Here again…

August is the month of my birthday.  It always seems I am on some annual calendar of emotional and personal revolt the closer that day draws near.  It has nothing to do with getting older.

I question everything: decisions, relationships, work, happiness…it has been this way for most of my adult life and there seems to be little that I can do to control the process.

So I won’t…I’m going to let it happen, give up on stopping it.  This is not intended to read as some sort of defeatist mentality, but I’m tired of not feeling honest with myself about the dialogue.

Where things get unnerving is moving from thoughts to action.  So that is the unclear crux in this murky reality in which I seem to be drifting: honor the feelings, delay any movement.

My birthday is on August 14.  Typically this whole sordid affair ramps up mid-July as the full rage of summer vacation sets in (I’m a teacher) and reaches a peak days before my birthday.  I feel like I have to hold on and not make any rash decisions in order to ensure that everything is as I left it when I wake up on August 15.  I’m not be dramatic here-it really feels that cut and dry in terms of the calendar.

But at the same time, the need for something different, the desire to feel like I have control by exerting change in my life is strongest always at this time.  Maybe it’s tied subconsciously to the school calendar that I have been tied to pretty much non-stop since 1980…

I want different, I want more, I want less, I need this, I reject that, the grass is always greener, the grass is already green, bigger smiles, more frequent tears, grasping at straws or is it needles in a haystack, what you’ve got is what you need isn’t what you think it is or what it was or is it?

Bleh.

What’s wrong with hitting like a girl?

I had to go to school today (on a Sunday) for a short time to get some work done.  As I pulled into the staff parking lot, I was impressed by the number of kids that were on the softball and baseball fields for what appeared to be the start of “spring training” for the upcoming Little League seasons.

The acre or so of grass was filled with dozens of young kids, adult coaches and a fair number of parents.  It was fun to walk the length of the service drive on the way to my classroom and see the excitement and energy of this new beginning.  I overhead some truly fine adult males guiding a group of about 30 pre-teen girls on the merits of teamwork, maintaining the infield and practice procedures.  A smile moved across my face as I watched the girls take off on their warm-up lap.

A few steps later, I walked by some pre-teen boys running a series of lunge/sprint exercises.  And at 9:10 in the morning, the adult males guiding this group of boys, apparently not satisfied with the effort of these kids, thought it appropriate to encourage them with:

“Come on guys, if you don’t start moving faster, I’m gonna send you over to the softball field to work with the girls!”

Hmmm.  Really?

As a marching band director of 220 kids I know a little bit about the need for a coach mentality in motivating your team to work harder, dig deeper and go beyond what they think they are capable of doing.

But this example of adult leadership was just stupid.  And to think that many of these little boys go to school with some of the very girls that were training just 100 yards away.  And this was the message they were receiving.  For a practice session for Little League Baseball training.

Anything about that seem asinine?

How about all of it.

Nothing like a good dose of fury to get your Sunday started!

On Golden Pond

Went for a walk this morning around Lake Merritt.  The walk caused me to pause and reflect about why I love living here so much.  Oakland is a beautiful city in so many ways and is so misunderstood by people who don’t spend time here.  I was one of them.

Having lived in San Francisco for my first 6 1/2 years as a bay area resident, I saw little to no reason to travel over the bridge to Oakland.  It may as well have been New Jersey in terms of geography-a place I’d never been and didn’t care to go.  Granted, I drove the 580 to Pleasanton every day for work, but Oakland was something I passed through via the freeway on my way to somewhere else.

Since moving across the bridge 3 years ago, I have developed a big crush on the land of oaks.  One of the first things I noticed was “Oh, so this is where everyone in their 30′s went!”  I love San Francisco, too, but for very different reasons.  It was a place I came to from Michigan to unknowingly reinvent myself.  It is a city steeped in a tradition of self-discovery and as such, the city is a reflection of many of it’s residents.  I loved that, but I outgrew that.

I feel settled, relaxed and at peace here.  Like any major urban center, there are problems.  But somehow to me, the problems here seem shared in a way that they didn’t in San Francisco.  It feels like home in that we as residents are in this together and are trying to make it right.  Far less self-serving-it’s not about what I get out of it, it’s about what I put into it.

