Back on campus, I opened my empty mailbox in the basement mailroom of Usdan Student Center. I listened as the new Madonna song came over the radio. A flicker of hope and fierce determination to never again be hurt lit my heart, but quickly went out as the song faded and I made my way back into the crisp Fall air. There were times I wanted to literally fall down – in the hidden corner of the courtyard, at the train station waiting for the other commuters to board, and as I closed the door behind me at the condo.

Visions of sharing the place in Boston haunted the cold nights – rising and falling before my mind’s eye, teasing and tormenting with their just-out-of-reach possibility. I longed for companionship, I wanted for warmth, I wished I had someone to fall asleep with – such simple pleas, such basic prayers, and such soul-crushing loneliness. It crept up on me, and as I headed back to the condo one night I almost let it hit me. After rounding onto Braddock Park from the Southwest Corridor, feet shuffling through dry, brown leaves and the scent of burning wood in the air, I looked up at the dark windows of the living room. There was no one there. I hesitated and paused. I could not go in.

It must be said that I don’t usually get lonely. I am often alone – at lunch, on trips, in the car, even in my own home – but rarely if ever do I get lonely. This was one of the only times I felt it – the chill of loneliness – and it shook me. I turned around, retracing my steps the way I had come, returning to the lights and the bustle of Copley Place. I could not walk into the empty rooms at that moment. I knew that if I did, the loneliness would have its way with me, and I might never come back – to the person I was, to the place I loved, to the way I wanted to be. So I wandered around the warm store windows of Copley, like I did when I was a kid, when we used to stay at the Marriott and Mom would only let my brother and I explore the adjacent Mall on our own. I didn’t need to talk to anyone, I just needed to be around people, to have them close, even if they were strangers. Once the loneliness subsided, I returned to the condo, and never felt that way again.

You think that you are strong, but you are weak,
You’ll see.
It takes more strength to cry, admit defeat.
I have truth on my side, you only have deceit,
You’ll see… somehow, someday…

There was still the winter to get through, and it would be a snowy one. Up to the very end of March – and even early April – a few late-season storms pounded Boston. Somewhere in that crystalline time, beneath the blanket of dirty snow, I healed, and I got over it. Even if it was all in my head, as most of these things tended to be, it changed me.

To this day, ‘You’ll See’ fills me with both dread and drive – a prickly little ball of courage, conviction, contradiction and inner-strength. Whenever I feel myself slipping, or losing sight of who I really am, under the wishes and whims of others – family, friends, anyone – I reach deep, think of this song, and persevere. That’s what this song has always meant to me – it’s a warning to everyone who ever doubted, to everyone who ever questioned whether or not I could do something, and to everyone who thinks that a fancy wardrobe and a cocktail are all I have to offer the world.

On the Madonna-centric side of things, ‘You’ll See’ debuted, if I remember correctly, at Number 5 on the Billboard charts. They likened it to a modern-day take on ‘I Will Survive’ and thematically that’s pretty accurate. She’s only performed it live a scant few times while on her Drowned World Tour. For the first time she added the song (in place of the lackluster ‘Gone’) for certain stops only. Usually a Madonna show is on robotic autopilot – with little to no room for variation or interpretation. That in itself was striking. That she performed it in Boston moved me even more.

It was my first time seeing Madonna live, and she was singing one of my favorite all-time songs on her Boston stop. She stood on that stage alone, a single spotlight glinting off her dirty blonde hair as she sang. Her husband, perhaps hidden somewhere in the shadows, or not even present at all, lurked only in the mind. Listening to her sing ‘You’ll See’, in the city where so much heartache and happiness had happened for me, I was brought back to the Fall of 1995…

I stood on the ledge of a castle in New England. The letter I had burned had just left my hand, fluttering into the dark air in a bright burst of quickly-fading flames. Bits of silky ash floated back up in the night wind. The stone felt cold against my hands as I reached for something to hold onto. Her voice, and her words, sounded in my head, pulling me back from the edge of despair, pulling me back into the warm light of my room, into the hushed safety and terror of solitude.

All by myself, I don’t need anyone at all.
I know I’ll survive, I know I’ll stay alive.
I’ll stand on my own, I won’t need anyone this time,
It will be mine, no one can take it from me.
You’ll see.

Madonna sang ‘You’ll See’ for all the broken-hearted among us. Yet for all its empowering qualities, at the end of it I felt nothing but defeated – tired and exhausted from loving those who would not, and perhaps could not, love me back. That takes its toll, that leaves its own casualties – and the parts of you that die from it don’t ever come back. At least not so far.

Epilogue:
Years later I would be sitting at the counter in Francesca’s Cafe, reading a book, and the man I thought I loved then – the man who found our Boston home – would tap me on the shoulder to say hello. He would have had no idea what I went through, how much he meant to me, and his smile would betray that. My smile betrayed nothing.

You’ll see…

Song #48– ‘You’ll See’ – Late Fall 1995

A castle turret, high above the campus of Brandeis University. The lights of Boston glow far off in the distance. A cold wind blows, deep into the Fall. The window stands open, and a young man walks precariously along the ledge. The burning remnants of a letter leave his hand, swirled into the wind, lighting up the night and disappearing into ash. An act of defiance, of empowerment, of having no other choice. Then the tears fall, the countenance crumbles, and a crushed boy still stands on a ledge in the night wind. He thinks of dropping to his death – he will not deny it. But there is strength to be found in the most trifling pop song – and a legend-still-in-the-making for its singer – and perhaps even its listener.

You think that I can’t live without your love,
You’ll see.
You think I can’t go on another day.
You think I have nothing without you by my side…
You’ll see… somehow, someway…

This is one of those special Madonna songs – the ones that coincide perfectly with a life experience – and it is, for me, in my top-ten – if only for sheer emotional resonance. It joins the pantheon of watershed Madonna moments – some of which can be found here, here, and here.

