Window into the Past: Part 1

The story of Laura is a long one.

A very long one.

In any story, the setting is importance. It is the medium through which the characters move, the ambience which directs their perception.  This entry will focus on establishment, therefore. It is whence we came.

It all began, of course, with the computer.

In Investment, we strolled through my online history. It seems amazing that I have spent more of my life talking on computers than off them; as I’ve previously alluded it’s odd to be part of that last generation of computer initiates, where our pasts are bisected neatly by the personal and the impersonal.

When my involvement was still nascent, I found myself on a BBS known as Oasis. While there were multiple sites run by teens, primarily for teens, Oasis was aptly named. Here, a community developed that was fairly tight knit, full of posts and humor and arguments. Amusingly, the SysOp and I had a few run-ins because he was an avid fan of Tiffany, and wouldn’t tolerate any dissenting opinion as to the quality of her talent.  I took umbrage to that, and my "Tiffany is a whore" post resulted in a temporary ban that made me fairly popular.

While that’s not necessarily noteworthy in and of itself, it was the first time I remember my characteristic . . . here, my vocabulary fails me. I cannot say it was frank, because it was an opinion. I suppose the closest term would be "chutzpah", wherein I discovered that there is immense regard waiting to be had if you’re willing to challenge other people’s insecurities.

If my life is a story, therein we find the foreword, inscribed in the deep reds of anger and righteousness. As I grew, I wrote often in those colors, until my narrative was filled with fire, always seeking a chance to lash out. Against others, against myself, it did not matter. I needed companionship; the rejection from numerous females (and subsequent failures) only caused me to clutch the pen more tightly.

Later in life, I wrote with other hues; I have tempered the red with the indigo of objectivity, the quiet ecru of consistency, the cerulean of intellect, the jade of angst, and more. I don’t burn with untempered flame, but smolder with the warmth of hearth coals.

That is a topic for another time, though; for now, suffice it to say that my inchoate personality began to define itself. On Oasis, I found my Voice, which was not the wry murmur of the adult boards, but an acerbic roar.

In any community, online or off, people begin to establish bonds and alliances. Sometimes, people will make a derisive comment about how a situation is "like high school".  That’s somewhat off the mark; high school is simply how people are. We group. We clique. We find like-minded individuals and dub them friends.  It’s possible to be friends with people who aren’t like yourself, but it’s more rare; typically, we find a commonality and we run with it.

In real life (RL), which is certainly a misnomer but will tolerably represent "in-person interactions", the popular people tend to be the ones that represent the more fickle values of society. Attractiveness, for example. Athletic skill. Extroverted individuals.  Online, however, things often seem to be different.  Purely based on my own experience–which isn’t necessarily a reliable sample, but is all I have to go on–the popular people are the ones whose strengths lie in their minds. The quick-witted insults, the well-spoken typist, the passionate and studious debater. The ones who can wield words as weapons or bestow them as benedictions.

While in RL I was often shy, online I had more confidence. Being safely removed from having to watch people’s responses certainly contributed to it, but it played to my strengths–the aforementioned wit, erudition, and intensity.

Knowing what comes further on in this story, I have to pause (and wryly chuckle) when I think of how popularity is often earned at other people’s expense. We reinforce our own superiority and group mores by criticizing those who don’t subscribe to our views. At the age of 15 or 16, I certainly didn’t have the highly internalized moral structure I do now.  I have the benefit of knowing the roots from my childhood before then, though of course you do not, dear reader. I shall not expound upon that here, but trust that there was a valid reason for that desperate craving for influence, power, and dominance.

On Oasis, a number of us became fast friends, hewn from the same forest.  There was a subforum for people who liked to play Dungeons and Dragons.  I played in a number of online campaigns over the year, and most were quite interesting.  Instead of simply saying, "Ok, I open the door," most of us would jot down a descriptive paragraph or two, continuing the shared saga from one day to the next.  This enhanced the experience, and made it quite enjoyable, particularly when we knew each other’s characters well enough that we could incorporate their actions or reactions into our own without rebuff.

It went somewhat slowly, however, because waiting for multiple people to write out their actions could drag out even the simplest adventure. Someone suggested that we all meet at someone’s house and play, gasp, in person.  Rather than decry this as heresy, most of us shrugged and said, "Sure, sounds fun."