Off the soapbox for a moment…

No place is perfect, but this place is home.  I’ll never have another place to call the place where we bought our first house together, or had our first major relationship crisis, or our first major relationship reconciliation, or our first break-in and certainly one of our first breakthroughs.

I’m not blind to the imperfections, but I’m one who loves an underdog.  And this is one underdog that’s got my back so I do the same in return.

To Oakland, with love.

JG

Over the hills and through the woods…

For no apparent reason I am waxing nostalgic tonight and this brings to the forefront of my mind one of my most cherished memories from my childhood:

The Grantham Family Pilgrimage to Kalamazoo for Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Don’t worry, though, I’m not about to go all Norman Rockwell on your ass.  This holiday travelogue is cut from a different kind of cloth.

Set the stage: my parents were solid working class folks.  Not a lot of pretense going on.  This is an important detail, so keep it in your back pocket for a moment as it will help you to understand that what you are about to read is not a tale of neglect and abuse; it’s about creative and inexpensive problem solving.  You make do with what you’ve got…

The Christmas drive to the grandparents house was 2 hours one direction if the winter weather in Michigan was cooperating.  This meant up early to open presents, eat breakfast, shower and hit the road.  Though hitting the road for a blue-collar family of 5 meant more preparations than simply loading up the Ford Aerostar (primarily because we didn’t own one of those…)

What it meant was dad unloading the back of his full-size pick-up truck-he had a lot of construction equipment back there-and putting the topper on back.  You see, mom and dad rode up front while my sisters and I rocked it comfortably in the rear.  We were like a mullet on vacation, so to speak.

As kids, we thought we might be living a life of luxury.  Dad would put a foam pad on top of the built-in shelf he had installed and we would load it up with all of the pillows and blankets from the house. It was a big birds nest. There were even curtains to cover the windows (with a clever deer print on them)-this was like camping!

Or so we were led to believe.  2 hours riding in the back of a truck with questionable shocks while laying on a foam mattress with your 2 sisters?  What’s not to love?  But wait, there’s more!

This for me is the piece de resistance: the kerosene heater.

Yes, you read correctly.  In order to ensure our comfort (but perhaps not our health and safety), we had a small propane tank and a kerosene heater operating at all times in the back of the truck to keep us warm.  Taking a nap wasn’t a great option because we might not ever wake up.  Also, one of us had to have our eyes on the damn thing all the time because if we hit a pothole, the gas line would surge, the flames would shoot out over the sides of the heater and the whole thing would teeter dangerously on the cheap dirty carpet covering the bed of the truck.

Even better was when the heat on the inside would rise to melt the accumulated snow on the outside of the topper and cause a weather system inside the bed of the truck that would make most greenhouse operators envious.

Is it any wonder we were so damn excited to be at Grandma’s house?  We were happy to be alive.

You don’t question the reality of a situation like this when you’re 10, but in retrospect, that was some crazy-ass shit going on there.  My parents did the best they knew to do-no malice here-but I have to believe that in 2011, if your adult child pulled up to your house for Christmas with your grand kids stowed up in the back of a pick-up truck with a foam mattress and kerosene heater as travel accommodations, you might make your first call to Child Protective Services.

But it was a different time, then wasn’t it?

Best worst date movie ever

As this idea has been circulated with some degree of regularity over the past few weeks, my thoughts here are not original, but…

Blue Valentine was the best worst date movie ever.

I knew what I was getting myself into-there were no false pretenses.  I loved the film.  I though Ryan Gosling’s character was messy but likable.  I understood Michelle William’s character to be a total product of the mess that she group up in-her parents dysfunction following her, too.  Both performances were multi-dimensional and endearing.  They seemed like real people in a way that didn’t seem like an effort to make them seem like real people.  Got it?

Wanting to see myself in one or both of the characters to figure out how not to fall prey to the stage of a relationship where you find yourself quietly plotting the demise of someone you used to love, I struggled to find a clear connection with either character.  This left me with more questions than answers and  I was left wondering how “good” relationships muddle through the daily grind.

All while eating popcorn and some crumbly variation of a Crunch bar and sitting next to my better half.

