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On Trashing a Dream

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

I closed a chapter in my life today twenty years in the making, and, in the process, I trashed a dream.

I went to law school with the idea that my legal career would involve civil rights. I was fascinated by constitutional law, and, be it through the academy or a litigation practice, I envisioned myself fighting the good fight for gay rights. I could articulate the arguments that, to me, seemed so obvious, but, to others, were less so. I saw myself marching toward a meaningful career that fused personal and professional interests.

It never really happened.

I guess my first mistake was attending a law school known more for its focus on corporate law than civil rights law. I wrote a few law review articles on gay rights, and they got some attention. But central Kentucky was not a hotbed of civil rights jurisprudence, and I definitely was not linked in to the gay rights movement. In an odd (and dispiriting) twist, when I did travel to Washington, D.C., to interview for a legal job with the nation’s most prominent gay rights advocacy group, one interviewer told me that, in my subsequent interviews that day, I should lose the “aww-shucks” Kentucky accent. I came to interview to fight for equality, and was told I shouldn’t be myself.

I ended up taking a job clerking for a judge with a federal agency, never again to seriously flirt with a job in the academy or the civil rights movement. For the next fifteen years, though, tucked away in a trunk, I kept my law school text book for my civil rights litigation course, as well as my class notes and final exam outline. A few times a year, I would pull it out and thumb through the pages. I’d wonder about roads not taken. And I always returned it safely to the trunk, thinking to myself, “Who knows?”

Then, today, I found myself cleaning out the garage. As we prepare to move into our new home in nine months, I decided to rummage through some crates and trunks and make room for packing. When I did, I came across my course work again, but, this time, I made a different choice. For my psyche, it was a moment of reckoning. The materials represented a dream, my thrust to go to law school, my idealized version of the attorney I thought I would be. In the end, though, it wasn’t the attorney I turned out to be. And, in some ways, I was never fully accepting of the direction of my career, and, by keeping the materials in the trunk, I held out the possibility that the career I imagined might, one day, come to fruition.

But as I stood there in my garage, sweat dripping, and flipping through the course text book for the hundredth time since law school, I realized that, rather than holding out the promise of a dream I wanted to chase, the course materials were getting in the way, literally and figuratively, of me moving on with my life. When you think about what might have been, you stop yourself from accepting, embracing, and appreciating what is. In fifteen years I had not taken one step toward that old dream, and, if actions speak louder than words (or old text books), it was time to admit to myself that that dream was not alive. Moreover, I was okay with that.

So, today, the course materials didn’t go back in the trunk; they went in the trash and recycling. As I slid the trunk back into place, I felt fine. I’m happy, I’ve got an amazing husband, we are growing our family, and I’m making room for even more wonderful memories to come in our new home. It’s time to focus on the present and the future, not the past and what might have been. Time for some new dreams…

 

On Minivan Coolers (not Cooler Minivans)

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

My best friend and his lovely new bride just purchased a minivan.

I know, I shouldn’t deliver such disheartening news without asking if you’re reading this sitting down. My apologies.

At best, they’ve purchased a swagger wagon. At worst, they now own a loser cruiser. I upheld my obligation as a friend and reacted in mock horror. I highlighted the bevy of large SUV options in front of them. I questioned whether a post-wedding haze had temporarily compromised their judgment. I even asked how their new blended family could hold its collective six heads aloft while zooming around in a box with the personality of a used napkin.

Then, I learned it came with a cooler.

It turns out that this loser cruiser is one hell of a cruiser. Safety features galore, comfortable seats, DVD player, and, to cap it off, a built-in cooler. The line between fully-stocked minivan and mobile home has officially been blurred. This thing may even qualify for one of those tiny home shows.

A cooler?!

As I ruminated on their unfettered access to chilled refreshment and boredom-killing entertainment on long road trips, my mind wandered back thirty years, to a time my mother, grandmother, sister, and I crammed ourselves into a smallish sedan for the 16-hour odyssey down to Walt Disney World. I distinctly recall my sister and I wedged into a back seat between sacks of groceries for roadside lunches and maybe even a real cooler. For our entertainment, there was no DVD player, no iPods, no smart phones; rather, it was just a few books, ill will, and the faint hope that the evening motel would have a swimming pool. I’m sure the trip to Florida and back was uphill both ways, and we liked it!

