Be Happy and Gay

Along with the swearing off of stagnant full time working-for-some-asshole corporate jobs, comes certain ups and downs. The ups would be: not working for some other asshole all day every day, added variety in life, an absence of oppressive, fluorescent lights beating down on you and boring into your soul as you pretend to care about what you're doing, and--one of my favorites--constantly being on a new adventure. 

Of course, some would view the latter of this list as one of the downs, and would word that concept as no adventure, but something closer to 'having an unstable income, never knowing where your next paycheck will will be,' or 'being forced to do manual work.' But I don't mind manual labor, I've come to find. I didn't know it was true, but it turns out it is.

In fact, I was thinking about this very concept as I was walking to the bank yesterday, a most blustery of days. I considered a book I recently finished reading: 'Dry,' by Augusten Burroughs. This book chronicles the author's travails through alcoholism, and then rehab, and then reentering the world upon completion of rehab. In the meantime, he is a well-paid advertising copywriter in Manhattan. At one point in the book, when mused by his coworker that advertising is far from glamorous or fulfilling, Burroughs says something to the effect of, 'it beats manual labor.' And the coworker replies that this is true if you're willing to hand over your dignity. And the author says that he doesn't have dignity, and he never did. And that made me think.

Because dignity, or integrity as I say, is the most important thing of all things. And so months ago I quit my part time job as a bartender where, even working part time, I was bringing in more money than I needed. I quit because I was required to wear a provocative uniform which made strange alcoholic businessmen eye me in weird ways and stare and ask me to get them a cognac, knowing full well that I would have to get on a step ladder--wearing a very short skirt--to retrieve the bottle (the cognacs in this particular bar were kept on the fourth shelf, some ten feet from the ground). I quit because I was tired of dealing with alcoholics, and I was tired of being hit on arbitrarily as an object, like I was trading my body and integrity for money.

And of course I'm more blessed than many. I have pursued a master's degree, and as a result I teach writing courses to college students, which I love. But I also have to pay my bills, and teaching part time doesn't cut it. So to replace my bar money in an economy where options are closer to nil, I took a job for a cleaning service; I clean the condos of yuppy people around the city who still have options perhaps because they are working these I-work-for-some-other-asshole-under-the-fluorescent-lights jobs. Who knows if they have integrity. Who even knows if they could say themselves.

Well anyway, as a perk for working this adventurous maid job, I meet people (coworkers) who belong in a lower socioeconomic bracket than I do. They are uneducated and living on food stamps and involving in work so that they can get 'Section 8' funds from the government to pay for their dilapidated apartments (I'm assuming, at least more dilapidated than my nice enough Lakeview apartment) to shelter the children they could not afford to have (shit, I am not really judging, I promise). 

In so doing, you know, working with these people of a lower socioeconomic caliber, I have conversations with them while we are driving to the next condo. The other day, I was talking to Maureen, who is sweet as pie, has a southern twang, though I am not sure if she is from the south, and says things like 'the dog-gone thing,' and does things like put a sign on a horrible dent to the front right quarter-panel of her beat up '93 Oldsmobile that reads: OUCH. I mean the lady is a card, and I'm glad to know her, if for no other reason than she makes me feel real, more real than I already feel. 

But Maureen is uneducated. And so she thinks that to be gay is a choice. Augusten Burroughs, author of the aforementioned book, might disagree, as he himself is gay. A gay ad man who claims to not have dignity. (I'm sure that was sarcasm in part.) But while I was reading his book, I couldn't help but think: I don't relate to how gays must feel. After all, I am not gay. I am the type of person that goes to bed dreaming up the most exciting fantasy I can conjure of how a hot man can lift up my skirt and give it to me passionately in some dark club or something. My whole life has been about the obsession and reflection over heterosexual romance. Gay romance perplexes the hell out of me, and frankly, doesn't seem natural. 

But I am absolutely not like Maureen. The other day, we are heading north on Sheridan and she squeals, about these gay men whose condos we clean: "Hell, I don't know if they're together or not. I'm so sick and tired of everyone saying you're gay because you're born that way. Gimme a break! It's a choice and that's that. Gays say 'I can't help it, I'm gay,' but no! You make a choice! You know? Don't you think?" she turns her head to me. 

