I Honestly Know Me: An Evaluation Of An Evaluation

"You are very likely an Aspie."

This is a most unusual post. It does not deal with subject matter I normally talk about on this blog, or with anyone outside of my partner, my doctor, and my immediate family. This is my first post about my firm belief that I am an Aspergian (one with Asperger's Syndrome), and the devastating consequences that have resulted from my failing to realize this until well into my thirties. I can only imagine how many millions of people are struggling in their lives, in ways they can neither understand nor express, because they have no idea that they, too, are on the autistic spectrum. This first post is about the role that cultural stereotypes and my own constructed identity have played in making a diagnosis more difficult than I had expected. If not for the discovery of countless personal testimonials in books or online, I might still doubt myself about who I am and what it is that I am dealing with. Based on incredible feedback generated by past posts, I suspect many people out there are facing the same exact challenges that I am, and for the same exact reasons. And I hope that sharing my experiences may be beneficial to any of them who read this.

Part 1: August 29th, 2013

For the month leading up to the appointment, I was under the impression I would be undergoing a daylong series of neurological tests to determine if I, my family, and my referring physician were correct in the assumption that I have Asperger's Syndrome. I was so wrought with anxiety about what these tests would entail and how I would fare under them that I could not sleep for the two nights prior to what turned out to be a forty minute interview.

The appointment began at 8:30 AM. The neurologist came out to the waiting room to call me into an office where the evaluation began with a question along the lines of "so what brings you here today?". The neurologist was polite, but not especially friendly, with voice and body language suggesting to me that the neurologist felt I did not belong there and that this was a pointless exercise. Or, perhaps, that said neurologist was extremely tired. I told the neurologist about my family's encouragement in my being tested and my having many traits since childhood (as corroborated by relatives and many videotapes) up to the present. I told the neurologist that I have a family history of autism as well as bipolar disorder. I noted that while I had a cursory knowledge of Asperger's, I avoided researching too much so as not to impact my evaluation. I was asked a series of questions while the neurologist looked at a computer screen and typed.

I had begun the interview by stating that it was my sister who approached me about Asperger’s Syndrome after viewing Temple Grandin's TED Talk and being reminded the whole time of me. I indicated that growing up in a protective bubble with my parents and sister in a happy but insulated childhood allowed me to feel more comfortable expressing myself but meant that it took me much longer to pick up on how people in the world outside of my home would react to such expression. I even mentioned my “Vogue Boy” video because I felt that the performance people were seeing on video did not match who I really was off camera. What countless viewers interpreted as brave was in many ways blissful ignorance. (Something closer to my personality, if still meant for audience approval, was put on display in another video shot that same summer in a “1-2-3 Video” message booth.)

When asked about my early verbal communication, I referenced having been told over the years by my mother that I had uttered my first word at three months old when I greeted a housekeeper with a "Hi". The neurologist seemed skeptical. It may have been that this seemed out of character for a child with AS. But, that morning, I read the reaction as doubt that this event had even occurred. That at three months I had begun expertly mimicking sounds in response to specific stimuli seemed buried underneath overall suspicion, which fueled my subsequent insecurity about how my answers were being received.

I made it clear that I am a recluse living with my parents in my childhood home and that I had seen hardly any other people for the last year. I stressed that crippling social anxiety, not a lack of desire to be working, was the reason why I cannot get a job and turn my life around in spite of all the people who look at me and see nothing more than a typical “loser” stereotype. When asked about my sleeping schedule, I revealed with my trademark New England/Catholic guilt/shame that I am most inclined to go to sleep around 5 AM and wake up around 2 PM. This counters society's expectations of "normal", and I've spent two decades trying to conform, but it has been my natural tendency since puberty kicked into high gear at the age of thirteen. I didn't get a verbal response. But the neurologist's non-verbal response seemed to me, once again, critical and vaguely judgmental.

The most surprising interaction came about when the neurologist asked me if I dated or had girlfriends in high school. I told the neurologist that I’m gay, and that I knew this back then but was not out at the time. I told the neurologist that I did not cover this up by dating females, and emphasized that I was adamant about not leading girls on after a close female friend had had feelings for me which I could not reciprocate at a time when I could not be honest as to why. While typing, the neurologist stated, in regards to my being gay: “it was pretty obvious, but I have to ask”. At the time, I laughed, as I did not interpret it as hate speech. In hindsight, I feel this was part of an overall sense of dismissiveness that permeated the reactions to my answers.

