Desperate Circles

There are some images from Ghana that will stick with me and haunt me forever, images of Gracie lying on the floor, crying because the malaria hurts so badly. Images of John, lying in the sun with flies all over his face and with feet and hands so swollen he couldn’t walk. Images of Kelvin and Ama Foli rocking themselves to sleep as a way to provide themselves comfort because they don’t get it from any other source. Images of Happy grunting to try to communicate her needs because she abandoned words a week after entering the orphanage, also images of Happy standing in her own waste, screaming maniacally when anyone came near to clean her up. I will forever be haunted by the “orphan stare” as we called it. They all employed the orphan stare, they would be normal, happy children one moment then the next moment they would stare and be unresponsive. It was as if they were stepping out of their childhood skin and stepping into a more mature, wiser skin which could see their own tragic past, and hopeless future. Another image I will never forget is my first experience with a young boy with whom I developed a very close relationship with. His name is Kwame.

7-14-08 Day 30

“Today, we arrived late to work, so all the kids had already gone to school and there was just Happy, Gracie, John, and Lydia left at the compound. There was also a new boy, Kwame his name is. I walked into the common room and saw this new boy I’ve never seen before with cuts on his face, and cracked and bleeding feet he was walking in a circle, impervious to all those around him. While he was turning his continuous circle he wailed the same Twi phrase. I did not understand exactly what he was saying, but I could tell he was desperate. My heart was wrenched. It was painfully clear that he was calling for someone who wasn’t there – someone who used to be there, but for some unknown reason has vacated his life. I don’t know what his back story is. I don’t know if he was found on the street, found by the police, given up by his mother, or given up by the hospital after his mother died. I’ll try to find out tomorrow. I want so much to scoop up this child, take him on the plane and give him a fighting chance in this ugly world.”

That day I couldn’t get the image of Kwame walking around in circles, desperate for that one thing that was most important to him, his mother. I later learned, from the aunties, that the phrase he was repeating over and over was a plea for his mother to come for him. Kwame had been at the orphanage a good week before he would even let me approach him. We started taking him with us in the mornings with the disabled kids. First, he would come with us as long as we didn’t touch or play with him, and then he let me hold him and play with him (but only me.) Soon, his actions became the same as those of the veteran orphans. Occasionally, though, he would break down and start to cry for no apparent reason. This is when I would pick him up, put him on my back like the Ghanaian women, walk around the cement soccer field, and go sit on the big water tank. I would hold him while he cried, humming some of my favorite songs until he cried himself to sleep. As he slept I would cry, although not always on the outside. I would cry for the injustice of his situation. I would cry for Kwame and his pain. I would cry for all the other orphans who had gone through this same process of grieving and forgetting. I would cry for my own mother who does not get the love and respect she so deeply desires and deserves from her own Kwame – me.

The other day my parents and I had it out. Our discussion wasn’t over my sexuality as it usually is, but the overall theme was that my mother was feeling disrespected, put upon, and ultimately unloved by me. I put up my usual wall, picked something to stare at and fixed my eyes on it while I listened to their argument. Finally it all became too much for my mom. She broke down and cried. I stormed off saying spiteful and mean-spirited words as I walked away. After a couple minutes in my room I decided to come back (something that is new for me.) I knew it was important for me not to leave the conversation as it was. I went back downstairs and listened some more. It became starkly apparent that my mother had it fixed in her head that I don’t care about her. Suddenly, the image of Kwame walking around in desperate circles popped into my head. I broke down and bawled. I don’t cry often, but when I do it’s not pretty. My shoulders shake, my face contorts, silent sobs come out of my chest and rattle my whole body, breathing consists of sharp intakes of breath from my snotty nose and restricted throat. All of this occurs until I put up that emotional wall. It’s as if I’m telling myself “Ok, that’s enough now. You’re done crying.” One time I went through this process with Bond, and he noticed that I was putting up that wall of emotional resistance. “Don’t put up that wall. Let it out. Let it out.” He told me. I found it so difficult to not cut myself off and cry for as long as I needed to. I simply could not do it. I tried, but I couldn’t.

