An Acquaintance Reveals Her Emotional Behavior and I See Myself

So, there’s this woman I know. She’s more acquaintance than friend. I’ll call her Georgie. This is not her real name. Georgie is an…acquired taste. She believes what she believes and believes that it’s the truth. For instance, it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know if the willow trees alongside the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C. were cut down with permission or without. She believes they were cut down because the Orange Fool, as she calls the current President of the United States, doesn’t care if he has permission. So, it makes sense to her that he does whatever he wants, everyone else be damned. 

 

I’ve glimpsed a little of Georgie’s personality, but I was curious to know more. On a recent reconnaissance mission, we meet for an afternoon cocktail at a bar on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. Georgie’s a smoker so we sat outside at a café table after confirming she would be allowed to smoke. The manager on duty brought out an ashtray and gave us both a conspiratorial wink as he placed it in the center of our table. A comrade-in-smoking, I thought to myself. And don’t bombard me in  the comments section for the name and location of this rule-breaking restaurant. I’m not going to tell you.

 

Thankfully, the day we meet up is beautiful. A rare cool summer afternoon. While waiting for our drink—Georgie an Aperol Spritz and me a French 75—Georgie reveals to me, rather freely, that she looks at the world through anger-colored glasses. 

 

“What color is anger?” I ask her. I need her to elaborate.

 

She thinks for a few seconds then a smile relaxes her face. “It’s a murky greenish-gray. Like…a cloudy eye. But it’s crystal clear.” She’s eerily convincing. I nod, internally debating the conundrum of murky and crystal clear. “And sometimes, if I’m particularly angry, there are toxic-yellow flares—brain cataracts, I call them—that obscure my thinking.” I couldn’t help but appreciate her metaphorical prowess.

 

She further explained that she knows she’s probably going to get angry when she reads the current headlines on any given day, admitting that sometimes she reads them for the express purpose of doing just that. She said she rarely reads the articles attached to those headlines, choosing instead to stay uninformed.

 

She then tells me she recently began to feel ignorant. Not from a lack of  higher education. Georgie has a college degree, and I personally wouldn’t consider her ignorant and I tell her so. She clarifies that she feels ignorant due to her lack of knowledge regarding current events in the country, the world, which she avoids by not reading those above-mentioned articles. She does not like feeling stupid, her word not mine, but she has chosen willful ignorance. And you know what, I understand that. Sometimes knowing can wreak havoc with my own anxiety.

 

“I have somehow found comfort in my anger,” she says to me while lighting another Marlboro Light. “I can’t remember a time in my life when I wasn’t angry. When I wasn’t playing some sort of victim role of my own creation.”

 

I ask Georgie to explain how she how she is playing a victim of her own creation.

 

“I’ve spent a great deal of my life believing that my perceptions about something are the truth.” She takes a drag from the cigarette. It feels like a moment of deliberate pause instead of a need for nicotine. “I don’t have conversations where I seek to understand why someone believes what he believes.” I notice the change in her body language as her hands become more animated. I hope the ashes don’t hit me as she gestures. The cigarette smoke spirals away as she exhales. “I don’t try to understand the why of the differences. I avoid them. Yet I have no problem recounting the actions of this person or that family member to likeminded friends with a woe-is-me tone in my voice.” She shrugs and looks at me matter-of-factly. “It’s victim-y. I can hear it. I can feel it. But I don’t stop doing it.”

 

I ask her to connect the dots between the ignorance and the victimhood. But before she can, a man walks by us playing music loudly on his phone, filling the world with his choice of music. Georgie turns to look at him as he passes, staring like she’s trying to burn a hole through the back of his head. As she returns to me, I can barely discern, “I hate people.”

Georgie fascinates, and annoys, me. But I don’t disagree with her. People are awful. Especially those who think the world belongs to only them and their iPhones.

 

She took a drink then began to connect the dots.