Asked about my ability to read other people being angry or upset, I noted that my tendency was the extreme opposite: I always fear having just hurt people and I always think people are left upset. I begin to question every move I've made and everything I've said and in what way I could have hurt someone enough with what I've said or done to potentially destroy them. Someone telling me they love me one minute doesn't mean I won't be convinced I have not earned their hate the next minute, hence a perennial need for assurance. I don't know how much of this I conveyed in the office because what was on my mind and how it came out seems to have been somewhat disconnected. But I'd like to think I made it clear that my empathy, while abundant rather than lacking, is still extremely abnormal.

After giving my answers, I looked at my hands or looked at the wall or at the floor while the doctor looked at the screen and typed in silence. All of the neurologist's questions were met with honest answers. Most of these honest answers would indicate AS. But these were ultimately dismissed on the basis that: a.) I get along well with my immediate family, b.) I care intensely and obsessively about not hurting other people's feelings, and c.) "you seem amiable to me". According to the neurologist, my concern for the feelings of others indicated I did not have Asperger’s Syndrome, as “people with Asperger’s don’t really care if other people are happy”. The neurologist felt that my being close to my sister indicated I did not have Asperger’s Syndrome since the difficulty that people with AS have interacting with other people begins at home, and thus it would be unlikely someone with Asperger's would get along with family members.

The neurologist felt that simple therapy would treat what the neurologist perceived as severe social anxiety disorder, which had not only impacted my ability to pursue a job but also my ability to keep one for more than a matter of weeks or months. The neurologist felt that my experiences being a gay teenager at an all boys’ Catholic school in the 1990s could be largely responsible. The neurologist suggested that I was likely still dealing with unresolved anxiety from my semi-closeted high school years.

I reiterated something that I brought up early on in the evaluation, which is that I had been rapidly flapping my hands in states of intense thought or heightened excitement ever since childhood, when I did it openly, and that this is something I constantly still do in private as an adult. In the most alarming statement of the evaluation, the neurologist offered that this, too, was directly related to my homosexuality. “Most of my gay friends use their hands a lot” was the specific response. Once again, I laughed this off. 

The neurologist followed up this summation by noting that if I wanted to I could still make an appointment to undergo four hours of neurological testing to know for sure whether or not I had Asperger’s. At that point, I was anxiety-ridden, discouraged, and in doubt of my ability to understand anything about myself. I could not wait to get out of there, so I turned down the opportunity. I accepted the diagnosis despite my misgivings, I referenced my "Vogue Boy" video (no doubt a an unconscious suggestion to reconsider the diagnosis), and cheerily said goodbye with a big smile because I was so happy to be leaving. 

Part 2: March 29th, 2014

Over six months after my evaluation, I discovered that a number of challenges faced by my partner and I are commonplace in relationships in one which one (or both) partners have AS.  I proceeded to read books and testimonials from Aspergians writing in defense of their unique emotional make-up. Learning that perhaps intense over-empathy is being mistaken as a lack of empathy in a number of Aspies seemed to hit the nail on the head: this was EXACTLY what I was trying to communicate in the office that day about my skewed emotional make-up, but sadly to no avail. Maybe some Aspies, if not most, don't care if other people are happy. But many Aspergians assert that this oversimplification does not accurately describe all people with Asperger’s, and empathetic Aspies like activist/artist Alex Plank are clearly frustrated with not being heard--or, like myself and many Aspergian females, are not being diagnosed at all. 

My going in for the evaluation in the first place was based not only on my own feelings, but also based on the opinions of my parents, my sister, and my life partner. (Subsequent research has lead me to believe that my aforementioned loved ones are themselves undiagnosed Aspergians, hence the surprising closeness with my family.) One month before the evaluation, I had been referred to the neurologist by my physician, who “would not be surprised” if I was found to have Asperger’s Syndrome  based on knowing me through a handful of appointments over seven months. My physician also suspected that if I had AS, it would likely be a “mild” case. Subsequently, my fear about being evaluated was that my desire to please and my aptitude for unconsciously performing would suggest an outgoing personality and belie the fact that said “personality” is, in fact, a lifelong front. Sadly, my fear was realized. 

