2005-04-19
A Tale of Two Men
I've only had three serious relationships in my life.
This entry is about my first.
When I was 15 I was short, chubby, and homely. I wore my hair parted right down the middle -- straight -- flat -- and plucked my eyebrows from the top down (I looked like Eeyore). I was insecure like every 15 year old, but prided myself on being Happy All The Time. Having lost my Mom at 13 I was determined that I would not be an emotionally crippled teenager who still waited to hear the sound of her Mom's car pull into the driveway every night. I buried my grief.
Because I knew better, I surrounded myself with geeks. I was in the choir. I was in plays. I hung out with "the theater dweebs" and the "band boobs". It was safe and I was accepted, which is one's main purpose for being when in High School.
When I turned 16 I met Kevin Schumann. He was beautiful and had the most amazing, Freddie-Prinze style, thick, black, perfectly layered glossy hair, and eyes so dark they looked black. He was tall, skinny, and he made me laugh. He was in choir, too, and we skipped a lot of classes and shared the typical mid-70s high school vices. By the beginning of my Junior year we were "going steady". I even had a ring to show for it -- a pink "Lindy Star".
Kevin came from a working class family, educated primarily by the school of hard knocks. College was for rich snobs.
My Dad had a Masters in Chemical Engineering at the U of Mich. I grew up knowing that I would go to school for at least 20 years, no arguments.
In spite of this, our parents seemed to have a mutual desire to see our relationship work. They had a mutual respect for one another, in spite of clear class differences.
Kevin's family was volatile and regularly participated in loud, sometimes violent arguments around the kitchen table. My Dad ruled with a firm hand, but he never (in my conscious memory) hit me or even threatened to do so.
When I was 16 I lost my virginity to Kevin. Prior to that our dating life consisted primarily of getting buzzed on something and finding somewhere to fool around (read: for me to give him a blow job). Disregard what I said a few entries ago -- I got very good at it. In spite of that damn emergency brake in his souped up Mustang, which I swear has left a permanent dent in one of my left ribs. If we weren't engaged in some uncomfortable sex act in the front seat of his car, we were washing or waxing it. For the Shcumanns, cars were the bling bling they wore proudly as a sign of prosperity and good taste.
Jesus. I hated that car.
Kevin and I had a volatile relationship as well. Although I never considered myself a fighter, he taught me how to be one. Many screaming arguments in front of one of our parents' houses concluding with him throwing everything he had ever given to me out the window of that damn car, followed by hours of sobbing (me), begging for forgiveness (him) until we were back to square one. I. Hate. Fighting.
When I was 17 I knew I was going to college and in my heart of hearts I knew I didn't want to end up with Kevin, although the "M" word had always been a part of everyday casual conversation. "When we get married..." was not an uncommon way to start a conversation. (Or a fight.)
As graduation loomed, it became clear that my going away to college was going to put a serious crimp in our relationship. I had been accepted to attend Hillsdale, a small, private college where acceptance required one of two things: great grades or a lot of money. I was no scholar, but I had a trust fund from my Grandpa. Kevin had neither the smarts nor the funds. In spite of that, my Dad did everything he could to get Kevin into Hillsdale -- including an awkward visit to the college with Dad as Kevin's "sponsor" (Kevin was not, among other things, fraternity boy material).
However, Daddy found a neighboring trade college which accepted Kevin and was close enough that we could continue to be together at least on weekends.
My Freshman year at Hillsdale was wonderful. Liberating. I met people who spoke english correctly, who read books for entertainment, and who felt the best way to win an argument was through discourse and not threats or violence.
However, the 60 miles between us made Kevin's iron grip on me emotionally that much tighter. He was worried I was screwing around or would meet some ivy league jock. (I wasn't, but I was meeting a lot of guys who made me quesiton my sanity.)
I desperately wanted to break up with him, but I was so afraid of him -- of what he might do to me or himself -- that it was out of the question. Looking back if was just young adult angst, and although I felt like I was being emotionally blackmailed to stay with him, it was my own insecurity that paralyzed me. I convinced myself that if we were together all the time he would stop mistrusting me -- and we would be happy.
In retrospect, such a warped argument for staying together. Being miserable with Kevin was easier than the alternative -- being frightened all the time. (To wit: he would call the Library at Hillsdale looking for me if I wasn't in my dorm; he would show up at Fraternity parties unannounced and uninvited to check up on me; he would call every bar in the small town to hunt me down...it was creepy.)
At the end of my freshman year I convinced my Dad that we had to be together, so he agreed to me transferring to Central Michigan University, a large state university that would also accept Kevin.
