Open Letter to a Peripheral Angel
For the purposes of this open letter, the subject shall be referred to as ‘Stacy Jones’. –T.U.
*
Dear Stacy,
I can think of no better way to start this letter than by asking, “where the hell have you gone?”
As MySpace made way for Facebook, and Facebook shared the stage with Twitter in the years since I left college, I have made efforts to locate you. All of them have failed. I’ve found friends, former friends, former lovers, teachers, casual acquaintances and a number of other people from my life via social media. Those that have been worth it, I have reconnected with. Some have dropped me (again) and some have stuck around like old times. Some I dropped. But never with all of the computing, speed-of-light networking power have I been able to locate you, and I my life is a little less than it could be because of it.
Having a name like Stacy Jones doesn’t help. No offense to you at all, but it is a common name, which means that even when I find a Stacy Jones on Facebook, I find thousands upon thousands. You may be in there, somewhere, I don’t know. I admit I haven’t spent hours upon hours checking such lists. Nor have I tried to cross reference the name with much more than where we went to college, and a semblance of where I think I remember you said you lived. I got your name on an alumni newsletter once, and nothing more than that. And as I said, it may not have even been you, though the year was correct. And you may have a married name now anyway. I’m sure internet wizards could find you. But to go beyond what I’ve already done repeatedly every few years would feel like stalking, and I don’t want to appear that way to you.
I get the impression, however, that even if I did do all of that, and more, you wouldn’t freak out about it. From what I remember of you, you wouldn’t judge me. You never did much judging, from what I can remember. You did, however, do a lot of smiling. And laughing. And asking. We’d cross paths on the mall, or at the dining hall. And once or twice you tended bar for some club or another at the student center, on the occasion when I would drop by for free pizza night. Always welcoming. Always kind to people. Yeah, you’d quietly make fun of some things and some people, that were over the top or something. So would I. But I bet even if the people that were over the top needed something, you’d try to help them. Which is one reason I’ve never forgotten you.
Funny how that happens. We had only one class together, and it was in my very first semester there. But that one class was Acting 101-a class that is the referencing anchor for my entire college life. Where I began to make my impression, and where entire perspectives changed within my mind and heart about several things. Throughout college 90% of my social life and friendship was connected somewhat to the theatre, and much of that sprang up from that first acting class. Not long after said class, you decided it wasn’t for you, whereas I, (perhaps foolishly) immersed myself in it for the remainder of my college time.
But it was enough for me to know what sort of person you are, as I’ve said. The course, the room, the skits we did in class, every one of them made brighter and more enjoyable by your presence. As was my life, and I can’t believe I’m the only one to have felt so. You taking a step back from the theatre aspects of campus was a net loss for me, in the end.
We had various passing encounters in the following two years; we’d run into each other in a food line, or the bookstore. You were always the same cheerful, caring individual. It was clear for even a few moments at a time. I don’t recall seeing you truly angry.
Yet there are three not-as-brief encounters with you after you left theatre behind that are most memorable to me and I wanted to tell you about them now. Perhaps you remember them too.
The first was drinking and singing with you in a friend’s room for a half-hour or so. You had had more than me, because you’d been there longer, but when I saw you were there, I had to come by. I remember singing “Look Away” with you, (something we had done in the theatre dressing room when you were still doing plays.) I remember using your legs as a pillow as we reclined on the floor. If that bothered you you never said anything. And as just about everyone else can attest, the entire concept was very much out-of-character for me at the time. Those who knew me then may read this and ask, “when the hell was this happening, and how did I miss it?” That goes to show how comfortable you make people. The sincerity you draw out. There was more “me” there in less time with you, than with the people I spent most of my time with.
The second encounter I remember was the next year. You were an R.A. in freshman housing. At one point we ran into each other in the dining room again, and you told me about being an R.A. You said that I should come by and say hi sometime. I agreed to try. Once again, going against the grain of my college self, I actually came by. With few exceptions, I didn’t like going to the other dorms. One, it always felt like wearing another man’s shoes. My equilibrium felt off. Secondly, to show up and say hi, even when asked, invited the possibility that I’d be a pain in someone’s ass. An intrusion. So I often avoided it. But stopping by your room that day seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do.
Your door was open, and you looked busy, but truly happy to see me. I actually came in instead of hovering in the door frame as was my custom.
