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On When Mothers-In-Law Attack

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

My mother-in-law arrived for a weekend visit yesterday.

You’re waiting for the joke, right?

Of course you are, because mothers-in-law are comedy gold. They nag, they demand, they butt-in. At best, you enjoy a detente with her; at worst, she’s a perpetual thorn in your side. Or something like that.

Our enmity isn’t reserved for just mothers-in-law. Stock in-law characters abound. The father-in-law should be off drinking in a corner, crass, and always willing to share unwanted opinions. The sister-in-law should be needy, high maintenance, with a perpetual string of bad relationships. The brother-in-law should be recently out of rehab, need a few bucks, and root for a sports team you hate. The remainder of the in-law clan are straight out of central casting too, filling out the scene with an oddball cast of characters, sometimes entertaining, usually infuriating.

One of the most important functions of the in-law is the capacity to ruin a holiday. I’m not talking about Aunt Matilda having a gout flare-up. I mean full on, no holds barred, drama. Food may be thrown. Voices will definitely be raised. Life choices will be second-guessed. Huffs will be made. Tears will be shed. Conflicts thought long-settled will rise like a phoenix. Dishes will be washed with violent aggression. Football games will be watched in awkward silences. Promises will be made internally to never visit again.

It’s too bad we have this cultural hostility to our adopted families. I guess our antipathy is rooted in some kind of resentment about being forced to spend time with people we didn’t choose. We choose our spouse, but we get his family as a non-negotiable part of the bargain. You’re stuck with them.

But what if our national conversation about in-laws was different? What if the default setting wasn’t a punchline? What if the norm was an expectation to work toward fostering actual relationships with our new family members? Would we meet our in-laws with our guards down a little more, hearts a little more open? Would the price of losing some clichéd jokes be worth gaining new relationships that add color and variety to our lives?

My in-laws have been an amazing addition to my life. Uncle Riley fascinates me with his voracious reading and study of philosophy. He’ll profess to not know much, but the secret is he’s as well read and intelligent a gentleman as you will ever meet. And, then, there’s Aunt Penelope, with her academic and military pedigree.  Most importantly, she’s just plain fun. You haven’t experienced a family event until you’ve tag-teamed it with Aunt Penelope, standing on the sidelines, people watching and taking in all the action. Sarcastic remarks will be made, savored, and remembered! Hubby’s three brothers entertain me as they each travel their own unique paths through life, and his dad sheds light on a slice of life completely foreign to me.

So, when my mother-in-law Belinda arrived yesterday, I greeted her with a big hug, and I meant it. I’m looking forward to the weekend together. A true lady that, under those stylish clothes, is a real fighter. Wise from life’s lumps, she’s got a big heart and a vulnerability not born of weakness but of openness to life and its offerings. She’s also filthy rich with love for her boys.

Ultimately, whether it’s your in-laws or not, meaningful family relationships don’t just happen. You have to be open to them, and they take work. But it’s better than resenting time spent with virtual strangers. Your in-laws aren’t playing a part. They’re in your life because they love someone you love. And, who knows, maybe you’ll end up loving them too.

On Fading Music

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

When I answered the phone, it was the church secretary, asking to speak to my mom. I handed her the phone, and my dad and I watched as her facial expression changed from attention to concern to sadness and tears. Our family friend Brenda had been killed in a car accident.

Brenda was a wife, mother of two, teacher, and a fantastic French horn player. She had a sweet, kind spirit, and her loss was tragic and cruel. I remember the beautiful dark blue casket, trimmed with silver and white. A beautiful box for an awful, ugly occasion.

A week after her death, I found myself in her home. My parents and I had gone to visit. We probably brought food. Everyone does, right? Brenda’s husband Don was in his bedroom, practicing his trumpet. A musician like Brenda, Don was the choir director at church. I actually knew Don better than Brenda. He encouraged my trombone playing, and every week Don and I would accompany the piano and organ during the services. I was a dork with a trombone in my hands; Don was a trained musician with real talent. He was kind to encourage me.