In the Fall of 1995, ‘You’ll See’ was Madonna’s hit from her Something to Remember collection of ballads. I was living in a single dorm room at the top of Usen Castle at Brandeis. While I loved it for its rustic charm, and the fact that it was a single (no more room-mate), the shower situation was, quite possibly, the worst I have ever experienced in my life. It was down a flight of cement stairs (super fun in the winter), and so dimly lit that you almost couldn’t use it at night. It was also the smallest shower I’ve ever seen, so tiny that it was a task to simply turn around in it.

Luckily, Boston beckoned, and I wouldn’t have to put up with campus castle-living for much longer. I was about to find a place right between Copley and the South End, which at that time was on the verge of blooming into the unaffordable family-friendly bourgeois battlefield it is today. At that time, it had not yet turned, but Braddock Park looked to be a safe bet, and I convinced my parents to purchase the place.

There was a romantic aspect to the city, in its seductive cobblestone paths and magical tree-lined history, and it was almost enough for me to simply look out at the lofty height of the John Hancock Tower as its windows twinkled in the night sky. In those early days the condo was all but empty. I slept on a thin, smaller-than-single-sized mattress from an old cot, not even supported by a frame. A fringed accent lamp sat on the floor, barely illuminating the bedroom at night. In the kitchen, I stood by the counter when eating a bagel, or drinking from the lone carton of orange juice in the fridge. There wasn’t even a couch or chair in which to sit, but I loved it. Copley was at my doorstep and the whole South End was my backyard. Yet in spite of all that was out there, I remained alone. I had no one with whom to explore the new restaurants, or go grocery shopping, or simply walk the quaint side-streets lined with brownstones. At the end of every night, there was silence, inadequately filled with the static-tinged radio of an old alarm clock.

You see, far more than a place in Boston, I wanted a boyfriend – someone to share my life with – to be there for all the moments in life – most especially the simple ones. The thought of going to bed while someone else showered or read filled me with longing. It wasn’t the passion or the excitement of love that I was after – it was the companionship, the camaraderie – the feeling and security of simply having another trusted person who loved you as you loved them. For all my drama, for all my emotional mayhem, all I wanted was a partner. I wanted the shared quiet, the down-time. I wanted the simple act of existing beside another, with no need for words or fancy outfits, no desire to act out or put on a show. Yet despite the simplicity and earnestness of my hope, I didn’t know how to manifest it – and so it turned into desperation, and a penchant for obsession and misplaced (and largely unwanted) affection.

Enter unwitting object of desire. He would be – if things went my way – the third man I ever kissed in my life. But at the start he was just our real estate agent. Yes, I fell for my real estate agent. Let me know when you’re done rolling your eyes and unfurrowing your brow. I couldn’t help it – I fell for his seductive real estate sales pitch and his occasionally-physical sensitive-frat-guy hand-on-the-shoulder moves. I didn’t do the physical stuff – I enjoyed a healthy five-feet of personal space around me at all times – but when he did it I didn’t mind.

Before we ever looked at Braddock Park, he took me around to visit a few different properties – the first within minutes of meeting him. It was across the street from his office, and the day was bright after a run of rain. The yellow leaves of a maple tree were lit brilliantly against a deep blue sky. The stained glass window of a former church loomed above us. He let us into the building and we climbed to the second floor. On the clay-colored brick wall of the kitchen a small bouquet of dried and desiccated flowers hung sadly on a nail. All these years later, that image has stayed with me.

He showed me the other places later, both at night. There was something secretive-seeming about going into these empty places, switching on lights and walking across barren rooms that echoed with our footfalls. He offered his ideas on how to improve the space, what might be done with the floors – everything a live-in-boyfriend would suggest – or a savvy real estate agent.

The first man I ever kissed had dumped me before I even realized we were going out. The second man I kissed I dumped before he even had the chance. The third man – this man – seduced with a smile, endeared with a twinkle in his eye, and revealed just enough vulnerability and compassion to snag me with all sorts of messy emotions. It didn’t matter that he was only trying to sell me a property, or that he had given me no indication of romantic interest other than the occasional wink (which is always tricky to read) – I pinned my sights and dreams on him, and conjured a blissful future all within my mind.

In his defense, he made it very clear where we stood and – this is important – I never asked him out. I didn’t ask if he was interested, I didn’t ask if he wanted to grab a drink or coffee, I didn’t ask anything. I hinted – I strongly hinted – but that was all. There was nothing between us other than the sale of a condo.

You think that I can never laugh again,
You’ll see.
You think that you’ve destroyed my faith in love.
You think after all you’ve done,
I’ll never find my way back home,
You’ll see… somehow, someday…

The fault was within, the fault was all mine. That didn’t make me want him less. It didn’t erase the need to be loved. That he happened to be the one there at the time was simply unhappy, and unlucky, circumstance – as it would prove to be time and time again. It still didn’t take away the hurt – and sometimes losing what you never had is somehow more painful than if you’d actually had the chance to experience it.

When you are told no, when you are told you are not wanted – not in that way – it stings. When you are told nothing, but can sense enough that you are not wanted, it hurts differently. You may have retained some shred of pride in not forcing the question to a head, you may have let another person off the hook from having to gently but insistently refuse, but you have let yourself down. You have wimped out.

I didn’t have the voice to ask him out. I didn’t have the courage. And I certainly didn’t have the confidence. Instead I saved face, withdrawing before revealing my hand, backing away before any real risk of being burned, but he had to have known. Granted, when you do ask the ‘Do you like me back?’ question there is always the chance that it will blow up in your face (See ‘You Must Love Me’ – Part 1 and Part 2).

Yet if you don’t ask you will always wonder, and the darker side of you, the one you pretend to friends isn’t there, will blame the innocent. There was rage here, there was anger, and there was the humbling sadness of having to survive on your own. There was grit here too, and a steely, brutal resolve to pick myself up again, stoically wipe the tears away, and move on in the world. So though my question may have technically gone unasked, his silence and utter disinterest in me was an answer in itself, and one that I largely accepted (compared to what I would do in the future).

