First Day of School

In the process of writing and publishing, then traveling for the weekend for a wedding, and everything generally moving at the speed of light, it hadn’t occurred to me that my co-workers, many of whom are also friends on social media, would see and be reading my posts.

            I feel that it’s important to reiterate that I’m an extrovert by nature, and not afraid of people or public situations. Given my union activism, it would prove difficult to speak to officials and lobby for education if I were. I will often read a situation before responding, but when I do, I tend to speak my mind—about educational issues.

As for my personal life, and the events that occur outside of school, I don’t share much with people I only consider colleagues. In terms of my personal life, I prefer to be well into the shadows, out of the line of sight. Given the past few years, and all the awkwardness with my mom and dad’s divorce, then the insanity with my mother’s love life, a painful breakup with an ex last year for me, I don’t feel the need to share with everyone what’s going on with me for good reason.

Additionally, there have been times when at the lunch table where conversations have drifted toward questions about LGBTQ+ issues, and, as the resident member of that community, I’m the default spokesperson. While there have been moments of genuine interest or concern for me, I’ve also seen people literally shut off, turn away, or disengage when I speak about what it’s like to be gay. Or when I talk about going on a date. Or, if I speak about anything that involves something which makes them uncomfortable, which, as it turns out, is a large swath of my personal life.

That judgement is why I don’t love talking about my personal life or areas that overlap with my personal life with people with whom I am not close.

            Therefore, walking into school Monday was difficult. Again, I struggled with the idea that people were staring at me. But, the students didn’t know what was going on. And I walked into my room without anyone around. I was being paranoid.

            Except this time I wasn’t.

            I started my morning routine and walked into the teacher’s planning area. It felt as if everyone who was there stopped what they were doing and started staring at me. Some weren’t. But some were.

            And then began the conversations...

“Oh, I read your blog…”

“That’s so crazy!”

“What’s going on? What blog?”

So, first thing on Monday morning, I had to recount everything I knew about my current situation with work colleagues I largely don’t see outside of the building once I leave for the day.

It would be rude of me not to acknowledge that everyone who spoke to me mostly did so in a way that shared concern for my situation, and not entirely out of probing for lurid details about my life. Mostly.

Like much of this experience, knowing that people cared was comforting, even if I did have to articulate my pain a few hundred times. Ok. It wasn’t a hundred—it just felt like it.

At least I wasn’t entirely crazy for thinking people were looking at me anymore.

Getting into my typical daily routine was also helpful, and teaching was a welcoming distraction. Students would learn, and I would teach them, and that part of my life would progress as normal.

And then lunch came.

I was dreading it. Stuck in close-quarters, with no escape from people who would want to talk about it. Except, no one did, as the people I eat lunch with who I’m also connected to on social media were absent that day.  No one knew…yet. Small mercies.

I made it through the day. It was going to be ok.

Day two had fewer comments from co-workers, and I began to feel that I would be able to revert to some sense of normalcy.

Until I got to lunch.

            I walked in and saw a mostly full table, which meant everyone who typically came to eat lunch was present. I heated up my food in the microwave, and sat down. I was taking my first bite when my coworkers finished speaking about something. And then it began.

            “Jonathan… Wow. Just wow. How crazy to be going through all of this!”

            Now, more than ever, it felt as if a spotlight had zeroed in on me.  There was nowhere to hide, no corner to slink into.

            “Uh… Yeah. It’s all pretty crazy.”

            There’s no way I didn’t look like a deer in headlights; I certainly felt like one.

            So, naturally, those who I’m not connected to via social media started asking the obvious question… What’s up?

            Such a little question. Yet, obviously so loaded.

            I couldn’t ignore it, so I did what I’ve been doing in all of this—I met it head on and began to explain.

            Everyone was naturally dumbfounded and offered their support and concern, but I’ve never felt more naked or exposed in my life. To not only have colleagues know something so intimate about you, but to be placed in a precarious position by being prompted to tell them—it was beyond difficult.

I was still wrapping my head around the insanity of my situation, so to try to casually discuss my life with people I solely see within the confines of the school building, and then act calm, cavalier even, about my adoption was almost more than I could handle. I wanted to scream at them, to lash out, but that’s not fair.

Then again, what part of this process has been fair?

I would like to again point out that I know that my co-workers are, overall, kind and are sympathetic to my situation. These people, especially, were shocked and genuinely amazed at what I’d discovered.  I do not blame anyone for their desire to know about my situation, given that I’m also publishing it online. I’m continually reminded about how many people are showing caring, at least in their way. However, this lunch still taught/reminded me of two things.