For seven months now, that morning of August 29th, 2013 has been a frequent source of pain and regret. I spent the preceding weeks anticipating a definitive neurological confirmation that would allow me to approach my life in a positive new way. I was given a diagnosis based on an interview, leading me to believe that I had apparently misunderstood myself for my entire life. I wore a Michael Jackson t-shirt into the office that day, because it was his birthday, or “Michael Jackson Day”, as I call it. Michael has been a guiding influence on me since my birth, and only more so since his death, and going in I assumed he was on the autistic spectrum, too. When I was told Aspies don't care about the happiness of others, I realized he couldn’t be one either. He, too, was obsessed with other peoples' happiness, and like myself, his isolated and intensely creative life was fueled by this aim to please, from his early success as an ultra-precocious child through his troubled adulthood.

I emphasized where I was at in my life, and not without a great deal of shame. I was thirty one, living with my parents, and had become a recluse. I was too anxious to drive a car or see people, and thus incapable of interviewing for a job or shopping around for a suitable therapist. I was spending my days writing by myself and my nights watching movies by myself. It is an endless cycle of solitude that is usually only broken by extended video chats with my partner, whom I feel is a fellow "Aspie" and who is also presently living with his family in a nearly identical situation. I have since learned that my present life, as described to the neurologist, is sadly not an unfamiliar manifestation of undiagnosed Asperger's Syndrome. I am, like so many other undiagnosed adults, suffering the inevitable state of disconnection and uncertainty that comes with not knowing "what's wrong with me" in relation to the rest of the human race. If I had realized just how NOT alone I was, and just how RIGHT I was to be there that day, I would never have turned down the opportunity to undergo the very testing I thought I was showing up for in the first place. I went in for an evaluation based on traits that I saw in myself for years prior to the low point that my life had sunk to. I had no idea that day that said low point is further indication that I am not only correct in my assumption, but would have benefited immeasurably from having been diagnosed years earlier. And I would give anything to have known all of this last August. 

Prior to the evaluation, I was shocked and relieved to learn that rapidly flapping my hands while in a state of excitement brought about by intense inwardness--something which consistently attracted amusement throughout childhood before becoming a hidden, embarrassing trait ever since--is a defining trait of individuals on the autistic spectrum. But I did not know the word for this, “stimming”, until after my evaluation. I suspect that my use of grandiose hand gestures while explaining myself, rather than the stimming that I was attempting to explain, is what the neurologist reacted to. Several days later, my sister sent me a YouTube video of a young boy with Asperger’s whose mother asked him to demonstrate and explain his stimming. His behavior, his demeanor, and his description of his internal experience while stimming illustrated everything I had been attempting to communicate in the office and apparently could not. I saw myself in this child, as did my sister. Subsequently, the mortified reaction of everyone with whom I shared the doctor's "most of my gay friends use their hands a lot" statement preempted my own shock in being given such a stereotype-based response to such an incredibly common behavior of individuals on the autistic spectrum.

I would like to stress that I do not believe that the neurologist I spoke with was motivated by any homophobic inclination. With that said, I feel that my being gay was way too prominent an issue in this evaluation. Addressing my sexuality as “pretty obvious” early on and later writing off my stimming as behavior not unlike “most of my gay friends” was troubling, to me and to many of my loved ones. I have always struggled with social relationships, in predominantly gay as well as predominantly straight environments. Thus I do not agree with the theory that my problems today are directly rooted in my Catholic high school years, particularly not after fifteen subsequent years of being relentlessly open about my sexuality and in a decade-long relationship with another man. Two of my oldest friends, neither of whom I see very often but both of whom have been in my life since our youth, both separately joked that I had gone in for Asperger’s testing and been diagnosed as gay.