I remember your room was so you…you had the lyrics to “The River” by Garth Brooks written on construction paper and stuck to the wall. You had an original NES hooked up to a tiny TV with Mario 3 standing by. We played a bit, and you lamented that you didn’t have the original Mario there with you. You told me of the ups and downs of being an R.A. and how you hoped you hadn’t been that clueless as a freshman. I was there 45 minutes or so at most before you had to be somewhere. I don’t recall much else of what was said, but I recall not having that empty feeling I often got after leaving somebody elses room/dorm. You told me to come back sometime. Much to my own shame, I never did that year. I should have.
We continued to pass one another in hallways the following year, (my last.) But not as often, as I recall. Our dorms and our schedules kept us in different places at different times. And because I spent much of that year with my head up my ass, dating an obvious bitch, I didn’t venture out much beyond said bitch or beyond the confines of the theatre department, much to my personal detriment. If only I had sought you out more often. If I had, would the general easiness of your demeanor, your ever-present warmth and innate decency have steered my path in a different direction? Would I have seen the world more clearly, or been more philosophically inclined to approach life in a manner more suited to who I truly am? I don’t know…probably not. That’s an awful lot to ask from hanging out with even the nicest of people. But I bet I wouldn’t have felt as alone and as abandoned when shit hit the fan that year as I ended up feeling. (As a result of how most of my erstwhile “friends” had chosen to behave.)
And yet somehow you were still part of the story, Stacy. Because in the midst of the emotional calamity and soul crushing betrayal that defined my final three months in college, you showed up. Literally crossed my path for the first time in months, and at one of my lowest points ever. In the middle of the night, no less.
I was on one of my middle-of-the-night walks around campus, trying to pretend that everything I knew about people and friendship and trust had not been destroyed. It was a weeknight as I passed the recently constructed suites, so it was quiet, as campus goes. As I was walking past the entrance, the clicking and banging of the front door swinging open tore into the night. Lo and behold, it was you. No indication at all that anyone else in town, let alone campus was even awake other than me, and you show up.
We saw each other at about the same, and your “Hey, Ty” was one of the most sincere greetings I had received in forever. In those two words, your first to me in God knows how long, you made me feel more valued than just about any of the people with whom I lived, ate and worked every single day.
We talked a bit, and the nature of my situation came up. (Probably because you sensed I was unhappy. You seemed good at that.) I gave you the basics…I had been cheated on and dumped by what I thought was a serious relationship. But the floodgates didn’t open. I didn’t feel the need to explain everything to you. Didn’t need to express everything, or tell you what I had been through. Or how those who took sides took the other against me, while most remained in horrific neutrality…how they continued to celebrate and sup with the people responsible for my pain. I didn’t have a sense of desperate pleading with you to stand with me. You didn’t know most of the people involved, so it may have been pointless anyway. But the real reason I didn’t have to get into much of it was the instant understanding that you were on my side. You didn’t condemn anyone you didn’t know, but between the door to your dorm and the parking lot, (where you were headed), you made me secure in the knowledge that you were there. That was enough. That would have been enough from any number of people, but you were one of the few who did it.
You asked if I wanted to come with you to the all-night market. Again, going somewhat against my policy, I did. We talked in the car about other things. And talked in the store about other things, while you bought your oatmeal or whatever it was. I even laughed a few times. You laughed even more. That distinctive laugh that would announce you were nearby before anyone saw you.
We got back to the parking lot, and I told you I would hear no argument; I was walking you back to your room, and helping you carry your stuff. Like a true adult and real woman, you smiled, and agreed. No “I’ve got it”, or “Don’t worry about it.” You accepted a gesture with a grace and appreciation I’ve not often experienced since.
I didn’t go into your room this time, though knowing you, you wouldn’t have minded. It was late, and time for me to get back to my darkness. But for the first time in a while, I felt that something, somewhere was okay. That I was not an expendable commodity to everyone on campus after all. Those “demons” tortured me for months and months to come, but when I was with you that night, they didn’t dare try to upstage you.
I never saw you again.
As always, the invitation to come see you stood, but. again, to my own detriment, I didn’t take you up on it. I was feeling more unwanted and inadequate by the day. and I guess I felt I needed to stay away from people. They were certainly staying away from me, after all. But it wasn’t fair to you to feel that way. I should have come by at least once more. Not to feel better, but to give your the credit and gratitude you so richly deserved for being a source of light into both my regular, everyday darkness that we all get, and the crippling, life-changing darkness that scars us forever. You shone into my life briefly, occasionally, and off to the side. Yet few lights in my life have ever shined with such potency. So much potency in fact that I see and feel your generosity and kindness in every word I type in this post. I feel it when I think back on those times. And I feel it when I try once again to see if you’re out there on social media someplace.