I sat in his bedroom as he practiced, trying to make kind conversation. I was 19 years old and out of my element. He was a middle-aged man. What was I going to say that was profound and comforting? I can’t recall anything I said, but I do recall something Don said. At one point, he put his trumpet down, looked at me, and said, “Brenda wasn’t just my wife or lover. She was my best friend.” At the time, I was caught off guard by his description of his wife as his lover, but, 20 years later, I simply recall a man trying to explain that he had just lost everything.

Weeks and months went by. Many people in the church reached out; my dad was especially helpful in stabilizing Don in his new situation. I went back to college but continued to play music with Don when I came into town. Still, things were never the same. The joy he had in his life was never regained. There was the loveless remarriage. The big house. The sports car. And, then, the drinking. And more drinking. The DUIs. The attempts to get better. And more drinking.

In 2004, less than a decade after Brenda’s death, Don was found dead, sitting in a chair. He had drank himself to death.

I think about Don often. His amazing musical talent, his quirky sense of humor, and his wonderful kindness to me. I have absolutely no ability to sing, but, one night, there I was, singing a Disney song to a group of elderly churchgoers with Don accompanying me. It’s comical to think about now. I’m sure Don knew I could not sing a lick, but he was completley supportive in that way. He just wanted to make music.

When bad things happen, people like to talk about closure, healing, moving on. I’m sure we talk about those things to be optimistic, but, maybe we talk about those things because we don’t want to admit the reality that, from some hurts, some losses, there is no closure. No healing. No moving on. Some cuts are simply too deep. You cannot love completely, you cannot make someone your world, and, then, when they are gone, find closure.

The last time I saw Don was at a wedding reception. I had not seen him for several years, and he looked much older. Grey hair, heavier around the middle, weighted cheeks, darkened eyes. He greeted me warmly, but something was a little off. It wasn’t quite the person I remembered. I had heard of his drinking, and I figured he had been drinking at the reception. After a big hug and small talk, he said, “Let’s get together and play some music next time you’re in town.” When he said that, I could see a spark flash briefly in his eyes. I’d like to think it was the Don I knew all those years ago. The Don that was so patient and kind to me. The Don that selected Christmas songs for the church services because he knew how much I loved to play them. The Don that just wanted to make music.

I said I would love to play, left town, and never saw him again. A year later, he was gone.

I’ve wondered what would of happened had I made more of an effort to get back to town to play with Don. You like to think you could have made a difference, given him a reason to go on, given him a chance to make music again, but I’m sure that’s just egotistic dreaming. I think the music in Don’s heart had faded many years before.

The truth is, that day in the kitchen, when the church secretary called to let us know that Brenda had been killed, Don was gone too.

On Knowing When To Quit

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

I’m wrestling with a very difficult decision. It goes against every fiber of my being. It violates a key value that was instilled in me as a child, and has me questioning where the madness will end if I tip over this first domino. That’s right, I’m trying to decided if I should stop reading a book I’m halfway through and hating.

I’m reading “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” I picked up Robert M. Pirsig’s famous work with high hopes. Four decades after its publication, the book is considered a classic. Fresh off Aldous Huxley’s fantastic (if slow) “Island,” I was ready for more thought-provoking writing, and, given my interest in philosophy, finally getting around to reading this staple of American literature seemed like a great decision. The New York Times called it “exhilarating!”

I call it “awful.”

The autobiographical story is set during the multi-week motorcycle trip of a father (the narrator), his intellectually/emotionally-challenged son, and two friends. The travel-log and father/son parts of the book are only window dressing though, as the book is primarily concerned with the mental wanderings of the father as he figuratively does philosophical battle with his former self that he now only remembers in fragments due to electroshock therapy. The travel-log and father/son parts are actually interesting, but the philosophy aspect of the book dominates. Wait, dominates is too weak a word. The philosophy aspect of the book torturously squeezes all joy, insight, fun, and enjoyment out of the book.