About that…

Talk about an awkward debrief.  Thankfully, Ryan loves movies and he often leaves wanting more-more narrative, more back story, more explanation…just more.  If he had his way each movie might tip the time scales at a brisk 5.75 hours to get it all in.

All of that being said we were able to avoid too much of what I like to affectionately call lesbian processing.  We just talked about the holes that he felt were present in the story.

I, meanwhile, was able to empty my brain of those muddled relationship thoughts on the brisk walk home and resume life as planned today.  But the thoughts came back, thus the post this evening.

A good movie, but make certain you are on solid ground with whomever shares your bed if you see the film.  You may have to answer some questions you aren’t ready for.

Good stuff

This is a feeling that happens very infrequently at this point in my life.   When you meet new people and something magical happens and shit just clicks.

It happened to me this weekend.  It was a marathon hang session with a new friend and I left the weekend feeling really sad because it had to end.  Though it sounds strange, this feeling of sadness made me feel simultaneously happy.

Because at this point in my life, meeting new people who “stick” seems a bit of a rarity.  And not because I’m terribly unsocial; it’s just that the people who have already earned a spot in the bulls-eye of my friendship dart board have been there for awhile and mostly live far away.  One never wants to feel like they are interviewing friends, but in some ways I am a little lonely.

I have a nice group of friends, but few of them share my profession of band directing.  And if you aren’t a high school band director or don’t know a high school band director, it basically means about 85% of your available time is spent in your job.  I live this percentage happily (most of the time) but sometimes it can feel a bit isolated.

Couple this sense of isolation with the fact that a lot of music teachers are somewhat socially retarted (that band geek stereotype is not totally inaccurate), so as a result there is a lack of depth to my professional interactions.

Until this weekend!  The perfect marriage of commonality in profession and similarity in personality and humor was almost magical in my hang time!  I’m trying not to appear too eager or desperate to forge a connection prematurely, but good friendship chemistry does not present itself with any degree of regularity.

It’s an exciting time when you feel like you’ve landed a good one.

Mission control, we have touchdown!

36 going on 16…gay isn’t easier or a choice.

The recent publicity on gay teen suicides has hit close to home.  I was a gay teenager once, before things like cable television, the internet and social networking made a small town boy feel a bit more connected to a big city world.  I was left to piece together a fractured gay identity secretly through the JCPenny’s catalog cut-outs hidden under my mattress and some wishful thinking that I could cure myself from being gay.

The saving grace was that my shame was buried so deeply and my desire for acceptance was so great that I never contemplated suicide.  I wanted to hide anything that made me seem different.  Made me seem gay.  I didn’t want to end up on that island that my dad suggested all the fags with AIDS should live on and die.

But fast-forward to now and it is a sad truth that in an all-access wired society, gay kids still feel an incredible sense of isolation and loneliness.  So much so that death seems like the only viable solution for many.

In hindsight, my time in middle school and high school has been reduced to a series of vignettes that center on the cruelty of my peers.  This is not a unique experience for most-I understand this-but when filtered through the lens of a kid struggling to make sense of himself sexually it gets more complicated.  This isn’t just acne, quarreling friends or gossip. It’s the reality of forever…and when you are young, forever feels like a REALLY long fucking time.

At 16, gay is a part of you that you begin to know you can’t fundamentally change but sometimes wish to God you could.  I remember talking to myself to try and lessen a lisp that I worried was forming; walking around in my room to focus on not looking gay when I walked or not having a limp wrist when I talked.

And this is where I completely understand the utter loneliness that accompanies the struggle to find oneself for a gay teenager.  You are left to figure out who you are while trying to simultaneously hide who you are.  At least that was my story. I know sadly this does not make me unique, either-even now.

I was hopeful that 18 years after graduation from a rural high-school that things had improved.  Forever the optimist, I struggle to find the silver lining in 2010.  I teach smart, privileged kids, many of whom know they have a gay teacher, and I still overhear things like “That’s so gay” or “Fag” as part of their robust teenage vernacular.

And it makes me sick.  I diligently correct this language and feel that I have helped to create a safe space on campus for my students, but a small island will not protect kids from the hurricane of hate that swirls around them daily.

I’m not sure how to wrap this up…hope it doesn’t sound too self-indulgent.  It’s just that I’ve been filled with a lot of sadness and despair of late and didn’t know how else to express it…I just want gay kids to know that the struggle, the torture isn’t forever…it does get better.

