The News

                I’m dating a guy.

                That wasn’t so bad, quick like a band-aid, but that has been a pretty hard thing for me to get out these past few months. See, it’s not a huge statement in the grand theme of things, just four little words. It’s not like that statement is going to change the course of the world or anything. Yet, in my personal reality it is a really big thing. It’s a big deal that isn’t that big of a deal, but when you really start to think about it, it goes back to being a big deal again.

                I mean, up until about a year ago I was staunchly sure of my sexuality. I dated women. I loved women. I checked out women. Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs... Who doesn’t love boobs? Then something slowly started to change. This one guy started inching his way into my life, and what was at one point so perfectly clear to me became a little bit cloudy. As it goes in a lot of relationships, we started as friends. I was set on that being the extent of it; there was no chance of anything else because like I said, BOOBS! But like with most things in my life I ended up being wrong. And now, even though I still feel all, “Yay, lady parts,” I’m equally on the dude bandwagon when it comes to this guy.

                Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been able to appreciate a pretty guy. I’ve talked about that on here before. And I think that anyone that says they can’t see the attractiveness of both sexes is just outright lying because they are afraid of their own sexuality. But even though I was able to look at a guy and feel attraction there was always the fact that guys have penises that threw a wrench in the whole thing. Penises are weird, and even after months of being with someone in possession of one that isn’t glittery, purple and only attachable with a harness I still find them kind of strange. Vaginas can be just as weird too, but they are generally compact and self-contained. Penises are just sort of there, bobbing around and popping up at some really inopportune times. (If you’re reading this, Mom, I’m sorry. Pretend you never read that paragraph.)

                Anyway, I’m dating a guy, who has a penis, and I’m really happy. We got a place together last month, so I’ve slowly been working through my list of contacts trying to let more people know. This isn’t something I would normally do. Instead I’d wait until I bumped into someone to casually mention it. But like I said, this is a big deal that isn’t a big deal, but kind of is a big deal.

                I don’t know if you’ve ever watched The L Word, but there is an episode of that show that perfectly narrates why I feel it necessary to call people about this development in my life. In one of the seasons there is a woman who is caught cheating on her girlfriend with a guy and later leaves said girlfriend to shack up with hook-up guy only to have all of her friends start hating her. Towards the middle of the season there is a scene where the woman shows up to a basketball game that all of her friends are playing in but is told that she can’t play because it is for lesbians only and since she’s dating a dude she no longer qualifies as a lesbian. It’s actually kind of a funny scene because they’re all really girly straight girls in real life and super bad at basketball, but I digress. I watched that scene when it first aired, and at the time I sided with the woman’s friends. She wasn’t a lesbian; she needed to stop calling herself that. She was at least bi. Now it’s taken on a bit of a different spin I guess.

The point is, lesbians often think of men as the enemy. Or at least they think that of men who seemingly turn their once lesbian friends into straight housewives. And like in this horrible gay soap opera scene, that train of thought is usually carried over to the friend as well until they too become the enemy. Of course, in the show’s case everything worked out because the woman realized her mistake and went back to the wonderful land of vaginas and all was forgiven.

                I told my sister about my relationship a few nights ago. It went as well as I expected, and I was asked repeatedly why I was dating a guy when I had told her for years I was a lesbian. Didn’t I know that dating a guy meant I wasn’t actually a lesbian? So what are you then, straight? She said a lot of hurtful and judgmental things, but that is probably what hurt the most. I don’t know what I to call my sexuality at this point.

                Despite the amount of questions I’ve gotten about it in these last few months I’ve still not figured out what to label myself. For now I’ve taken the stance that it doesn’t really matter. I don’t have to reaffirm my sexuality everyday by saying it out loud, so why does it matter if I know what to call myself? And why does that label have to mean so much to so many other people? I’m not going to start being all, “I’m label free, man. One love…” I mean, call yourself or don’t call yourself whatever you want, but for me it’s confusing to be where I am right now. Hopefully I’ll figure it out, but I’m not letting it get to me.

                I’m dating and living with a guy. Those are two things I definitely never thought I’d do, but here I am. And even though I’m dealing with quite a lot of backlash, I’m happy. I may be having quite a few horribly awkward conversations lately, but I still get to go home at the end of the day to someone I love. He may have a penis, he may not be who I expected to be with, but he’s still pretty great.  Life is pretty great.

P.S. BOOBS!

