I just realized recently that little kids (let say aged between infancy and perhaps 7 or 8) have no concept of what life was before digital cameras. A friend of mine, whom I share a black and white photography class with, was taking pictures of her niece as part of her assignment and everytime she took a photo, her little niece would go up to her and pull at the camera to reveal the shot. My friend kindly told her that it was a film camera, instead of the digital ones that their relatives would use. The curious little girl then asked her what film was. Isn't that cute? I, on the other hand, quite unlike the little girl, grew up using those cameras that needed film to function.
So where is this going?
Well, when I was in middle school, digital cameras were few and often very, very expensive. So when my friends and I would take pictures and have them developed and printed, it was very hard to share them with everybody. One day, I was killing some time on one of those fancy, online, social networks and saw that an old friend from middle school posted a picture that: a) i don't have a copy of, b)i don't remember where it was taken, and c) i dont remember why it was taken. It was a poorly scanned photo of about 20 of my classmates and I, possibly in a part of sorts. I'm at the very back, holding up another kid about 2 feet taller than he really was. I don't remember why, and frankly, i can't care less. But what i do care about is what ever happened to that kid. I can't remember his name. His last name is Darden, and his twin brother is David. I think his name was Michael. As far as I know, he's in some college in California. Or was it South America? Michael and I were good friends. Our group always hung-out by the basketball courts. Sometimes we played, most times we just sat and watched. We even set up a soaking booth during our "Spring" fair. We offered our "soaking" hitmen services to anyone who'd give us 4,000 Rupiah (Indonesian currency, I went to middle school there) and we'd bust out the giant supersoakers and buckets of muddy water if anyone gave us 8,000. We had good times, me and Michael.
There's a bunch of other kids around us in that picture. There was Fiona who stuck with me through intermediate and advanced spanish. She was one of the nicest and sincerest girl I met when I lived in Indonesia. Then theres Kat Vassar who, when were in 5th grade, was the most tomboy girl you'd ever want to meet. She was mean too. But when we moved to middle school, we became really good friends. And perhaps we still are... not as good as before but we still talk, which is more than I can say about Shereen. I don't even want to know where she went...
This photo confuses me. But I love it. Its like a class picture that really wasnt. It brings back memories, good and bad. But I least I have something to look back to.
As I sat in my room thinking of where to start for this particular blog, I thought that I would never find anything good in here. As I’ve probably explained to many our colleagues, I’ve only been living in the United States for around two and a half years. I haven’t been able to accumulate a lot of interesting things in my closet so I was a little worried that I won’t have much material to write about. Nevertheless, I soldiered on. And to my surprise, after a very brief run through of my closet, I opened my desk drawer and found a very old wallet. Perhaps it’s not the most interesting object to talk about since everyone has an old wallet. But, this particular brown, knock-off, Levi’s wallet held inside it objects that reminded me of my “wild” days back home.
Conveniently hidden in one of the wallet’s pockets, I found several ripped frontsides of cigarette packs with dates and names of places scribbled on them. One of them, the front of what I think was an imported pack of mentholated Marlboro Lights, survived the couple of years being stuck in my old wallet better than the rest. When I initially saw it, I thought of all the times me and my friends would just sit around in one of the conveniently close bar/restaurants in front of our college while we waited for classes to start. We’d buy a pack of cigarettes, share it with any of us who were there, and boom, instant hunger suppressant and conversation starter. It was such a release for us. I’ve quit smoking since I moved here, partially because of its ridiculous costs but mostly because of health reasons. And I promised some of the most important people in my life that I would. But when I look back at smoking, it’s not the nicotine rush I remember. I remember my friends back home, and all the things we did when we were younger.
