Life with Ricky

Inspiration comes from many places, and I know I’ve said that before. And I’ll probably say it again. 

2010 was the beginning of a difficult transition for me. My husband of 15 years unexpectedly asked for a divorce. I felt my world was falling apart. 
 
And then Ricky Martin came into my life. Indirectly. He’d actually been in my life since he started living his Vida Loca, and Shaking his Bon-bon. Like almost every other gay man, I fantasized over him and wondered “Is he or isn’t he?” He actually did come out just six months before my husband walked out in September 2010, then Ricky’s book, Me, was released in November of the same year. He followed this up in January, 2011 with his first Spanish language CD in about eight years, Más Música + Alma + Sexo.

I find Ricky to be quite good looking. All right, he's damn hot! He has a beautiful smile, eyes that can go from sensitive to mischievous to downright bedroom eyes in, well, the wink of an eye. And let’s not talk of those shirtless pics of him circulating the internet. Woof! And through it all, his soul shines through. There is tenderness there, an essence, a feeling that he is indeed a genuine kind-hearted person. Okay, so maybe I'm a bit biased.

Now, I am not usually a fan of biographies, unless I have some great interest in the subject. (I loved Cher’s autobiography.) And like many gay men, I was curious as to what dirt Ricky would spill in his book. Would he name names? Inquiring minds (and libidos) wanted to know.

But, Ricky is quite the gentleman; he kept his dirt to himself. He talked about his relationships with other men, but no specifics, no details. Even the relationships he had with women, he kept their names to himself, respecting their privacy. And that makes him even hotter in my opinion. (And fantasy!)

But, his book left me with something more; a new philosophy of life. Now, before this, I had come to believe that things do happen for a reason. My husband left me for a reason, a reason that applied to me which I would find out some day. But, Ricky convinced me that while they do indeed happen for a reason, they happen at the right time for you to learn the lesson you need to learn. So, my husband left me, and I was ready to learn why. According to the Universe (and Ricky) at least.

In May of 2011, I got to see him in concert in Los Angeles. It was a very emotional experience for me, having read his book, and listened to his CD ad nauseum and believing he was there for me. Metaphorically, at least. His CD remains one of my favorites.

I've been moved by songs before, but rarely by almost an entire CD. There were lines in nearly every song that seemed to reach right into my heart and speak directly to me.

The entire song Será, Será, had a lot to say, here are the key parts that reached me:

Escondiéndote en las sombras,
No vas a encontrar lo que tú buscas,
Nunca jamás,
Abrazando tu destino
Saldrás.
and
Paso a paso, poco a poco llegas, cuerpo y alma, corazón afuera, La verdad está en tus manos.
and
No tengas miedo a volar, no tengas miedo a sentir, no tengas miedo a soñar, no tengas miedo a vivir.

(Roughly translated; Hiding in the shadows, You will never find what you are looking for, never ever. Embracing your destiny, You will overcome. Step by step, little by little you will arrive, body and soul, heart out, The truth is in your hands. Don't be afraid to fly, don't be afraid to feel, don't be afraid to dream, don't be afraid to live.)

The entire song is one of encouragement. In an interview, Ricky alluded that this was his message to encourage those who felt who feel unequal, condemned, marginalized.

From the title song, MAS:

Nunca te detengas
Haz lo que tú sientas
Sigue tu destino
Fuera del camino

(Never stop yourself, Do what you feel, Follow your destiny, Off the path)

And although Te Vas, is a breakup song, these lines jumped out at me. Interestingly, I never felt my ex was saying this to me, but Ricky was offering me this piece of advice as I was going away on my new path. 

Te vas
Ya no tengas miedo de volar
Serás
Todo lo que quieras tú soñar
Renacerás
No esperes más
Ahora
Es el momento
Ahora
Es el momento

(You’re leaving, Now don’t be afraid of flying, You will be all you want to dream of, You will be reborn, Don’t wait any more, Now is the moment, Now is the moment.)

In the theater where he was performing, there were lines from the songs painted graffiti-like on the stage, and some panels around the audience.  Some lines were in Spanish, some in English. The only English one I remember now, two years later, is “Don’t be afraid of the dark.” When I read it, I began to tear up as I felt I was in a dark place and Ricky was telling me not to be afraid of it, that through the darkness will come the light and I will eventually be all right. Sometime. In the future.