 

“I live with a lot of fear. Fear of the truth especially. I realize anger is a byproduct of that fear. And now I feel like I’m allowing my willful ignorance to mix with the fear and increase my anger exponentially.” Here she turned her face away from me and sighed deeply. “I don’t even know if I’m making sense.” She ashes the cigarette in the ashtray but doesn’t wait for me to respond. She makes eye contact and holds it. “I have lived with my fear and my anger for so long that I’m comfortable there. It’s safe. I know how to navigate the world.” She takes a final drag and presses the cigarette into the ashtray. It lies bent atop a bed of gray ash next to its stubbed and crooked sibling. Her exhale dissipates in my direction.

 

A breeze blows past us in that moment, and the ashes begin to disseminate proving to be as fragile and fleeting as I imagine Georgie to be behind her protective wall.

 

“I think I’m arrogant.”

 

She seems proud of this statement. She takes a drink so I do too. 

 

“I think my opinion is the correct opinion.” She lets that gem sit between us. I was nodding at her, a sign that I was listening. But I will admit I was surprised. I wanted to say Really? or Why? but kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, she went on. “I believe I’m a good person. I think about right and wrong, yet I don’t take the time listen to another person’s point of view nor do I create opportunities to do so.” She contemplated another cigarette but seemed to decide against it. “I struggle with empathy. I’m a rule follower and I don’t understand why people can’t follow the rules. I don’t like living in the gray area. It makes me feel out of control. Being angry and fearful seems black and white to me.” She absentmindedly took the previously avoided cigarette from her black-lacquered cigarette case. “I struggle,” she said, then lit the cigarette. 

 

The conversation with Georgie tapered off after a bit more bitching and moaning, a little more venting. She seemed to have done what she admitted she does. She played the victim. Before she left our table, she gave me a look that all but asked me to console her. I did. 

 

After I paid the bill, the waitress took away the empty glasses and the ashtray. Anyone passing by at that moment would have thought I had been there alone. All traces of Georgie were gone. 

 

I strolled along the sidewalk, contemplating what had been shared, and my thoughts about what I’d heard. My ear locked on the sound of singing. I saw three street performers ahead of me. One with a guitar. There’s a hat on the sidewalk at their feet. The closer I got the clearer the harmonies became. I recognized the lyrics: “I went sky diving / I went Rocky Mountain climbing.” I knew the song—“Live Like You Were Dying” by Tim McGraw. Isn’t it funny how the Universe works? Giving you something you didn’t even know you needed? I hadn’t heard that song in years. And I didn’t stop to listen to it then. But I could still hear the singers belting the chorus as I turned the corner to walk in another direction.

I share some of Georgie’s traits. I can be sullen. Why am I saying, “can be?” I am. And my expectations run high. The political divide also makes me angry. And there are things from my past that I know I should let go of. And my own fears make me crazy. I don’t want to be like Georgie. Sure, I think she’s a good person. But I also think she’s stuck, unable to move forward. Maybe by choice. 

 

The first thing I did when I got home that afternoon was listen to “Live Like You Were Dying.” (If you don’t know the song, give it a listen. I’ve linked it here.) Anyway, I thought about how difficult it must be for Georgie to be Georgie. I thought about my own issues. Silly, most of them. I smiled when the song’s key changed and Tim soared right along with it. I thought about the man in the song choosing to live. Then I sent my sister a text asking if we could talk.

Another Visit to Melancholy City

There wasn’t a tilt. But there was a shift. A mood change. The sidewalks seem the same. The sun is still shining. But the light is different. And the Air. The air is heavy. Heavier than when he’s in Anytown. Here the air insulates him with his thoughts. 

(sigh)

 

Melancholy City. He’s back for another visit.

 

When he’s in a period of deep melancholy, a period in which he currently finds himself, another wander through the streets of Melancholy City is inevitable. And when he’s there he longs for it all to be over.

He wishes there were no more days. That his fading from people’s memories would begin. That he no longer existed

 

Have you ever wished it were over? That you were done.

 

Before you even ask the question, yes, he knows what he’s saying. He knows the above scenario would mean that he was dead. And surprise, there are days he wishes he were.

 

He longs to stop trying. 

 

He longs for sleep.