The date that I scribbled on that particular "frontside" was 10/16/05-10/19/05. Above it was the word “Laguna” and a special smiley face that I drew. It’s a normal smiley face but with its tongue sticking out. It looks like it was going “pbbttt!” complete with spit. “Laguna” is hard to explain, mostly because I can’t retell half of the things that happened there without risking some embarrassment (and perhaps persecution???). However, what I can say is that it was one of the best times of my life. Sure, it included a lot of imbibing of spirits, and smoking cigarette after cigarette, headaches, and broken chairs, it was three days spent with comrades that I still hold close to my heart. We were young and (quite foolishly and naively) had not a single care in the world. All we cared about was having a good time with good friends. Maria and I (yes Maria from my essay was there) coined this term, “Good friends, good times, good vibes.” It sounds cheesy, sort of like something you’d hear as a beer slogan. But it was our slogan for the rest of the year… maybe even the rest of the time I lived in the Philippines.
I think I shared this with a few of our colleagues and perhaps some of my friends, nevertheless I will restate it here. I am choosing my first essay and I don't think that it comes as a surprise to anyone. I decided to work on this particular essay partially because it was somewhat well received. However, the real reason behind my choice was actually borne out of the conversation Dr. Chandler and I had about the piece. It made me realize something that I would never have had I not written about it. I also think that it's very important for me to write it out and to accept it. I will have to revise it significantly and thus it might take some time. Nevertheless, I think it would be extremely worth it, at least for me.
Disclaimer: As I was writing this piece, I totally got myself lost. I ended up wanting to write about a particular thing or another and I lost focus. I think this will be evident in my writing so I'm sorry. The end result is something I'm not happy with but its something. Please bear with me on this. Pardon the length as well. As I was reading this over, i realized that maybe this topic was a little to broad. In any case, please don't hesitate to share with me your comments, questions, violent reactions and grievances.
-Jose
Spring
The airport was busy, full of people rushing to and fro, arriving then departing. I looked at their faces longingly, hoping I’d recognize somebody. I’ve traveled enough to know that it’s a misleadingly small world that we live in. This world is so small that the gentleman who sat beside me during our flight happened to be the son of my uncle’s patient (my uncle is a neurologist). It was hard to keep up with the bustle of the airport, and it didn’t help that I just went through an18 hour flight (not counting layovers). I kept looking. But, what once was such a plausible idea, became nothing but a fleeting hypothesis. As I was waiting in front of an eerily motionless baggage carousel, I realized that this was a new world, nothing like what I have known for most of my life.
My parents and I moved into my aunt’s large, suburban, house almost right after our arrival. It wasn’t too insufferable; all we had were the clothes in our luggage, and perhaps some books that I had packed. I slept on a futon in my aunt’s basement/rec-room, while my parents slept in the guest room. The first few weeks was a blur, jet-lag wasn’t very pleasant to me. I’d be asleep in the afternoon, and then be awake during the wee hours of the night. But it did not bother me too much. As I looked outside, with the green leaves and the blossoming flowers of my aunt’s garden, I knew I could start over. This is not to say that I didn’t miss my old life; the friends I made back home were, and still are, an important part of my life. The family I left back home, my brother, my two sisters, my nieces and nephews, were, and still are, in my thoughts always. However, I saw an opportunity here. Other than my parents and certain relatives, nobody knew me here. I could recreate myself. I could make myself anew.
Summer
Summer, in many respects, is a continuation of spring. The trees were alive, swaying in unison with the summer wind. The little squirrels that moved around from tree to tree (sometimes garbage cans to garbage cans) with the same reckless abandon they exhibited months before. Moreover, I was still the same. I was the same 18 year old, filled with excitement and hope, thinking that this massive change would bring about something so profound. I might have been described as naïve, but I felt undeniably strong about a new life. I did not know what to expect, but I couldn’t care, much like the squirrels that ran around.
Part of this change was transferring to a new university. I decided to attend a school that was good 30 minutes away from my aunt’s suburbs. Being that I did not have a car to drive to school, I needed to find a place near my new university. That particular August, I turned 19. I still lived with my aunt, as my apartment was still unfurnished. I remember my mom, my aunt, another aunt, and my cousin going shopping the day I turned 19. They didn’t tell me where they were going when I asked. I didn’t really want to go with them. I was just being nosy. Nevertheless, they came back with a microwave, rice cooker, toaster, coffee maker, and other things that would complete an empty apartment. My aunt had thought that this would be the perfect present for the soon to be “independent” 19 year old. She was right. I tried valiantly to hold back my tears, and for the most part it worked. I moved in to my new apartment shortly afterwards. Things seemed to be moving at the speed of light and the only thing I could think of was the excitement it all brought. In less than six months, I had moved from one country to another, from one university to another, from a house to a one bedroom apartment, and now I was, virtually, on my own.