To consider those trips down to Florida now is to ponder child endangerment. My sister and I were one quick jerk of the wheel from impalement on coloring books, Wonder bread, and bologna. My mom was basically driving blind, with no GPS for guidance, and no cell phone for emergencies. Our fates rested on the slender reed of a flip chart map from the local auto club with our route highlighted in yellow, courtesy of my uncle. No real-time directions, no traffic jam alerts, no estimated time of arrival. Had anyone in that car ever changed a tire? Would we depend on the kindness of truckers if need be? Better yet, had anyone in that car ever even been to Florida? We may as well have been navigating by the sun, an abacus, and some enchanted beans purchased from a one-eyed warlock.

Now, our cars are floating fortresses of technology and comfort: rearview cameras, lane sensors, heated seats, cooled seats, satellite radio, sunroofs, moon roofs, GPS navigation, zoned climate control, lumbar support, designer sound systems, advanced cruise control, nascent autopilot technology, and the list goes on. We’ve designed almost every headache out the driving experience, besides other drivers, and, eventually, once the robots take over, we won’t have to worry about that either. Then, we’ll have plenty of time to sip our chilled beverages from our built-in coolers.

Heck, we might even be bored again.

On a Fifty Year Burden

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

The shrunken, wizened vessel in front of me resembled, more or less, my grandmother. But, as I walked across the Cracker Barrel parking lot on Highway 60 to meet her embrace, my smile obfuscated my dropping heart, as I noted her thinned hair, stooped posture, and stained slacks. This was not the prim and proper woman who made deviled eggs at every family meal, whose green shag carpet supported many a nap of mine, and who hosted me for my first thirty-three Christmases. It was a shadow in comfortable shoes that bore a very strong resemblance.

My 91-year-old grandmother is dying of old age and lung cancer.  Hospice has been contacted, and, after four years of wondering if this was the last time I’d ever see her, I’m resigned to the likelihood that our breakfast several weeks ago may, indeed, be the last time.

After our long embrace, I guided her into the restaurant, never letting her hand go. She was unsteady and weak, but she still had a light in her eye, and I could tell she was happy to see me. My uncle said she was up early that morning, dressed and ready for our breakfast. If I made her day, that makes me happy. She certainly made mine.

Our conversation was not deep and not particularly personal. We talked about family, of course, and our hometown and her memories of the past. I always enjoyed prompting her to talk about the past. She claimed to not remember much, but, in those moments around the dinner table and at that Cracker Barrel table, she was at her most powerful. It was the rare moment she felt like she had something to offer that no one else could. Typically content to sit and listen, in those moments, she opened up, if only a bit. And I loved to hear those stories, to connect with her in at least that way, seeing as though our typical interactions were not overly full of intimacy. Warmth, yes, but not intimacy.

Around the time my grandmother was my age, she lost her husband, my grandfather, in a work accident. She had two teenagers at home, and a small child too, and, in many ways, she never moved on from that day forward. I’m not sure she ever knew true happiness again, even when surrounded by an ever-growing family of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. “Joy” is not a word I associate with her, and the tragedy of the accident seems to have walled her off from much of what life had to offer. That said, she began to work outside the home, volunteered, and enjoyed church social clubs. She had a life, even if it was apparent it was not the one she really wanted.

When she dies, I’m not sure if I’ll mourn more my grandmother or the tragedy that appeared to dull her spirit. It seems a cruel fate to live half a century of regret and resentment over an accident, but, if that was her life the past fifty years, she wouldn’t be the first to find herself locked in a darkness from which she could never fully escape. In art, the lost love is presented as either endlessly romantic or unceasingly embittering. For my grandmother, neither applies, but it was plain to see the loss derailed her in profound, permanent ways. That she carried on as she did is a testament to her strength — a strength that now rapidly fades.

I don’t believe my grandfather is waiting on some ethereal plane to welcome my grandmother with open arms. But I hope she believes that. With all my heart, I hope she believes that. And I want her to go to that, to finally lay down the long burden. If the thought brings her a final, full moment of peace, then who am I to quibble?

I left our breakfast to attend a wedding. I was headed to celebrate the very love that my grandmother has been mourning, in one way or another, for fifty years. I gave her a big hug, helped her in her car, and told her I would see her again soon, but, truth be told, there’s someone else I’d rather her see.

