Yesterday afternoon, I drove by my high school. Without looking, I already knew what was happening. The drum beats clearly signified early rehearsals for marching band and color-guard; I was part of neither. However, it brought back memories of theater and music folk mingling in the hallways of "D-Wing," our territory of the school, and suddenly I found myself remembering the innocence of the first day of school and what it was like to be a kid... The world was so important, and yet nothing at all really mattered.
(Yes, Dory, we were the cougars... laugh. It's funny.)
We were all drama queens - male or female. I'm fairly certain that there was a large chunk of time in which someone I knew was always crying - myself or a friend. 14, 16, 18. It didn't matter. High school was the world, the bubble. We were best of friends, but we talked about each other. We were buddies in class, but we never saw each other out of school. We were group partners on a project, but we hated having to carry someone else's load. It was truly a microcosm for the bigger picture. And yet it wasn't even close to experiencing the real world.
There have been times when my brother and I would see kids either at Disney World or exiting school at 3:30pm, and all we could think of is, "They have no idea what's coming." I interact with kids on a daily basis at work, and I'm reminded of how easy everything was before term papers, application essays, job interviews, and monthly bills. Remember that break down because you had too much work due? I had one. Remember the tears shed over a nasty rumor? I was there.
That, all of that, was easy. Really, what if you had to deal with half the shit those kids in Hogwarts had? I'm pretty sure you never encountered a Death Eater or a Dementor.
Responsibilities were small but heavily weighted at the time. One year was more complicated than the one before. But there were structures, routines, rules. Maybe that's part of the reason so many people go into the field of education. It helps to prolong and sustain what we have learned and cultivated for so many years. School, break, school, summer... Truthfully, post-college, one of the weirdest things is getting used to the idea that you no longer have a real summer, one that involves movies, days off, and vacations.
True, I have a lot of great memories from high school, and I still hold onto a few friends from those years (and some before). I was the weird kid that enjoyed writing papers and reading teacher feedback; I have a lot of my old work underneath my bed. But I hated the tears and the melodramatic everything that I was involved in or causing. It was easier, yes, but it was silly, immature, and just a part of growing up... getting to the more difficult stuff.
I used to say that I would go back and do it all over again. High school, that is. But lately, when I've thought about it, I realized I have absolutely no desire to be in those hallways or in a 15 year-olds shoe's ever again (although, it'll all come back one day when I have my own kids). I remember a lot of heartache and unnecessary problems. I remember bitter fights and rude e-mails. Sure, there were proms and shows, sleepovers and get-togethers, but it's over, and over isn't always a bad thing.
So, yeah, maybe life isn't that easy once you leave high school and college, but there's nothing holding you back, no bell to disrupt your test-taking (or sleeping, if you were THAT kid). The choices don't have to be easy, and the answers don't have to be in multiple choice format. Because you'll get there one way or another.
**Before reading this blog entry, please read this article:
By Ronnie Polaneczky
Philadelphia Daily News
Daily News Columnist
THIS IS ONE of those stories that make me want to say "I'm sorry" to gay people for the nonsense they endure from some heterosexuals who give the rest of us straight people a bad name.
So please, Alix Genter, accept my heartfelt apology that you were denied the chance to purchase the wedding gown of your dreams from Here Comes the Bride. The manager of the salon, in Somers Point, N.J., said she didn't want to be associated with your pending "illegal action."
Yep, that's actually how she referred to your wedding, next July, to your longtime partner (whose name you asked me to withhold in this column, as she's publicity-shy). You plan to apply for a civil union in New Jersey, where you live, and to be formally wed in New York, which just legalized gay marriage. But you're also arranging a big, blowout ceremony and reception for 200 at Normandy Farm in Blue Bell, where your family and friends will toast your commitment.
"We are very fortunate in that our families love and support us," you told me yesterday, from your apartment in Highland Park, N.J., near Rutgers University, where you're completing your Ph.D. in history. "They're so excited about our wedding."
And so it came to be that last Saturday, you were at Here Comes the Bride with a cheering section of six well-wishers helping you try on dresses: your mom and dad, your aunt, a cousin and two friends of the family. Yours is the kind of big, engaged clan in which everyone's involved in everyone else's lives, in a good way.
"The fact that even my dad would come to a bridal shop - that should tell you something about how close we all are," you said of your family members, who hail from Huntingdon Valley but spend weekends in Ventnor (hence your bridal shopping at the beach). "I spend almost every weekend with them at the Shore."
Last Saturday's trip to Here Comes the Bride was a typically fun outing. Your mom packed little "gift bags" of muffins and other munchies, and a neighbor contributed a bottle of champagne. Donna, the store manager, asked you not to eat in the salon - "The dresses are white; we don't want stains," she told you - so you saved the party for afterward.
By then, you had reason to pop the cork: You'd found the dress you wanted, but wondered if the manufacturer could use a more-lightweight fabric in the version you'd wear next summer. Donna promised to investigate, and you left the store, delighted.