I knew it had to be a translation of a line in Será, Será and I waited to hear if he would release an English version. I figured he might, since two songs on the CD has English versions. 

Eventually, he did.

And he spoke to me again in the song, It’s Too Late (English version of Será, Será.)

Don't be afraid of the dark,
Don't be afraid of the tears,
Don't be afraid of yourself,
Don't be afraid of the fear.

I know I haven’t taken the steps forward I’ve needed to. Yes, fear has held me back. Mostly it’s the fear of being hurt, the fear of making the same mistakes again and again and again, the fear of change, and the fear of being who I truly am. And yes, it's easier to tell someone not to be afraid, it's another to conquer it.

I think Marianne Williamson sums it up best:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

With all of these changes I've blogged about happening at the same time I'm feeling quite overwhelmed.

Maybe I need to follow this last part of It’s Too Late:

Piece by piece
Put yourself together
Hands and feet
Connecting with your heartbeat
Step by step
Take back the power

Once this school year is over, I feel I can begin to take back my power

Whatever it is

in order to become

Whoever I am

However long I need.

I Bust a Nut

I have been struggling lately trying to figure out exactly why I feel so negative, so down, so donsey.

And I believe I've finally cracked that nut wide open.

As I've been questioning my self-esteem lately, some of the pain around being bullied and harassed surfaced. This in turn brought up some feelings about being gay, in general. But after dealing with these I would have thought I'd be feeling better. Maybe I didn't process them enough. And then it hit me.

It's not necessarily the gay thing, though the negative media attention and the continued struggle for acceptance and equality can weigh me down. Why must we fight to be treated as equal citizens in our respective countries? I came out at a time when that meant accepting you were second class status. That's hard to get over. 

But, that's not the dark cloud surrounding me. It's something else.

I'm divorced.

I swore as a child I never would be. After all, I suffered as child of divorce. It was hell. When my mother remarried she had a different last name, I didn't feel I fit in. My other friends weren't from broken homes as it wasn't common then. I wasn't going to put my children through the hell I went through. I wanted the perfect family; the wife, the kids, the dog, the cat, the nice home forever.

Then I grew up. And came out.

The picture itself didn't change, only the gender of my spouse did. I still wanted the perfect family, but with a husband, the kids, the dog, the cat, the nice home forever.

My sweetie, Maynard.

For a while I had that; a husband (though we didn't use that term), no kids (teaching killed that part of the fantasy), no dog (though, we might have had one later), a great cat (RIP Maynard, I miss you so much), a nice home (after a while), but it was not forever as he died in 1994, just days before our ninth anniversary.

Then I met my ex, and we all know how that turned out. And even in the ending years, I could not face the fact that my unhappiness was the relationship itself; that something needed to change. Yet, divorce was still not an option for me. I so wanted to believe in love-ever-after. I wanted, no, needed to fix my relationship, not end it. I wanted to show those straight people that two men could love each other so deeply even without the legal blessing or social recognition of 'marriage' that their relationship would last until death took one of them.

Times change. Marriage equality is now a reality in fourteen nations and twelve US states. I was married to my ex.

And now I'm divorced. Something I never wanted to be.

Times change, attitudes change. I need to change mine. Maya Angelou said "If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude."  I can't change the fact I am divorced. I mean, I could get married again, and then I wouldn't be divorced. But that is a whole other kettle of fish to examine. But, I can change my attitude about being divorced.

Divorce no longer carries the social stigma it used to. I mean, some people seem to collect them, e.g., the Gabor sisters had 19-20 between them. Well, maybe they're a bad example. But, even some ordinary citizens also seem to have multiple marriages/divorces. Does this mean people are no longer committed to a long term relationship? No, I'm sure some are. But, I'm not sure people think through the seriousness of marriage. Maybe divorce laws have made that a reality. Or, maybe people end things at the first sign of irreconcilable trouble. Maybe people just grow apart. Maybe there are other factors as well.

 

Maybe I just need to get over myself.

 

And move on...

 

And just be...

Sticks and Stones

Sticks and Stones, Juneau, AK

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”

Bullfuckingshit.