When he’s visiting Melancholy City, sleep is a drug. It takes him to Dreamland. And when he’s in Dreamland he doesn’t have to think. Thinking

(overthinking)

is a must in Melancholy City. But while slumbering in the lighter breezes of the pastel void of Dreamland, he is free. Yes, he knows that Dreamland can be vivid with color. He also knows that sometimes it can be alive with technicolor nightmares. But he so often lives in a fantasy world—even in Anytown—that Dreamland is the better respite from his thoughts.

 

(mostly)

When he’s in a period of deep melancholy, he wallows in self-pity. There’s a lot he doesn’t like about himself, which he can keep at bay most of the time in Anytown. He ignores his feelings, pretends they don’t exist, pushes them so far into the dark corners of his mind that he believes he’s happy.

But when he visits Melancholy City, he can’t keep the negativity in the darkness.

He sees himself as old and ugly, worthless with shallow tendencies that announce themselves like a scent that enters the room before he does. He wears his anger like a pair of shoes and clomps around hoping to frighten people away otherwise he will condescend and judge until they run. His fear has kept him afraid and alone and lonely. 

(and insecure)

When he’s visiting Melancholy City his wounds ache, they bleed. While there he longs to be invisible. He wants to go unnoticed. He stays silent. He tries to give no one anything to talk about, no reason to stare. But inevitably, every laugh he hears piercing the thick air as he passes through stabs him with mockery for something, anything, nothing he’s doing.

 

As he wanders those desolate streets of MC alone, he thinks about his age and his life and sometimes he wishes his retirement were closer.

(another ending)

Before him there are fewer years left to work than the years of working already behind him.

But then he thinks about retiring from life and wonders how much of a relief that would be. 

 

He knows there’s beauty in the world. He sees it most days. There are colors he wants to surround himself with because they breathe life into his day. He knows the sky, when its blue stretches uncluttered for miles, is a miracle. He loves the green shade of baby leaves that trees produce as they burst back to life in spring after a cold dormant winter. He knows the cooing of a dove is somehow calming.

He’s seen the majesty of a sunrise, the glory of a sunset. He’s smelled the sweet floral fragrance of a pink peony, inhaled the creamy scent of sandalwood drifting off his skin. He’s tasted the bitter sweetness of cinnamon in his coffee, the explosion of flavor from a greasy skillet-fried cheeseburger 

He’s felt the rough brush of stubble on his face from a man’s chin during a passionate kiss.

 

This is life.

But when he’s visiting Melancholy City, he mostly feels like he’s just surviving instead of really living.

(a side effect felt in Anytown)

He’s alive but perfunctorily going through the motions; no thought to carry him through a day. 

Or, for that matter, through a life.

 

The idea of dying

(literally being dead)

freaks him out. But when he’s in one of his periods of deep melancholy, the idea of not being feels like relief.

There are too many days he wishes for what he can only assume is its “sweet release.”

But maybe death is merely a metaphor for ending this way in which he sees himself.

Without the Work, Nothing Changes

I have to do the work. I don’t want to do the work. But I have to do the work.

It was suggested to me by my therapist today that I want someone to do the work for me. Ouch. The truth hurts.

It doesn't come easy for me this change that needs to happen in my life.

When my therapist says, “Baby steps,” I get so frustrated. But he’s right. The change isn’t going to happen overnight. It’s going to take time. I’m 48 now, and I’ve been marinating in this anger and self-loathing for a long time. It’s going to take time and that means that I’m going to have to do a lot of work.

The first step is to start believing I deserve to be happy. The second is to find the courage to be so, then confidently project that to the reflection in the mirror and to the rest of the world.

The third step is to stop being a victim of my past experiences. (Am I creating my own victimhood?) Things were said. Things happened. We all have issues from our pasts. But not everyone lets those issues affect them so easily in their present.

A fourth step might actually be to stop and realize that I'm projecting onto others what I'm actually doing to myself, e.g. believing that my father would think I brought a gay-bashing on myself when really I'm the one who believes the bashing is his own fault. 