My anguish over a non-existent love affair was both silly and debilitating. Coming out as a gay man – as difficult as it sometimes was – did not hold a candle to the obstacle course of love. And to be worthy of love was some out-of-reach enlightened realm that seemed closed to me – inaccessible despite my best efforts. Upon realizing this, part of me crumbled. I had been defeated, and my heart grew bitter. If this was love, if this is what came of love – then I wanted nothing to do with it. Woe to those who followed.

From my hurt grew an icy chill, one that I’m sometimes afraid remains to this day. It’s an edgy bluntness that takes the offensive before there’s a need to be defended. I have to do it. It’s something I need to prove. I took the sadness and the hurt and the anger and turned it into the way I dealt with the world. I took the flippant disregard of a stranger and the questioning wonder of a friend to heart, and I raged against both.

The Fall turned colder. The Winter would be long. And all I had was a song.

All by myself, I don’t need anyone at all.
I know I’ll survive, I know I’ll stay alive.
All on my own, I don’t need anyone this time,
It will be mine, no one can take it from me.
You’ll see…

{To be continued…}

These two photos were taken in my castle dorm room at Brandeis in the Fall of 1995. Since I don’t usually include photos of myself with the Madonna Timeline entries, I’m putting these up now. In the twilight of that season, in the dark of night, I set my camera on a chair and documented some questionable long hair and a decidedly-discontented mood. There are a number of shots from this period, all taken in that tiny room, and all on 35mm film. I was commuting to a practically full-time job at Structure, and going to school full-time as well, but my life still felt empty.

Madonna had released her collection of ballads, Something to Remember, and ‘You’ll See’ was one of the three new recordings on it. The song was both plaintive and empowering, and her voice was just beginning to display the strength of those Evita lessons.

Boston was in the distance, but coming within reach, and soon I would leave campus and move into the city. I wanted to be loved, but more than that I wanted to love someone. Anyone.

Tomorrow… You’ll See.

We shared a few late-night phone talks. I was in my bedroom in Boston – lying in bed looking up at the ceiling, then sitting on the cool hardwood floor, staring out the window, then back beneath the covers – warmed by his words, enthralled by his high school stories, and touched by the recitation of some of his writing. Maybe that was the moment I fell in love with him. This once-overweight kid, out of place, hurt by his family – my heart ached for him and his childhood, and for the fact that I could easily have been one of his torturers. (That’s just the kind of mean kid I was.) I wanted to hold him and make it all better. A surprise to myself, this fierce shard of protective instinct, this desire to shield him from the worries of the world, when so often I assumed it was me who needed to be protected.

We talked of silly and frivolous matters too, Broadway musicals and Madonna, and I ended up giving him a copy of Madonna’s latest single, ‘You Must Love Me’, hoping he would read into it all that I intended. There was shared laughter over the phone, and once there was a crash and he admitted he had fallen off the chair. It didn’t necessarily mean anything – all college kids are prone to romantic delusions during late-night phone conversations. The deciding moments would be determined during the day.

He sat next to me when we had class again. It was jarring, and strange, since most of us didn’t shift our seats much – not from one side of the room to the other – yet it was intoxicating to be so singled-out. As uncomfortable as I felt, as much as I was sure that all eyes were on us (and as sure as I am today that they were not), it was another little gesture that stirred the dormant heart.

Being close to him left me dizzy with nerves, erasing my wit and replacing it with a silence that could only be read as disinterest, or, worse, haughty superiority. Yet I couldn’t be myself around him, not with so much at stake. I couldn’t believe that I was someone to be loved, even if it was all I wanted him to see.

Why are you at my side?
How can I be any use to you now?
Give me a chance and I’ll let you see how
Nothing has changed.

I think we shared a book in our next class together, and it was easier being near him. Maybe we wrote a few quick words to one another, as if we were two silly kids in high school, sharing a secret moment of fun amid the criticism of Kant. On one of our phone talks I asked him if he wanted to attend Master Class with me – I had just gotten two tickets. Suzie and Anu were coming into town for the weekend, and if he couldn’t make it, I reasoned, I could go with one of them. He accepted, and we agreed to meet up at Copley, have dinner with the girls, then go to the show. It would be, unsaid and unacknowledged, our first official date.

I wore a red velvet vest, and I greeted him as he rode up on the escalator. We walked quickly over the glossy stone floor of Copley Place – me pushing us faster so we wouldn’t be late. I was too nervous to talk much, and the rest of the evening those nerves wreaked uncomfortable havoc with any of us having a particularly good time. After the show, I walked him to his car. We paused in front of 500 Boylston, and he said it was one of his favorite buildings in Boston.

I looked back at the Courtyard in front of the building. It suddenly felt cold. And then it was over. We either hugged or shook hands as we said goodbye, but we did not kiss, and somehow, as I walked home alone, I knew. We would never kiss.

I left a series of phone messages the next few days, and he didn’t call back. Yet I didn’t give up. Oh boy, did I not give up.

You must love me…

There I was, trying desperately to turn this treacly little love song from a command to a realization, and failing at every turn. Who knows why we fall in love? Maybe it’s the turn of someone’s step, or the little smile that seeing you elicits, or maybe the simple act of grabbing the paper you couldn’t reach – of seeking out your name, or just knowing it. A midnight phone conversation that you don’t want to end, and when it finally is over the inability to sleep for all that hope and happiness. What do you do with that? And what if it meant more to you than it ever would to him?

