The Note

That killer smile. Oh so embellished with that little dimple on the olive-tinged left cheek. That grin that simply radiated through the near blackness of his eyes. There was even the tinge of the soul-mate fire that was fueling his very being. He read the note one more time. Held it tightly against himself. Then folded it, and carefully stuffed it into the right pocket of his antelope-shade cargo pants. As he looked down, fumbling with the Velcro® pocket flap, he could see his antelope-tanned shapely toes each tipped with a mocha-milk nail, embedded in the so-well-worn Panama Jack leather thong sandals all peeking out from under the cuffs of his long-legged pants. It felt so damn good to mercifully, accept one's self. He thought of the content of the note again. Yes, he had waited a long, long time for this meeting. It had to go well.

Two years ago, the meeting could never, ever have happened. But something had changed. He wasn’t certain as to what, but the shifted placement on the Continuum of Affirmation was perceptible.

Throughout his high school years, it was the taunting of his perceived lack of manliness. The cajoling criticism. His fashions. The way he held his legs when seated. The way he walked. The piling-on of expectations. The resultant mountain of things impossible. Oh, he listened to the sermons. He observed the nattering disgust of his aunts. He felt the distance between himself and his father. He sensed that his mother tried to understand. But for him, it was the anguish of inevitable failure and the resultant rejection. Even worse, he was adopted.

Secretly, he had scoured the Internet looking for acceptance. He entered into chats he later regretted. He discovered a plethora of view points, rabid on both sides of the issue. Through all of that, with all of that, besides all of that, he slowly began to accept himself as the man with compassion and integrity that he couldn't help but be.

When he “graduated” from his home-school high school, his family's point of reference on the Affirmation Continuum was planted firmly in the negative on the x-axis. Denial of Recognition. Yes, his family had perceived something was different with him. But whatever it was, he would simply grow out of it.

His Freshman year at Whitman was his awakening. For the first time he was immersed with other students. Being home-schooled, he grew up in relative social isolation except for the small church group in his rural community. Now, he was living in the midst of open sin.

That bashful smile, the preppy clip of his hair, the natural gracefulness of his under-developed gymnastic prowess, the innocence and perceived vulnerability of his persona … all placed him under the protective wings of well-meaning functional mothering hens.

He remembers precisely the situation of meeting Jordan. But little did he realize the subsequent impact of that meeting on the unfolding of his life. Jordan was to be his godsend. As evidenced by the note.

As difficult as it was for him, he did his best to keep his family informed of his school life and the things he was learning. He discovered, and shared, viewpoints in science, in sociology, in history, in literature, that were antithetical to the text books of his preparatory school years. He tried to keep a healthful relationship with his family, sharing with them his new understandings and the reasons behind them. The feedback resistance was palpable. For it was threatening to his parent's understanding of salvation. Yet, it was his parents that were supporting him in this respected liberal arts college.

He shared with his parents about his experiences and observations about diversity. Discovering students, like himself, from religiously fundamental homes, to students who were dogmatic atheists, and the realization that most of the students were some benign point in-between. He discovered that there were openly gay men and lesbian woman on campus, in his classes, living in his dormitory, and nothing made of it. He listened to the bragging about the sexual conquests and who the chicks were that would and wouldn't, who was hot and who was not. He was titillated with liberation listening to Dan Savage answer questions one night in Maxey Auditorium, and astounded at the nature of the questions submitted on those 4x6 inch cards. Matters he hardly dared to even envision.

Gradually it spilled over in his conversations with home, unintentionally, but nevertheless, it did. He would make off-hand remarks about his social activities. Names were never mentioned. Gender was ignored.

But what had happened, by destiny, happened.

The bond had no defined beginning. It never amounted to a date, per se. Gravitation being more apropos. The sharing of a class, the invite to the study group. Routine meeting in Prentiss Dining Hall or Cafe 66 to commiserate over victuals. The increasing frequency of texting. Trust. Building. The "I'll tell you if you'll tell me." The walks to the Coffee Perk and back. Over the course of two years, the evolution of something Thomas Moore in his book Soul Mates called, “conversation is the sex act of the soul."1

By the end of his Freshman year, his understanding of himself was coalescing. His family had moved from the point of negative Denial to the small positive step of “Recognition” on that Affirmation continuum. Fortunately, his parents were not like some, who would rip up their child’s birth certificate and mail it to them in a plain white envelope.