Autumn
Autumn is, at times, a very confusing season. The often yellow or fiery-colored leaves that mark the arrival of autumn almost always bring awe to those who see them. We admire its beauty no matter the reason behind the change. It is ironic how we only appreciate the beauty of the leaves when they are about to die. As the season progresses, the cold winds of the north start to consume us, the average temperature drops, and things start to die. It is as if nature gives us one last burst of life in the fiery-colored leaves then it takes it away from us by letting them fall.
The semester had started smoothly. I had found the perfect balance between school and taking care of my newfound responsibilities. I enjoyed my classes, although I thought them to be rather easy. I found myself a part time job that I rather enjoyed. I also found myself occupying my time with trying to cook edible food on a stove that, perhaps, was probably older than I am. I had the somewhat empowering responsibility of paying the rent, even though my father would transfer the necessary funds from his account to mine. I felt that I was my own man, at least as much as a partially employed 19 year old can feel. Like the fiery leaves of autumn, I was full of life and passion.
But as the temperature descended, so did I. Week after week of coming home to an empty apartment was becoming unbearable. It didn’t help that my parents, who were still living with my aunt, went back home in November. Coming from a large and close-knit family, I was used to always having somebody at home. When I’d enter the house, one of my siblings would always be plopped on the couch, or doing something in their rooms. Sometimes I’d be welcomed by one of my nieces or nephews, with their nanny trying desperately to catch up behind them. I had none of this here. To make matters worse, I couldn’t find the same support system friend-wise that I had back home. All of a sudden, I was hit with a homesickness that I have never felt before. I tried to placate my emptiness by being busy, but there’s only so much you can do by yourself until you run out of ideas. One particular night, I was watching a sitcom that I would normally pass over under ordinary circumstances. The sitcom was relatively well written and it was witty enough for my attention, at least for that night. Someone in the show had cracked a borderline joke and I found myself laughing hysterically. I was laughing, on my own. As soon as I had realized that, I stopped. I shuddered. I thought for a second that I had lost my mind (or at least starting to). I was as alone as I could ever be and I was terrified. Not because I was afraid of the dangers outside or afraid of the dark. I was terrified merely for the fact that I thought that I was slowly losing the only grip I had on my sanity.
Christmas
Needless to say, with all the troubles of autumn affecting every aspect of my being, the semester did not end to my liking. I had let some of my classes slip through my fingers. Had I continued the way I started the semester, I would have earned the highest marks I’ve ever had. Instead, I received grades that were almost identical to the ones I use to get back home. So much for reinventing myself academically. However, there was a respite to my despair. Even before the semester had started, I had made plans of going home for Christmas. Not only was all my family there, so were my friends. In April, I would never have thought of saying this, but I needed to go home. I needed to recharge. And so I left a snowless December for the warm climates of home. I barely made it home for Christmas, given that I had left on the 23rd of December for a trip that took a whole day plus the change in time zones. I was home, and all was right in the world, at least for a while. My family welcomed me joyously and lovingly. I was home, I was happy. My family hadn’t changed and what a great relief it was to see that. I couldn’t say the same for my friends. I realized that, in the months that I was away, everyone had moved on. Sure, my friends were very happy to see me. They each professed how much they missed me between toasts of beer, whiskey, or whatever it was we were drinking on a particular night. We spent countless hours catching up and re-catching up with those that I was able to maintain contact through the year. However, in essence, their lives no longer included me. They’ve moved on, I should have too.
