Stumbling Towards Identity: Part 2
It occurs to me as I write this that as was probably to be expected, the background may eventually be longer than the actual story. I do not mean to prolong it–and indeed, have tried to hone my words and pare them down to a passable size.
I’ve become entranced, however, with my own history. I am a student of myself. I’m often self-absorbed, but not egocentric, for I place great value on others’ interests, concerns, and advancements, particularly those I love. I’ve spent my life searching for meaning, and I can honestly say that until now, I have never actually sat down and objectively examined my teenage years.
I’d written about them once before, years ago, but that was a self-serving pityfest. If I’ve gained anything from these last four and a half years of relative tranquility, however, despite its disheartening ending, it is that the wrinkles of the prior decade were smoothed out. I had time to relax. To simply be myself, free from drama.
There’s great value in that, and I don’t know if I’ve come about it any faster or slower than others, but I’m glad that I have.
So, now that I’ve begun this project, I’m rather enamored with it. It’s a challenge to me. I also like the concept of presenting myself in a non-flattering light, to see not only how much of my current personality you can discern, but how you react to someone whom you may initially respect, until you begin reading about the ghosts of his past. Perhaps it is belated repentance, telling these stories. Regardless, Laura will be postponed, because this entry is about Nancy.
Ah, Nancy.
Hindsight causes me to appreciate her. Well, hindsight and maturity. In January of 1990, I was 17, a senior in high school. Graduation was only six months away for me; conversely, Nancy was a sweet 15-year-old sophomore who to this day may be one of the most basically good and innocent people I’ve ever known.
I wasn’t sure what direction my life was going to take. I was interested in studying psychology, not because at that early point in my life I still thought I wanted to help people in that manner, but because the human condition fascinates me. In my earliest memories, I wanted to know the why of people. Why they liked, why they loved, why they fought, laughed, sacrificed, persevered, prayed, hated, forgave. My search for understanding encompasses not only myself, but others as well. It is a constant pitch and roll of comparison and analysis, an ebb and flow of judgment and consideration.
I am this, I say,
and you are thus,
and I want to explore
not only both,
but all of the spaces in between.
I half believe that if you cut me open, you would see this exigency tattooed on the inside of my flesh. Sometimes, it occurs to me that the reason I may be unsuccessful in relationships is because I am constantly examining and discussing who we are–and I have the tendency, unfortunately, to find myself holed up with individuals who have no real desire to discover why they are who they are. I pray that in the future I wind up with someone with not only the capability, but the desire, to examine her life.
Some of us live in our hearts; some of us live in our bodies. Some of us drown in our senses and emotions. Still others of us live in our minds, in that cross-section between thought and action where we dissect, rationalize, idealize, and dream.
That is not to say we don’t experience all of the above, but that we are defined by the sphere in which we most often reside. I am a creature of mind and heart; I am ideology, I am passion, I am devotion. I am stimulation, challenge, and analysis. I am enthusiasm and disdain and thoughtfulness. I am restless, distracted, and consumed. And yes, I’m a bit of a rambler on.
At the age of 17, what this meant was that I was naïve.
I had an idea of what romantic love was, but hadn’t experienced it since all of my explorations were unrequited. In the same vein, I had an idea regarding what I wanted to do with my life, but didn’t really have a plan to get there. I would go to college, of course, but I didn’t know which one. I would do something in psychology, and change the world one person at a time. Somehow.
Ah, the fatal flaw.
You’ll remember the discussion of my childhood in Part I. Children internalize how they are raised; it is inescapable. As I said, I do not blame my parents, for I honestly believe there is no perfect way to raise a child. We will always succeed on some levels and fail on others, because we are similar but not the same, and the best you can do is try your damnedest and hopefully mitigate most of the damage.
I was a gifted child. Their term, not mine. It’s not hubris to say I’m very intelligent, though I daily recognize the wealth of individuals who are smarter than I. School came easily to me. I used to get in trouble for tuning out my teachers–yet even when they would have meetings with my parents, or I would get a stern lecture, they couldn’t refute the fact that I was still getting high marks.
Coupling that with my youth, we find that what I had learned at this point in my life was that if you put in a nominal amount of effort, things usually turned out successfully.
