Lucky?

I was texting with one of my cousins the other night.  She posted the following on fb:

I pointed out that we have family members who are part of the cult.  She said she knew- and that she avoids the topic when possible. 

She wrote:

"Its a very sad time in history. Ive taken a break from my first childhood friend. Not bc of her necessarily, but a mutual childhood friend jumped into a convo. I'd already unfriended this person."

I replied "I guess in some ways I'm lucky. I lost 90% of my friends when I transitioned. So I only lost about a half a dozen over maga."

"Ehhh..as you know, its a personal choice as to who one puts up with.  Are you lucky? That would make a great topic for your blog. I think you are lucky to know you have friends that you can be yourself with. Me.....I have many friends, but very very few know all of me. Make sense?"

"Makes a lot of sense. Am I lucky? I guess in only 2 ways. 1. I know who/what I am. 2. I know who my true friends are"

Is it possible to truly know another person?  Even after decades?

When I transitioned, I figured I knew how my closest friends would react, a good guess about how other friends would react, and an idea what most of my coworkers and others i knew would do.

Coworkers and others?  I figured most of them spot on.  I could always read people.  

Unfortunately, I was right about most of my friends.  But by then, I really didn't have many.  Really never did.  I'm a social misfit at best. I still wonder what it's like to be "normal."

But my closest friends?  People I'd known most of my life?  Several of them surprised me.  A couple of them who are very conservative not only supported me but all these years later are still there.  Has it been smooth?  No- but they're still there.  Conversely, a couple "liberal" friends just disappeared, and, despite me reaching out, we never spoke again.  

Then again, NONE of them knew about what was inside me.  I'd hidden it too well.  Even though everyone knew I was "different" in some way- picked on by the kids growing up, ostracized by most of my "brothers" at Penn State... but the idea of transgender never entered the realm of possibility.  

Either that makes me an amazing actor (and I have no acting awards), or an incredibly proficient liar.  I hate lies.  Yet I'm so good at it.

Only one person, a coworker from Baltimore whom I wasn't that close to, claimed he'd figured it out due to my level of anger at the world.  He'd seen it before in a family member who'd transitioned.  I don't doubt him- he's a pretty sharp guy.  

So, by that logic no one REALLY knew me- until that first Renaissance meeting in December 2008.  And in so many ways I was finally exploring the shadows of something I denied my whole life.  

Eighteen years later, I'm still learning.  

Valentine's Day 2026

So, can one person truly know another?  Even after, say, decades of marriage?

There are a very few people whom I know/knew well enough that we could finish each other's sentences.  And still, they surprised me.  One, with whom I was in a relationship, cheated on me and revealed a side I'd never suspected.  

Another killed herself.  She hid the signs so well.

Two of the biggest scars on my soul.

So, no.  I don't think its possible to truly know another person.  Everyone has secrets.  Everyone lies.  

"Don't tell me you know me When I don't even know myself"  Pete Townsend

I'm still learning.

Be well.  

The First Call (another chapter)

This is another chapter of my book Men of the Skull.  It tells the story of my first rescue squad call, and first (no funeral) dead body.

*******************

Chapter 2.104 First Call

            In this book, I’ve done the due diligence and made sure that all dates are accurate, etc.  However, I’ve obscured this date intentionally.  Do I know the exact date?  Yes, and it’s around this time.  And I still mark it quietly. 

            Some things you never forget.

Chapter 2.104 First Call

January 12, 1988 LCB says fraternities liable for serving minors

The new pledges had already gone home as study hours were over.  I pulled one of the big black leather chairs over to face the fireplace.  I was feeling a bit, well, depressed.  Melancholy.

            I had with me a bottle of Southern Comfort, from which I sipped as I stared into the fire, thinking.

One of the new pledges, Ty, came over and stood aside me next to the chair.  He was a surfer dude with long black hair

            He looked at me and said, "Hey Lens, like, are you okay?"

            I looked up at him without moving my head, and said "just a bad memory."

            "Want to talk about it? he asked.

            “Well, it's kind of gory. It was my first Rescue Squad calls as an EMT."

            Oh, that’s right- you're an EMT," he said.

             "Yeah, still am," I said, offering a swig from my bottle.  "This is back in 84 and today was the anniversary of that call."

            "Okay, tell me about it," he said.

Rescue Squad truck, 1984

            I smiled grimly.  "Well, it was a motorcycle accident involving three cars.  Morning commute.  And without getting into all the gory details, the biker, who had survived three tours of Vietnam, was knocked off his bike, hit by a second car, and dragged over a hundred yards face-down on the highway by the third.  We all hoped the impact killed him before that."  I took a swig and handed the bottle back to him.

Accident diagram

            "And we got there, the rescue squad, and after checking the other drivers for injuries, the captain told me to go over with a body bag to the biker, and to roll him into the bag, as a doctor had already declared him dead.  Don't ask me where the doctor came from. Didn’t see him."    

             Swig.

             "I said sure, no problem.  So, I...  I followed the long blood and shit streak up the highway to the body.  And there he was faced down- my first dead body.  No helmet, dark hair matted with blood.  Open leather jacket with Harley Davidson and Vietnam veteran patches.  Uh, blue jeans. Boots.

Swig.

            You want any more?  I asked.

            "Nah, got more studying to do.  Thanks though."

             "So, I set out the body bag, knelt down, and I put my one hand under his head and the other under his stomach to roll him into the bag.”  

I moved my hands to show him what I did.  The bottle sloshed in my grip. 

             “And I did.  Most of the intestines, they stuck… to the ground or to my hand, and his brain stuck… to my other hand.  Leaving a trail of entrails between that bag and the highway.  I still remember it as clear as day.  The brain was sticky in my hand.  Whole face and chest rubbed  away.  I also remember the smell.  The smell…”

             Finished the bottle.

"So, after I finish throwing up all over the side of the road, the captain, Don, put his hand on my shoulder and says, 'welcome to the rescue squad."

 

             Ty stood there for a moment as I stared into the fire, then looked at the empty bottle.

             "I'm sorry" he whispered. 