Winter
Winter brings no comfort to me, at least not then. I arrived back from home in January, before the spring semester started. I had left my home twice in less than a year. I was heartbroken to say the least. I don’t know what it was that made me come back. Perhaps it was the pressure that I put on myself, being the only one of my siblings able to live here. Perhaps it’s because I have to repay my parents somehow for all the love and support they’ve given me. Nevertheless, here I was in the dead cold of January, and I still had not reestablished my grip on my sanity.
All of this crazy depression started to change. I don’t exactly remember what day or month it was when it started to look up. All I know was that it was incomprehensibly cold. Perhaps it was late January, maybe early February. But what I do remember vividly is the feeling of realization that I felt when I woke up one winter morning. The night before was significantly dead. It hadn’t snowed yet that winter and the leafless trees outside swayed their eerie branches in motion with the cold northern wind. It really wasn’t a lot of swaying, actually. Trees rarely seemed to sway when they are without their leaves. But you could see the pokey branches moving in the wind. I looked outside my window and saw the cold, hard ground. Well, I couldn’t really tell, but I knew it was hard. It didn’t help that the green grass that once brimmed with life had eventually turned brown. The grass was dead. Everything was dead. So I went to sleep, perhaps also, almost dead. I woke up the next morning, thinking it would be just like another dead day, like the dead night that preceded it. I pulled the curtains apart, expecting the same desolate wasteland of a cold winter day that I had left the night before. But instead of this, as I pulled the curtains apart, I was blinded by the whiteness of the outside world. Apparently, it had snowed while I was asleep. It was still snowing when I awoke. The snow covered almost everything. It was like this crystalline blanket had smothered the deadness of the season. For the first time in a long time, I smiled a genuine, spontaneous, smile. For a while, just like it was back home, everything was right in the world.
Spring
The snow melted away and with it went the deadness of winter. Spring started to sneak back in. I have to say, it was nothing like my first spring. My first spring was filled with anticipation, excitement, and hope. I was young and naïve, but it only took one year to change that. Sure, hope is always something I hold on to since without it I might as well be dead. But now, I knew what to expect. I knew what I needed to do. I had to stop living in my past, thinking that I could always go back. But my friends showed me that I couldn’t. I’ve gone a different path. And I can’t be lazy about it like I was my entire first year. I can’t just wait for the change to come to me because it won’t. I shouldn’t just sit there and my world change without me. If I wanted to survive, if I wanted to retain my sanity, if I wanted to grow up, I had to change myself. I had to adapt to this new world because god knows it won’t adapt to me.
Ok. I've read all of the very generous comments and I see a common trend. People want to hear about that time I moved to Indonesia. Well, I feel the same way Camille does, it was so long ago that I wont be able to remember everything so clearly. However, I will eventually write an essay about it but it would need more time. Perhaps one of the later essays? We'll see. In any case, I see what Dan was saying about how coming the moving to the US story is but thats not really the point of my essay. I'm talking about rebirth and a new start. Perhaps I should not mention what country I move to, I think I can pull that off, we'll see. I think I'm pretty set. I know how the structure is gonna be, I just need to figure out the transitions. I still have to refine the particular scenes that I can remember, but they may have to be composite scenes. Don't worry, I'll let you know. PLEASE let me know if theres anything else I can do.
If there was something that changed me significantly, it was moving here to the United States. It’s not like it was the first time I ever moved to a different place. When I was around 10 years old, I moved from my family’s little duplex house in Quezon City, Philippines, and settled in Jakarta, Indonesia. Sure, most of the locals looked almost like the people I saw at home the only differences being that they were predominantly Muslim rather than Christian and that they spoke Bahasa Indonesia rather than some form of Filipino. However, it was attending an impressively diverse international school that really changed me. In fact, the changes it produced in me are still evident today. If anyone’s ever wondered about my accent (or lack thereof), its formation (or lack thereof) came about from how I had to adjust my speech patterns so that my mostly Caucasian teachers would understand me. Nevertheless, this whole moving to Indonesia thing is somewhat of a unique (perhaps obscure) experience therefore it might not reach as broad an audience as I’d want it to. Sure, it would make a fascinating story (maybe) but perhaps it is much more relevant to talk about my move here to the United States since it is, in this day age, quite common to find young immigrants starting anew in America.