And I will try again, and again. There is a decent chance that because of what you meant to me for a short time, and what you did for my definition of humanity, I may try here and there to find you for the rest of my life. Because even if that is something akin to “stalking”, I feel moved to say to you in person what I am saying to you now by means of this letter:
Thank you, Stacy.
*
This post is part of the Open Letter Continuum.
The (Not So) Secret Formulas of Fiction
To call a story formulaic, whether it be short story, novel, or even a movie is in most cases not a compliment. It tends to mean that a story is predictable and obvious. A consumer of such stories might say “I could see it coming from a mile away.”
That’s not to say that formulaic fiction is never popular. Throughout history many bestselling novels and movies have in fact been highly formulaic without shame. And people eat them up. (Dan Brown novels, particularly the Langdon series, are a prime example.) More discerning or literary readers may either dismiss such romps in fiction, or may enjoy them from time to time as a so-called “guilty pleasure.” I venture to guess that in any case nobody, including the authors of such guilty pleasures would associate their work with high art, or even with experimentation.
But say you yourself seek to write something more than a formulaic romance or connect-the-dots police procedural. Suppose your goal is to write gripping, surprising or challenging fiction. Perhaps you even aspire to that most elusive of undefined genres, literary fiction. Have you anything to gain from these “formulaics”?
Yes.
While I personally don’t think stringent, Aristotle-based plot structure is as important as it used to be when writing fiction, much can still be gained from same. That’s because many good stories that are not described as formulaic do nonetheless follow a basic plot formula. We just don’t notice the formula because quality writing allows it to recede into the background for the reader; it becomes the skeleton that holds up the tale, and not the raison d’être. So if, like me, plotting is not one of your automatic strengths as a writer, you could probably stand to brush up on the nature of such skeletons. What better way to do that than by reading/watching formulaic stories that are almost all skeleton?
Average, or even B-Movie Westerns from the 1950’s through 1970’s are good examples. Pick up a few of these on Netflix sometime, and see how the skeleton appears over and over again. Or have Encore Westerns on in the middle of the night, as I sometimes do. These will of course each have their Westerns conventions, but surrounding those are basic plot skeletons, and they won’t be difficult to find. Eventually you’ll pick up the patterns and will be able to use them in your own stuff. (attaching flesh, muscle and spirit to them as desired.)
Westerns not your thing, even as an exercise? Watch a Law and Order or any other crime procedural. Or, if you must, (and have the stomach for it), turn on either Hallmark or Lifetime movies. Those are so formulaic you don’t get anymore from the movie than you do the trailer itself in many cases. But is easily defined plot structure present? Oh, yeah. In spades.
Then there are the previously mentioned Dan Brown books, and other airport fiction. Pick up a few of those and watch the paint drip right onto the numbers every time.
There are plenty of other examples out there. If you don’t watch or read such things for guilty pleasure, consider doing so as a study in structure. You may not feel artistic, enlightened or deep when you do so, but you’ve got Sundance and Cannes indies and Pushcart Prize-winners for all of that sort of soul wrenching self-discovery. Feed your craft at its most basic level sometimes, and immerse yourself, without distraction, in the not so secret formulas once in a while.
Why I am Not Boycotting the Sochi Games
The Olympics are not what they used to be. Far from the bastion of true amateur competition and beacon of international cooperation they once were, the Olympics have become a multi-billion dollar corporation like so many others. Bottom lines, revenue streams and merchandising are at the top of the pyramid now, where once the spirit of competition, friendship and peace reigned supreme. The resultant influx of professional athletes into the Games has watered down their meaning in certain events, making them little more than an All-Star team vs. the tiny countries with no hope of winning.
In the United States, an equally ambitious and fundamentally tone deaf corporation brings the Games to our television. NBC, who has been permitted to outbid every other network for exclusive American coverage of the games for what seems like decades at a time has long been known for delayed coverage, poor analysis, sensationalism, and mostly boring mini-documentaries during prime time which have little to do with any of the (tape delayed) sports coverage. What coverage there is provides far less suspense than it could for the average viewer.
In short, NBC’s coverage of the Olympics is generally poor. But in this country it is the only game in town, so those who want to watch the Olympics, in spite of all of the corporate influence, must watch it, in all it’s weaknesses.
So why watch? Because there are still moments that are reminiscent of the original purpose of the games, especially when amateur underdogs from underfunded countries most people don’t hear about surprise the world with an excellent performance. Because I want both smaller countries to have a chance, and watch my own countrymen succeed. And, despite all of its faults, the Olympic Games is still one of, if not the single biggest international event wherein so many different cultures and nations and peoples gather together in peace. (Heaven forbid that change in Sochi.)