I was freshly 16 at the time, and my parents weren’t keen on my driving overly far. Thankfully, one of the guys, Josh, drove from West County to North County (St. Louis) to pick me up, then drove me *back* to West County where we were all meeting. As it was about 40 minutes each way on a good day, this was pretty goddamn cool of him, as all said and done it was 3 hours worth of driving to help out someone he’d never actually met.  I had really led a very sheltered life to that point, as my parents didn’t stray too far from their neighborhood and almost all of my RL friends either lived in the same subdivision as me, or were never visited outside of school. Going to West County–where the rich people lived, in my mind, far away from the suburban/rural sprawl of North County/Florissant–was in itself astonishing.  This was another reason the online world appealed to me–it removed the boundaries of my existence, which it continues to do to this day.

I did not originally intend to tell the story of that group of friends here, but it’s necessary for the background.  We got together monthly, and began to be identified online as "The Horde". The Horde was popular; it was the cool group on the boards. People wanted to hang out with us; some of them wanted to <I>be</I> us, and that’s not merely exaggeration.  We were like The Plastics in Mean Girls, except instead of being bitchy, hot, shallow females, we were bitchy, angsty, righteous males.  If someone posted something stupid, we let them know, and derisively argued them into submission or drove them away. People loved to laugh with us, but certainly didn’t want to be laughed at &lt;I>by</I> us.  

There were a lot of people who we got along with sparklingly. That’s the benefit of being intelligent, sensible, and generally right. We’d beat down the stupid people, and everyone would cheer. We were assholes, but we were assholes towards the people who deserved it, dammit, and that’s why people adored us.

Ah, the hubris of youth.

One of The Horde was Chris. He had a sister, named Dana. Sometime during our blossoming friendship, a new person started posting on Oasis, named Mongoose.  It was a girlfriend of Dana’s, and we all liked her.  Her name was Laura.

I will put forth a disclaimer here:

In general, I have an excellent memory. Time, however, blurs, particularly when attempting to remember when someone’s path first crossed mine.  This seems particularly true when you meet someone online, since it’s somewhat equivalent to meeting someone at a very large party, except the party is every day and not something particularly noteworthy precisely because it’s every day.

She was Mongoose online; in person, she was "Laura, Dana’s Friend". That nametag was appended to her shirt and encompassed nearly all she was to me initially. In the same way, I was Gryphon. We called each other by our online names so much (because it was natural to refer to each other that way) that even Chris’ parents called me Gryph.

I met a number of Dana’s friends over the years I spent visiting Chris’s house, especially the Offworld summer when I basically lived there, both of us subsisting off of his father’s credit card. That was 1992, however, and our story is taking place much earlier.  In short, we were teenage boys, and they were teenage girls, and our interactions weren’t much more than casual hellos or random joking/teasing before we ran off to do boy things and girl things, respectively.

The disclaimer is, therefore, that my time frame is a bit off. I will simply say that I met her originally sometime in mid to late 1988.

End disclaimer.

Let us pause for a moment to discuss The Horde.

To say that I had a harsh childhood would be untrue. I did not want for food, clothing, or shelter.  My parents were responsible, hard workers.  I was not spoiled, ensuring I had a fine sense of the value of my belongings, and was shown that nothing would simply be given to me.  My father was/is a wonderful man, but somewhat distant, gruff and unaffectionate–residual from how he was raised. He was the voice of terrifying authority in my youth, and I confess I was a bit in awe of him for a significant period of time.

My mother was my companion; I share many of her interests and fascination with entertainment. I took after my mother, and my brother took after my father, almost a clean split down the middle in terms of interests (though not necessarily personality).  I have her love of books, games, television, movies, and technology.  Almost nightly, we’d spend the evening camped on the living room floor, playing cards or board games. That was my first sense of love–time spent together, chatting and laughing.  She never let me win; I had to compete, and play by the rules. Heh–I remember playing the Baby Boomer edition of Trivial Pursuit, when I was like 12.  No, I didn’t win. But no, I didn’t mind, either–I hated to lose, but it motivated me to try harder. That sense of struggle and perseverance is perhaps the only reason I’m here today.

However, every parent has a fatal flaw, something they do wrong, some issue they impart to their child.  Together, they generate a third.  My father was distant. My mother had a terrible temper.  Together, they were overly critical and judgmental.

I was already shy; already instilled with fear when the center of attention. They were not necessarily mean, but the overwhelming feeling was that I was not good enough. I was told I was lazy, I was told I had bad judgment, I was told I was selfish.

