I'm cheating a little bit today. I realized yesterday that I've mentioned what has come to be known as "the Detente" a couple of times, the moment my parents and I stopped being adversaries in my epic coming out process and became allies, so I thought I should explain a little. Luckily for me, I had written the following essay last Thanksgiving as I thought about what I was thankful for, so it fits into this blog quite nicely. Enjoy.
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Every year at Thanksgiving, I am flooded with messages to be thankful (on TV, in the papers, on the radio, blogs, and so on). I try to always be thankful for the basics—health, a roof over my head, that kind of stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary, certainly nothing to devote any time writing about.
This year, though, I actually have something very specific that I’m thankful for. In order for me to adequately express this item of thanks, though, I have to preface it with some, well, preface. This whole thing is one big preface, really. On a side note: I’ve discovered recently that I often cannot just tell a story. It’s always, “Back in college. . .” or “When I was seven. . .” when I am essentially just trying to tell someone what I had for lunch. It’s kind of annoying, but what can you do?
Anyway, over 15 years ago, I came out to my parents. Specifically, to my mom after a heated argument about whether or not I can go play miniature golf with a few friends over the summer. Specifically, with Rob, my cross-country teammate and otherwise blond Adonis. For one reason or another, my mom did not want me to go, and the abridged conversation went like this:
Me: I really want to go.
Mom: No.
Me: But I already told Rob that I wanted to go.
Mom: Tell him you can’t.
Me: But I love him.
And thus began my decade-plus long struggle for us to come to terms with the fact that I am gay, and that they have a gay son.
Through my later teen years and into early adulthood, we probably revisited the issue a handful of times. Not to say that it didn’t run as an undercurrent through every waking moment of our lives; we just outwardly dealt with the issue a handful of times. Though some conversations may have started out peacefully and even with good intentions, all of them always devolved into shouting, tears, and general frustration. We approached the topic like a cold war, two diametrically opposed parties with tension brewing just beneath a veneer of calm, ready at any given moment to detonate and scatter the pieces of our quasi-happy existence into the great unknown.
We’d fight, endure a few days of silence, then resume our regularly scheduled repression.
And I had more or less resolved myself to this kind of life. I envied friends with parents who embraced their gay children, understood their struggles, welcomed their partners. My parents were different. I never told them of any of the struggles I went through as a gay teenager, never introduced them to any of my gay friends. Through two significant relationships, I learned rather adeptly how to separate my romantic life from my familial one, how to tend to one while keeping an eye on the other, hoping to never let either know that they are essentially being compartmentalized, quarantined. East is East.
Then, 2008 rolled around.
On one nondescript Sunday towards the end of May, I decided that I would accompany my mom and dad to church. My parents have regularly attended church for years (ever since I came out, actually), and I knew that my mom appreciated my company there, even if my faith was conspicuously absent. That morning, we sat fourth row from the podium, right off the center aisle.
Little did I know that I inadvertently stumbled upon an entire “sermon” on the “sanctity” of marriage and how it was under attack by the homosexual liberals and their Prop. 8 shenanigans. How dare we?
I’ve heard enough of this kind of rhetoric to immediately pick up on where it was heading. The light bulb in my head was Pavlovian. The “pastor,” Bill, began talking about Rebecca and Isaac, the miracle of matrimony and childbirth, and how modern day times are constantly trying to reinterpret and redefine these tenets, and I was like a dog, salivating at the sound of a bell. I knew what was coming.
I wriggled uncomfortably. My eyes darted around the room to see if anyone was nodding along, as church-going people are wont to do during sermons, I've noticed. Finally, it became too much to bear. I stood up, looked Bill directly in the eyes, grabbed by jacket, and stormed down the seemingly endless aisle with my head held high and eyes fixed on the door in the back. I let it slam as audibly as possible on the way out. Very diva.
I proceeded to hop on my phone and call Sam, no doubt sitting at home safely watching HGTV or Ben 10: Alien Force, not knowing that I had just played victim to what felt like a drive-by denouncement. I ranted for a few minutes to release some of the pressure, just so I could function as a normal human being again.
Knowing I could not walk back into the church without it symbolizing some sort of defeat, I stood by the back door and listened. Enemies closer. It was nothing but the usual diatribe. I was appalled. And bored. When, finally, the service ended, I found my parents rather quickly. No discernible expression on their faces, and they said ‘hi’ as if nothing had happened, as if I had not disappeared in a huff just half an hour ago. This further fueled my simmering rage.
Bill walked over and schmoozed with them, and they smiled and laughed in return. The pit of my stomach was an active volcano of ire. Then Bill turned to me, extended his hand, and introduced himself.
I had but two milliseconds (nano, if I want to be dramatic) to decide what to do. Though the issue may be my war, this was not my battle, or my grounds. I could let Bill know exactly what I thought of him, his “sermon,” and my absolute disgust that he would turn a place of worship into his own political platform. But I could walk away from him, never see him again and never feel the repercussions of my actions. My parents, however, would face a different outcome.
So with my hands anchored at the bottom of my pantpockets and a stare that I hoped could melt glaciers, I said, “I know who you are.” His hand lingered in mid-air for a moment longer, and then he awkwardly excused himself.
My parents were livid. Through an uncomfortable lunch and an uncomfortable ride back to my home in San Francisco, I finally returned to safer waters. I discovered through my sister that a part of why they were angry was because I was rude to Bill, and they did not raise me to disrespect my elders. Unbelievable, I thought, though not entirely unexpected. It was safer for them to focus on trees when the forest was a great, and decidedly anti-great, unknown.
I fumed about it some more to Sam that evening, feeling completely helpless and hopeless in this uphill battle I had waged against them for years. Always the same approach, always the same conclusion. And so, after much deliberation, I decided to try a different tack.
I called them a few days later, and presented the terms as calmly as I could muster: Accept me for who I am, and understand that there is no changing me. I love men, and I am happy living this way. You do not have to accept all gays and lesbians of the world, and you do not have to join P-FLAG or march down Market Street in June. But meet my partner. Embrace my friends. Play a part in this part of my life, or you don’t get any other part. Should we ever speak again, you must comply.
And thus began a month of silence. Sam asked if I had picked the right battle. I had no other battles. Over the course of 15 years, there was nothing but this battle. Only the stakes have changed: all of me, or none. No more compartments. No more quarantine. As bad as this sounds, I felt justified in throwing a tantrum and laying down this ultimatum. It was the right thing to ask for.
The stakes were high, though, and the odds were stacked against me (if the past decade and a half were any indication). Yet, I knew that we could not go on dancing around the same bush, and that if I were to completely cut ties with them, I could do it knowing that I stood up for what I believed in and did the best I could.
A few months later, my parents and sister, along with 5 gay guys including me and Sam, had dinner at Naan ‘n Curry together in Union Square. It was surreal.
Forward to 2010. I turned 30, bought a house, somehow managed to get Sam to buy me a ring without even trying. All within a month. My parents have now met all of my close friends, and they see Sam on a regular basis. They ask about him when he’s not around. We have talked about my being gay and gay issues in general and we've ended those conversations with peace in our hearts and a deeper understanding of who we are as people. I have much to be thankful for.
But before we get back to the cornerstone of this essay, the one thing in particular that would prompt me to write this 2,000-word tome, one more quick detour. Sam and I began construction in early October to add an additional bathroom to the upstairs level of our loft. Relatively small job, we were told, requiring less than a month’s time with minimal disruption to our lives.
Tomorrow night, seven weeks and two days after the crew officially started the project, we are finally ready to move back. We have not slept there since the second night of construction. In the beginning, we bounced between Jason's, Allen's, and my parents’ house in Union City, and the feeling of displacement slowly took its toll. I would leave a towel at Allen's; Sam, a phone charger at Jason's. We decided to settle down at my parents’ house (they did offer), and we ended up staying there for just shy of 40 days.
It was a rare opportunity for my parents to get to know Sam, and vice versa, and it was enough time to develop a level of comfort that may have taken half a lifetime to develop otherwise. The dog began expecting us to get home from work around 6 o’clock, greeting us by frantically curling her lithe body tightly against our legs and licking our pants. My mom discovered that Sam likes yogurt, so she went to Costco and bought two 24-count boxes of Activia. My dad made a pan-fried soy and ginger halibut dish that he knew was Sam's favorite. Twice. After dinners, my mom would brew a pot of jasmine tea, something to which Sam has quickly grown accustomed. And throughout these 40 days, they welcomed him, and us, into their home and lives, and allowed themselves into ours.
On the weekends, I would typically be the last one out of bed in the morning. As I would shuffle through the hall and down the stairs, I would often hear my parents laughing, and Sam laughing, and conversation lobbying back and forth like an effortless round of tennis. I am thankful to have been an outsider during these moments, observing unnoticed, but listening to what I interpret as family.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
1/30/2011 - the look and shape of my family. . .
Yesterday marked the third weekend in a series of weekends where I've been over to see my parents. Once was for their wedding anniversary, the other was because Sam and I went hiking by their house. Yesterday was because we had to borrow their van, and this coming weekend, I will be back there for our Chinese New Year dinner.
Lately, I feel like I've seen my parents more than anyone else outside of Sam. And while I've enjoyed seeing them with this frequency, I can't help but remember that it hasn't always been this way. There was a time, not too long ago, when the idea of "home" was confining, when my mother was overprotective, and being at home meant to exist in a vacuum: either be at home and be only "Bao Bao," my nickname from when I was a baby, or be away from home and be Austin and be all the rest of me, the me that emerged since growing up.
The dichotomy started when I was a teenager. I remember one afternoon when I came home later than they had expected, out amongst friends they were uncomfortable with, I told them that I felt like walking through the front door of the house was akin to stepping into my cell block and hearing the door slam shut. I felt trapped by their presence and demands and looked forward to when I could be free to live my own life. This conversation haunted them for a long time. And me, though much later.