That haunting image of the little boy walking around in circles, desperate for comfort, desperate for someone to please say “This isn’t real, this is all a dream. You’ll wake up tomorrow to your usual Bofrut and pure water, desperate for his mother, simply would not leave my head as I grieved over my jack ass behaviors towards my mom. My metaphorical Kwame was trekking that same depserate circle in my head - desperate for comfort, desperate to show that yes, I do love her, desperate to convey how much she truly means to me, desperate to make her understand that I care A LOT. I couldn’t tell her all of this that night. I put up that emotional wall, and along with stopping the crying, it stopped my ability to communicate. Maybe I’ll give her this post. I don’t know. Maybe I can show her how much she means to me through my actions. I don’t know.

A skiddish Kwame on the first day he let me hold him.

A metaphor for something, I'm sure...

Once upon a time there lived a boy who goes by the name of Raymond. Raymond, was a sweet, charming and charismatic boy. “You’re the best boy in the whole wide world. I will love you forever. One day you will grow up to do great things.” His mother told him this every day. Since Raymond was a good little boy he believed everything his mother told him. “I will, momma, I’m going to grow up and do great things.”

Raymond had lots of friends who also thought he was a pretty cool kid. He never had to worry about whether or not he would have friends to play with at recess. All the boys wanted to be just like Raymond, and all the girls wanted to be close to Raymond. “Walk home with me?” Suzie asked.

“I like your coat.” Said Tommy, “My mom is going to get me one just like it tomorrow.”

“George and I rock paper and scissored and I won, so I get to sit by you at lunch today.” Charlie told Raymond.

One day at school a new kid arrived. His name was Michael, and he was the talk of the school.

“Did you see his back pack? It had Diego on it!” Walter said.

“I heard that his mom packs him two Go-gurts in his lunch every day. I wish my mom would pack two Go-gurts. All I get are these lousy fruit roll-ups.” commented Suzie.

Now, Raymond loved Go-gurts, but his mom refused to buy them. Raymond decided that he needed to become Michael’s best friend so that he could have one of Michael’s go-gurts during lunch.

Raymond caught up with Michael on the way home from school. “Hey Michael, wanna come over to my house? I got the new Bolt game on Xbox 360 and its super cool.” Raymond said.

“Sure, I love Bolt.” Replied Michael.

They played Xbox until Raymond’s mom said it was time for Michael to go home. “Michael, you should sit by me tomorrow at lunch.” Suggested Raymond.

“Ok, thanks for playing with me. I’m glad I have a friend in this new town,” replied Michael.
Raymond knew that Go-gurt was as good as his. You see, Raymond understood people very well. He knew what to say and when to say it. He always got what he wanted.

The next day at the lunch table Michael and Raymond sat by each other. “Oh man, I love Go-gurt.” Raymond informed Michael.

“Me too, they’re my favorite. My mom always packs me two. Since we’re friends you can have one.”

“Oh boy, Thanks!”

So, Raymond took Michael’s favorite snack that day, without considering how much Michael loved his Go-gurts. Raymond continued to share his extra Go-gurt with Michael with the hopes that Raymond would continue to be his friend.

Raymond got sick of Go-gurts after a while, and decided that Michael wasn’t as fun to play with anymore. Instead of everyday, Raymond sat with Michael every other day, then only on Wednesdays, and finally he never sat by Michael again.

Michael felt so bad. He felt like he had done something, or said something to make Raymond not want to sit with him anymore. If only I didn’t show him that scab on my elbow, then he would still be my friend, Michael thought.

A couple weeks later, a new kid arrived at the school, his name was Harold. “Did you see his shoes?” Asked Suzie. “They are real live Air Jordans!”

“I heard his mom packs him a package of s’mores Poptarts every day for lunch.” Announced Ben.

Raymond LOVED poptarts and a package carries two, so he decided that he would become friends with Harold so that he could enjoy his favorite treat every day at lunch time.

This time it was easier for Raymond to become very best friends with Harold, and Harold loved having a new friend. Harold shared his poptart with Raymond every day, but Raymond soon got sick of poptarts. “I don’t want to be your friend anymore, you bug me.” Raymond told Harold.
Harold felt so bad. He felt like he had done something, or said something to make Raymond not want to sit with him anymore. If only I hadn’t told him about my sister’s bra, then he would still be my friend, Harold thought.

There was soon another new kid at the school named Brad, and he had two Fruit by the Foots in his lunch every day. Fruit by the Foot just so happened to be Raymond’s favorite snack at the moment, so he befriended Brad, then got sick of Fruit by the Foot, and stopped being Brad’s friend.