During one of the many class discussions we’ve had since we started the semester, we spoke about the different structures of creative nonfiction pieces and one of them definitely caught my eye. Some creative nonfiction pieces were formed using some sort of pattern. I’ve forgotten some of the examples we threw in our discussion but I distinctly remember talking about the possibility of a piece that would work using the changing seasons as a pattern. I think writing about my move, and the subsequent “growing up/rebirth” thing I had to go through after the move in a “seasonal” manner would be quite interesting. I’ve already picked out a few scenes from my experience that could work within the specific seasons. I’m not sure if the whole entire piece would workout but I’ll give it a shot.
BONUS: A little bit of writing for the second essay… it’s really a ROUGH draft this probably won’t even look the same after I do the “final” rough draft.
Winter
I don’t exactly remember what day it was, or what month it was exactly. All I know was that it was incomprehensibly cold. Perhaps it was late January, maybe early February. But what I do remember vividly is the feeling of realization that I felt waking up one cold, winter morning. The night before was significantly dead. It hadn’t snowed yet that winter and leafless (lifeless) trees swayed their eerie branches by virtue of the northern wind. It really wasn’t a lot of swaying. Trees rarely seemed to sway without their leaves. But you could see the pokey branches moving in the wind. Looking outside my window, I can see that the ground was hard. Well, I couldn’t really tell, but I knew it was. It didn’t help that the green grass that had brought me some joy in the spring time had eventually turned brown. It was dead. Everything was dead. So I went to sleep, perhaps, almost dead as well. I woke up the next morning, thinking it would be just like another dead day, like the dead night that preceded it. I pulled the curtains apart, expecting the same desolate wasteland (very dramatic huh?) I had left the night before. But instead of this, as I pulled the curtains apart, I saw white… just white. Apparently, it had snowed while I was asleep. It was still snowing when I awoke. How beautiful it was to see such whiteness covering the deadness of a snowless winter. As I looked on in amazement, and perhaps with a little bit of relief, I couldn’t help but think that the snow was, in fact, erasing away all the deadness and desolation of the previous months. It was giving me a clean slate. It was giving me hope that once the snow melts (metaphorically) spring gives me a new life.
Contrary to what my friends believe, writing does not come easy to me. I slave for hours just so I can produce something that doesn't look like some delirious madman's graffiti on the walls of a subway station. So as you can imagine, this little essay was the fruit of a somewhat laborious and insane amount of revision after revision. And if you've read what I've written then you can tell that it really wasn't successful (at least I don't think so). In any case, I do think that there are a few things that worked well in the essay. I was trying to connect with a general audience with my essay and its informal way of retelling perhaps helps that. I also think that by sectioning some of the paragraphs off that it allows the reader to attain an easy grasp of the piece. According to some very generous comments by two of our peers, its easy to relate to my "story" and that leaves me quite relieved (at least somebody felt that it was relevant! Success!).
However, I still think that there's a lot to be done with this piece. I feel like I should only talk about either Andrea or Maria, not both. And Liz brought up a good point about the Scrubs mention in the piece. I need to condense the intro because i don't want to make the essay seem like a piece on how TV shows are real. Basically, I need to use the Scrubs analogy properly as an intro device. I also need to work on presenting Maria and Andrea better. I feel like i haven't said enough about them (or said the right things about them) that can emulate the same things i think about when i think of them (ok i don't know if that sentence made sense but do you see where I'm getting at?)
My second essay is entirely different, I think. It's gonna be patterned essay that will actually go in a circle. I hope that works...