It’s still fun and still worth it, even though it ain’t what it used to be.
Which is why I won’t be boycotting the games, despite some of the virulent anti-gay views of the host country that have recently been codified by law.
Anyone who knows me can tell you that I support rights of homosexuals in all areas of life. That’s pretty much a deal breaker with me, and I haven’t set foot in Chik-Fil-Bigot since their whole anti-gay stance hit the fan. I wouldn’t watch Duck Dynasty even before their obvious bigotry was revealed, so I certainly won’t now. But I will watch the Sochi games.
Why? Because I don’t watch to support or endorse the host country. And it is not the athletes that have passed such laws. There are to be plenty of gay athletes in attendance at these games, some of whom are American. I can’t claim I wish Team USA well if I don’t watch them on TV, because their hosts are anti-gay. I watched the Bejing Summer games for the same reason in 2008, and I object to China’s civil rights record. (And to NBCs glossing over it during its coverage..declaring them the best games ever.)
If the International Olympic Committee were to ban homosexuals from competition, I would stop watching. And though I am concerned that the IOC chose such an intolerant nation as a host country this cycle, I’d never see Team USA or any other countries compete if by watching on TV I had to declare my support for the host nation’s every domestic policy.
Besides, there is something to be said for having them surrounded, as it were. If the world is filled with voices cheering on gay athletes as well as straight ones, that in my mind does more to counteract to vile policies in Russia than does refusing to acknowledge the games at all. This is about the world. About cooperation. About the people. I won’t toss that aside because I hate what the Russian government is doing.
I’ll boycott Russia, sure. Never had any real desire to go there anyway. But because I can’t blame the Olympians that I enjoy watching on the albeit lousy NBC coverage for the intolerance of Vladimir Putin, I can watch the Sochi Games with a clear conscience.
Though I will still mute Bob Costas when I can.
My Accidental First Date with Self-Publishing
Winners of the 2013 Nanowrimo, like me, were given a small promotional code to use on Createspace. (One of Amazon’s self-publishing setups for hard copies.) The code entitled the user to two free printed copies of their Nanowrimo book. I opted to avail myself of that option. I usually at least consider free stuff.
But I knew that even for free, publishing a first draft would be a bit of a waste. So I made it one of my goals for 2014 to clean up my Nano novel in a single revision, and have two free copies made of that. I could pass them around to friends and family to read throughout the year. Then I can decide if I’m going any further with it next year. And if not, I have two copies of it.
I finished the revision earlier than I thought I would, so I began the process of redeeming my two free copies. That’s when this minor, accidental adventure began.
You see by two free copies, I thought it would be an Office Depot kind of deal. I send them to .doc file, they print up what was there and bind it in some nice thick plastic rings or something. Saves me a trip and the 40 dollars. But no, as I got started I quickly realized that this code was for the whole deal; I was going to be flat out self-publishing my Nano book.
How did I get into all of this? I was in no way ready for it when I sat down a few evenings ago, thinking it would be one of my final things to do before shutting off my computer for the night. They weren’t kidding around here, and I thought I should perhaps abandon the whole idea, and make time this week to go to Office Depot. Maybe I could look at new computers while I was there. I’ve been putting that off, after all.
But free copies awaited me. So, I kept going, careful to choose only the most minimal, and free options.
I included no cover photo. I never thought It would have a cover, so I didn’t think about this. I chose a simple solid color. A nice earthy green.
Nor did I include an author photo for the back cover, another option. Once I saw how in depth this was, I opted to use a pen name, if only in case a copy of this book-like product should become lost. I’m happy with this novel but it’s in no condition to have my real name on it yet. I didn’t want it to be the first impression people would have of me as an author. So I thought of a pseudonym. A good one, I might add. Sounds like someone who would write this kind of book.
Then we got to ISBN numbers, and I almost gave up. Sounded like the deep end of the pond to me. But, there was a free option, wherein Createspace could assign me one. I took this, even though it means that in the unlikely event someone should look up the ISBN number, it will take them back to Createspace, and not my own imprint. I may pay the 300 dollars for my own ISBN if I self publish any “official” work of mine. But for these two free copies of a second draft of a Nano novel under a pen name, I figured an assigned ISBN would suffice.
Which means I had no publishing house logo to upload to the back of the book, so I skipped that, though it got me thinking what sort of logo I would use when the time came in the future.