             "Yeah thanks.  Anyway, that was four years ago today.  Never even learned the guy's name."       

            I kept staring into the fire.  I have no idea how long he stood there before leaving.

            I didn’t cry. 

A Man doesn’t cry. 

Just… stared into the cleansing flames.

 

 *****************************************************************************

            Ty would become one of my best friends in the house.  He listened.  Cared.  About everybody.  He was among my biggest supporters when I came out as Sophie.  He became a college philosophy professor and youth baseball coach in California.

            He died in a surfing accident onelection day 2024.  Hundreds came to his memorial vigil on the beach where it happened.  There’s a plaque in Skull house now, dedicated to him.  On it is quote from Vonnegut, but encapsulated Ty perfectly: “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

A singular honor for a great man.

 

Men of the Skull Prologue Draft 2: Electric Boogaloo

Ok, thanks to input from viewers like you, I've revised the prologue a bit.

Opinions welcome.  Please.  

*********************************************

Prologue 2025: 

Let me tell you a story. 

  

I’ve fought to save lives. 

I’ve knelt in kitchens, compressing chests that didn’t want to rise. I’ve crawled into wrecked vehicles trying to stop people from bleeding to death. Run into flaming infernos searching for anything living to save. 

But there was one life I couldn’t save — nor did I want to: my own. 

So here we are: the revised, updated, now-with-Pine-scent prologue to a book you never read in the first place. This book shows how I buried myself alive in brotherhood, beer, and basement dive bars. Somehow, decades later, I finally dug myself out. 

Everything you’re about to read happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges have blurred. The names have been changed — some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. Some people are composites of several personalities. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I softened it. Like Obi-Wan said: it all depends on “a certain point of view.” 

This is the story of my college years — two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and regrettable wardrobe choices. 

In the 2008 prologue, I asked: 

"Why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? An attempt to exorcise demons? To recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth? Maybe all of the above. Mostly, I just wanted to get it all straight in my head. To learn from it." 

That was 2008. And it was true — or at least the truth I could admit at the time. What I didn’t admit then was that I was in Pain. A deep, howling, soul-level Pain I couldn’t name. I tried to drink it to death. Didn’t work. So I tried to write it to death. 

Then came Halloween 2008. 

I dressed as Lois Lane for a party — my wife as Clark Kent. I knew what was trapped inside me — my dark secret — but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty-five years. I would be fine. Wouldn’t I?

 

Nope.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled. Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace. All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone. I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed-filled bra, and knew — I was in trouble. 

I finished the first draft in summer 2008, sent it to agents and publishers. Some were politely uninterested. Some not so polite. Mostly I heard nothing. Meanwhile, the Pain kept growing. Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it. 

My first trip to PSU as Sophie.  July 2013

Fast forward to March 2014. I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, stopped lying — and Lance died. What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie — the person who had been silently screaming for decades. I’ve also done a lot of writing: a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even The New York Times. The voice I found writing this book was honed along the way. 

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor (okay, there was one, but she doesn’t appear in this book), no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed — or worse — if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings deeper than a Springsteen song. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be. 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it — for lying. To everybody. For my silence. 

  

I hated myself a lot. 

  

But that silence, that pretending — it’s part of the story. It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words. Or the courage. 

That’s the real reason I’m telling this story now — because it’s not just mine. It’s about being the outsider. About wanting to belong so badly you forget who you are. About regret, hope, and the small mercies that keep us alive. 

And if you were there — if you knew me then — I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because for all its flaws, this story is mine. And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am. 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable. It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not — and probably wish they didn’t. It’s a love letter and a requiem to a decade and a place — both more magical as time distorts memory. 

It’s about a boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.  As Dylan wrote “We always did feel the same we just saw it from a different point of view...” 

And yeah, there’s Music. Always Music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

What you’re about to read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After. That After solved the puzzle after buying all the vowels. That After has no more secrets. And between that Before — and that After — that’s where the Truth awaits. 

 

Let me tell you a story.

Men of the Skull Prologue 2025 draft.

 

Prologue (2025): “Let me tell you a story…”

Wednesday, July 2, 2025:  Trump administration restores $175 million to Penn after deal reached on trans athletes

 

Right.  This is the revised, updated, all-new, now with Pine-scent! prologue of a revised book you never read in the first place. 

 

Everything in this book happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges blur a bit with time. The names have been changed—some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I’ve softened some of it. It all depends “on a certain point of view.”

 

Last week

This is the story of my college years—two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and bad hair.

 

In the original prologue, reproduced next, I wrote:

“Anyway, why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? Is it an attempt to exorcise old demons and ghosts and move on with my life? Is it an attempt to recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth?
Maybe a little of them all, I guess. I’m doing this because I think it’s a story worth telling- if only so I can get it all straight in my head. I want to learn from it."

        Well, that was Truth as I understood it in 2008.  I was in Pain- a deep, howling psychological pain- and I didn’t know why.  I tried to drink it to death.  Didn’t work.  So I’d write it to death.  I finished the first draft in summer 2008.  I sent it to editors, agents, and publishers and received some polite rejections.  Some were not polite.  Mostly though, I heard nothing.  I also circulated a few printed copies to friends for their feedback.  Still, there was that Pain I couldn’t drink away.  Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it.  (Ooo big word!) 

Then on Halloween 2008, it all changed.  Long story short, I dressed as Lois Lane (accompanied by my Wife’s Clark Kent) for a party.  I knew what was trapped inside me- my dark secret- but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty five years.  I would be fine.

 

I wasn’t.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled.  Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace.  All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone.  I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed filled bra, and knew- I was in trouble. 

 

Fast forward to March 2014.  I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, I stopped lying, and Lance died.  What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie- the person who had been silently screaming for decades.  I’ve also done a LOT of writing, for a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even the New York Times.  The voice I found writing the book was honed a bit.

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor, no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed—or worse—if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be.

 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

 

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it.  For lying.  To everybody.  For my silence.

 

I hated myself a lot.