As much as I dislike the book, I’m disliking even more the idea of quitting. You see, maybe you’ve heard, but quitters never win and winners never quit. In our household growing up, you didn’t quit something you started. That might have happened in other houses, but not our’s. Neighbors and friends started and stopped hobbies and extracurricular activities as often as they changed clothes. Not this kid. I started martial arts and band in elementary school, and I was still kicking and playing in one form or another through college. My sister danced or cheered from before kindergarten through college. When my sister quit band after three years, though, it caused a minor family crisis. My mother still tells the story with anguish in her voice, painfully recounting that my sister had just received a band member of year award the year before. The year before! Honestly, I’m not sure my mother has ever fully respected my sister after that fateful decision. Quitter!

Quitting isn’t easy, even if your household didn’t lock you into longer contracts than cell phone companies. No one wants to be a quitter, but how long must one endure the disliked, unwanted, or uninteresting? How long must you try out the new hobby before you decide that you actually hate it? 1 day, 4 months, or 7 years? At what point can you drop the new extracurricular activity? After a few days, or not until you’re the vice president of something? Even the great Kenny Rogers doesn’t help us. He reminds us that we have to know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em, but he never gets to the verse where he explains how to figure out the difference.

I’ve read 240 pages of a 400 page book, and I’ve read enough to know where the story is going with a fair amount of certainty. I’m not motivated to read any more and can’t foresee caring what else happens. Perhaps most importantly, the draw of other books is stronger than the draw to this book. Maybe, at the end of the day, there is no formula to knowing when to quit. You have to trust yourself to make that call. Maybe the point of not quitting as a kid is so you know what commitment is, and, as an adult, you’ll know when it’s okay to end that commitment.

In the end, I come back to my sister’s clarinet. She threw away a bright musical future, but, to her credit, she’s never looked back.  If she can give up the clarinet the year after winning a major award, I can be strong enough to walk away from my book.

I just hope my parents can look me in the face next time we meet.

On Being Honest

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

We’re always told that honesty is the best policy, but, as an attorney, I’d like a look at the fine print.

We start our honesty indoctrination early, teaching kids that George Washington could not tell a lie and admitted to chopping at his father’s cherry tree with his hatchet. The irony, of course, is that this life lesson on honesty is a lie. Washington never did such a thing.

Next, we expose the kids to Pinocchio, who suffered the embarrassment of a growing nose every time he fibbed. It doesn’t take much to see right through this whopper. If we could change our bodies by lying, we wouldn’t need plastic surgeons, anti-aging creams, gym memberships, or any of the other zillion products and services we use to chase youth. Moreover, lots of politicians would resemble life-size Mr. Potato Heads assembled by blind chimpanzees.

Finally, we whip out the nuclear bomb: Santa Claus. That’s right. The old dude in the red suit is always watching. He knows when you’re naughty and when you’re nice, and surely not being honest falls under the “naughty” clause, although, again, the attorney in me could argue the other side, for the right hourly fee. I’d add that we may want to reconsider entrusting the morals of our children to a dude who works one day a year, has special skills in breaking into your home, and might be just a little too close to woodland creatures. Hey, I’m just saying.

These are all valid criticisms, but they still don’t identify the biggest problem with our cultural conversation concerning honesty. When we think about this principle, it’s always in the context of honesty with other people, i.e., stealing, deception, fraud. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t get at the most important person in the honesty game: one’s self.

People aren’t honest with themselves, about themselves, for a host of reasons. One big one, though, traces back to the very people who first taught us to be honest: parents and teachers. We teach young people that they can be anything they want to be. Little Billy can be an astronaut, bright-eyed Susie can be President! Maybe, but the fact that Little Billy is in 8th grade and hasn’t move beyond subtraction surely casts serious doubt on his chances to be the first human on Mars. As for Susie, well, her three shoplifting charges probably won’t play well in the primaries.

We tell ourselves and our children these little lies out of good intentions, but an unintended consequence for some is the feeling that they never quite measured up to their potential. That disconnect is fertile ground for self-deception. No one wants to think they’re not a success, and, if it takes a little self-delusion to think you met impossibly set goalposts, well, lots of folks are going to engage in just that.