It’s not going to be easy. But then again maybe nothing worth while ever truly is.

The anger and fear are debilitating. And remorse has become the lesser of the two evils between debilitation and intimidation. Self-loathing might as well be a shirt that I put on years ago and have yet to take off.

I have been surviving for a long time but not living. And as Adele sings, “I want to live and not just survive.”

So how do I do this? How do I step out of my comfort zone and step into the lions den with no fear of the bite?

That remains to be seen but step in I must. Otherwise what’s the point?

Words To Yelp At: A Review

As soon as I read the words I felt the flush of heat, and I knew it had colored more than my cheeks. I knew my entire face had gone red. I was embarrassed. I was angry.

I don’t remember the circumstances surrounding the encounter between me and the customer who decided to air her dissatisfaction with it by personally attacking me on Yelp.

The truth is: I have been condescending. And I’m very aware that I can possess, at times, a tone that isn’t always the most cheerful. I own that. But I’ve also been the most helpful man in the room, the man who goes out of his way to get the customer what he wants, the man who has ‘em laughing as they walk out the door.

I’m human. I make mistakes. I have bad days. Don’t we all? But to attack someone, citing his birth defect, in the first line of a Yelp review is nothing short of vicious…and a little Trumpian.

For the record, I don’t hate myself, and I’m not miserable.

Customer service is not the easiest of industries from which to earn a living. People can be difficult. I know. I have been one of those people. Regardless of what transpired between this customer and me, I don’t believe such a nasty personal attack was necessary.

But we live in the social media age of the Trump era. We hold in our hands access to a plethora of apps from which we can post a smear about someone we don’t like on whatever platform we choose. (I myself am guilty of harsh criticism on Twitter toward political views I oppose and toward anti-LGBTQ statements.) We can post a picture of a person who pissed us off and caption it in any degrading way we like. My favorite of the social media mores is the absurd behavior of videoing a fight, an attack, an accident, yet refusing to help the person in need because for some reason the footage is more important than the human being.

I sat quietly at work for most of the day after reading my first known Yelp review. Contemplating. Stewing. This customer did not so much critique my bad customer service as point out my crossed-eye, question my gender, and note my nail polish. She viciously attacked my personal attributes and choice of expression. Was she trying to belittle me or shame me?

The more I contemplated the more I wanted take it all off...right then: the eyeshadow, the mascara, the nail polish. I wanted it gone. I wanted to not be seen. I wanted to hide in the corner. That would be the easy way. That would be me succumbing to safer more comfort-filled tropes. But then I said: No! She doesn’t get to have that much power over me. Her comments were nasty, negative, and hateful. But what can I learn from this? How am I going to react? I am strong and courageous and her opinion of what she saw when she looked at me doesn’t matter. Our transaction may not have gone the way either one of us would’ve liked, and I can learn from that. But she has to look at herself in the mirror every day and know that she lashes out with hate.

Also for the record, I regret that my interaction with this customer was unpleasant enough to make her lash out at me. Clearly I affected her day. Maybe she felt better after posting the review. Who can know? I don’t think we often stop to realize how one human interaction can affect another. An interaction I had had prior to the one I had with her could have soured me for the next few hours...or the rest of the day. And in turn, the interactions she had post me could have impacted those experiences.

Actions may speak louder than words, but words have the power to leave a lasting sting. We should choose them wisely. Of course, we would have to care about their power and their lingering effects, and many of us just...don’t. 

Segregation (We Can Never Go Back To Before)

When I saw the television news clip of Diana Medley, a special education teacher in Indiana saying that she doesn’t think anyone is born gay and when asked if she thinks gays have a purpose in life responding, "No I honestly don't. Sorry, but I don't. I don't understand it," I just wanted to scream at the top of my lungs--EDUCATE YOURSELF. You’re a teacher for God’s sake.

I would never want to put myself in the shoes of a gay student who needed to take a problem to her. That student is prejudged before he gets into her office or classroom. She doesn’t understand. Oh my God. She is also quoted saying, “We don't agree with it (homosexuality), and it's offensive to us. Homosexual students come to me with their problems, and I don't agree with them, but I care about them. It's the same thing with my special needs kids. I think God puts everyone in our lives for a reason."

