Philosophy and Letters

Every spring and summer I have this inner debate with myself about my sexuality. No, I don’t mean if I want to get it on with something, but I usually think about pride. With the glimmer of the sun, longer days and warmer nights the rainbow flags, go go dancers and leather wearers abound and people come out for Pride. For the past few years I’ve wanted to go, but I always rationalize a way out of it. The most common reason is because I’m not “out” in real life to my family classmates or coworkers. Whenever I’m around a lot of gay people I tend to feel like a fraud because there is no accurate word for how I feel about my sexual orientation, just a bunch of words, so what business do I have gay crashing a place that’s meant for them to feel safe? That, and places packed with people, loud music and overpriced drinks tend to scare me. So this year when Pride was approaching, that internal debate stirred. I’m not out in my daily life. Should I go? Do I want to? So before I could overthink this, I got dressed and ran out the door for pride last Saturday.

It was in San Fransisco. It was cold. I tightened my black cotton hoodie around my waist, trying to preserve some heat which would surely be lost to the evening. Pink triangles and rainbows abound, tons of vendors selling magazines, clothing and overpriced food littered the streets. Wedding photographers took pictures of gay couples, and there was a lot of information on the marriage of equality, along with some drag queens strolling about in seven inch heels, and several naked people, who made me more cold than disgusted. The entire event was basically a way for people to commercialize their businesses and make money. No one asked me if I was a lesbian. No one commented on the way I looked. My imagination must’ve been working overtime to make Pride into a bigger event than what it really was, and I’m a little sad I stayed away from it for so long. Or maybe not. I wasn’t all that impressed.

The sky turned grey, then the sun said hi during the dykes on bikes march, then it rolled into the clouds and became a pretty navy, but really cold. I went to the block party where I got lost several times, and while I had wonderful conversations and snorted loudly, laughing at people’s jokes and how expensive the drinks were and how cold the naked people looked, I was freezing, tired and perplexed. Me at 19 would’ve loved this scene, or at least, been more tolerant of it. But at 23, I’m old, exhausted, and ready for bedtime when ten rolls around. Maybe I just wasn’t able to find what I was looking for. What was I looking for anyway?

One of the things that kept me from pride is my own struggle with my orientation. At 16 I sort of identified myself as bisexual, but wasn’t fully comfortable with it because it felt limiting. It’s not like someone who’s gay or straight. That has a particular look to it since both orientations are monosexual, and normally associated with maturity and stability. Bisexuality always seems more complicated and dubious, dirty almost. I don’t consider myself to be homophobic, but what I may have been looking for was a mirror — someone who had the same questions and concerns, to know that I’m not as crazy or confusing as I may seem. I’ve never lied about my orientation to someone I’m interested in. They deserve to know the truth. But I have been rejected or seen as inconsistent and unable to settle down because of it. And with my own experience of bisexuals I have my own gripes with bisexuality. Here are some of my pet peeves:

1. If I tell people I’m bi, they automatically want to assume what gender I’ll end up with long term.

2. That I’m always thinking about sex.

3. That my sexuality is somehow more easily accessible than a straight woman or a lesbian.

4. That my past involvement will determine my future.

5. That if I get involved with someone then my identity will somehow be put on hold and I’ll become that lesbian couple or that straight couple in order to gain privilege.

6. My gay friends may not ask about someone I’m dating if it’s a man.

7. That bisexuality is fun, hip, glamorous or trendy (I kinda blame Tila Tequila and Girls Gone Wild for this one).

8. That I’m crazy, deranged, or something else is horrendously wrong with me.

9. That if I’m on a date I need to prove I’m bisexual (example — a few years ago I went on a date with a woman who asked me to flirt with guys with her. I told her she was the only person I was interested in flirting with that evening).

10. That I’m polyamorous

11. That I’m not polyamorous (and I just cheat and sleep around)

And finally the stereotype that I absolutely positively hate hate hate:

12. That as a bisexual woman I claimed I’m bi because I made out with a girl for a guy’s approval and I really liked it, but I’ve always had relationships with men, and I’ll always chose men, and in order to appease my bi side, I may try to get some poor unsuspecting woman to join us in our bedroom to spice it up.