I may not have all the toys the other kids in the neighborhood had, but I had some. Why be greedy?
I may not have the 4.0 that others worked towards, but I had a 3.5 without trying. Why strain?
There was no need to strive, no need to push beyond, no need to wear myself out. After all, if I did, it would only be met with a lack of appreciation or reward–or, in the case of females, rejection.
There’s an episode of The Simpsons where Homer’s dispensing fatherly advice to his children. The quote goes something like this:
"Kids, you tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is, never try."
Similarly, my overwhelming dichotomy was "why bother?"
Thus, when I say I was naïve, it means I didn’t realize that I had to actually work. At anything. I wouldn’t really learn that lesson until late (too late) in my 20’s. Sometimes I’m tempted to look back at my younger self with contempt, because I feel like I’m paying the price for the mistakes of somebody else.
I didn’t work, with Nancy.
We got along very well, obviously. We really liked each other. Still, I had been in love with the idea of love, and once I was there didn’t really know what to do. In my mind it was some idealized utopia where we always agreed, wanted to do the same things and be with the same people, spent all of our time in playful giddiness, and never had any strife come between us.
Yeah, I laugh now, too.
In general things went very well.
Nancy was from a small, churchgoing family. Her father was a gruff but well-meaning soul who was built like a small fortress and somewhat intimidated me. Her mother was a sweetheart, all sugar cookies and aprons. She had an older brother with whom I got along fairly well, and their interaction was no better or worse than any other brother/sister pairing. If you wanted to design an archetype of "good girl, slightly mischievous", it would behoove you to start with Nancy and work from there.
Her house became one of our mini-Horde’s hangouts. Her parents liked me, Chris, and Josh. I still remember her dad’s nickname for Josh, which was "Long, Lean, and Lanky", which sounds awkward but was actually quite endearing as a constant reference for him. You’ll note that this is a resounding commonality–everyone’s parents liked us. Except mine.
It was akin to a B-movie that these nice West County girls were hanging out with these rebellious, wrong-side-of-the-track-looking boys that had hearts of gold behind their angst.
Nancy’s best friend was Julie, whose boyfriend Aaron was a fellow straight from the O.C. That’s not to say he’s a bad person; it’s that he was as "preppy" as we were "metal", and gods strike me with lightning if I’m not sitting here wishing I had better labels than that. There was some antipathy simply because we were in different peer groups, and didn’t really have a lot of the same interests. Overall, we got along, but as I look back I wish I’d been a bit nicer to him. He really was a pretty nice guy.
In my attempt to define myself, and free myself from the yoke of condemnation, I had closed my eyes, clenched my fist, and stood my ground. I chalked a circle around it and said, "This is mine," and in subsequent years would try mightily to not only expand that circle, but to keep redrawing the parts that were blown away by the breath of others.
I was obstinate.
[ob’-stuh-nit] –adjective
1. firmly or stubbornly adhering to one’s purpose, opinion, etc.; not yielding to argument, persuasion, or entreaty.
2. characterized by inflexible persistence or an unyielding attitude; inflexibly persisted in or carried out: obstinate advocacy of high tariffs.
3. not easily controlled or overcome: the obstinate growth of weeds.
Sounds right to me.
Although I generally treated Nancy well, I did not want to do what, well, I did not want to do. While I often eventually compromised, it was only with great effort and complaint. No, I do not want to go to a stupid Homecoming dance. I certainly do not want to go to a dumb fucking Prom. I don’t want to go hang out with Julie and Aaron’s other friends, I only want to hang out with mine. Do we have to go THERE, do THAT, be with THEM?
Rejection and criticism had caused insecurity. When my personality began to coalesce and assert itself, that circle of definition served a useful purpose: It said, you are not them, you are you, and you need to discover yourself. However, this was alienating; I was a thespian playing on an empty stage, wondering who I was supposed to be.
I had no real sense of self-esteem. I didn’t have confidence in Me, because who I was had always been deemed insufficient.
Thus, when I began defining myself, that which was not me I wanted nothing to do with. I dismissed anything that was seen as "normal" or "typical"; classic reaction formation, I spurned that which I perceived as having rejected me. All of those preppy, popular, spoiled kids obviously had no depth to their souls.