I have been called many names: “gayboy”, “queer”, “fag”, “faggot”, “girl”, “nerd”, “geek”, “ugly”, “know-it-all”, “Miss”, and “ma’am”.

I have been subject to mocking behaviors; kids walking up to or by me swishing their asses, waving limp-wristed, saying “Hi” in a very effeminate, lilting almost-drawl-like voice.

In High School, I complained about the name calling to a dean who told me I was overly sensitive and that I should not gesture so much with my hands when I talk. I wanted to tell him where to go. Idiot.

A few of those names are true. I am gay, but not a fag/faggot. I am not a British cigarette, nor a bundle of sticks to be used as kindling. Last I checked in the shower I am not a girl, nor do I want to be one. I do plead guilty to being a nerd or geek, but not necessarily a know-it-all. I happen to love useless knowledge, and only share it with my own kind; other lovers of useless knowledge. I do not consider myself effeminate, nor am I the butchest man in town, either. Like most gay men, I do have some queenly attributes, like my voice. I underwent speech therapy to try and naturally deepen it as it never changed during puberty. My pitch is considered to be lower than the lowest average female vocal pitch and higher than the highest average male pitch, right in the middle of the two. This is enough to still be subjected to being called names in public at this stage in my life.

 

But, I definitely plead guilty to being overly sensitive; my counselor even suggested I was empathetic, or perhaps, even empathic.

 

And it’s getting me into trouble.

Hiking to the Mendenhall Glacier, Juneau, AK

As a child I never understood ethnic humor. My step-father would tell racist jokes, and I recognized his stupidity in telling them. It physically hurt me to hear them, along with his prejudiced ideas. I couldn’t understand why he would make fun of people that way. After all, ethnicity is not a choice. Don’t we all have the same feelings? Prick us all, do we not bleed? I remember asking my mother why people made up these kinds of jokes. She had no answer.

In fourth grade, the bullying started. We had just moved from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to San Mateo, California, and so I was the new kid on the block and didn’t know anyone in the school. I didn’t know the rules of the games they played at recess, and no one bothered to teach me, so I didn’t get asked to play. Thus, I didn’t bond with many of the boys in the class, save one. The artistic one, go figure. Yet, we never played together on the playground. I bonded more with one of the girls who happened to live in my apartment complex. Since she was not considered ‘attractive’ by fourth grade standards, she was also outcast. (She was a bit chubby and wore glasses, the cat's eye kind.) So, we played together at recess and lunch, usually jump rope or something just the two of us could play. Because of that, I was labeled a ‘queer’ (whatever that was), as I didn’t do ‘boy’ things. I didn’t see anything wrong in what I was doing, so I didn’t understand why they called me names, and it hurt.

My family moved across town that summer. New grade, new school, new friends, hopefully. Fifth grade was a bit better, no so much bullying but just personality clashes with some of the other kids. I did manage to make one good friend, but that ended when we moved across the San Francisco Bay to the small community of Dublin. The bullying became relentless here. We stayed four and a half years from sixth grade to the first semester of tenth grade. I couldn’t wait to leave when we first got there, but once I entered high school, the bullying eased up a bit and I’d made some friends, again mostly girls, became active in a few clubs, and then hated to leave when the time eventually came.

 

Even though the bullying eased up, the damage was done. My self-esteem was shot. What hurt the most was I never understood why these people were saying these evil things about me or to me. I was a good person (I still am), I was a Christian (I am more spiritual now), I didn’t hurt anyone (I try not to), I just couldn’t understand why these people acted this way toward me or anyone else who was different. I still can’t. It still hurts. Deeply.

On my very first day of school in yet another new state, Colorado, I prayed to God things would be different. This could be a new beginning. After all, these people had never seen me before. They didn’t know me. Yet, the day didn’t turn out that way. I remember sitting at a table in class, and hearing, “See that guy over there?” I turned in the direction of the speaker to see him talking to his buddy, and pointing at me. “He’s a faggot.” God let me down. I wanted to die. Or at least move back to California.