Happy Thoughts

There are times in life when nothing seems worth it. When the air around you hangs heavy and you feel the weight of the world. Times when you look at life and wonder how you ended up so far from the place you expected to be at this age when you were 12 years old. Dull gray colors your world, no one understands, and the farther it goes the worse you feel, because now you’re bringing down everyone else around you and they are growing to hate you for it. No matter the problem, the road to recovery seems insurmountable and you can’t see the chance for redemption anytime soon.

But then there are the other days; days that overshadow the bad and unmentionable. The days where you wake up to the smell of pancakes and coffee. Vacations spent at your parent’s house watching the fog roll over the mountain tops and the sun peak into the valley. Nights going to sleep next to a warm body you love. The time you talked to the crazy lady that hangs out in front of Whole Foods and she meowed at you before you left. The unexpected road trip you took with your friends in 11^th grade that your mother still doesn’t know about. The drunken night you watched your best friend make out with an 18 year old and never let her live it down. Quiet afternoons spent lying in the sun watching clouds skim across the blue sky above. The first time you successfully attempted making macarons. Your first date. Your first kiss. Your first love. The thrill of being hired for your first writing job. Christmas with your grandparents. Your summers spent hanging out with your aunt. The cooking shows your sister used to put on while she was babysitting you. Cashing in your collection of pennies to take your family to Disney World when you were a kid. There was that time you drank too much vodka while you were driving up to Atlanta and laughed until your stomach hurt. Or maybe the day you spent walking around the streets of New York and discovered something inside of yourself you never expected.

We all suffer the days of uncertainty, but it’s the other days- the beautiful days- we remember. It’s those tiny happy moments that matter in the end, that make up our memories. There are horrible times that I’ll never be able to forget, but when I look back those are not my first thoughts. Instead I see the day I spent planting a garden patch with my grandfather, or the time my family went fishing on the pier and my mom caught a bigger fish than my dad. It’s those happy times that get me through life and make the bad days a little more bearable.   

Cool Post, Bro!

Years ago, when I was taking German during my first year of college, my professor was doing a lecture on cultural differences. He wanted us to understand that a lot of the little things we do every day are not necessarily normal in other countries. He gave a lot of examples, and to be honest I blanked out during most of that lecture because like duh… Americans are weird. But through the haze of daydreaming about the cafeteria mac & cheese and going back to my dorm to sleep some more one tidbit of information seeped through. At the time I wasn’t really sure why, but since then this little nugget has become an increasingly large part of my everyday life. Herr Voltz told us that in Germany it would be unheard of to say hello to someone throughout the day. In other words, after the first time you’ve seen someone for the day there is no need to continue with the pleasantries; it’s unnecessary and bothersome.

In retrospect I can see how this American nuance caused questionable instances in my life. Growing up I spent a lot of time in the laundry rooms of my mother’s hotels because I was the kid in the plaid jumper that no one wanted to hang out with after school. Unfortunately sometimes stereotypes are on point, and in this case most of the housekeepers at my mother’s hotels were immigrants. I can clearly recall dumbfounded looks as I greeted each person that walked into the laundry room, even if they had only left 10 minutes beforehand. This level of friendliness in my opinion directly led to an odd crush that one of my mother’s Czech contract workers had on me. He was in his mid to late 20’s with the most beautiful blue eyes, but I was 12 and still wearing my plaid jumper. Flattered, but gross…

Fast forward to today and I’ve taken Herr Voltz advice to heart. Throughout the years I’ve grown ever more disgruntled at those that incessantly say hello. If you’ve already seen me that day let’s both save the 30 seconds it will take to greet each other again when I come back into the room. Smile at me, sure; I mean, don’t be a dick, but there really is no use in greeting each other again. Now, if someone says hello multiple times throughout the day I just stop responding with more than a smile or a nod, sometimes not even that. I know that many people in my life think that this quirk is a byproduct of my quietness in social situations, but really I’m just annoyed. And this habit has grown, not just with “hellos,” but with other pleasantries as well.