In some ways, we’re always 12 years old. I will forever feel the need to prove myself; to demonstrate how selfless I am, to be the epitome of good. Much of my behavior is predicated on a need to be so wonderful that I cannot be criticized.  I work hard to excel at what I do, and to be the best; partially out of pride, and partially to escape condemnation.  That is not to say I cannot take criticism–indeed, sometimes I take it too well, internalizing it, readily admitting my flaws and expressing a need to be more than I am. My friend Adam claims that I engage in self-flagellation disguised as self-analysis. This is unfortunately true.

That is now, however; in the past, as my adolescence progressed, my reaction to this criticism slowly evolved.  I was shy and reticent, but my natural will began to assert itself.  Rather than accepting it, I rebelled.  I dug in my heels and refused to kowtow anymore. 

This is not to say that I suddenly developed self-esteem, however. I merely refused to play their game, while wishing there wasn’t a game to be played at all.  If you’re going to call me lazy and selfish, fine, I will be.  If I’m not going to receive any appreciation for what I do, why should I bother doing it?

Most of the conflict arose between my mother and myself.  Though as I’ve grown I’ve moved closer to my dad in temperament, I inherited her quick fuse.  As such, we fought tooth and nail, driving my father crazy with our shouting.  He couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just do what she wanted; he wanted peace, not me fighting for my self-respect. In retrospect, I am sorry he had to go through that, because coming home to a stress- and anger-filled house after working your ass off is, to be succinct, uncool.

I felt that I couldn’t please my parents, and thus began searching by myself, for myself. I grew my hair long, I got an earring, I listened to heavy metal music. Heh, heavy metal–I still enjoy a lot of it when I listen to it. I remember another fight when my mother said something to the effect of how she’d turned on my car and some hateful music was blaring about chains and whips and blood and it was evil and wrong.  I went to my car, and the song was Dokken’s "Prisoner", which features that all-too-Satanic refrain, "Baby, I’m a prisoner, chained by love." Oooh.  Hide the virgins and break out the stakes.

The Horde consisted of many people over the years; many of us had psychological issues. Resentment, depression, anger. Still, we weren’t dangers to society. Some people came and went. Marc thought he was a vampire and hadsome substance abuse problems. Jon was just a whiny asshole.  For the most part, we were troubled teens. No drugs. No alcohol. No crimes. No fights. We just wanted to be left alone by whatever separately plagued us.

These were years of bitterness interspersed with the joy of true camaraderie for the first time; something I could identify with, something I felt a true part of, where I was accepted and respected for being me.

My conflicts with my mother came to a boil when she said I could never see The Horde again. I’d been driven home, and everyone decided to tag along for the ride in the station wagon. It was near 11pm (my curfew), and we stayed out front laughing and wrestling on the lawn.  Nothing particularly rowdy; just harmless fun.  My mother was so upset about us being out there "acting crazy" where the neighbors could see that her breath spewed forth daggers, forbidding me from ever hanging out with them again. 

My response was fury. I screamed at her, I yelled at her, I attempted to reason with her. I said she wouldn’t take my friends away, that they were good people, and we were doing nothing wrong–and all I wanted her to say was yes, you’re right, I overreacted, I trust your choices, I understand, and I love you.

Those words didn’t come; instead, I heard the same criticisms echoing around me. More rejection, more telling me I was wrong, bad, a failure, selfish, an embarrassment.

It was a defining moment of my life.  We didn’t speak for days, and eventually it passed; my dad played intermediary between us, and essentially they were banned from our house (which they’d never been in) but the "you can’t see them" restriction was lifted. Not that, to be honest, I planned to obey it.

In later years I would mention this incident to my mother in passing while I was healing the breach between us and she hardly remembered it.  This was (and is) amazing to me; that incidents that are forever etched in our mind’s eye can be completely irrelevant to other participants. (I have pleasant memories of people that will reside in my heart forever, and I sometimes wonder if it meant the same to them. It’s disappointing to think that something intensely emotional or life-altering to me was merely another day in their life, easily written over by memories more important.)

She also doesn’t remember telling me "not to use my psychology bullshit" on her when we were arguing during college and I said, "You’re just feeling this, I’m feeling this, let’s work this out and there’s no need for this disharmony." For the record, I have a degree in Sociology and Psychology.

Go figure. 

Things weren’t the same between us for about 7 years.

Chances are, at the moment, you can see where my obsession with rejection.