Felled Tree, Juneau, AK

I don’t even remember knowing exactly what a ‘faggot’ was back then, but I knew it was a bad thing because of the disparaging tone of voice people used when calling me that. And God didn’t make bad things, or so I had been taught in church. So, I was very confused as well as hurt and miserable. I certainly wasn’t a homosexual because I was still a teenager, and not some dirty old man lurking in the bushes or down a dark alley offering candy to boys. And what that man would do if the boy took the candy no one told me. But, that was a homosexual, according to the church.

We moved back to California, but a little further north to the Sacramento area. Maybe this time would be different. Nope. I began to wonder if the idiots in Colorado called the idiots in California to tell them I was coming. By now, I’m in the eleventh grade and before leaving Colorado had begun preparations to study abroad for a semester. At least I might have an escape for a while. And I did. Those six months in Mexico were heaven. There was no name calling, I felt I was one of the bunch. Yes, I was a novelty, an American studying in the high Mexican desert, but the students liked me, they really liked me.

I returned to Sacramento to a full year ahead, my senior year in high school. Traditionally it is a year of anticipation and hopes for the future, but mine was a year of torment in the present. The bullying not only was back, but it seemingly intensified. And yet, here I began to get a glimmer that they might be right. I might be a faggot. I had begun noticing boys as far back as fourth grade; but now was beginning to understand why I was noticing them. I was noticing them because I thought they were cute. (Remember the artistic boy? He was sooo cute!)  But, in middle school, I'd had a girlfriend so I simply couldn’t have romantic feelings for a boy, too. After she and I broke up in ninth grade, I just hung out with the few friends I had, again mostly girls. And I didn't date. With each high school I attended, my social circle grew smaller.  So, I just stayed home and watched television when I wasn’t working.

Fast forward a few years, I survive high school, attend college in Los Angeles, and experience a few incidents of name calling, though most of the college students don’t seem to care. I eventually realize the idiots were right, I was gay. I mean, I am gay. I reconcile my faith with my sexuality, have two long term relationships with men, and come to terms with myself on all counts. And lead a somewhat happy life. 

Or so I thought.

 

Even now, some of those early feelings of anger, pain, hurt and self-doubt are resurfacing. I thought I’d dealt with them, but evidently not. They have been buried down deep like sediment, just now being brought back to the surface, some forty-plus years later.

Why? Why now? What emotionally seismic event has triggered this round of self-doubt? Of self-questioning? Of self-esteem? Is it my divorce with the feeling of failure? Is it the realization that the two long term relationships I had weren’t as fulfilling as I thought they were? Is it the mistakes I'd made in lessons I've learned from those relationships? Is it the economic struggle I went through after the divorce? Is it the two men I’d met post-divorce and the feelings that came up with them; a man who showed the potential to be nearly everything I am looking for in a future partner but somehow we seemingly misunderstood each other's intentions only to go our separate ways; or the one who simply wanted to have his carnal way with me (and possibly others) and then toss me off to someone else when he was finished, like a used tissue? Is it the cavernous conflict of emotions brought up by both of those extremely different scenarios and trying figure out what it is I want? Is it this small group of students causing me to actually teach less this year because I had to spend more time on their misbehavior and therefore causing me to feel I’ve failed the other students? Is it the continuous attacks on teachers and how we are portrayed as the roadblocks to real education reform by those with no educational background? Is it the eternal struggle for LGBTQ acceptance and equality as it plays out in the media? Or did all of the above stir up these emotional fossils?

Stream outside Juneau, AK

They say scars make you who you are. 

I must be someone damn special.

So, how do you overcome being overly sensitive without becoming jaded? How do you take the pain of the past and turn it into the strength of the future?

The trick is to turn the pain around, and embrace it. Give it no power. Learn from it.

And I'm learning I AM STRONG. Stronger than I often give myself credit for.

Now, I need to just keep moving forward, like water over a rock. 

One day at a time.

With no expectations.

Unreality Television

I don't like reality television because it isn't. It's a misnomer in that many of the scenes are staged for a desired outcome. My ex-husband loved reality television, from anything on the Home and Garden network, to watching people buy houses in foreign countries. Nothing to challenge the brain. Well, occasionally he'd watch Law and Order: SVU, and I'd get my fix of Christopher Meloni, (oh, the vapors!) but that would be about it for mentally stimulating television. For the ex.