First, I am not someone who enjoys pity. I enjoy comfort, or support, or sympathy, or empathy to something I’m going through. I do not enjoy having someone look at me and, with a slight smarminess, ask me “How’s it going?” knowing full-well that nothing for me is going well, and implying that everything for the person asking is fantastic. It’s rude and unkind. Every one of us has struggles; some people’s struggles just are bigger than yours some days. It doesn’t mean that you are above anyone else because tomorrow might be the day your karma is checked.

Second, I have also learned to be careful about when I ask anyone about something personal, lest I inadvertently overwhelm or hurt them with my attempt to show concern. Compassion, as well as tact, I continue to find, are things in short supply these days, and are often overlooked because of good intentions to offer sympathy, whether real or feigned.

After I divulged my story, I inhaled my lunch (gotta love the 25 minute lunch breaks of a teacher, especially when in this case I was left with about ten…), and returned to class, my fears revived that everyone was staring at the new adoptee, because after that spotlight session, they were.

A few deep breaths, and I reminded myself….

I’m fine.  It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Maybe one day soon, I won’t just have to pretend that this mantra was true.

The Rainbow Connection

As someone who is gay, coming out is a life-altering rite of passage. For years, you will likely have avoided the truth, pretended that you are normal, and that if you just try to be straight you can survive. Slowly, you are consumed by the fear that your friends and family won’t accept you. Before you come out, you panic, and examine every word and phrase that you say, ensuring that you haven’t given away your secret. When you finish all of that, accept that you need to be honest and truthful with yourself and those around you, and finally tell people, the relief that you are finally living your truth is indescribable.

Most people don’t even have a coming out experience. They are who they are, and can live their lives without needing to explain anything about who they are. If they do, they have one coming out experience so as to live honestly. Because of the letter from Xena, I was in the midst of my second, which is why I was increasingly furious that I was going to have to do it all again.

I mean, I didn’t have to tell people I’m adopted. I have a decent poker face. I could internalize this information and live my life, right?

Except, I couldn’t just live my life with a secret of this magnitude. If you’ve had to go through the process to explain to others about why being gay isn’t a choice, and it is part of who you inherently are. Admitting something about yourself to others, when others don’t have to (and often never will) do the same with you fundamentally changes you. Once you begin this endeavor you cannot fathom staying silent anymore. You have a need to be honest in all things. Anything untruthful becomes distasteful and dangerous to your well-being and sanity, as you have survived the double-life you once lived.

I was beginning to understand more and more why me being adopted bothered me. It wasn’t the adoption. In many ways, the adoption was both an answer to many questions and a relief. It was the fact that because I was never told, I was party to an inadvertent lie.

I was not OK with that.

While I’m well aware that for a lie to be an actual lie, there has to be intent to deceive. But, because a lie had been created about me, my circumstances, and it therefore involved me, which made me party to the lie, whether or not I wanted to be. When I introduce myself to my students, or to new friends, invariably what I believed to be my ethnicity and cultural identity came up. I was proud to be British. I was proud to be Portuguese. I loved describing myself in playful oxymoronic statements, like that I love coffee, but often drink tea.  Regularly, I would joke that I’m sort-of Hispanic, because of a misunderstanding on a government form.

Now, it was both a joke and not a joke. My identity was in flux, as was my integrity. I could no longer claim to be any of the things my parents were, because they were not my biological parents. I felt uneasy talking about anything which related to my perceived identity. But I struggled with the idea of standing in front of my students and being anything other than genuine with them. How can I encourage them to live honestly, if I have not been living honestly, even if I didn’t know?  Perhaps these were irrational thoughts, but I still struggled with them as I thought about getting back to “normal” life.

I was deep in these thoughts after my work out on Tuesday. As I got into the shower, one of my work-out buddies pointedly and unexpectedly asked if I was OK.

Clearly, I was not.

Guess my poker face wasn’t that good after all. It seemed a little too literal to expose myself to someone who is between acquaintance, friend, and co-worker while in the shower. I wasn’t ready to discuss this yet with anyone who wasn’t very close to me.

But, that doesn’t mean that I was incapable of laughing when one of my coworkers arrived in my classroom with a copy of Are You My Mother? by Dr. Seuss.

Some people might have found this in poor taste. I, however, thought it was hilarious. Even more so, because it was also available in Spanish. I mean, I might be Hispanic now. Who knew? Not I. At least not yet.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I took a picture of myself reading it and sent it to a few friends. I may have suggested that it would be my holiday card this year. Even better—I could make business cards and hand them out to strangers.

I may not be ready to discuss this with people yet, but my dark sense of humor has gotten a bit of an upgrade.

So…

I am curious…

Are you my mother?