Guest Blogger #13
I found Troy Hoshor the way I find a lot of people online; that is, they find me first. I followed a link and became a regular reader.
Troy actually attended the same high school as my daughter, although a couple of years ahead. They also share something else in common, a young woman, but I think I'll let him tell you about that.
Troy is a former Mukilteo resident who now attends college in Montreal, although I believe he's spending the summer with his parents in Port Townsend, WA. You can visit Troy's site here.
Kenzship
By Troy Hoshor
I always wondered what it would feel like to fall in love.
Growing up as a child with Disney movie-musicals and Cinderella fairy tales, love always seemed so easy to understand. Time would stop, the music would swell, and characters would suddenly recognize how they felt about each other, often with the accompaniment of singing crabs and magic carpets. It was singular and definitive-- there was no other choice for these characters but to realize the emotions that had always been inside them, only dormant.
Nonetheless, I still wondered what it would feel like for myself.
I remember a specific girl I liked in second grade. She was a few inches shorter than me, and had long, straight black hair. She also had cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. Although I had never spoken to her, there simply was no other seven-year old girl: she was the one.
Love as an elementary school student is just that-- elementary. Think back to when the taller girls only beat up the shorter boys because there was no better way to show how much they cared. That was romance. Outside of playground antics, though, love was strictly limited to special occasions. Naturally, Valentine's Day was the only way to tell this girl how I felt about her.
I remember spending hour upon hour February 13th constructing the perfect Valentine Day card-- a marvelous combination of cardboard, construction paper, and rubber cement. The cover of the card was simple and elegant. There were three hearts of different colors, each with a word: "I," "love," and "you." Inside I had carefully woven one of those paper springs [you remember the kind]. On top of the paper spring I had carefully affixed another heart, this one inscribed with meticulous 2nd grade penmanship: "Will you be my Valentine?"
I was excited about my special card. It was huge and dwarfed all the rest of the store-bought Garfield Valentines that peppered the desks of my 2nd grade classroom. And so, during the crazy card-swapping hour in class on the 14th, I made my move. I remember propping my large card up on this girl's desk and then running quickly back to my own desk to observe her reaction. There was the advantage of distraction this way. I could sort through my own supply of generic X-Men and Calvin & Hobbes Valentines from everyone else, taking cautious peeks at her desk all the while.
It wasn't long before some of the girl's friends caught sight of the card. Whispering amongst themselves, they gestured and pointed at it. A few minutes later, they literally dragged my paramour against her will over to her desk. The card definitely provoked a reaction: she turned beet red at the sight of it. I probably blushed just as much, quietly observing from the other side of the room. I remember that she slowly picked up the card, trembling, and stared at the cover for a moment before opening it. The spring-loaded heart popped out as I had planned, but the effect was lost on her. She narrowed her eyes and quickly shoved the card underneath all the rest of her Valentines. Ignoring the pleadings of her friends, she folded her hair behind her ears and disappeared into the back of the classroom.
She didn't even look for me.
I still, however, wondered what it would be like to fall in love.
I no longer saw it as a harmonic "first sight" occurance, my hopes of that having flittered away with the glue and paper of 2nd grade. The feeling I wondered about now had to be something that needed to root and blossom over time. Still, I clutched desperately to the ideology of Hollywood, where romantic comedies remind all of us that no matter what happens over the course of dating, there will always be a happy ending.
With this logic firmly in mind, I entered middle school and promptly fell for another girl. It had been only a week after school had begun. Of course, everything made perfect sense at the time. This new girl was pretty, she had a smile that effused joy, she was stubborn, loud, polite, independent, and she wore solid-colored shirts. I also liked her name.
But times had also changed. I was now twelve and far too mature for a Sebastion-inspired "Kiss the Girl" reveal. Instead, I went with patience. This is something unbearably difficult for a petulant, bouncy 6th grader whose voice has not yet changed. Unfortunately, it was only a few months into the school year when I made the brilliant decision of communicating my affection towards his girl to one of the most talkative people I knew.
Soon thereafter, gossip about Troy and this new girl spread like wildfire. Gossip is a beautiful thing like that. Almost overnight, you can go from perfect anonymity to the next Brad 'n Angelina. The social dynamics of middle school-- a petrie dish of horomones, acne, puberty, and popularity-- soaked up the notion of myself and this girl so quickly that it overwhelmed me. So much for patience.
Fortunately, I had picked a great girl to have a crush on, and she dodged the bullets of implied relationships like a veteran [I was not so lucky]. Over the next six years we became increasingly better friends and eventually dated. There are plenty of stories I can tell about this girl. There was the time she ran up to me on Field Day just to hand me a note asking me to a dance "as friends," how I devolved into a wallflower when I realized I sucked at dancing, how my parents had to drive us to our first high school dance, the embarassing way I asked her out, how we both dressed up as pirates for Halloween, and the ever-evolving story of our first kiss.
It didn't work out, though. She ended it; I deserved it. My thoughts during our two-month relationship lingered on form, process, and technique... rather than the person who I was supposed to care about. It wasn't fair to her.
I was not cynical after all of this, however. I still desired to know what it would be like to fall in love.