As an adult a few years ago, when I was living my own life, "home" became a division, one compartment that shared no adjacency with others. When I came home, I was sterilized of all partners, all friends, all interests in anything that would betray a sexuality of any kind. When I came home, I had to abandon my other life, choose between my partner or my parents. Where once I looked forward to Thanksgivings, birthdays, I grew to dread them, found the planning and delegation of time to be more stress than it was worth. Do I spend all Christmas Eve with my parents, then leave to be with Scott? Should I celebrate my birthday one week early at my parents' house so I can spend the actual with Eddie? There never seemed to be the right answer, and slowly, I resigned to the inevitable, that ne'er the twain would meet. I watched our relationship become a delicate bubble, one touch from collapsing.
I am 30 now, and things are much different. I am still living my own life, as I had wanted years ago, but now I want my mom and dad to be a part of it. I think they want to be a part of it, too. It took them a long time to learn how to accept the look and shape of my family, which bore little resemblance to theirs. After the Detente, things have changed so much. Same mom and dad, same me, but now with space to include a host of other players: friends, lovers, those we once sequestered from each other for fear of disrupting the delicate relationship we had.
I guess it's true what they say, that you can never go home again. Even though my room there is as it ever was, complete with books from high school still on the shelves, a signed poster by the San Francisco cast of Phantom of the Opera falling out of its $2 frame on the wall, it is as if I had never left. Even the rest of their house, with the blue velvet couches in the living room, the ceramic figurines of various Chinese zodiac animals sitting in the foyer, nothing has changed much from how the house looked in 1998. But it is so different. When I go back there, it is of my own free will, and I leave there looking forward to the next time I will be back. Where it once was a prison now seems like a sanctuary; where once my parents seemed like wardens, I am no longer a prisoner.
I think the major turning point in my perceptions of "going home" came when I realized that one of the greatest tragedies of parenthood, of people who wanted nothing more than to be parents, is that if you raise the child right, they will always leave you. They will need to leave, venture out, live, and start families of their own. I don't remember how I came to this epiphany, but when I did, I regretted how as a teenager, I could so easily have made my parents feel like I never wanted to be there in the first place.
And now, I look for excuses to go back and see them. I am lucky to have a partner who seems to understands this and gets how important they are in my life. Slowly, though it feels sudden, two areas of my life that once were worlds apart have bridged.
Lately, I feel like I've seen my parents more than anyone else outside of Sam. And while I've enjoyed seeing them with this frequency, I can't help but remember that it hasn't always been this way. There was a time, not too long ago, when the idea of "home" was confining, when my mother was overprotective, and being at home meant to exist in a vacuum: either be at home and be only "Bao Bao," my nickname from when I was a baby, or be away from home and be Austin and be all the rest of me, the me that emerged since growing up.
The dichotomy started when I was a teenager. I remember one afternoon when I came home later than they had expected, out amongst friends they were uncomfortable with, I told them that I felt like walking through the front door of the house was akin to stepping into my cell block and hearing the door slam shut. I felt trapped by their presence and demands and looked forward to when I could be free to live my own life. This conversation haunted them for a long time. And me, though much later.
As an adult a few years ago, when I was living my own life, "home" became a division, one compartment that shared no adjacency with others. When I came home, I was sterilized of all partners, all friends, all interests in anything that would betray a sexuality of any kind. When I came home, I had to abandon my other life, choose between my partner or my parents. Where once I looked forward to Thanksgivings, birthdays, I grew to dread them, found the planning and delegation of time to be more stress than it was worth. Do I spend all Christmas Eve with my parents, then leave to be with Scott? Should I celebrate my birthday one week early at my parents' house so I can spend the actual with Eddie? There never seemed to be the right answer, and slowly, I resigned to the inevitable, that ne'er the twain would meet. I watched our relationship become a delicate bubble, one touch from collapsing.
I am 30 now, and things are much different. I am still living my own life, as I had wanted years ago, but now I want my mom and dad to be a part of it. I think they want to be a part of it, too. It took them a long time to learn how to accept the look and shape of my family, which bore little resemblance to theirs. After the Detente, things have changed so much. Same mom and dad, same me, but now with space to include a host of other players: friends, lovers, those we once sequestered from each other for fear of disrupting the delicate relationship we had.
I guess it's true what they say, that you can never go home again. Even though my room there is as it ever was, complete with books from high school still on the shelves, a signed poster by the San Francisco cast of Phantom of the Opera falling out of its $2 frame on the wall, it is as if I had never left. Even the rest of their house, with the blue velvet couches in the living room, the ceramic figurines of various Chinese zodiac animals sitting in the foyer, nothing has changed much from how the house looked in 1998. But it is so different. When I go back there, it is of my own free will, and I leave there looking forward to the next time I will be back. Where it once was a prison now seems like a sanctuary; where once my parents seemed like wardens, I am no longer a prisoner.
I think the major turning point in my perceptions of "going home" came when I realized that one of the greatest tragedies of parenthood, of people who wanted nothing more than to be parents, is that if you raise the child right, they will always leave you. They will need to leave, venture out, live, and start families of their own. I don't remember how I came to this epiphany, but when I did, I regretted how as a teenager, I could so easily have made my parents feel like I never wanted to be there in the first place.
And now, I look for excuses to go back and see them. I am lucky to have a partner who seems to understands this and gets how important they are in my life. Slowly, though it feels sudden, two areas of my life that once were worlds apart have bridged.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
1/29/2011 - snapshots of only good times. . .
Sam and I borrowed my parents' van this morning to pick up our new dining table (goodbye, Tony Danza). Without Sam's satellite radio, I surfed through various commercial channels, and after less than 20 minutes, we heard Rihanna's "Only Girl in the World" three times on three different stations. Though I always knew I was grateful for the Broadway channel, I never knew just how much so until I was assaulted repeatedly with the auto-tuned warblings of, "Baby, take me high,
high. . .".
The table came in two pieces, which we easily unloaded when I got to the curb of our house. And by this, I mean Sam unloaded while I surfed the radio to find a song I could sing along to while unloading. By the time I realized nothing could be found, Sam had already taken both pieces into the building. Since he seemed to be handling everything just fine, I decided to scrounge around the various pockets and compartments hoping to find a CD or something for the drive back to my parents' house. I managed to find the soundtrack case for Mamma Mia! in the glove compartment, but alas, no Mamma Mia! soundtrack. Instead, there was an unlabelled CD, the kind I used to buy from Rite-Aid when I lived across the street from one in Davis. Well, at least I knew it was mine, but the contents were a mystery. It felt like an unexpected birthday present had arrived in the mail.
The first song was Aimee Mann's "Wise Up," and all of a sudden, I was a junior in college again, living in an apartment over the summer that faced the merciless afternoon sun with no circulating air and, on hindsight, probably a serious silverfish infestation. I had a fridge stocked full of canned fruit cocktails and a freezer full of T-shirts.
Depeche Mode's "Somebody," and I was riding in Lee's car after a day of shopping at Arden Fair Mall together, buying matching Abercrombie and Fitch jackets. I carried his bag on our way to Starbuck's, taking the long way as I tried to come out to my new, aggressively straight (yet simultaneously ambiguous) friend, to summon the courage just to say, 'OK,' knowing that the rest would follow afterwards like an avalanche.
Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line," and Scott and I were wrestling with snow chains on the side of Interstate 80 en route to Tahoe for our anniversary. Ryan Cabrera's "True," and I was squeezing through chairs and stools to get to the stage at Faces, a gay bar that held karaoke nights on Monday.
Charlene's "I've Never Been to Me," Whitney Houston, Gin Blossoms, and I really felt like I was 20 again. The olfactory sense is said to be tied most closely to memory, but music, hearing what I had not listened to in years, does even better. These songs were like a time machine, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost be right back to when I first heard them, when I was with the people who introduced me to them, and the moment I decided to put them on this CD. Unlike memories, though, these were snapshots of only good times, times when there were only smiles.
high. . .".
The table came in two pieces, which we easily unloaded when I got to the curb of our house. And by this, I mean Sam unloaded while I surfed the radio to find a song I could sing along to while unloading. By the time I realized nothing could be found, Sam had already taken both pieces into the building. Since he seemed to be handling everything just fine, I decided to scrounge around the various pockets and compartments hoping to find a CD or something for the drive back to my parents' house. I managed to find the soundtrack case for Mamma Mia! in the glove compartment, but alas, no Mamma Mia! soundtrack. Instead, there was an unlabelled CD, the kind I used to buy from Rite-Aid when I lived across the street from one in Davis. Well, at least I knew it was mine, but the contents were a mystery. It felt like an unexpected birthday present had arrived in the mail.
The first song was Aimee Mann's "Wise Up," and all of a sudden, I was a junior in college again, living in an apartment over the summer that faced the merciless afternoon sun with no circulating air and, on hindsight, probably a serious silverfish infestation. I had a fridge stocked full of canned fruit cocktails and a freezer full of T-shirts.
Depeche Mode's "Somebody," and I was riding in Lee's car after a day of shopping at Arden Fair Mall together, buying matching Abercrombie and Fitch jackets. I carried his bag on our way to Starbuck's, taking the long way as I tried to come out to my new, aggressively straight (yet simultaneously ambiguous) friend, to summon the courage just to say, 'OK,' knowing that the rest would follow afterwards like an avalanche.
Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line," and Scott and I were wrestling with snow chains on the side of Interstate 80 en route to Tahoe for our anniversary. Ryan Cabrera's "True," and I was squeezing through chairs and stools to get to the stage at Faces, a gay bar that held karaoke nights on Monday.
Charlene's "I've Never Been to Me," Whitney Houston, Gin Blossoms, and I really felt like I was 20 again. The olfactory sense is said to be tied most closely to memory, but music, hearing what I had not listened to in years, does even better. These songs were like a time machine, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost be right back to when I first heard them, when I was with the people who introduced me to them, and the moment I decided to put them on this CD. Unlike memories, though, these were snapshots of only good times, times when there were only smiles.