Then it asked me for a quotation “about” my book, for the back cover. I was never sure if they meant a third party description, or literally a line from the book. So, I opted for one of the protagonist’s lines, and attributed it to him. Seemed like a good choice. Attention-getting and such.
Then the back-cover blurb. At first I’m thinking, “no big deal.” Just a sentence or two to let whichever family member who picks it up know what it’s about when they come by the house. Plus, even a minimalist cover design would look kind of silly with just a single quotation on the back. Something had to go back there.
Twenty minutes and seven drafts later I had a reasonable summary of the plot and tone of the piece. If I may be allowed to say so myself, I think what I came up with would work in a full publishing and marketing campaign, if ever I were to pursue one with this tiny book.
Then, to upload the file. Easy enough. But it takes a while for the site to “check” it for major problems. (I wonder if this is when Amazon also makes sure it isn’t erotica, which they have been cracking down upon lately.) Half hour or so later, I get an email. There are five problems with my file. Oh no. Time to break up?
Numbers and margins and gutters were mentioned. Believe it or not, not all writers are good typists, and I am one of the worst typists. The explanations might as well have been algebra, for what little I understood of them. All I knew was, my file’s words would not fit on the pages of the size of paperback they printed.
Now, I’m thinking, “why can’t you just make it smaller?” But in my mind I know that for many reasons surpassing my understanding, it isn’t that simple. I considered if I want to try to look up what all of this means, and reformat my file, or once again, just let it go and head on over to Office Depot.
But then, a golden option; I don’t remember the exact wording on the button, but the gist of it was, “We’ll see if we can resize it for you, if you want.”
Of course I want. This is for two free copies, after all. So I pushed it. A few minutes later, a new, reconfigured copy of my file emerged for download on the website’s dashboard. I was advised to check it out for any major mistakes. I downloaded it and did so. Other than having to fix a few stray carriage returns, it looked good to me. But would Createspeace accept its own reconfigured file?
A few minutes later, it did. After trying to get me to buy a hardcopy proof to have sent to me so I could double check, (nice try) it allowed me to review an electronic proof. All the words were on the page. All the chapter numbers in place. Looked good to me. I hit approve.
Then the snag. In order for me to continue, I had to set prices for the book, as well as choose distribution channels. Now I’m enjoying this date for the most part, but it’s a little early to be meeting her parents at home, you see what I mean?
I tried everything to move on without doing this, to no avail. I’d already spent about 90 minutes on something I thought I could whip up in 15, just to get two free copies of something. I hated the idea of shutting it all down now. Yet even with a pen name, this book is not ready to be advertised and sold and reviewed and such. And here I am giving my tax number and everything so I can report royalties.
Well, after not one, but two emails to customer service and a few days of waiting, the way was paved for me to just order my two copies, and not have to introduce an unpolished manuscript. And that’s exactly what I did.
And the code worked! How’s that for satisfaction? It’s right there on my receipt. They are in fact free. Five bucks for shipping, but that’s to be expected.
They are projected to arrive in just under two weeks. You can expect a sequel to this post so I can describe what the copies are like.
So, I’ve had my first date with self-publishing. There is no way the current edition is being sold to the public, in e-form or hard copy. Only two copies exist.(2). If I decide later on to do more with this title, I don’t have the slightest damn clue about how to change it or update it. I may in fact have made some severe mistakes for the future in that regard, I don’t know. But for all intents and purposes, and way before I thought I would, I have entered the world of self-publishing. To think I merely thought I was printing something for free.
The point of this silly story is that some of the mystique has been removed from the process. Now, I am well aware that when I put my real name on titles, (which I plan to do with some short stories this year), it will require more time, more effort, a bit of money and a steeper learning curve. I will have to be more picky and scientific when I “officially” try it. I know that when that time comes I will be driven somewhat insane with all of the details I have to tend to.
But after this experience, I don’t think I’ll be a deer caught in the headlights about it anymore. Perhaps a cat caught in the headlights; it will still stare up at you for a while and impede your progress. But it has enough sense to eventually decide it’s time to move on and let you pass without a whole lot of fanfare.
So, the whole accidental debut was a learning experience. Even if I don’t go with Createspace again, I’ll have an idea what it feels like on the most basic level. All because I was greedy for two free copies of something.
Another reason to finish Nanowrimo. It pays off, kids.
Open Letter to a Former “Family”
For the purposes of this open letter, the family to which it is addressed will be known as the “Morse Family”, Dana, Samantha and Alicia. —Ty
*
Dear Morse Family,
I’ve got a few things to say to each of you and all of you today.