Brad felt so bad. He felt like he had done something, or said something to make Raymond not want to sit with him anymore. If only I hadn’t farted really loud that one day he would still be my friend, Brad thought.

All these kids grew up. Michael, Harold, and Brad had each shared their favorite thing with Raymond, and they had all been dumped and ignored when Raymond was done using what they had to offer, but somehow this made them all stronger. Michael grew up to be a famous R&B Singer. Harold grew up and became a doctor. Brad grew up to be a very successful lawyer. However, Raymond was too busy cycling through best friends to ever gain the depth and discipline of his former best friends. He ended up alone, sad and bitter. If only I had a real best friend, thought Raymond as he kicks three cats off his rat infested easy chair. With a beer balanced on his large belly, he yells out answers to the questions on Jeopardy (never the right answer), and scratches his bald head when his balls need a break.

If only, if only he had been a true friend,
maybe he wouldn’t be so gross in the end.

Therapy with Time and Budget Constraints

I’m feeling really really wound up and stressed. I feel mentally, emotionally, and physically overwhelmed. In an attempt to unwind myself so that I can calm down and focus on what I need to focus on I’m going to write. I don’t know what about yet, but I’ll see where it takes me. As everything around me shifts and changes I find myself relying on my past summer’s experience as a stable reminder of true happiness. It’s very strange to me the profound impact these little kids had on my life. They taught me things that I needed to learn. I miss them and find myself thinking back on the experiences, both happy and sad. Some of these memories bring a tear to my eye. Others make me laugh out loud in the most awkward settings. I’ll be sitting in Biology when my professor mentions something about a fish. The word fish triggers a memory about Ama Foli. School has been released and we’ve already changed the kids into their play clothes. Ama Foli, who is 2 or 3 years old, has a unique fashion sense and has selected a poofy brown dress with lots of lace and frills which is much too big for her.
We’re sitting in the shade of a giant tree in the middle of the orphanage compound watching some of the older orphans playing soccer, running up and down the cement “field” in their bare feet kicking the rock hard ball. Sometimes they don’t have a soccer ball so they use whatever else they can find – a plastic toy, a basketball, a shoe, anything that they can kick. Ama Foli is on my lap and singing one of her infamous songs and bouncing along to her own rhythm. I look at her and suck my cheeks in, making a face resembling that of a fish. She stops her song, pauses, and sucks in her cheeks. She can’t suck them in as far as I can so she kind of just looks goofy. She giggles at the facial expression then grabs my face and pushes my cheeks back in and giggles some more. Looks like we’ve discovered a new game, I raise my eyebrows and skew my upper and lower lip in opposite directions. Ama Foli tries to copy, then giggles and giggles at her failure.
Later that night we are sitting at the edge of the cement soccer field with our legs dangling into the deep gutter, I lay back and Tsulee comes and lies on my stomach. I hum Nora Jones’s “Sunrise” to him and he doesn’t seem to mind that, rarely, do the right notes come from my lips. The gentle vibrations coming from my chest to his head seem to soothe him and make him tired. As Tsulee and I are sharing this moment, Ama Foli deviously sneaks up and stands right behind my head. Without any warning she plops her naked butt onto my face. I pop up, waking up poor Tsulee and yell “AMA FOLI! What are you doing?!” She runs away laughing maniacally at her little prank.
Tsulee and I resume our position and I resume humming starting a new song -“Bubbly Toes.” I can feel Tsulee’s breathing become long and shallow, and I start to feel myself drift off too. Ama Foli once again creeps up behind me and plops her naked butt right onto my face. I jump up, waking up Tsulee for a second time, and chase Ama Foli. We do a lap around the soccer “field” when I finally catch her, flip her onto my shoulder, and tickle her until she’s hoarse from laughing so hard.
Wow, it’s crazy how some organized and thoughtful reflection can change a mood. I feel a lot more calm and ready for the rest of the day.

Pain yet Healing

I did it. I finally saw and talked to Bond. I’m having a hard time coming up with the words to assign to the feelings I’m feeling now that I’ve done it. I feel like I’m a much different person than I was when I was dating him. We used to fit together seamlessly: physically, mentally, and emotionally. Our every action was in synch. We flowed; we had that way of communicating without talking, being intimate without touching, a way of dancing without moving. This is no longer true. It is like those toys infants play with where you have to push the shape into its corresponding slot. I used to be a triangle but now I’m a square and that square won’t fit into the triangle slot.