On My 4th Grade Teacher’s Travels Across the Galaxy

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I’m looking for my 4th grade teacher, Ms. Bodkin. Thirty years ago, Ms. Bodkin introduced me to “A Wrinkle In Time,” encouraged my interest in robotics, and took the entire class to a Christmas tree festival in a neighboring town. I remember her as a slight, silver-haired, elegant lady. In the small town in which I grew up, news about most folks is not hard to come by, and I still delight on the rare occasions I run into my first grade teacher, Mrs. Jenkins. Still, Ms. Bodkin has eluded me, and I’m left to wonder if, like the characters in “A Wrinkle In Time,” she now travels the dimensions of the universe via a magical tesseract, lost to us mortals left behind.

I could launch an exhaustive online search. Past searches yielded my 6th grade teacher, enjoying retirement in a knitting club in a  lake-side community after all. With social media, it seems like you can find almost anyone, almost anytime. Or at least you can find the version of them they present to the world online. And I guess that’s the problem. I may be able to find where she lives, see a picture of her traveling the Grand Canyon with her family, and find out how frustrated she is with her seasonal allergies, but it wouldn’t be her, but, rather, a carefully curated version of her. A digital avatar, at best. It would lack the intimacy of those post-lunch reading sessions, gathered around her rocking chair. It wouldn’t be a reconnection, but,rather, just a voyeuristic look into a two-dimensional world instead of sharing the real one.

I recently came across a gay couple on social media that I’ve lost touch with and discovered they had adopted a child. My jaw dropped upon learning the news, as this couple was deeply closeted when I knew them years ago and never expressed any desire to have a child. Now, years after our orbits transited to other suns, I’m left with this interesting and wonderful news, but no context in which to place it. Of course, I could reach out, reconnect, and work hard to rebuild those bridges, but, then again, there’s a reason those bridges faded in the first place. And maybe it’s okay to honor that too.

Our past sets itself in amber as the years fly by. If we’re lucky, most of those frozen memories are happy ones, and it can be tempting to travel back in time — tesseract or no — and want to fill in the gaps, find out the next chapter, and revisit those wonderful people and places that populate our own story. Technology has made it easier than ever. But before we all go chasing ghosts, maybe we have to ask if the past is better left alone. Maybe there’s a reason time only marches in one direction. Maybe letting go of people, places, and things is the only way we have the capacity to learn and grow. Maybe a little mystery never hurt anyone.

Maybe, just maybe, Ms. Bodkin, in her chair reading me wonderful books, is right where she belongs.

 

On Derelict Dreams

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I stand against the tide’s advance, akimbo,
and I raise my arms, commanding the water
back into the clouds, a heavy rain drop
dropping scores of fish like derelict dreams.

Silver gray fish drop and flop among the detritus,
plop among the yellowed flipper and soda pop can,
they gasp and gape among the old boat ruins,
wriggling life among those things long dead.

I lower my arms and let the flying sea fall back,
back down to the seaweed and the sandbars,
back over the boats and beer bottles bygone,
interring again in a single, solemn rite by the shore.

And I walk away, my magic spent and wrenched,
the sea lapping at me like a metronome, and I dream
about wriggling life again among those things
cast away at the bottom of my soul.

On Pastry Chefs and Bag Boys

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

My nephew just announced a major career change. Well, a major career goal change. Yes, he has abandoned the dream of being a zoo keeper, and, now, his sights are set on being a pastry chef. At nine years old, it’s unclear if this new professional interest will hold, but, honestly, the entire family is keeping fingers crossed. Hey, we like dessert.

My nephew’s recent announcement reminded me of my first career aspiration: grocery store bag boy. Sure, it’s a sexy job, with the the high drama of paper versus plastic and the feel-good moments of helping little ol’ ladies to their cars, but I wasn’t drawn to the bag boy business because of the glitz and the glamour. No, at the time I made my first career announcement, my uncle worked at the local grocery store, and, if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.

I guess I quickly moved on from my bag boy dreams. There was the doctor period, and I think I threw out marine biologist a time or two just for kicks. It sounded cool. By the time high school and college rolled around, though, I knew I wanted to be an attorney. I can’t recall even considering another option during my college days. It just seemed like a foregone conclusion, really.

Everyone has their “What do you want to be when you grow up?” story. Lots are littered with fireman, policeman, teacher, and astronaut. Fewer include drug dealer, hooker, sanitation worker, and dental hygienist. The point remains, though, that we really like to ask young people who they want to become. The question invites young people to share with us their view of the world, their sense of the possible, and their interests. It’s also a challenge, asking a young child to articulate a dream, to announce what they will make of themselves.