• Do we really have to say “God bless you” every time someone sneezes? I don’t know about other people, but my sneezes rarely ever come as a one off thing. I sneeze in multi-packs. There’s no need to bless me more than once. I’m not losing my soul through my nostril expulsion. I’m just having an involuntary reaction to your strong cologne.
•  Unless you are my boss, a coworker looking for help or someone I’m talking to on the phone please do not ask what I’m up to. You are standing right in front of me. You can clearly see what I’m doing. I’m standing in front of a basin of water with circular ceramic vessels often used during the ingestion of food. Perhaps, just maybe, I’m doing dishes. I’m laying on a soft rectangular piece of furniture in a manner saying I just melted into this position while a box containing a flickering light plays moving images in front of me. I’m most likely watching television.
• My mom used to ask me how my day at school was every night when she got home from work. I gave her the same answer every time, “just another day…” This would never change unless it was an absolutely horrendous day. Please don’t ask me how my day at work was unless you actually want to hear a longwinded retelling of how much I hate Excel.
• Which leads into my most hated of all questions, “how are you doing?” No one, and I mean no one, besides your mother or partner really cares how you are doing. For some reason this question has become synonymous with “hello” in American culture. What’s the point of asking it? I don’t want to hear myself gripe, and I’m fairly certain the water delivery guy doesn’t want to hear me either, so why does he have to ask me each time he comes in? I don’t know, but I hate it.

So maybe I am just an overly angry person who needs to calm down and recognize that people are just trying to be friendly. Maybe I was never meant to be American. Maybe my German-born professor sullied my innocent young mind with his propaganda, or some other rhetoric the Tea Party would come up with. Or maybe, just maybe, there are others who agree with me. No, I’m probably just PMSing; you know, stereotypes and all…

And She Remembered

She had been up since 5am, running around the house to make it just so. The windows were washed, the counters clean, the floors shined and the picture frames dusted. She started dinner around 3 o’clock in the afternoon after all of her chores were done; a nice big roast with beans, cornbread and greens.

It was close to 6pm now and her husband would be home from work soon. She hated the days that he was away and had been asking for him to spend more time at home now that they were older. He could have retired three years ago, but he loved the work he was doing. She didn’t have the heart to really ask for him to give that up. Besides, she liked being able to take care of him when he came home after a long day in the office. He had stopped working at the grocery store years ago and now he spent his time working at the church. The pay wasn’t as good, but you could see on his face how much more he enjoyed what he did there.

It had been eight years since he received his calling, and seven years since he started preaching at Harmony, the church in the holler below their farm. On Wednesdays he would do a service at the old church up the mountain, but most days were spent with his delegates at Harmony. She loved watching him preach and made a point to never miss a service. Even when she had caught that really bad flu one winter she was there in the front pew, smiling as he spoke the good word. He had begged her to stay home that time, but she grabbed her shawl and hopped in the Bronco before he could get the final word.

But now he’d be coming home in just a few minutes, hungry and tired. She’d have dinner on the table and his smoking pipe filled by his chair waiting for him. They had been married for close to 45 years now and she never failed to have his dinner made for him when he got home from work. She thought about that day he had come by her Papa’s house to pick her up for a date only to tell her they were getting married that afternoon. They had talked about getting married for a while, but he hadn’t actually asked her yet. She was sure he hadn’t asked for Papa’s blessing, but the idea of not marrying him that day was the most horrible thing she’d ever heard of before. She went back inside, put on her white polka dot dress, pinned her hair up and met him on the porch with a smile stretching from ear to ear. Three hours later and she was Mrs. Hendrickson. It still made her tear up a little to think about how happy they had been that day when he dropped her back off at her Papa’s house after the courtroom ceremony.

Those first few years of marriage had been spent in Ohio where her husband was stationed during the war. She had taken the train up to Dayton by herself and was supposed to meet him at the platform when she arrived. Something had gone wrong though, and he never showed up that night. Worried, scared and alone for the first time in her life she had used the little bit of money she had to take a cab to a hotel nearby. The next day she called the base but was unable to reach anyone who could help her. As naive as she was she was just as determined, and after grabbing breakfast she headed out onto the streets to find both the Army base and her husband. After hours of walking, discouragement seeping in,  she saw a familiar face across the street- her husband, normally tan and hansom,  paled with worry and fear. She called out to get his attention, and as she would later tell her children and grandchildren, his face instantly lit up bringing all of his color back. He ran over, hugging her tight, all the while telling how he had spent the night searching for her after she wasn't at the platform when he got there. There had been a mix-up at the base and he got to the train station late. Nine months later and they welcomed their fist child, a beautiful baby boy with raven hair and caramel skin just like his father.