That last one really angers me since I’m afraid that if I openly identify as bi that’s all I’ll attract. It’s misogynistic and manipulative to treat some single woman as an oversized marital aid just so you can have something interesting to fantasize about afterwards. I feel like telling couples like these to seek out other couples, and please leave the poor cute bi girls alone. Chances are, we don’t want to be a part of your triad. And if that’s all that approaches you, chances are also likely a gay or queer woman won’t.

But how do you show that? Most days I wake up wishing I had been born completely gay or completely straight. At least then I’d have a community to be rooted and accepted in, without too many questions or limitations. But in this in the middle position (which I don’t know how to articulate) I don’t have any community to go home to. And I could explain what my sexual orientation means to me, but it sounds all jumbled and it’s a little too private for me to even say here. So I hope this gives a glimpse of what goes on in my head every spring. The same questions appeared when I was asked by various men (because no woman wanted to talk to me) what kind of girls do you like? Are you just coming out of the closet? And I reply, it’s complicated. Because it is.

In the midst of the dykes on bikes, the chubby, hairy chested bears, the cruising and 80s Madonna songs, Pride is all about the simplicity of celebration at its core (without the expensive vendors and their unnecessary gear) and where I’m at is more complex than that. Sure, it’d be nice to out to everyone where everyone knows what your orientation is and they’re okay with that, but we don’t live in that world and not every place is gay friendly. Some people can be out with everyone and others can’t. I might be one of those ones who can be selectively out, but I have to be okay with that. And maybe because I’m on my way to accepting that, Pride has lost its allure and symbolism to me. Which is a shame. I wish I’d had the courage to go years ago. I might have needed it more back then.

I haven’t been sleeping well, but I’ve been sleeping a lot.  Most mornings I wake up sleeping two hours past my alarm and with a stubborn back ache.  I keep thinking it’s because I don’t have a pillow, but it’s been a series of dreammares (the combination of a nightmare and a dream) that enthral me in this never wake up land and make me late to work (which I have nothing to do right now anyway).  For the past week I’ve had the same dream.  I’m hanging out with friends and then I get a knock on the door and it’s my mom with news I don’t want to hear.  I don’t know what the news is, but it’s not good.  And there are a lot of snakes, tons of these silvery blue strips of muscle slithering about.  That’s when I wake up with this strain in the central part of my back and go to back to bed to find some way to return to the dream its finale.  But it never resolves itself.

Yesterday I made the obligatory weekly phone call to my mom and I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was different.  While I heated some waffles she listed her usual litany of complaints — she needs to find a bigger place, needs a bigger car.  She wants me to move back home and she’s worried about the new guy she’s seeing, and that she fainted at work.  One of her friend’s wife is pregnant, which I don’t know why they planned for it.  Her friend nor his wife can afford another child.  But when she couldn’t understand why I didn’t catch the pregnacy fever and start gushing over this new addition, I said, “What, are you pregnant too?”  And there was silence.  “Answer my question” I said, and then she replied, yes, she’s pregnant.

That’s right.   Call my dream a premonition.  At 39, my mom is going to have another child.  She didn’t want to tell me this until I see her in August and just show up with a huge bump.  I don’t think she thought this all the way through since she just started seeing this new guy and financially she’s a little strapped.  She wants me to agree with her decision of keeping it, and I can’t.  Because she should be thinking about her future. Because it’ll be hard to re-experience being a single mother all over again.  But here’s the truth — because children freak me out.

When I take apart all of my mothering instincts and desire to fall back into our old patterns that’s it.  I feel incredibly uncomfortable around children.  Look, I know it’s not the most PC thing to say but that’s where I’m at.  My mom doesn’t see me having children ever, because she says I’m selfish.  And she’s right.  I like doing whatever I want to do and not having to answer to anyone, and I like having my time as my own.  I’m still very much like a little kid which is why I don’t want one.  I don’t know if this will ever change, but I think it’s more self concious although selfish to recognize my desire to not have little snot filled noses to wipe, than it is to have one because she wants to be a grandmother.  And it looks like she’ll have some little snot filled noses to wipe soon enough anyway.

