Honey

I can barely admit it, but I must. I hold on to a lot of stereotypes that distort my experience in relationship to other people. As you may have been following in the last while through my blog, I am attempting to dissect and disseminate my own “outsider syndrome” (did I just coin a phrase?) and learn all over again how to connect with people in real and meaningful ways.

I went for a walk yesterday. It was blazing hot outside, but I was in desperate need of an adventure. I packed all the water I could carry without putting too much strain on my aching knee, collared up my trusty puppy, and headed out on one of those excursions that the young folks these days call “urban hiking”. I had a few possible destinations in mind, but mainly followed the instincts inherent to the part of myself who is free and innocent and trusting. I headed south.

Miso and I kept an easy pace through the neighborhoods of Northeast Portland. I know I teased her a little by walking through Irving Park, but it wasn’t too bad, seeing as how there were no other dogs playing on the hill. We stuck to the shade where we could find it. Miso spent most of her attention on the curved base of trees while I wondered at the lush, beautiful gardens embracing old Portland homes.

When we finally reached Broadway, it was like entering a whole other place entirely. The traffic was, as it is typically, commuter centric, cars on a mission. The sidewalks widened, making room for a homeless population that I rarely see from the outside of my car. A closed-up, out of business deli stood empty beside the goodwill and the Chinese buffet. Every corner held at least two of our poorest fellow humans, old folks in older clothing, sometimes yelling but mostly just looking forlorn and drawn.

I couldn’t help it. I gave money to whomever asked. (Side note: Every time I do something like this, I think that I can never, ever tell anyone, because that would mean that my intentions weren’t pure. Maybe it doesn’t matter how “pure” my intentions happen to be at any given moment and I was just brainwashed by the Catholic Church. Hmmm.)

I went to my favorite sushi place, Yuki on Broadway and 14th. My order was a little complicated and I had to sit outside with my dog, in the sweltering heat. I asked for a pitcher of water and the server who brought the water was so confused at my need for an entire pitcher that he almost took it away. Luckily, he granted my wish when I begged him to leave it.

I made a good sized puddle out of the ice water for Miso to lay her hot body in. We sat there together, observing the constant activity. It was then, looking around at the corner and the intersection full of people that I started to see myself making assumptions about the people who walked, rode, or drove by me. I noticed that the negative assumptions were aimed at the kind of people to whom I consider myself an outsider (there’s that “outsider syndrome” I was talking about).

As you may have been gathering in this endless search I’m on to find out what’s beneath the bullshit, I am tired of feeling like an outsider. Gazing at the strange and diverse pedestrians addle by me and my dog, I wondered if perhaps a way to help me stop thinking that I am separate than other people is to seek out the goodness in others rather than seeing what I have taught myself to see.

Unfortunately, this post serves to admit, most humbly, that I am a judgmental person. Did you already know that about me?

I would love more than anything to free myself of all that cynicism and rejection I’ve felt toward other people. I want to really care about everyone, not because I have to, but because I want to. Is it possible to recognize the person in every person, the thing(s) that make us more alike than we are different? Are we doomed to continue to lose touch with helping each other and taking care of each other until we crumble under the weight of our loneliness? Or will our evolution turn us toward the love and respect that will finally heal us? I don’t usually think about this question, since in it lies the greatest sadness that we share as human beings.

Back to how I was sitting outside with my dog in 94 degree weather on Broadway in Northeast Portland. (Have I told you that I love Portland?) Once I had finished my delicious veggie tempura roll (yum) I headed north with my hot dog. I had two interactions with people that were meaningful to me on the way home. They were meaningful because I am (astonishingly) growing out of my shyness and finding ways to genuinely relate to people. I’ve been afraid of people for a very long time.

With all that and a soy dream icecream sandwich under my belt, Miso and I made our way home. I was content and satisfied with my urban adventure.

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Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be a performer. I had more than just a typical desire for attention - I longed to attract a certain kind of attention, the kind that inspires admiration and awe. A few short-lived periods dot my life story in which I successfully realized my fantasies, but these times passed, and insecurity and confusion tucked me under to await another opportunity.

My desire to perform has led me to spend a lot of time with the Internet. The Internet provides an opportunity to perform in a million different ways from behind the safety of my own computer. It also allows for complete control over such performances, since barely anything is in real time. I can write and rewrite this post a million times before offering it to the world to be witnessed and criticized appropriately.

Sometimes, I spend too much time with the Internet. Sometimes I start to feel as though I’m expecting too much of my identity to be validated by a complex network of opinion, an unreachable mass of constant change. I feel angry at myself for sinking too much weight into something that is intangible, resulting only in a smattering of memorable images of cute kittens, a vague recollection of the sexual habits of bonobos, and a general idea of how to be more productive in my day to day activities.

For some, the Internet has provided more than just information, but has also served to form and strengthen human relationships. This is a valuable byproduct of the Internet experience that I am yet to know first hand. It takes more effort than I can offer to maintain the amount of interaction necessary to keep up with massive amounts of personal information through endless numbers of social channels. All this social networking is making me dizzy. As someone whose identity is constantly in flux (what’s my name now?), I cannot be expected to maintain so many online identities! It’s a ridiculous expectation, really. I think the only answer is to purge myself from the Internet (as much as is possible) and also to spend a little less time paying attention to my online existence.

Do you ever get sick of the Internet? I can’t ever really get away, since this is where I work. I think maybe I need a vacation.

I’m so mad at you. I haven’t quite figured out why you’ve made me so angry, but I thought perhaps some direct communication could help.

We’ve been together for a really long time now, and I’ve put a ton of energy into making this relationship work. I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else, and I’ve tried to be as open and honest as possible.