A car door shut outside and she could hear voices coming closer to the house. Tired from her long day and wary bones she waited in the living room for him to come in. As the door opened she cocked her head to the side listening for his telltale whistling, she swore the man never took a step without whistling, but she couldn’t hear anything except for the shrill voice of a woman. He must have brought home one of his parishioners for further tutoring. He stepped around the corner and she stood to give him a giant hug, loving the feel of him in her arms after so many hours without him.

“Oh, Ernest, you’re home!”

“Hey, Mama. How was your day?”

“Much better now. How was your’s?”

“Well the trip wasn’t too bad. Nance and I ran into some traffic in Atlanta, but we still managed to make pretty good time.”

A quizzical look crossed her face. “You were on a trip? Where did you go?”

“I drove up from Florida,” he said, a look matching her own gracing his face.

“Well why were you down there?”

“I live there, Mama. I came up here to visit you. Where did you think I lived?”

Angry that he was trying to trick her she puffed up, “Well here with me of course! Why would you live anywhere else? I’m your wife.”

“Mama… I’m Ernest Jr., remember? And this is Nancy, your granddaughter. Daddy died 20 years ago. I live in Florida with my wife Pauline.”

“Oh… I guess that’s right,” and she could feel her heart breaking.

Her granddaughter Jessica, now 34 instead of the 13 year old she remembered, poked her head out of the back bedroom. “Hey, Uncle Ernest! Hey, Nancy! How was the drive? I put a roast on earlier for you guys. Mamaw insisted we make a big dinner for you. Hope you’re hungry.”

She slowly stood, grabbing the walker that was never more than a few inches from her, and headed to the bedroom she had never shared with her husband but that still contained the bed they bought that first year they were married. Saying she needed to use the bathroom no one followed her. Once the door was shut and the lights turned off she sat on her bed, their bed, and cried the tears she knew would never stop. She was alone, and she couldn’t remember why.

Coming to Terms

A little less than five years ago I had a conversation with my mother that I had been dreading since I was 12 years old. You know the one I’m talking about, the conversation; the mom-I’m-gay conversation. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to tell her. And up until the moment the words came tumbling out of my mouth I honestly wasn’t sure of their sincerity. I had dated women, I had dated men. I even thought I loved some of them. But the moment I said those words I knew how true they were.

My coming out wasn’t perfect. My mom didn’t look at me knowingly and whisper that she had always known. We didn’t have a heartfelt talk about how we loved each other. We did cry, but it wasn’t the happy tears of bonding. It was a hard and painful conversation. But as imperfect as it was I felt relief the moment I had said the words.

It was a long time before my mother came around to the idea of having a second gay daughter. My sister and I grew up in a very religious family, but my mom had always been the liberal hippy. When my sister came out my mom just sort of smiled. To my sister’s mortification mom would comment on attractive women when they went out together. She was accepting and loving no matter what. But my coming out sort of threw a wrench in all that. She started telling my sister to tone down the gay, and blaming herself and her divorce for my sister and my sexualities. And she cried. She cried a lot.

One day I finally had had enough. I missed my mom. The mom that would talk to me about life and relationships. The mom that had always been open and honest with me about everything. The mom that would answer any questions I ever had, even those about sex. The mom that told me in 7^thgrade that she knew my sister was gay even though she hadn’t told her yet and that she wanted me to know she would always be there for me if I ever felt the same. She had said those words, been that perfect mother, but now she was failing to live up to it.

The coming-out-follow-up conversation as I like to call it was in fact worse than the first. There was lots of yelling, a feat considering I had never raised my voice to my mother in all of my years, and lots of crying. My roommate ended up leaving the house because even in her room she could hear me yelling into the phone. After about 20 minutes of calling my mom out on all of the bigotry she had been exuding over the past few months I broke down. The truth was I just missed her being there. I asked her what was so different now. Why I couldn’t talk to her about my relationships now that the other party was a woman when before it had never been an issue. And most importantly, why she acted like she didn’t love me anymore.

About an hour after I got off the phone I got a call from my sister saying mom was holed up in her room. I’m not sure what it was about our fight, but after that things started to look up again. One day while discussing religion mom admitted that my coming out had made her reevaluate her faith and what it meant. She started messaging me when news would come out about new states passing marriage and civil union laws. Two years ago she even met my girlfriend I was dating at the time, the first ever time I introduced someone I was dating to my family.