Out of place.

We’re both great shapes with sides, angles and points, we just don’t share the same sides, angles and points. My shape is meant to enter a different corresponding slot, and I now realize and accept that.

We could still read each other. We have enough history and familiarity to still possess that. During a lull in the conversation my leg started to bounce, my mouth set firm and I looked over his shoulder, out the window, focusing on nothing in particular.

“What are you thinking? You look like you’re thinking.” he says to me.

“I-I don’t know. It’s like umm like…I don’t know. I feel….different. I don’t feel awkward. I don’t feel like I expected to feel. I don’t know…. It’s weird.” My words stumble out of my mouth like Amy Winehouse exiting a pub at 2 in the afternoon. I couldn’t believe I finally had him there in front of me. The opportunity to pick his brain and ask all my burning questions was there, but all I wanted to do was sit in a familiar silence.

We joked, we caught up, we laughed and there was silence. Strange silence. Welcome silence. Understanding silence. Comfortable silence.

Healing took place, and I hope it was mutual. I can’t speak for him, and I honestly don’t know what his true emotions are regarding all of this. But, as for me, I feel a lot better. I feel like I can be me 100% independent of him and the ideas I’ve formed of him. It has been a long and strange journey as witnessed by the posts littered throughout this blog, but I’m really feeling like I have some tangible closure to the journey. Am I glad I went to dinner with him? Yes. Are my feelings mixed? Yes. Do I still love him? Yes, but not the same. Maybe I love the memory of him. Do I fear alienating him? Yes. Was I genuine in everything I said? Yes.

Strange is the only way I can think of to describe it. Familiar yet unfamiliar. Attractive yet unattractive. Weird yet normal. Pain yet healing. Wrong yet right.

Snakes Don't Have Ears

I’ve found myself coming to a strange realization as of late. I am intrigued by people who do not fit our collective ideas of beauty. “Ugly people.” I don’t mean that in a condescending or pretentious way. I’m not like a zoologist observing a new species of unattractive beetle, or flightless bird. I am genuinely more interested in having a conversation with someone who is ugly than someone who is beautiful. I’ve found that, especially if the person knows they’re unattractive, there is nothing superficial about them. There is a certain depth to an ugly person that you will not find in a beautiful person. Take Chet from The Real World: Brooklyn for example. He dresses well (too well), has a symmetrical face, and a strong build. And with a name like Chet, he is the perfect candidate for an MTV reality show. I have absolutely no desire to be friends with him. Nothing about him would draw my attention towards him if I saw him at school, in a restaurant, or at Starbuck’s. I imagine a conversation with him would consist of a brief outline of the latest sporting event, an awkward conversation about girls (I think he’s as gay as anyone reading this blog), a short briefing of his daily gym routine and a glowing review of his latest muscle enhancement supplement. I know that anyone who knows they are not MTV material would never have a conversation like this.

I’ll use my latest “team meeting” from work as an example. I walked into the room where the meeting was taking place and a slightly obese girl with 2 chins and a deep voice was already waist deep in a story involving her best friend and that best friend’s boyfriend, who apparently has no respect for privacy. Speaking to the large man with a closely shaved mohawk she wagged her finger and said, “I told her ‘girl, you cannot let him do that. He’s acting like a girl; he’s being a little bitch. I’m the bitch here. I can be a real bitch. Vindictive Vickie, that’s what I am.’” A strange guttural noise busted out of her gut, I guess it was a laugh. Her laughed matched her personality and appearance, it was booming and punctuated by a loud and distinct snort. I kid you not.

“Vindictive Vickie,” she said. “That’s a good one!”

Then, sitting next to “Vindictive Vickie” was a red haired flamer who picked up a candy cane from the pile in the middle and declared in an animated voice, “I could thuck on thith all day.” His provocative statement made me choke on my own miniature candy cane. I regained my composure and whipped out my handy dandy Moleskine notebook I take everywhere with me, and scribbled out “I could thuck on thith all day.” And “Vindictive Vickie” These were little morsels of comedy which needed to be documented. We then were forced by the person running the meeting to go around and share a “fun fact” about ourselves. I opted to go first and said my first words of the meeting: “I have a fun fact, snakes don’t have ears.” My “fun fact” was met with blank stares and a further explanation as to why snakes don’t have ears from Vindictive Vickie.