Like most of the major mistakes I made in life, my honesty was to blame for setting me up for the most embarrassing form of getting rejected I could have ever crafted. I couldn’t be left in the dark, not knowing whether he felt the same, or if he wanted to go out again, and I just had to know. I did what I would do time and time again, with equally disastrous results: I wrote him a letter. (God only knows what that says about my writing ability.) Laying it all on the line, my feelings about what I thought we could have together, how much I liked him already, and all the things you are never, ever supposed to tell another person until the day after your wedding, I wrote down everything. I did everything ‘The Rules’ said not to do. I even gave him an easy out (well, easy for him). I said that if he didn’t feel the same way about me, to simply not sit next to me in class the next day. [Pause for reasonable absorption of The Worst Idea in the World, culled from the annals of teenage nonsense.] So certain was I that he liked me too, it never occurred to me what I might feel or do if he declined. That wasn’t a possibility in my mind, that wasn’t an option.

I gave him the letter the next time we met, along with a mix tape (it was still the 90’s, and I was apparently still trying to live the teenage dream), and then it was up to him. When our next class rolled around I was a nervous mess, and rightfully so. No matter how it ended up, it would be awkward – whether sweetly or disastrously so, it would be awkward. A tinge of regret already loomed over the overcast morning.

I still remember the shirt I wore that day – a loose black Nehru-collared number with grommets that laced up the top half. Part peasant, part pirate, part tragic historical figure – I loved that shirt. And I would never wear it again.

Sitting down in class, I took a deep breath and waited. Students started coming in, taking their seats, and I took out a book to appear busy and uninterested in whatever the outcome might be. On a blank page, I started writing – well, drawing – fake lines of non-existent words, intended to look like writing – anything to distract. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him walk into the room with one or two other classmates. He crossed to the other side of the room to his old seat. The one beside me remained empty.

I looked up, pretending to notice him for the first time. He gave a faint smile and a conciliatory shrug. Smiling my own “that’s that” type of smile, I looked down and pretended to be engrossed in my notebook. I began writing so I wouldn’t have to see him again, and this time words came out. Simple words of simple instruction that I implored, willed, forced my physical being to focus on and accomplish.

“He did not sit next to me. He did not sit next to me and I will have to get up and walk out of this room when the class is over.”

It was a tiny act of survival, and the written words made it both real and palpable, designing a way of dealing with the situation I created, starting with the simple act of standing up and walking. When the interminable hour was up, I hurried out of class, not looking back. I made it down the steps of the building before he caught up to me.

He was kind. Most of the men I’ve liked have, in their way, been kind. He explained that he felt like I was running, going too fast, and he just wasn’t ready. It was as good an excuse as any, surely better than, “I just don’t like you that way”, even if the latter may have been more honest, and heartbreaking. Blame the intensity, blame my neuroses – just don’t let it be something intrinsic to my being, don’t let it be… me. Even if it was.

Before we separated, he said he liked my shirt, and that it was his favorite so far. I thanked him for that. If I had nothing else to offer the world, I would always have style. It was a sad recompense.

I did not cry. I would never cry in front of him. I would save it until I made it to the very edge of campus, ducking into a small building and finding an empty bathroom, then letting it all out in heaves and gasps. No one noticed my red and swollen eyes on the commuter rail. I slumped into the window, watching but not seeing the barren landscape rushing by. This was the Fall. We were well into November, and in a few days I would board the ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ plane bound for San Diego and a family wedding, at which I would come out to my brother as a gay man and tell the sad tale of this recent heartbreak to little if any consolation.

Deep in my heart I’m concealing
Things that I’m longing to say
Scared to confess what I’m feeling
Frightened you’ll slip away,
You must love me,
You must love me.

Back from California, there were just a few more class days left of my last semester at Brandeis. Having spurred my coming out to my brother, my grief then prompted me to tell the story to my friend Danielle. We walked along toward the bottom of campus on a cold December day – and I simply said I loved someone and he didn’t love me back. I still remember our hug at the end of that walk, and how soft her hair felt. I wondered if those hugs could be enough to sustain someone throughout life, or if they were only there to catch us when we fell out of love.

Near the end of the month, with the semester finished, and my final papers completed and submitted, I was standing near the ATM when he came around the corner. Though the afternoon was young, the light had gone, and in the dim shadows of an early dusk we said a quick hello, and then it was done. My time at Brandeis was over. My memories of him, once emblazoned upon my heart and head, would only fade, lacking nourishment, first from him and then, months, maybe a year later, from me.

But at the end of 1996 I only had Madonna to snap me out of it. She triumphantly returned with her star-turn in Evita, attending the premiere in this gorgeous Galliano ensemble (he was okay then), and for me it was a welcome distraction to the tumultuous turbulence of an insatiable heart.

In the darkness of that December, I made the determination to never be ignored. No matter what it took, no matter how outlandish I ended up, I would make myself into the brightest ball on the fucking Christmas tree. If he couldn’t see that, if he couldn’t realize how wonderful it could be, how wonderful I could be, then I would make the rest of the world see it and know, and when they were all pointing at me, when they all whispering, and his was the last head that turned to look, I wouldn’t even care.

There was rage, there was want, there was hurt and pain and tears like I’d never shed before. All for a boy – a silly boy who didn’t sit next to me in class.

If anything, I learned a lot from that last semester. I learned that those games were played for a reason. I learned the unattractiveness of wanting something so badly. And I learned to hold back, to hesitate, to hold my heart in check. I learned to not feel, to harden myself off to people. It was a reluctant lesson, one that I fought against until I could not fight anymore. And it was, I am foolishly happy to report, something I would forget when the next cute boy showed me the least bit of interest. My heart would not be tamed so easily, even if my head knew better.

