Via Todotwilightsaga

Dear Linc,

There are things that you need to know about me. I’ve been writing these never-to-be-sents long enough that it sure is time that I come right out and say things about myself that you have either suspected or otherwise should know, even if only hazy-outline-Linc is the one who will ever know them. But this will be a useful never-to-be-sent if you ever do happen to, in fact, receive them.

Daddy issues: got ‘em. Homophobes will say that’s why I’m a homo — nevermind non-homos who also have daddy issues. Anyway, I was in the first grade when Pop first went away long-term because of his service in the Navy. That fucked me up real good. I missed him like crazy, and this would be the first time in my life that I internalized. I didn’t dip my toes into bottling things up; I dove head-first into that icy ocean. Mom had gotten married and then had me all when she was young, and coupled with the upheaval of moving to the U.S. from the Philippines, there was a lot that she had to learn and deal with. Pop going away was hard on her too, of course, but on top of everything else, I don’t think she was experienced or knowledgeable enough to coax the sadness out of me. We didn’t “talk about it.”

Instead, I ended up with what I thought was a heart condition. My heart raced so wildly when I wasn’t running that it scared me, and there were times when I exploded into hiccups. The hiccups were, I now see in hindsight, unformed sobs that did not complete into full-blown crying. As for my racing heart, back then the doctor was focused more on the physical rather than the emotional, so I got to be that cool first grader with the curious little contraption taped to his chest for about a week. I don’t know if it was a pacemaker — do first graders even wear pacemakers?! — but it was something that logged my heartbeats somehow. Maybe I should ask Selma these things… hmm, it’s kind of neat that I have some friends who I can turn to for medical help because they are either doctors or nurses. But I digress.

I’m not one of those people who looks at my past and says I am the way I am because of things my father and mother did. Maybe you can attribute it to my cultural and religious upbringing, but however you attribute it, just know that for me that kind of blame is not the right thing to do. So I did not have an ideal start, but who does? I am now a grown man (supposedly) so the choices I make are mine alone. That being said, childhood is important. That sounds obvious, but I think in this overpopulated and oversaturated world, we have taken for granted the importance of starting right, right from the start. There are so many bad parents out there, and many of them are probably doing their bad parenting unintentionally — and for me, I might end up being one of those hyper-vigilant, over-reflective parents who questions every procedure of child rearing. But that’s only because I firmly believe that everything the kid experiences in those years will be etched in his or her brain forever. FOREVER. I think people really take that for granted. It all begins at childhood. The child will NOT get over it. The child is NOT seeking attention. The child is an undeveloped miniature human being full of nothing but trust for the person to whom he or she is being cared by, and it is from that person that the child will learn everything about the world. EVERYTHING.

Pop was in and out of my life until middle school, when he retired from the Navy after completing his mandatory service, but at that point we were different people. He was changed by his military experiences, and I was changed by blooming — and raging — adolescence. We had a beautiful relationship when I was younger. The best memories of my life often include Pop. In adulthood, I have a much better relationship with Pop and I even count his return from the military as part of that long growing up process of memories both good and bad. When he was away in the military, he would call us whenever he had access to a phone, but mostly he wrote letters — and I always wrote back. 

I have been writing letters my entire life, Linc. In middle school, everyone wanted to get into a special television production class that produced the daily morning announcements show — The Today Show on closed circuit tween television. I wanted to be one of the hosts, but I was too shy so I chased after a crew spot. Unfortunately, the class filled up quickly and enrollment was closed — except that I wasn’t havin’ it. So, I wrote a letter to the teacher explaining that in my young life I had already grown up a fan of the likes of Katie Couric and Peter Jennings, and I loved watching Murphy Brown. Such was the main content of the letter that I can now recall, but there must have been other things that impressed the teacher, because good ol’ Mrs. Cvetic added me into the class. And if you’re wondering, I did end up hosting, but only once, and then afterward everyone in school would come up to me and say “Hey, you’re the fat Mexican boy on TV!” Kids.

I was ready to leave Maryland by the time I got to my senior year of high school. There were problems with Pop and Ma that seemed big at the time, but looking back in hindsight I see that most of it was typical teenage shit magnified by hormones and perhaps the unique sense of inflated self-importance that comes with being an only child. Anyway, everyone wants to get away for college, and San Francisco was the furthest I could escape without leaving the continental United States. Even though I thought that I knew a lot of shit, I didn’t know enough to look into international colleges. The furthest school I looked into was the University of Alaska system, and event though it had been my lifelong dream to go back to Alaska, something held me back from applying. I should have taken more chances when I was younger, Linc. I’ve now gotten to the point that so many billions have reached in all the years of human existence that preceded my tiny life: that youth is wasted on the youth, that I could have done and could have become so much more. Maybe being 30-years old isn’t really being old, but it sometimes feels that way.