Why aren’t we asking adults these questions?

For those of us in middle age, the questions may focus less on the professional and more on the personal. What kind of person do you want to be? What adventures do you want to have? What about you can you change for the better? Beyond gimmicky self-help videos pitched on late night television, maybe we don’t spend enough time acknowledging that the process of becoming someone should never truly end. The final answer is not the title on the office door nameplate.

I recently came across a quote from self-help guru Robin Sharma: “Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life.” Now, we don’t all have the luxury to drop everything, backpack across the planet, and blog about nature, tree frogs, and the meaning of life, reaching heretofore unknown levels of zen. Still, he’s on to something, and it scares the lover of routine and predictability heavily anchored deep in my soul. Still, I know life is about growing, learning, getting uncomfortable, and having new experiences. The times I’ve stepped way out of my comfort zone, like traveling to Central and South America, or moving to Washington, DC, for a personal and professional change, have easily been the most rewarding.

It’s not easy. We all like comfort, and I’ll fight any man that denies the perfection of a quiet winter night, tucked warmly away in one’s favorite reading chair, sheltered from the slings and arrows of the world. Still, as wonderful as that is, it’s not as awesome as the bravery of the nine year old declaring his intention to be a pastry chef. And, sure, my nephew may not know much about becoming a pastry chef, but the most important part is becoming someone. We could all spend less time being someone and more time becoming someone.

 

 

On Tomorrow’s Promise

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Hearts have loved long before weddings,
long before pedantic poems and sweet songs,
before white dresses, gold rings, and long tails,
and finely dressed familial throngs.

And love is even older than that,
older than houses, farms, and all Man’s worry,
older than the seas and mountains
and beaches and clear nights starry.

Love ruled before any rulers or rules,
before the planets circled one flame,
before the sky exploded with light and fire,
before love even had a name.

And for such a thing to have traveled so far,
to have survived the darkness of the ages,
and weathered the cruelties of man
and his army of tiny trembling rages,

for such a thing can only be a force unmatched,
unequaled in our minds and in our stories,
in our hopes and wishes and dreams
and all the tales of passing glories.

After all that, love is in this place, here and now,
with any two people prepared to say
that love is the sinew that
promises to make tomorrow better than today.

On Being Believed

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I recently watched a video clip of a school board meeting during which the voice of a lone advocate for the rights of transgendered students was drowned out by the pious singing of “Jesus Loves Me” by hundreds of opponents. As I watched, I flashed back to standing in the back of a junior high auditorium in my hometown in 1999, as hundreds of my fellow townsfolk gathered to address the menace of possibly not discriminating against gay people. I remember the signs, the hands to Heaven, the self-righteousness. I remember recognizing people. I could imagine how that woman felt — surrounded by a roiling mass of hate, fear, and ignorance.

All of a sudden, it seems like the national consciousness has focused on the rights of transgendered individuals, and, unfortunately for such individuals, their pleas for decency appear, at times, overshadowed by our cultural prudishness, uncomfortableness with our bodies, bodily functions, and any expression of maleness or femaleness outside a narrowly conceived boundary. It’s heartening to witness the President and his administration coming down on the side of tolerance, compassion, and common sense. It’s a challenge, though, because the biggest challenge for transgendered individuals is the same challenge faced by gay and lesbian folks: being believed.

At the heart of all opposition to gay rights, whether it’s military service, marriage, adoption, employment, housing, or public accommodations, is the notion that homosexuality is a choice. That, somehow, us gay folk could change if we really wanted to. If we wanted it bad enough. If we prayed enough. If we were religious enough. And, when none of those things worked, we just proved to those that would deny us our full humanity the depth of our immorality, perversion, and worthlessness. For some, they simply could not believe that we love who we love and, like them, have no control over it.

Now the same folks must accept that some people born of one gender identify with another gender. That some men feel, with every fiber of their being, that they are a woman. That some women, in every part of their soul, feel as though they are a man. And, for some, this culminates in surgery to permanently change their sexual appearance. For other, for a myriad reasons, the changes are less radical but every bit as fundamental. It’s not a whim. It’s not a passing fancy. And, maybe it’s not the norm, but it’s their normal.