Christopher Meloni as Chris Keller in "Oz"

 The only reality program I did watch regularly, and actually looked forward to watching was The Biggest Loser. Having lost over fifty pounds myself, I watched for inspiration and tips to stay motivated to keep the weight off.

(I should say that post-divorce, and with the stress of this school year, it's creeping back up, so I should start watching it again. Or, at least exercise more.)

I'd get caught up in the contestants' stories, pick my favorites, and be amazed at their transformations during the run of the season. But, I really loved the theme song and one part stood out for me:

What have you done today to make you feel proud? 
It's never too late to try

I loved that song for that inspirational message.

Heather's CD, Close to a Miracle, 2006

Somehow, someway, (and before the ex left) I found out the name of the song, Proud, and that it was available as a single and by an artist I'd never heard of, Heather Small. I downloaded it and discovered even more inspiration in the song:


You could be so many people 
If you make that break for freedom 
What have you done today to make you feel proud?
Still so many answers I don't know (There are so many answers) Realize that to question is how we grow (To question is to grow) 

Further research told me she was a British soul singer and this was her signature song. I also found out this song was used in both the British and US versions of Queer as Folk as well as the London Olympics. And I thought I'd discovered a new talent.

A while later, two months ago actually, I discovered her CD, Proud, (1999). I promptly downloaded it and began listening. Nearly every song said something to me.

From Holding On:

I look around and I wonder
How much pain does it take
To admit to a failure
I've made a mistake

Holding on to you is letting go of me

Obviously, this is a break up song, yet, there are many things we can hold on to.

I have come to realize I am holding on to a lot from my past, pain, hurt, anger. And holding on to all that is taking away from who I am destined to be.

From Don't look for love:

People search but they don't know what they're searching for
People work but they don't know what they're working for
People hurt but they don't know what they're hurting for
People search but they don't know what they're searching for

Don't look for love
Don't look for love; let it find you

I have decided, for now, not to put profiles on dating websites or apps as I am not one to go looking for love. I am perfectly fine to live alone, or wait until the Universe deems it the right time for someone to enter my life. In the meantime, I have a lot of baggage to unpack and questions to ask. 

I'd better get to work.

There are so many people I could be.


To hear "Proud" by Heather Small click here:

Catalina 3

Isthmus Cove and Bird Rock

I just returned from my third trip chaperoning some students to Catalina Island. The trip itself is a wonderful opportunity for the students offering them experiences they might never have living in an inner city barrio. Some of these experiences; snorkeling, kayaking, swimming in the ocean, can help children overcome their fears. For example, one child confided in me he loves to swim.

"Really?" I ask.

"Yes, but in the neighborhood pool where I have the side to hang on to."

It was he, his face beaming with pride, who pointed out the ocean doesn't have a side to hold on to. And that now he can venture into the deep end of the pool.

I overcame some of my fears the first trip, but not on the second, nor this one. I was not looking forward to this trip as I had a hard time bonding with this group this year, even with some of the good kids. I'd hoped to bond with some of them while chaperoning this time. I did with some, but not to the extent I'd wanted, or hoped.

Perhaps it was the small group of difficult students that forced me to focus on them, rather than the great students in the overall group, or that wouldn't let me just relax and enjoy myself. Perhaps it was the overall negative space where I am right now that pushed me to see the negative rather than the positive this year. Perhaps there was something else. Or a bit of all of the above.

I was there on the ship just helping supervise the more difficult ones, and trying to interact with the well behaved ones. I didn't kayak, I didn't snorkel, I didn't jump off the ship again. And I was fine with that.

We actually spend most of our time on the ship; all but two meals are eaten there, and we sleep in bunks built into the hull of the ship. On the first day, once we cross the Channel and anchor, there is a small activity in an isolated cove where the students get some lessons in handling a kayak, before they go kayaking in the open channel the next day. Our last full day is the only time we spend a good deal of time on the island itself. In between these days, everything else is done aboard ship. During this entire trip, the students are supervised by the naturalists, and we are invited to participate in the activities; either on ship, a kayak, on land or in the ocean. Or, we can get some private time away from the group.