Friday, January 28, 2011
1/28/2011 - stories, they want to remember. . .
Catherine Price, the woman who wrote the introduction to the gratitude journal that started this project, said that she kept a diary of daily thanks for four weeks as an initial experiment, and at the end of that time, she came out a happier person, one who learned to instinctively see more of the good in life than the bad. The inception of my blog was, obviously, built around this concept and goal.
However, as I sit here, writing the 28th entry 28 days later, I can’t help but feel like I have failed in some way. I do not feel any of what Price describes; in fact, I can’t say with confidence that I have changed at all. I still focus on the have-nots just as much as I always have, still complain about my job, think less than noble thoughts. I don’t wake up singing “I Got the Sun in the Mornin’ (and the Moon at Night),” don’t go to bed counting blessings instead of sheep. Mornings, especially during the week, are as painful as ever, happiness just as elusive. I still regularly forget just how lucky I am and how much love I have in my life.
However, where I know I have not failed is in volume. I have produced one piece of writing a day for the last 28 days, despite spotty quality from entry to entry. This goal I have attained, though not without challenges. Two weeks ago, I wondered if I could keep up this pace, considered dropping to maybe one entry every other day, or even once a week. The other day, I could not feel satisfied with what I wrote, and spent over an hour on something that I ended up scrapping altogether. This past weekend, I told Gordon that this project is getting harder and harder, and he was surprised; shouldn’t it be getting easier?
And in the midst of thinking that I would eventually have to cut back on frequency, to succumb to the possibility that I may give up at some point, I attended the innovative thinking seminar yesterday, led by Iris Firstenberg. As I said then, it was an amazing seminar, and she was an insurmountable force of positive energy. I learned a lot, applicable to both my work and personal lives, but it was what she closed the seminar with that really made a difference: People forget facts, but stories, they want to remember.
I read stories, think in stories, and while my MFA degree is in creative writing, the emphasis was on poetry. For two years, I read and wrote and thought about poetry. However, I quickly realized that I was not like my classmates, that I may not be cut out to be a poet. My poems always needed a story line, a narrative arc that took the first word of a poem and led it to the last, thus giving all the words in between a sense of meaning and purpose. But instructors said that my work was too narrative; classmates thought them straight-forward. It became apparent that my poetry, at least in their eyes, did not belong in the same echelon as the “language” poems, abstract poems, the ever-revered jazz poems that they wrote and respected.
Which, to my narrative ears, most often seemed like a mish-mash of words with no punctuation, random line breaks, a stream of espousal that culminated in an abrupt drop-off, stop, silence. The poem could easily have ended one word earlier, or one word later, for that matter, and I would not have known the difference. During others' workshops, I often wanted to say that I just didn’t get it, not out of spite but genuine non-understanding, but I knew that it would be the equivalent of confessing that I was a bourgeois idiot, which I felt like I was already broadcasting anyway through the poems I turned in, narrative after narrative.
Like this blog, which is essentially just one big narrative, and early last week, I had a crisis of sorts. I felt ashamed of the stories I was telling here. I suddenly was 25 again, sitting in class with a poem about a boy and a circus and feeling like the sad outsider knocking on doors of better poets and writers. I felt like I should be truer to the goals of this project and just list things I'm grateful for (air, music, diet Coke). And I tried, worked on a piece lauding the greatness of sunshine for an hour. And I consistently wanted to inject some plot into it, introduce a character, a friend, a memory of when I was young and kids from the neighborhood came into my garage one hot afternoon where I was helping my grandfather saw two-by-fours. They asked me to play with them, and I said no. I wrote out this story, then deleted it, then praised the sunshine in San Francisco, then started describing the heat of that afternoon 20 years ago, then deleted it, then extolled the virtues of vitamin D or K or whatever you're supposed to get from sunshine, then went back to describing how I felt when those kids walked away and I only stood there, wanting to walk with them in the sun.
I couldn't stop telling the story, and I was frustrated. Hearing Iris say that people want stories, they remember stories, and their brains naturally create stories for themselves gave me the confidence to stay true not necessarily to the goals of this project, but to the style of my writing that I had relied on all my life, for better or worse. I am grateful for stories, even if they sometimes derail me from the original intent of this blog. Without stories, I don't think I would care about this blog as much. It wouldn't matter to me if it's sunny today, or rainy tomorrow, or if I heard my favorite song on the radio. Those things don't say anything about me, but the stories that they inspire, well, I am those stories.
I couldn't stop telling the story, and I was frustrated. Hearing Iris say that people want stories, they remember stories, and their brains naturally create stories for themselves gave me the confidence to stay true not necessarily to the goals of this project, but to the style of my writing that I had relied on all my life, for better or worse. I am grateful for stories, even if they sometimes derail me from the original intent of this blog. Without stories, I don't think I would care about this blog as much. It wouldn't matter to me if it's sunny today, or rainy tomorrow, or if I heard my favorite song on the radio. Those things don't say anything about me, but the stories that they inspire, well, I am those stories.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
1/27/2011 - more thrilling than it ought to be. . .
I attended an all-day seminar today on new ways of thinking innovatively in the workplace. I had been looking forward to this day ever since my boss signed me up, though in full disclosure, it's not because I'm particularly interested in this topic. I think a woman I overheard while grabbing our free continental breakfast said it best. She nudged a co-worker standing next to her and said, "Anything to get out of the office, huh?" I wanted to nudge her back and say, "Girl, you don't even know!" It felt like a day off. Almost.
The seminar did not begin until nine, so I was able to wake up later this morning and still make it to the gym. Kevin made some snide remark when he saw me spacing out on a bench shortly after seven, something about how I finally managed to show up; where's the dedication? To my credit, I still got a full, vigorous workout and already, I'm beginning to feel sore. So there.
The seminar was held at the Carnelian Room on the waterfront, right behind the Ferry Building. It was a beautiful venue, with old school charm and panoramic windows overlooking the bay. I rode there on my bike from the gym, saw my office building as I whizzed by, and coasted down a street I had never biked on before. So already, my day was filling with excitement--a new route! It was more thrilling than it ought to be.
But so often, I am jealous of friends whose jobs allow (or more accurately, force) them to travel, to see walls different than the four I see every day in my office building. Eddie goes all over the country sometimes. Kevin spent two weeks in Hong Kong last year, and his partner joined him for half of it, creating an ad hoc vacation of sorts. Even Sam finds himself downtown one day, in the Castro another, and by Ocean Beach the next. He used to send me pictures of where he eats lunch:
Meanwhile, my lunchtime views consistently look like this:
So obviously, I am quite envious, of the sight of the ocean, of the cross-country and international trips, of being anywhere other than where I am. Day after day. Because it's really, really true what people say: the grass looks so much greener when you don't personally work in it. I'm sure it's tough traveling for weeks on end, away from family, or so often that it's hard to tell what time zone the jet-lag is based on.
But for me today, being able to sit in a different chair, surrounded by different people, doing something completely different than what I do on most work days, it felt like I was traveling for work, and it was every bit as awesome as I always imagined it would be. In this experience, at least, the grass really was greener.
Even the seminar itself, led by an energetic and witty instructor named Iris, was tremendously informative, enlightening, and fun. Her main thesis argued that facts will be forgotten, but people remember stories.
And to prove it, she told us several throughout the day, most of which I still remember. One in particular resonated. When her daughter was growing up, she had a period where she wanted to hear the Heidi story at bedtime every night for weeks. Iris couldn't figure out how her daughter hadn't grown bored with it until one night, she observed that her daughter's eyes would get misty in preparation a few pages before Heidi actually got sick. And later, when the story finds its happy ending, when Heidi walks without her wheelchair, her daughter had already been sitting up on her knees and smiling several pages prior. Iris, a cognitive psychologist, realized that the repetition of this story had given her daughter a gift: the feeling of seeing into the future. She's heard it so many times that she already knew what was going to happen, and that knowledge was comfortable, a reassurance that all is not unknown. As certain as Heidi's health would fail, Heidi would also get better. And wouldn't we all want to have that ability, to know what is to happen in a book, a movie, and emotionally prepare ourselves for it, to see the future? More importantly, wouldn't we want to know what is to happen in a book we haven't read, in our day-to-day jobs, in life?
Her story this afternoon gave me a renewed energy for this blog. How, I'll get into tomorrow.
But in the meantime, this was my lunchtime view today. I loved every bit of it, from the scope of the bridge to the smell of the bay. I learned more than I expected to, met and had lunch with nice people, and sat outside for a few minutes during break just letting the sun warm my face. It was a great day.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
1/26/2011 - fumbling toward a conversation. . .
I try and call my parents at least every other day. Sometimes, I let a few extra days elapse, with or without reason. When I do eventually call them, my mom, who always answers the phone, will invariably work in the guilt within minutes. Her go-to line is that I must have forgotten I even have a mother.
But whether I call every day or once a week, the components of our conversation are similar: this and that. If I called anywhere in the vicinity of 6:00 PM, she would either ask what I will be having for dinner, or if I have had dinner already. I'll talk about work, ask about her day, about my dad; she'll talk about the trouble their lab retriever, Elliot, had gotten into. During one phone call, my mom spent five minutes recounting how Elliot ate an entire, unopened box of All-Bran cereal and spewed diarrhea all over the kitchen floor later than night. She didn't eat anything the next day but still pooped six times.
Mostly, though, it's small talk, chit-chatty type of stuff, and I think my mom just wants to know that I'm alive. These conversations last about 5 minutes.
When I called them last night, my dad picked up, which hardly ever happens. I was at a loss for things to say. See, my dad and I have a complicated relationship. Not in a bad way, but I think we just have trouble relating to each other on a day-to-day basis. He is interested in computers; I like Broadway. He loves playing ping pong with his church friends; I like brunch. He likes to garden and grow his own flowers to display in the house; I'm a homosexual. You'd think that that last one would be symbiotic or something and give us a starting point, but I guess I'm not that kind of homosexual, and he is just not that into small talk.
