"It's a little more like the image of a caterpillar enclosing itself in a cocoon in order to go through the metamorphosis to emerge as a butterfly. The caterpillar doesn't say: 'Well now. I'm going to climb into this cocoon and come out a butterfly.' It's just an inevitable process. It's inevitable. It's just happening. It's got to happen that way." – Ram Dass, Be Here Now.
Senior skip day was fast approaching with administrators threatening suspension to anyone who did not show up on the selected day. To any teenage mind, this simply equated to more time away from school. Decisions, decisions.
It was March and the warmer rays of sun were creating an excitement amongst us. The elevating temperatures signaled mysteries that some but not all were aware of. Talk of sexual conquests and betrayals were not uncommon when teachers weren't around. Including confessions of abortions and teachers that were suspected of sleeping with students. Life altering experiences stated so plainly in class as if to ask, "How should I feel? What does it mean? I need to say this out loud and hear it myself to know that it's real. That I'm still here."
I believe I was almost a victim of such a circumstance. The new P.E. teacher had called me to his office one day regarding something banal. While standing across from him, his body and eyes made a suggestion that caused me to want to make an exit. Although I longed for the experience, and probably had sexual fantasies about him, I wanted it to mean something. To be with someone I loved, even if only as a friend.
Later, rumors began to circulate that he was sleeping with students. I wasn't one of them. For most of my life, that has been a running theme: never the chosen one. Never sexy enough, smart enough, White enough, Latino enough, or even Black enough. At work I was told that I could not use the N-word because when I say it it sounded racist. The white Italian kid at work had the privilege to say it in front of colleagues. But I just wasn't black enough. I always felt like the odd man out. Even with my dog, which is why I punished him so severely,
Listening to the lives of my adulting classmates made me want to add some kind excitement into my life. I had to break free of the ever-tightening mask of the Jehovah’s Witness and quiet B-average student that was suffocating me. I needed to become new. To become a witness to self. The me that was alive within and becoming increasingly impatient to be known. That Lawrence wanted to expand his possibilities by making a choice not expected by the outside world. Senior skip day was the challenge he set before me. Could I do it? Would I?
I casually asked friends if any were going to skip. All responded with no, or had no major plans. Since this would be a big occasion for me, I didn’t want to skip and then be glued to the television all day. I was better off going to school. If I skipped, I wanted the day to be epic. A modern Ferris Beuller’s Day Off. It meant a sexy crush, heavy discussions on existential musings, teenage sexual frustration, and complaining about soul-numbing parental expectations. It meant daring myself to meet Neal, a new friend I had met online.
I’m not sure how long I had known Neal by this time. I know he had become a fixture in my morning routine due to the introduction of the internet and gay chat rooms. Something I had recently started to explore more of at school or in the basement of my home with our one computer for the family. I would spend time searching for people like me before classes started each day or before my parents got home. I knew the sound of my mother's car as it entered the driveway and the sound of my father's heavy car door parked on the street. Hearing their approach, I would quickly log off and pretend to be doing something else. To be someone else. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't care. I needed to find others to find myself.
Neal was one of those people. He became someone I could expect to see an email from or chat with before my first class at school. Someone I could share my thoughts and feelings with without fear or shame. We had no idea what each other looked like other than race, age, and sex. He, a 49-year-old white male. Me, 18 and black. Other than that, it was all a guess. I do clearly remember that he called me his butterfly. I accepted the pet name although I didn't understand the reference. I would be in my 30s when I finally bought a ticket to see Madame Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. Sitting alone in one of the red orchestra seats and watching the story unfold. Thinking back on my own unfolding.
Accepting the challenge of meeting Neal in person, I made my way to the school library the following morning and sat myself in front of a computer. I clicked on the monitor and waited for the bulky machine to warm up, then slowly dial into the World Wide Web. Somewhere in Washington, D.C., Neal was doing the same. I informed him of senior skip day and asked if he would be willing to hang out with me. Would this 49-year-old divorced father of two who used the government to help shed his rejected self be willing to meet with a sheltered 18-year-old banging on the chrysalis walls, struggling to be reborn.
Yes.
Yes.
In water I declared my intention. Then from deep within came spirit. An inner self that could strategically remain calm and heroically wage battle when I, fractured and weak, could not. Now, dear ones, hear the strike of the match and see the glow of the flame. For with the flapping of my newfound wings, I am soon to be baptized again.