Somebody once told me that a successful TV show, whether it is a sit-com, soap opera, or serious drama, is based on how it imitates real life. I was a little skeptical about what that person said but as I thought about it more I somewhat agree with him. Please take note; it’s not about how accurately they imitate the everyday mundane things in life but rather how it portrays real things relative to the people who watch it. In a sense, it’s how well they tell lies to impart to us certain truths. Case in point: I was watching an episode of a particular show (It’s called Scrubs, I think. It was a hospital sit-rom-com) when it suddenly hit me how real this fictional TV series was (at least this particular episode). The episode revolved around the male protagonist’s efforts in attaining the affections of a female coworker that he had befriended. I can’t really remember much of the details except the concluding scenes of the episode. For some reason or the other, the male protagonist fails in his mission and finds himself in what commonly is known as the “friend zone.” The protagonist, with his overactive imagination, daydreams about a room filled of guys who, at one point or another, had feelings for this particular female co-worker. He shudders at the fact that he was there in that room, but the scene suddenly cuts back to reality. The protagonist was standing in front of the coworker. She said something about needing a friend to talk to and, even though he was still reeling from the fact that he’s only a friend, he obliges to her request. As the credits rolled, I just sat there. I knew exactly what he felt. It was real, at least to me.
***
Almost 5 years ago…
Her name was Andrea (not her real name).We met when we were relatively young. We were just college freshmen when i first took notice of her. We had the same classes, the same major, and identical writing instruments (Parker ballpoint pens). But that’s not all we had in common. We both grew up in a country other than our own. We both lived in Singapore (not the real country) for a good part of our youths. In fact, we lived in the same neighborhood, on the same street even (we didn’t find out till college). We were/are “third culture kids,” as the sociologist Ruth Hill Useem would call kids who grew up outside his or her native country. Being as such, we had the same “liberal” world views. We became fast friends. We already knew some of the same people but we also had this wacky ability to make the exact same friends outside of own circles. We hung out often: coffee here, dinner there, party elsewhere. We were inseparable. We’d laugh at secret jokes, we’d nod at secret glances, and we’d cry secret tears. We had such a relationship that the term “friends” would do disservice to it. It didn’t take long till I realized that I have profound feelings for Andrea. At first it was this soft whisper in the back of my head that kept telling me that she’s the one. Soon, it was a screaming raving lunatic in my head that kept yelling she’s the one.
One particular night, after a long day studying Homer, Classical Mythology, and Roman Architecture, my phone rang. It was Andrea. It wasn’t really out of the blue. It was her habit to call me when she had nothing else to do. I picked up. We talked. We talked for hours. We talked about things, different things. And just as we were running out of things to say for the night, I thought maybe I should bring something up. Perhaps I could pacify the raving lunatic inside my head. So I asked her, of our “friendship,” of whether we had something special, something uniquely ours and thus something profound. She said a lot of things and nothing at the same time. I’m sure she hadn’t meant to go around in circles. I’m sure she knew what I was talking about in the questions I had asked. And I'm sure that she was one hundred percent sincere by telling me that I was a great friend. A few days later, the words spoken that night were forgotten. We continued to laugh at secret jokes, nod at secret glances, and cry secret tears, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t the same laugh, nod, or tears anymore.
Around 3 years ago…
Her name was Maria (also, not her real name). She was different. We barely had anything in common. Our family backgrounds are so different that the sharp color contrasts in Caravaggio paintings pale in comparison. The extent of our similarity was that we attended the same college and that we knew some of the same people. She was one of those acquaintances that were best described as “a friend of a friend’s.” We were introduced once and perhaps attended the same social gatherings during my freshman year. It took a while before we started saying hi to each other when we crossed paths. We didn’t have a single class together so these intersections were few and far in between. However, as my college life evolved, so did my niche of friends. The people we both knew eventually became the friends that I spent most of my time with, and therefore she became someone who I saw often. Slowly but surely our familiarity with each other grew. We used to be the only two in our assortment of friends that would smoke Lucky Strike Menthols. We’d share a pack of Luckies almost everyday and our breaks consistently involved the two of us smoking instead of eating (it was much cheaper as a hunger suppressant then than it is now). But our relationship was not only about smoking. She had always come to me for advice. Always asked for what I thought about things, asked me what she should do in certain situations. Perhaps it was something about the way I talked that soothed her. She listened to what I had to say, and, for the most part, acted accordingly. The bulk of what she asked me about was how to interpret the men in her life. Being that she was, by this time, a very good friend, and being that she was, and still is, one of the most beautiful women I have ever come to know, I was more than happy to oblige.