Even though it is only day two of the three-day weekend, there have already been two instances this weekend that to me summarized the content of my character with such fine sharpness as to cut and bleed my spirit. You should know, so here goes. On Friday night, to kick off the long weekend, and take relief from what to me was a long week at work, I went out with some of my ladies for some drinks. I was at this bar in the Haight when I ended up striking up a conversation with this guy. We bonded over how we were both teased by the bartender for not looking our age, and then the conversation took off from there. We talked about a lot of random stuff, and there was an A’s game on the TV but we talked about how we are Giants fans for life, da da da da da… and then he asked me if I had ever fucked a guy, and that was when I lied and said no, I never had.

This was not a gay bar, Linc, and I was not expecting to have this conversation, not expecting to hook up with anyone at all. It was just going to be a night out with the ladies. Maybe I am dealing with my own internal homophobia, or perhaps in that moment I decided to try and see if I could manipulate my way into getting laid. Either reason is appalling. The guy went on to explain to me that he isn’t gay, but that he enjoyed getting fucked by a guy and wouldn’t mind doing it again — “for a price.” He would say that again, a couple of times. “For a price.” So I gave him my business card and said, “Call me.” And then I put my arm around his shoulder, groped him a little bit, which felt really nice, because it had been so long since I’d been with another man. And then we toasted our beers and I got off the stool. He called after me, “It was nice meeting you, man” and I raised my glass to him and joined my ladies.

I walked away thinking to myself that it was so sad that I wanted to get laid so badly that I denied who I really was and was offering to pay a price, whatever it might be. I hope he threw the card away, Linc. I hope it was a cosmic joke and he never thinks of me again.

That night, I got pretty wasted but I did not go home with anyone. I hope you don’t think I’m an alcoholic, Linc. I really only save drinking for weekend nights, if at all, and like I said, it was an especially tough week at work, and combined with the long weekend, I thought I deserved to have some sangrias (which we started off the night with) and then a seemingly endless round of beers (at the bar where I met that guy). The next night, Ray and Wolfie wanted to go out drinking, but I could not handle that two nights in a row, so I sipped that one out and instead hosted a movie night at home with Clara. I had picked up a bunch of used DVDs for a steal and I was eager to start marathoning them — these were movies I’d already watched but were made by my favorite directors — but we only had time for Panic Room. I highly recommend that movie, Linc, if only so you can understand the second example of my character that I realized about myself this weekend. 

Panic Room stars Jodie Foster and a pre-Twilight Kristen Stewart as a newly divorced wife and her daughter moving into an enormous New York City apartment that is also the target of thieves because of some money that is hidden in the titular location. I came to a moment of dramatic (melodramatic?) self-reflection when I realized how much I hated the character of the ex-husband, and that if he hadn’t been such a cheating asshole, his ex-wife and daughter would never have had to endure what they went through in the movie. More than hating the thieves, more than even cheering for the mother and daughter characters to survive into a happy ending, I suddenly found myself viciously furious at the ex-husband more than I ever had been in prior viewings. In the movie, he seemed useless — and older (and much less attractive than he already was) than I remembered him being in prior viewings — and though I knew the movie’s ending, I still wanted his character to be a fatality. It was the least he deserved, or so I thought throughout the movie.  Cheating husbands, bad. Marrying older men and generally hooking up with anyone not within your age range, gross.

Finally, before you were The Freak, I was a TV freak. That’s how I met Selma. We’ve known each other for more than half of each other’s lives. She is now a doctor and here I am, writing never-to-be-sents. Anyway, we were sending each other a bunch of instant messages this one time, as usual, and I realized that I was talking a lot about a lot of TV shows, so I typed apologetically “I’m a TV freak (G),” attaching an old emoticon that is seldom used anymore. From that point on, the apology has become our little inside joke, a fond memory between old friends. Someday, I would like for  you and I, Linc, to regale one another with stories about our respective sets of friends, our lives, but now that you have read all of this about me, I expect you to run for the hills — as you should, because I would bring too much with me into even just a friendship with you. But you also ought to know that I am also dealing with all of this, with all the time, fortitude, knowledge and best-I-can afforded only by what years are granted to us, by a cycle of growing up and existence matched only by the expansion of the universe which dwarfs us.

Joe