We then went around the room with The Flamer divulging his “fun fact.”“I may have red hair,” He said with a snap of his wrist. “But, I am a quarter hithpanic.”

In my mind I retorted, so what you’re saying is your ethnicity matches neither the drapes nor the carpet?

We then moved onto the large man with the closely shaved Mohawk and he proceeded to unfold a story with unforgettable detail about the time he “matrix-style” dodged feces projected from an elderly woman’s ass. Gross, right? Wrong. It was fascinating.

You simply do not get these types of conversations from beautiful people. These “ugly people’s” stories were vivid, imaginative, and gross. I loved every minute of it. I left the meeting wanting to know everything about these people. I wanted to know about their parents, their friends, their passions, their likes, their dislikes, and their respective STI’s. They were beautiful to me. They had depth and personality. These were people I could see myself sitting down at Starbuck’s and just listening to. How does one go about doing that? “Hey, do you want to go to Starbuck’s? You can tell me more about the time you dodged the old woman’s excrement.” I guess with “ugly people” that’s as good as any invitation.

GO! GO! GO!

I had a very productive break. I cleaned my car and my room (events which only happen on the very rarest of occasions.) I took my first trip to New York to visit my sister, I read 3 books (Holidays on Ice, When You’re Engulfed in Flames, and Possible Side Effects,) I started a new job, I wrote 20 lesson plans for that job, and I wrote in my journal everyday, which is really what this blog is, an edited and condensed version of my journal. Writing in my journal more was A New Year resolution of sorts; I really hate New Year Resolutions. Once you've put it out to the universe that this is what you want to accomplish for the year, you are pretty much guaranteed that you will absolutely, unequivocally will not accomplish it.
Anyway, my break is over, and it's back to "adult life" at a break neck speed. I'm wondering if I've bitten off more than I can chew. I'm working 2 jobs, a full school schedule and a volunteer job which is really like another part time job, just with no pay. I go to work 6 days a week, and school 5 days a week. I literally wake up, go to school, go to work, go to my other job or back to school, and then get home and go to bed. When I’m not in class or at work I’m planning next week’s book club activity, preparing things for the new job, reading for my next class, or trying to squeeze in a meal. I can’t eat breakfast because it makes me sick. I sometimes have time for lunch, but that requires me to go out and spend money on it, and if I eat when I get home I usually can’t sleep or have psychedelic dreams as a result of eating so late. I’ve adopted a 1 meal a day and lots of coffee schedule, and I’m not really sure that’s too healthy. This schedule really has no impacts on my social life because that would require me to have a social life. Strangely, I’m perfectly content. The intense schedule provides me with a comforting sense of accomplishment and productivity, and all the different activities are sure to provide some great and entertaining stories.

I'm in Need of a Good Pair of Balls

When I moved out of my house shortly after my family discovering my sexuality, I felt like I broke up with them. I treated it the same way I do with romantic break ups; I cut off contact and made myself hard to reach. I don’t know why I do this, but I do. I hadn’t seen or talked to my mom for a couple of weeks. She had been e-mailing me begging for a response, but I wasn’t e-mailing back. I was stubborn and silent, a dangerous combination. I finally decided to respond to her desperate e-mails . I’m much better at communicating through writing. I can think of what I want to say and formulate an acceptable way to say it. If it’s in person or on the phone I usually just blurt out the first thing that pops into my head, and then insert my foot into my mouth. “My dog died.” Someone might say to me.

“What did you do with the body? Did you bury it? Is there a headstone? How deep did you dig the hole? Did you touch the body with your bare hands after it died? Did you wash your hands? Shit, where's my purell.” would be my initial spoken response, but if I had a moment to write down a reasonable response I might say “Wow! That’s awful! Is there anything I can do for you? I scoop a mean bowl of ice cream!” Writing it down allows me to see what I am saying and then make a few edits as needed.

I e-mailed an appropriately worded e-mail to my mom letting her know that I’m still alive and that I do love her and the rest of the family. She wrote back and we exchanged a few e-mails. Eventually we set up a lunch date.