It does.

 

That’s so cliche

I had this random epiphany on my way to work last week.  I spin around thoughts on my morning commute on a regular basis and these were the ones most prevalent on my mind as I drove in to the sunrise on the 580.

As I teach teenagers who are very very self-aware and image conscious I think some of that, no actually a great deal of that, mentality leeches on to me like some sort of contagion.  As a result I find even at 36 that I am overly sensitive to sounding “played out.”

Until my drive to work last Wednesday.

I thank my Morning Jam 1 soundtrack for this realization.

So to the point.  I realized that as you clock a few more years on this planet things that at one point you avoided saying because they sounded cliche start to sound like reality because you’ve lived through them.

And this was my happy invitation into middle-age.  This belief, no…realization, that I could speak of a more universal truth to my students (because I believed them to be true through the lens of experience) made me trust my voice.  It’s as if I’m not pretending anymore-I just am.

I am certain.  I am experienced.  I am aware.  I am knowledgeable.  I am truthful.

And I happily embrace being cliche.  Because when you’ve lived it you’ve earned it.

Newest member of the Chante Moore fan club?

It seems as much as I have my teaching life pulled together, my personal life is a comic but tragic shadow of that professional life.

Case in point-Chante Moore.

Until 6:44 pm this evening I had never heard of Chante Moore.  But my incompetence had a different story to reveal.

Some background information:

I am a high school band teacher.  Over the last 11 years I have instructed thousands of students.  I love my job and I love my “kids”, former and current.  A previous student of mine graduated from UCLA with a master’s degree in world percussion and ethno-musicology.  He is a smokin’ jazz drummer and I found out last week from his mom that he was in the Bay Area to play percussion on a CD release party at Yoshi’s.  She asked me if I wanted to attend and my immediate response was, “Of course!  And don’t tell him I’m coming-I want it to be a surprise.”

So his mom sent me an email with a link to the performance and to the Yoshi’s website.  I told my partner Ryan about the concert and he was willing to tag along.

I was looking forward to the concert tonight. We arrived at Yoshi’s ready to surprise my student and  were looking forward to a great night of jazz.

I stepped up to the counter to purchase our tickets and the lady told me that they would be 68.00.  I was shocked.  I thought the web link had listed them at 10.00 a piece, but maybe I was wrong on this point.  Far be it from me to deny a young musician a chance to earn some money, but I thought the price was a little steep for a CD launch party.  I mean, did I even get a free CD for the price of admission?

So I happily forked over the money for the tickets, which were printed as non-refundable and noticed that the artist listed on the ticket was Chante Moore.

Who?

Walked over to the information board with her photo and bio and it dawned on me that I hadn’t misread the price on the concert, I had misread the date.

Or rather hadn’t even bothered to check it.  This is the kind of poor planning and lack of organization for which I regularly key my students.

Checking a promotional flyer at Yoshi’s confirmed my belief.  We were fully paid to watch the R&B vocal stylings of one Chante Moore.  My student was performing in 7 days not 7 minutes.

This may have spelled failure for the evening but Ryan was pulling his A-game.  He stepped up to the counter, explained my stupidity in a totally acceptable manner and got us a refund on the non-refundable tickets.

So we didn’t make it to see Chante Moore, but I think it all worked out like it was supposed to…and after a deserved scolding from my better half we found redemption through cocktails and tapas.

So Chante, you were worth 68.00 for approximately 10 minutes.  But I’m glad I got my money back.

Isn’t that moving?

I always find moving to be such a mixed bag of emotions.

There is the catharsis of getting rid of the stuff that you accumulate over the course of days, months, years.

There is the joy in editing your personal belongings down to the stuff you really “need.”

Revisiting memories as you sift through various cards, photos, journals…

But there is also the sadness of leaving a space behind that you will never in the entirety of this universe inhabit again.

Why do I struggle with finality?  Always have, likely always will.

But, I’m still excited to move.

Fresh start, big-fat-do-over, clean slate, less is more, first time homeowners building a nest that belongs to no one else (well, except the bank…)

So I’ll pack the bag of emotions and take with.  Now if only I could find the packing tape…