He said that mom was in the shower. I said oh. I asked how he was doing, and he said fine. Vice versa. I was on and off the phone in less than one minute.
Our everyday conversational skills may suck with each other, but I do know that if I had a problem, we could talk at length about it. And vice versa. If my computer went down, he would be the first person I'd call. In high school, he asked for my advice on how to approach the pastor of his church because of a perceived slight. When I was 19, he drove me to Coalinga for my mandated court appearance. It was a three-hour drive, and though I knew he was upset, had been furious with me for racing down Interstate 5 at 120 miles per hour, he never let it show during that trip. We talked about college, my upcoming roommate situation, the consequences of choices we make as adults. What could have been a platform for his diatribe on my irresponsibility turned into a rather pleasant trip if I didn't consider the license I had to turn over to the authorities that day.
So no small talk for us, but we can talk about issues at length. All except for the gay thing. For years, we couldn't talk about that without turning into two less than intelligible hulks of rage. In recent years, after what I think of as the Detente, we don't talk about "it" anymore, seemingly have made our peace. Sam comes with me when I visit. I come home to Sam nightly. There is nothing more to it than that, and after we reached the Detente a couple of years ago, I think our relationship has improved much. Conversations, less so, but the relationship, definitely.
He was in the hospital last summer for a triple bypass surgery. I knew he'd be fine afterwards. I don't know how I knew; I just did. In my relatively cushy life, the thought that my dad would be dead when I just turned 30 seemed so far-fetched, so impossible that I could barely give it a second thought.
But I did give it one thought, and on that first thought, I discovered, to much surprise and embarrassment, that should something happen and the surgery fail, I would have one regret--that he died knowing he had a gay son.
It didn't make any sense, and I still don't even know how to explain it, but the night before his surgery, I cried in the shower thinking that he might still have some lingering conflicts about me growing up different than how he expected, that the partner I brought home was decidedly different than any he could have imagined. The strange thing was that I had never had these thoughts before. I was not ashamed to be gay, have not been for a very long time. In all the fights he and I had ever had about it, I never once believed that he had any right to feel the anger, the disappointment and sadness he felt. The night before his surgery, I felt all those things for him.
Of course, as I predicted, he came out just fine, and now he says he feels better than ever. He and my mom go to the gym every day, modified their diet, became more aware of their physical well-being. I stashed away all those feelings I had that night somewhere deep inside so I wouldn't have to face the fact that I, at 30 and never before have felt any shame about my sexuality, for one moment, wished that I could be different.
While on the phone with him yesterday, we were awkward, fumbling toward a conversation. When we got ready to hang up, I told him to tell mom I said hello. He said OK, and to tell Sam they said hello too.
And we hung up. And I remembered how I felt last August, and all the confusion and the guilt. I thought about relaying his message to Sam, but then felt like maybe, at that exact moment, it might have been more for me.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
1/25/2011 - the hour I first believed. . .
In high school and college, I would read during every spare moment I had. I loved it and couldn't find enough time in the day for it. I became an English major so my reading would count toward a goal, went to grad school to possibly learn how to write things other people would want to read. I have boxes of books in my parents' garage, a full bookshelf in my old room.
But then I left academia. Graduated and got a job, left the world of creative writing to enter the corporate world. While friends from school stayed true to the course, took side jobs in order to have time to write, I chose otherwise. Found work that requires logic, reasoning, "cross-functional expertise," as my boss likes to say, but with little creativity and little energy left at the end of the day for creativity. I paid the bills, went on vacations. Stopped reading.
Every so often though, I'd randomly get the urge, feel like there was a missing space in my life that needed filling. I'd find a book, read it, remember what it felt like to finish one, and vow to make it a habit. A few years ago, I set a goal, a new year's resolution to read one book a month. In the end, I think I finished three. A while back, I wanted to get a book club together with some of Sam's friends, and it was an uphill battle from the start, even (or especially) with Sam.
Truth is, reading became difficult in recent years. It is not an established routine. If I suggested to Sam that we dedicate half an hour in the evenings to read, he would say that he's worked a long day and just wanted to relax. And I can't fault that. It would sound good to me, too. I only suggested the reading because somewhere inside, I felt like it was the right thing to do. But really, why not partake of simpler pleasures, ones that don't require much thought, present much challenge? So we watch TV. I play Angry Birds on the iPad, play the piano. Reading required commitment, a willingness to submit to the world that lies between each page, and I didn't always have it in me.
And I was OK with that. Still am.
However, after I started working on this blog, I found myself not only wanting to read, but needing to. Humble as this project may be, it has helped me feel like I belong to a community of sorts, of writers. This feeling is new. All those years of studying English and writing and being surrounded by writers, it took this blog, the act of working on this alone in my closet-turned-office day after day, to make me feel like a writer, more like one than I have ever felt.
All this to say that I am glad I am reading again. I just started Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed, a fictional story of a couple in the aftermath of the decidedly non-fictional tragedy at Columbine. 100 pages in, and I'm definitely invested. Interestingly, though, I realized today that while I enjoy the content, I enjoy the process of reading equally so: the skimming of the words, forming tentative images from those words, the focus.
Today, I got an incalculable amount of satisfaction when I closed the book after reading for an hour and saw how much I had read reflected in the thickness of the cumulative pages turned. The increased thickness probably could only be measured in millimeters. Still, some days, that is all I can measure my accomplishments by, and I think I'm doing pretty good.
Monday, January 24, 2011
1/24/2011 - moving instead of standing still. . .
The bike ride from my house to the Financial District takes about 15 minutes. 12 or 13 if I hit mostly green lights, a few minutes more otherwise or if I'm tired.
The dependability is the one thing I love above all else about biking to work or the gym in the morning, home in the afternoon. When my first bike was stolen a few months ago, I didn't immediately bemoan the money I would have to spend in order to buy another one, or feel violated that someone had run off with it so unapologetically. I mean, I did eventually, but the first thing I felt was frustration, dread that I would have to take BART or a bus to get downtown for a few days.
I still remember my boss, ever the optimist and believer in the good of humanity, said that it may help to believe that the thief needed it more. I wanted to believe her, but that proved difficult as I stood on the platform, waiting for my train, thinking of how I should be on my bike, moving instead of standing still.
I took BART for three days and, as expected, hated it. I have long hated BART, as well as all other forms of public transportation, but not for any of the obvious reasons one might suspect. Sure, I've been on trains that reeked of old urine fermenting in the cushions. I've ridden a Muni subway train where a homeless man took his socks off and vigorously mined for something between his toes. I've stood on busses so packed that it didn't matter whether I was holding on to a rail; everyone moved together, swayed to the turns and jerked at the stops as one unit, like herded sheep in an overcrowded pen.
No, not for any of those reasons. It is the waiting, or more accurately, the anticipation of the waiting that I can't stand. Because the trains, the busses, even cabs don't run on my schedule, don't exist merely to get Austin from his point A to his point B, I almost always have to wait, from a few minutes to a few minutes more.
When I used to live in Oakland and relied on BART to get home, I would rush, in a panic, to make the 5:16 train. Never mind that there would be another one within 15 minutes; I absolutely had to get on the train I planned to get on. To miss it was to waste 15 minutes of my life standing there, waiting for the next one. Someone somewhere (in some movie or something) once said that the saddest thing in life is getting to the station and having no one there to pick you up. Wrong. The saddest thing is getting to the station and realizing your train (to take you to that other station where no one would be to pick you up) just left a mere minute ago. In fact, you saw the doors close, heard the sound that warned of the closing doors, perhaps even had a chance to make it if you had shoved some elderly gentleman aside in order to run down the escalator, had pried open the doors and squeezed your body and your possessions through its jaws. But because you didn't, you are now cursed to stand at the station, watch 15 minutes of your life go by--15 minutes you could have spent at home, watching your life go by.
This was a daily battle. If I reached the station with a minute to spare, I felt like I could have spent that minute working. If I was one minute in the other direction, I regretted spending that earlier minute working. Missing a train meant adding 15 more minutes to my commute, and I just couldn't stand it-- why, God, why??
This was masochism at its cruelest.
And then I moved into the City, walking distance from downtown. Then Sam and I bought a loft in the flatter parts of town. Then in comes my bike, which gets stolen, and then in comes my second bike, my trusty folding bike I adore and am embarassed by all at the same time. I sit upright instead of leaning over the handlebars. Sam installed a little headlight for the front, and glued a flashing red one for the rear of my helmet, the one he says makes me look special. Tooling down Howard Street on my way home, I routinely get passed by "real" cyclists, the ones with real bikes, the non-folding kind, the kind they hunch over masculinely, even the women, the ones who become part of a writhing body of bikes during Critical Mass. I feel like a scooter to a skateboard, a Vespa to a Harley.
But still, I love my bike. During this spell of unseasonably temperate weather for San Francisco, I look forward to riding to the gym, am giddy at the prospect of riding home. Even the cold air this morning felt refreshing; on my ride home, the setting sun tinted the sky with sherbety hues and laced it with wispy strands of white. It was quite beautiful. And my commute was 15 minutes long and always will be, whether I start at 5:16 or not.
So my boss was wrong after all. Nobody needs my bike more than I do. Well, me and my OCD-addled psyche. Nobody could enjoy showing up to work with matted hair and a slight sweat more. And though I'm not a great rider, and I get nervous when too many other cyclists are near me, I can't imagine my life without my little Dahon. And every now and again, I find my rhythm on the road. Sometimes, I feel like I am going at the same pace as the cars I ride beside, gliding down the street like a real cyclist.
Sometimes, like today, I even manage to pass one.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
1/23/2011 - trekking through Middle Earth. . .