Is she saying that she doesn’t agree with her special needs kids either? Are they offensive to her? I’m assuming no, but if you read the quote it’s easy to mistake her statement. So, Ms. Medley, thinks everyone is put into her life for a reason, but she doesn’t think gays have a purpose in life. Very interesting I must say. Maybe the purpose for gays in her life is to educate her on the fact that we’re all people, and to help her understand our similarities out way our differences.

The reason Diana Medley has even entered the realm of my life is because a group of students at nearby Sullivan High School, as well as, parents and religious leaders in Sullivan, Indiana want to ban the gay kids from attending prom. Ban. The. Gay. Kids. BAN!! Diana Medley doesn’t even teach there, but she was very vocal in supporting the ban.

What year is this?

According to the story published on theindychannel.com (Where Ms. Medley's quotes were obtained) one student (whose name was withheld) says, “We want to make the public see that we love the homosexuals, but we don’t think it’s right nor should it be accepted.” Kynon Johnson, another student, says, “If we can get a good prom, then we can convince more people to come and follow what they believe.”

These students are the voices of those looking for a “traditional prom.” Nothing like keeping up with the traditions of making those that are different feel less than. The KKK has traditions, too.

High School is hard enough, and I realize this in one fucking dance, but come on. All the kids deserve to attend their prom. ALL of them. Do you think the gay kids are going to look at you twice when you dance with your boyfriend or kiss your girlfriend? Get over yourself. This is about your own insecurity and it’s hidden behind Bible verses. Prom is about having fun. It’s a night to dress up and listen to music and share a few laughs and make new memories before the school year ends.

I was a student who was hiding the secret of being gay. I know how difficult it is to not be able to talk to a parent, a teacher, a pastor, a friend--anyone--about what’s going on inside of me. I was always afraid of the same reaction that many of these people interviewed for this story had. A reaction that was captured for a television news broadcast. Putting the face to the quote is worse than just the quote. We can see your hate and condescension. 

Diana Medley stirred such anger inside me that I could do nothing but sit down in front of my laptop and type as fast as my fingers could hit the keys to compose the sentences forming in my brain.

Why do some Christians feel they are so much more superior than others? There are Christian people in Sullivan County where Sullivan High is located that don’t feel the same way as Diana Medley or the other professed Christians. I find it so interesting that we can all read the same Bible and believe in the same God yet be so divided on what the text means and what God wants.

Don’t try to tell me that I woke up one day and decided this life of fear, new segregation, social ostracization, and daily fight-for-rights was something that I chose, Ms. Medley. Hell no!! Life would be infinitely easier if I was a heterosexual man. I may have the same hang ups that I do now, but the fact that I would be a man attracted to women would make my daily life less stressful than being a man attracted to men.

I had to take a deep breath and remember that I live in New York City where there may still be bigots and haters, but where there is also acceptance and understanding.

I may not feel represented by the drag queens, go go boys, leather men, twinks, or porn stars in the NYC Gay Pride Parade, but damn it at least I live in a place that allows all of us to be who we are. 

I struggle enough with my own worthiness. These kids in high school today who aren’t afraid to stand up and speak out about who they are elate and terrify me. I’m elated that they have the courage I did not have, but I’m terrified for those who live in places where the good Christians ban together to fight against them.

So if you choose to segregate us don't ask to attend our more fabulous parties or drink from our much cleaner water fountains. Don’t ask us to arrange your flowers in beautiful vases or pick design your clothes. Don’t ask us to cut your hair. Don’t ask us to sing for your charity event. Don’t enjoy a moment of us dancing on stage. Don’t watch the television shows or movies we write, produce, or star in. The list could go on. I know. I’m kind of adopting a holier-than-though attitude. It’s hard not to. Much like a parent is supposed to calm down before punishing a child I should have calmed down before writing. Oh well, anger, much the same as alcohol, is a truth serum.