Being honest with yourself doesn’t require public self-flagellation, but it does require a sincere acknowledgment of mistakes, of limits, and of wrongs. It also requires an inner response to those things, and a candor with others when you see your faults and limits in your friends, family, and coworkers. The slings and arrows of life teach this to most people, but one only need look around to see all the pain suffered by those that don’t clue in.

In many ways, being honest with yourself, about yourself, is more difficult than being honest with others. But, until you can acknowledge and accept that you might not be as smart, as talented, as accomplished, and as overall awesome as you were promised to be, you can’t be the person you were honestly meant to be.

And that’s the truth.

On Running in Circles

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

My new running shoes look and feel great. Now, if I only loved to run.

I run a few times per week. No marathoner, I run around three miles, and that’s enough for me. I get a nice little cardio workout, enjoy time rocking to some great music, and tune out just about everything else. When I’m done, I’ve got a great sweat going, and I feel like I’ve exercised.

The one part of my running routine that’s missing is the part where I love doing it. I run because it’s easy exercise. It’s a great off-day exercise between gym days, and, perhaps most importantly, it’s pretty uninvolved. No machines necessary, no trainers, no special anything, really. If you’ve got a half decent pair of shoes, you can run. You don’t need the latest and the greatest running gear, although, take it from a veteran, some anti-chafing glide gel is your best friend. I’ll spare you the back story.

I’ve heard about “the runner’s high,” the zen-like state that some runners achieve. I can only assume that life’s mysteries are solved around mile 7 or later, because I’ve never run more than 6.5 miles at any one time. I’ve never experienced this Nirvana, and, maybe if I had, I’d love running more. Instead, I plod along, my energy and enthusiasm almost exclusively tied to the song playing on my iPod.

My current route is a large circle around my neighborhood, so, in fact, I run in circles, which is only slightly better than the bad-weather days I run on a treadmill resulting in running and going nowhere at all. I’m pretty sure if I loved running more, I’d seek out adventurous, non-circular running paths. Maybe I’d join a running club where we’d all wear matching (dorky) running jerseys and running shorts that seem impossibly and unnecessarily short. Or maybe I’d enter lots of ultra-marathon races, continually pushing to beat my best time, pumping my fist wildly as I broke through the finish line tape to wild shouts, applause, and camera flashes. Nike and Adidas would fight over sponsoring me, and Men’s Health Magazine would beg to put me on the cover. None of that will happen, but I guess it could.

My relationship with running and its lack-luster quality isn’t unusual. When you think about it, people usually end up running in circles, or going nowhere at all, precisely when they are doing things they don’t really love. No inspiration. No energy. No desire to do anything different. Truly just going through the motions. And, you know, maybe that’s just fine. Not everything can be a thrilling, life-changing experience. We need the mundane so those life-changing experiences can really mean something.

It’s too bad our culture doesn’t embrace the mundane more. We hop, skip, and jump from one “awesome” thing to another so much that “awesome” no longer really means anything. We are always “taking it to the next level,” never stopping to ask what was so bad about this level. I guess that’s progress.

I’m going to keep up the good fight. My boring, uninspired running is good for me. It may not be sponsorship-worthy, but I’m dedicated to it. And that’s enough for me. Next time you’re driving down the road, you may see me. Sweating, slightly pained expression, shuffling at an incredibly unimpressive speed, no smile, putting in the miles. Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m just running in circles…and meaning to.

On Time Travel

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Growing up, I spent a lot of time at the YMCA. Basketball camps, youth lock-ins, swimming lessons, I was always there. I took so many swimming lessons, I’m convinced my eyes have permanent chlorine in them. I can still remember the pain of the bright sunshine on my burning eyes as we emerged from the indoor pool after my lessons. The pain was worth it, though; I was committed to moving up the hallowed swim lesson ranks, from tadpole to guppy to fish to flying fish to shark to porpoise. The over-achiever impulse started young.