While experience had turned me silent and observant, it was impossible to block myself off from feeling entirely. To quote Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, "I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it." It was something in me, inside of me, that yearned to reach out and connect but didn't know the right way to do so. I felt as I imagine a first-time hitchhiker would feel, wondering how to get from Seattle to Nashville with just a knapsack and a dream. Everyone else around me seemed to know exactly what to do. It was frustrating like that.
The remainder of high school for me was characterized by platonic, innocent infatuation for a number of girls. There were a few in particular whom I had known for a long time and quietly-- even protectively-- liked. Still, relationships were an institution that sought to immobolize and control my spirit; I would have no place for them in my life. I chose instead to quietly admire the fairer sex from afar. For one girl, it was her enthusiasm, her spirit, the way she was always her own person, and even the way her hair fell on her shoulders in the morning. For another, it was her hands, the way she would seek me out from across the room just to exchange a glance, or how she would understand even the lamest of my jokes.
Yes, I thrived in that fearful abyss most people refer to as the "Friend Zone." Quietly, I indulged my inner Romeo while feigning nonchalance on the exterior. Not so surprisingly, I was fine with this arrangement. It saved me from the pain and anxiety that I associated with relationships. I do not deny, however, that there were moments. Moments when I felt like, "Maybe this could work." Moments where I wondered, "Am I missing something?" Moments where I knew, "I am going to miss her." The kind of moments where you run home and start looking up Simon & Garfunkel songs to describe your emotions because you can't adequately put a label on them for yourself.
Goodbyes are still painful, though, even for imaginary relationships. When time came to move on with my life, away from high school and its lingering, unspent possibilites, I felt nothing but regret. I didn't live my emotional life on the edge of my sleeve. I kept who I really was guarded, tucked away, protected by walls reinforced with the mortar of silence. Like all people, I was formed by the feelings and relationships I had during those years. So what did I learn about love from high school?
I learned that indecision and silence are useless. I learned that love is something you have to give. I learned that, no matter how much we disbelieve it, love is something everyone has the ability to give. Most of all, I learned that it is not contingent on reciprocity.
Still, however, I struggled. What was the actual feeling of love like? Would I ever find out?
I continually reminded myself, "Wait long enough and it is statistically certain that you'll stumble into something," even as I transitioned into university life. I disagreed with the drunken campus politicking when it came to hooking up. Everyone around me seemed to be either immersed in the party lifestyle or immersed in closely-guarded commitments. There simply wasn't a middle ground for someone like me.
So I waited. It was lonely. But in many respects I think it was a hopeful place. Something inside, that idealist within, assured me that things would work out. I continued to rationalize. After all, I wasn't the kind of guy to ask out girls he didn't know; why bother with the "pursuit" mindset without someone in particular to pursue?
Two years later, I woke up and knew something was different.
I guess you could say it was a typical morning in the life of a college student. It's noon. Of course it is: you crammed last night. There are clothes and unwashes dishes scattering the floor. Your alarm clock goes off. You roll over to kiss her good morning...
...and promptly fall out of bed. Huh? There's no girl there. You don't understand. Then you remember. She has never been there. She's three-hundred miles away. You're breathing hard, you're shaking. You check your blood sugar, because it feels low. It isn't. You stare at the ceiling for a while. You listen to Debussy and Beethoven and wonder about plane tickets. Then your second alarm goes off, and you go to your exam. But today, something is different. Today, you know you're in love.
Okay, maybe it wasn't such a typical day after all.
I'd always thought that, as bad as they were, the cliches would be right. A mysterious stranger was supposed to wander up and hand me a pair of rose-colored glasses. Suddenly, everything would be beautiful, tinted with magenta and fuschia. Of course I'd be able to tell the difference from how I regularly saw things, because, after all, milk is not supposed to be red. Or beautiful.
It didn't happen like that, though. If there was a "ton of bricks" moment for me, it was not the realization of what I felt, but that I had already felt that way for a very long time. How scary is that?
Imagine a prospector who trips and scratches his knee on the way to his claim. He swears angrily, spits on the ground, and curses his fate. Two months later, after losing his wife, family, and gambling away the last of his savings, gold is discovered on the very spot he stumbled upon. It's a very "If I had only known..." feeling. And, yes, it does hit you like a ton of bricks.
I really shouldn't rhapsodize about my current relationship or non-relationship or whatever, at least not in this entry. If you know either of us in the slightest, you've probably experienced a hefty dose of our drama already. But that's what's great about theatrics: they can really be fun. Even if you are the performer. As much as things like differing opinions regarding our official status, Greyhound buses, or even humongous cellphone bills can be frustrating, I'm still happy.
Because I am beginning to understand.
I've met someone, now, you see; someone I've been looking for for an extremely long time. She may not be the last, but I've been changed forever by the fact that she was the first.
So, Mackenzie, whatever you are doing in Mukilteo right now-- be it hanging out with friends or traipsing old stomping grounds-- thank you. Thank you for being who you are and especially for calling that October evening not so long ago. Thank you for everything.
I'm completely in love with you.
8:10:38 AM 
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