Years later, I would wonder at the craziness of my behavior at the time, at the strange fixation I had on someone I hardly knew. I would wonder whatever came of all the intense, seemingly-insurmountable feelings I harbored for this man. On the few surreal moments where we randomly encountered one another in later years (the first being a Madonna concert) the magic and enchantment that once held sway over me in regards to him had dissipated, not even the merest wisp of longing or desire remained. In its place was a strange sort of war-torn affection, a feeling that we had been through something important together, and a realization that it was mostly one-sided. I would always wonder what, if any, effect I had on him, if he remembered me fondly, if he remembered me at all. And after all the time that had passed, and the way our lives had gone, all I seemed able to muster was a befuddled amusement at the whole thing, a sheepish bit of foolish pride in how ridiculous I once acted, and the reluctant admission that I would do it all again if given the chance.

Post Script: Both the-boy-that-got-away and I ended up getting married – to different, and wonderful, men. I remained in sporadic touch with him, at strange and fortuitously key moments in our lives, but that’s a story for ‘Celebration’. (And rest assured it has a much happier ending.)

You must love me.

Song #40: ‘You Must Love Me’ – Fall 1996

Where do we go from here?
This isn’t where we intended to be.
We had it all – you believed in me.
I believed in you.

I don’t remember the first time I saw him. Is that strange? For someone who supposedly meant so much to me, I don’t recall the first time we were in the same room together. It must have been in the Literary Criticism class that we were both taking – my final requirement for an English degree from Brandeis University. I had tumbled off the commuter rail a bit later than anticipated, and had to rush up all the hills and steps before making it to the humanities building. In a sleeveless gray shirt and tattered jeans, I didn’t care how I looked when the weather still clung to August. I was decidedly not dressed to impress, not that first day. (It was a bit of an anomaly, as every day thereafter I would wear a different outfit, as impressive as I could muster, for the remainder of the semester.)

Sitting here racking my brain for our first moment of interaction, I still cannot come up with anything. In a way it makes sense, I never shit where I eat – so when on campus I was never looking for love, or even open to any bit of flirtation. It was probably what got me through college. I saved my obsessions for city folk, for unattainable real estate agents, would-be actor-waiters or gone-in-a-flash T-riders. At school, I was all business, and that Literary Criticism course was the last one I would have to take seriously.

The summer lingered on a bit. I always forgot how hot the start of the Fall semester could be. Above, the sun hovered, slowly traversing the sky over the duration of those September days. There were blue skies then – the gray of November was a distant impossibility.

The first bit of interaction with him that I can recall was a simple exchanging of glances in a second floor hallway. I was sitting on a couch waiting for my next class to begin, and he was headed in the other direction. My eyes followed and caught him turning around as he went down the stairs. From that moment onward I noticed him. He was usually smiling or laughing, entertaining a giggling gaggle of girls, and across the room in our literature class he occasionally smiled at me, raising his eyebrows in question or acknowledgment or invitation.

Certainties disappear,
What do we do for our dream to survive?
How do we keep all our passions alive,
As we used to do?

Dappled sunlight beneath a fiery grove of maple trees. A Nathaniel Hawthorne day in New England. The smell of warm leaves, the whisper of copper-colored pine needles. He sat on a rock, thumbing through a notebook. I stopped and said hello. I mentioned his Structure sweater, explaining that I worked there and could spot them a mile away. He told me he liked them, but all his sweaters ended up unraveling at the end of the sleeve – “something I must be doing with my hand” – and I let the entendre go by without a wink or a saucy word. My nervousness rendered me quiet and submissive around him – an incongruity to what made me fun to be around, and perhaps the fatal flaw in my ultimately winning over those who most impressed me. I left him there, beneath the trees, amused at my own “discombobulation” as Suzie would call it, and wondering at what was going through his head.

A few days later, we got our first set of papers back. After a stern lecture on how this first batch had disappointed him, and how they weren’t at the level we should be at, the professor gave a lovely build-up to what I assumed was a disastrous grade. He went on to say, in one of those dastardly frightening professor moments, that he would leave them on the table and then leave the room, as he didn’t want to see the looks on our faces when we saw the grades. (Still a bit lighter than the sign next to one professor’s office hours that read, “Professional Slaughtering”.)

There was a mad rush for the papers, but I didn’t bother. No sense is hastening the arrival of bad news. I slowly got up and saw my name, but couldn’t quite get to it. He then reached over the other students to grab my paper along with his, and handed it to me. I think I fell in love with him at that moment. That he knew my name, that he struggled against the others to find mine, or that I got a ‘B+’ – I don’t know what made me feel happier. Who can say why we fall when we do?

We continued to see each other around campus – he would always seem to be where and whenever I least expected him, and I was continually caught off guard – the way my whole experience with him threw me off guard. And I couldn’t entirely be fabricating that there was something on his end too, could I? Certainly, I had lived out further-fetched fantasies of love and affection before him (wait until ‘You’ll See’ hits the timeline), was this just another etching solely in my mind?

At work, I confided to my manager who said I should just ask him out. I balked at the idea. I couldn’t, and that would never be my style. Even if I could, what would I say? “Do you want to go out sometime?” I would feel ridiculous. I was too shy for that. I liked to play it off as aloof and nonchalant, but it was simply me being shy, and an acutely killing form of shyness that I was nowhere near ready to combat at that moment.

Deep in my heart I’m concealing
Things that I’m longing to say
Scared to confess what I’m feeling
Frightened you’ll slip away,
You must love me,
You must love me.

A few days later, I thought I might be ready. In the cafeteria of Usdan Center, I saw him arrive at his lunch table. He was alone. My heart was pounding. I picked up the nearby pay phone (yes, there were such things back then) and dialed my store manager and friend John for one last bit of encouragement. He told me to just do it. Thanks, Nike. But it was enough. I marched quickly over to his table, and in what can only be the quickest blurting out of a pathetic pick-up line, said, “I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime.” He smiled and said sure, he’d like to, and he gave me his phone number. It would be one of the only times in my entire life that I asked a guy out.

That was it. I smiled, said hello to the friend who had just joined him, and then said goodbye. If only we could have left it there – when there was nothing but possibility ahead. If only I could have kept it all in my head, living on the remote chance of all the what-ifs my racing brain could giddily conjure. If only… I hadn’t been so lonely. But I couldn’t see that then. All I knew was that he said yes.