Catalina wild buffalo

On Island Day there is a hike before lunch across the isthmus and the naturalists discuss the political, natural and geologic history of the island, and after lunch there is shallow water snorkeling or tide pooling. Or we can take a break from the kids. After all, it has been about three days at this point, including travel time to the ship and sailing across the channel. And we do sleep in the cabins with the little darlings. Talk about taking work home with you.

That's why I chose to take a hike.

I had been looking forward to the morning hike, because I wanted to revisit my rock. My first time there, after lunch, my colleague and I hiked back across the isthmus, about 0.5 miles (770 m), from the Channel side to the Pacific side and ventured down the cliff and explored the rocky shore. While there I was mesmerized by this rock, entranced by the layers and realizing each layer meant thousands of years of earth's history. If only those layers could talk! I later blogged about it.

I am a Rock, June 2011

I really felt the need to connect with my rock again, hoping it would help me get a handle on this negative space I'm in. We hiked over the isthmus to the Pacific side and when it was time to return, I stayed behind and went down to the shore and tried to find my rock. It was difficult as I was relying on memory to find it. I believe I did, though it did not speak to me as I had hoped. I think my energy wasn't in tune to it, or it had told me what it needed to and was silent.

My Rock, 2013

Yet, I did get a message.

In a way.

In the silence.

It had told me its stories, and now it's time for me to tell mine.

Maybe that will break the spell.

Jenga

I needed to get out of the house last week. Desperately.

I'd been wanting to check out a local gay bar as a potential setting for a few scenes in a novel bubbling around in my head. I'd been trying to get there for a while, but it seemed things always got in my way. Appointments, nerves, dinners with friends, fears, fatigue, second thoughts, the end of the month, anxiety.

Finally, I decided to bite the bullet and just go.

This particular bar caters to a young, Latino, hip hop/pop crowd, at least according to its Facebook and web pages, and a few reviews on Yelp. This is the scene that I am feeling my character is attracted to at one point in his story. Plus, I am usually attracted to dark-haired men, and as most Latinos fit that bill, I thought it might be interesting to see what came of it for me. And to be honest, I did visit this place once on my birthday with some friends, and the description seemed mostly accurate. Mostly. There were a lot of young Latino guys, but there were older men as well; white, Latino and Black. Now, I wanted to go back for research. And I wanted to go alone, for courage. For myself.

So, I did.

Now, I'm not much of a bar person, as most of the men I've met there are after one thing and one thing only. Or, maybe they're after a couple. The music is very loud, and I'm not much of a drinker.

I walked in just after 6:30 PM and meandered around to see where a good spot to watch the crowd might be, and to get a feel for the place.

Now, I had been to this particular location many times before when it was a country/western bar, as my ex and I were in a gay square dance club which used this facility when the recreation center had to use the club's regular room for some other reason. Coming back now that it was a Latino/hip-hop bar was a culture shock, though not much had changed physically, save the addition of a stage in the corner for the drag shows.

I decided to sit at a corner of the bar, where at least I'd have the bartender to talk to as it was still early in the evening and the crowd was still milling in.

"Are you going to sit there?" he asked pointing to the general area of the bar where I was already sitting.

"Yes," I replied, thinking it was saved. "Is this okay?" I practically yelled to be heard above the music.

"Sure. Wanna play?" he asked, pointing to a Jenga tower perched precariously on the bar in front of me. It's twin was balancing itself on the other end of the U-shaped bar.

"Sure."

He explained the rules, which were 1) keep one hand off the bar while playing, and 2) you had to remove one rod from the fourth level from the top or lower, and then place that rod on the top level, all without causing the the whole thing to fall over.

"What'll you have?"

I ordered my usual, "A bottled water," and he quickly returned with it.

I will say the bartender was cute, had a real 'nice guy' vibe to him and appeared to be under 30. As he attended his other customers, I scanned the crowd for interesting people to make notes about, I tried to get a note of the layout, as well as a general feel for the Sunday crowd and plotted my next Jenga move. It was an nice mix of ethnicities and ages, though the younger guys (21-maybe 30 years old and mostly Latino) seemed to be inside the bar and the older (above 35, mostly mixed) crowd was outside on the patio.