Sam and I hiked up Mission Peak yesterday. On clear days, I think you can almost see to San Francisco from the top, three miles and over 2,000 feet in elevation from the base. Certainly, you get an overview of Fremont's suburban sprawl unraveling below in grids and ovals, Fibonacci spirals repurposed for the good of the planned tract housing developments.
The hike was difficult, especially for the two of us who don't tend to exert ourselves outside of the gym. The trail is not particularly long, and the grade not particularly steep, but the incline is continuous with few breaks in between. Hikers are greeted by a consistent climb from the moment they begin until they reach the top, which then they face a consistent, slippery slope on their way down.
Throughout the hike, we saw cows grazing right alongside us, casually chewing and mooing as we huffed up the hill. Squirrels darted across the grass, ducking into tunnels and hiding behind boulders. Sam said that they seem to have a nice life out in this largely natural landscape:
From certain vantage points, like the one above, I couldn't see any of the man-made fences erected sporadically. The hum of the freeway faded. Even the bay was hidden. Nothing could indicate to me that I was still in the Bay Area, that Sam and I drove through several sleepy cities just to get to the park. We could have been further removed from civilization than we really were, further from reality. During one particularly rough section, where we had to navigate ourselves through steeper terrain and the trail was only vaguely defined, I said, before enough thought, "This feels like we're trekking through Middle Earth, on our way to Mordor." Sam said, "More like Mordork."
But it was really good to feel, or at least pretend, that I completely left all that was familiar to me, that I was seeing a spot of land that remains untouched, on our way to something much more epic than our usual lives afford us. I so rarely have the opportunity, nor the inclination, to leave the comforts of the City that, as unfortunate as my remark may have ended up sounding, to actually do so felt like an adventure, a tumble down a rabbit hole.
It got me thinking about the life I have fashioned for myself. My landscape is dominated by skyscrapers. I love them and envy them, work in them and feel intimidated and dizzy when I stare up at them. Yet, I can go days before realizing I have not seen or noticed a tree. If I don't check my e-mail for more than a few waking hours at a time, I begin to feel a separation anxiety, a break in my connection to the world, to technology, and to a facet of myself that seems to only exist through this technology. And money? I can't even begin to describe the complicated, love/hate relationship I have with money, to feel like I don't have enough to do the things I want to do, yet at the same time thankful that I have more than most, to feel simultaneously on pace and behind in the race to amass the most toys.
Walking up Mission Peak, feeling the ache in my lower back and the abrasions gently scraping into the tips of my toes, reminded me that there was a time, once, when there were no structures but stone, no communication but words and actions. A home may not have been anything more than an empty space beneath a boulder, a bundle of lumber tied together. Life definitely may not have been easier back then, nor was it any simpler, but to me, to this soft and complacent comfortphile, it feels more organic: the wind at your back is helpful, at your face is hard. Water quenches your thirst. Shade provides cover; night, rest. There was nothing more to "it" than to put one foot in front of the other, to move, grow.
(Still, it felt so good to take a shower later that evening, to sit on the couch with iPad in hand, patiently waiting for sleep.)
The hike was difficult, especially for the two of us who don't tend to exert ourselves outside of the gym. The trail is not particularly long, and the grade not particularly steep, but the incline is continuous with few breaks in between. Hikers are greeted by a consistent climb from the moment they begin until they reach the top, which then they face a consistent, slippery slope on their way down.
Throughout the hike, we saw cows grazing right alongside us, casually chewing and mooing as we huffed up the hill. Squirrels darted across the grass, ducking into tunnels and hiding behind boulders. Sam said that they seem to have a nice life out in this largely natural landscape:
From certain vantage points, like the one above, I couldn't see any of the man-made fences erected sporadically. The hum of the freeway faded. Even the bay was hidden. Nothing could indicate to me that I was still in the Bay Area, that Sam and I drove through several sleepy cities just to get to the park. We could have been further removed from civilization than we really were, further from reality. During one particularly rough section, where we had to navigate ourselves through steeper terrain and the trail was only vaguely defined, I said, before enough thought, "This feels like we're trekking through Middle Earth, on our way to Mordor." Sam said, "More like Mordork."
But it was really good to feel, or at least pretend, that I completely left all that was familiar to me, that I was seeing a spot of land that remains untouched, on our way to something much more epic than our usual lives afford us. I so rarely have the opportunity, nor the inclination, to leave the comforts of the City that, as unfortunate as my remark may have ended up sounding, to actually do so felt like an adventure, a tumble down a rabbit hole.
It got me thinking about the life I have fashioned for myself. My landscape is dominated by skyscrapers. I love them and envy them, work in them and feel intimidated and dizzy when I stare up at them. Yet, I can go days before realizing I have not seen or noticed a tree. If I don't check my e-mail for more than a few waking hours at a time, I begin to feel a separation anxiety, a break in my connection to the world, to technology, and to a facet of myself that seems to only exist through this technology. And money? I can't even begin to describe the complicated, love/hate relationship I have with money, to feel like I don't have enough to do the things I want to do, yet at the same time thankful that I have more than most, to feel simultaneously on pace and behind in the race to amass the most toys.
Walking up Mission Peak, feeling the ache in my lower back and the abrasions gently scraping into the tips of my toes, reminded me that there was a time, once, when there were no structures but stone, no communication but words and actions. A home may not have been anything more than an empty space beneath a boulder, a bundle of lumber tied together. Life definitely may not have been easier back then, nor was it any simpler, but to me, to this soft and complacent comfortphile, it feels more organic: the wind at your back is helpful, at your face is hard. Water quenches your thirst. Shade provides cover; night, rest. There was nothing more to "it" than to put one foot in front of the other, to move, grow.
(Still, it felt so good to take a shower later that evening, to sit on the couch with iPad in hand, patiently waiting for sleep.)
Saturday, January 22, 2011
1/22/2011 - an endless parade of showtunes. . .
I love showtunes. I like listening to them, playing them on the piano, singing along. I can't get enough of the drama, the wit, the orchestra swelling over a lilting vibrato. I may have skipped the line when God was handing out the gay style gene. I may not have even known that there was a line for the Asian math gene, but I certainly made time to peruse the offerings available at the showtunes counter.
Often, listening to a showtune can take me back to the very first time I heard it, and so many of those times were at Max's Opera Cafe. I want to say that this love I have stems from all those happy memories, but that wouldn't be true. It was the reason I began working at Max's Opera Cafe in the first place. Truth is, I couldn't explain why, hard as I try.
But I do, and it is no secret. I have no qualms about blasting it at home and singing along with the window open. My landlord once stood outside of my door and listened to me belt out "Defying Gravity" along with Idina Menzel before knocking. I don't know much about Bruno Mars, can't stand anything by Kesha (I refuse to give her the dollar sign), and barely recognize the majority of the artists on Top 40 radio these days. But ask me about Jekyll and Hyde, Rent, or even obscure musicals like I Love You Because. Let me sing you a few bars of "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables," tell you why the ending of Wicked's first act is my favorite moment of all of musical theater.
When I was in New York with my parents a few summers ago, I took some time alone one night and went off to Splash Bar near Union Square for 'Musical Mondays.' All night, on all video screens, clips of showtunes played to a crowd who made me feel like a complete noob to musical theater. This was the mothership. It even took me much longer than expected to notice that the insanely hot bartenders were wearing nothing more than tighty-whities.
I walked back to the hotel that night humming an endless parade of showtunes. I came home telling anyone who would listen that there is this wonderful place in New York where I actually felt swept away. I wished that I could live in New York, be among others like me, learn more about musicals than I ever thought possible.
Short of making the move to Manhattan, I discovered the second best thing: satellite radio's 'On Broadway' channel in Sam's car. It has opened my ears to musicals I would never have otherwise known, and when I get tired of channel surfing, when nothing is on, I would rather hear my least favorite showtune than anything on any other channel.
So I love showtunes. Unabashedly. However, Sam and I were at a stoplight this afternoon, listening to West Side Story on the radio, a lukewarm breeze wafting through the open window. A motorcyle pulled up beside us, one of those ape-hanger ones (I had to Google it) with a flaming skull on the side of the body. The driver had a stereo blasting some sort of thrash/death metal, Slipknot or whatever. Sam looked at me, mischief in his eyes, and turned up the volume on Maria singing, "Tonight, tonight, it all begins tonight. . ."
I have actually never felt less cool.
Often, listening to a showtune can take me back to the very first time I heard it, and so many of those times were at Max's Opera Cafe. I want to say that this love I have stems from all those happy memories, but that wouldn't be true. It was the reason I began working at Max's Opera Cafe in the first place. Truth is, I couldn't explain why, hard as I try.
But I do, and it is no secret. I have no qualms about blasting it at home and singing along with the window open. My landlord once stood outside of my door and listened to me belt out "Defying Gravity" along with Idina Menzel before knocking. I don't know much about Bruno Mars, can't stand anything by Kesha (I refuse to give her the dollar sign), and barely recognize the majority of the artists on Top 40 radio these days. But ask me about Jekyll and Hyde, Rent, or even obscure musicals like I Love You Because. Let me sing you a few bars of "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables," tell you why the ending of Wicked's first act is my favorite moment of all of musical theater.
When I was in New York with my parents a few summers ago, I took some time alone one night and went off to Splash Bar near Union Square for 'Musical Mondays.' All night, on all video screens, clips of showtunes played to a crowd who made me feel like a complete noob to musical theater. This was the mothership. It even took me much longer than expected to notice that the insanely hot bartenders were wearing nothing more than tighty-whities.
I walked back to the hotel that night humming an endless parade of showtunes. I came home telling anyone who would listen that there is this wonderful place in New York where I actually felt swept away. I wished that I could live in New York, be among others like me, learn more about musicals than I ever thought possible.
Short of making the move to Manhattan, I discovered the second best thing: satellite radio's 'On Broadway' channel in Sam's car. It has opened my ears to musicals I would never have otherwise known, and when I get tired of channel surfing, when nothing is on, I would rather hear my least favorite showtune than anything on any other channel.