I almost danced out of the student center, taking steps two at a time, bouncing off the walls in gleeful celebration. The boy I liked said yes! He said yes! And I was off – literally, figuratively, mentally, you name it – off on a thrilling one-man race that had but one inevitably sad destination. I did not know that yet, and for all the happiness and hope I felt, there was the one nagging worry – what if he didn’t like me the way I liked him? I put my faith in Madonna, and her latest Vanity Fair cover story, where she quoted from The Alchemist:

If you want something bad enough, the whole world conspires to help you get it.

How I wished and prayed that was the case. How my heart yearned for it to be true. There was another quote that haunted me from that Madonna article though, and they were her words directly. It stayed in the back of my mind no matter how hard I tried to dislodge it:

Power is being told you are not loved, and not being destroyed by it.

[To Be Continued…]

Here’s the dilemma: can you love the brilliance and genius of a man who may be a bigot? Throughout history we’ve had heroes who have been racists, anti-semites, and homophobes – and somehow we have managed to love them for their sheer talent, as if their greatness in some areas was enough to overlook their moral lacking in others. Such is the question I had when John Galliano’s recent vile words of anti-semitism in a drunken fit ended in his being dismissed from Dior. Prior to this, he was my absolute favorite fashion designer – his couture work was the stuff of high beauty – each piece a work of art. It was strange for me to be so enamored of him, as he mostly designed for women. The only things I have by him are a few pairs of underwear.

When word came out of what he had said, and then the damning video as proof, my heart sank in disappointment. How do you reconcile that behavior with such exquisite creations? Personally, I’m not sure I can. While I will always appreciate the beauty and artistry of his work, I don’t think I will ever be able to purchase any of his garments. Because there is no excuse for bigotry or intolerance. Some have said he was drunk or high, and otherwise would have never said those things. But I have been drunk many times, and on many levels, and no matter how drunk I get I don’t say things like “I love Hitler” or similar hate-filled garbage. His words came from somewhere, and I cannot bring myself to support that in any way. Which brings me to the real dilemma: what to do with the three pairs of Galliano underwear that I currently own?

I originally thought of putting them up on Ebay and pocketing whatever they brought in (assuming that his stuff is even sellable at this point). Then I thought that seemed rather selfish, and lacking in any sort of karmic retribution. Now I’m thinking of fielding offers for them and donating whatever they fetch to my alma mater, Brandeis University, which is predominantly a Jewish school (I may have been one of the three Catholics in my graduating class). It’s their annual alumni drive and given my own financially-burdensome condition I could not donate earlier in the year – this would make up for that.

I still haven’t decided – and chances are I’ll simply use them for some photo shoot statement down the line. After all, the odds of anyone wanting a pair of previously-worn underwear, Galliano or not, are probably pretty slim. But for those kinky perverts out there, send me an offer and we’ll talk. (Price goes up if you want them unwashed… There’s nothing sacred about these skivvies.)

This would have been a perfect song a little later in the year, as it is so strongly associated with Spring for me – but the iPod will shuffle as it sees fit, so ‘I’ll Remember’ is up for discussion now. Some Madonna songs are filler – light throw-away moments that pass the time on car rides – but others are more distinctive sign-posts, framing and freezing a certain period of life that will remain tenaciously tied to a moment. This is one of the latter, and I can’t listen to it without thinking of the Spring of 1994 at Brandeis and in Boston, the last girl I ever kissed, and the loss of any final vestiges of childhood.

Say goodbye to not knowing when

the truth in my whole life began.

Say goodbye to not knowing how to cry

You taught me that.

And I’ll remember the strength that you gave me

Now that I’m standing on my own

I’ll remember the way that you saved me…

I’ll remember.

This was the very last time I walked into Tower Records, or any record store for that matter, without being keenly aware of a Madonna release – the Internet was just in the process of revolutionizing information – but for now, for this one final moment of ignorant innocence, I was oblivious to what I was about to find.

Making a quick flip through the Madonna section, I saw something called “I’ll Remember.” For the date, the photo on the cassette (yes, cassette) was questionable – it being a reused one from the “Rain” video, grainy and sub-par, but there was the Copyright of 1994. I quickly purchased it, popped it into my walkman, and as the opening Patrick Leonard-produced melody began, my heart leapt at this secret surprise.

Having just had my heart broken, by a girl no less – and no more – the song resonated more than Madonna songs usually resonate with me (which is a lot on their most unaffecting level), and the underlying melancholy and lost-love lyrics were another powerful link I felt to the artist.

Inside, I was a child,

That could not mend a broken wing.

Outside, I looked for a way

To teach my heart to sing,

And I’ll remember the love that you gave me

Now that I’m standing on my own.

I’ll remember the way that you changed me,

I’ll remember…

- – - – - – - – -

Back on campus, my Freshman year continued. The winter was relenting, the last of the most tenacious snow was finally melting in dirty patches. This was the time of heaves, when the earth buckled between moments of freezing and thawing, and the hearts of romantics followed tumultuous suit. Thoughts of suicide ravaged my head, and one night I found myself on the roof of the observatory building, looking over its edge and wondering. A couple of students burst into my silent reverie, giggling as their eyes adjusted to the dark, and still snickering even after they noticed another person standing there. I walked back to the staircase and descended.

- – - – - – - – -

I learned to let go

Of the illusion that we can possess

I learned to let go,

I travel in stillness,

And I’ll remember…

Happiness.

- – - – - – - – -

A couple of weeks later it was time to leave Brandeis. Somehow I had made it through a year of college, and I was returning home for the summer. At the end of April, or the very start of May, there is a solar eclipse. I remember watching the crescents of the sun filtered through the canopy of trees already in leaf outside my dormitory. Somewhere there are a few photos of those shadows, and that day. I was leaving Hassenfeld, my Freshman dorm, and my first year of college, and I was ready.