Things are better now. I have my mom back. When my girlfriend and I broke up I called my mom for comfort. When I accidentally came out to my cousin at dinner, my mom just laughed. When my sister got a new crush, it was my mother and I that made fun of her for acting like a pre-teen girl.

So what is the point of me telling you all of this? I mean I’m not one that thinks every coming out story is worth telling, and I don’t really like to focus on the serious matters in life too much, contrary to what the latest post on this blog may suggest. But here’s the thing; I love my mom with all of my heart, but for about 3 months after my coming out I sort of resented her. Coming out is rarely ever perfect. Most people have to deal with a lot of negativity not only from family members but the world at large. And until you yourself go through it, either as the family member or the person deciding to be brave enough to accept who they are, you can’t know what it is like. My mom had all of these great ideals and beliefs, but when the time came she struggled to accept the truth.  It’s just a part of life I guess.

There’s a lot of hate in today’s society. I honestly get scared sometimes thinking about what will happen if America’s current conservative swing keeps building momentum. I deal with bigotry in my life on a daily basis already, even from those I deem friends. I don’t necessarily look gay; I mean I’m not hitting homers in the local women’s softball league or anything. I don’t shout that I’m gay to everyone I meet because it’s really not a big deal. But I’m still faced with hate every day in some shape or form. And until someone knows what that’s like- to have men ogle you when you kiss your girlfriend, to have a friend repeatedly tell you to stop acting so gay or to stop being such a lez, to have a family member stop talking to you or look at you with disdain, to listen to politicians openly hate you because of who you fundamentally are, to work for a company that gives money to those politicians behind your back even though they promote the idea of equality in the workplace, to be told you just haven’t found the right dick yet- until you know what that’s like you don’t have a right to tell me what I should or should not be able to do. Because the truth is every minority group in the world deals with issues of bigotry and hate. We can be sympathetic, and at times perhaps even empathetic, but until you walk a mile in someone else’s shoes it is impossible to know what it is really like for them, for us, for me.

I’m a woman. I’m Irish and Native American. I’m southern. I’m a writer and an avid reader. I’m a college graduate. I’m often times shy. I love Pretty in Pink and Titanic. Mexican and Thai food are my favorite things to eat. The first day of fall is my favorite time of year. I’m obsessed with cute animals. I have a name no one can pronounce when they first meet me. And I’m gay. None of these things are more important than the other. They are all just aspects of me as a whole. If you’re gonna hate someone fine, but do it for a good reason, like they punched your 80 year old grandma in the face. Don’t hate someone because of something they can’t change about who they inherently are. I mean I hate to point out the obvious here, but that’s sort of what the Romans did to Jesus when they killed him for saying he was the Messiah, and look how that turned out…

19 Years and Counting

Yesterday marked 19 years since I last saw my grandfather. It’s been 19 years since I last heard him laugh. 19 years since I’ve smelled his cologne. 19 years since I last hugged him. To think… 19 years ago I only would have come up to his belly during that hug. I could probably rest my head on his shoulder now; I wonder what that would have been like.

When I was five years old my mother moved my sister and me up to Kentucky to live with our grandparents. Mom had gotten a scholarship to go back to school, and her job(s) as a receptionist could only do so much for a family of three in a small Florida town.

I at first was upset about the move. I didn’t want to leave my best friend or my family that all lived within a block of our house. I knew it snowed in Kentucky. I knew we were moving to an even smaller town. I knew my sister was bawling and throwing a fit that her life was over; if she hated it this much then I did too. We had to give up our cat, MY cat. We had to sell my Fischer Price kitchen. We had to drive for 13 hours! I was five. For a five year old a 13 hour drive is like listening to Ann Margret sing the opening to Bye Bye Birdie 80 times in a row through headphones turned up full volume, in other words unbearable. My melancholy over moving lasted about 0.2 seconds though, as most states of melancholy for small children do.

My grandparents lived on a farm at the edge of town towards the top of a mountain. To the back was the barn and sprawling fields. Across the street from the front was a wooded hillside I could explore as I wished since no one lived there.