The new challenge is to convince enough — not all, but enough — fair-minded Americans that transgendered individuals are telling the truth. They aren’t degenerates. They aren’t evidence of the devil. They aren’t unnatural. They aren’t the result of a President opponents hate because, truth be told, they feel his skin color is a disqualifying characteristic. They only want what others take for granted: to be heard, to be respected, to be treated fairly. To be believed.

Back in 1999, as I stood in the back of the gymnasium, I watched as my old martial arts instructor joined the throng, and I watched as one of the attorneys in the firm I worked for took to the stage to explain legal tactics to deny local civil rights protections to gay people. Undoubtedly, the crowd contained other friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. I couldn’t help but wonder then: what if I could just go up and say, “It’s me. The person you like. The person you respect. Why can’t you believe that this is who I am and that there isn’t anything wrong with me?”  I know it probably wouldn’t have made any difference, and that’s the most traumatizing aspect of it all: to know yourself but not be believed.

 

On Summed Fears

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I walked quickly out of the theater, scanning the hall and then the packed lobby for signs of management. All I saw were kids running wildly and a snaking line at the concession stand. Desperate, I marched up to the teenage ticket taker – tall, lanky, and wearing a countenance that indicated marijuana had been smoked recently.

“Excuse me,” I blurted, “does your theater have armed security?”

He looked at me vacantly, not understanding that the only two paths forward for both of us were either a calm confirmation or a panicked call to police to alert them to potentially yet another public mass shooting.

“Yes, we have security,” he lazed, the words circling off his loose tongue much as the marijuana smoke had recently, I’m sure.

“Armed security? You have armed security?” I wasn’t hysterical, but I was firm. “As in, security that wears heavy vests and a firearm on their belt?”

“That was probably security,” he said.

Never, in the history of the world, had a “probably” been so important to me.

I guess the trouble started with my decision to see the latest superhero blockbuster on an opening weekend. Now, I make no bones about my love of superheroes. And I catch almost every superhero flick these days. But my love for superheroes has been tempered by my love of empty theaters where I can stretch out, focus on the film, and not contend with bratty teenagers (or adults or children or cellphones). And so, I usually catch my superhero tales several weeks after they open. But my better judgment lost last Sunday evening, and there I was, 7pm, still several days after the premiere, hoping for a thinned crowd.

Thirty minutes before the film, I thought I had scored a victory, as only a dozen or so other nerds lined the seats. My hopes were dashed, however, by a steady influx of folks, from senior citizens to kids that, without a doubt, should have been home preparing for the following school day. The growing crowd made me uneasy, and I’m not sure why. I don’t mind crowds, but I felt my anxiety continue to rise. Crowded theater, urban area, how can one not think about current events?

It’s a silly thing to worry about, statistically speaking, but that’s the point of irrationality — it’s not rational.

I calmed down once the movie started, and I could focus on repulsors, flying shields, and slinging webs. But, amid the fights, explosions, and aggression, my anxiety hadn’t left but, rather, just hid in the shadows. And, one hour later, it pounced.

I can’t remember him coming into the theater, and I can’t remember him starting to climb the stairs, but, from my seat at the end of the row, I looked over as he walked past me. Both arms heavily tattooed. Heavy tan vest bulging with numerous compartments and undefined pinpoint lights. And, most notably of all, the firearm on his hip. It took me half a second to register the scene, and even less time to decide to leave the theater. I stood up and quickly walked out with a speed consistent with a needed bathroom break but not so fast as to indicate to the would-be attacker that he would need to pick off this defenseless lamb before I could report his nefarious aims.

After the ticket taker had inspired less than full confidence, I guess I talked some sense into myself. I went back into the theater, walked to the opposite side and immediately saw the armed man now crouching against the wall, flicking through Facebook on his phone. I could again see the tattoos, and now I could see that he was wearing shorts, tennis shoes, and still had a large gun on his hip. I figured he was either a bored security guard or an attacker preparing to post his manifesto to social media. I circled back around to my side of the theater, stood against the wall, and proceeded to watch the movie. After a few minutes, I decided that, like the ticket taker said, he was “probably” security. Besides, I had a few M&Ms left at my seat, and I wasn’t about to let fear come between me and my candy treat. I guess in that moment, as I walked back to my M&Ms, I was pretty much my own kind of superhero.