No I’ve never been afraid to cry,

Now I finally have a reason why…

No I’ve never been afraid to cry,

Now I finally have a reason why…

It strikes me as I write this – a rather late realization – that ‘I’ll Remember’ was really the end of my supposed-straight life, and the very last remnants of my childhood. Try as I might, it was a losing battle, and that girl would prove to be the very last girl I ever kissed. We would have one more summer together, and then it would be the boys’ turn to break my heart.

Song #27: ‘I’ll Remember’– Spring 1994

In the Fall of 1995 I was living on-campus at Brandeis, but working about 35 hours a week in downtown Boston. I made the suggestion to my parents that they get a place in the city. I tried to paint it as a real estate investment, not really expecting them to show much interest, but they gave the go-ahead to start looking, and within a day I had procured a real estate agent.

He would show me three South End condos in the next few days – this was in the time just before prices in that area went prohibitively through the roof – and most were in the $130,000 – $180,000 range. (Insane, I know – but somewhat predictable: I knew that where the gays went the market value was sure to rise.)

The first place we looked at was on Clarendon, right across the street from his office, in the heart of the South End. A brick wall in the kitchen lent it a cozy feel, as did a lone bouquet of dried flowers hanging on the wall. How long had it hung there, fading as the sun moved over its brittle leaves?

It was a small place, but on that brilliant Fall day the sun lit up the expanse, a moment of October clarity in between gray showers. The key to a successful real estate agent is seduction – and our agent was quite adept at that. (Yes, I had a small, okay, big, crush on him. But that’s another story for another time.)

The second place was the largest of the lot – a labyrinth of rooms really, right near Washington Park – and while spacious, it was almost too much – so easy would it be to get lost in these rooms. And though it’s prime space now, at the time it seemed a bit of a trek to the nearest T stop, plus there hadn’t been the businesses and restaurants that currently inhabit the area. Still, there’s a big appeal for that kind of space in a city – and I did contemplate whether a long walk might be worth an extra room or two. But the three things you’re supposed to look for in a place kept ringing in my ear: location, location, location.

The very last stop was on Braddock Park, looking out onto the Southwest Corridor, and we saw it after dusk had fallen. The lights of Copley glowed in the distance, the spires of the Hancock Building and the Marriott reaching into the night firmament. Seeing a place for the first time at night is often deceptive. The building adjacent had a pad lock and chain on its front door, and looked slightly dilapidated, but the bones looked strong. A first impression after sundown also doesn’t give a good indication of light, even with the promise of a floor-through with double bay windows.

We walked up one flight of stairs to the second floor and went into the condo. The ceilings soared, and the floor was a warm shade of amber. The hardwood, just the slightest worse for wear, could easily be redone. A marble fireplace commanded the central focal point, while a pitiful gray leather sofa from Miami circa 1988 sagged to its right. In the front of the room was the first bay window, and a kitchen. A small counter separated the space. A wooden wet bar lined the wall leading into the bedroom, the original gaslight fixtures still in place. It certainly had a bit of Boston charm. The bedroom was in the back of the layout, and had its own bay window. It was next to the bathroom, which had an accent wall of clay-colored brick and a dark-tiled floor.

While I liked what I saw that night, it had to be seen during the day, and my parents had to see it as well. After walking down the steps of the building to the street, I took leave of the real estate agent and made my way through the Southwest Corridor Park and into Copley Square. It was a short walk, and if location was our prime consideration, there was no contest. A new home was in the making…

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

Her voice has never sounded better. Even in the bustling pre-Thanksgiving buzz of Logan Airport, I can hear her clearly over the headphones of my portable CD player (this was 1996). I am about to board a flight to San Diego, my emotional state is shaky at best, but when Madonna is singing one of the most famous Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes of all time, ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’, I pause to listen. There are storms moving in from the West, but the flight is departing on time. A heavy coat is slung over my arm, and I wish I could leave it in the cold of a Boston November. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The iPod has chosen ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ as the next selection, and while I was hoping we might get an Evita song at this time of the year, I suddenly feel ill-equipped to fully convey the sad connotations that this song evokes.

It won’t be easy,

You’ll think it strange,

When I try to explain how I feel

That I still need your love after all that I’ve done…

The Fall of 1996 found me living in Boston, and commuting to Waltham for my last semester at Brandeis. I had fallen for a classmate in my Literary Criticism course, and for a brief moment he seemed smitten with me. We shared a love of musicals, the cute guy at the Boston Chipyard, and my impeccable sense of style. We also shared a couple of late-night talks on the telephone, some pleasantly random encounters on campus, and a slight fear of our Literary Criticism professor.

 I won’t go into other details here (that’s the ‘You Must Love Me’ story, and the iPod hasn’t shuffled that way yet), but after a few weeks of flirting, one flat semi-date, and a risky letter laying it all on the line, he was not as enthralled with me as I was with him. And as my pathology has historically shown, it’s the ones who want nothing to do with me that I seem to love the most.

I had to let it happen,

I had to change…

And so, long story short, he broke my heart, in the kindest possible way, but a broken heart is a broken heart and there’s nothing much to be done about it. That November the Evita soundtrack was released. It was Madonna in an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical – a gay man’s dream – but while the rest of the Madonna-mad homos celebrated, I tried to heal.

Back in those days, I lived a very organized and regimented life. Chalk it up to my Virgo birth sign, or my parents’ rigid structure – the point was, I had my school life and job and creative outlets strictly planned out, and there was little to no time for an emotional breakdown or messy feelings to muck up the flow. But I had read somewhere that Madonna claimed she allowed herself one day to get over a bad break-up, so the Tuesday that the Evita soundtrack came out I designated as that get-over-it day.