Because, of course, being self-centered and obstinate is a clear indicator of depth.
I <3 irony.
It was social anxiety manifested as scorn. I was terrified of being in large groups of people that might think I was ugly/silly/stupid–or worse yet, that I wasn’t even worthy of being noticed long enough to have a judgment made about me.
I did not really know love, or how to love, because I didn’t know myself. She had a nice boyfriend who most of the time she had a great time with, but wouldn’t do the expected things other boyfriends would, and I regret the times I upset her out of sheer stubbornness.
As I said previously, I intended to go to college, but I had no real plan. I’d sent off to a few nearby places, because I wanted to be able to visit Nancy. I was pretty set on Northeast Missouri, for one reason: My brother had gone there, and I’d always somewhat idolized him. I remember when he went to college (I would have been 11 or so at the time), and we dropped him off, and I bawled. It took my parents by surprise that I was so sad to see him leave. I’d always wanted to follow in his footsteps; he was the handsome one, the athletic one, who had girlfriends by the dozen and made my father happy because he was an engineer just like him, getting greasy and nasty and working on cars and talking shop while I was inside playing board games and snuggling with my mother.
Aside from that, I wasn’t really inspired. It was just that nominal effort I was putting in, after all. Then, I went to College Night at my high school. I meandered through the numerous booths and displays, and came across one that no students were paying the slightest attention to. "Illinois College?" I thought. "Never heard of it." The representative was an elderly lady, and I immediately felt sorry for her being so ignored.
She seemed a bit discouraged, but gladly showed me the brochures. She asked my ACT score, and I replied "30", which was excellent at the time (I seem to remember the range/scale changing, but that may be inaccurate.) Her face lit up as if she’d struck gold. She invited me to apply for a scholarship. The college was only 75 miles north of where I lived, which was amazingly convenient. It was in a small town, with a campus population of about 900. This appealed to me, surprisingly, because it seemed more intimate than one of the larger Missouri universities.
Intrigued, I went up there, and found out that I was competing with approximately 102 other individuals for one full tuition scholarship, and two half tuition scholarships.
The test consisted solely of three questions.
It was an essay test. And, I won.
I barely remember the questions. One was mathematical; given a series of these 5 numbers, what are the possible answers for the 6th in sequence, and why? Another was something along the order of "Describe how the traditional institutions of media have changed overthe last 50 years." The last was "Is the Constitution outdated? Why, or why not?"
I own essay tests.
To this day, as you can likely sense emanating from the last statements, I’m quite proud of this achievement. It’s unfortunate that four years later, I was more like Tim Couch than Peyton Manning. If you don’t get that reference, I bet you’ve still heard of the latter. If not, then just google "NFL No. 1 Draft Pick History" and rest assured that sometimes, you pick the wrong guy.
That’s what I call "foreshadowing". =p
And thus, in August of 1990, the next phase of my life began in Jacksonville, IL.
My freshman year of college was fairly ordinary, but it was fun. I was still somewhat shy and removed at first. My first semester roommate and I hardly spoke; he played some sport, and I didn’t, and we just never clicked. I kinda gave him the cold shoulder, but at the same time, he didn’t give us a chance. In a small college, you somewhat are limited in your friendship pool, and tend to initially gravitate towards those in proximity to you (much like childhood friends, it’s amazing how something as simple as distance can so profoundly affect our lives.) Thus, Second Floor Turner Hall pretty much hung out together, and 90% of us got along fabulously. My roommate just never tried to be part of that. I bonded most with Andy, Dan, Joe, and Tony. I remain friends with Andy, mostly because he would eventually get me involved in playing fantasy sports, and we kept in touch through the leagues we still share to this day.
Thank goodness for the friendly people in Turner Hall. I certainly wasn’t going to belong to a society (we didn’t have frats/sororities, but facsimiles thereof), because that was conformist. I hesitate to think what might have become of me if I hadn’t made fast friends with Dan and Andy next door. Andy’s very friendly and didn’t hesitate to invite people in or get to know them. While the five of us were nothing like The Horde aside from a shared interest in D&D, it was a great group of friends. I began to row out a bit from my island.