So I love showtunes. Unabashedly. However, Sam and I were at a stoplight this afternoon, listening to West Side Story on the radio, a lukewarm breeze wafting through the open window. A motorcyle pulled up beside us, one of those ape-hanger ones (I had to Google it) with a flaming skull on the side of the body. The driver had a stereo blasting some sort of thrash/death metal, Slipknot or whatever. Sam looked at me, mischief in his eyes, and turned up the volume on Maria singing, "Tonight, tonight, it all begins tonight. . ."
I have actually never felt less cool.
Friday, January 21, 2011
1/21/2011 - an available puppy at the shelter. . .
Once upon a time, Sam and I had a cat. Her name was Sookie, and she was only a kitten. The decision to adopt her was easy; it only took this:
She was a good kitten, sleeping most of the time, getting up only to eat, pee, and poop. On good days, she would chase a laser dot around the floor for a few minutes. Then she would hop back on the couch, curl up on her matching furry blanket, and fall asleep. We were thankful that she had no interest in tearing up our furniture, eating our plants, or getting into trouble at night while we were asleep.
After a few days, we started realizing that she had no interest in doing much of anything, certainly nothing that would indicate she was even a kitten in the first place. She slept more, ate less, lost weight, and breathed heavily.
A few days after that, we took her to the vet, where we received a positive test result for feline infectious peritonitis, fatal and incurable. She was only a kitten, lived with us for less than two weeks.
Because the building we lived in did not allow cats, we did not want to have the neighbors see us with a cat carrier. So we took her to the vet that night in an unmarked cardboard box, and we left with an empty one, like there never was or should have been an animal in there at all. I cried so hard.
Last night, Sam showed me a picture of an available puppy at the shelter. She was very cute, but my instinctive answer was no. He has periodically gone to the shelter on his own to look at other dogs and cats since Sookie, and I have always said no. I had justifiable reasons: let's wait until we move; let's wait until we settle in; let's wait until the construction is done.
This morning, as I biked to work, I realized that I've run out of reasons save one: let's wait until I am no longer afraid to adopt another pet and have to subsequently euthanize her.
Further, Sookie, without any effort or knowledge of doing so, made a family out of me and Sam. Sounds ridiculous, and I'm embarrassed to say so, but with Sookie sleeping on the couch between us as we watched TV, I felt like we were more than what we were before.
So following that logic, then, what did we become after, when that space on the couch suddenly sat empty?
It took me weeks to feel normal, to feel the crisis of identity, my own and the collective one I shared with Sam, ease. I don't imagine he analyzed this incident to the depths that I did. He felt sad for a while, got over it, and was ready to try again.
I think I might be too, now.
In a way, I've been waiting for the right time, when we are all settled in to our house and have prepared ourselves for the responsibility of another pet. But like I've always said about me and children, there will never be the right time, and probably the only way it would ever happen is if it just happened to me.
I haven't wanted to look at this photo of Sookie since she died. I have a tendency to anthropomorphize animals, so seeing her big, round eyes now, the sadness behind them, makes me feel like she knew more than she let on. Maybe she was already sick at the time. Maybe she knew that she would be loved by us so much that she would never want to leave.
Sookie helped us reach new heights in our ability to love. But as with heights, there comes a fear of falling, the dizzying plunge that awaits with one misstep. I'm glad Sam, probably without even realizing it, is eager to take this chance. I would never be ready otherwise.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
1/20/2011 - so much subtlety, so much romance. . .
In the absence of a real dining table (though one is coming within the week), Sam and I have been eating dinner on the couch while watching TV. Normally, this is against everything I believe in for dinnertime, but I've reconciled the infraction in light of my latest discovery: every night for two hours, the Hallmark Channel reruns four episodes of Who's the Boss?, a childhood obsession that seems to have stood the test of time better than others (Saved by the Bell, He-Man, and the like).
I was seven or eight when I first met the Bower residence in syndication. It was aired on Channel 2 at 6:00 or 6:30, I can't remember, but definitely during dinner time. Therefore, the sense of urgency to inhale my food and get to Who's the Boss? was overwhelming. One night, I got a horrible stomach ache that eventually resulted in a trip to the hospital where I puked up, among other things, sliced mushrooms, unchewed, from that night's dinner. I can still see them sitting in a runny puddle on the white linoleum floor.
After that, I was not allowed to watch TV during the dinner hour but could tape Who's the Boss? instead. That actually worked out better. I was then able to commit to memory episodes where Tony was shirtless, like when he was a boxer for charity, when he was in swim trunks in Mexico, when he became a spokesmodel for something called "Machismo Shower Gel" and spent a good portion of the episode lathering soap on his body while wearing a tiny flesh-colored speedo. Wet.
Clearly, this foreshadowed (or fueled) my future attraction to hairy, muscular men, but what I failed to acknowledge at the time were the themes of kindness, the importance of family, the chemistry between Tony and Angela and the slow-burning development of their inevitable relationship. After many an episode, Sam, in reluctant admittance, would often say, "It's actually a really sweet show," like it should have disgusted him but didn't, and that was a welcome surprise.
But, truthfully, it is a sweet show, and it was a welcome surprise to find it back on the air. As an adult, I no longer have to swallow my dinner whole in order to watch it, though I wonder what I will do when our dining table comes in and we can once again return to our old routine of actual conversation during dinner. Though I still think Tony Danza is attractive, it's really just a phantom blip, a vestige from days long past. Mostly, I now find the show comforting, like an old friend you knew 'way back when' and are now seeing through stranger eyes. There was only so much subtlety, so much romance an eight-year-old could process.
Now, I sometimes feel like watching Tony and Angela is like watching two other people act out our lives to some degree: Sam knows a thing or two about boxing, enjoys housework and looks good in swim trunks. I can be neurotic at times, tragically unhip and often obliviously so. I'd like to think that the chemistry between Sam and I is comparable to Tony and Angela's, that we, too, have an inevitable relationship.
Last night, Angela loudly confessed her love for Tony in her sleep and to everyone within earshot. In shame, she spent half of her birthday by herself in a bar. When Tony finally found her, he attempted to express his mutual feelings with a bumbling monologue full of "oh"s and "um"s, something about living together and sharing appliances and how it's a tough world out there. Anything but love, anything but those words.
When I watched that scene, it felt so familiar, like a mirror image if I were to become a blonde with a penchant for shoulder pads. I knew, then, that it was true: turns out that I have found my very own Tony after all.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
1/19/2011 - that sexy guy in the kitchen. . .
Maybe I've been exposed to one too many chick flicks in my lifetime, but there is something I find quite sexy about a man cooking. Not in that skilled and swift, Top Chef kind of way (though I could definitely watch Tom Colicchio cook for an hour), but more like that smooth and sultry, Mr. Big letting Carrie have a taste of veal off the tip of a spatula kind of way.
Hot.
So of course, as with all other qualities I have found attractive in other men, I've attempted to emulate it as best I could to varying degrees of failure.
Before Sam and I moved into this loft, I cooked quarterly, mostly for special occasions, and almost always badly. It's not that I couldn't follow a recipe, because I could; it's just that I didn't. Growing up, my mom never used cookbooks when cooking. She would grab handfuls of vegetables, scoopfuls of spices without once consulting a recipe. So I thought it must be innate, something instinctual, something that I erroneously thought I had.
When we first started dating, I would occasionally ask Sam over for a home-cooked dinner. I would clean the house, spend an hour creating a playlist on iTunes, light candles. I certainly followed the recipe for romance. When it came to the food, however, there was seldom a recipe in sight.
Once, I made what in my head equated to a chicken piccata that had so much lemon in it that it was practically a ceviche with capers dumped on it. Another time, I attempted chicken curry (out of a box, even!), but halfway through putting it together, realized I did not have enough curry for the pounds of potatoes and carrots I bought (because I did not follow the instructions on said box). In my haste to run out and find some more boxed curry (which I couldn't), I left my keys at home and locked myself out of the building.
The coup de grace that ended my solitary cooking endeavors came when I thought I could replicate (with ease) my favorite egg-battered sole
As we were still finding our way through this newborn relationship we had, Sam choked it all down, disastrous dish after disastrous dish, periodically saying that it was interesting or not that bad. They were all bad. I knew it, and he knew it, and by the time we were comfortable with each other, I was no longer allowed to cook unsupervised.
Which eventually grew into a different problem altogether. We simply did not know how to work together. Neither wanted supervision, yet both of us watched each other with keen skepticism, convinced we knew a better way to do whatever the other was doing. An evening of cooking would quickly unravel to become a clash of the titanic egos.
Not that I was delusional and somehow forgot about all the bad stuff I had ever made. But I gave myself credit for at least going down swinging. Sam's idea of cooking long consisted of a Safeway rotisserie chicken and some ready-mixed salad, and I just could not surrender to his advice.
I don't know how, but eventually, after several fights and meals prepared in ire, we moved out of opposition and took our respective places as teammates in the kitchen. It probably soothed his nerves to see the recipe for whatever I was making sit prominently on the counter. I admitted to myself that I did not know better than recipes, did not know better than Sam, and that I was no savant. A few successful outcomes then gained his trust, and now, when he offers to help, I no longer suspect that his aid is merely a ruse to keep me close and within reins' distance.
Last night, we made meatloaf together from a tried and true recipe. Sam acted as sous chef, mincing shallots and cubing slices of bread, while I put all the ingredients together.
It wasn't romantic, no lingering glances or gentle brushes of fingertips. This was purely practical, straight-forward cooking, and it was wonderful. We stood right alongside each other, each to our tasks, and I felt that he had the confidence in me I always wish he had when I was ignoring recipes, before I earned it by following them. After dinner, he even said that this meatloaf could be a "company dish," one we make for friends and family.