I’m happy I don’t have children but I’m almost afraid I’ve embraced the child free philosophy, which I think is pretty heartless.  Granted I don’t spend a lot of time in child rittled places, and I find it a challenge to befriend someone with kids.  I’m so far gone that kids would even be a dealbreaker for dating, because I don’t want to deal with them.  And even saying this, I realize this is the ultimate hypocrisy because everyone was a child at one point.  How can you not like them?  Sometimes I imagine myself as a mom.  I’d be partnered up because I don’t want to be a single mom.  I like to think I’m strong, but I’m not strong like that.  I’d be great, and in those dreams I raise kind, sophisticated, well mannered kids, but I’d probably have some kids that are like my older siblings:  just reckless.  I’d probably be one of those mothers who doesn’t like any other children besides my own.  To normal. well adjusted people kids are sweet, but I see them as being selfish and power seeking.  And how can a selfish adult be around someone else who’s designed to be selfish?  It’d be a lousy combination although lots of people selfish people still have kids. 

Anyway, this is all on my mind.  I recongnize that my mom is her own person, and it’s her responsibility.  Not mine.   But the fact that I’ll be around children again is freaking me out a little.  I’ll sleep on it,  especially since I just got some new pillows.

And now, it’s time for Christina to bitch about her life.  I’ve tried rehearsing the usual speech in my head about this, but it might be better if I just got it off my chest and posted my issues out there for everyone who reads this to see.  Friend drama has consumed most of my thoughts this week, which is odd.  I’m not seeing anyone, so I thought I’d be exempt from this.

But no.  Onto the drama.  BFF and I are friends no longer.  He broke up with me last week after a long conversation which mostly consisted of him yelling at me. Our troubles started after we graduate, when he equated me moving up here with leaving him.  Now he’s in Davis working on his art, and staying with a few friends.  I’ve tried to arrange times to see him, but we keep getting our wires crossed and it never happened.  And I made it to Sacramento a few weekends ago, but at the last minute, he said he didn’t want to see me…why couldn’t I see him in Davis?  Because in Davis I’d have to pay for my food and shelter, and at least in Sacramento I could crash with someone else.  And when I returned home, he berated me for not taking enough to invest in this friendship, and what was I going to do to fix it (minus a few choice words).  It basically boiled down to:  he felt like I wasn’t listening to him, I felt like he was too demanding.  I mean, sure, I could charge my card for a train ride and hotel and go up to Davis to prove how important our friendship is to me, but that’s irresponsible and I am tired of trying to show how much I need him in my life.  There’s been tension since I moved out of Riverside, mainly about work.  He’s never worked a day in his life and I had to work my way through school.  He has friends and family who enable his behavior (myself included).  An since we’re not around each other we don’t need each other in the same intensity or level as we once did.  The past few months have been strained and I am a bit relieved that I no longer have to continue in a relationship that drained me but offered very little in return.

But i miss him so.  Crazy as he was, he was loyal.  I anticipated that we’d end soon because of the way things are going, and it’d probably happen sooner or later.  And the impact of this has been terrible. It’s almost worse than a break up.  For the past few days I’ve just had the energy to barely get out of bed and go to work (which I failed to do Friday an yesterday).  And most of my time has been spent writing in my journal and watching reruns of “Intevention”.  Since I still have to go to work, I figured I’d do this instead.

Along with me losing BFF, I’ve also had friend drama with another friend. A few weeks ago I hung out with this particular friend and she revealed to me that at one point she was interested in me romantically but no longer isn’t.  Okay. Then she gave me a list of all the things that’s wrong with me.  Which I didn’t need.  So lately I’ve had a hard time being as warm and friendly to her as I have been in the past, and on our way back to Oakland, she said she didn’t think I liked her anymore.  I couldn’t answer her question, because the answer wasn’t too friendly.  I do like her, but emotionally I do not feel safe around her since that previous evening.  She used a lot of things that I had told her against me, and I don’t know if I can open up to her in the same way. 

And then there’s drama with the roommates.  When I first moved in there, they boasted themselves as a friendly atmostphere, who does lots of things, and they relished their youth.  However, I’ve found that when I do try approaching them or talking to them, they aren’t interested in conversing with me. I also don’t have much in common with them.  So I say less, but one roommate spoke to me and asked me not to isloate myself from the rest of the house.  The problem I have with this is:  they;ve asked me not to use the common spaces and we don’t have much in common. I figure we have two solutions.  I can minimalize the time I spend in the house.  We don’t have to be friends, but respect the common space since they have no interest in talking to me.  Or we can try to be friends, but I need more of an effort from them to actually incoporate me into the space. I can’t do this on my own.  But with how exhausted I am, and how juvenille they can be, I’m tempted to chose the former option.

