Prom Night

It has struck me, nearly every day, as I write this little blog of mine, "What would people think?" There are people out there, who know me to varying degrees, reading these words. Some know several of these stories I tell, some know the people involved, but no one - until now - knew them all. I feel like a clam, my shell smashed against jagged rock, exposing the flesh of me. Sometimes, I will write a line, attempting to censor and to be unfaithful to my truth because I see the faces of family and friends frowning. Wondering if I will expose them along with myself. Wondering if situations I have experienced, that have made me a better person, apply to them. I see disapproval, I see disappointment, I see disillusionment. Perhaps, in this infinite wheel of me feeling abnormal, seeking normality, discovering I am normal, experiencing tragedy, feeling abnormal, seeking normality - perhaps in this wheel I have discovered what put me here to begin with; the disapproval, the shame. But my ferocity of the independence leaping from my heart does not slow for such emotions and sometimes leads me to self inflicted wounds - like those I received on prom night.

It was senior year, and I was working hard. I had a job and I went to school and got good grades. For those of you who may not know, I like having control. I had a plan for my life, and there were no contingencies to fall back on. The 2 most important dates to me, as with many women, were my wedding and my prom. I had to have the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect hair, and I had someone handpicked to go with me.

We had been friends since freshman year. He liked to make me laugh. I didn't mind his braces, or glasses, or the way he teased me. We were fun together, and for some reason, I felt responsible for him. Always warning him to look both ways when crossing the street with me, chastising him for skipping class, asking him if he'd done his homework. He was my pet, and sometimes my pet was naughty. Once, while sitting in Spanish class together, he continually blew spit balls at me. I got really frustrated and kicked his chair - which got me, not him, sent to the dean's office. Although this was a blemish on my record, I forgave him - well, really, there was no forgiving, there was just moving on. So when the time for prom came, I knew he would want to be there with me; making me smile and laugh, and twirling me around in my beautiful gown. I couldn't wait.

About a month before the prom, I called him and asked him the big question - I know, how unconventional of me, it was my fierce sense of independence rearing its huge uncompromising head again. He said that he didn't have money to buy the tickets or rent a tuxedo and that he would have to see if he could get some from somewhere. In my mind, it was all very vague, but I never heard a no. I went on, going to department stores and buying a beautiful antique white off the shoulders gown. My mother bought me pearl and gold earrings, sequined slippers, a pearl choker, and I bought my prom ticket. Through all of this spending I envisioned him; holding my hand, kissing me for the first time, and staring at the stars together. So the day before prom, when I asked him if he bought his ticket and he said no, I was beyond dejected. It was my big day, maybe my only big day, and now he was ruining it. I offered to buy his ticket, but he wouldn't let me. I didn't care what it would look like; I just wanted him there beside me.

The night of the prom, there was no one home except one of my brothers. My mother never got to see how lovely I looked in my gown, with my princess curls and jewelry. A tear fell from my eye as I put on my choker.

A few of my girlfriends and I went to the prom together without dates. I watched as girls with their dates, spun around the dance floor, and kissed and hugged, and took photos. All of these beautiful people in this fancy country club, having the time of their lives, and I felt alone. More importantly, I missed him. I missed the good time I could have been having and tortured myself with visions of he and I doing the things the others were. I danced with my girlfriends and then sat alone in a corner until it was time for the cruise.

On the boat, I went out to the deck and stared at the stars, all by myself. One of my classmates came out and asked me why I looked so sad, and I told him it was because I was experiencing what should have been a wonderful time without the person I wanted to share it with. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and said he would dance with me. It was the highlight of my night.

Returning to the school for breakfast - this was a 10 hour prom - all of the teachers stopped me in the hall to tell me that I looked like a princess, and they asked where my date was. The question was like a thorn in my side. To end the horrible night/day, I went home to discover my brothers at school and my mother at work so I was locked out and had to go to my aunt’s house that lived about 20 blocks away in a big poofy gown with people pointing and watching.

The following week, when I saw the boy who stood me up for the prom, I was angry. I didn't want to see him or speak to him, but we shared classes together. All of my anger turned to fear, when he told me that after graduation he was enlisting in the army. He was my pet, and he might get hurt. He was my responsibility. I was frightened the way a mother might be frightened for a child, but there was something different. There was a feeling that was making me sweaty when I was around him - sweaty and a nervous - during those last few weeks of High School.