By the end of his Sophomore year, he knew who he was. The progression of his family had moved further into the positive. Now past the point of "Recognition" to that of "Toleration." There was the hope they would find “Acceptance.” Unbeknownst to the son, something his parents had heard at a PFLAG meeting in Salem was sinking in. "You might love someone you hate." The parents were now in that liberating struggle from "We hate him in our loving Christian way" to the realization that their son was still going to be their son, no matter what he was destined to be.

Now, this, the start of his Junior year. His parents making a trip from their small farm west of Salem, OR to Minneapolis, MN. Their route could take them through Walla Walla, over to Lewiston, up and over Lolo Pass into Montana and out onto the vastness of the prairies. His parents had been on the Whitman College campus before. This time, it was to be different. They were forewarned there would be a surprise for them.

He told his parents he wanted them to meet someone. Someone experienced in the nuance of Thomas Moore’s book. Someone with whom the attachment meant bonding. Someone central in his life. Someone so significant as to think in terms of "significant other."

He took strength from those hours and hours shared with Jordan. Those conversations. The intimacies of their soul-matter talk. The back rubs. The massaging of feet. The warmth of the hugs. The reassurance of worth and value.

He was confident now in his anticipation for this meeting of introduction with his parents. Above all, he wanted his family’s affirmation. The meeting would happen over dinner at Jacobi's Cafe. He would meet his parents there and bring the excited love of his life with him. Somehow, the security of an old railroad dining car promoted his nostalgia for things that might be. He couldn’t imagine that anything now would or could go wrong. He just knew that his parents would be able, now, finally, to understand, to recognize, to tolerate, to accept him with the love of his life, and to affirm the two of them with their blessing.

His astronomy class met late in the afternoon on Thursday. He rushed down the corridor in the Hall of Science to avoid being late. One more time he reached into those antelope cargo pants and pulled out the note. He simply had to read it again. It re-fueled him with the passion of his so anticipated imminent meeting where he felt he could now safely reveal his reason for living. While still pacing quickly, he fumbled with the Velcro® flap to stuff the note back into the cargo pants pocket for safe keeping. At least that is what he thought he had done. The note fell to the floor.

* * * * *

The arthritis, in his feet, was killin’ him. And it was so damn hard to bend over to pick something up from off the floor. Nevertheless, there it was. A folded up piece of paper, smack in the middle of the manicured hallway in the Hall of Science, sticking itself up from the reddish carpet as some one's inconsiderate slap-down in disrespect of the environment. Kids. Damn ungrateful, snotty-nosed rich kids, thinking the world owes them everything and "the help" or somebody else can pick up their trash.

The moment of debate raged within his conscience. Just look up, keep walking, nobody around, nobody will notice, nobody to think it was him, for heaven’s sake, who was the flagrant litterer. Now maybe a hundred and fifty years ago when Whitman was established as a Congregational Church seminary, there would be a notion that Jesus was watching or something. But not now. Listening to the rhetoric of certain Tea Partiers, the Jews will convert to be Christians, there will be a mushroom cloud over Jerusalem, the saints will be raptured and the dominionized planet let loose to burn. So what the hell with a measly piece of trash.

To hell with the Tea Party.

He sucked in his gut, creaked his knees, and hauled up the unsightly debris.

The old man made a cursory glance to make certain there was nothing toxic or sticky on it, and noticed that it was a note of some kind. He wanted to stop and to read it. Curious. Kind of that titillating voyeurism thing. Instead, he stuffed it into his shirt pocket deciding he would read it in the privacy of the auditorium where he was headed for a lecture on predatory wolves and climate change.

1 Soul Mates, Thomas Moore. "Conversation is the sex act of the soul, and as such it is supremely conducive to the cultivation of intimacy." Page 124.

The Refectory Manager

(His first attempt at writing fiction)