That's a pretty good sign for us, coming from where we've been. Where I've been. Maybe I have a shot at being that sexy guy in the kitchen after all.
So of course, as with all other qualities I have found attractive in other men, I've attempted to emulate it as best I could to varying degrees of failure.
Before Sam and I moved into this loft, I cooked quarterly, mostly for special occasions, and almost always badly. It's not that I couldn't follow a recipe, because I could; it's just that I didn't. Growing up, my mom never used cookbooks when cooking. She would grab handfuls of vegetables, scoopfuls of spices without once consulting a recipe. So I thought it must be innate, something instinctual, something that I erroneously thought I had.
When we first started dating, I would occasionally ask Sam over for a home-cooked dinner. I would clean the house, spend an hour creating a playlist on iTunes, light candles. I certainly followed the recipe for romance. When it came to the food, however, there was seldom a recipe in sight.
Once, I made what in my head equated to a chicken piccata that had so much lemon in it that it was practically a ceviche with capers dumped on it. Another time, I attempted chicken curry (out of a box, even!), but halfway through putting it together, realized I did not have enough curry for the pounds of potatoes and carrots I bought (because I did not follow the instructions on said box). In my haste to run out and find some more boxed curry (which I couldn't), I left my keys at home and locked myself out of the building.
The coup de grace that ended my solitary cooking endeavors came when I thought I could replicate (with ease) my favorite egg-battered sole
As we were still finding our way through this newborn relationship we had, Sam choked it all down, disastrous dish after disastrous dish, periodically saying that it was interesting or not that bad. They were all bad. I knew it, and he knew it, and by the time we were comfortable with each other, I was no longer allowed to cook unsupervised.
Which eventually grew into a different problem altogether. We simply did not know how to work together. Neither wanted supervision, yet both of us watched each other with keen skepticism, convinced we knew a better way to do whatever the other was doing. An evening of cooking would quickly unravel to become a clash of the titanic egos.
Not that I was delusional and somehow forgot about all the bad stuff I had ever made. But I gave myself credit for at least going down swinging. Sam's idea of cooking long consisted of a Safeway rotisserie chicken and some ready-mixed salad, and I just could not surrender to his advice.
I don't know how, but eventually, after several fights and meals prepared in ire, we moved out of opposition and took our respective places as teammates in the kitchen. It probably soothed his nerves to see the recipe for whatever I was making sit prominently on the counter. I admitted to myself that I did not know better than recipes, did not know better than Sam, and that I was no savant. A few successful outcomes then gained his trust, and now, when he offers to help, I no longer suspect that his aid is merely a ruse to keep me close and within reins' distance.
Last night, we made meatloaf together from a tried and true recipe. Sam acted as sous chef, mincing shallots and cubing slices of bread, while I put all the ingredients together.
It wasn't romantic, no lingering glances or gentle brushes of fingertips. This was purely practical, straight-forward cooking, and it was wonderful. We stood right alongside each other, each to our tasks, and I felt that he had the confidence in me I always wish he had when I was ignoring recipes, before I earned it by following them. After dinner, he even said that this meatloaf could be a "company dish," one we make for friends and family.
That's a pretty good sign for us, coming from where we've been. Where I've been. Maybe I have a shot at being that sexy guy in the kitchen after all.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
1/18/2011 - the first or last meal of my life. . .
When I was 14 or 15, I badgered my mom into taking me to a Berkeley record store one afternoon so I could buy a CD that was otherwise sold out. It was a compilation CD released by a local radio station (obviously, this was before iTunes), and for one reason or another now long forgotten, I needed to have it. Like most teenage whims go, my very happiness depended on it.
After finding the CD, my mom said that she was getting hungry, but we couldn't agree on a place to eat. Back then, I was on an obsessively low-fat, "brown rice and vegetables" kind of diet; fried falafels and pizza would not do. 10 minutes later, she felt queasy from hunger. She broke out in a sweat. She said that she just couldn't take a step further. I couldn't understand and thought she was just being dramatic--if you're hungry, let's just walk faster to get you some food!!
As karma would have it, I was hit with my first episode of "the shakes" a few years later during a morning cross-country workout. I suddenly felt suspiciously off. Not tired exactly, not hungry exactly, but definitely both of those things. I stopped running and stood by a tree. Within a few minutes, I felt clammy, queasy, and so weak-knee'd that I could barely even make it as far as a nearby bench to sit down.
Since then, I've felt this way a number of times and dealt with it better on some occasions, worse on others. I've self-diagnosed it as "low blood sugar," a condition completely different than mere hunger, which is like my usual state of being. Sam knows that when I say I have low blood sugar, it's best to steer clear. Ironically, it sometimes happens if I've had too much sugar, or if I'm overly hungry. Other times, it seems to happen randomly.
Like yesterday, after a five-block walk from the house to the Flower Mart, a conglomeration of flower vendors in one sprawling complex. Sam wanted a houseplant for us to inevitably kill, and Allen planned to meet us there for lunch.
I started feeling the creeping onset of the low blood sugar by the time we got there, and Sam kept on asking for my opinion on this plant or that tree. No way could I focus on something that I had no faith in ourselves to keep alive. Oddly enough, though, singing Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control" quietly to myself helped stave off the worst of it (how I discovered this at that moment I'll never know). Mostly, I was just trying to hold it all in.
Not wanting to actually freak out as much as I was on the inside, I first just told Sam that I was feeling a little hungry. He said, "Of course you are. It's past your feeding time," in that tone I usually love and find hilarious. At that moment, however, I just wanted to tremble out of my skin and punch him in the throat, if only I could summon the energy.
Luckily, there was a McDonald's across the street. I gave him my self-diagnosis, he changed his tone, and I walked over in search of an apple pie. I wanted to run, sprint over as fast as possible and devour every pie, apple or otherwise, they had available, but the intersection felt like a chasm, and the best I had in me was a slow shuffle. Any more and I was afraid I'd trip over my own feet.
By the time I got inside and in the line of about five people deep, I noticed that this McDonald's displayed caloric values of each food item, and two apple pies (for $1) are 500 calories. In a complete flashback to my teenage years, I just couldn't justify it when lunch was right around the corner where I probably would be eating three times that amount anyway.
So I opted for oatmeal, and when I got my hands on it, it was as if this were either the first or last meal of my life. This wasn't about savoring it, or even tasting it much; this was purely about ingestion. I couldn't fit enough of it onto the spoon at one time, couldn't take the time to let it cool. The top of my mouth is still gently burned.
But it was so worth it. I felt better within a few minutes, and within the hour, all was a distant memory. The rest of the day was beautiful, sunny and warm with a hint of a breeze as a reminder that this was still San Francisco in the wintertime. We walked to lunch, critiqued furniture at a few nearby stores, and bought a vintage-looking Le Tigre polo from Out of the Closet for under $5. All made possible by the oatmeal that saved me from turning into a trembling mass of jello outside of the Flower Mart.
Monday, January 17, 2011
1/17/2011 - aaahhhh Saturday. . .
I like sleep. This part of me has never changed. I operate best when I've had at least eight hours of it, when I can toss and turn at will during it, when I can wake from it naturally because of the sun through my window, the morning sounds of the City, my stirring brain.
I value sleep so much that I spend five evenings out of the week, from Sunday to Thursday, feeling pressured to get to bed as soon as possible, knowing that at 5:30 the next morning, I would have to be awake again--before the sun comes up, before City sounds, when my neurons are still trying to find each other. I compel myself to be abed by 10 o'clock on these nights, whether I actually feel sleepy or I will it so.
Naturally, then, I look forward to Friday and Saturday evenings. Saturday's evening especially. Sam and I usually reserve Friday's to spend with Allen at his house (where I would fall asleep anyway), but Saturday's evening. . .? Aaahhhh Saturday.
See, Sam and I don't have a bustling social life. Yesterday, as we were driving Jason and Toby back home from brunch, Toby asked what we did for fun. We didn't have much to say in response. We have a small number of friends. We live within walking distance of at least six bars in the South of Market neighborhood, and not once have we stepped foot in one since we moved here. Our typical Saturday nights consist of me tooling around on-line before falling asleep and him watching anime on the Cartoon Network.
This routine was tentative at first, neither of us wanting to seem as lame to each other as we really were. But really, he loves his cartoons. I love sleep. I don't think there could be a routine more custom-tailored to our lives. And I think we've made our peace with it.
Though yesterday was technically Sunday, we both have today off because of Martin Luther King Jr. Day. So last night, where I typically would feel the need to begin my bed-going ritual at 8:30, we lounged on the couch together instead, watching a random episode of Bones. I then took a shower, brushed my teeth, and was back on the couch by 9:30. Sam was watching something called the Venture Brothers on, yes, the Cartoon Network, and try as I did, I could not make sense of it.
So I propped my feet up on Sam's lap and tried keeping my eyes open for a while, tried following the inane and convoluted storyline playing itself out on TV. No avail. It didn't help that I was tired. It was almost 10.
I laid there for a while, gently fighting the good fight against the weight of my eyelids. I knew that down the street, people were drinking, wearing their best jeans and leather and cruising each other for a chance at a good time. Elsewhere in the City, people were dancing, getting high, gyrating to the thumpa-thump that I once romanticized and thought of as the embodiment of cool. Somewhere, people were having fun.
Eventually, the jabber of the Venture brothers, whoever they may be, began to fade. Sam's laughter took on a fuzzy, far-off quality. It was sweet, this sleep, sweeter because I could choose whether or not I wanted it. Fall asleep at 10 o'clock? Sure. Stay up until midnight? Just as fine. The next morning's waking would be my choice too.
But there was actually no choice as soon as I closed my eyes. It was an act of surrender. With my arms crossed against my chest, I thought of where else I would rather be, where else Sam would, and what other kind of fun we could be having outside of the confines of our house. I couldn't come up with anything before I was out.