I spent so much time in the water growing up that it seemed natural to become a lifeguard and swim instructor for the YMCA. Often, I would be on duty as the lifeguard as the swim team practiced. In other words, it wasn’t the most taxing job. Often, it could be pretty boring. The Baywatch television show made the job look glamorous, and, sure, I had the buff body and the sexy slow-motion run down pat. Still, it could be a pretty uneventful job. That is, until the day the job caused me to time travel.

It was a Friday evening, and I was at home, not feeling well. I can’t remember the specific symptoms, but I distinctly recall feeling “off.” I knew something was wrong when I felt the urge to go to be early in the evening. I was and still am a dedicated night owl. That night, though, I felt exhausted. Luckily, the next day was Saturday, and I didn’t have any commitments until that evening at 6:30pm, when I had to work a private swim party at the YMCA.

Private parties were the bane of the life guard corps. Inevitably, the “star” of the party was a snotty, entitled brat celebrating his or her birthday. There would be lots of screaming, splashing, and running on the decks, and the normal power and authority bestowed by the whistle hanging from your neck would be muted by indulgent parents. On those nights, you did not rule supreme at the pool — your rightful position in the aqua hierarchy. No, those nights, you were a necessary evil, an ornament that completed the scene for Little Bobby’s awesome swim party. Did I mention that private parties were the bane of the life guard corps?

Whatever ailment had caused me to feel so poorly on Friday night knocked me out. I slept and slept and slept. To my great horror, I awoke at 6:15pm on Saturday. Instantly, panic set in as I realized I had to be at the YMCA for the private party in only 15 minutes. Since the YMCA was at least a 15 minute drive from my house, I was already late.

I flew out of bed, threw on a tank top, swim trunks, and flip flops, and ran out of my room toward the front door. I remember catching a glance of my parents sitting in the dining room as I ran by the kitchen. I didn’t have time to say anything, still feeling the mental sting from the realization that I was about to be late to work for the first time in my life. At that time, my band director was clear: to be early was to be on time, to be on time was to be late, and to be late was to be dead. I was dead.

I hopped in the old green farm truck my parents let me drive and tore out of the driveway. As I motored down the road, I remember watching each minute click off the radio. How could this have happened? How could I have slept for over 18 hours? Worse yet, I’d have to suffer the wrath of some snotty 7 year old because his party started late.

I slammed into the parking lot of the YMCA, and ran inside. As I did, I noted that the parking lot was pretty sparse, which was unusual for that time of year on a Saturday night. My intense focus on getting to work really overrode every other concern, though. As I ripped open the front door and bolted into the lobby, the lady behind the front desk looked up at me while she folded a towel. Something did not feel right. Why was it so quiet?

“Hi Max, what are you doing here?”

“I’m working the party. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I overslept.”

“Max, are you okay? That party isn’t until 6:30.”

“I know, I’m late.”

“Max, it’s 6:30am. The party is tonight, at 6:30pm.”

I froze. What was going on? What? It’s 6:30 in the morning? How can that be? How could I have spent the last 20 minutes under the impression that it was 12 hours in the future?

The lady answered a phone call.

“Yes, he’s here. Max, it’s your parents They wanted to know if you’re here.”

Somewhere between the not feeling well and an unusually deep sleep, I had awoken under the impression that it was nearly 6:30pm, when it was actually 12 hours earlier. It’s not unusual to awake disoriented, but my disorientation lasted for 20 minutes. I had run out of the house so quickly my parents didn’t have time to stop me. I was oblivious to the lack of traffic on the road given my focus on my lateness, and I can only assume that the amount of sunlight at that time of the morning roughly approximated the amount of sunlight 12 hours later. It was a perfect storm.

I arrived at the YMCA in a timely fashion later that evening. It was the one time a private party wasn’t too bad. Oh, I’m sure the birthday kid was snotty and entitled, but it didn’t matter. Sure kids, run on those wet decks all you want. I didn’t care. I had time traveled. The first human to do so.

