"God, Carol, you are so jealous!!!"
It's the mid-90s and my friend Jennifer has been gushing about Sarah Silverman's totally awesome set at the Comic Strip the night before. Jen and I are watching TV and we've flipped by Sarah's fleeting image in an episode of Larry Sanders. I kept flipping, much to Jennifer's dismay.
"Hey!" she squealed, "I wanted to watch that!" I protested that she'd told me Garry Shandling "looked weird" and that there were better things to watch (though there actually weren't). But she was right... I didn't want to watch because I couldn't bear to look at Sarah.
"You have to understand, Sarah has one thing that you will never have..."
Now it's the late 90s and Lucien Hold (RIP) -- the legendary booker and manager of The Comic Strip who had helped launch Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock, and multitudes of other comedic luminaries -- is peering steadily at me after my mediocre set.
I feel a sickening tremble through my legs ... I just know his next words will be "she's funny and you're not" and I can't bear to hear them.
By that point, I've known Sarah for nearly a decade and watched her slowly climb to success while my own performing career had languished in ambivalence, ineptitude, and regret. I think of Marc Maron's words, "They say it takes 10 years to make it... funny, that's the exact length of time it takes to become a bitter, self-loathing failure." (Funny that he is now enjoying unique success with WTF... but that's a topic for another post...)
I had heard of Sarah a few months before actually meeting her. I had started comedy in February 1989 and had the dubious distinction of being "the youngest female comic in New York" -- which some emcees used as my introduction, partly to mock me because I had no other notable credit.
Then Sarah showed up, also an NYU student and a full 13-months-and-one-day younger than me ... and light-years funnier. We made passing hellos at the various clubs but never talked much until the evening after an NYU comedy contest where she was clearly the funniest thing on the stage.
I found her brooding in the hall of Loeb Student Center. "But... didn't you win?" I asked.
"No," she pouted, "They disqualified me because I'm not a student right now."
I saw her most frequently at the now defunct Boston Comedy Club, where she emceed and was even then beginning to hone her sexy-gross persona. She made jokes about her dentist talking to her with her mouth open ... even while giving him a blow job. She mocked her body, its smells, sounds and physical vagaries.
"I'm a really hairy person...?" one bit went, in her signature questiony up-talk ... "Like one day, I was eating...? And I realized there was a hair ...? in my plate..? And I realized it was still attached...? to my arm..???"
Laughter, laughter. And I laughed too, even as my face burned in jealousy. Or was it envy?
You see there is a difference between envy and jealousy.
Envy is begrudging covetousness... when someone has or has achieved something you want, and you loathe and resent them for it... and it is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.
Jealousy has to do with possessiveness and is a favorite emotion of the "jealous god" Yaweh who demands his followers worship no other god, etc. etc.
But there is an overlap ... in rivalry. Jealousy falls where we feel that another has gotten what should have gone to us ... as though she and I were equals and a capricious god had unfairly rewarded her with success while I fitfully spun my wheels.
Of course this was ridiculous.
Yes, we had a few things in common -- young, sort-of-sexy female, NYU students who were drawn to stagelight and laughter -- but the similarity ended there, a fact which Lucien made abundantly clear.
In those few moments, all of this shot through my mind as I prepared myself for the rest of Lucien's sentence... what, indeed, was it that she had that I didn't??
"She," he began, clearing his throat, "is a perpetual child. She is pretty and sexy and the men like that, but because she can be childlike, the women aren't threatened by it. So everyone likes her. She can make jokes about farting and, because of this persona, it's softened and funny.
"You, on the other hand ... well, you're not that. You have something too, you're sexy too, but it's intimidating, you have to be careful about alienating the audience. Once the women hate you, you're done..." (Truer words were never spoken, by the way.) He continued: "You don't know who you are up there. You have presence, but it's not focused. Keep at it though."
I thanked him, still shaking a little, but comforted by his feedback. It was not what my ego wanted to hear, but I knew he was absolutely right. I hung out at the Strip for maybe an hour after... I don't know, it was still a blur ... and there was Sarah.
It had been a few years since I'd seen her, but she recognized me and said hi and asked how I was doing. I told her I'd technically quit comedy a few years before and had joined a theater company, though I did a few minutes at the pre-show earlier in the evening. I told her I'd enjoyed her work on Larry Sanders and Saturday Night Live ...
"Why did you leave SNL, anyway?"
"Ummm... because they fired me..??"
My jaw dropped. I had no idea... of course now it is somewhat legend that she was released callously via a fax to her manager, but I had always imagined she'd left them for greener pastures. "I'm so sorry!" I spluttered..
"Oh, it's OK," she sighed, "It's a lousy place to work. Especially for women. They were awful to me. Like anything I wrote that was good they wouldn't let me do, and then they kept giving me bits that weren't right for me. I'm better off."
I still stared at her, dumbfounded. All those years of searing envy pooled miserably at my feet. What an ass I had been.
"God," I mumbled, "I had no idea." She shrugged in such perfect matter-of-fact humility. Every angry, resentful impulse I'd felt now begged for absolution.
I couldn't stop myself from blurting out: "I ... I have to tell you ... for so many years, it's been so hard for me. I mean, I've been so jealous of you. It's stupid, I know ... but you're doing so well, and I'm just... well, I'm nowhere."
She regarded me calmly for a measured moment and said:
"But, Carol ... you finished college."
I was shocked ... at a complete loss for words (which is rare, as those of you who know me are well aware).
Of all the things she could have done or said ... she said that. She could have brushed me off, mocked me for my impromptu confession, made light of it, walked away... any of a googleplex of typical comedian reactions.
But she chose to say that.
It had never occurred to me that she had dropped out. Yes, I recalled what she'd said at Loeb after the comedy contest, but it didn't make a dent in me. Her problems weren't real to me; in many ways, she wasn't real to me -- she was the walking embodiment of everything I could never be, but felt I should be able to be.
I had never thought about her struggles, her disappointments, her regrets. And as if that incredibly compassionate sentence weren't enough to make me see a nimbus form around her head, she said:
"I mean, yeah, I'm doing OK in comedy now. But back then, I mean, what else was there for me to do?"
I think we may have chatted a bit after that, but I don't remember. I was so overwhelmed -- humbled, really -- by her kindness. "Holy crap," I thought, "This is a deeply good human being ... and she's funny. What a fucking amazing combination!"
And I felt an appreciation for what had been her very unique path.
And in that moment I began to sense that my own path would be unique and rewarding, even if it seemed pretty fucking opaque at that moment. (Indeed, if you had told me then that my creative path would involve bellydancing in Japan and Taiwan I would have asked what drugs you were on -- and I would have asked you to share!!)
I had spent so much energy looking (or not wanting to look) at what she was doing, envying what seemed to be her stellar path, that I hardly cast an eye to my own footfalls. No wonder I was stumbling.
Even then, I began to sense I would never really be a stand-up comic. I could grab a mic and make people laugh (sometimes), but it was not where my heart was. The problem was I didn't know what my heart was looking for .. because I didn't know my heart.
Seething with so much anger, resentment, jealousy, envy -- I could barely admit to myself that I was feeling these things because I was ashamed of it. But by coming clean to her, I stopped denying them. I admitted who I was, ugly as it was ... and she didn't shame me for it, and so I didn't either.
I started to feel... whole. And so the negative part of those feelings dissipated in an instant and gave me a glimpse of who I was -- good and bad -- and who I might become.
So that was my first step: Just as she had followed her nose and enjoyed her opportunities as they arose, I realized that I should do the same: Don't be fixated on being or becoming a particular thing ... just take on what presents itself to me and see whether or not I enjoy it. If I enjoy it, then keep on keeping on. If not, then go on to the next thing.
And most importantly, I had to learn to show myself the kind of compassion she had shown me, be patient, take things step by step -- let things come to me, and appreciate all of it, regardless of whether it looks like what I think I want.
And always, always, lead with my heart.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Thoughts On Emotion: Shame, Freedom and Dancing Bears
"Omigod! I just took the best picnic video ever!"