Based on the neurologist’s facial expressions and body language, I interpreted skepticism, condescension, and general irritation. I took the neurologist's "so what brings you here today?" as an implication that this was an audition as much as an evaluation. I proceeded accordingly, answering the questions and reading the signs sent by someone who struck me as going down a checklist rather than exhibiting concern for what I was saying and where it was coming from. Throughout the evaluation, I felt that the neurologist was looking at me as though I was looking at Asperger's as a scapegoat for my neurosis. I may very well have been correct in this assumption. Or I may very well have entirely misread the non-verbal cues before me. If indeed I completely misread the neurologist, then I feel all the more convinced that I have Asperger's. But regardless of the accuracy of my interpretation, by the time the forty minutes was up, I felt browbeaten and stripped of any sense of self beyond being gay and seemingly “amiable”. I also felt like such a neurotic stereotype that I turned down the tests I had wanted to have done so as to avoid further embarrassing myself in the eyes of the neurologist. 

I know that I have Asperger’s Syndrome. This is based not only on the overwhelming extent to which I can personally identify with the experiences of diagnosed individuals, but also based on the observations and memories of people close to me whom I have knowingly or unknowingly revealed my true self to in the years between my being an ahead-of-his-years child and a what-went-wrong-with-him adult. I also know that my evaluation had a catastrophic effect on my self-esteem. I feel that a big part of my reaction in this regard was based on the fact that the evaluation seemed bound to end in dismissal from the get-go. That such focus would be placed on my sexuality suggests that perhaps my feigned demeanor had a bigger influence on my diagnosis than did my honest answers to the questions I was asked. Since that day, I have struggled to feel like myself again. But thanks to incredible blogs like SeventhVoice, communities like Alex Plank's WrongPlanet, and activists/authors like Temple Grandin, Maxine Aston, and John Elder Robison, the voices of people whose life experiences I most relate to are leading me out of the dark.

Up to now, this blog has primarily been a platform for me to worship my favorite stars, rave about my favorite movies, celebrate my favorite pop culture anniversaries, and generally indulge in my perceived narcissism--all indicators of Asperger's, I might add! Thus, you may rightfully be asking why I would suddenly feel the need to discuss extremely personal details about my mental health. And that brings me to the questions I’ve been asking myself in the days leading up to writing this post. Is it not possible that cultural stereotypes of gay men as high-strung and idol-obsessed has permeated science and medicine, and to such an extent that autism is being confused with homosexuality? Is it not possible that in the seven months since I accepted my diagnosis that numerous other LGBTQ people have accepted similar diagnoses, putting aside their self-understanding in favor of an expert opinion? And, more importantly, is it possible that doing so has lead to the same depression, anxiety, and overwhelming self-doubt that has swallowed up the last seven months of my own life? 

I have only myself to blame for letting anxiety and self-doubt hold me back from giving a “Yes” answer when offered the testing I so wanted. And so I blamed only myself for the last seven months. Now, I anxiously await the opportunity to finally undergo neurocognitive testing in July. I could not be more excited about Summer 2014, and I pray it provides the assurance and optimism I sought out in Summer 2013. In the meantime, I will fight to believe in MY understanding of myself, even if it means fighting against the real or perceived skepticism of others. I stand alongside everyone waging a war against such doubt, and will keep my comrades up to date through future posts.

FYI File: Fantasy, Nostalgia, and "The 2014 Project"

Now that this blog has been given its third and final (I swear!!) name, I thought I would shake things up a bit. Nothing so crazy as dropping the pink text color or updating the general appearance to a post-1997 look, of course. But there's a lot I've been wanting to say, so rather than post a succession of lengthy blog posts, I thought I'd post this variety pack of short ones. 

The Twentieth Anniversary of My Obsession With Anniversaries

The hits package that redefined my life. Like, seriously!

January '14 marked the 20th anniversary of my obsession with anniversaries. My first-time viewings of Starman, The Shining, Dawn of the Dead, and Working Girl on blistery and/or snowy Friday nights in January '94 mobilized in me a 1980s nostalgia that never went away. But it wasn't just the movies I watched that month, it was also buying THE album: Totally 80s, the 2-CD Razor & Tie compilation that was advertised on TV all the time before becoming the soundtrack to most of my life in the sixth grade. From 1994 on I was fetishizing every aspect of '80s pop culture while lambasting everything I could about the '90s. However, happy Friday nights ritualistically spent at the local multiplex limited my aptness for thrashing then-contemporary film. 

It is now a time capsule for what the world looked like in March '94,

but The Paper also remains grown-up Hollywood fare at its most brilliantly entertaining.