Luckily, I did not have classes on Tuesday, so I slept in and putzed around the condo a bit. The day was dim and overcast, but there was no rain. I walked over to Tower Records (again, this was 1996, and it still stood on the corner of Newbury then) and bought the soundtrack.

I vividly recall the press Madonna was getting at the time, especially the one-two knock-out punch of Vanity Fair and Vogue. She was poignant, vulnerable, and poised on the brink of her first comeback following the Sex years. She’d had her first child – a daughter named Lourdes – and she was healing her lifelong hurt of a lost mother and a number of lost loves. In my dismal state I could somehow relate, and suddenly I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

So I chose freedom,

Running around, trying everything new,

But nothing impressed me at all,

I never expected it to…

The next weekend my cousin’s wedding was taking place in San Diego. It was both exactly what I needed, and the last thing I wanted. A wedding is a wretched place to get over a broken heart, but at our darkest moments most of us turn to family – the people who have no choice but to love us. Or so we hope.

The truth is I never left you,

All through my wild days,

My mad existence…

I kept my promise,

Don’t keep your distance.

In Logan Airport, I took off my winter coat and waited for the plane to board. In my ears I listened to Madonna sing that epic song. Midway across the country, flying over all those square states, a storm appeared to the left of the plane – lightning and thick clouds swirled, and in the dark of night I almost dared God to take all of us down – I was that far gone.

Up in the sky, I felt removed from everything. The seat next to me was empty (are there ever any empty seats anymore?) so I could lie down and nap, and the flight attendants didn’t mind. While the night progressed, I was moving West and turning back time. What could be found in those three hours I was momentarily gaining? Would there be wisdom there, and would that soothe the ache?

Landing in San Diego was a healing moment of its own – the balmy humidity was a salve on the raw coldness I brought from Boston. I hopped in a courtesy van and arrived at the hotel where my family was already going about their wedding business. All except my brother would not be told of my state of mind. I wasn’t even out yet, and the accompanying loneliness and sadness weighed secretly upon me.

I tried to distract myself with the sunniness of San Diego, and the silliness of fashion, finding a tiger-print coat and a maroon ostrich boa in a vintage shop. I asked my brother to take a photo of me walking in a park, head down and countenance downtrodden, and it would become that year’s somber Christmas card. Through it all, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being unloved, and while my head (and my own brother) was telling me that this person was not worth the trouble, my heart would not be quieted – the heart wants what it wants.

At the wedding I talked and laughed with family. There were compliments on my outfits – there would always be compliments on my outfits – and if I had nothing else, I could still look good. I wondered then, if that’s all I had to offer. My lost suitor had been captivated by my clothes – in fact our first conversations revolved around clothing. How could such a superficial thing even compare to what I was feeling on the inside? And what do you do when you’ve built up such a pretty façade, but all anyone wants to do is look?

Such silly ruminations, and such a silly boy I was for feeling so devastated. Perhaps it’s even silly to speak of such things now. Yet these are the things that shaped me into the man I am today, and in so many ways those faults have not been perfectly patched. They run deep, and they run wide, and no matter how far I think I can go, they’re always with me.

And as for fortune and as for fame,

I never invited them in,

Though it seemed to the world

They were all I desired.

They are illusions,

They’re not the solutions

They promised to be

The answer was here all the time,

I love you

And hope you love me…

I didn’t cry for Argentina. I didn’t cry for Madonna and her newborn child and first shot at movie star credibility. I didn’t even cry for the boy who never sat next to me in class again.  I cried for that fact that love would never be easy for me, and that as good as I was at dressing up and making the ladies laugh, I could never be good at love.

In one of the magazine articles of the time, Madonna was talking about how she gained the coveted title role of the movie, and she said something that I grasped as hopeful for my goal of attaining a guy:

“I thought of a line from The Alchemist that goes something like, ‘If you want something bad enough the whole earth conspires to help you get it.’”

That’s not true in matters of love, and I think Madonna knows that too.

Have I said too much?

There’s nothing more I can think of to say to you…

But all you have to do is look at me

To know that every word is true.

Song #17: ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ – November/December 1996

A dorm room at Brandeis. The month was November, the sky gray, and the air damp – the time of year when it might rain or snow at any moment, but can’t make up its mind. Dusk settles early after the changing of the clocks, and at the dinner hour it is already dark. The radiator by the window hisses, as tiny beads of water condense on the pane. In the room, the only light comes from the outside safety lamp and the sliver of hallway fluorescence beneath the door.

The question is whether to walk all the way across campus to Sherman Hall to eat a quick dinner, or to take a nap and vainly attempt an escape until it’s really night. So much of life is taken up with these in-between moments – the ticking of the clock before or after what you think really matters. The waiting for something to begin. Five and ten-minute chunks of time where the real stuff of life happens. (Like sitting next to my husband in the moments before a movie is about to begin, holding off on the popcorn or not, and reading silly movie trivia over and over.)

On this November night – the night I am remembering from college – there is one of those transitions of time, in which I debate what to do next, while the clock ticks away. My coat is already on, but I hesitate, leaning back against the desk and looking outside. In my head, I go through the evening of coursework that should be done, that needs to be done, that absolutely must be done.

Our days are filled with hundreds of little decisions that must be made, and the thought that any one of them could be the one that changes our lives is a daunting, sometimes crippling idea. I don’t get bogged down in the details, in the endless decision-shifting. Make a choice and make the best of it. We cannot dwell in the past – but sometimes, on certain November nights, the past returns, if for no other reason than to remind us that while waiting for something to happen we might miss what is already happening.

The pockets of time we throw away – alone in a dorm room, commuting to work, waiting for the doctor to see us – have their own dim beauty, while carrying their own little light. I remember that night at Brandeis whenever I feel time might be getting away, when I question whether my life is on auto-pilot, when I need the inspiration to live in the moment. To be fully aware, to be completely cognizant, to notice and take in all of what surrounds us – this is how to be present, how to be a part of something. And after everything, all we really want is to belong.