 

But that silence, that pretending—it’s part of the story.  It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words.  Or the courage.

 

And if you were there—if you knew me then—I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because, for all its flaws, this story is mine.  And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am.   

 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable.  It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not—and probably wish they didn’t.

 

It’s about a college boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.

 

And yeah, there’s music. Always music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

 

What you’ll read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After.  That After solved the puzzle.  That After has no more secrets.  And that before- that after- that’s where the Truth awaits.

 

Let me tell you a story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Ty

On Wednesday November 6, 2024, Ty Torres died of head trauma after a surfing accident.  He was 55.  He leaves behind his wife, Robin, and his son, Coltrane.

Photo by Dave Sieling

According to a memorial site:

On the morning of November 5th, 2024, Ty Torres went for an early surf session, something he had done countless times before. However, this time, tragedy struck. Witnesses say that after riding a wave, he appeared to lose control and was knocked unconscious after being thrown off his board. Although lifeguards and bystanders rushed to his aid immediately, performing CPR and attempting to revive him, Ty was ultimately declared dead at the scene. The exact cause of death is believed to be related to a head injury sustained during the fall, although authorities are awaiting a full autopsy report to confirm the details.

His obituary.

The memorial is inaccurate.  He was taken to a hospital where he was declared brain dead, and his wife had him disconnected from life support equipment the next morning.  

Ty was a professor, artist, raconteur, polymath, father, brother, husband, and a great man.  He was also my fraternity brother, one of my closest friends from my undergraduate years, and one of the very few who stayed in touch.

1990

Many people are writing tributes to Ty which talk about his recent accomplishments- about the philosophy classes he taught, his art, his love of life, and his expertise at surfing.  Yes, he was an avid expert surfer.  He even appeared on the cover of a surfing magazine in his youth.  You could say he died doing what he loved.  One of his childhood friends wrote on facialbook "...great soul who understood people and found the salient part of every individual on Earth, never passing up a chance to make anyone feel good."  That really sums up Ty perfectly.

I met Ty in the Fall of 1987.  One of our pledges of that time went to high school with him, and invited him to our parties, eventually talking him into pledging as well in the next semester.  Ty had long, flowing black hair and an easy smile.  I'm not much into guys, but he was really good looking.  I knew he could seduce any person he wished.  

But here's the rub- while he KNEW he was hot, It didn't go to his head.  He was genuine, friendly, and CARED about people.  He actually listened.  He was easy to talk to and easy to like.  When he was "rushing," he and I drank together often.  He was amused that I'd never even tried drugs.  He didn't treat me like an outcast- he treated me like a brother: HIS brother.  He always had my back- and I had his.  There was never a doubt.

With Ty 1991

Ty pledged with the Spring 1988 pledge class.  His pledge class had several really good guys in it, but I think Ty was the engine that kept them going.  They became brothers in late April 1988- the week after the annual Toga party.  (They would've gotten in sooner, but we needed pledges to work Toga.)  

Fare you well, fare you well I love you more than words can tell.  (Grateful Dead)

As a brother, Ty was a phenomenon.  You couldn't ask for a better brother.  He was an incredible ambassador for the letters, and his hotness brought MANY women to our events.  

After I graduated, we stayed in touch.  He was kind enough to let me sleep on his couch a couple of times when I visited PSU before he graduated.  Eventually, he was elected vice president of the fraternity.  He also played "Sahntah" at the annual house Christmas gift exchange- which in our house was a great honor bestowed upon a senior.  When Wife and I visited California, we made it a point to visit Ty, his wife, and their newborn son.  He told me I'd gotten fat.  (He wasn't wrong.)

"Sahntah"

Then I transitioned.  Ty was one of the people I told via video (as I didn't have the money to fly out to California.)  He immediately gave his support.  He never dead-named nor misgendered me.  When my fraternity's 125th anniversary weekend came in 2015, Ty talked me into attending, as I wasn't going to do so.  He said he would walk with me to the House from the hotel to support me.  He also told me of pre-event happies in another brother's room.  At the event (which he helped plan and run) he was a dynamo of energy, and made sure to check in with me occasionally to make sure I was ok.  Seeing him, was really the highlight of the trip.  I told him his beard made him look old.  

The last time I saw him alive was last was at a mini-reunion.. 

With Ty 2015

We kept in touch, usually via text or facialbook.  We had fun destroying the arguments of 45 cultists on Ty's fb feed.  We talked baseball and Penn State football.  The last text I sent that he saw was a meme making fun of his Yankees, who had just lost the World Series.  

Then, the day after the election- a chilly, rainy day here in State College- I received a text from my dear friend (and fraternity little sister) Iva disclosing the horrific news.  I was downtown running an errand for work.  I walked back to work, stunned (I must've looked like a zombie.)  Once back at work, I went into the breakroom and broke down sobbing.  One of the undergrads I work with gave me a hug.  But my life and the world had changed.  

Ty was gone.  

I can't imagine how his family felt.  I can't comprehend the magnitude of their loss.  

His vigil

Soon, tributes popped up online- FB, Insta... all social media.  I knew Ty was popular and amazing, but I didn't realize how many lives he'd touched and changed. I shouldn't have been surprised.  People all around the world: former students, classmates from various schools, co-workers... family.  HIS family.  The family he created one smile at a time.  

Such a long long time to be gone and a short time to be there.  (Grateful Dead)

The following night was a candlelight vigil at Salt Creek beach (Dana Point, CA- south of LA) where he surfed, and a shrine created on the large rock that...  I saw pictures of the vigil.  So many people; so many candles; so many lives.

Ty was one of a kind.  He was a beacon of optimism and, yes, kindness.  This world has been around for billions of years, and may be here a lot longer, but I'm blessed to say that not only did I live at the same time as Ty, but I also had the honor of calling him "brother."  The world desperately needs more people like Ty Arthur Torres, but he was one of a kind.  He was one of the finest men I've ever known.

My deepest condolences to Robin, Coltrane, and his extended family.

May the four winds blow you safely home, Ty.  The world is lesser without you in it.  

Would I Join Now, Knowing...