We did have fun that year, but it became clear to me that I needed the small-school environment to succeed. I was failing miserably at CMU and wanted to go back to Hillsdale. Kevin's college funds were about to run out, and his parents could not (or would not) help him, so we left after one year -- I went back to Hillsdale and he went home to Ann Arbor to attend a local community college and work full time.
Over the years I had noticed gradual changes over Kevin -- perhaps the signs were always there but I chose not to recognize them. He was almost too pretty -- too concerned about his hair, his clothes, his nose, his shoes... He was so insecure about everything it made me insane -- someone who was afraid to go into a 7-11 alone because of what perfect strangers might think about him -- what they might say about him behind his back. Wherever he went he was glued to my side like a remora. He could not do anything without me or someone else with him.
It was... pathetic.
Over the summer, he got a job in a Tux shop at the mall, and worked for Steve, a flamboyantly beautiful gay man about 10 years our senior.
Steve was a riot to party with. He had his own place, a great stereo system and a boatload of the best dance tunes, great recreational offerings to alter our psyches, and like a lot of gay men, was just fun as hell to hang out with.
One Saturday morning following a Friday night Kevin and I were supposed to have gone out but did not, I called his house. His Dad announced that he had "stayed at Steve's house".
I knew. I knew right then and there what was going on and what I had to do, but I waited until I had the safety net of being 2 hours away at Hillsdale before I broke it off.
I called Kevin from college about 2 weeks into my junior year and broke up with him. He was despondent. He drove down immediately, drinking 8 beers on an empty stomach on the way there. When he arrived he was a complete basket case until he puked into a wastebasket and finally passed out. I let him spend the night, but for once in my life -- perhaps the first time -- I did what I had set out to do. I kept my mouth shut and stuck firm to my conviction. I wanted out. The fear of being alone was so far outweighed by spending one more weekend looking over my shoulder, waiting for Kevin to show up, drunk, stoned, and furious, that the decision was clear. He finally left the next day, and after 4 months of drunken, alternatively angry and weepy 2am phone calls, he finally stopped calling.
He never admitted to being gay, falling back on the more socially acceptable comfortable label of "bi", but he knew that I knew. Hell, everyone knew. I hated him for a long time, and hated myself for wasting the best years of high school on such a loser.
I remember being mortified that Kevin was gay, or bi, or whatever he was, and worried for years that my Dad would find out. Surely he couldn't have known... but how could he miss it? My father is a many things, but alternative-lifestyle-tolerant he is not -- I finally concluded he was just oblivious.
Ironically, whenever I bitched about Kevin after the fact, bitterly and disparagingly, my Dad would defend him. For years, my Dad always found something positive to say about Kevin or our relationship. I never really "got" that because sexual preference issues aside, I knew my Dad never really liked Kevin. He was probably Dad's polar opposite on just about every count.
I learned last year that my Dad had helped put Kevin through the two years of college he attended. He contributed to both his first year at the trade school and paid for the entire year at CMU. I never knew that. Hell, during our Senior year, Daddy flew me and Kevin to Key West -- with him as chaperone, of course -- for our senior year spring break. He seemed to be Kevin's biggest advocate on many levels, and I never understood why.
I finally got the guts up about 2 years ago, 24 some years after the fact, to ask Daddy why he continued to defend Kevin. I was sick of it. The guy was a shithead -- he cheated on me with both women AND men, for chrissakes.
We were in my kitchen in Plymouth, both fortified with a few Adult Beverages, and I said:
"Daddy. You know, don't you, that Kevin was gay."
He replied "Yes."
"Then why did you allow me to stay with him? Why did you condone our relationship? Why were you okay with this guy who was so clearly wrong for me?"
He thought for a moment, took a deep sigh, and confessed:
"Don't you know, sweetie? Don't you see? I was in such a drugged haze after your mother died -- I wasn't available for you emotionally. I was so far into my own world of despair that I was always medicated on sleeping pills, antidepressants, or tranquilizers -- I wasn't there for you."
He paused, and finished:
"Kevin was like your Mom. He took care of you when I couldn't. He may not have been the best choice, the brightest young man, or even someone I wanted you to marry, but he took good care of you. I knew at a minimum that you were safe with him, and he offered you the love I could not during a time in your life when you needed it most."
When I could speak again, I thanked him.
I wish now that I had been able to articulate why:
For being the kind of father who knew he was failing.
For being the kind of man who could admit it.
For doing what he thought was the next best thing for his motherless daughter.
But most of all, for validating those 4 years of my life.
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I don't believe "everything happens for a reason".
And I don't think "it's all good".
Sometimes, things just happen.
And sometimes? It is good.
Thanks, Kevin.
Daddy was right.
xquzme at sometime today