But I don't want to have this conversation with Maureen. While reading the memoir of Burroughs had me feeling detached and uninterested much of the time, I still respect what he must have gone through, what all gay people must go through, just as a result of being gay, of discrimination and looks and hatred and--in the worst of cases--violence. It makes me cringe, the lack of compassion of it all, and not least of all on Maureen's part. So quietly, I say: 'I don't think it's a choice. Many gay people probably deal with a lot of suffering, and feel alienated; I don't think if a lot of them had the choice, they would choose to be gay.' And then I'm grateful for Doreen's ADHD because she says, 'Well there it is!' indicating the building inside which we are to find the next cleaning project. 

But later that day, I feel sad. Not only sad for Maureen or for Burroughs (who's autobiographical account is about his struggle as an alcoholic as opposed to as a homosexual), but for the world. Why do we have to harbor such hatred for others? Can't we just accept others as they are, and not judge them? Oh I don't know. I don't have the answers. I guess this is why I teach: because I want to try to enlighten people like Doreen who just are not aware. And I want to help other people believe that we can all be happy, whether we are gay or straight or working at a job that falls far below the perfection line. 

I never told you the downs of swearing off these fluorescent-light jobs: come to think of it, there aren't any downs. Without them, I'm much happier...and much gayer. 

What's Wrong with Getting Personal?

These days, it seems that trends only last a few hours. What, with the advent of each new technological 'gem': ipods that get smaller and more colorful by the week, cellular phones injected with so many whistles they can now microwave food, houseplants that take photographs, and the list goes on. And as a society, in part due to these plush, techie pillows, we have become fickle. Our attention diverts to the next hot thing quickly. We care less and less about an object in front of us. We don't have time for long-winded anything. This, sadly, includes conversations with people. 

Less than a couple years ago, I discovered text messaging. I was late for that fad, as I typically am with trended fare. But once I came to and saw the light of the the text message's beauty, I was hooked. I texted all my friends. I lavished in opportunities to meet people and put their numbers in my phone, if only I could text them. I took more time than I would ever admit to construct my messages just so, particularly if sent to men I was attracted to. I called my provider and opted for the unlimited package. I played games that people ridiculously play, whereby they 'pretend' they are busier than they are, and sit on messages for hours or days, just to appear to be 'aloof' or 'unavailable'. Why anyone would do this, I have no idea; I'm certainly not sure why I did.

But to be sure, I did. I became part of the text culture. And eventually, texting became an obsession, until it led to utter frustration. What did this text mean from he or she (usually he, as men tend to get under my skin more than women; I'm heterosexual and sexual, go figure). Why would he take so long to write back? Why didn't he write back? Why did he say that and nothing else? Why can't we sit here for hours and text each other back and forth? Why why why? 

Certain nights, I distinctly recall sitting on my favorite red, plaid chair in my apartment, staring back and forth between my laptop screen, and my cellular. Why doesn't anyone write? Why didn't he (whoever he happened to be at the time) write back? It was a sickness, I finally realized. And furthermore, despite the fact that I'm a writer, with a passion for expression through written words (probably what drew me into texting in the first place), such a sickness well, sickened me. 

Through text messaging (first it was emails, and now in ways, it's still emails), we have been overtaken by a preoccupation with brevity. We don't explore what's in our souls. We think: 'I don't feel like calling him/her back, why not shoot a text?' But even worse, we think: 'Why even bother to text, it's just a text?' It's sad, very sad. 

Because at times, the older I get and the more I realize how precious life is, the more I crave a good vis-a-vis talk. The more I miss times when, as in college or high school, I would talk on the phone for hours of the night. I would laugh and squeal and delight in the inflections of the voice on the other line. I felt connected. But though text messages are forms of communication, we have gone to the extreme (as we often do), and have replaced such ability to be short and to the point for a good phone chat, or a drink maybe, or dinner. 

We're not like Anna Karenin in Tolstoy's 'Anna Karenina'. If she longed to see her lover, Vronsky, she would send him a letter (long hand, imagine!) and plea for him to come to her (in person). What happened to such intimacy? The text message is so informal and its contents so ambiguous and slippery and lifeless. I prefer something I can sink my teeth into. A hug, a smile over two coffees, my family at the dinner table, or cooing on an L-shaped couch over the newest baby in our clan. These are things that matter. Text messages, for me, I'm happy to say, have become 'passe'. Yes, it's true. I'm on to the next big thing. 

Next time I meet someone interesting, I won't ask him for his cell number, and in a giddy way, add it into my phone right in front of his eyes, telling him I'll call the number so that he will have me in his phone too. No no no. Instead, I think I might say: 'Can I have your street address?' Maybe I'll send him a letter by the ink of my favorite pen, and invite him out to a Sunday brunch. 

May the text get sick and die.