I was reminded today of the song “Back To Before” from the musical Ragtime. The story of Ragtime, based on the novel by E. L. Doctorow, is set just past the turn of the 20th Century. Times were changing and people where realizing they had to change with them or they would be left behind as relics of the past. 

There are people out there
Unafraid of revealing
That they might have a feeling
Or they might have been wrong
There are people out there
Unafraid to feel sorrow,
Unafraid of tomorrow,
Unafraid to be weak...
Unafraid to be strong!

The above lyrics represent to me the new crop of gay kids coming into their own in this, the 21st Century. They’re unafraid to reveal themselves, they’re unafraid of tomorrow, and they unafraid to be strong. Lets hope that the good Christians who want to segregate the gays become unafraid to admit that they might have been wrong.

The article on theindychannel.com ends with Southwest School Corporation Superintendent Chris Stitzle saying the school plans to go on with its prom April 27 as planned.

"We're planning on having our prom just like we always have. We encourage all students to participate," he said. "We treat all students with respect and dignity."

We can never go back to before. Change is hard and growing pains hurt, but if a child is gay they deserve all the same privileges, rewards, discipline, and experiences of a non gay child. They deserve a human experience. We deserve a human experience. We can NEVER go back to before.

lyrics from "Back To Before" by Lynn Ahrens reprinted without permission

video of Christiane Noll from the 2010 Tony Awards telecast

Really, An Animal?

I am so frustrated today. So angry. So sad. So fascinated!

I am so tired of the people who live in fear of something that they don't understand and don't take the time to understand. People who just accept what their church leaders or political leaders tell them without questioning their own beliefs.

When are people going to stop equating same-sex marriage with utterly ridiculous things that they pull out of their asses. How do you make the leap that if I, Michael Rohrer, want to marry a man, a man that I love, it will open a Pandora's Box that one day allows men to marry their dog, cat, or horse? That leap is the most stupid justification for being against same-sex marriage I have ever heard.

I have a straight friend in my life with two divorces under his belt and a third marriage pending.

I have a gay friend who just celebrated his sixth anniversary with the man he loves. Legally married, thank you Massachusetts. They are the most normal of couples. They show affection, they pay their mortgage, they argue, they buy groceries, they clean their house.

I think it's about sex. We are hung up on the sex act in this country. There is a perception that homosexuals are just consuming debaucherous amounts of alcohol and having raunchy, promiscuous sex. Well, you know what, some homosexuals do, but not all of us. And here's a spot on your pretty, unblemished idea; some heterosexuals do to. There are many people in this world, gay and straight, who experiment with sodomy, fellatio, cunnilingus, drugs, alcohol, fetishes, etc. Wake up people. Do you really know your neighbor's or friend's bedroom habits? No! Nor should you.

When are we, the people, going to realize that homosexuality is not a choice? I'm very proud of who I am. I wish I had more courage, but I'm proud nonetheless. However, do you think, given the choice, I would have chosen to be gay? Why would I choose to live a life surrounded by so much hate? My life is my life. I was born with it. I carve out my path daily, yearly, as I grow and learn more.

I'm not crazy. I don't need to be cured. I can't, nor can any other homosexual, recruit your child. I was not recruited. I grew up in a loving, church-going, home with parents who still love me. I wasn't molested. I felt my attraction to the same sex when I was still in the single digits. I don't want to have a relationship with an animal. And contrary to what some men think, just because you have a dick doesn't mean I want to sleep with you. Get over yourself. I am a normal man, a human being, an American, just living my life and hoping to meet the right man and fall in love. And guess what, I believe God made me this way. "Created in his image." And I believe God loves me. After all, isn't God love? I don't know the God who the people, holding the signs, that say "GOD HATES FAGS" worship. I thought hate was a sin and that God and Jesus were sin free.

Relationships are about so much more than sex. I want to know what there is to fear if two men, that you don't even know, have never met, or will ever meet, love each and want to get married? How does it affect your life? Your marriage doesn't affect mine.

Give peace a chance. Give love a chance. Start thinking for yourselves. Wake up!!