My grandfather immediately became my best buddy. We’d search for arrow heads in the fields he had just turned and plant vegetables in the little garden he started just for me at the side of the house. We’d eat onions and shuck peas while sitting on the front porch. We’d hunt daddy long legs on the wrap-around porch. When winter came we made snowmen. When spring came we caught locust and collected their husks. We caught a caterpillar in a tin can once and watched it bloom into a moth. We snuck off for ice cream sundaes and foot-long hot dogs at the drive-in. In the mornings before school we’d watch Gilligan’s Island together and eat Egg-Beaters since he had high cholesterol and wasn’t allowed what he deemed “real food.” I ate what he ate. I went where he went. I listened when he listened. I stood up when he stood up.

I’d go to church every Wednesday and Sunday to hear my grandfather preach to his congregation. On Wednesday nights he’d let me ring the church bell, and since I was so small still I'd swing from the rope up and down with each pull. When he’d sit me down in the front pew with my grandmother he’d leave me with a pad and pen to draw and some of the Werther’s candies he always carried around in his pocket. After church we’d go to Don Rico’s for supper and I’d sneak Grandpa a scoop of ice cream when Grandma wasn’t looking.

About a year after I moved in with my grandparents my dad and mom decided to get back together. Even with my dad there I still held a soft spot for my Grandpa. My dad was my father, but for all intents and purposes my grandfather was my real dad. He taught me how to climb a ladder and was subsequently the one that climbed up to get me back down. He showed me how to whistle and blow bubbles with my chewing gum. He wiped away my tears and fed me pudding when I had my front teeth removed. He taught me faith and understanding, acceptance and forgiveness. He was my dad, my grandfather and my best friend.

When my parents remarried two years later we moved out of my grandparent’s house to a town a few hours away. Looking back the signs that everything was about to change were there from the beginning. Before we moved I saw Grandpa and Grandma talking to a realtor one day after school. Grandma had started getting angrier when we’d run into Grandpa at the drive in eating sundaes. Strange men in suits were constantly showing up at the farm to talk to the adults. Later my grandfather’s dog disappeared, but no one questioned it or went looking for him save for me.

When Grandpa was first admitted to the hospital I was the first to go in and see him. My cousin who worked there had to sneak me in through the service entrance since he wasn’t allowed visitors yet. I’m not sure how long he had been on chemo before he was so bad they had to put him under 24 hours surveillance since no one really thought I could handle that information at seven years old. I remember breaking into the hospital with my Grandma and cousin and walking through hallways I wasn’t supposed to see. It felt like an adventure full of perils. I remember looking at his hospital room door and thinking it was huge and ominous; that something hideous befitting my journey was awaiting me beyond its pink coating. When I finally entered he laughed pulling me into a hug and told me I was the first person he had wanted to see. It had been his demands that brought me to his bedside that day. There was no angry beast waiting for me on the other side of the door, but instead my favorite person in the whole world. I remember this entire first day, but I don’t remember how he looked in that bed.

My family, and I mean my entire family, spent the weeks leading up to my grandfather’s death in the waiting room outside of his hospital room. My grandmother rarely left his side, and the rest of us would take turns going in while the everyone else set outside hoping for some good news that would never come. October 8th was my grandmother’s birthday, but there was little celebration as we all knew it would be the last she and my grandfather would spend together. The next day when it happened I remember all of the adults rushing into the room and telling all of us kids to be quiet and behave. The older kids were told to keep an eye on us, but they were all just crying. I didn’t really get what was going on, but I knew it couldn’t be good.

They took us in one by one after he had passed. The room was filled with flowers and balloons.  The windows were all open and the sunlight streamed in making the room look happy. But for all the joy that the surroundings brought, the faces of my family members were anything but. Tear tracks marked every face but one. I have a picture in my head of what he looked like that day, but I know it is just the fantasy of a seven year old that just lost her best friend.

I still cry thinking about that day. I still cry thinking about his wake. Of course, after 19 years the thoughts of these days come fewer, the tears come less. Instead I remember his smile. Or the way he always smelled faintly of butterscotch. Or the amber ashtray he kept in the living room that never held a single ash because he hid his cigars and pipe from my grandmother in their later years. How his hair always reminded me of salt and pepper shakers. Or how much love you could see in his eyes when he looked at his wife and family. Or even the way he would run around with a five year old like he was a kid again.

It’s been 19 years, and come next October it will have been 20 years. Those are two very large numbers when you consider them in the spectrum of time. I’ve changed a lot over the last 19 years, I expect more to have changed by next. I’ve grown and I’ve learned. I’ve discovered myself and my beliefs. And I think I've become someone who my grandfather would be proud of. I’ve changed, but a part of me will always be the little girl stealing away after school on Tuesdays to giggle in the passenger seat of her grandfather’s Bronco on the way to the drive-in.