As the time came for her to pick me up approached I became increasingly more nervous. I paced the living room, walked in and out of the kitchen, walked up and down the stairs and checked my face and hair multiple times. The nerves created a strange itch, an itch that could only be scratched by chewing my fingernails to oblivion. I had decided that I should probably shower (a habit which I had fallen out of since moving out.)

I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want her to see me. I didn’t want to make her cry, and I didn’t want cry. There was a constant tear in her eye during that time. Every time my sister called to enlighten me as to what level of assholeness I had achieved so far, I could hear my mom crying in the background.

Her big red SUV finally pulled into the drive way and my nerves climaxed. We ended up going to a restaurant not too far away and proceeded to have a series of awkward conversations about the weather, how I’m doing and what I planned to do about school and a job. I could feel the restraint it took for her not to yell and scream at me, then lock me in the car and drive me to Wyoming to live with my grandparents, away from all the “sin” I was immersed in.

After the series of tactful conversation and tasteless food, she drove me back to where I was staying and gave me a hug. Her hug was the type of hug you give someone when they’re dying or moving to a foreign country.

A desperate hug.

I left the car and my mother, and went into the house where I continued to watch her through the blinds. I watched for 10 minutes while she sat in her car with her head on the steering wheel and her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. After what seemed like an eternity she lifted her head, wiped her swollen eyes, put on her sunglasses and drove away leaving me at the window with matching swollen eyes and shaking shoulders. Like mother like gay son, right?

I imagine, with exception to the tears, this is how my first friendly lunch, coffee/hot chocolate or whatever with Bond will go. Whether that is next week, next month or next year I’ll be a nervous wreck, pacing, changing my clothes, fixing my hair, and chewing my nails. The conversation will be awkward, at least at the beginning. Then I’ll be left to reflect on the occasion kicking myself for the things I said, and kicking myself even harder for the things I didn’t say.

My natural urge is to just shut completely down, and never allow a friendly lunch, coffee/hot chocolate or whatever, happen. But, that is no longer the person I want to be. I don’t want to be that beautiful island that is inaccessible because all the bridges have collapsed and burned. I don’t want to be that shut-in bachelor who sits inside all day and makes inappropriate pottery because he was too damn stubborn to reach out and rekindle a friendship. I don’t want to be that guy who doesn’t see flowers, trees, and mountains, but instead sees the shadows they cast. I guess what I’m trying to say is I want to be positive, and I’m feeling like that starts with a friendly lunch, coffee/hot chocolate or whatever. I just lack the social skills and balls to put out that inviting hand. Any suggestions?

Positive News

At the orphanage in Ghana I worked at there were a few kids I knew to be HIV+ (they don’t test every child that enters the orphanage, they only test the kids if they get really sick and have to go to the hospital.) I played and interacted with the HIV+ kids just the same as the others. I changed their diapers, got slobbered on, spit on and was subjected to ALL forms of bodily fluids. Now that I’ve been back 3 months I decided that it would be responsible of me to get tested for HIV. Apparently you have to wait 3 months since you participated in “risky activity” before they can get an accurate test. I researched HIV testing locations and made my friend, Fannie, tag along; he was due for a test anyways. Off we went to get swabbed and find out how heavily medicated our futures may be. We arrived at the Utah AIDS foundation and went down to the basement where they do the tests. Seriously? A basement? How Hollywood is that? Were my first thoughts.

While waiting for my turn to be swabbed, they gave me a clipboard with forms to fill out. I think I should be in charge of writing the questions on those forms. People are willing to sit down and check a box telling you their deepest darkest secrets, and that needs to be taken advantage of. I’d start out with the basics like:
1. In the past year have you participated in anal sex?
2. In the past year have you shared needles?
3. In the past year have you had sexual contact with someone you know to be HIV positive?

And then move to some more exciting questions like:

4. In the past year have you dressed in leather, assless chaps and been whipped by a man who insists on you calling him daddy?
5. In the past year have you gone to Gossip (the local gay club) and danced in the cage with the guy who has a sock in his briefs.
6. In the past year have you been in a committed relationship with a wonderful man who buys you everything you want and treats you like the king that you are, only to find out that he is a nymphomaniac and cannot function without being with at least 10 partners a night?