It’s been a while since I have heard from any of you, of course. Such is the way you chose it to be over the last several years. Again. Though this most recent ostracizing appears to have stuck for good, given that it’s been going on for about three years now. I wrote Alicia a brief hello about six months ago on Facebook, just to see what would happen. This despite her not following me anymore. I have received no reply, which is exactly what I expected. So I suppose after all these years, and one-sided disagreements to which I’ve never truly felt free to respond, the dismissal is permanent.
It remains somewhat disappointing when I think about it. But most recently it also seemed inevitable, given the pattern of our relationship. It’s become clear you are not what I thought you were initially, and as I result, I’m not broken up about this anymore.
But there was a time when I was, and that’s what I want to mention to you today.
At various times all three of you had said to me, “I love you,” or “you are a member of this family now,” or something equally welcoming and potentially life-changing. I never have and still don’t make that much of an impression on a family very often. So when a family says such things over and over, even a cautious introvert such as myself tends to take it seriously eventually. At least for a while.
But please let’s just be honest here, as we are all adults; you weren’t serious about it were you? Any of you. I’m not exactly saying you were lying, but you were probably a bit loose with your use of the words “love” and “family” right? You can admit that now. You aren’t the first people to exaggerate you affections.
Never mind how often you said it. Never mind that for years I would rearrange my schedule to attend your functions because of how much you “really wanted” me to be there. Never mind how you would beg me to stay behind late into the night after everyone else went home from the party because you always wanted more time just to talk to me. Never mind the individual gestures each of you made at any given time. It’s clear that despite the words, the actions didn’t always back it up when taken as a whole. If the feeling was there on your part, (and perhaps it was), it wasn’t as strong as you allowed me to believe it was, given how often you said it.
Some of that is on me I guess, but it wasn’t difficult to determine how I felt, either, and you could have acted closer to your reality if you had truly wanted to. If you think deep down about the things you said and what we went through sometimes, it becomes easy to deduce why someone might think you were sincere in what you said. (And I’m not the only person to have felt similarly duped by you, by the way. But that’s their letter to write, not mine.)
I’ll admit, I should have probably walked away sooner. Should have accepted what seemed clear to me in the various times I was dismissed from your life for reasons I barely understood and still barely understand.
I should have noted that despite your apparent enjoyment of my company over the years, you never accepted any of the invitations on my side. Never came to a play I was in unless one of your other friends was in it. Never went to any public events I said I would be attending. Never once walked the two blocks from the coffee house you were always visiting to my apartment to say hi, even after I told you I lived there.
In short, it seemed to me quite clear that I wasn’t worth as much effort on your end, as you were on mine. I could come visit and provide whatever entertainment or satisfaction I held in your eyes for a while, but you weren’t about to rearrange anything for me. That may not sound accurate, but I assure you, you never accepted any invitation that came from only me. Not once. There was always a supposed reason of course, but 0% is 0%.
I should have realized there was probably less behind the words than there appeared to be. Maybe I realized it, but was hoping I was wrong, so I kept visiting and spending time with you all.
I should have also realized this when you became the first, and to this day only group of people that ever accused me of excessive “inappropriate affections.” (If anything I’m seen as aloof and cold, thus driving people away.) I didn’t even know there was a problem until after weeks of my “adoptive family” not replying to my messages, Dana explained it all to me. If I laid a hand on a shoulder or a back or kissed a cheek when I left that made someone uncomfortable, it was unintentional, and only the result of feeling that yes, we had become “like family.” I apologized to you Dana, and I even attempted to make everyone feel secure by offering to not come around for a while until things cooled off, or to only ever meet up in large groups where I was unlikely to make the same mistakes.
Dana, your response to my attempt at contrition that day should have been another clue that I and your family were not meant to mesh. I guess I was simply supposed to accept your explanation, and leave it alone, or thank you for showing me the light. But your reality was so different from my own, that I wanted to address the hurt and the embarrassment I had caused you and the rest of the family.
But you didn’t accept my attempts. You berated me. Insulted me. Made me feel like a pervert and accused me of, and I quote “throwing shit up against a wall, just to see what sticks,” instead of owning up to my mistakes. In other words, I found my “adoptive family” both abandoning me and refusing to accept the best apology I knew how to give for mistakes I was trying to acknowledge.
