When I was in kindergarten I proposed to Stephanie Muller. She turned me down because my fingernails were dirty. Many years later I heard that Stephanie was a heroin addict. Years after that I was in a teaching credential program with her brother and from him learned that Stephanie was not only clean but working in a program in which recovering addicts helped people knew to recovery. Admirable.
Stephanie’s brother (whose name I’ve forgotten) invited my wife and I over to his house for dinner. We had a nice time with him and his wife, who I somehow remember was a nurse, but we’d finished in the credential program and moved on. I’ve not seen or heard from him since that dinner. I suppose they waited for a reciprocal invitation but I quickly forgot about him and got busy with getting sober, my teaching career and my wife’s pregnancy, all of which happened soon after the dinner. Evidently I liked John but not enough to maintain contact with him.
I remember nothing about Stephanie other than the very early crush and the rejection and don’t remember much more about her brother other than he shared my fondness for foreign beer though he swore he’d never been drunk. I thought it odd that anyone who liked beer so much had never had one too many. Indeed I still find it strange though I’ve never doubted the veracity of his claim. Mind you there’s a lot about the lives of “normal” people that those of us in recovery find strange.
I recently thought of a woman who was in my large circle of friends in the late seventies when I was a hot shot reporter and a bon vivant. She was neither particularly attractive, nor accomplished, nor especially witty nor especially anything other than really, really nice. She always seemed to just be there. Everyone liked her but she never had a boyfriend and didn’t seem to be especially close to anyone. One night I was in my cups (as was generally the case back then) and it occurred to me that what she needed was a lover. I figured I would be doing her a favor by offering my services. Mind you, I was far more delicate and tactful in suggesting she avail herself of my body than it may seem to the reader. My offer was that we have a physical relationship with the understanding that it could develop beyond that ( I had no expectations that it would, for in those days I was averse to the very notion of committing myself to one woman). I was stunned — no, I really was — when she turned me down. So stunned that I repeated my proposition reasoning that she must not have heard me correctly. She again said thanks, but no thanks. Well I never. Life went on in our circle. Later she had a very brief fling with an eligible bachelor who by his own account to me, was merely using her. I rather think this story reflects poorly on men.
I’ve admitted on this blog that I was a cad (and perhaps a bounder) as a young man. I am not proud of this, though I’m not really ashamed either. Maybe I should feel terrible about the way I behaved toward women but what would be the point? I’ve spent enough time in self-flagellation over past misdeeds. Yes, I used women. I was callous. But I never harassed a woman or assaulted one. I suppose it sounds like I’m excusing myself in a boys-will-be-boys sort of way. But the truth is that I was no different than most men of my generation and far better than the majority.
More than that though I was a victim of a sometimes hellacious childhood with a schizophrenic mother. I was raised in a sexist environment, aggravated by my participation in the male-dominated environs of sports and I was a practicing alcoholic. Considering all this I wasn’t all that awful. (I guess not being all that awful is damning myself with faint praise.)
More importantly I’ve strived to be a better person. I raised two daughters — okay, my wife helped — and they are both strong feminists and able professionals and I’m proud of them beyond words. My wife can further vouch for my good behavior.
I’ve always not just liked women but been fascinated by them. Endlessly so. Maybe the circumstances of my childhood contributed to this, particularly not having had a “real” mother and no sisters. Women I 've been with have often commented on how I seem to really appreciate them and on how loving I could be. Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.
How would I feel if one of my daughter’s came home with someone like me? If he resembled me in my twenties I’d be mortified. If he was more like me in my late thirties and beyond I’d embrace him.
So I’ve gotten on a bit of tangent in remembering my rejected marriage proposal and years later meeting my intended’s brother. A lot of people pass through our lives. This is especially so for teachers. I was thinking recently of a woman I had a brief fling with in 1979. I could neither conjure her name nor an image of what she looked like. I found this both frustrating and sad. Life moves pretty fast as Ferris Bueller famously said. You meet someone, know them for a bit and one day is the last day you ever see them. Other people stick to you like a barnacle whether you want them or not. There is one person who was my teaching colleague for over twenty years. We were classroom neighbors for much of that time and were generally friendly and confided in one another though two epic blow outs marred our friendship. We stayed in touch for awhile after I left the school we worked at. But now I think of him with utter contempt. Some of things he said and did are unforgivable. He was clearly a badly damaged soul who had a gift for endearing himself to people, despite, for example, being a bigot. Yet if I saw him tomorrow I would greet him warmly and have a nice chat. It’s what you do in a polite society.
I’ve met new people since I re-started at the school in San Francisco where I used to teach. There’s only one person still there from my previous tenure and one other person I know from another school. I’ve gotten to like some of my new colleagues. The school is shutting down in June and I won’t return to it after my wife and my vacation in May so I’ll only be associated with them for another seven weeks.
People come and go. Some refuse to marry you on issues of hygiene, others say yes. Some people become life long friends, while other’s hurt you or you hurt them or you hurt each other. There are, I note, very few people who I’ve gotten to know well that I “hate.” One springs to mind — again from my halcyon days in the seventies. He was well liked by many but had a nasty disposition and for reasons I never understood or knew, was contemptuous of me to the extent that he made that clear before a large group of people one day. Not something you forget or forgive. As it happened I rarely saw him after that. He’s a very small exception to most people that I’ve gotten to know.
Yeah, things generally work out okay. I don’t think Stephanie and I were a good match anyway.
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