Maria talked to me about everything. Sometimes I laughed, sometimes I cringed, and sometimes I was just plain embarrassed. Soon enough, however, I realized that she didn’t have much luck in men. The men she tended to get involved with were ones that either weren’t serious, or men that didn’t now exactly what it is they want with her. So I consoled her, I wiped her tears away, I made her laugh, I made her smile. During one of these conversations (or several conversations), she asked me why I was always there for her. I said something to the effect of: “I can’t stand to see you cry.” It was true, I couldn’t. She was a wonderful and generous woman that unequivocally deserved the full-hearted love and care of man that will not and cannot hurt her. Then she said one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever heard: “Why do I keep meeting the wrong guy? Why couldn’t they be more like you?” I was taken aback.After a few seconds I decided to take a jab at fate and managed to say something like “Well I’m here aren’t I?” It probably wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever said but once it leaves your mouth, it’s out there. She said, “It can’t be you because you’re too good for me. You’re such a good friend; I don’t want to ruin it like that.” Perhaps the conversation didn’t exactly go like this. In fact this could be a combination of a series of conversations we’ve had about the subject. But I was fortunate. My little jab at fate didn’t turn her away from me. If it did anything to our relationship, it made it stronger. She was happy with that and that’s what mattered, even though inside, I was empty as I could ever be.
***
Andrea and Maria weren’t the only ones that could never see past “friends” when it came to me. I could list a few more names but Andrea and Maria were the most significant of these by far. Individually, they are women that I can conceivably settle down with. That, in itself, is saying something about how serious they were for me. Sure, I was in college when I met them but that doesn’t make it null and void. In fact, it’s in college when you learn to feel these things, at least I think so. But the fact of the matter is, I wasn’t him. What was so different about me? Is it because I’m not somebody who might be asked to model for the J. Crew catalogue? Is it because I’m not a surfer, DJ, artist, or whatever stereotype it is that stereotyped women fall for? Is it because I drop everything whenever I thought they were in trouble or needed my shoulder. Is it because I care? I don’t know, I can’t answer that. Only they can, and they care way too much about me to ever let me know the truth. The deal is this: they both wanted what I was; a decent (if not good) guy who’d listen, love, and care but they didn’t want me, specifically. Almost 5 years ago, I loved Andrea. Around 3 years ago, I loved Maria. They too loved me, but not like that.
I would like to think that some of you who are reading this might be thinking that I should just forget about them, that it’s their loss and that I should move on. I appreciate it, really, I do. And for the most part, I have moved on. I’ve dated other people; I’ve even taken a shot at a real “relationship” with someone who I thought I really loved. But there’s one thing that lingers inside my heart (or hypothalamus) that I have no answers for.
I have, over the course of almost 5 years, built strong and lasting relationships with both Andrea and Maria. They are, at least now, good as kin to me, as much as any of my closest and dearest friends would be. However, just as strong as my relationship is with these two, I share almost (but not quite) the same amount of regret over it. The relationships I have with both Andrea and Maria are ones that I profoundly and genuinely treasure but they’re relationships that I had not originally wanted. I could never tell them this because it would hurt them, and I can’t stand for that. But because I can’t stand to see them hurt, I’d rather be the one in pain. It’s rough. And it’s tough. Why? Well because it’s the kind of hurt that doesn’t go away; the kind of chronic pain that doesn’t immobilize you but is sore nonetheless; the kind of wound that isn’t lethal but injures your soul. With the risk of sounding ultra self-seeking, I wanted something else. I needed something else. How does one live in constant and simultaneous love and regret for someone. I don’t know. But I’m alive aren’t I? Or at least I think so. Nevertheless, I can’t burn the bridges I’ve made with Andrea and Maria. I can’t turn my backs on friends, especially the kinds of friends Andrea and Maria are. I can do that because it would go against the very simple morals and values that I live by and if I, even for just a little bit, lose sight of that, I’d lose everything.