The evening proceeded, Bartender and I played Jenga, he fixed drinks, and in between turns he explained the bar was trying something new; the second Sunday of the month was now 80s-90s night and the DJ would be playing a mix of both English and Spanish music from those years. Among the artists I recognized (and remember) were A-ha, Madonna, and Cyndi Lauper. I don't remember hearing any by Cher, so I just may have to go back and suggest a few! Bartender, I never did find out his name, asked if I'd been there before, as he didn't recognize me. I told him about my birthday trip and he inquired if we'd seen the drag show that night, which we hadn't. Our chit chat continued like this in-between his getting other people their drinks and his rounds of Jenga with both me and the guy at the other end of the bar.

I felt myself relaxing, it felt great to be out of the house; yet I was still apprehensive about chatting with guys, in case they were looking for something I wasn't. This is all so new to me. I did notice an interesting character, Mr. Social Butterfly. He appeared to be a regular, as he knew the bartenders and many of the regulars by name and seemed to have access to different parts of the club. While he never went behind the bar itself, he disappeared behind a curtain being used as a divider, where the beefy bouncer went once or twice. Butterfly would position himself in various spots around the bar, stand for a while, then walk around, chat with customers, and then return to order another drink at a different spot at the bar.

I also noticed a white man, about mid-40s with a beard and beret who appeared to be the manager/owner as he would ask the bartenders to do specific jobs like set up the jello shots or put out the dishes of stale popcorn. Well, that's what I thought he'd said, for that's what got done. He came by me once, commented on my Jenga skills, and how it involved way too much geometry for him. I felt it involved more engineering than specific math skills which, I realized in retrospect, go hand in hand. He asked if I was an engineer, I told him I was a teacher, and we talked about the general state of the kids today, and after a bit more friendly chit chat, he excused himself to take care of some business with the bar, and visit with some friends.

Somewhere in all this, Social Butterfly flitted in, placed his hand on my shoulder saying. "Aw, you're sitting here all by yourself. I'm going to play too." He made a move, on the Jenga tower, left to get his beer, and never returned. I later ran into him in the restroom where he was using his phone to try and take a picture of himself  in the mirror, but I guess all that alcohol had taken its effect and the picture wasn't coming out clear enough for his liking. After the two tries I witnessed, he asked me if I would take his picture. I agreed and after washing my hands, we discovered there were no paper towels, so we left to find a napkin, and Social Butterfly flitted off somewhere else. I don't know if he ever did get that picture taken.

While I tell myself I am not looking for love, and I'm actively not looking, I still found myself checking out the guys and sort of classifying them as to what possible potential I felt they might have; friend, date, boyfriend, casual encounter, none of the above. And what I wanted in return. Maybe I'm just tuning into my gut instinct again. Maybe I'm just human.

But, I think I might need to go back for some more research.

Or to just get out of the house.

Black Hole

Sometimes I'm too much in my head. And I mean the one on my shoulders, not that other one. 

The other day I popped out to the store for some odds and ends. On my way out, I saw a young couple, about twentysomething, if even that old. They weren't being obnoxious with their displays of affection, yet I felt nauseated. Not because they were holding hands, not because he kissed her good-bye, not because they were straight.

But because I didn't want someone hanging all over me. I felt overwhelmed because of what they were doing.

Also, I recently went out to a gay bar to do some research for a setting in another novel brewing in my head. Plus, I wanted needed to get out of the house, I'll kill two birds, I thought. And maybe, deep down, I was hoping to make some new gay friends. All in all, I did have a pleasant evening out taking some notes for this new novel, getting out of the house, chatting with a couple of guys and beginning to climb out of the black hole of despair I'd been falling in.

I'd mentioned in other recent posts that I'd run into some old, dear friends who asked me if I was seeing anyone. I immediately responded, "No, and I don't want to, either." 

And it has been driving me crazy trying to figure out why. Why did I not want some nice handsome man kissing me goodbye? Why did I not want his arms around me, holding me, telling me he wanted to be with me? Why did I want to be alone?

In trying to understand myself, I've talked about my compartments; being newly single, being middle aged, being a man, being gay, being a teacher, being a new author, being a homeowner and pet-parent. I've talked about how I try to de-compartmentalize myself and about when and where my compartments merge.