It's Saturday afternoon around 5pm and my dance partner Jaklina and I are cooling our heels with some of her friends in Central Park's Sheep Meadow. Knowing that we are bellydancers one of the hosts gave us coined hipscarves while we shook our hips to the music coming out of the boombox.
And even though we were pretty exhausted from the Dance Parade earlier that day, still in full makeup and lugging our heavy costumes around -- hers in wheeled luggage and mine in an enormous backpack -- our dancer's bodies could not resist the lure of a pulsing beat. I placed a beer bottle on my head and drew some "oohhhss" with a choo-choo shimmy-layered figure eight, and a quick knee-drop and undulating rise (i.e. drop to a more-or-less graceful squat quickly so it looks like the object will fly off your head, then start undulating and pull up like a snake).
As I did this, I noticed a girl in a black dress, dark hair and sort-of-Goth makeup videoing me. She cooed and asked if I was a dancer. I said I was and that we had just returned from the parade. She asked if she could video us again. I called Jackie over and we did a short synchronized routine for her. She thanked us and walked away.
We went to talk to one of the hosts. Several minutes later, half-Goth Girl slithers up behind him, wrapping her hand around his waist but doesn't join in the conversation. When he steps away, she says to me, "You know, your backpack is SO AWESOME! Could I video you dancing with it on?"
My skin crawled.
"Um... no, sorry. It's really heavy and I'd rather just let it be." I turned away quickly to talk to someone else and hGG disappeared.
When she left I turned to Jackie.
"Do you know what the deal with her is?"
"No... I've never met her. I don't even know who she is friends with here."
"OK. Because she just really creeped me out."
"Yeah, I know... that thing with the backpack was really weird...."
What on earth had she really wanted? What had all that videoing been about in the first place? And the gushing praise....
It put me in mind of an episode from The Sopranos -- Season 1, Episode 10, "A Hit is a Hit" -- where in therapy Tony recounts a golf outing with his doctor neighbor and his top-flight pals. He describes his youthful mockery of Jimmy Smash, a friend with a cleft palate:
So I was half-Goth Girl's dancing bear, it seems.
Perhaps she is the sort who trolls social situations, luring people into doing embarrassing or compromising acts which she can capture on video and do God-knows-what with. And she is hardly alone. One need only watch Tosh.O for ten seconds (or its sad precursor America's Funniest Home Videos) for confirmation that this is our culture's norm: We use each other for sport -- and all too often offer ourselves up for use. But why?
Attention is part of it, because attention looks and can feel an awful lot like love, even when its source is the exact opposite.
When we love a thing, we give it our full attention, we are pulled into it -- sometimes in spite of ourselves -- and can't help but want to know it, to be with it, to have it as part of our lives. This feeling of loving attention is a vital nourishment to a growing psyche; in it, we see ourselves reflected back and begin to develop a feeling of being worthy and wanted merely for being ourselves.
But if the attention is narcissistic (i.e. where the person giving the attention merely sees a part of him/herself in the other, and therefore does not really see the other person at all -- in other words, the exact opposite of love), and is doled out by inept, shallow or emotionally unavailable adults -- then desperate confusion can occur.
Not long ago, a frustrated new-parent friend commented that things were "much better now that the baby is finally old enough to start doing things that are genuinely cute, so it is much less about just caring for his needs."
I was aghast.
This is not to say parents should find every burp their little ones exude to be heartbreakingly adorable. Parenting is yucky and difficult (and although I am not one, I have the testimony of many parents that this is true) and it is hard to fault parents for craving some reward in the form of cuteness.
But I can't help but worry that, even as much as my friends love their kid, they -- like all of us -- have been reared in a culture where we are given unreasonable expectations of what it is to be a parent. And part of this expectation involves wanting entertainment value from children, which can't help but confuse a kid's perception of being loved and valued.
Can we really be surprised that we have become a reality-TV-besotted society of dancing bears and their predatory spectators.
Knowing too well my own bearish needs for attention, I tend to be hyper-vigilant for predators; but I also try to be aware of whether I am seeking attention or just having fun and expressing myself, and not to let myself be shamed out of the latter.
When a child's craving for attention is shamed enough, he or she learns to repress it. But like any repressed need or emotion, the psyche will still require an experience of attention. And so the predatory urge begins... As a child, I noticed several peers who did this -- my own sister chief among them -- who would sense in another any "childish" need for attention, then dole a mockery of "attention" to their victim.
If the victim was especially lonely or had low self-esteem (a la Jimmy Smash), he/she would lavish in the praise, only to be led down a demeaning path and dropped precipitously by his/her "admirers."
A devastating experience.
And in this way even I began to suppress myself and was even tempted to follow the predatory impulse. But I've never enjoyed the humiliation of another; it has never given me the sense of power and superiority that it seems to give others. I've found I would much rather express myself as I am and deal with the occasional raised eyebrow -- childish though I may be at times -- than to turn on the part of myself that likes to get down and boogie at a picnic.
And it seemed on Saturday that I was in the majority as others started dancing too.
Half-Goth-Girl slunk her way to a picnic blanket far from the boom box and did not emerge again.
It's Saturday afternoon around 5pm and my dance partner Jaklina and I are cooling our heels with some of her friends in Central Park's Sheep Meadow. Knowing that we are bellydancers one of the hosts gave us coined hipscarves while we shook our hips to the music coming out of the boombox.
And even though we were pretty exhausted from the Dance Parade earlier that day, still in full makeup and lugging our heavy costumes around -- hers in wheeled luggage and mine in an enormous backpack -- our dancer's bodies could not resist the lure of a pulsing beat. I placed a beer bottle on my head and drew some "oohhhss" with a choo-choo shimmy-layered figure eight, and a quick knee-drop and undulating rise (i.e. drop to a more-or-less graceful squat quickly so it looks like the object will fly off your head, then start undulating and pull up like a snake).
As I did this, I noticed a girl in a black dress, dark hair and sort-of-Goth makeup videoing me. She cooed and asked if I was a dancer. I said I was and that we had just returned from the parade. She asked if she could video us again. I called Jackie over and we did a short synchronized routine for her. She thanked us and walked away.
We went to talk to one of the hosts. Several minutes later, half-Goth Girl slithers up behind him, wrapping her hand around his waist but doesn't join in the conversation. When he steps away, she says to me, "You know, your backpack is SO AWESOME! Could I video you dancing with it on?"
My skin crawled.
"Um... no, sorry. It's really heavy and I'd rather just let it be." I turned away quickly to talk to someone else and hGG disappeared.
When she left I turned to Jackie.
"Do you know what the deal with her is?"
"No... I've never met her. I don't even know who she is friends with here."
"OK. Because she just really creeped me out."
"Yeah, I know... that thing with the backpack was really weird...."
What on earth had she really wanted? What had all that videoing been about in the first place? And the gushing praise....
It put me in mind of an episode from The Sopranos -- Season 1, Episode 10, "A Hit is a Hit" -- where in therapy Tony recounts a golf outing with his doctor neighbor and his top-flight pals. He describes his youthful mockery of Jimmy Smash, a friend with a cleft palate:
Every time he'd open his mouth, we'd piss ourselves laughing. But Jimmy didn't mind because he got to hang out with us, you know, popular crew. Although we only called him when we were bored. ..We'd say, 'Hey Jimmy, sing "Mack the Knife."' And because he wanted to hang out with us, he'd belt it right out. .. And when the laughs got old, we stopped calling him. It wasn't until years later I found out that the poor prick was going home every night and crying himself to sleep. ...
When I found out... I felt bad. But I never really understood what he felt ... to be used, you know, for somebody else's amusement, like a fucking dancing bear, till I played golf with those guys.
So I was half-Goth Girl's dancing bear, it seems.
Perhaps she is the sort who trolls social situations, luring people into doing embarrassing or compromising acts which she can capture on video and do God-knows-what with. And she is hardly alone. One need only watch Tosh.O for ten seconds (or its sad precursor America's Funniest Home Videos) for confirmation that this is our culture's norm: We use each other for sport -- and all too often offer ourselves up for use. But why?