Geriatric Friends

It was early on in my adolescent life that I discovered my hatred for people my own age. At 4 years old I knew that no one under the age of 30 had anything of value worth saying. Like many still entrapped in their single-digit years my mother was my best friend; my Aunt Starr coming in a very close second. These two never failed to make me laugh. They could fill an entire afternoon talking about life, something that I at 4 years old had little experience of. Unlike my peers that waxed on about Barbie and the latest episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, my mother and aunt had real stories to tell me.

Both women had been divorced by the age of 33. One saddled with 2 children and an ex-husband that rarely even showed up on birthdays. The other remarried to a kind man, with no kids of her own and a free-spirited attitude toward life. Both worked hard. Both suffered at the hands of their exes.  Both came out the other end to continue on. I was fascinated with the idea of two people’s lives being so similar, yet their paths diverging in such a way it was unmistakable to see the differences among the two. Where my mother struggled to keep my sister and me in line and fed, my aunt just had to worry about her husband bringing home yet another assortment of garage sale finds. If there was one worry in her life it was my Uncle James’ obsession with getting a good deal. If there was a yard sale or flea market on the way home from work you could bet money on James coming home with a size 13 pair of sneakers no one needed or could even fit in. My mother had to call my father to remind him Christmas was coming up. Starr had to call my uncle to remind him he was due home five hours ago and to, “Leave the damned microwave cart at the garage sale. We have a built in unit for Christ’s sake! No, we won’t ever need it and neither will anyone else!”

Years later my sister would tease me for talking to strangers when my family would go out to eat. By the age of 6 I had realized that not only did my mother and aunt have fascinating stories, other older people would as well. When my family would go out for dinner, to a movie, to watch fireworks, I could be found sitting beside the oldest person in the vicinity enraptured by their tales. Often times they would talk about how adorable I was, and such a nice young girl. A child being interested in what an old person has to say is like crack to the geriatric. So used to being ignored by anyone with a pulse still above 40 beats per minute, having a little girl willingly walk up and start talking to them was a true treat. I enjoyed the smiles they’d get as I walked up, and to say all the accolades to my looks didn’t feed my ego would be a lie, but what I really wanted was to hear about their lives. Did you fight in a war? How did your knee go out? What is a colostomy bag, and why do you need it?

By the time I was a teenager I started to veer away from these hangouts with random old people. My friend had been the victim of a sexual predator by my first year of high school, and though I wholly blamed her for agreeing to go to a movie with somebody she met in a chat room I couldn’t help my sudden apprehension of talking to strangers, especially old men. They no longer just held a plethora of knowledge, they were also sexual beings. At some point in time Mr. Jenkins from down the road had slept with someone. With the help of Viagra perhaps he still did. I saw the way he looked at the old widow Mrs. Anderson. Gone were my dinnertime hangouts with the senior citizens at Denny’s early bird special. Now I could only talk to people I knew, which in turn greatly reduced my friend base.

This was how I met my mother’s boss, Mr. Patel. He was a nice old Indian man that seemed to take a shine to me right away. He was Hindu, something that I had never come across before and was fascinated by. This was right around the time Madonna decided to partake in eastern religions and Gwen Stefani started wearing bindis in her music videos. Here I was with an actual practicing Hindu that not only liked me but wanted to teach me everything he knew. It was like the heavens had opened up to say, “Nina, here is everything you could possibly ever want out of life.”

Mr. Patel started telling me about his life in India before he moved to America in the 70’s. I would come into work with my mother and spend the rest of the afternoon learning about how Mr. Patel had built his life up from scratch when he migrated. When my school had us pick a country to do a group project on I immediately chose India and begged my group to let me take over the religion portion of the paper. For a week I interrogated Mr. Patel about his religion, and though I was slightly off put by his pineapple ritual for opening a new business I started to see why all of America’s celebrities were jumping on the bandwagon. One day at the end of our interview session Mr. Patel told me I was an old soul; he could see it in my eyes. I had no idea what this meant, but I liked the sound of it. For years I had spent my life longing for the day when I would belong in a room of senior citizens, when I would be able to look at a young person and tell them, “Well, back in my day…” Now, here I was an old soul. I might look young, but inside I was already 85 years old.