A friend of mine has a freshman son who is considering joining a fraternity (Theta Chi, if you must know.)  They messaged me with all sorts of questions, the specifics of which I am not at liberty to say.  That said, one of the questions gave me pause:

"If you had to do it over again, would you join?"

One of the undergrads where I work asked the same question a week later.

Oooo.  Wow.  It's that whole "knowing what I know" thing.  

In both cases I said "I don't know."  However I wanted to think about it more and consider what either decision may have meant to my life.  

For those new(er) to my blog (does anyone read blogs anymore or is it all substacks?), I joined Phi Kappa Sigma (Skull) fraternity in May 1985 while at Drexel University  By August '86, I'd transferred to Penn State, where the fraternity was very different from the one I'd pledged.  At PSU, Skull lived in a mansion near campus, and was the #1 fraternity on campus according to the sororities.  These were the rich kids and former jocks (who weren't playing college sports due to injuries, usually, but we had a few people on Penn State teams, especially Rugby.)  

The House 1987

I wrote about pledging, etc, in part 1 of my unpublished book: Men of the Skull.  I've posted many chapters from Part 2 here, but only one from part 1, because... reasons.  I just think Part 2 is better and has more bearing in my life.  That said, Part 1 has more to say about why I joined Skull.  Maybe I should post a couple of the Part 1 chapters so they can be ignored as well.  Or not.  If I do, I'll link them here somewhere.  In any case, back to the question.  

Answering it means weighing the positives/negatives of the fraternity experience then and now.  What has the fraternity meant to me as far as my growth as a person?  What benefits did I receive?  What have been the downsides?  

When I was given a bid (invitation to join), I was genuinely shocked.  I hadn't actively thought about joining a fraternity.  But, things change.  My thought process was "they're taking a chance on me, so I'll take a chance on them."  So I pledged along with a group of guys I'd never met.  The idea was that your pledge brothers would be your "closest friends for the rest of your life."  While my pledge brothers were all great guys, I'm only marginally in touch with three of the eight others.  Some I haven't heard from since leaving Drexel in 1986.  So much for that.  

My Bid.  Yes, I still have it.

That said, when I started pledging, I only knew the few people on my dorm hallway and a few others here and there.  Pledging forced me out of the dorm to meet many people, many of whom were unlike anyone I'd ever met.  It wasn't just the brothers- it was people I'd meet running errands for them, like at the 7-11, whom I got to know by being there so often.  There were people from other houses, and some of the few women who attended Drexel at that time.  (Back then, Drexel was 7 guys to every girl. According to their website, Drexel is now 49.6 male, 48.4 female- which leaves 2% left over for non-binary (I'm guessing.))  I met Jewish people, people of color, Muslims, and even *gasp!* LGBTQ people!  I'd never met such a diverse group in my pathetic small town, and meeting them expanded my perceptions.  

Add to that, pledging was hard.  Aside from EMT work, it was the hardest thing I'd done to that point (voluntarily.)  I finished it- I succeeded.  I really didn't know if I would, so that gave me a major sense of accomplishment.

In 1986, I started the process to transfer to Penn State.  I HATED Drexel.  I hated living in the city.  I hated my life.  PSU seemed like heaven.  I'd never tried anything as audacious as this before... and again I succeeded.  There were a few people I miss from Drexel (I always wondered what happened to my roomie "Ripper."), but my biggest regret was leaving the Drexel brothers behind.  I felt like I belonged for the first time in my life, and it would be decades before I felt anything like that again.

At Penn State, as I mentioned, Skull was VERY different.  I was very different than the brothers there, and they never let me forget it.  Eventually, I was 'accepted' and allowed to live in the house, but I think I was more 'tolerated' due to my going above and beyond to do things for the house in general.  Eventually, I made some friends, but only one of them were active when I first arrived, and we became friends after he graduated.  The few I became friends with have been loyal friends ever since.  That said, of the people I knew and were close to at PSU, far more were not from Skull than were.  I learned that I could drink prodigious amounts of alcohol- frequently drinking others "under the table."  

Being a Skull at PSU opened opportunities for me.  The name carried prestige then.  I wouldn't have met certain people without my affiliation cracking open doors for me.  I eventually was on an Interfraternity Council Committee (community relations) which I would've never gotten if I weren't in a a "top" fraternity.  Just being in the Greek system gave me an "in" to meeting two of the people who would define my PSU experience, and whom I wrote about extensively in my book: "Judy" and "Virginia."  They absolutely changed my life, for good and ill.  

Right- so the negatives.  The way I was treated by the brothers when I arrived at PSU was horrible.  I was treated like a plague by almost all of them.  I was told many times that I didn't belong, and that I "wasn't a real brother"- even years after graduation.  This rejection (hazing?) hit me right in my insecurity and Pain.  I felt worthless.  I even wondered for a while if I'd made a huge mistake by transferring.  In some ways, I never recovered from that.  Perhaps I became so close to Judy and Virginia because of the rejection.  I don't really know.  What I know is that I felt alone, lonely, and vulnerable.  Perhaps that is one of the (many) reasons I started drinking like I had a death wish.  

With Ty 2015

I've been working on this bit for a few weeks.  On November 6, I learned that one of my dearest fraternity brothers, Ty, died in a surfing accident.  That puts a lot of this in perspective.  

The weird caveat to this is that Judy and Virginia were both Little Sisters of a different fraternity.  IF they still got to know me, etc., there's a good chance they would have strongly encouraged me to join that fraternity.  It was a mid/low tier house, but some of those guys were really great.  Virginia and I dated a while, and the breakup was... difficult.  After that I lost touch with those brothers, but, funny enough, not the little sisters who I knew through Judy and Virginia.  They invite me to tailgates and such.  But I digress.

So.  In the end, my undergrad experience with the fraternity was bittersweet.  Had I not been a Skull, what sort of PSU experience would I have had?  No idea.  If I still became close to J and V, there's a chance I would've joined their house.  Or not.  

Then there's that whole transgender thing that I was actively suppressing then.  