I wasn’t a partier, because I don’t believe in getting drunk. It’s a loss of control and inhibition that I dislike, thankyouverymuch. I worked very hard for my inhibitions, and I don’t really feel like surrendering them. I did wind up being permanent designated driver, which had its perks (driving everyone’s car, being amused by drunken idiots) and its downside (always driving the same bunch of drunken idiots to go get food late at night because you tired of their whining). Even now, I’m not much of a partier, preferring smaller groups where you can be more involved with one another.
Nancy had turned 16 shortly after I arrived for my first semester, but her parents weren’t keen on letting her drive 100 miles (from her house) to visit her college boyfriend and stay in his dorm. While at the time, this was relatively annoying, it was also a perfectly understandable decision on their part. It wasn’t because they didn’t like me, or trust her. Thus, to see her I had to drive home, which wasn’t that much of a chore since it was only, in essence, two hours away.
I visited a fair amount, but neither of our parents wanted to pay for huge long distance bills, and so we wrote a lot of letters to one another. Yes, there’s that lack of technology rearing its ugly head. I referenced this in the frequently-referenced Investment entry.
At this point, I mostly wrote Nancy, Laura, Chris, and Jeff (whose name has not been mentioned but will before our journey through The Laura Era ends, for his is a story all its own) because later penpals from the Offworld days I wouldn’t meet until two years later.
During this time, there was one particular argument that arose, which was my refusing to come back to go to Prom. I remember Laura chastising me in mails for breaking Nancy’s heart, because all of her friends were going and she had the stubborn asshole boyfriend that wouldn’t do so (for reasons I mentioned earlier, but these weren’t evident to me, Laura, or Nancy.)
Indeed, although Laura and Bobby had broken up, it was Bobby who had fallen by the wayside and out of contact. Laura and I had nurtured our friendship and become very good friends, and she was often whom I turned to for advice regarding myself and Nancy. I eventually acquiesced, and came back for it.
Let me reinforce that we were devoted to each other. For myself, as I’ve demonstrated, I wasn’t the best boyfriend, but aside from my dislike of convention, I was good to her. I don’t think, however, that I really appreciated what it meant to love another person. In some ways, she was "Nancy, My Girlfriend" and not "Nancy, Her Own Fucking Person Whom You Should Cherish".
Our relationship took a turn for the worse, however, when after months of looking forward to the summer and being able to spend time together again, Andy came into my room, and said, "I’m living up here for the summer. Who wants to join me?"
Without thinking of the ramifications, I said. "Sure!" It seemed like a great idea, to be honest. I’d experienced freedom from my parents. I was thriving in a new environment, with new friends, more social than I’d been in RL for a long time. I’d nested, you see, and it’s hard to budge me from the familiar and comfortable and warm.
Small world moment and backstory: Andy was a semester ahead of me (Dan and Joe were a full year). He’d attended another school for a semester, and his girlfriend was named Christy. Her parents were divorced, however, and she moved farther south to a city called Brighton. He transferred to Illinois College because it was closer to Brighton (indeed, I drove through it every time I drove my personal route back and forth).
Interestingly, Jeff (this isn’t his story yet, sorry, just a mention) had a brother, Paul, who not only went to that same college, but knew Andy. Thus, indirectly, Andy had met Jeff when he’d visited Paul.
Weird.
So, Andy wanted to be close to Christy during the summer months, and instead of going back home and being hours away, he figured he’d just work in Jacksonville, get a place, and be able to be around her all the time. He just needed a roommate.
Ta-duh!
He was working at a restaurant called The Alpha. I was hired there as well, and conveniently our landlords–Bob and Barb–were also our bosses (giving them great motivation to keep us employed.) They had a duplex a little way outside of town in a place called Leland Lake, and we rented out the other half of the duplex.
Nancy was understandably sad. Conversely, I was thrilled! To be out on my own with Andy (and Christy, really, whoessentially lived there with us both.) In May 1991, our residence began, and at 18 I was on my own for the first time.
And here, at The Alpha, I met Brandy.
to be continued..pictures accompanying this are on the next entry. 🙂