I started to fantasize about what my inner 85 year old would do were I to let her out. Once someone get’s old their body starts to go and the mind is soon to follow. The trick is to find that sweet spot when you still have all of your faculties but look like you might be old enough to need an oxygen tank. My inner 85 year old was still a fully functioning human being, but she knew how to get her way. She’d walk into a store, grab a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter and walk out without paying while smiling and waving to the store clerk. If anyone dared come after her for shoplifting she’d simply claim senility. She’d sit on her porch in the afternoons yelling at kids that dared walk on the sidewalk in front of her house. She’d tell her grand kids about her time spent traveling the railways with the hobos and the time she killed a man in Vancouver for looking at her funny. She’d only use a walker when family was over causing them to tell her to take a load off, they’d do those dishes that had been piling up for a week. It was going to be a sweet life, but for now I was only 14; I had to wait it out.

A year ago I turned 25 and had a veritable mental breakdown. All those years spent in the midst of the old had done nothing to quell my fear of death. Though I couldn’t wait to be a cute old lady like my grandmother, I had no desire to ever be so close to death. Turning 25 was the first milestone in my inevitable voyage to the great blackout. My inner 85 year old laughed at my realization, shaking her head that I had to have known this was coming. I was still alienated among people my own age, but the elderly I looked up to were a reminder of where I was headed. Secretly I had always assumed I’d die in a terrible accident before I was 30. Being old and going out in a slow and drawn out fashion had never occurred to me. I had always just seen the elderly as cuter, shorter versions of regular people. Not only was Mr. Jenkins schtupping Mrs. Anderson, he was also going to die.

In the fall of last year my mother called to tell me that Mr. Patel had passed away. He had a heart attack and was doing fine, but in the middle of the night something had gone wrong and he died. By this time my mother was no longer working for Mr. Patel, and I honestly hadn’t thought of him for years. Hearing about his death was depressing, but did it really affect me? Mr. Patel had once told me I had an old soul and that I had lived many lives before. If he was right was he really dead or just moved on into another form? According to my grandmother he’s probably in Hell since he wasn’t a Christian. In my own non-religious belief he’s just a body being reabsorbed by the earth that once created him- though I’m not really sure how that works with cremation. I like his idea better.

*****
Every morning on my way into work I pass this little old man on Lakemont who waves at every car that passes by him. Some people smile uncontrollably at seeing a baby being bounced on its father’s knee. Me, I smile whenever I see an old person happy. Yeah I fear death and now as a result I also fear getting old, but I have had a love of the elderly since I was 4 and it’s hard to break a habit you’ve had for that long. Every morning when I pass George, that’s what I’ve named him in my head, and he waves at me I instantly feel better. George can barely walk and has a hunch so bad it looks like he is constantly searching the ground for pennies, but still he goes for a walk every day to wave at all his friends.

On mornings where George is missing I spend my day worried that something has happened to him. Did he oversleep? Or maybe he just got up early; my grandmother has a habit of waking at 4am some days. If there were ever to be multiple days in a row with no George to greet me on my drive into work I’d probably pull over and knock on every door down Lakemont until I found his house to make sure he was alive and ok. “Please,” I’d say, “it’s the least I can do.” He’d smile and thank me for checking up on him. Later I’d come home to find a fruit basket with a note from George thanking me again for being so kind to a stranger. I'd quickly wonder how he got my address for the delivery before giving in to the chocolate covered strawberries.

This morning turning onto Lakemont I could see the familiar figure of George walking down the sidewalk. Blue and silver striped track suit? Check! Matching baseball cap? Check! Hunched over physique of Quasimodo? Double check! Pulling up the anticipation was eating away at me; my hand already at half mast waiting for George to look my way. A few feet away and my stomach was in butterflies, a smile already gracing my lips. And then he did it, he turned around. He turned his back to me! How can he wave and smile with his back turned to me? And that was it, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to wave to me. I was snubbed. My geriatric friend denied me a simple gesture of the hand. I wanted to scream out the window, “I’m one of you! I’m an old soul God damn it! You can see it in my eyes!” Instead I kept driving, I lowered my extended arm and I glowered. I may never get that fruit basket from George, but you know what? When he finds himself “fallen and can’t get up” I’ll be the last person to show up frantic on his doorstep to make sure he’s ok. I may love cute old people, but I no longer love you George! Unless of course you wave to me again tomorrow, then we’re cool.