Knowing what I do now, and remembering who I was then... Yes, I would've joined at Drexel.  I desperately wanted people to like me, and had few friends.  That said, I think that, again knowing what I do now, I wouldn't take as much hazing from the PSU brothers.  I would stand up to them more.  There's a good chance I would've simply stopped going to the House, and let that part of me fade away... but I took an Oath.  So, aside from standing up for myself, I probably would've stayed in.

It seems weekly that another story hits the news about fraternities being suspended for hazing.  In the eighties, we hazed.  Hard.  Everyone did, despite repeated denials.  Maybe those people asked about if I'd do it again after hearing one of the reports.  Or if I told them about the book.  I figured a fraternity would make a man out of me.  As you can tell from photos and storied on this blog, it really didn't work.

Be well.

Branches and Paths

The other day marked five years since returning to State College for my PhD.  I wrote about it HERE and HERE, if you care.  For five years, I've worked on my degree- filling my head with academic articles, books, experiences, losses.  For the past two though, I've been kinda stalled.  I'll come back to this.

I've written here and elsewhere that Penn State is my happy place, and, if I could not live with Wife and Daughter, I may as well be in my happy place.  I dragged Linda (roomie/bestie) with me, and I don't know if she's happy about that.  (I think not, really.) In any case, for the past five years, my life has revolved around academia.  Eventually, I found a series of jobs, both at Wegmans and, for the past three years, here at the LGBT Center (I mention that a bit HERE.)

Since returning, I've taken a LOT of pictures (2,444 as of this second).  It's easy when one has access to a camera on the phone at all times.  I didn't have many photos from my undergrad days, and the ones I had were done with borrowed cameras.  Most of those were for the fraternity scrapbook, which, like the negatives, are lost.  I guess I'm making up for that a bit.  

One of the subjects I photograph often are the pathways here.  They honeycomb the campus like a spiderweb on LSD.  I can't stop thinking about the metaphor they represent.  The paths branch, going to different destinations, or just different paths to the same destination.  When I was in undergrad, I occasionally would take a longer route than necessary to reach my destination (when I wasn't running late.)  I didn't think twice about it, but in truth, each of these choices, conscious or unconscious, changed my life.  Had I taken a different way, say back to the fraternity house, who knows who I would've met?  What could've happened.  Perhaps I would've been hit by a car, or met the love of my life.    

And that's the metaphor of the Paths.  They represent the different paths a life could take- especially when one is younger, say, college age.  Who would I have become had I stayed at Drexel?  What if I got that job at National Records and never had to apply to Burger King, where I would meet the people who defined my Penn State experience for good and ill.  What if I decided "fuck those guys" when I received the cold reception at the fraternity and found a different group of people to hang with?  Who would I be today?

Would I even be alive?

It's a cliche to say that our choices, even the smallest ones, can change and define our lives.  Now in my late  fifties, so much of my life is set in stone.  I can't change my past.  I can't change who I am, or what I've done.  I have a daughter, and that's forever.  while some of the people I've met pass like shadows, others left deep marks and scars on my soul.  (What I hadn't gone to the Raven that night in January 2012, and met Lisa?)  

Nothing is permanent in life.  While I will always have a daughter, the nature of my relationship with her can/will change.  Life itself is temporary- a heartbeat in time.  Moments pass.

Which brings me back to that whole stalled thing.  I've been stuck in the same place in my path for two years.  Some of it has been deep depression.  Some of it has been fear- the fear of Failure, and yes, of the remote possibility of success.  But recently I think I figured out what my major malfunction is: I don't want it to end.  I don't want to leave PSU again.  Leaving in December '88 (and graduating in May '89), threw me into a very dark place.  I would've given ANYTHING to come back and be a student again- to return to that time.  

I was obsessed with it.  Hell, I even wrote a book about that time, trying to figure out what about that time could've caused such a depression when, really, most of the time I really didn't have a pleasant experience.  My brothers were cold to me, my girlfriend cheated, my grades were meh... Why did I want to go back?

But I am back.  I am such a different person now, and much older, which makes me outside the 'target audience.' But there's another big anchor... 

Here I'm employed.  I have a job.  I spent so long after the bookstore fired me on the unemployment line, sending hundreds of resumes and hearing nothing.  Rejection after rejection.  Here I have a job.  Yes, it's part time, but on some days I feel like I actually make a difference- my path intersects another person's.  That I'm actually worth something, if only for a moment.  

My path returned me here.  I fought to get my place, and I've managed to continue while others from my cohort... didn't.  I'm striving to reach the peak of the academic ladder.  I never in my wildest dreams expected my path to lead here.  Then again, I never expected my path to take me to transition.  I thought/hoped/prayed that my path would end before my thirtieth birthday.  And again on my fiftieth.

September 1986.  Pic by Chuck Fong

My road brought me here.  And, as before, I'm afraid to leave.  I'm afraid of failure.  I'm afraid of success.  I'm afraid of unemployment again.  So much for "rush[ing] in where angels fear to tread" (Alexander Pope, 1709.)  So I stare at the ceiling.  I walk around campus, following old paths I trod long ago.  Again.

Tolkien wrote in Fellowship of the Rings: “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”  

So true.

Be well.

Helping a Dad

I mention occasionally that I work for the campus LGBTQ Center here at Penn State.  PSU is still between Maymester and the start of Summer semester, so there are few students here, but the Center is still open.  One event that happens is New Student Orientation (NSO) which happens all summer.  During this time, groups of new students attend a two-day orientation here, along with their parents.  The students stay together in a couple of dorms, while the parents stay wherever.  

One of the activities for NSO is the Organizational Fair, where the students and parents see tables staffed by various organizations (orgs) and can get information and swag.  Of course, the Center is there, and we have the most colorful table and swag.  Go figure- lots of rainbows.  Like my fellow staff, I take my turns working at the table.  I see a mix of just parents, kids and parents, and just kids.  Sometimes I get the evil eye from grown-ups who steer their kids far around our table (so they don't "catch the gay" I guess), or adults alone who glare.  That's part of the fun.  I give them my sweetest smile.  