For the Class of 2000, 1994 was the year when the sixth grade ended and the seventh grade began. Thus the year closed with my being knee deep in adolescent angst, which only kept me going back into the past. I continually found myself disappointed by reality, so I was constantly choosing fantasies that were constructed in another era. My pre-pubescent childhood had been so happy, and the spirit of the '80s was so inextricably linked to my own soul, that I lamented the decade until it became an over-idealized Heaven that I dreamed of dying and going back to. I was not unaware of this being unhealthy, but that didn't make it any less painful to push forward, not when I discovered that being a teenager was to be a lot less pleasant than I had been imagining in the '80s. Instead of forging a new path that would make childhood dreams come true, I clung to the past as an escape while reality came crashing down in the present. And, for better or for worse, I've been inclined to do this ever since.

I related to Tess McGill when I was twelve. I still do now.

And I'll bet many of you reading this feel the exact same way.

A Sorta-Facade On The Verge of Sorta-Crumbling

There has been so much that I have wanted to communicate through this blog over the last fifteen months, but during said fifteen months my life has been in a major state of upheaval. Actually, it was in upheaval when I started this blog back in 2011. But way back then, things in my life were just starting to turn upside down, and the coinciding mini-phenomenon of “Vogue Boy” allowed me to escape reality like never before. For a moment in Summer '11, it felt like my dreams of being an artist and a star had been instantly realized when that video achieved its peak popularity in one weekend. It was during that delightfully manic moment that I quickly decided to become a blogger, and my early entries here are thus defined by an optimism, and even a sense of fulfillment, that apparently represents me at my purest.  

The-blog-formerly-known-as-RobWorld has been a tremendous outlet in the three years since since then, for it has allowed me to unlock and release parts of myself through the written word in a way that I could never do within the format of a screenplay. But for well over a year, I have not been inclined to do any unlocking or releasing, for I have discovered that my life experiences are a lot less vivid in my mind after I make them public here. And, as evidenced in past entries, my memories, and the role they play in shaping my creative output, are too precious to me to be sacrificed.

On some level, I've gotten more screenwriting done by not blogging. But on most levels it has denied me an outlet that I need: not only to write, but to be read. I might not have a huge readership on here, but the feedback I've received in personal messages has been too awesome to be ignored. There is no better feeling than knowing a handful of people were affected by work that they personally related to, or which made them look at a movie or a person or a similar life experience in a new light. I don’t know if I’ll start writing again more regularly, because I thought that that would be the case last November....and it wasn’t. But I think this has a lot to do with my wanting to make every post an event, in turn defeating the purpose that this blog serves, for me, in the first place. I am a hopeless neurotic, still in the middle of a challenging and annoyingly long life chapter, and I need a place to let all this shit out. Some people go to therapy. I go to the stage. And that’s exactly what this blog is to me.

From Sixteen To Thirty-Two: "The 2014 Project"

Like the film itself, I'll NEVER forget the first time I saw this trailer!

When I was sixteen, I realized that Wes Craven's Scream was released exactly eighteen years after John Carpenter's Halloween, which itself had been released exactly eighteen years after Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho. Years later, I would realize that Val Lewton and Jacque Tourneur's Cat People’s limited release in December 1942 meant it was the movie that launched this every-eighteen-years cycle. Since then, I’ve been anticipating "The 2014 Project", a film that would, like the aforementioned four films, inject the horror-viewing experience with enough wit and suspense to change the cinematic landscape and redefine the genre for another two decades.

The most bewitching of Hollywood films and

possibly the most influential horror movie ever made.

Since the late '90s, I have secretly hoped that the Universe would see fit to choose me to write this 2014 horror film, and much of my creative life has been spent preparing myself to be worthy of such an opportunity. Alas, I've proven far more adept at writing screenplays than actually getting them made into movies. And without ever seeing your work on some screen, one can hardly feel like a real screenwriter. So last year I attempted to put work of which I remain as proud as ever temporarily behind me, and to instead take a stab at crafting "The 2014 Project". I spent the entirety of 2013 working on eight different scripts, each of which I had hoped could potentially reinvent "the American horror film", but none of which ever made it to their respective finish lines. By New Year’s Eve, I was forced to admit defeat. I was proud of the work I had done, and confident that one day the characters and story elements from this arsenal of partial completion would find their way into my future projects. But by no means did I come close to striking the gold that I was digging for.