There’s more drama I could lament on: the meetings with my boss that turned into therapy sessions and the stop and go of job searching, but that can be another post.  It’s just that I’ve having a hard time telling which relationships are worth the work and which ones are worth saving.  Times like these I wish for a dues ex machina, or someone else to lead it for me.

Sometimes, I think I want to go back.

I want to return to my senior year of high school, which I saw at the time as the preamble to my freshman year of college. The SAT prep tests, the endless nights drafting essays and pre dawn mornings of badgering the mailman for new mail - I took it all in. College was the way to escape my mom, my lame life that left me with nothing else but working a low paying job, and a way to grasp my education, my independence. All year I longed for the fat packages and dreaded the skinny envelopes, drafting the FAFSA and waited for the moment to tell everyone, that I was going to college.

Back then, I saw my real life beginning when my mom helped me move into my too small dorm with too large furniture. I couldn’t envision myself as married, but I thought I’d be invited to my roommate’s wedding. Back then, I looked forward to the lectures and discussions, the long lines for dorm food. The opportunity to meet new and interesting people overwhelmed me and I got into the habit of starting conversations with strangers. I remember aimlessly wandering around with a group of hallmates, desperately in search of a party, but ended up at Denny’s drinking an extra large coke with eight straws. I had a lot of nights like those, where I longed for trouble, a binge drinking, speaker thumping house party with weed and random makeout sessions abound, but I usually ended up with a night at Denny’s, Starbuck’s or settling for a movie. Or I ended up in the lounge discussing the meaning of life, which one of us would get kidnapped, and which boys were cute? Instead of the college scenes I’d grown accustomed to on tv, there were no cops. We were quieter but more anxious in a way. We were still waiting for our lives to begin, with each other or indulging in the reckless drama of the bed hopping.

I remember getting involved with my community, or so I told myself. In college I volunteered, helping with the Women of Color and Western Regional Conferences, convinced I was helping make a difference in someone’s life, in my own at least. The early mornings and late evenings were worth it to discuss the merits of nonmonogamy, working wages, the kidnappings in Juarez and whatever else those sexually sociopolitical savvy presenters came up with.

Other memories come up when I’m filing away and in useless meetings. When I hung out aimlessly at the center as if I didn’t have anything else to do. Movie nights at my place, providing commentary to “Foxy Brown” and “Boogie Nights.” There was applying for studying abroad in London, in which I renamed EAP Endless Assault of Paperwork. And there’s London. Oh, lovely, expensive London which drove me crazy. I fell in love with the city, its rain, its farmer’s markets and daring attempts to get tickets to Broadway shows. I spent long, luxurious days in bed, alone and with others. I watched my flatmates get hammered and found it’s not as glamorous as I thought it was.

Or sometimes I think about the times I spent alone, cooking, reading, really getting into writing and spending hours upon hours getting lost into it. And how content I was with that. Or when I worked with Americorps planting trees, painting houses and chilling with the homies, or hanging out after hours and putting it on the tab. Or when I lounged around discussing our lives and how they would end. I spoke at length about how our lives, our real lives were going to begin. These were all moments that would think fondly about in my past.

Sometimes I think I want to go back to those moments! I just want a dorm and a meal plan, a large library, rushing off to go to class. I want to lay in bed and hear the bells from the bell tower chime on Sunday evenings. Or maybe to lay in grass and take naps, or work endlessly editing on the literary mag. I want to play ultimate Frisbee or head off to a play. Munch on a vegetarian sandwich at Jammin’ Bread or get a smoothie. I want to have a high flying adventure and risk off to the night with Noel to LA for Chinese food, play endless games of would you rather and ten fingers. I want to read a sociology textbook or study for a Spanish quiz. I want to run around in the sprinklers at midnight, or smoke hookah, or wander around the campus at night, or read Goethe or Billy Collins before I go to bed. I want to wake up before the sunrise and watch the pale pink sky move through the smog. I want to think the world is filled with endless possibilities and new jobs, new loves and new friends. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a few college students hop off the bus, ready to party their co-ed minds out since they were done with their job, and I swear I wanted to cry. I wanted to trade their optimistic joy for my jaded cynicism. I wanted to be where they were because I know that feeling of exhilaration, and I miss it dearly.