Last August's issue of Town and Gown

Sometimes I see a student walk by with parents, looking at the table but not stopping.  By now, I can tell which ones will be back without their parents- the ones who are closeted.  Occasionally a parent stops alone, anxiously asking questions about the Center and about the environment of PSU for LGBTQ students.  Fortunately, PSU has come a long way from my undergrad days in the 80s in many things, and one of them is with LGBTQ.  Penn State is ranked #2 in the country by Campus Pride for LGBTQ acceptance and policies.  It's still not perfect, but it's far better than many places. 

Ok, that's a long introduction to an encounter I had yesterday.  I was not working the table, but I was working.  A parent came into the Center- maybe about my age- said he works for the University, and that his stepdaughter will be attending PSU this fall, and she is transgender.  Dad wanted to know about transgender healthcare, acceptance, policies... the whole schmear.  

I showed him the pamphlets about those very topics, and while there answered all of his questions.  Where can she get hormones?  Are there therapists with Gender diverse experience?  What about doctors?  Is there a place she can get hair removal done?  And of course: will she be "safe" here?

The answers are all in the pamphlets, but I answered them one by one.  Yes, the University has a transgender health team which includes therapists.  Yes, she can get hormones here (after a screening), and they are covered by student insurance.  Hair removal services are available in town.  As far as safety- this generation is far more accepting than ours (he and mine) ever were- being transgender just isn't that big of a deal to most kids... to a point.  She'll be as safe as any woman is here at PSU assuming she is smart: never go to parties alone.  Always keep your drink with you.  Never go upstairs at a fraternity house unless you really KNOW the people you're going with.  All the precautions that co-eds must take because some guys can be predatory.  Is there anti- trans prejudice here?  Yes.  But it's far far better than many places.  And the Center can help when it happens.  We also have a mentorship program here at the Center of which I am a part, to help guide them through the obstacles that transition and school throw at people.

So, I told him all of this.  Me- a transgender woman wearing a tank top and peasant skirt, a parent of a daughter, and a Penn State alumna, answered all of his questions again and again.  I walked him through the pamphlets.  

Last week

When I finished, you'd think I gave him front row seats to see his favorite band.  He was happy- no, Joyful- and so many of his fears were assuaged.  She will be coming to NSO later this summer, and she will stop by the Center.  I think the answers he sought were more for him than her.  Him- a concerned supportive parent.  A loving parent who wants the best for his child.  

The whole encounter lasted maybe twenty minutes, and when it ended, he went on his way, beaming.  I went back to the desk and told my (undergrad) coworkers about the encounter.  But I didn't tell them everything.

I didn't tell them how the encounter made me feel.  I really feel that I made a difference yesterday in the people's lives.  I felt like I DID something.  Usually I feel utterly worthless, and that I'm just a waste of oxygen... but not yesterday.  I did something.  I felt... good.  Worthwhile.  That's a rare feeling for me.

Last night, I spoke to Wife on the phone and told her that story.  After, I told my roomie/bestie Linda.  She asked why I didn't tell her the story earlier in the evening (it was around 10).  I replied that it wasn't that big of a deal, and I didn't think she'd be interested.  She disagreed.  Linda said that these are the stories she WANTS to hear.  These are the stories I should post on facialbook or here in the blog.  Stories of something good.

So, there you have it, dear readers.  A happy story for a change.  Thank Linda.

Be well.

Treating Myself

 It was another life: A lifetime ago.  

It was April 1987.  I was twenty.

My parents drove up to State College on a Thursday to my apartment in Beaver Hill to pick up my things.  The school year was over, but I had one final left, the next day.  The next week, a subletter- the girlfriend of a fraternity brother, would move in.  My roomie, Marc, moved out the previous day.  I would never see nor speak to him again.  That's life.

Fortunately, it was a furnished apartment, so there was nothing huge to move.  They left a pillow for me.  As my mom left, my dad lingered behind.  He gave me a twenty dollar bill and said "go out and have some fun tonight."  Never mind that I had a final the next day, and was too young to get into the bars.  Also, all the people who meant the world to me had already gone home.  

I spent a part of the cloudy sullen afternoon cleaning.  I didn't want the new tenant to think we were slobs!  (We were.)  Then, in mid afternoon, I decided something.  I had $20 in my pocket, and I wanted to treat myself.  I walked several blocks downtown to South Fraser St, to a store then called Book Swap.  In addition to used books, they were also State College's comic book store.  I'd visit there occasionally, just to look and occasionally pick up a comic or two when I had money.  Well, recently, a collected edition of an amazing comic run was released.  I now had the money to buy it.  As I walked to the store, it started raining- first a fine mist which eventually become a light spring drizzle- the kind that leaves that slightly musty smell.  

I looked around the store a bit- I used to love book stores before I worked in one.  Still kind of do.

Anyway, I found the book I wanted.  Nowadays, this would be called a "graphic novel" but back then it was a trade paperback.  This one collected issues #227-231 of Daredevil.  As a story, it's called Born Again.  I read it in the original run, but wanted the collection.

Trade paperback cover

This arc marked the return of Frank Miller to Daredevil after a several year absence.  During that time, he'd remade comics with the publication of Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and Batman Year One.  In the latter, he teamed with artist David Mazzucchelli.  For Born Again, he'd do so again.  

Without going into detail, it's a story of Daredevil's life being destroyed, and his steps toward rebuilding that life.  It's a story of redemption full of Catholic symbolism and amazing subplots (including my favorite version of Captain America ever.)  I took it back to the apartment, but didn't read it.  I studied for that final.  Later that day, I walked downtown again, through a purposeful rain to get a slice of pizza.

The exam was 8 AM.  I don't remember how I did.  After I finished, I returned to the apartment, grabbed the pillow, put the few bits I still had with me into the pillow case and walked up Beaver Ave to the fraternity house.  There I gave my fraternity brother my key.  From there I walked across town to the bus station, and boarded the bus back to southeast PA.  On the way, I read the Daredevil comic twice.  It's arguably Frank Miller's best work on Daredevil.  