If every attempt at crafting a pure suspense picture was even half

as effective as Halloween, the world would be a much better place.

It was not until the very end of 2013 and the very beginning of 2014 that a burst of renewed inspiration and ambition (my favorite cocktail) launched me on a new path. My dream, in this easy-to-shoot-but-hard-to-distribute world of modern indie filmmaking, was that the work flowing out of me would find its way into the right hands, and a quickly-realized project (Cat People, Psycho, Halloween, and Scream were themselves low-cost/high-speed shoots) could theoretically find its way onto a VOD platform or into an early 2015 film festival. But nearly a third of the way into 2014, I'm inclined to believe that that dream will not come true....and I'm okay with that. It’s very likely that a great horror film will come along and make the impact I was hoping to make while I'm still pining away, and if that happens, I can finally say I was right all along. And hopefully, if that happens, 'my little horror film', whenever it makes its way to the screen, will still earn itself a place in the hearts of like-minded movie lovers. But for now, I think I'll put my faith in "The 2032 Project": I have good reason to believe I might be capable of writing something worthy of comparison to the aforementioned films when I'm fifty. In the meantime, I intend to enjoy the writing process instead of mourning my failure to be where I thought I would be when I was half the age that I am right now. 

No movie-going experience has come close to the first two times I saw Scream on the big screen. And I'm 99.44% sure that this will always be the case.

Furthermore, assuming that the every-eighteen-years cycle really does extend into this century, I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for the film that will ultimately redefine our collective concept of modern horror movies. There are already a few potential contenders in the pipeline, and 2014 has only just begun...

Confessions '13: It Came From Religion Class

Wow, the stars truly aligned.

I was planning to finally end the five month hiatus from my blog by once again posting for "Confessions Day", the anniversary of the U.S. release of Madonna’s Confessions On A Dancefloor. Then I figured I’d give that a rest since, well, I’ve already confessed enough. Besides, I’m working on a little something for another upcoming Madonna anniversary that I thought would make a more impactful comeback post.

Alas, The Universe had something else in mind: an entry that feels like déjà vu.

Once again, I discovered a piece of thought-lost writing from my Catholic high school years: in this case, a short assignment written in a notebook for religion class. And, wouldn’t you know, it was written just a few desks away from “James”, the straight classmate whose lone year at my alma mater came to define my adolescence. So I thought I’d precede the formal relaunch of my blog by posting my irrepressibly honest fifteen year old self’s every handwritten word. Try to keep in mind, this was written by a 9th grader in love. But, also, that nearly all of it of it still applies to me today.

That, for better or for worse, is my Confession ‘13.

Bob Jeffrey

1/22/97

1.        Learning
2.        Family/personality
3.        Where You Are In Faith Experience
4.        How Is Freshman Year Going For You?

1

1.   I’m not really a smart person. I get distracted a lot while doing my homework, and I usually take a long time because of this. I often “drift off” in class, and will sometimes start falling asleep while taking notes or listening to a lecture.
2. I am kind of a bizarre person. I always try to reach out and help people, but I keep a lot of things “bottled up”, so it can result in a short-temper. I think I might be manic-depressive. I had a horrible experience in junior high, and I believe this brought about manic-depression. I am very sensitive and I am always worried about what other people think of me. I often make myself think that they think bad things about me, and I make myself believe I am a horrible person. I try to be as outgoing as possible, but in reality I am very shy and self-conscious. I am very close to my family.
3. I used to go to church just about every week, but I haven’t gone in a long time. Still, I believe in God and Jesus Christ and I pray all the time about various things. Though I attend CCD, I find that I miss it often. Still, I consider myself a very religious person. 
4. So far, freshman year is a blast! I hated junior high, and so far high school is fantastic. After my Jr. High experience, I became really shy and a loner, but I am gradually getting back to the way I used to be. I want so bad to be popular, though. I think that right now I am average. I’m not popular, but not unpopular. I have a lot of people who I consider my friends, and no one here is mean to me, that I can recall. Fortunately here there isn’t as much of a rat race. People all seem to be on the same level, like everybody here is friends with everyone else. Hope that won’t change now that I said it.