And yes, later in life, my mother and I both regained our friendship and grew close once again. I’ve forgiven her for her mistakes, just as I hope my children eventually forgive me for mine–and I’m certain that at times, I was pretty frustrating and unyielding. Suffice it to say that we have both grown, and both she and my father are, I believe, good people, with a plethora of positive traits that I am pleased to have inherited. 

Still, I feel the strife robbed me of an important sense of self that I wouldn’t truly develop until my late 20’s.  Time and again, I found myself in a position of submission, desperately seeking commendation, attempting to prove myself.  I ceded all of my personal power to others, desperate to simply be loved once more.

That’s getting ahead of myself, however, and we won’t go there; that need, that obsession, is the parchment on which all of my words are scribed.  I can no more separate myself from it than I can my own name.

On those pages of teenage angst, we find ourselves discussing Laura, who had a story of her own.

Laura was one of those girls who matured relatively quickly. She wasn’t buxom (which I only mention because typically people think "large breasts" when I say "matured quickly), but she was tall at that age, slender and well shaped, and quite attractive.  She played basketball, went to a Catholic school, had a healthy family life, and was open, trusting, friendly, and intelligent. 

All of these traits may have seemed a blessing, and they were, until she was lulled naively into a relationship with someone who shouldn’t have been dating a 14-year-old.  She became pregnant.

It goes without saying that this caused her considerable distress. Of course, the boy she was dating (whom I believe was 23) was of no help, since there is only one reason people of that age are interested in people of her age.  In her heart, she wanted to keep her child, but her parents wanted her to put it up for adoption, and thus she did.  This decision haunted her in years to come, but she didn’t have the option of raising it herself; all she had was a photograph, and an ethereal impression of what might have been.

During her pregnancy, a new person joined the Horde, named Bobby.  He was an odd fellow; the word "skeezy" comes to mind. North County was the more rural area of St. Louis at that point in time; we had a number of farms in the area and were only a mile from the Missouri River. As such, we had a significant portion of the population that parked primer-coated cars in their lawns, drank a lot of beer, and thought the Rolling Stones were gods among men. I don’t say that disparagingly, since after all many of these individuals were my friends–however, it certainly provides some depth to that category of North Countian to which he belonged.

He was a character, but a good-hearted one. (I’m tempted to say something like "bless his heart", which is the ultimate disclaimer anytime you say something negative about someone, instantly making the bad trait acceptable–like "he rapes sheep, bless his heart.") 

No, before you ask, he didn’t lay a finger on any nearby lambs.

He did, however, change The Horde’s dynamic. At this point, The Horde got together once a month.  Only Chris and Josh hung out together semi-regularly.  Bobby and I lived close to each other in NoCo; Chris and Laura likewise were in very close proximity in West County.  I began to hang out with Bobby a lot, and around the same time he began dating Laura.  As such, it naturally evolved that the five of us wound up spending a lot of time together.  This precipitated Laura becoming less Dana’s friend and more our friend. 

At this time I was 17 and girlfriendless, never having had one.  I had plenty of worthy contenders, but I’ve mentioned the rejection. I had turned inward, lacking the confidence that I was desirable, shards of which are still lodged within my heart today. I nursed on resentment and fed on feelings of unworthiness and insecurity.

The Horde was a salve, but as this sub-unit grew closer, I felt home.  Laura essentially became one of us.  We’d spend our time either at Chris’ house, or Laura’s; her family got to know us, and they accepted us.  Bobby was a bit of a matchmaker, and he thought itwas a shame I’d never had a girlfriend.  So did I. =p  Laura had a friend named Nancy, and to both of them this was a ripe opportunity for a blind date.  On January 6, 1990, Nancy and her friend Julie came over to Chris’ house, where we all watched a movie and chatted.

I was completely flabbergasted.

Having never had any success with girls whom I actually knew, I certainly didn’t know what to do with a girl I didn’t know.  Nancy didn’t really know earlier, but somehow, four days later–on January 10, 1990–we decided we were going out.

Remember those dates, by the way, because in three years, they come back.

I’m not going to cover those three years completely, but you’re going to definitely get a snapshot. Speaking of which, I may try and find some old photos from these years that I can scan.  I haven’t taken many photos in recent years–to be honest, it’s because I was trying to forget 1998-2002.  I hope in my next relationship, I find someone with whom many images, and stories, are born.

To be continued….