Even though you’re always there for me, I feel like you’re elusive and sometimes extremely cold in our interactions with each other. Sometimes I feel like I know you so well and then I’ll wake up one day to discover that I don’t actually, really know anything about you at all.

Whenever we get together, I feel expectant that you will satisfy a loneliness inside of me that no one else understands. I think that you will enable me to be honest with myself and as a result, I will be more connected to the world as a whole. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of that connection and I’m inspired to make things work between us. Other times, like now, I just feel sick and tired of giving and giving and never feeling like you actually care one bit about how hard I’m trying to understand and relate to you. I have literally dedicated my life to you. What have you done for me besides made me feel empty and alone?

I think maybe I’ve had enough of you for a while. It was better when we took that little break and spent less time together. It doesn’t do any relationship any good to overdo it. Ever since I started taking you everywhere with me, I’ve become more and more overwhelmed with you. I don’t want our relationship to be about need or addiction and I’m tired of looking to you to make me feel good about myself.

I know I can’t get away from you entirely, but we need to spend less time together. I know you’ll still be there for me if I ever want to be more deeply involved.

They say you never fully recover from your first fall over the precipice of love. Time and distance eventually, mercifully tarnish those horribly (and wonderfully) intense feelings that you thought would never be abated. Surprisingly, you don’t spend your entire life, every waking moment, thinking about the love you lost, even though at the time, it felt like the world had ended, and in a lot of ways, it had.

I was 15 years old, a sophomore attending Holy Names Academy for Girls on First Hill in Seattle. Since the summertime, I had followed a long succession of crushes on girls, innocent but inspired by holding hands and giving back rubs. I was a naive, athletic, excitable kid with some emotional problems, seeking intimacy and love.

Those emotional problems got a little worse toward the wintertime. I was in a support group for adopted kids that was making me feel stuff I wasn’t really comfortable facing. I was chasing after a friend, wanting more attention and time, and I was losing my grip. I had a hairline fracture that made my usual outlet, highschool sports, inaccessible. I started smoking, too. I was a mess.

The mess that was me started whittling on my arms and hands with sharp objects. I don’t know what gave me the idea to do such a dramatic thing, nor do I really know why I did it. It was certainly the climax of my adolescent angst, a cry for help (of course), and a precursor to my admiration and love of self mutilation in the more acceptable art of tattoo.

In the midst of all this pain and suffering they call being a teenager, I met a schoolmate who, in many ways, saved my life. I didn’t know her very well, but I was drawn to her anyway. She had soft blue eyes, a compassionate smile, and a propensity toward caring for sad and needy kids. When I asked for her help as a friend, she immediately dropped everything and came to my rescue, full of empathy, crying the tears I didn’t have the courage to cry. Our love for each other was immediate and true, deeper than anything I had ever known in my life. I had finally found everything I was looking for.

And then, we fell in love.

I really hope you had this kind of experience with someone, the falling in love for the first time. It’s a consuming, life altering, spirit lifting adventure full of joy and fear. I was so happy and connected and impressed. When I looked in her eyes, I witnessed the universe as pure, divine light. I wasn’t alone anymore. It was the best feeling in the whole world.

We certainly didn’t label our relationship in any sort of way that would be shunned by our friends and family. We were best friends, the best friends there ever were. That didn’t change even after our first kiss.

I will always savor that moment in my memory, the moment when all my experience and my assumptions flew out the window and when something else, something greater than me, guided my lips to kiss a girl for the first time. What a frightening moment that was, my heart pounding and my mind racing. I couldn’t believe what was happening, and yet it was, and everything felt so right and good about it.

Things got a bit more complicated after that. Neither one of us was willing to out ourselves to anyone, especially in a Catholic highschool. We spent almost two years keeping things on the down low. It was sad that we couldn’t be open with the world about our experiences, but it also kept the intensity high, always afraid of getting caught.

I had fantasies about us getting an apartment together after highschool and living our lives happily ever after, but it was not meant to be. She went off to college and I was left behind, broken hearted and confused, wondering if my love for a girl meant that I was headed for a life a little out of the ordinary.

Lesbians love potlucks. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as a conglomeration of strangers and friends, gifting and inhaling home cooked deliciousness, whilst chatting enthusiastically about everything and nothing in particular. Potlucks glorify and celebrate the feelings of home and friendship and provide a comfortable atmosphere to get to know all sorts of people.

At first, I was embarrassed to call our new weekly get together a potluck. Even the word potluck is dripping with lesbian sentimentality I thought I’d be unable to bear. Unfortunately, there just isn’t another good name for the typical event of inviting friends to bring and share food in your home. As other people threw the word around, I started to get used to it, and have even begun to feel some ownership over the idea. The fact of the matter is that I had convinced myself that anything lesbionic somehow didn’t apply to me, cause it’s just not cool. The funny thing is that I am the utter representation of everything that is dorky about being a lesbian, and it’s high time I start to feel a little bit of that pride that surely exists outside the months of June and July. What is and isn’t cool becomes so much less important after 30 (mostly).

What is important, to me anyway, is hanging out with people I like and having fun. Although every week hasn’t been spot on (some weeks it’s just me and Agent), mostly the potlucks have been quite excellent. Every week we’ve welcomed people we’ve never met before and some we’ve known for a while. It’s always a mixed crowd of folks who wouldn’t have otherwise ever known of each other’s existence. The food has been delicious, the conversation has been entertaining, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

I guess if having a weekly potluck in my own house with my girlfriend of 7 years and our two dogs and all our random friends makes me a lesbian, then so be it. I didn’t always feel so funny about being a lesbian. I was 17 years old, innocent and eager at my first pride parade, confidently walking around with a t-shirt that read “Nobody knows I’m a lesbian”. I thought it was so funny that I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face all day long.