Attention is part of it, because attention looks and can feel an awful lot like love, even when its source is the exact opposite.
When we love a thing, we give it our full attention, we are pulled into it -- sometimes in spite of ourselves -- and can't help but want to know it, to be with it, to have it as part of our lives. This feeling of loving attention is a vital nourishment to a growing psyche; in it, we see ourselves reflected back and begin to develop a feeling of being worthy and wanted merely for being ourselves.
But if the attention is narcissistic (i.e. where the person giving the attention merely sees a part of him/herself in the other, and therefore does not really see the other person at all -- in other words, the exact opposite of love), and is doled out by inept, shallow or emotionally unavailable adults -- then desperate confusion can occur.
Not long ago, a frustrated new-parent friend commented that things were "much better now that the baby is finally old enough to start doing things that are genuinely cute, so it is much less about just caring for his needs."
I was aghast.
This is not to say parents should find every burp their little ones exude to be heartbreakingly adorable. Parenting is yucky and difficult (and although I am not one, I have the testimony of many parents that this is true) and it is hard to fault parents for craving some reward in the form of cuteness.
But I can't help but worry that, even as much as my friends love their kid, they -- like all of us -- have been reared in a culture where we are given unreasonable expectations of what it is to be a parent. And part of this expectation involves wanting entertainment value from children, which can't help but confuse a kid's perception of being loved and valued.
Can we really be surprised that we have become a reality-TV-besotted society of dancing bears and their predatory spectators.
Knowing too well my own bearish needs for attention, I tend to be hyper-vigilant for predators; but I also try to be aware of whether I am seeking attention or just having fun and expressing myself, and not to let myself be shamed out of the latter.
When a child's craving for attention is shamed enough, he or she learns to repress it. But like any repressed need or emotion, the psyche will still require an experience of attention. And so the predatory urge begins... As a child, I noticed several peers who did this -- my own sister chief among them -- who would sense in another any "childish" need for attention, then dole a mockery of "attention" to their victim.
If the victim was especially lonely or had low self-esteem (a la Jimmy Smash), he/she would lavish in the praise, only to be led down a demeaning path and dropped precipitously by his/her "admirers."
A devastating experience.
And in this way even I began to suppress myself and was even tempted to follow the predatory impulse. But I've never enjoyed the humiliation of another; it has never given me the sense of power and superiority that it seems to give others. I've found I would much rather express myself as I am and deal with the occasional raised eyebrow -- childish though I may be at times -- than to turn on the part of myself that likes to get down and boogie at a picnic.
And it seemed on Saturday that I was in the majority as others started dancing too.
Half-Goth-Girl slunk her way to a picnic blanket far from the boom box and did not emerge again.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Thoughts on Emotion: Doing the Passive-Aggressive Tango
"Why you gotta get so emotional??"
It's the mid-90s and my then-manager has hauled me into Human Resources with a fabricated list of infractions.
"What?!" I spluttered, "None of that is true!" He smugly eyed the HR manager as if to say, "See what I mean?"
In his Company of Men world of unfettered machismo, any display of emotion showed weakness, inconstancy, immaturity -- a shameful array of qualities which, it seemed, he had hoped to parlay into an image of my guilt, or at the very least unsuitability for the job.
"I'm getting emotional because I care!" I shot back, "Because I am being maligned!"
Years later, I thought of this episode when our ultra-cool president became criticized for being "too cool" -- that his lack of emotional display showed indifference, and again when a former colleague broke partnership with me, claiming my "unstable emotions and strong personality [were] a huge challenge" for her to manage.
When pressed about what was meant by "unstable," she was never able to offer a satisfactory example other than, "You got upset when such-and-such happened." When I'd counter, "But such-and-such was upsetting. If you step on my foot, should I not say 'ouch'? Isn't it better to get upset in the moment, deal with it, and let it go?"
No answer.
But therein lay a fundamental difference between the way I view and handle emotion, and the way she -- and alas so many others in our culture -- do (or don't).
"Emotions make life so much richer!" a new-agey friend of mine is fond of proclaiming, as though a Vulcan-like life without emotion were even possible.
"I'm like a Vulcan -- I don't get angry," my former roommate liked to declare. And indeed, he did not express anger; but his passive-aggressive behavior often made me furious -- and confused and ashamed for getting angry -- as I, too, have succumbed to our culture's dim view of emotion.
One evening, he admitted that he'd had a raging temper as a child, but when he saw how much his fury upset his mother, he decided he "wasn't doing that again!" This happened at age four.
So, he had learned to "control" his temper; yet frequently bragged about "psychologically torturing" his sister. He would, for example, smile during a serious family moment in a way that only she could see. This would infuriate her, but when she complained to the parents, he would simply shrug and say he didn't know what she was talking about.
He did not recognize that his glee betrayed not a lack of emotion, but his very emotional -- and irrational -- need to control emotions. (And the fictional Vulcans, by the way, do not lack emotion; rather they exert tremendous control over them, fearing their warlike tendencies -- as though the fear that drives the need to suppress emotion weren't itself an emotion.)
It took nearly two years for me to figure out that his very subtle behaviors, were calculated (perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not) to make me angry, so that he could experience anger vicariously without the compromising shame of losing control -- which in his world, like my former manager -- was not acceptable.
So he got a double-boon: anger gets expressed for him, and he gets to feel superior to the person expressing it: Me.
And his behavior was not overtly outrageous ... it was just out-of-sych enough to get my attention (as with his sister) and make me question myself. Wash, rinse, repeat enough times, it indeed became enough to drive me batty.
For example, he'd shuffle around loudly outside the bathroom door after I was done bathing; he wouldn't knock to actually declare he needed the toilet (that would leave him vulnerable to my refusal, and he couldn't have that), he would just make his presence known. Me, being a sympathetic, conscientious sort would finally open the door and say, "Do you need to get in here?" To which he'd reply, "Only if you're done." Regardless of my state, I would always turn the bathroom over to him. But after a while, I finally learned to shut the door in his face, or just not open it -- his kidneys be damned -- but even that was emotionally distressing for me and left me feeling nauseous and hurting. I am not good at being cold.
Other weird things: I'd come home to find him watching TV in the dark and, asking why, would be told, "Well, it's your lamp" sending me through a flutter of emotions from surprise to frustration to incomprehension and end up feeling insulted -- like, "Is something wrong with my lamp that makes you not want to use it?"
I mean... if someone puts a lamp in a living room, it means it's supposed to be used, right?
That is the assumption I made, and which I suppose many in my shoes would make; and it is these sorts of assumptions that the skilled passive-aggressive routinely violates, leaving the violated person stunned (and not even sure why he/she is feeling stunned), upset and even angry. Then the PA goes, "What's the matter with you? Are you crazy or something?"
I would find myself eagerly urging him to accept even the smallest tokens of social interaction. It was like... imagine inviting a friend to dinner, but the friend keeps refusing to eat until finally you find yourself begging him to eat, so then he can act like he is doing you a favor by eating your food!! And in the meantime, you have gotten too upset to enjoy your own meal. And he says, "What's the matter? Why aren't you eating??"
It's the mid-90s and my then-manager has hauled me into Human Resources with a fabricated list of infractions.
"What?!" I spluttered, "None of that is true!" He smugly eyed the HR manager as if to say, "See what I mean?"
In his Company of Men world of unfettered machismo, any display of emotion showed weakness, inconstancy, immaturity -- a shameful array of qualities which, it seemed, he had hoped to parlay into an image of my guilt, or at the very least unsuitability for the job.
"I'm getting emotional because I care!" I shot back, "Because I am being maligned!"
Years later, I thought of this episode when our ultra-cool president became criticized for being "too cool" -- that his lack of emotional display showed indifference, and again when a former colleague broke partnership with me, claiming my "unstable emotions and strong personality [were] a huge challenge" for her to manage.