On Slow Motion Pain

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

We first noticed Sad Guy as we walked into the grocery store. Sitting on a bench outside the store, he wore a collared shirt tucked neatly into blue jeans that funneled straight down into a pair of brown work boots. He wore his hair cropped close and had a beard. We didn’t call him Sad Guy at the time, but, over the following weeks and months, that was the name we gave him.

The first time we saw him, he simply sat on the bench and stared into space. Really, the first time, there was nothing remarkable about the scene. He may have had a lunch bag with him, I can’t remember. Sad Guy looked as if he was waiting for a ride, but there was something that caught your attention. A vacancy. A stare that was too complete. A motionless that did anything but reflect peace.

We never stayed around to find out, but the ride Sad Guy was waiting for never appeared. Over the coming weeks and months, we saw Sad Guy all over our neighborhood. Always fairly well dressed, but always wearing the same outfit. Always staring, never talking or interacting. First we saw him on a different bench. Then in the park. Then in the mall food court. Over time, the only perceptible change was a growing weariness in his expression, as well as a pronounced weathering of his complexion. The same pressured look in his eyes never left.

We took to calling him Sad Guy, not out of an intention to belittle, but, rather, as an acknowledgement of the scene unfolding in front of us, one frame of pain at a time. We never talked to the man. Never asked him how he was or if he needed help, and, then, one day he was not there. We never saw Sad Guy again. In positive moments, we wondered if he finally got help. In more realistic moments, we imagined less rosy scenarios.

Driving to work two years later, I noticed a young, bright-eyed teenage girl hanging out with a rough group in a park I routinely passed. The park was a gathering place for the homeless and drug addicts. She stood out because she was so obviously new to the scene, with a fresh face and expressive eyes. As I waited at the red light, I looked at her and the group seated with her, and, even though she could not, I saw her future. It crossed my mind to roll down my window and talk to her, tell her she didn’t belong here, implore her to escape before it was too late. My romantic notions aside, it was probably already too late.

Over the next year, I watched the young girl become Sad Girl. Dirty hair, filthy clothes, and, where her bright eyes were, sunken, dead eyes. She passed my car routinely with her hand-scratched sign for money as I sat at the light during my morning commute. I never rolled down my window, but every time a pang of guilt fired through me.

Contact with the homeless and drug addicts is not unique in the big city. Whenever the topic comes up in social gatherings, the usual hand-wringing occurs, with pained murmurings about mental health and the impossibility of changing or helping the situation. The conversation is so practiced, so robotic even, I can’t help but wonder if its utterance is a psychic abdication of the responsibility to do something, anything.

In my head, I know there are some human miseries that no amount of charity, hand-outs, hand-ups, or help will solve. In exchange for a free and open society, do we accept as part of the bargain that there will be losers? Those with problems and addictions, of no fault of their own, of no moral failing, that will push them to the periphery of existence. Relegated to lonely benches and dirty parks, hoping for passersby to throw change in pity for food or the next fix.

With most bargains, most compromises, one can acknowledge the losses but rationalize them by focusing on the gains. I’m not sure what possible gain offsets Sad Guy and Sad Girl, and it feels like a moral failure simply to entertain the mental exercise.

I never talked to either of them. I never offered help, never considered the possibility of doing so, despite contemplating their conditions often. And I’m not alone. Considering that, maybe the losses in our bargain are greater than we think.

On What’s Unsaid

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I had a crush on Bart in college.

Bart was two years older than me, smart, hilarious, ruggedly handsome, and, unfortunately, I never thought I registered on his radar. We were in the same fraternity, but I was an admirer from afar, so to speak. That changed one night my sophomore year.

On a random weekday night, I had a knock on my door. At the time, I was a resident assistant, and I was sure it was a resident locked out of his room. When I opened the door to find my crush standing there, I was a little taken aback and more than a little thrilled. Bart came in and asked if I would be willing to read the term paper he had written for a political theory class we were both in. I happily obliged, telling myself how much I was loving that political theory class!