So, nothing happened. I finished the movie, left the theater in an orderly fashion, and drove home thinking about my reaction. It was silly, I guess, but, then again, perhaps it was more a testament to our culture’s increasing saturation with fear and violence. In the last 15 years, we’ve experienced the cultural trauma of international terrorism combined with a seeming increase in random public shootings. And those terrible events (and all of the political and social ugliness unleashed in their wakes) have traveled at the speed of light, from their deadly epicenters to the smart phones in our pockets to the tiny, defenseless recesses of our minds and our hearts. Big city, small town, school, church, office, highway, party, mall, it doesn’t matter. You can’t escape the possibility.

We are more interconnected than ever, and maybe more interdependent, and it takes just one nutjob to throw the whole country into a tizzy in the span of fifteen minutes. And it’s not just violence. Now, our 24/7 news relentlessly reminds us of crushing debt, unstable third world regimes on the far side of the planet, and the dangers of peeing next to a dude that wasn’t born a dude. Since 9/11, I wonder whether that random car on my street will explode, or whether the weirdo on the subway is just moments away from an attack. Perhaps most distressing of all, my thoughts aren’t panic but calm realizations of an option. There’s a chance this car might explode. It’s infinitesimally small, but my world paradigm now includes that option nonetheless. How can it not?

We all dance with dark thoughts, and, for the most part, we all manage to go about the business of leading our lives, don’t we? After all, that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Not let them win. Not change anything. Go about our business. Be brave. Don’t worry. Keep calm, carry on.

And, then, we find ourselves racing to the stoner teenage ticket taker, begging for him to soothe our fears, because we can’t comprehend the awfulness of it all or the possibility that our comfortable world may come crashing down in a theater full of strangers and empty M&M boxes.

On Missing The Trapeze

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I arrived on the campus of my future college the summer before my senior year in high school ready to participate in a prestigious academic camp. I was ready for six weeks of intellectual enrichment; little did I know all of my learning would take place outside of class when I had my first serious crush.

His name was Scott, and we were both declared philosophy “majors” at the camp. Along with a handful of other nerds, we spent our days sitting in a circle, reading old texts, and pondering the meaning of life with the depth of experience accessible to a 17 year old. While pretending to think deep thoughts during our reading sessions, I tried to make sense of this intoxicating sensation. What had started as long talks in the library had progressed to listening to pining REM and Natalie Merchant songs in his dorm room, vague conversations about teenage alienation, and dreams of future academic accomplishment.

Like so many summer romances, it was a true whirlwind. Six weeks of self-discovery and little more than a peck on the cheek. A little more. We parted after six weeks in high emotional angst. There were the occasional letters to follow, full of vague phrases and suggestion. There were hollow invitations for visits that never went realized; the three hour drive just seemed a bridge too far in our limited scope of vision. And there was a final telephone call, on the day of my high school graduation, full of awkward silences built on un-acted upon feelings and the entropy of a school year.

And so it was with some interest that, fifteen years later, I receive a friend request over Facebook from my old crush. It would have been impossible to decline the invitation to peek into the past and what might have been, and, as it turns out, it was a reminder that what was once so alluring can turn out to be so different. My crush was now a professor of film with an interest in trapeze. That’s right: trapeze. Difference does make the world go round, which, in the case of a trapeze artist, is good, I guess. We were, however, two very different people, to say the least.

Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind, in the heat of that summer before my senior year of high school, I dreamed we would end up going to the same college. After all, at 17, he was the only other gay person I had ever met. I knew that was not meant to be at some point during my senior year, but, the next fall, I was back on the same campus, ready to start my college career. I unpacked my bags for a few minutes after my parents dropped me off, and I couldn’t help but remember the brief romance the college had offered me just the summer before. Little did I know it was the closest thing to a romance the campus would ever really offer me.

The naive dream that we might meet and rekindle whatever we had — and even I wasn’t so sure — didn’t happen, but, in an odd twist of fate, I did end up rekindling a relationship from that academic camp. On my first day on campus my freshman year, as I rounded my dorm building to walk to the book store, I encountered my roommate from the camp. Brad, in his trademark sunglasses, was walking right towards me, and we both couldn’t believe we were seeing each other. Brad turned out to be my closest college friend — funny, smart, and the strongest moral center I’ve ever encountered. That friendship turned out to be the best thing the college ever gave me. And, so, the academic camp did give me a life-changing relationship, just not the one I might have predicted during those hot summer days.

And, honestly, at my weight, it’s probably best I’m not up on a trapeze.