When pressed about what was meant by "unstable," she was never able to offer a satisfactory example other than, "You got upset when such-and-such happened." When I'd counter, "But such-and-such was upsetting. If you step on my foot, should I not say 'ouch'? Isn't it better to get upset in the moment, deal with it, and let it go?"
No answer.
But therein lay a fundamental difference between the way I view and handle emotion, and the way she -- and alas so many others in our culture -- do (or don't).
"Emotions make life so much richer!" a new-agey friend of mine is fond of proclaiming, as though a Vulcan-like life without emotion were even possible.
"I'm like a Vulcan -- I don't get angry," my former roommate liked to declare. And indeed, he did not express anger; but his passive-aggressive behavior often made me furious -- and confused and ashamed for getting angry -- as I, too, have succumbed to our culture's dim view of emotion.
One evening, he admitted that he'd had a raging temper as a child, but when he saw how much his fury upset his mother, he decided he "wasn't doing that again!" This happened at age four.
So, he had learned to "control" his temper; yet frequently bragged about "psychologically torturing" his sister. He would, for example, smile during a serious family moment in a way that only she could see. This would infuriate her, but when she complained to the parents, he would simply shrug and say he didn't know what she was talking about.
He did not recognize that his glee betrayed not a lack of emotion, but his very emotional -- and irrational -- need to control emotions. (And the fictional Vulcans, by the way, do not lack emotion; rather they exert tremendous control over them, fearing their warlike tendencies -- as though the fear that drives the need to suppress emotion weren't itself an emotion.)
It took nearly two years for me to figure out that his very subtle behaviors, were calculated (perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not) to make me angry, so that he could experience anger vicariously without the compromising shame of losing control -- which in his world, like my former manager -- was not acceptable.
So he got a double-boon: anger gets expressed for him, and he gets to feel superior to the person expressing it: Me.
And his behavior was not overtly outrageous ... it was just out-of-sych enough to get my attention (as with his sister) and make me question myself. Wash, rinse, repeat enough times, it indeed became enough to drive me batty.
For example, he'd shuffle around loudly outside the bathroom door after I was done bathing; he wouldn't knock to actually declare he needed the toilet (that would leave him vulnerable to my refusal, and he couldn't have that), he would just make his presence known. Me, being a sympathetic, conscientious sort would finally open the door and say, "Do you need to get in here?" To which he'd reply, "Only if you're done." Regardless of my state, I would always turn the bathroom over to him. But after a while, I finally learned to shut the door in his face, or just not open it -- his kidneys be damned -- but even that was emotionally distressing for me and left me feeling nauseous and hurting. I am not good at being cold.
Other weird things: I'd come home to find him watching TV in the dark and, asking why, would be told, "Well, it's your lamp" sending me through a flutter of emotions from surprise to frustration to incomprehension and end up feeling insulted -- like, "Is something wrong with my lamp that makes you not want to use it?"
I mean... if someone puts a lamp in a living room, it means it's supposed to be used, right?
That is the assumption I made, and which I suppose many in my shoes would make; and it is these sorts of assumptions that the skilled passive-aggressive routinely violates, leaving the violated person stunned (and not even sure why he/she is feeling stunned), upset and even angry. Then the PA goes, "What's the matter with you? Are you crazy or something?"
I would find myself eagerly urging him to accept even the smallest tokens of social interaction. It was like... imagine inviting a friend to dinner, but the friend keeps refusing to eat until finally you find yourself begging him to eat, so then he can act like he is doing you a favor by eating your food!! And in the meantime, you have gotten too upset to enjoy your own meal. And he says, "What's the matter? Why aren't you eating??"
Now, sometimes these misbegotten interactions are nothing more than miscommunication, a misreading of the other's social expectations.
Like: you extend your hand, but the other does not; you smile, but the other does not; you sit down, the other remains standing. And when such interactions (or failures to interact) are innocent, the offering person has to do a bit of mental gymnastics to talk down from the expectation -- like "Hm.. why didn't he shake my hand? Perhaps he doesn't shake anyone's hand. Maybe he has Asperger's and doesn't know a handshake is expected." etc., etc. But this is exhausting -- and the skilled PA counts on this too -- because exhausting the other person is also part of controlling them.
And for the PA, it's all about control....
In a social world, reciprocation, mirroring, interaction is not only normal, it's joyful.
Think about the way children light up when they smile and you smile back at them; or they cover their eyes, you cover your eyes, and you both laugh in delight. Children express emotion naturally and enthusiastically; if they learn, however, that such expression won't be accepted, mirrored, trusted, then they learn to control... to withhold expression and even awareness of the emotion within themselves.
But emotion, for reasons I will explore in another article, is essential to being and we do great damage to ourselves and others in our attempts to control or suppress it.
And suppression does not only take the form of Vulcanesque impassivity; it can go the other direction entirely, where emotions are expressed, but not authentically. And this, I believe, is what drew me to the repeating drama with my roommate, and similar scenarios with people like my former colleague and manager, as well as a few boyfriends.
Similar to my roommate, in childhood I had come to feel ashamed and mistrustful of my authentic feelings, responses, emotions -- my authentic self, really. But as an "expressive type" the option of direct suppression was not available to me. So I have repeatedly been drawn to the complementary part of the dynamic, where my hypersensitivity to others' behavior (which, incidentally, is directly related to lacking a sense of "authentic self) has compelled me to overreact and emote my little head off. But they are not really "my" emotions, and so are "safe."
But in the end, the expression ends up being unsatisfying for both... and so it repeats and repeats and repeats.
But what is to be satisfied? I will answer that later...
Oh, by the way, I did prevail against the evil manager in the end, for whatever that is worth....
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
A Woman, A River and Two Rorschach Monks
There is a story about obsession that an erstwhile lover is fond of mistelling.
His version goes like this:
My friend recounts this tale nearly every time he is in mixed company, such is its import to him; but I have always found it to be somewhat lacking in meaningful wisdom.
Yes, I suppose it's a good thing to remind ourselves to do a kindness for others, even at our inconvenience; and that if we do so, we should accept the consequences of our actions, which the second monk did. But the first monk kind of had a point: He had his own legitimate desire to get to the event on time, and he had every right to protest the actions of the second monk, compassion be damned.
So... Is the lesson that the first monk should have spoken up sooner and had it out with the second monk right after the incident occurred? And doesn't the first monk have just as legitimate a lesson to be told: Is it necessary to go fawning over every damsel in distress? Isn't "selfishness" sometimes warranted?
After my falling out with this friend, I realized that his grasp of reality was somewhat--uh--creative, so I went searching for the real story. It goes like this:
In the real story, the youth's protracted silence makes complete sense.
I imagine his entire world being turned upside-down by the elder's actions. First he is scandalized by the latter's blithe disregard for their order's rules about touching women. Second, he is in the uncomfortable position of questioning the elder's actions. Third, he is put to wonder whether it would have been all right for him to carry the woman, and what such an action would have meant for him.
And all of these elements are perfect ingredients to any obsession, which is the human foible this parable is meant to address.
As we negotiate the urgings of our bodies, which can often contradict social dictates, we are left wrestling with the appropriateness of these urgings and (hopefully) questioning the wisdom society has handed us in telling us to deny them.
Although there are many interpretations of what this parable is trying to tell us, I read it like this:
The elder monk acted in compassion, rather than via the dictates of his religious order, which was appropriate for him. Being older, wiser and perhaps with a tamer "heyday in the blood," he was not tempted by the woman's touch. To him, she was a person in need of help, not a sexual being who would lure him from his vows.
The younger monk, perhaps having not yet internalized the wisdom of his religion, and perhaps still struggling to contain a wilder cacophony of desire within him, was only able to see the woman as a sexual object -- further evidenced by his continuous thought of her after the elder had set her down. Indeed, it probably would not have been appropriate for him to pick her up, as she might have swept him up as swiftly as the river's current.
So what is the lesson?