But this is only sometimes. College swells me with wistful, painful memories, that are triggered by random objects. Sometimes I look at the college me and what I hoped I would graduate as. I thought I’d be out, proud, socially critical with a good head on my shoulders, a solid love resume and great experience and I’d have everything I needed in tow to succeed in the real world. In college I talked too much, ate too much, told people too many things, let too many things that people said about me get to me, make me believe they were true. I thought I was going to be a whole new me. Now, I’m still me, maybe quieter, more perceptive, more compassionate and more self conscious. I have love and appreciation for as many things as I possibly can, but I no longer try to be the life of the party. I’m as open as a locked safe. Most of my college connections are lost to time, other friends, lack of energy, other interests. That fantasy of college life is gone since I’m no longer in it. And maybe it’s that fantasy of me that I’m missing.

These fantasies of what could have been plague me, keep me awake, haunt me whenever I want to reach out to someone but can’t. I’m reminded that I’ve fallen short of what I hoped to accomplish. But this is sometimes. Then I remember the other times. For every moment of exhilaration in college, there were at least three hours devoted to sadness over my inability to communicate, or the endless search to find others or who I was along the way. There were moments when I felt invisible, and wanted to crawl under the covers and hope to disappear the next morning.

So it’s sometimes. Sometimes I want my college life back because I knew it, and I don’t know how to be a proper grown up. Sometimes I treasure these memories, and look forward to having more from this time. Memories are just ways to pass time, pointless nostalgia to get us from one moment to the next.

One of the rarest gifts any single person could have (meaning me) is having single friends. Friends are rare in themselves, but finding someone who is willing to invest in the friendship even while they could spent time hunting for a new relationship is something I have always valued. Mainly because there are little idiosyncrasies, feelings and habits that I can openly express around someone else who is single because they going through the same thing, unlike married or seriously involved friends who give me that blank stare and say they don’t understand. So last week I went to see one of my friends, who is a friend and is single. We went out for pho because he’s never had it before, and since it takes so long to eat it properly, as opposed to slurping it, it would give us plenty of time to catch up.

It was obvious that we needed to talk about the respective changes each of us has made, since he’s grown out a goatee and has started dressing better. I’m sure he’s trying to gain some confidence when it comes to talking to women, but this entire appearance screamed Party Boy, which he is not. Anyway, it turns out that he has become a fan of David deAngelo, a leader in the seduction community. Apparently, this community teaches men how to flirt with women and build attraction. I was a big fan of the pick up artist when it was on VH1 and I have mixed feelings about the seduction community. While I think it’s nice that this gives men confidence to approach women, and teaches them how to flirt, I have a problem with the way it’s taught. It gives guys the impression that cocky and funny is the way to go, that arrogance shows women who’s boss and by getting her email instead of her phone number, by having her cook for you instead of dating her, and by demanding that she be single although the guy may have a harem going around, I think this darker side teaches men that dating is about quantity and control more than it is about trying to have a relationship, opening and sharing.

There’s also the problem of what kind of women would positively respond to these techniques, which my friend lamented on. “I’ve been meeting a lot of women, but these aren’t the kind of women I’d be attracted to. There’s no substance or depth to them,” he said while rolling his eyes. Of course there’s some serious lackluster in this technique. He’s been able to meet more and women who are attracted to him, but the problem is that these are not the kind of women he’d like to date long term. I told him that while I applaud his efforts to get out there and meet more women, his problem could be that he’s not being authentic. So naturally he’s going to attract women Party Guy him would like, but not the real him when he’s around his friends.

But what does that say about me? I’ve been perpetually single forever and the reasons change over time — because I was too focused on school, because I didn’t know what I wanted, because I had to spend time healing myself from other mishaps. And like my friend, I’d like to date, but I don’t know how. A few weeks ago I removed all of my online profiles, because I just had too many bad experiences with them recently. I was having a hard time telling if the person who contacted me was actually available, and I should not have to decipher that on a first date, or at least while communicating with someone. My non single friends all think I am crazy, that I must be doing something wrong in order to attract all these people who aren’t right for me, but my single friends concurred with having similar bad experiences. I don’t drink and I think it’s obvious that the bad boy bar scene type would not be interested in me. As one guy who fit that profile said, emotionally I’m too high maintenance. And I could be.