He wrote me letters when he was in basic training and when he graduated; he came back for a visit. I was in disbelief, the boy that left had become a man. We went on a date, walking around and talking about our dreams. We held hands and sung in the streets. It was winter, and the air was crisp, but we felt so warm. When he took me home, we lingered at the train station, neither of us quite knowing how to say goodbye. Finally, I closed my eyes and presented my lips for a kiss, but just then his train came - he popped up, said goodbye and got on it. That was almost 10 years ago.

Almost 10 years with no writing, or phone calls, not knowing where each other was. 10 years of me thinking about him, always seeing him with a little family on some military base somewhere. 10 years of me saying his name, of Google searches, of musing on what might have been. Then one day, through MySpace, I saw him and emailed him. We were married a year and a half later; I wore my prom dress.

I hope none of you mind that I ended on such a happy note, I will do better. . .

Tomorrow, A Mother and Daughter. . .

Detour: A Friend Gone

Some days I feel as though I have more questions than answers. I suppose that there are times when everyone feels that way; how will I go on, what's next, who will stand with me when I'm weak, where can I go to escape this madness, why is this happening????? Sometimes we question ourselves. We question who we are. This leaves us vulnerable to the abrasive forces outside of us; wearing us down little by little until we either become secure in our own skin or break. My best friend came to such a decision in her life and I was causing the abrasions.

I remember my first day of High School. I met so many people; short, tall, black, white, etc. Each one I met with an open heart and mind; they were each my friend unless proven otherwise. I tried to figure out where I would be the most comfortable, which clique would suit me best. Because most of my classes were of the nerd variety, advanced english and science, I was immediately drawn to groups of studious kids. Kids who instead of going to the lunch, would prep the biology lab, kids who hung out in the counselors lounge, kids who used their spare time to do homework just assigned.

But there was another side to me besides the over-achiever, there was the artist - the poet. I chose to write for the school paper and magazine, and I wandered the halls writing poems in my notebook. I was still stifled by my emotions surrounding my father's abandonment, traumatized by the early separation from my mother, and highly protective of myself due to my mother's domestic violence experience. And so, there was a facade of a social butterfly that I wore like a mask, because it protected my softer insides from hurt. I wasn't sure if I could survive any more damage. Pouring out my feelings about my past, my present, and my future seemed to put me at ease, and although I was fearful of letting someone close enough to the real me to be able to hurt me, I was eager to find a kindred spirit.

Most of my friends at the time fit into a clique; nerds, jocks, metal heads, artsy kids. I liked to float from group to group, experiencing new things, expanding my limited horizon, creating an image of myself that encouraged people to believe I was cool. Then, one day I met her. She was a transfer student and shared a few classes with me. We began our friendship by sharing answers we had for homework and debating whose answer was more right. Slowly, I began sharing my poetry with her, and she began sharing her writing with me. I had finally found the person who I could be myself with. We visited each other’s homes; I remember lying across her bed and reading poetry to her. I remember sharing lunch near a pond in a park. I remember visiting the museum and discussing the modern art pieces. Once, on our way from the museum with a group of friends, we crossed through a park. I was wearing a blue lace dress and cute flats. We were laughing, and running, and talking; and suddenly, I decided to climb a tree. My best friend screamed at me to get down, and then broke into a laughing fit. I ripped my dress getting down :)

We continued that way all throughout High School. Sharing our most intimate secrets, the issues troubling our minds, and our hopes for the future; this was every day conversation - as if our words could somehow change things, as if they could combat our demons and make our dreams materialize. As we prepared for college, I felt closer than ever to her. I loved her like the sister I never had.

One day, my mother and I returned home from shopping, and she said I had mail. Looking at the envelope, I could tell it was from my best friend, I had no idea what it could be. I read the letter as I entered my home. It made me swoon; I ran to the bathroom with tears streaming down my eyes. I cried for almost an hour, rocking back and forth on the toilet with the door to the bathroom locked. When my mother knocked on the door, I could barely move my lips to tell her clearly that my best friend no longer wanted to be friends with me.

In her letter, she told me two things which shocked me: 1) She was a lesbian 2) She was in love with me. She didn't want to be friends anymore, because amid all of that laughing, and talking, and sharing, I apparently said something hateful about gays. I was devastated, had I really been intolerant at some point? Me, with all of the friends from so many different backgrounds? I hated myself. I didn't care that she was a lesbian, I didn't care that she was in love with me, all I wanted was my friend. I wanted to be able to talk to my friend. She was all I had in the world that was so like me. She was my crutch against the outside, and I loved her, but now, she was gone.

I learned about the weight of words then. I learned to measure them carefully.

Tomorrow, the Mask. . .