Know where you are in your life and act appropriately; also note where others are, and realize that what is right and appropriate for them might not be for you. And, most importantly, take note of anything that consumes your thoughts; it will surely point to some area of development that needs attention.
There are a few other nice lessons in there about compassion and following the spirit of the law rather than the letter of the law, and maybe even a thought about seeing women as people not as sex objects -- but to me, humble self-awareness is the key.
And, sadly, this quality is what my former friend so sorely lacks.
How could he then do anything other than impose his own meaning onto this story, indeed changing the story itself to do so? In his version, the lesson is more like: If someone does something you don't like, let it go.
Or, more accurately, if my friend does something you don't like, well too bad -- that's your problem. You should let it go and stop bothering him about it. (Truly, any complaint about his actions is invariably met with a sanctimonious, "You gotta let that go.")
In other words, the parable was one big Rorschach test, and through it he had told me -- indeed been telling me all along -- who he really was.
There was a hint of this (or some might say a HUGE RED FLAG) when we first began our affair at a yoga retreat a few years ago. Although we had been sleeping together much of that week, at the final night's party, while he chatted with another friend who was complaining about her difficulties meeting someone she liked on Match.com -- right in front of me -- he said, "Oh yeah... it's so hard to meet people!"
"Um.." I thought, "Have we been banging boots without meeting??"
The truth is -- we had never really met. I was never a real person to him, and perhaps he was not to me, although the reality of who he was certainly pressed itself into relief that evening. When I put my disgruntlement to him, he said, "Well, we live in different cities! Of course this won't continue."
Yes. Of course.
Of course, I realized, it was all about control. He had decided what was happening with me, who I was to him, and he would pick me up and put me down as it suited him.
(And the irony this was not lost on me: How could someone so devoted to Zen-like "freedom" and "being in the moment" be such a bleeping control freak? I have wondered if his attraction to Zen was a way to deal with his controlling nature -- again, unconsciously, because he does not see himself as controllling -- or if was just a means by which to project his control-freakiness on others, whom he frequently accused of trying to control him in a most un-Zen-like way.)
As the reality of his nature dawned on me, and also realizing that I pretty much liked him anyway as a person, we continued to be friends for the next few years -- until our falling out.
When I wrote the blog entry about that last year, I had assumed that he had pushed me away because he had begun to see someone new. But even then that didn't quite feel kosher to me. Because we had been friends with no hint of romantic connection for about two years at that point, so why should he suddenly decide to push me away so fully?
I thought about our last conversation, our brunch near where he lived.
He went on at length about how all we are is a collection of "stories," and that we can change the story as it suits us (i.e. be in complete control of our emotional state). "Like a guy cut me off on the highway, and I started to get mad," he buzzed in a near frenzy, "And I said to myself, 'I don't want to be that guy -- that guy who gets mad.' And so I decided that that was not going to be my story!" Ah yes! Problem solved. Only not really.
"Well..." I grimaced, "Um... actually, if you are cut off in traffic and you get mad... I hate to tell you ... you are that guy."
His big eyes held me steadily.
"Not that that's a bad thing..." I added, "I mean, that doesn't mean you can't change... but don't you think it's important to recognize that that's what's happening inside you, and maybe look at why rather than just trying to .. um... rewrite your experience?"
"No," he snapped, "I don't think that's necessary."
And in that moment, I believe, he turned...
In true Titanic form, the emotions I'd hit in him -- indeed a nerve that undermined essential elements of the life he had been trying to create for himself -- were so large that they were slow to turn, but turn they did.
I felt this slightly in that moment, but denied it myself. I did not want to believe that he was so incapable of his own distress, or that he could reject me so completely for pointing out an inconvenient truth.
But perhaps we cling to denial -- even its various self-helpy masks -- for reasons that are often deep beyond our fathoming.
What is most sad here, though, is that I did try to offer a compromise between his view of "changing the story" and my view of accepting the story.
Consistent with Tony Schwartz' recent HuffPo article about this, we must feel free to ask the question, and know that we are not constrained by the answer. He writes:
If we let ourselves know our triggers, our obsessions and compulsions, then we acknowledge what we wish to be, and whom we fear we might be -- and so are closer to knowing who we are. And it is only from the standpoint of knowing who we are that we can grow and perhaps change "the story" of what we might be.
But this is a complicated, humbling process which can't be accomplished with the swift finality of a delete key.
His version goes like this:
Two Buddhist monks are on their way to an important event. They come upon a woman standing at the bank of a river who asks if they can help her across. The first monk protests that doing this will make them late, but the second sweeps her up anyway, carries her across, and returns to the first monk. They continue on their way. After an hour or so, the first monk explodes, "Why did you help that woman!? Now we are very late and will be reprimanded!" The second monk responds, "I put her down an hour ago; why are you still carrying her?"
My friend recounts this tale nearly every time he is in mixed company, such is its import to him; but I have always found it to be somewhat lacking in meaningful wisdom.
Yes, I suppose it's a good thing to remind ourselves to do a kindness for others, even at our inconvenience; and that if we do so, we should accept the consequences of our actions, which the second monk did. But the first monk kind of had a point: He had his own legitimate desire to get to the event on time, and he had every right to protest the actions of the second monk, compassion be damned.
So... Is the lesson that the first monk should have spoken up sooner and had it out with the second monk right after the incident occurred? And doesn't the first monk have just as legitimate a lesson to be told: Is it necessary to go fawning over every damsel in distress? Isn't "selfishness" sometimes warranted?
After my falling out with this friend, I realized that his grasp of reality was somewhat--uh--creative, so I went searching for the real story. It goes like this:
Two monks, going to a neighbouring monastery, walked side by side in silence. They arrived at a river they had to cross. That season, waters were higher than usual. On the bank, a young woman was hesitating and asked the younger of the two monks for help. He exclaimed, 'Don't you see that I am a monk, that I took a vow of chastity?'As it turns out, there are many alternate versions, but most of them have these key elements in common which my friend conveniently omits: (1) The first monk is younger, the second is older; (2) the woman is young and likely attractive; and (most importantly) (3) the first monk protests that they should not help the woman because it is against their vows of chastity to ever touch a woman. (My friend fabricated the issue of their being late; this does not exist in any version and I believe my friend invented it to more easily impose (albeit unconsciously) his own meaning on the story.)
'I require nothing from you that could impede your vow, but simply to help me to cross the river,' replied the young woman with a little smile.
'I...can not...I can...do nothing for you,' said the embarrassed young monk.
'It doesn't matter,' said the elderly monk. 'Climb on my back and we will cross together.'
Having reached the other bank, the old monk put down the young woman who, in return, thanked him with a broad smile. She left their side and both monks continued their route in silence. Close to the monastery, the young monk could not stand it anymore and said, 'You shouldn't have carried that person on your back. It's against our rules.'
'This young woman needed help and I put her down on the other bank. You didn't carry her at all, but she is still on your back,' replied the older monk.
In the real story, the youth's protracted silence makes complete sense.
I imagine his entire world being turned upside-down by the elder's actions. First he is scandalized by the latter's blithe disregard for their order's rules about touching women. Second, he is in the uncomfortable position of questioning the elder's actions. Third, he is put to wonder whether it would have been all right for him to carry the woman, and what such an action would have meant for him.
And all of these elements are perfect ingredients to any obsession, which is the human foible this parable is meant to address.
As we negotiate the urgings of our bodies, which can often contradict social dictates, we are left wrestling with the appropriateness of these urgings and (hopefully) questioning the wisdom society has handed us in telling us to deny them.
Although there are many interpretations of what this parable is trying to tell us, I read it like this:
The elder monk acted in compassion, rather than via the dictates of his religious order, which was appropriate for him. Being older, wiser and perhaps with a tamer "heyday in the blood," he was not tempted by the woman's touch. To him, she was a person in need of help, not a sexual being who would lure him from his vows.
The younger monk, perhaps having not yet internalized the wisdom of his religion, and perhaps still struggling to contain a wilder cacophony of desire within him, was only able to see the woman as a sexual object -- further evidenced by his continuous thought of her after the elder had set her down. Indeed, it probably would not have been appropriate for him to pick her up, as she might have swept him up as swiftly as the river's current.
