ... just like now.
"I guess."
"B, you have me and you have tons of people."
And I know this. I have great people. If you even knew how many great people I have in my life... and who have helped me get through this and so many other things you would be asking me: "What the hell are you complaining about then?"
But it's not that I am complaining that I am alone. I'm complaining that my future is alone.
This wedding was something I just expected would be with Dave just like I expected moving in to my first house with him. Just like I expected going back to London to show him how much I love the city this upcoming winter. Just like I expected him at my next birthday and the birthday after that...
Everyday I am reminded that everything that was in order and good... things can fall a part.
But two years ago, before I lost my hero of a grandmother to cancer, I was sitting outside at dusk in her garden on a bench she had built out of old barn wood. It was quiet and summer and my bare feet were damp from the night wetness on the grass. She told me to look up at the stars. We both craned our necks to see the specs starting to poke through the almost dark purple sky. "When things were hard when I first moved to this country... when everything seemed so wrong and that I made a big mistake and I wanted to give up and fall apart I would look at the stars and start counting them and..."
I never got that. I never got why she didn't finish the sentence or tell me why she counted the stars--something so trivial. You could never count every star. It was impossible. What would that do?
But I get it now.
Sometimes things that are so impossible are the things that remind us there are some things we can never control. Wedding invitations. Heart break. Futures.
The Museum of Contemporary Art has this event called First Fridays. It's this mess of arty types meeting fashionable types meeting business types meeting hipster types. People come dressed in sleek cuts and drink and listen to a DJ spinning all while checking out the art.
It's a party with expensive decor.
But this past one was about color. They had MAC computers sitting at a table. You were to walk over and sit down and answer about eight questions. The questions went like this: "Which image makes you feel ashamed." and out of two very randomly different images you were to pick which one made you feel a certain way. For eight questions you asked to chose one of two pictures for things like "Which makes you feel angry" or "which makes you feel sad." At the end there would be a screen that told you what color your personality was based of the images you had chosen.
I was blue.
If you went to a chart you would find what each color meant. Blue meant charismatic and energetic and arty. Yellow meant dependable. Magenta meant something and green and red and orange and so on.
But then they identified which colors were compatible with others. Like blue was compatible with magenta.
You were supposed to walk away from the table and step in to the world with a dot sticker on your lapel or chest in search of the color you are compatible with.
I started to think how easy the world would be if we all had colors on our shirts. "I'm sorry. You're a green. I should be careful with you because greens are not good for blues." Or "You're a magenta! Let's talk."
Because in a world that never stops it is easy to forget that people do have feelings and, like colors, we all have different values. Some people say things they know you want to hear. Some people lie to protect themselves from their fears. Others are open books who end up being burned. Whether it's in trying to meet new friends or in dating or in just talking to someone else, you are always putting yourself out there with the possibility of being let down.
When you computer continues to crash and you continue to try to save files and then continue to be mad at it... do not hit your computer. Hitting your computer is probably breaking some sort of social moral in computer world that will get you in to a whole heap of trouble.
Or it will not want to make your computer to come back on.
And force it to make a "Varrrrrrrrrrrooooop" sound when it turns back on.
Which you imagine is the computer laughing at you.
Or crying... because you hit it kind of hard.
Either or, hitting is just bad.
I'm a teacher. I'm a creative writing teacher at a high school. I'm a creative writing teacher at a high school where they have metal detectors at the door.
ENTER 'GANSTA PARADISE' (i.e. That song that plays during the intro scene in Dangerous Minds as Michelle Pfeiffer goes in to a school full of raging hormones, guns, and the lack of interest to learn).
I started this almost a month and a half ago. If you would have asked me how I felt about the opportunity anytime before a month and a half ago, I would have said something like this: "Oh, wow, I mean, teaching has always been a goal of mine. It's great. I get to help kids who are in a rougher neck of the woods while bettering their writing and making them think creatively!" Then I would tell you how I would walk out of that school with my head held high and the sun would shine behind me so I'd glow like a little angel. I would get apples on my desk when I walked in to the room and I would have students offering hugs because I have made that much of an impact on their lives.