We talked about the paper at length, much longer than was required, and eventually shifted to fraternity stories and the flotsam and jetsam of college life. As we talked, as I listened to his pressured speech, I realized why Bart had come to my room. It had nothing to do with the term paper. Bart was gay (and closeted), had figured I was gay (and closeted), and wanted to tell me or, perhaps, more. I can’t explain how I knew, but I knew.

I kept waiting for our conversation to segue into deeper waters, but it never did. We danced around it for a long time, each waiting for the other to be bold and brave. We never got there, though. The hour got late, he thanked me for the read and chat, and left.

It may be surprising to learn, but a tiny college in the middle of small-town Kentucky in the mid-1990s was not a hotbed of gay life. At a time when many are learning to navigate personal, intimate relationships, I did everything but. Upon my arrival to college, I told one new friend I was gay, and she was magnificently supportive. I didn’t tell another college friend until my senior year, and, by that time, the bulk of my college experience, as far as relationships go, was completely nonexistent. I wasn’t a hermit. I went to parties all the time and had a great group of friends. I faithfully attended every fraternity dance with various female friend escorts, some of whom, admittedly, were probably pretty confused. But I never experienced that part of college life. It never felt accessible to me, and it honestly never occurred to me to trek to the bigger cities to explore.

In my head, I was resolutely out as a gay man; in my social circle, I was, at best, asexual and, at worst, closeted and passing as straight. At the time, I had all sorts of mental tricks to rationalize why this was the case. That’s a downside to being slightly smarter than the average bear — you can really delude yourself at times.

My experience with Bart wasn’t the first time I had experienced that disconnect. Two people wanting to be open and honest, but simply unable. You’re right there, you can see the other person as they are, but between you exists this gulf that cannot be bridged. The experience is not unique to gay people, but moments like mine with Bart were not simply the product of shyness or a lack of emotional facility. Our gulf was the byproduct of guilt, fear, and societal disapproval. As far as connecting on that level, my straight friends had a head start measured in years, thanks to school dances, movie dates, and every other conceivable societal blessing of who they were.

Honestly, even though I was hesitant, I think Bart was slaying even bigger dragons. I had dated and been in a brief relationship by that point. It seemed to me that Bart was not even out to himself, but badly wanted to be. In that time and place, I simply wasn’t strong enough to help him. Our talk that night was, in so many ways, an uncontrolled free fall, neither of us able to get any purchase to have the conversation we wanted to have. The conversation we needed to have.

Bart is relegated to the “What if?” pile we all collect as we tumble through life. The remainder of the school year — his senior year — we were pleasant and friendly, but the intimacy of that night was not to be recaptured. We kept in occasional contact by phone for a few years, but that faded away with time. We never bridged that gap, and I don’t really know why.

What’s unsaid is so powerful. It can fester years of pain, conceal the truth, or even lock someone inside themselves. From time to time, I check up on Bart via mutual friends. He’s never married, and no one has ever know him to have a relationship. A confirmed bachelor. Maybe he’s happy. Or maybe he’s still standing at the precipice of that gulf, dealing with what’s unsaid.

On Finding Your Passion

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

It’s back to school time, so there’s no better opportunity to address one of the most destructive pieces of advice high school and college kids are going to start hearing. Nope, it’s not, “Sure, Billy, you can do tons with an Medieval English degree.” And, you’d be wrong if you guessed, “Abstinence is the right choice for you!” No, I’m talking about something much more insidious: “Find your passion.”

For decades, this old saw has been trotted out as the height of insightful career advice. Guidance counselors, teachers, and parents promise that, if you can unlock that secret, you’ll never work a day in your life. Just think how many times you’ve had this conversation:

Max: Hi Sarah! How’s work going lately?

Sarah: Oh Max, don’t be silly. I don’t work. You see, I found my passion.

That’s right. Your number is identical to mine: zero.

“Finding your passion” is the absolute worst career advice, for myriad reasons.

First, lots of people, and I mean lots of people, don’t have a passion. And, guess what? There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m one of those people. I have lots of interests, lots of things I think are great and cool, but I wouldn’t rate any of them as a passion. It’s really sort of cruel. When everyone tells you to find something you don’t have, that’s probably the first step down the path to paranoia.