So what is the lesson?
Know where you are in your life and act appropriately; also note where others are, and realize that what is right and appropriate for them might not be for you. And, most importantly, take note of anything that consumes your thoughts; it will surely point to some area of development that needs attention.
There are a few other nice lessons in there about compassion and following the spirit of the law rather than the letter of the law, and maybe even a thought about seeing women as people not as sex objects -- but to me, humble self-awareness is the key.
And, sadly, this quality is what my former friend so sorely lacks.
How could he then do anything other than impose his own meaning onto this story, indeed changing the story itself to do so? In his version, the lesson is more like: If someone does something you don't like, let it go.
Or, more accurately, if my friend does something you don't like, well too bad -- that's your problem. You should let it go and stop bothering him about it. (Truly, any complaint about his actions is invariably met with a sanctimonious, "You gotta let that go.")
In other words, the parable was one big Rorschach test, and through it he had told me -- indeed been telling me all along -- who he really was.
There was a hint of this (or some might say a HUGE RED FLAG) when we first began our affair at a yoga retreat a few years ago. Although we had been sleeping together much of that week, at the final night's party, while he chatted with another friend who was complaining about her difficulties meeting someone she liked on Match.com -- right in front of me -- he said, "Oh yeah... it's so hard to meet people!"
"Um.." I thought, "Have we been banging boots without meeting??"
The truth is -- we had never really met. I was never a real person to him, and perhaps he was not to me, although the reality of who he was certainly pressed itself into relief that evening. When I put my disgruntlement to him, he said, "Well, we live in different cities! Of course this won't continue."
Yes. Of course.
Of course, I realized, it was all about control. He had decided what was happening with me, who I was to him, and he would pick me up and put me down as it suited him.
(And the irony this was not lost on me: How could someone so devoted to Zen-like "freedom" and "being in the moment" be such a bleeping control freak? I have wondered if his attraction to Zen was a way to deal with his controlling nature -- again, unconsciously, because he does not see himself as controllling -- or if was just a means by which to project his control-freakiness on others, whom he frequently accused of trying to control him in a most un-Zen-like way.)
As the reality of his nature dawned on me, and also realizing that I pretty much liked him anyway as a person, we continued to be friends for the next few years -- until our falling out.
When I wrote the blog entry about that last year, I had assumed that he had pushed me away because he had begun to see someone new. But even then that didn't quite feel kosher to me. Because we had been friends with no hint of romantic connection for about two years at that point, so why should he suddenly decide to push me away so fully?
I thought about our last conversation, our brunch near where he lived.
He went on at length about how all we are is a collection of "stories," and that we can change the story as it suits us (i.e. be in complete control of our emotional state). "Like a guy cut me off on the highway, and I started to get mad," he buzzed in a near frenzy, "And I said to myself, 'I don't want to be that guy -- that guy who gets mad.' And so I decided that that was not going to be my story!" Ah yes! Problem solved. Only not really.
"Well..." I grimaced, "Um... actually, if you are cut off in traffic and you get mad... I hate to tell you ... you are that guy."
His big eyes held me steadily.
"Not that that's a bad thing..." I added, "I mean, that doesn't mean you can't change... but don't you think it's important to recognize that that's what's happening inside you, and maybe look at why rather than just trying to .. um... rewrite your experience?"
"No," he snapped, "I don't think that's necessary."
And in that moment, I believe, he turned...
In true Titanic form, the emotions I'd hit in him -- indeed a nerve that undermined essential elements of the life he had been trying to create for himself -- were so large that they were slow to turn, but turn they did.
I felt this slightly in that moment, but denied it myself. I did not want to believe that he was so incapable of his own distress, or that he could reject me so completely for pointing out an inconvenient truth.
But perhaps we cling to denial -- even its various self-helpy masks -- for reasons that are often deep beyond our fathoming.
What is most sad here, though, is that I did try to offer a compromise between his view of "changing the story" and my view of accepting the story.
Consistent with Tony Schwartz' recent HuffPo article about this, we must feel free to ask the question, and know that we are not constrained by the answer. He writes:
[I ask] myself the following question any time I feel triggered by someone or something: "What's the story I'm telling myself here and how could I tell a more hopeful and empowering story about this same set of facts?"
If we let ourselves know our triggers, our obsessions and compulsions, then we acknowledge what we wish to be, and whom we fear we might be -- and so are closer to knowing who we are. And it is only from the standpoint of knowing who we are that we can grow and perhaps change "the story" of what we might be.
But this is a complicated, humbling process which can't be accomplished with the swift finality of a delete key.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Purity and Maturity -- Coming of Age on Our Own Terms and in Our Own Time
This past Saturday, I went to the adult Bat Mitzvah of a dear friend, Liz Free, who had struggled in her youth with faith, community, identity, and belonging, and therefore had foregone the traditional Jewish rite of passage at the time her body first was changing.
A few years ago, as her body once again began to transform, and feeling a wholeness of experience that might better guide her choices, she looked once again to the religion of her birth. But this time, it was through a lens informed by a fuller understanding of her sexuality and the divine feminine -- and in the company of a group that could see through to the more essential levels of her being, which was vital as she does not conform to many of the traditional values held by those who practice her faith.
At the service, she gave a moving presentation, which referenced the "purification" procedures in Leviticus 13, meant to exclude and (hopefully) reintegrate those whom society has seen fit to cast out. Here is the full text of her speech:
A few years ago, as her body once again began to transform, and feeling a wholeness of experience that might better guide her choices, she looked once again to the religion of her birth. But this time, it was through a lens informed by a fuller understanding of her sexuality and the divine feminine -- and in the company of a group that could see through to the more essential levels of her being, which was vital as she does not conform to many of the traditional values held by those who practice her faith.
At the service, she gave a moving presentation, which referenced the "purification" procedures in Leviticus 13, meant to exclude and (hopefully) reintegrate those whom society has seen fit to cast out. Here is the full text of her speech:
What is this Parsha talking about?
As most of what Leviticus talks about, it describes the Priest’s responsibility to discern pure from impure for the health and safety of the community, and of the sacred places and of the sacred rituals associated with them. Cleanliness was very important back then considering the climate of that region and how it dictated how to live in a self-contained community that did not have air conditioning. It was the Priest’s responsibility along with the “afflicted person” to discern if they were healthy enough to remain in the community or if the “afflicted person” needed to be quarantined for an amount of time in order for the “affliction” to heal.
How was this determined? Who gave the Priests this kind of authority and where and how did they obtain the knowledge to judge this? Right back to Leviticus we go, and what do we find? A whole slew of do’s and don’ts--mostly don’ts. For what purpose? As it is stated in the essay by Jay Michaelson, “It’s the Purity Stupid”: Back in the Biblical times it seems there was lengthy "team" meeting that took place between Moses, Aaron and Aaron’s remaining sons, in which rules were set forth for regulating priestly behavior in order to maintain the purity of the Israelite nation, and to guard against assimilation to the "pagan" influence.
Leviticus 13 verse six states: “He shall be impure as long as the disease is on him. Being impure, he shall dwell apart; his dwelling shall be outside the camp.” In the commentary, from Etz Haym, Torah and Commentary, it states, from verse 45: He shall call out “Impure” --"Impure” according to the Talmud. One does this not only to warn others of the contagion but also to elicit compassion and prayers on one’s behalf. It is the responsibility of an afflicted person to recognize the illness and ask for help; and it is the responsibility of the community to offer support and prayer rather than shun or ignore the afflicted.
So how long does this self-appointed quarantined last? According to Leviticus 14, about 7 to 14 days give or take, then the priest travels outside the camp and examines the afflicted person. If the afflicted person is found to be healed then a ritual of purification takes place before the person can rejoin the community. These rituals included animal sacrifice along with a mikvah bath.