And that would have all been bull-shit.
Because after about two months of taking an hour long train ride to then back from class, being harassed on the bus ride I transfer to from the train and then getting harassed from the bus to the front door through the metal detectors through the main office up the stairs of the school to the classroom, I've wanted to give up. All because I am white or I dress nice or I am polite or because "I just don't get where they are coming from."
Day after day I am approached with a new issue. "Mr. Byron, I think I'm pregnant. I'm gonna have to quit class. Is that OK?" or "Mr. Byron, So and So isn't coming to class because he was arrested and is in jail for like four days, cool?" or "Mr. Byron... are you married?"
And I didn't think the last question would affect me more than the two issues before that. Kids pregnant and in jail or shooting each other or too busy being in gangs are a bigger issue than me not getting married. But the kids beg to differ.
"Whata mean you ain't married?" A normally quiet students asks me when I answer.
"I'm not married. I'm not with anyone. So, I can't get married."
"Well, aren't you a little old not to be married?" Another student, the one that raps during open mic, says puzzled.
"No... not really. A lot of people in my age group do not get married until later."
"Do you have kids?" A senior asks. She just had twins a year ago. She's only seventeen.
"No... nope no kids. Not ready for those yet either.
"Wait, so you aren't ready for kids... that's dumb!" She says responding to my answer. The entire class agrees completely nodding and laughing at me.
I stare at the class. I look at each and every single one of them while they laugh at me. One in the corner is snickering at me and whispering something in to her friends ear. The friend nods and giggles back.
"You gay?"
And there it was. The question that all the other questions finally led up to. I mean, if I was twenty-five and had no kids than that instantly means that I am gay. And, well, of course I am. But I have learned something from other instructors at this school and have picked up vibes from students. Homosexuality is not cool. Not even close. One kid in my class comes off a little feminine and is tackled daily for this. They call him names like "Butter Biscuit"(which apparently is worse than being called a faggot) and they constantly talk about guys he should have sex with... cause he's "the" girl. Or "He's nasty."
And in that moment I realized I have two options. I can be the hero. I can stand up for me and others who are scared to be different...whether it is by the way they look or their sexuality. I could be the superpower. I could say. "Yes. I am gay. I am. I have been gay all my life and I am awesome. Many of you have told me recently that you think I am awesome. Does that change when you find out that I am gay? Am I not an awesome teacher anymore because I am gay?
Or. I could say. "Um, no... moving on..."
I chose the second. And instantly, I was in high school again. I was sixteen sitting in the front row taking the best notes I could while hearing a few guys in the back making fun of me for the way I was sitting or the way I was leaning or the way I was breathing. I was suddenly young and all that confidence was erased and I was weak.
Until I realized I was twenty-five now. And no matter what... no matter what they could say or believe or tease me for they could never take the seven years I have dealt with my being something they may not believe in. And besides, I'm just there to teach creative writing. I'm not there to teach them my lifestyle. They couldn't handle how great my life is. They couldn't even believe the greatness I have experienced so far... and my job is to teach them HOW to experience the greatness of life... I am supposed to make them better writers and better thinkers and better life livers.
Which can be so hard when you have to pretend who you are not to inspire others to be themselves.
11. 2.07
Because I like a lot of my plate. Like, tons.
When I was a newspaper editor in high school people would write a lot of really bad stuff. One thing in particular that I remember was: "How to say no to sex with your boyfriend or girlfriend." Now, this was racy. I mean, this was Wisconsin people. People in Wisconsin do not have sex let alone teenagers do not have sex in Wisconsin. But I ran the piece. The really bad piece about learning to say "NO!" when he puts his hand under your shirt. Learning to say "NO!" if he wants to drive you down a one way street you do not live on. Learning to say "YES" if he wants to take you on dates in public because sex does not happen in public. Nothing really pertained to not wanting to have sex with your girlfriend because, well, guys never fight the sex.