When I then tried to apologize to Samantha or Alicia directly once I knew what happened, you messaged me with more anger, telling me I was trying to turn your own family against you. Was I not supposed to explain what I was thinking to them? Was I not to try to make it right with the very people I offended? And was I not supposed to mention I realized some things when I had spoken to you about it?
It was some of the deepest hurt and sense of betrayal I have ever felt, those years ago. And the calmer I tried to explain that there was a mistake, the more pissed and bitchy and nasty you got about it, until I said nothing.
Is that how you treat family? Is that how you treat someone you “love”, and someone who has attempted to be there for you in the best way he knows how during darker times? I suppose in your mind, that is the godly thing to do? In my mind, it was not, and is not. I attempted my apology over the incident even though I didn’t completely understand what I did. I never received yours, and of course, I know I never will. Even if we were still talking, you never were one to admit a mistake of that magnitude. None of you are, it seems to me.
Forgiving isn’t easy, but I know it is the right thing to try to do. Which is why a year later or so when you all slowly made your way back into my life, for the second time, (an incident that was less dramatic years earlier had also driven me away) I let the past alone, and began to hang out with you again. Message you again. Let you tell me you loved me, again. I thought I was being a good person for doing so. But I was a more careful person this time, and I think I may have paid a price for that as well.
Why did I allow you back into my life? I suppose I thought of all of the better times. Or all of the times when you showed trust in me. Like when Dana would vent to me for hours on end over AIM about how poorly her husband treated her, and her plans to divorce him. Or the time you all invited me and me alone to the single most awkward, uncomfortable dinner I have ever attended when said husband/father came back and began what you thought would be a reconciliation. A dinner to which I was given the impression several others had also been invited.
What in hell was I doing there?? In the end, I determined I was there because I was important. Because I was family, and you wanted me there for the start of what you thought was a reconciliation. I don’t know, for sure. I only know that once somebody has been made a part of such a strange moment, it’s hard to forget.
Maybe I allowed your return into my life because such things, and others, appeared to prove that I still mattered. That like any family we had gone through our issues, but had come out of them before, and could again.
But it was not to be, despite encouraging signs. Signs that looking back make me wonder what my place in your life actually was.
Samantha, what exactly did you mean when you repeatedly listed me as “best friend” on your various websites over the years, only to remove the title time and again? Or when you lamented I never came to see you at college? (Only to allow me just one visit once I finally did so?)
Or Alicia, what sort of person did you see me as when you personally invited me to your graduation ceremony, or sent me a birthday card a few years ago which read among other things:
“The truth is, special people don’t often get the recognition they deserve, but that’s not true today…Happy Birthday to one of my very good friends.”
Perhaps all of you still thought you saw me as important. Perhaps you thought you loved me again. Perhaps you were hoping I would become what in your minds was the shiniest version of me…a version I did not embrace. Perhaps you just found me entertaining like a favorite movie that could talk back to you, but like all movies you tire of is put on the shelf when better movies show up.
Perhaps it’s none of these things, or it’s all of them. But a hole remained. A hole that this time I could sense a bit more often, because I had become a bit more cautious, even though I still enjoyed being with all of you.
But there was an inconsistency I couldn’t ignore. A sort of bipolar nature to our relationship after your second return. Sometimes it would feel like it always did, and other times it felt like I was merely a casual acquaintance. What’s the reason for the dichotomy? Surely it can’t all be just my personal perception.
Samantha, perhaps you still considered me perverted, even as during one of my visits you opted to fold and sort your lingerie in front of me while we talked. I don’t consider that a sexual act per se, but certainly one that doesn’t jive with the “You need to be proper and appropriate” sermons I was given when I touched a shoulder or kissed a cheek years before.
Forget underwear, there were plenty of emotionally intimate conversations you instigated with me…when you required them.
Alicia, were you somehow concerned that I would reveal to other people your deep misgivings about your sister’s long-time boyfriend? Misgivings I shared, but which you later acted as though you never had?
Maybe you were all offended because I couldn’t make it to Samantha’s eventual wedding reception, and thought I was being flippant about it. (No Samantha, I neither approve nor disapprove of who you marry. Your love life was not and is not a high priority in my life, and I am not sure why you kept asking me the question when I had to decline the invitation. As though the only reason I could never make it to a wedding reception was out of protest to the wedding. (To which I was not invited.)
Or maybe, (but hopefully not), the final straw was when I wanted my last name pronounced properly.