I can’t help but compare this to what took place in the 80's when Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome made its dent in the community. How devastating was that, the way society at large shunned those “afflicted”, the isolation that took place for the “good of the society at large” -- and not just AIDS, but cancer, mental illness, addictions. Society at large shuns those who are deemed to be “impure” either physically or mentally. It seems that anybody that is labeled “different than the standard set” is then set apart.
I have felt apart and isolated at times. Not due to any physical affliction but just because there was something different. When I attended Jewish summer camp it was the first time I experienced Shabbos services, but not being able to read or comprehend Hebrew while all the other campers did, made me feel left out and alienated. I recall one of my fellow campers asking me if I was really Jewish because I didn’t know how to read Hebrew.
Identifying as Bisexual has at times been a challenge, as people question my identity, asking me to choose, or they make assumptions because I wear nail polish, or berate me for my choices.
So, how then can those persons who have been labeled as “outcast” rejoin society? How do we welcome back in a person who has gone through chemo or radiation, or a twelve-step program?
With today’s modern medications and treatments available, the first step is to acknowledge something is wrong and then, because we don’t have the “priestly caste” anymore the next step is to go to what would substitute as that priest -- a doctor, therapist, Rabbi -- and obtain treatment for the “affliction”. OK fine, but that is only a part of the healing. What about society’s role in the healing? Where are the compassion and the support? Where is the ritual that helps make the impure pure again? Since we no longer have a high priest to assure us that this shall pass with sacrifices and prayer, we have our so called experts who ease our troubled minds and assure us that you can’t get “that” from a toilet seat or by shaking hands. Do we have a ritual of purification? Since we don’t practice animal sacrifice anymore what do we “do”? Is mikvah immersion enough? Ok that’s a start, but what else?
Trying to find a warm and welcoming environment with no judgment where we can be ourselves -- all of ourselves -- with no fear of recrimination, only unconditional support. Is it that hard? Look around you -- here we are, as if we didn’t know; open door policy is a fine sentiment, what happens when we step out the door? Is it still there, in our hearts and in our minds? What is the text of Leviticus telling us? That the priestly role which is now taken over by seeking out “professional” assistance is good but just a part of the process; the community has a role as well, to reach out and support each other, and if not here then where? If not now then when? If not us then who?
Friday, March 16, 2012
A Tale of Two Men
I have been thinking about two men who have been important to me... one is John, an actor, director, and cabaret singer from my old theater company who had a way of finding hidden meaning in plays (sometimes to the chagrin of the playwright) that astounded me.
John had lived most of his life hand-to-mouth and suffered an horrific gay-beating which demolished his smile (as well as his career potential, in spite of a spellbinding voice and riveting stage presence), but he lived fully and somewhat foolishly at times, in spite of his finances.
And then there was Bill -- hyper-rational, intellectual (IQ somewhere in the 170s, he said) -- an odd duck, but I adored him. We met through a mutual friend when Bill was looking to sell his modem (remember those?) back in the mid-90s. He wanted $20 for a 1200 baud... He had just purchased a 14K and bragged, "What I have now is TWELVE times faster than this one..." -- the one he was selling me at that moment -- and for which he still demanded $20 though he gleefully bragged he'd only paid $30 for it new.
Looking back, this first interaction set a pattern for our relationship. In that moment, he mocked, even degraded me for my accepting his sale (and ultimately his friendship), and yet for reasons which only became apparent years later I chose to ignore this.....
That evening -- before this remark -- we'd had a sparkly conversation about Star Trek and other science fiction stuff and I was enraptured with him, even flattered that he held my intelligence commensurate with his own (or so it seemed).
We connected on many levels -- at least on the levels that I thought were important to me at the time (i.e. mostly intellectual) -- and became each other's go-to friend for many activities.
Within a few years, we moved in together and often talked late into the night about any number of life's fascinations. Some of my friends thought he was strange, possibly because he had a touch of Asperger's (I think), but I would defend him: "Love me, love my Bill!"
In other words, it was like we were married, except there was no sex. So it was like we were married.
Yet even as I delighted in his company, there was, in retrospect, always a subtle undercurrent of mockery. He, it turned out, was one of these people who always needed to hold himself superior to all others, regardless of whether his high self-esteem proved justified.
In particular, he liked to mock my mystical side and my curiosity for Tarot, Astrology, and Psi phenomena in general. He also liked to mock the unusual beliefs and practices of some of my friends.
John was a favorite target.
Springing eternally with hope, amidst misfortunes Bill and I could only wonder at, John was an avid Lotto player. He conjured a series of numbers based on his prior addresses and played religiously each week.
He built a shrine to The Ticket and would ask visitors to bless that week's gamble.
"He's basically buying a fantasy!" Bill would rail. He liked to chide his mother about this too. "Why don't you play '1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6'," he liked to tell her in mixed company. "Oh, that would NEVER come up!" was her inevitable response, much to Bill's superior delight.
But the hyper-rational side of my own mind had to agree: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6" had as good a chance of "coming up" as any other number series -- extremely unlikely, but possible.
At some point in the friendship, Bill became convinced that I believed I had psychic powers. I do not believe this about myself, by the way, although I must admit to some strange experiences which have convinced me there is more in heaven and earth...
To wit, one booze-soaked night, Bill devised a plan to "test" my "powers." "Oh, come on," he chided, "you said yourself you're not psychic so what do you have to lose?"
Grudgingly, I agreed to the "test."
He disappeared into his room for several minutes and emerged with a deck of cards. "I'm going to pull from the top, and you say whether it's red or black. Red cards go on the right, black cards go on the left."
I rolled my eyes and said, "Red... black... red ... black.." He put each of the cards face down in two columns. "No, come on," he urged, "really try to guess!"
I took a breath. "OK. Black ... black... black ..." He laid out the cards. "That's weird," I said, "I'm getting black, black, black, black... that can't be..."
"Just go with your gut," he said with effusive sincerity.
I threw in a red or two, but went back to "black, black, black, black..." We went back and forth like this for a while... with me occasionally switching to "red, black, red, black" figuring the law of averages demanded a red card show up, but I kept feeling pulled into a steady stream of black cards.
Then Bill turned over both sets -- all black on the left, all red on the right.
"See!" he chirped, "You're psychic!"
"Holy shit!" my jaw dropped. "That is not possible."
He exploded in laughter. "It is completely possible. I split the deck!!!"
I took the cards... on top were all black cards, reds were on the bottom. With sleight-of-hand, he had pulled from the top or bottom depending on which color I chose.
And he laughed and laughed. And when he stopped laughing, I said, "Wait a minute... but wasn't I saying, 'Black, black, black ...' I mean... doesn't that count for something?"
And he said -- I kid you not -- "Well I think at that point they were all red."
Of course, even in my stupor I knew this was a bunch of bullshit -- there was not nor could there have been any change in the way the cards were stacked in the deck -- yet I lacked the backbone to defend myself and did not argue further. I had let him define the situation; and in his definition, he was Top Dog, and I was a mealy-minded gullible fool.
Over the following year, our relationship deteriorated as I began to realize that he held little true affection for me and appreciated my presence merely as a means to feel better about himself.
Finally, I threw him out of the apartment.
And John's Lotto numbers won $45 million dollars.
John had lived most of his life hand-to-mouth and suffered an horrific gay-beating which demolished his smile (as well as his career potential, in spite of a spellbinding voice and riveting stage presence), but he lived fully and somewhat foolishly at times, in spite of his finances.
And then there was Bill -- hyper-rational, intellectual (IQ somewhere in the 170s, he said) -- an odd duck, but I adored him. We met through a mutual friend when Bill was looking to sell his modem (remember those?) back in the mid-90s. He wanted $20 for a 1200 baud... He had just purchased a 14K and bragged, "What I have now is TWELVE times faster than this one..." -- the one he was selling me at that moment -- and for which he still demanded $20 though he gleefully bragged he'd only paid $30 for it new.
Looking back, this first interaction set a pattern for our relationship. In that moment, he mocked, even degraded me for my accepting his sale (and ultimately his friendship), and yet for reasons which only became apparent years later I chose to ignore this.....