I've tried focusing individually on my various compartments, particularly the gay part of me, by venturing back into the community only to find I may not belong to it anymore. I've tried to overcome being a poor lonely homeowner by trying to find a roommate to help with expenses, but with no success. I've shared the frustrations and commitment of being a pet parent to two sweet and loving but aging pets (and I've recently learned that a certain someone is planning on moving out of state, leaving the full responsibility of their care completely on me). I've tried taking on other jobs at school for additional income only to drive myself insane by losing what free personal time I can make, which then limits the time I can write new stories and promote my current one. I've discussed my frustrations with my current teaching assignment and what a challenging class I have, perhaps the most difficult one I've had in my entire thirty year career. So difficult in fact, I would walk out tomorrow. But, that would mean the little ones had won! I've vented about the current politics surrounding public education and how teaching is no longer fun and creative, but sheer drudgery. So much so, I've thought about retiring at the end of this school year, but I would only receive half of my base pay and I'm barely making ends meet now. (There is the theory of "leap and the net will appear" but that is another post for another day.)

And I've discussed my fears around dating; fears of being hurt again, being rejected, of not being good enough. Plus, the idea of getting to know someone else while I'm getting reacquainted with myself is very daunting.

I often sit and ask myself, "Which of the different factors affect me the most?" Immediately, without thinking I answer with, "My job."

How do my difficult class and the politics around education affect my feelings about my household responsibilities, my dog and cat and my desire not to date? 

Actually, it turns out, it has quite a lot to do with it all.

Sometimes when you ask questions, you get answers; sometimes from yourself, and sometimes from outside sources. And as I found out, the answer made a lot of sense. The Los Angeles Times recently ran an article on job stress and levels of happiness in the personal lives of several workers.

The article pointed out the obvious, that as jobs become more demanding and less stable, people have less time to devote to their friends, their families and to finding leisure time which then increases stress. The reporter focused on one person who commutes to work from his home in Missouri to his new assignment in Texas, albeit with the same company. He barely sees his family and has no time to maintain his house. So, his house was literally falling apart, and his family scarcely knew him anymore.

The article went on to point out that people with a lot of job stress have less time for civic involvement, or any other leisure activity, all of which can reduce stress.

So, how does this relate to me? I'm single, have no family to support save my dog and cat, I should be living a carefree, happy-go-lucky life. But, I'm not.

I've detailed my day-to-day schedule, so we know time is a problem with all the other activities that come along with teaching. I can either stay at work for another 2 hours to grade papers and plan lessons, or come home and do it more comfortably after feeding my kids and giving them some love, and then get to work after having a small glass of wine and getting in looser clothes and playing soothing music. Either way, I still have a 45 minute commute home to add to the day.

Perhaps it's the continuous attacks on public education and how teachers are to blame for the profession's ills. After all, we have tenure, we can't be fired, we only work from 8-3, we have summers off, we play with kids all day and the general attitude of the public is, those who can, do; those who can't, teach. And public education has NEVER been an historical priority in this country. After all, it is not formally addressed in the US Constitution, nor in the founding documents of the states. It was the proverbial buck that got passed along until it fell into the hands of the individual counties or cities. Compensatory education didn't come into being until the last century. 

Los Angeles recently had a municipal election for mayor and two school board seats. What was very interesting and, in my humble opinion, quite distressing, was that several out-of-state interests funded some of the candidates for the school board who spouted reform. These 'reform driven interests' aren't even based in Los Angeles, let alone California! The Florida reformer the district hired lasted only a year, before she packed it in.  These were candidates who wanted to fire bad teachers solely based on the students' test scores. These were candidates with no educational psychology or educational sociology training who wanted to tell us how to teach, candidates who had never set foot in a classroom after graduation (if they even graduated)! 

The Federal programs "No Child Left Behind" (or it's your own behind) and the "Race to the Top" (after the dangling carrot) have added more pressure to produce children who can simply fill in bubbles on tests, but do they understand what they have been taught at an all too frenetic pace just to meet testing schedules? Can they even think for themselves?

So, this general negative mood I'm in is all related to my work. The Los Angeles Times said so. At least I know where it's coming from.

And that I'm not alone.

And that I'm normal.

And that I have less than forty days to the end of the year.

And that, somehow, I will be stronger in the end.

Whenever that will be.