Second, some people have freaky passions. Sure, Belinda couldn’t live without her Thimbles of the World collection, but how’s the thimble market right now? Hey, Belinda, you just aced every Advanced Placement class you took, but how about you run down to Jo-Ann Fabrics and Crafts and see if they’re hiring.

Third, implicit in the career advice to “find your passion” is the idea that one’s passion must be one’s life work. Why? Work is certainly important, but why must one work at what they value most? It seems pretty rational to me to keep your passion away from performance reviews, annoying coworkers, and endless meetings.

Now, in fairness, we must admit that there are people that truly have a passion they’ve turned into a career. At times, just meeting these unicorns can be inspiring. Other times, we find ourselves cringing at their obsessive focus on “their passion” with no care or concern for anything else in the world.

It’s not about finding your passion. It’s about finding something that interests you to a degree that you can pursue excellence in all areas of your life, not just your job. Most people aren’t pursuing their passion, so why do we insist on passing on this awful piece of advice? It’s time for a more honest conversation about work, life, and pursuing interests while maintaining a healthy balance. Now that’s worth being passionate about.

On the Answers in the Back of the Book

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I can remember the moment as if it happened yesterday, instead of almost 25 years ago. The first day of 9th grade, and I’m sitting in Mr. Rosenblatt’s geometry class. Mr. Rosenblatt was an odd man. Tallish, pickled skin, an unspectacular mustache. He had, on top of all that, a lumpy physique that boldly declared in no uncertain terms that he was a math teacher, not a gym teacher. He smoked like a freight train, drove a Yugo, and had a personality one click more interesting than cardboard. Yep, he made an impression.

My memory of him is eclipsed, however, by the stunning revelation I had when we received our geometry books. Hundreds of dazzling pages of triangles, rhombi, and proofs, my mouth fell agape when I reached the back of the book. There they were. The answers. Had I received the teacher’s copy? Were other students privy to this cache of knowledge? Could I be the Chosen One? I’m pretty sure I placed the book on my desk, slowly looked around, and tried to play it cool. James Bond cool. I had the answers! Chalk this A up to an Easy A, baby!

Before I could really revel in the knowledge that I would ace the course through techniques only slightly less complicated than those used by CIA code breakers, I learned the bummer reality: everyone got the answers. Apparently, Mr. Rosenblatt and the publisher of this book did not understand that math was all about getting the answers. Suckers! Sure, I didn’t have the advantage I thought I did, but I was still loving life. After all, I deserved it. I’d put in several years of hard work in math, and, hey, it was about time I kicked back for a year or so and coasted. What can I say; at 14, your sense of hard work and sacrifice isn’t exactly accurate.

I got an A in geometry, and, for the rest of my math career, the answers were always in the back of the book. As many of you can surely attest, the answers in the back of book became less helpful as time went on. By the time I took advanced calculus in college, the answers were there, but they weren’t really helping me. Along the way, you learned that how you solved the problem was just as important, if not more important, than the final solution.

It turns out that life is a lot more like geometry than we admit. We may not use the word “hypotenuse” every day, even though it’s super fun to say, but, by and large, we know the answers. On a high level, we know what we are aiming for: happiness, peace, meaningful work, laughter, love. These are not great riddles to be uncovered. The solutions are all around us, but, like geometry, the trick is to know how to attain those goals and how to do so consistent with your values.

We can leave the complicated proofs to Matt Damon characters in the movies. For most of us mere mortals, simple arithmetic, subtraction, multiplication, and division are enough. You still have to do the work, though. Knowing the answer is really the beginning. Luckily, unlike most geometry problems, life’s proofs can be solved a lot of different, great ways. So, get out your No. 2 pencil, some clean sheets of paper, and start solving the problem you’re dealing with. You probably already know the answer.

Go ahead. Make Mr. Rosenblatt proud. He’ll be out smoking in his Yugo, waiting to hear from you.