That evening -- before this remark -- we'd had a sparkly conversation about Star Trek and other science fiction stuff and I was enraptured with him, even flattered that he held my intelligence commensurate with his own (or so it seemed).
We connected on many levels -- at least on the levels that I thought were important to me at the time (i.e. mostly intellectual) -- and became each other's go-to friend for many activities.
Within a few years, we moved in together and often talked late into the night about any number of life's fascinations. Some of my friends thought he was strange, possibly because he had a touch of Asperger's (I think), but I would defend him: "Love me, love my Bill!"
In other words, it was like we were married, except there was no sex. So it was like we were married.
Yet even as I delighted in his company, there was, in retrospect, always a subtle undercurrent of mockery. He, it turned out, was one of these people who always needed to hold himself superior to all others, regardless of whether his high self-esteem proved justified.
In particular, he liked to mock my mystical side and my curiosity for Tarot, Astrology, and Psi phenomena in general. He also liked to mock the unusual beliefs and practices of some of my friends.
John was a favorite target.
Springing eternally with hope, amidst misfortunes Bill and I could only wonder at, John was an avid Lotto player. He conjured a series of numbers based on his prior addresses and played religiously each week.
He built a shrine to The Ticket and would ask visitors to bless that week's gamble.
"He's basically buying a fantasy!" Bill would rail. He liked to chide his mother about this too. "Why don't you play '1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6'," he liked to tell her in mixed company. "Oh, that would NEVER come up!" was her inevitable response, much to Bill's superior delight.
But the hyper-rational side of my own mind had to agree: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6" had as good a chance of "coming up" as any other number series -- extremely unlikely, but possible.
At some point in the friendship, Bill became convinced that I believed I had psychic powers. I do not believe this about myself, by the way, although I must admit to some strange experiences which have convinced me there is more in heaven and earth...
To wit, one booze-soaked night, Bill devised a plan to "test" my "powers." "Oh, come on," he chided, "you said yourself you're not psychic so what do you have to lose?"
Grudgingly, I agreed to the "test."
He disappeared into his room for several minutes and emerged with a deck of cards. "I'm going to pull from the top, and you say whether it's red or black. Red cards go on the right, black cards go on the left."
I rolled my eyes and said, "Red... black... red ... black.." He put each of the cards face down in two columns. "No, come on," he urged, "really try to guess!"
I took a breath. "OK. Black ... black... black ..." He laid out the cards. "That's weird," I said, "I'm getting black, black, black, black... that can't be..."
"Just go with your gut," he said with effusive sincerity.
I threw in a red or two, but went back to "black, black, black, black..." We went back and forth like this for a while... with me occasionally switching to "red, black, red, black" figuring the law of averages demanded a red card show up, but I kept feeling pulled into a steady stream of black cards.
Then Bill turned over both sets -- all black on the left, all red on the right.
"See!" he chirped, "You're psychic!"
"Holy shit!" my jaw dropped. "That is not possible."
He exploded in laughter. "It is completely possible. I split the deck!!!"
I took the cards... on top were all black cards, reds were on the bottom. With sleight-of-hand, he had pulled from the top or bottom depending on which color I chose.
And he laughed and laughed. And when he stopped laughing, I said, "Wait a minute... but wasn't I saying, 'Black, black, black ...' I mean... doesn't that count for something?"
And he said -- I kid you not -- "Well I think at that point they were all red."
Of course, even in my stupor I knew this was a bunch of bullshit -- there was not nor could there have been any change in the way the cards were stacked in the deck -- yet I lacked the backbone to defend myself and did not argue further. I had let him define the situation; and in his definition, he was Top Dog, and I was a mealy-minded gullible fool.
Over the following year, our relationship deteriorated as I began to realize that he held little true affection for me and appreciated my presence merely as a means to feel better about himself.
Finally, I threw him out of the apartment.
And John's Lotto numbers won $45 million dollars.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Good Things Come
When I was maybe five years old, my parents took us to a cozy farmhouse-cum-resort in the Poconos called Daniels Top-O-The-Poconos Family Resort (which, I am heartened to learn, is still thriving!)
Too young to be critical of much, I and my more discerning sister Liz attended its family-friendly (though admittedly somewhat lame) roster of activities with gusto... which included thrill-a-minute affairs such as "Snipe Hunting" (yes, really), and "Deer Feeding."
Liz was quick to call shenanigans on the Snipe affair, but the Deer situation ... well, that I'm sure was seen as just as ridiculous to most if not everyone else... but to us, it resonates even today.
You see, these were wild deer we were to feed.
And this required standing statue-still in a high-grass field with an open palm of doughy deer food, while the deer slowly edged their noses from the forest beyond. There were maybe ten or twenty of us to start ... And one by one, they all quit, hurling the pasty bits into the grass.
I have vague memories of our parents suggesting that we throw in the towel as well. But we didn't.
When they saw our determination, they were inspired to stick it out too.
My mother recalls we were there for at least a half an hour, though at that age I had no sense of time. I don't even recall my arm feeling tired, though I suppose it must have been.
The only thing I recall is the rough, gently slithery tongue of the deer as it slurped the food from my palm while it let me touch it's feathery ear with my other hand. A second deer gingerly lapped up my sister's offering before both sped back to the forest.
Over the years, as insecurities, doubts and anxieties crept into my personality, this level of patience began to desert me as that deer might have if I hadn't kept quietly still, stalwart in my belief that it would trust me. If, say, I'd rushed towards it, demanding it accept my gift -- as I have found myself doing in too many other situations -- I would have ended the day with a frightened deer and faithless disappointment in myself.
If, indeed, I had behaved that way, I would have revealed that even in giving, I would have been taking; that the desired interaction would have been for my sake, and not for the sake of the creature, or for the joy of our momentary interaction.
Now... at this time in my life, when many of my most deeply cherished dreams are starting to come true ... I recall that five-year-old self ... who knew how to place herself exactly where she needed to be, whose little foot rested steadfastly on the deepest, purest conviction in knowing that all she had to do ... is wait.
Too young to be critical of much, I and my more discerning sister Liz attended its family-friendly (though admittedly somewhat lame) roster of activities with gusto... which included thrill-a-minute affairs such as "Snipe Hunting" (yes, really), and "Deer Feeding."
Liz was quick to call shenanigans on the Snipe affair, but the Deer situation ... well, that I'm sure was seen as just as ridiculous to most if not everyone else... but to us, it resonates even today.
You see, these were wild deer we were to feed.
And this required standing statue-still in a high-grass field with an open palm of doughy deer food, while the deer slowly edged their noses from the forest beyond. There were maybe ten or twenty of us to start ... And one by one, they all quit, hurling the pasty bits into the grass.
I have vague memories of our parents suggesting that we throw in the towel as well. But we didn't.
When they saw our determination, they were inspired to stick it out too.
My mother recalls we were there for at least a half an hour, though at that age I had no sense of time. I don't even recall my arm feeling tired, though I suppose it must have been.
The only thing I recall is the rough, gently slithery tongue of the deer as it slurped the food from my palm while it let me touch it's feathery ear with my other hand. A second deer gingerly lapped up my sister's offering before both sped back to the forest.
Over the years, as insecurities, doubts and anxieties crept into my personality, this level of patience began to desert me as that deer might have if I hadn't kept quietly still, stalwart in my belief that it would trust me. If, say, I'd rushed towards it, demanding it accept my gift -- as I have found myself doing in too many other situations -- I would have ended the day with a frightened deer and faithless disappointment in myself.
If, indeed, I had behaved that way, I would have revealed that even in giving, I would have been taking; that the desired interaction would have been for my sake, and not for the sake of the creature, or for the joy of our momentary interaction.
Now... at this time in my life, when many of my most deeply cherished dreams are starting to come true ... I recall that five-year-old self ... who knew how to place herself exactly where she needed to be, whose little foot rested steadfastly on the deepest, purest conviction in knowing that all she had to do ... is wait.
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