Well Hello There,
In a dimly lit bar cocooned within a small roadside motel in Santa Fe, New Mexico, I wondered why it had been almost a year since seeing one of my best friends from high school. The last time we were together was in Paris last summer. It was late June, she was in the city visiting family while I was seeing my boyfriend. Together, we celebrated my twenty-third birthday, walked the streets of Paris, enjoyed overpriced Aperol spritz’s on rue Trocadéro, and imagined what life would look like in the coming months. We had both just graduated from college, both had jobs starting in a few weeks, and were both planted in Paris together, for just a few days, in a quiet space of joy and peace with an uncertain future looming ahead.
Now, eight months later, this same friend and I have embarked on a small road trip around Colorado and New Mexico – ten days of exploration, hot springs, too much Mexican food, and hours upon hours to talk. Together, we caught up on all that was unknown in the eight months, all that was to be in each other’s near futures, and most potently, all that we had lost on one another in high school, stories and experiences we told for the first time.Â
I think often of my time at boarding school. Usually, in moments of passing when I am reminded of a book I read in English class or a moment with a friend that sparks a memory of someone during that time. At once, it was a haven, a place that pushed me to exceed in ways I never thought possible. I often say I have yet to work as hard as I did when I was at boarding school. Maybe it was because everyone around me also wanted to succeed, maybe it was because I felt determined to keep up, or maybe it was because I told myself I had to be the best, no matter the cost. The problem with this mindset, however, was feeling like you were bound to fall from the top – the peak made of crumbling rock, your feet never able to find their footing.Â
On our road trip, I realized, maybe truly for the first time, how little I spent existing in the present at boarding school. In my planner, I used to write down the number of days left before break next to the date, a countdown of how many sleeps I needed to endure until I was free. Days were categorized by making it to dinner, and after evening chapel, hoping one’s homework could be finished before the early hours of the following day. Upon waking up by a blaring alarm, I’d wish to stay in bed, motivated only by the very knowledge that a busy day meant a more sound sleep helped catapult me towards the door — my poorly tied tie and creased penny loafers too cold on my soft feet adding yet another chill to the grey Delaware mornings.Â
Part of this ideology, the rigor of constant perseverance, was built into the very DNA of the school. Our schedule was articulated to the minute, and rightfully so. (I only wonder what would happen if horny high schoolers were left with more free time than already granted.) But in many ways, that was the danger – with no free time, no space to take a deep breath or pause for just a moment, there was no recognition of what we were doing, each of us a mere cog in the machine. It isn’t that I was incapable of understanding or recognizing my queerness, my creativity, my desires, but more so my understanding of school was articulated in my capacity to conform. Excelling in school, sports, mock trial, and student government, following the path so neatly laid in front of you made the parts of me I was still trying to understand evaporate with the morning dew. Straying from what was known felt more disastrous than telling the school I was gay with a megaphone during lunch. It was simply out of the question.Â
But in all the uncertainties and confusions about high school, all the stories long forgotten and extracted over long dinners with red wine and shitty restaurant music, I felt that it was all worth it, even for just the ten days we spent together. There are very few people in my life I can go a year without seeing, with little to no contact, and spend ten days together as if no time has passed. There are very few people who can look me in the eye and see all the versions of myself I am still learning to love. The fifteen, seventeen, and twenty-three-year-old humans, each messy and unsure in new and contradicting ways. There are very few people who love and care, who believe and inspire, who make me laugh and make me proud in the ways that she does. So yes, I’d do it all again. The early mornings rowing in freezing weather with bloody palms, the essay rewrites at 3:30 am after cross country meets, the pressures to smile and pretend that all was well, the hours of Sunday chapel services and meaningless prayer. Those moments of challenge were all worth it, just to know I would meet her on the first night at the square dance, holding back tears while she squeezed my hands and told me we would be okay.
For now, my affections include Mayflies by Andrew O’Hagan, the poetry collection Crush by Richard Siken, and Bad Gays by Huw Lemmey and Ben Miller, a story collection of history’s villainous queers. Cinnamon espresso martinis, too many Dots pretzels, Diet Coke from the can, and peanut butter apple oatmeal. The Gentleman series on Netflix, monochrome styling, peppermint tea before bed, and shiatsu massages. Crying when a TV show is over, laughing when work is frustrating, and dancing when no one is looking.
That is all for now.
Until soon,
C
xx