And this is what happened: "How dare you print that!" Not from teachers. Not from students. Not from principals.
From my mommy.
She refused to believe that her son would even discuss the idea of having relations at my age. Relations were for people who had penises and it was obvious to my mother that I did not have a penis. Which is cool. Mother's shouldn't really think about that kind of stuff.
So, it's funny when I get excited about new things I am editing for... like Jargon Chicago, the new magazine I am the fiction and creative non-fiction editor for. It's revamped. It's been on Gaper's Block and it is hot.
But it's funny because I still have that fear of showing my mom this kind of stuff because, I think to myself, "What if she finds a swear word!" or "Oh my God that story says 'Blowjob!'.
And, really, blow-job and mom do not work together. Ever.
In the end, you should just check out the new Jargon Chicago. Because I am one of the editors and because you look like you need something to read.
Her name is Bridgette and she used to live in this apartment.
I only know this because of what she has left behind. On the top shelf of my closet I discovered a black rectangle box. When you lift the lid you will find piles of photographs of a smiling woman who graduated from high school in 2004. I know this because these are her senior pictures.
On the bottom of the box are projects from a design school in Chicago. She got OK grades on them. She needs to learn how to mix color tones a bit better and if she can, she should be more attentive to matching edges of color values when she is trying to blend.
Underneath that is her diploma. She's from Missouri. That's what her diploma says. She graduated on May 16th, 2004 and her mascot was a Wildcat.
When you move in to a new place, it is easy to forget that you most likely aren't the first to live there.
Which makes me think of the people who will move in to Dave's and my old apartment. When they see the freshly painted walls and the polished hardwood floors and the newly installed toilet and a attentively scrubbed oven top will they even know that we existed before they moved in?
Will they know that two years ago, when Dave picked out that apartment(the first time he was going to live alone) that we watched a movie on the couch in the middle of the small living room in the dark surrounded by boxes because we were so tired from carrying heavy loads up and down the stairs?
Will they know that a year ago, when Dave and I got back from Hawaii, we framed photographs of our trip to remind us there was more out there than Chicago? And that we need to escape the city a little more often.
Will they know that we used to gossip about our days in the bedroom before we fell alseep or that on our three year anniversary, when I walked in the foyer, there were millions of baby Post-Its lined along the hallway saying "I Heart You" over and over? Or will they know the scuffs by the front door are from trying to get in our new couch when we didn't measure before hand and had to jam through the tight opening?
Will they know all the fights we got in to about wall colors or about who will take out the garbage or who have to sleep at a friend's house now that we are no longer together... now that we can't be together?
Will they know that two people lived together, loved together, and fell apart together in the apartment they are about to move in to?
No.
But I think of Bridgette. I think of how she left things behind to remind me that someone else did live there life here, in the new apartment I live in, and had so much happen to her. Maybe she met the love of her life and moved in with him or maybe lost her grandmother or maybe she got a great design job or maybe she dropped out of college to pursue another dream or maybe lost everything and moved back to Missouri in such a panic she had to leave some of her memories behind to at least let someone else... someone like me... know that she and her life has existed.
We never know these things, just like we never know the things hiding for us in the future. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish people could know these things--the history they maybe walking in to or starting to live in. Because maybe they could learn from the pasts. Maybe the new couple moving in to our old place could scrounge through the house looking for hidden clues and say things to each other: "Honey, look at this crack. It totally looks like this is where Dave and Byron nailed in a framed photograph from their road trip from L.A. to San Fran. We should do that!" or "Honey, look, this is where Byron rested his chin--right on this window sill--when he would stare out the window towards the street before falling asleep wondering what he was supposed to do next now that he was sleeping alone again... we shouldn't do that... we should always talk about things so we are never resting our heads here... promise?"
Just like how I learned, from Bridgette, that you should just order your underwear from Victoria's Secret online so the guy that moves in after you(who still gets some of your old junk mail) won't get catalogs with naked women all over it.