So I took the advice of a volunteer, who suggested I go to a matchmaking service. He said I don’t seem like the type of girl to meet someone in the traditional ways people my age meet, and it would be a great way to expand my social circle. So I called one and set up an appointment. They wouldn’t tell me the price over the phone and since they accept only 50% of their applicants, they’d have to screen me first in order to see if they could even find a suitable match within their clientele. I figured it was only an hour and I don’t have to pay for it, so I agreed to the consultation. But the whole time in between I was nervous. What if they told me exactly what was wrong with me? Was I clingy? Did I come off as stiff? Was I no fun?

I walked into their small office and filled out a five page questionare about what I was looking for with their services and I basically told them the truth. I don’t need a relationship, but I would like one because it would enrich my already busy life. I’d like someone to share with, and have deep conversations and also be down to act silly with me every once in a while, who liked to do a lot of activities…yada yada yada. You know the drill. I had to write this down without fear, which meant leaving out the obvious that has already gotten me in trouble. Should I tell them I’d like someone who’s single, meaning not married or already in a relationship, who doesn’t drink heavily, do drugs, who’ll like me and is under 50? See. I feel like I just eliminated my entire market with that previous sentence. The director informed me that what the real me was looking for, without fear, was out there, and what I wanted wasn’t that different from everyone else. I was expecting her to give me a litany of all the things wrong with me, and you know what she said was wrong with me? NOTHING. Maybe I just love confessions of a matchmaker too much, but I couldn’t believe that NOTHING is wrong with me. She said that she thought I was darling and I’d make an ideal girlfriend, and that she’d like for me to join.

Then we had to talk about the price. Yikes. It’s expensive, and it’s a two year contract. I don’t have money for this, and I may not for another six months, so we left it at that. I look at it as an investment, as something that I am doing for my emotional well being, and it may take awhile before I am able to earn in monetarily, but they aren’t going anywhere. So when I get a better paying job, which should be in three months, I’ll start to save toward this goal.

I’m sure you’re wondering where the quirkyalone is coming in, and I’ll explain it. Last year, a girl I dated said I seemed like a quirkyalone, which is this new movement of people who are socioable, outgoing and who are into romance but don’t date simply for the sake of dating, as opposed to diving from relationship to relationship because you don’t want to be alone. I would say that I ascribe to this philosophy except for two things: while seeing lovey-dovey couples is occasionally annoying, I don’t outright hate them. And two, sometimes I feel like being single is a nuetral state. Some days, like last weekend, I like that I have no one else to answer to. I liked that my time was mine, and with that I went to the botanical gardens, met new people and read. There are moments when I just want to watch “Sex and the City” reruns while folding my laundry, and not being involved gives me a freedom that I know I wouldn’t normally have. On the other hand, there are moments, when it sucks, and I can’t explain where the bad feeling comes from. It happens in small moments, like when I heard that eveyone else in my office is going on vacation with their loved ones, while I cannot, mainly because I am too poor and I just have myself to vacation with. The only thing I am putting off while I am single is having children. Intentionally becoming a single mother isn’t for me. But there are definitely those times when I miss the connection and intimacy that’s sorely lacking from my life.

So the average perfect quirkyalone (is that an oxymoron?) would just be happy taking classes, finding new things and new friends and one day a romantic obsession will just find them and fall in love with them. While I like this idea, it’s too idealistic. How in the world are you going to find the dating relationship for you if you don’t start…dating? That’s the part I can’t reconcile, and that’s the part where my friend and I are having difficulty. He’s trying to change his approach, while I’m trying to change my venue. Maybe we both need to change. Maybe it’s the setting.

The reason I went to see the matchmaker is because I don’t want to continue doing the same thing — liking someone who may not like me, and wake up five years, ten years, fifteen years…and realize I’ve done the same thing without the results I’m looking for. So I need to be more proactive, and get as serious about my emotional well being as I am about my career (more about that). I can’t speak for my friend, but often I wonder, am I trying too hard to hire Cupid, or should I take the quirkyalone approach and just let things happen…even if they don’t happen for a couple of years? Ten years? Fifteen years?