I value sleep so much that I spend five evenings out of the week, from Sunday to Thursday, feeling pressured to get to bed as soon as possible, knowing that at 5:30 the next morning, I would have to be awake again--before the sun comes up, before City sounds, when my neurons are still trying to find each other. I compel myself to be abed by 10 o'clock on these nights, whether I actually feel sleepy or I will it so.
Naturally, then, I look forward to Friday and Saturday evenings. Saturday's evening especially. Sam and I usually reserve Friday's to spend with Allen at his house (where I would fall asleep anyway), but Saturday's evening. . .? Aaahhhh Saturday.
See, Sam and I don't have a bustling social life. Yesterday, as we were driving Jason and Toby back home from brunch, Toby asked what we did for fun. We didn't have much to say in response. We have a small number of friends. We live within walking distance of at least six bars in the South of Market neighborhood, and not once have we stepped foot in one since we moved here. Our typical Saturday nights consist of me tooling around on-line before falling asleep and him watching anime on the Cartoon Network.
This routine was tentative at first, neither of us wanting to seem as lame to each other as we really were. But really, he loves his cartoons. I love sleep. I don't think there could be a routine more custom-tailored to our lives. And I think we've made our peace with it.
Though yesterday was technically Sunday, we both have today off because of Martin Luther King Jr. Day. So last night, where I typically would feel the need to begin my bed-going ritual at 8:30, we lounged on the couch together instead, watching a random episode of Bones. I then took a shower, brushed my teeth, and was back on the couch by 9:30. Sam was watching something called the Venture Brothers on, yes, the Cartoon Network, and try as I did, I could not make sense of it.
So I propped my feet up on Sam's lap and tried keeping my eyes open for a while, tried following the inane and convoluted storyline playing itself out on TV. No avail. It didn't help that I was tired. It was almost 10.
I laid there for a while, gently fighting the good fight against the weight of my eyelids. I knew that down the street, people were drinking, wearing their best jeans and leather and cruising each other for a chance at a good time. Elsewhere in the City, people were dancing, getting high, gyrating to the thumpa-thump that I once romanticized and thought of as the embodiment of cool. Somewhere, people were having fun.
Eventually, the jabber of the Venture brothers, whoever they may be, began to fade. Sam's laughter took on a fuzzy, far-off quality. It was sweet, this sleep, sweeter because I could choose whether or not I wanted it. Fall asleep at 10 o'clock? Sure. Stay up until midnight? Just as fine. The next morning's waking would be my choice too.
But there was actually no choice as soon as I closed my eyes. It was an act of surrender. With my arms crossed against my chest, I thought of where else I would rather be, where else Sam would, and what other kind of fun we could be having outside of the confines of our house. I couldn't come up with anything before I was out.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
1/16/2011 - what separates the good from the great. . .
This morning, Sam and I met up with Jason and his boyfriend for brunch out by the San Leandro Marina. Though I had been to this restaurant several times and have always enjoyed their brunch, this particular experience was memorable for one reason: our waiter.
He was friendly without being cloying, attentive but unobtrusive. His attitude made me feel like I was being taken care of, not just waited on. Everything was "Wonderful wonderful" and "Great to hear and thank you for coming," imbued with enthusiasm and fervor. His attitude was infectious, and he stoked the already billowing fondness I have for foodservers, the camaraderie I've felt with them even before I became one.
My earliest memory of a waiter was when I was 12, having dinner with a large group of extended family at a TGI Fridays. He reminded me of Matthew Fox (circa Party of Five), and he knelt down at the table, bringing me face-to-face with him as he took my order. This simple gesture made me feel like he knew me better than he did, like maybe he cared more than he actually had any reason to.
A few years later, I would make my family go on regular pilgrimages to Chili's for our Saturday night dinners out, back when the one location in the area would regularly have hour-long waits on the weekends. I loved the buffalo wings there, and we would routinely get a waiter who maintained the same five o'clock shadow across his face each time we'd see him. I still remember the way his biceps pulsed as he carried our plates back to the kitchen, staggering them up his forearm like fallen dominoes.
And later still, my boyfriend and I would go to El Torito's in Sacramento almost weekly for dinner. While the food was definitely serviceable, we would opt for this restaurant over others because of a server who made us feel like she was just hosting old friends at a dinner party. She remembered our preferences, referred to us by name, and made small talk like we were the only ones in the restaurant.
These "formative" foodserver experiences all came together when I took a year off between college and grad school to work at Max's Opera Cafe. I tried to merge all of the best qualities of the servers I remembered in order to be the best one I could be. I would kneel down beside the table when taking orders, remember the regular customers and converse with them like friends. It was an important job to me, and one I remember feeling good about going toevery on most days.
It was also one of the best years of my life. People often say that one's college years are those years, but I'd have to disagree. I enjoyed myself just fine, but it was this year at the restaurant that I look back on with the nostalgia that most people probably reserve for their collegiate days. I was carefree, young enough not to worry about a career but old enough to be making my own money. And I loved doing what I did to make the money.
This love for the job was what I recognized in our waiter today, and if not love, then at least a credible performance of it. This singular quality in a foodserver may be what separates the good from the great. This love reminds me of all the good servers I've ever had in my life, of the good waiter I tried to be during one of the best years of my life. Truthfully, the food this morning was alright, nothing I would devote an hour to write about.
Our waiter, obviously, was a different story.
He was friendly without being cloying, attentive but unobtrusive. His attitude made me feel like I was being taken care of, not just waited on. Everything was "Wonderful wonderful" and "Great to hear and thank you for coming," imbued with enthusiasm and fervor. His attitude was infectious, and he stoked the already billowing fondness I have for foodservers, the camaraderie I've felt with them even before I became one.
My earliest memory of a waiter was when I was 12, having dinner with a large group of extended family at a TGI Fridays. He reminded me of Matthew Fox (circa Party of Five), and he knelt down at the table, bringing me face-to-face with him as he took my order. This simple gesture made me feel like he knew me better than he did, like maybe he cared more than he actually had any reason to.
A few years later, I would make my family go on regular pilgrimages to Chili's for our Saturday night dinners out, back when the one location in the area would regularly have hour-long waits on the weekends. I loved the buffalo wings there, and we would routinely get a waiter who maintained the same five o'clock shadow across his face each time we'd see him. I still remember the way his biceps pulsed as he carried our plates back to the kitchen, staggering them up his forearm like fallen dominoes.
And later still, my boyfriend and I would go to El Torito's in Sacramento almost weekly for dinner. While the food was definitely serviceable, we would opt for this restaurant over others because of a server who made us feel like she was just hosting old friends at a dinner party. She remembered our preferences, referred to us by name, and made small talk like we were the only ones in the restaurant.
These "formative" foodserver experiences all came together when I took a year off between college and grad school to work at Max's Opera Cafe. I tried to merge all of the best qualities of the servers I remembered in order to be the best one I could be. I would kneel down beside the table when taking orders, remember the regular customers and converse with them like friends. It was an important job to me, and one I remember feeling good about going to
It was also one of the best years of my life. People often say that one's college years are those years, but I'd have to disagree. I enjoyed myself just fine, but it was this year at the restaurant that I look back on with the nostalgia that most people probably reserve for their collegiate days. I was carefree, young enough not to worry about a career but old enough to be making my own money. And I loved doing what I did to make the money.
This love for the job was what I recognized in our waiter today, and if not love, then at least a credible performance of it. This singular quality in a foodserver may be what separates the good from the great. This love reminds me of all the good servers I've ever had in my life, of the good waiter I tried to be during one of the best years of my life. Truthfully, the food this morning was alright, nothing I would devote an hour to write about.
Our waiter, obviously, was a different story.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
1/15/2011 - going by a different name. . .
I never had a nickname growing up.
OK, that's not exactly true. My parents never called me by my full Chinese name; instead, they called me "Bao bao," roughly translated to "precious one." A nickname for sure, but not exactly something I would ask my friends to call me.
I always wished I could get one though, have friends know me by something other than my actual name. But by the time I realized I wanted one, it was too late. I was already Austin. It was the name teachers called me, the one classmates used to tease me: "Austin Boston" and "Austin Texas" were staples growing up. It bothered me and was annoying, but on hindsight, it wasn't offensive or even creative in any way.
(Sidenote: I knew a guy in college named Halsey, and he said that growing up, kids would call him "Cerebral Halsey." That's creativity.)
(Sidenote: I knew a guy in college named Halsey, and he said that growing up, kids would call him "Cerebral Halsey." That's creativity.)
To my knowledge, there is no formal shortening for Austin, no "Joe for Joseph" equivalent. It's awkward to even informally shorten my name, like Kev for Kevin, Jase for Jason. Aus? Aust? Tin? Maybe if I had embraced the teasing as a kid, I would now be known as Tex. I guess that might be pretty cool.
Allen inexplicably calls me "Austie Spumonti" sometimes, and it makes me feel like I am six years old. It feels strangely nice actually, but seems like something of a consolation prize for not having a more accessible nickname.
As an adult, I am fine with Austin, appreciate the forethought my parents had to give me a name in the 80s whose popularity peaked in the 90s. I even like hearing it now, when my boss talks about me during meetings, when Sam calls for me from downstairs to help him with something, when I give it to hostesses at restaurants. It's never confused with any other name. Well, except the guy I once met in Chinese school who thought my name was Oscar, or the regular who used to come to Max's Opera Cafe weekly and call me Shawn; I never had the courage to correct either of them. OK, so maybe it does get confused with other names, but I certainly don't think I've ever been confused with any other Austin.
And what is the point of all this? Why am I bringing this up now? Because I have just spent an hour and gone back to anonymize most of the other names in this blog but my own (Halsey stays). I even considered going by a different name myself, but I couldn't imagine seeing a different name as the author of this blog. And even though it's not like I am doling out personal information and social security numbers, and who knows if anyone even cares, I figure that if I put this much thought into my name and the weight of it in my life, others may have too, and I should handle theirs with care and discretion wherever possible.
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