As it comes to my turn to be swabbed I feel a little sensation in my chest. Was that nervousness? Fear? Anticipation? I dunno, but I didn’t expect to feel it that’s for sure. A charming older man gives me a stick. “Swab in between your gums and your lips.” He tells me.

“That’s it?” I reply.

“Yup, just follow Patti up the stairs into the waiting room and your results will be ready in about 20 minutes.”

I follow Patti and get to a room with couches along 3 sides of the wall and a very small T.V. in the corner. There are about 5 other people waiting to hear their fates. Nobody makes eye contact or conversation. We all just sit, tweedle our thumbs and anticipate the news we’re about to get. There are some interesting characters waiting in the room with me.

I like to imagine the back stories of people I’ve never met. I’ll do it as I’m riding the train to school, while I’m in a meeting at work, or while I’m sitting in class. These people on the couches provided me with the best back stories. The girl who asked me for a pen as she walked in was probably the most interesting. She was Hispanic and had on incredibly tight jeans, they looked like they had been painted on. She also wore furry boots and her eyes were caked with so much make-up that I had to squash the intense urge to take my finger and press it to her face just to see how deep it would go in. The make-up made her face look like it could be molded into whatever shape you desired. In my head I molded it so that her left eye was wider than her right. I imagined that she is a single mother of 3 beautiful children, and in order to support those kids she gives massages with “happy endings” behind a Thai restaurant downtown. She’s applied for respectable jobs like a receptionist, T-mobile customer service representative or a Deseret Book sales floor girl, but no one would have her. They all were a little bit disturbed by the ratted hair, acrylic nails, tight jeans, and Plaster of Paris make up. This isn’t a judgment on her character I’m sure she’s a very nice girl. That is just the image that popped into my head when I saw her.

A young blonde girl enters the doorway and calls my number; not my name, my number. I follow her to a room where she closes the door and offers me a seat. My heart leaps as I anticipate the news she’s about to give me. After a few VERY personal questions she tells me that she does not have my test results and it will be another 10 minutes. What the hell? I’m all psychologically prepared for whatever news you’re about to give me and all you want to know is if I’ve ever exchanged sex for money? Back to the waiting couch room it is. My friend, Plaster Face, is nowhere to be found. I sit and wait for another 10 minutes, flipping through the Details magazine that I found on the table. Finally, a short girl with a bob cut calls my number. She takes me back to a room and we both sit down. She looks at me very seriously and tells me “I have some positive news for you.” She tells me breaking her serious look and giggling at her own crappy joke. “Your results came back as negative; you are free to go now.” That’s it? No plaque declaring my negative status to the world? No certificate of cleanliness? No button with a large negative sign and the words “Negative, it’s a positive thing” written along the edges of the button? No t-shirt saying “HIV? Not for me!” Oh well, I guess peace of mind will have to suffice.

Yes, I did go to public school. Why do you ask?

I had a very embarrassing moment yesterday at a job I just started this week. I was sitting down helping a 4th grader with his math homework. While I did get an A last semester in my math class, that was with the help of a calculator and given formulas. Math is my absolute worst subject. I hate math, and in return it hates me. Our hate is parallel to the hate between Israel and Palestine, it has existed for as long as anyone can remember, and there is no possible resolution in sight.
I’m trying to help this kid with his math which was multiplication; two digit numbers multiplied by two digit numbers. Intricate stuff, I know. I attempted to explain how he needed to set up the problem in order to find the answer. “Times this number and this number, now below it write a zero and times this number by this number. Now add it.” I told him. “Well, that doesn’t look right. Ok, try this…” I gave him a new set of directions and still came up with the wrong answer. I was getting frustrated. It’s no surprise that I never really learned how to do math when I was in the 4th grade. I was drawing penises in my notebook while the teacher was teaching this concept. I gave him different directions for the problem. “That still doesn’t look right.” I announced. The paper was smudged with eraser marks and his face was contorted with frustration.
“You lied to me!” He exclaimed. Right then and there I knew that I had lost any trust this child had in me. I was no longer a big person to look up to, but a big person who doesn’t know how to do little kid math. What a joke.
With a damaged ego I went to my other job right after and practiced my multiplication. I made those numbers my bitch. I’ll show you 4th grade math! I thought as I angrily scribbled out times tables. Thank you, public school education.

Genius Meets Moron

Sometimes, I feel dirty when I tell people I'm from Utah.