A simple status line on Facebook was how it started, if you will recall. I mentioned how mindless it is to mispronounce my name, when it is easily sounded out. Samantha, you commented something to the effect of not understanding why everything was a big deal to me, and that my name’s pronunciation wasn’t straight forward. I told you it was a big deal because a name is all we have in the end, and that it was in fact quite straight-forward; you say it how is is spelled. Before long, you were sending me a nasty pre-emptive private message, (in a tone very similar to Dana’s from a few years earlier),
“please don’t email me another one of your long-winded explanations or apologies over this…I’m in no mood.”
Funny how you were in the mood to start the argument in the first place. Funny how you were in the mood to take umbrage over a comment that did not and never had applied to you anyway. Funny how I am the one you often accused of being negative and taking things too seriously, yet you were the one who chose to inject a dark cloud into something that strictly speaking wasn’t even a concern of yours.
It’s also funny how attempts to explain, or reconcile or just bring about peace between two “family” members was so often viewed as a negative to both you and your mother.
What is not so funny yet not so hard to believe is that within two days, you were no longer following me on Facebook, and had indeed erased all pictures and references to me on your page. Years worth. (To be fair, I then did the same, because why keep all that up?) I get the sense it was truly about more than mispronouncing my name, but of course I was never given a chance to find out, or to work to improve the situation, because I was deemed “long winded”.
(I would rather be long-winded in an attempt to apologize, than silent in the face of trouble I’d caused, as has been your means of operation, it would appear.)
By then, to tell you all the truth, I was more annoyed than hurt by what you did and said.
And by “you” I mean all Morses. I know I shouldn’t judge a whole family by how one treated me, and indeed Alicia and Dana continued to follow me on Facebook, technically. But with a family as tight knit and defensive as yours, it becomes difficult after so many years to see you all as separate people. This isn’t unique to you, but it is just as silly with you as any other family; a riff with one of you means a riff with all of you, and I just got tired of fighting an army who claimed one too many times that they loved me.
Not that you individual contributions to the pain weren’t significant. They were.
Almost a year after Samantha gave up on me, Alicia, after one or two more messages, you stopped following me on Facebook as well. Naturally no reason why was given. There never is. I acknowledge you held out a bit longer, but I assume you couldn’t find it in yourself to be friends with someone your sister suddenly despised. Your turning your back was more of a disappointment though, even all the years later, I will admit. That is because I think on some level I always related to, understood, and appreciated you the most out of your entire family. But of course for a time, I thought I loved you all.
Dana, you never stopped following me on Facebook, it’s true. I stopped following you, at last, a few years later. You had only sent me a message once in about two years, and I just felt that in the end you probably were not far behind in unfollowing me, given that all the other Morses had done so. I suppose dropping you from my timeline gave me a small sense of control for a change. For once, in the repeating and (by me) poorly understood clashing between myself and the souls that make up your clan, I was able to decide for myself that something was over, officially.
Even after all of this pain and confusion, I don’t consider you bad people, per se. I do think you’re quite quick on the draw sometimes, and aren’t as honest about you feeling as you should be, with either yourselves or others. Dana and Samantha, you can both be highly defensive, rude, and cutting with your responses to people’s foibles when they affect you, and unwilling to talk things out. Alicia, you can sometimes be too passive in the face of things you probably could stand up against a bit when your family is involved. These traits probably in the end contributed to our split, (albeit it not a split I would have required.)
I would have liked to have had more chances to laugh with all of you. To get to know you all as you entered different stages in your lives. To explain my oddities as opposed to having to defend myself against them so often. I would have liked to have seen where our relationship could have gone without so many short fuses and snap judgements. I think about what could have been sometimes.
But in the end, I’ve accepted your choice to write me off. I frankly think it makes you smaller people than you need to be, but people are going to do what people are going to do, and you’ve decided what you want to be.
Yes, I may be more sensitive than some people, and I have acknowledged, or at least tried to acknowledge the times when that may have gotten the better of me. But I respect myself too much to take total responsibility for our problems. In the end, in spirit, it was you who chose to be rid of me and not the other way around.
I don’t mourn your absence, I have to say. I regret and apologize for whatever pain or offense I may have unintentionally caused any and all of you, but I don’t lose sleep over it anymore. And though I can’t say I love any of you now, and part of me will always be hurt by some of the ways you treated me, I don’t wish any of you ill. I suppose, for a brief moment, I can even thank you for the laughs. A very brief moment.
I’m sure I will sometimes still think of you, albeit casually. Will any of you think of me with anything other than contempt in years to come?
Enjoy your journey, whatever it is you want it to be.
sincerely, Ty Unglebower
This post is part of the Open Letter Continuum.
Ty Unglebower 