From Born Again by Miller and Mazzucchelli

The past few days have been eternal.  I hate the holidays.  On Monday, I received bad news.  I was up for a job as transgender trainer where I work- exactly: 

1. what I do for the place as a grad student and 
2. exactly what I do for my PhD. 

The people deciding are a couple of my supervisors, some of my coworkers, and an HR person. I didn't even make the second fucking round of interviews for some reason.  I washed out on a PHONE interview.  

Now I know that my coworkers don't think I can do the job- that they think I'm incompetent.  Incapable.  A loser only fit for menial tasks.  That the first interview was a mere courtesy, and I was never even fucking considered for the job.  "Give it an interview to shut it up."

I wrote a whole blog entry about it, then took it down.  I didn't want anyone sending police over for a "wellness check."  Maybe I'll post it again after it's all said and done.  

Anyway, I've been very depressed since.  I decided today I'd take a walk downtown for the exercise.  The day was cloudy, cold, and heavy.  I found myself in Comic Swap- the shop is still there, but changed its name.  Now, I have a version of the Born Again story in a hardcover omnibus, but the paperback copy went missing some time ago.  Maybe it's in one of the still unpacked boxes I sealed up when I was thrown out back in 2013.  Who knows.  In any case, I was now in Comic Swap, the same store as long ago.  I have little money, and bills that are overdue.  My PhD program is such that I'm strongly considering withdrawing.  

There on the shelf, among a section of Daredevil graphic novels, was Born Again.  After all these years, it's still in print (that's how good it is.)  I looked at it, spined along with the other titles, with my older eyes.  My entire life was different now.  Then, I was a kid with dreams and hopes.  I was on the cusp of summer and there was so much to look forward to.  Now, I'm an old, fat, transgender woman whose life self-destructed a decade before.  So many dead friends.  So much pain.  So little left.  So little that like a coward I ran back to Penn State in search of refuge in academia.  I don't recognize the thing in the mirror with hollow dead eyes and thin scraggly long hair.  Back then, I knew how to smile.  I can't remember how to smile now- except to fake it for pictures.  

I removed the book from the shelf.  It was a newer edition with extra material.  I flipped through the familiar pages and remembered.  I decided to treat myself.  I pulled out the credit card I use only for "emergencies" such as when I have no money and need food.  I bought the book.  The worker put it in a slim paper bag, just like a different person had done decades before.  I thanked them, wished them a happy holiday, and walked up the steps to Fraser street.  I turned onto College Ave and walked toward my car, parked a few blocks down the street.  One block further was a new pizza place- it replaced a series of pizza places.  When I was in undergrad, it was Brother's Pizza.  Back then, it's where I'd stop for a slice.

I opened my car door and put the bag on the passenger seat.  I walked the extra block to the new pizza shop.  I'm treating myself.  I'm trying to drive away the holiday hate and the Darkness of my failure.  I ordered a slice of pepperoni and a drink.  Sat in a booth in the empty pizza shop alone, and ate it.  

After I finished, I returned to my car, and after another quick stop on campus, went back to the apartment.  My roomie/bestie Linda was at work, so I sat alone.  On the table sat the book chapter, one hundred pages long, that was assigned to me months before.  I simply couldn't pick it up and do my job- read the damn thing.  It's gotten to the point that I'm afraid of it.  

I sat on the couch, and the paper and I stared at each other.  The room was darkening- it was after 4, and it's winter.  Next to me on the couch was the paper bag containing the comic I'd read countless times.  My treat to myself.  I looked over at the Christmas tree, which I'd plugged in after returning.  

I removed the book from the bag, and read it again.  Anything to escape the wreck I've made of my life.  To escape the hellscape that elected officials are making for people like me.  In Born Again, the characters have Hope, and the good guys win in the end.  A life that was destroyed has been rebuilt but not restored.  Heroes exist.  

If only for an hour.

Be well.  Those who celebrate, please have a happy holiday season.  

UPDATE 4/24:  The copy I bought in 1987 which had gone missing has been found.  As expected, it was packed away in a box among other unrelated things.  So now I have two copies, both which have meaning.  Life is funny sometimes.

Men of the Skull Chapter 75 First Hint & Chapter 76: Confession

Alert readers may notice I skipped a chapter.  That's due to it being something that was more family related- my grandfather's death and the aftermath.  In any case, the next two chapters are both short and related.  

I like to think I'm quite observant.  I see things that others don't.  That said, when it comes to seeing people's reactions to me, I'm absolutely clueless.  For example, in the first chapter, I should've taken the hint and saved myself a LOT of pain down the road.  Now, over thirty years later, I know that I didn't because 1) I didn't want to be alone again (never mind I was going back to school with all those single people) and 2) Virginia was a remnant of a few of the best times in my life.  Never mind what I knew about how I really felt, which is revealed in the second chapter of this group, which shows how utterly selfish and hypocritical I was.  

Time teaches many things- it's taught me that I was not only an asshole, but a stupid one as well.  

**************************************************************************

Chapter 75: First Hint

Sunday, August 16, 1987 Mine sinks ship outside gulf; 1 dead

            “Lance, we need to talk.”

            Oh shit!  I hated those words.  Still do.  It always means I’m about to be hurt somehow.

            I worked the matinee at Lily’s that day and made a whopping $28.  It was late as I drove Virginia home from work.  That’s when she said it.  Lou Graham was lecturing on the radio, with his only solo hit.

         “Son, life is simple- it’s either cherry red… or Midnight Blue.  Oh ohhh ohhhhh”

             “Ok.  About what?”  I said as I parked the car near her house.

            “I think we should see other people.”

            The familiar hollow pain grabbed me.

            “Why?”  I said.

            “We’ve been fighting so much and we’ll be going back up to school soon so I think we should have a fresh start.”

            “A fresh start.”

            “Yeah.  You’re going to be living in the house so you’ll be able to meet someone.”

            “Are you afraid of me being in the house?”  I said.

            She opened the car door and got out.  I did as well.

            “It’s not working, Lance.”