So how weird it must have been to get a call on Tuesday from Donna (she wouldn't tell you her last name, and she wouldn't tell me, either, when I spoke with her yesterday), and to have a conversation so different from the one you had with her on Saturday.
"She said she wouldn't work with me because I'm gay," you recalled. "She also said that I came from a nice Jewish family, and that it was a shame I was gay. She said, 'There's right, and there's wrong. And this is wrong.' "
She also said - and you have the voicemail to prove it - that what you were planning was "illegal" and that "we do not participate in any illegal actions."
"I was devastated," you told me. "I was crying. I called her a bigot; I told her, 'I am a happy person and you are a miserable person.' Then she hung up on me."
You admit to using some choice words when you called her back. But trust me, whatever you said was probably poetry compared with what I believe most decent people would've spewed at her on your behalf.
You know what's strange? When I called Donna yesterday to get her side of the story, she both confirmed your version of events and accused you of "stirring up drama." She said that your writing the word "partner" was basically a provocation, evidence of a need "to show that she's different."
"They get that way," she told me.
By "they," she meant women who were fed up with men because "men can be difficult," and so now they "experiment" with female relationships because they're tired of having men boss them around.
She told me about a friend whose wife left him for another woman. And about a young family member who was molested by a same-sex adult male. And about a gay man who once plunged a knife into a chair in the restaurant where she worked. And - she finally lost me here - something about the Navy SEALs.
"It's a lot of drama," she said.
She also found you "aggressive," didn't appreciate your cursing and thought I should speak with your father before writing this column, as she "sensed" his disappointment in your decision to marry a woman.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
The thing is, by the end of the day yesterday, after a few conversations, Donna seemed kind of sorry about what she put you through. Granted, she sounded mostly sorry that people found out about it from the negative review you wrote of your experience on the Yelp business website. But she at least reached out to the woman who'd referred your family to Here Comes the Bride in the first place.
"The friend is going to arrange a meeting between me and the parents," Donna told me, to try to smooth things over. For some reason, she didn't think it would be important to include you, even though you're the one who was treated badly.
Again, I apologize.
First, I must apologize for my absence in the land of blogging. I'm not sure how many of you missed me, but it did feel sort of odd not really having an impetus to write. Though I love to write, I find that when I lack a specific purpose, my wordy rambling just makes me angry - and I'm not the reader.
But, now, for the important stuff...
I like men. It's pretty obvious. At work, I'm often known for looking out for the attractive guys, spotting them before other coworkers. At home, I have photos of Daniel Radcliffe, Jake Gyllenhaal, Elijah Wood, Matthew Morrison (the list goes on) around my room and tacked on a bulletin board. I can't wait for the time when I meet the right guy and am able to start a family and the life that goes with it.
However, just as much as I adore the opposite sex, I love and respect my friends for who they are and the way they live their lives - no matter how different or similar to mine they may be.
In my life, I have been so extremely lucky to cross paths with so many different people. I could never think of a time when I wouldn't have wanted to know a person based on the color of his/her skin, religious background, or sexual preference. A person's character is far more important than the person he or she was born to love (yes - BORN TO LOVE). I credit my family and my friends with shaping me to be the kind of woman that simply doesn't give a crap about stuff that shouldn't matter.
This morning, I saw the cover of the Philadelphia Daily News, and I was horrified.
As I read the story, I continued to feel outrage and sadness. Simply, it just doesn't make sense.
Being in love is not a crime. Discrimination is.
Think about it, someone sold Kate Gosselin a wedding gown. Multiple people sold them to Jennifer Lopez. Look how well that all worked out. Both of these ladies have had children and broken marriages. No one thought to say to J.Lo, "Hey, look, you've tried this before, I'm not gonna help you because it's just not going to work." Just as much as same-sex couples deserve the right to love, marry, and raise families, they should also be afforded to very same opportunity to buy a fucking dress.
I'm sorry. But profanity explains how this makes me feel.
I am certain that there are bridal salons all over the world selling gowns to women whose families do not stand by their decisions to marry the intended GROOMS. BUT, according to a court of law, the union is legal, and - by this Somers Point shop's standard - reason enough to dress the bride-to-be.
More than anything, I don't understand being the kind of person that would deny a woman in love the chance to buy her dream dress and walk down the aisle to whomever waits at the other end (or maybe they'll walk together, who knows). Actually, it's also really dumb because it's a sale, Lady, and times are tough. You're really, really stupid.
There are so many other things going on in this world, and you're worrying about a woman you don't even know marrying another woman you don't know?
At the end of the day, it isn't about the dress, clearly. It's about the sickness of believing that those people that don't live YOUR lifestyle are a lesser citizen, not worthy of the rights of others. It's a horrible, horrible way to live, thinking that you are better than another person for completely bogus reasons.
I usually say that I'll respect others' beliefs as long as they have valid reasons and conviction for feeling such things - and also that they don't force it upon me. In this case, I just can't do it. I can never and will never respect a person that possesses such hatred, allowing him/her to devalue the lives of others.
**My thoughts were far more eloquent in my head... Then I got really angry as I continued writing.**
"Ooo there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way."