            “I think it is and will if you don’t give up.”

            She kept walking and didn’t look at me.

            “Is it because you want somebody else?”  I said.

            “No!  I love you but it’s just…”

            A few steps.

            “Just?”  I said.

            “Forget it.”  She stopped, turned to me and held me. 

            “Forget I said anything.”

 

            “I love you too,” I said as she started to cry quietly.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 76:  Confession

 Tuesday, August 18, 1987 Hitler aide Rudolf Hess is dead at 93

 

            I couldn’t get back to Penn State fast enough.  Everything was flying apart.  My parents couldn’t say a word to me without yelling.  Virginia wanted to break up (or did she?)  Grandpop was dead, and the whole family was fighting over the will.  The only refuges I had were bartending and what little time I could spend with my friends.

            I moved what little I had into the tiny room, and spent the day getting phone service sorted out and buying books.  It was good to be home, AND living in the Bone!

 

August 4, 1987 Collegian

It was late afternoon when Judy called the downstairs phone.  “Why don’t you come down for dinner?”

            She was living with Michelle and Tracy for the year.  Judy and Virginia were no longer speaking, never mind living together.  The apartment was in Sutton Court, but in a different part of the building than Judy lived in before.  Her phone wasn’t even hooked up yet-she’d called from CC Peppers across the street.  Michelle and Tracy wouldn’t show up until the next day.

            I arrived twenty minutes later to an apartment full of boxes.  I helped her unpack a little, and then we went to CC Peppers for dinner.  We talked about the summer, Arts Fest, her family, bartending and other things.   

We ended up sitting on the couches as the sun was setting.  The dying light streamed in through the open curtains on the window, and the room kept getting darker.  She sat with her back to the window, and was silhouetted by the sunset.

            “So,” Judy said, “how are things with Virginia?”

            I was wondering when she was going to get around to that. 

            “Well, not great.  We almost broke up last week.”

            “Really?  Why?” she asked with a flat tone.

            “I’m not sure.  I think she probably wanted to be free for the new semester.  Or she’s afraid of something.  Either way, we didn’t break up.”

            “You talked her out of it?”
            “No, she kinda talked herself out of it.”

            “How did she do that?” she asked.  She obviously didn’t believe me.

            “It’s really hard to explain.”

            “Virginia usually is,” Judy said with a bit of disgust.

            “I really didn’t want to come between you two.  That’s the last thing I wanted to happen.”

            “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, standing up.  The sun was all but gone, and the light was a ghostly yellow grey.

            “Sure. If you’re having something.”

            She walked into the kitchen.

            “In fact, I almost broke up with her several times” I said, quieter than I wanted to.

            Judy returned with a coke.  “Really?  Why?” she asked.  Her face was cold- expressionless.

            “Her mood swings.  I mean, she goes from zero to bitch in five seconds.  She’s got a lot of problems.  Plus maybe there are other people who I’d rather be seeing.”

            “So why are you still together?” she asked, sitting down on the other couch again.

            “I don’t know.  I’m afraid to be alone I guess.  Besides, the other people aren’t available.”

            I looked over to the other couch. Judy was a black shadow in the growing darkness.

            “Do you love her?” she asked.

           

           

“In many ways… yes.”

            “Like in which ways?”

            “Do you want me to turn on a light or something?”

            “No thank you.”

            “Ohhh-kaayyy.  Well, she’s been a part of my life for nearly a year now, and because, um, we’re seeing each other it’s, uh, natural that we’d get a little closer.  She represents something special to me.  Like you do.”

            She stifled a laugh.  “How am I special?”

            Watch yourself, Lance.  Be careful.

            “Everything about you is special” I replied.  “I wish things were different.”

            “In what way?” she asked quickly.

            “Lots of ways.  But… well, there’s always… I mean…”

            “Lance, what are you trying to say?” she asked, annoyed.

            “Maybe I should go” I said, and stood up.  “I don’t want to make you angry.”

            “You’ve become very good at it.”

            I turned to leave and tripped over a box- face first to the dark floor.

            “Shit!  Oww!”

            Judy turned on the light and quickly walked over to me.  She’d been crying.  “Are you all right?” she asked.

            “Oww. Yeah.  My face broke my fall.”

            She helped me up.

            “You still haven’t answered my question” she said. 

            I sighed and looked at her.  Her eyes were angry- beyond hurt. 

            “We shared something special.  I miss that.  I miss you” I said, staring down at my feet.  I couldn’t bear to look at her.

            “You made your decision” she said evenly.

            “No- you made it for me.  By staying with Rich!”

            “You knew that I wasn’t leaving Rich!  You said you understood that!” tears started flowing again.

            “I know- it’s just… I… I just developed some feelings for you and…”

            “Don’t tell me you fell in love with me” she said sarcastically.

            Now’s your chance: tell her how her smile makes the air sing.  Tell her how you live to hear her voice.  Tell her how you long to hold her again, and never let go.  Tell her yes, you love her, and you always have.

          

          “No.  No.  Of course not.”

 

            We looked at each other across the wide distance that had grown between us.  We were physically only a couple of feet apart, but I never felt further away from her. 

            “What about Virginia?” she asked.  The tears flowed freely, and her voice trembled, ever so slightly.  “You chose her.”

            “No- she chose me.”  I wanted to hold Judy, to cry with her.  Instead, I just said something really stupid.

            “If I leave her, could we…”

            Judy’s eyes darkened.

            “I’m sorry” I said quietly. 

            I opened the door, and started down the stairs.  Judy stood in the doorway, framed by light. 

            “Good night” she said.

           

            “Yeah.  You too” I replied, looking back at her.

            I felt hollow.

            I walked back to the house, then past it.  The Lion rumbled, awakening from its summer slumber.  Students were returning, and that meant parties.  People meeting people, and having fun. 

            I walked up the hill, across campus.

            The Lion was waiting, as always.  Crouched on its rock.  I sat on the back part of the rock, away from the lights which continuously shone upon it. 

            The stone was cool in the hot late summer night. 

            Solid.

            And I was hollow.

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