Suffice to say, the high I was on when I wrote this certainly did not last for the rest of high school, and I would never again take such an unnecessarily revealing approach to in-class assignments. Or, if I did, I blocked it out of my memory. So allow me to close by dedicating this performance of one of my favorite "Confessions" tracks to the inner fifteen year old in us all.

"Forever Young"

Late one night in January 2008, I discovered this 1985 TV performance on YouTube. I had fallen in love with Alphaville's "Forever Young" in the late summer of 2004 when it was featured in the brilliant film Napoleon Dynamite. That same summer, Laura Branigan, whom I had loved since my days of watching the variety show Solid Gold as a child, died unexpectedly of an aneurism. My love for her music deepened in the months and years that followed her untimely passing, but it was not until five years ago that I learned that she covered "Forever Young". I still remember the first time I saw this clip. I felt as though Laura's angelic soul had guided me to it that night, when I needed it most. A part of me feels that all over again, every time I hear the song. But my most vivid memories came over the next two years, when this most haunting rendition of "Forever Young" would underscore the final days I spent with my beloved dogs, Frisky and Chloe. 

Frisky and Chloe were sisters, born the very same summer I filmed my tribute to Madonna's "Vogue", and they were a defining part of the lives of my sister and I from our childhood through our twenties. They saw us through every high and low over the span of two decades, from grade school through college and beyond. Chloe died while looking into my eyes on December 27th, 2008, and Frisky died while looking into my sister Jennifer's eyes on January 10th, 2010. Speaking as a deeply spiritual person, 2009 was a powerful chapter in my life because Frisky was here with my family while Chloe was no longer in a physical form. Throughout 2009, the last full year of Frisky's journey, I felt Chloe especially close: their bond was truly unbroken by death. Never was this more potent than on the night of September 26th, 2009, when I walked outside with Frisky in my arms, playing an MP3 of Laura Branigan's "Forever Young" on my cell phone under a Full Moon. Now, a part of me always goes back to being in that Full Moonlight every time I listen, and I am once again holding Frisky in my arms, the spirit of her sister Chloe all around us. 

In January 2013, Laura Branigan's "Forever Young" would take on another meaning for me. On January 6th, I learned that one of my dearest and most incredible friends was at the end of her life journey. Amanda was an integral part of my adolescence, an ally in junior high school who I stayed in touch with until 2012. Many of my memories of her were formed during the seventh and eighth grades, a difficult life chapter that I avoided looking back on for many years. But now I cherish those once painful memories so as to remind me of the right approach to take to truly living life...just like Amanda did. 

In the seventh grade, I was secretly coming to terms with my homosexuality while also realizing that Amanda seemed to have romantic feelings for me. I couldn't tell her why it was that I couldn't go out with her, despite how well we got along and how much I adored her. The two of us separately and collectively endured peer abuse (I loathe the term "bullying) from certain people who mocked our friendship. I'm sure some of them knew even ahead of me that I was gay, but such taunts primarily were rooted in the fact that I was extremely tall for my age while Amanda was quite short. Amanda and I never discussed anything as trivial as our height difference, but years later I learned from a mutual friend that Amanda had battled and beaten childhood cancer, and that this had presumably stunted her growth.  Looking back, I should have known by her approach to life that she was a cancer survivor. Amanda was a lot tougher than I was, and deflected the words of other people with a strength and optimism that I still hope to one day emulate. 

In junior high school, and especially the seventh grade, I was deeply sensitive to the ignorance and cruelty of classmates whose own internal suffering I would not understand until years later. And I was obsessed by a fear that I was causing Amanda more suffering than anyone else by not having for her the same feelings that she had for me. This fear dominated my thinking, yet without any cause, for Amanda never stopped smiling. Regretfully, I transferred to another school because I felt lonely and depressed and picked-on and unpopular. I thought I could hit the "Reset" button and have an entirely different teenage experience in an entirely new environment.  Amanda, on the other hand, never held grudges against those who could be so cruel: she not only forgave but ultimately became friends with the people who had once inflicted pain.

Amanda and I did not see each other very much after we went to different high schools, but thankfully America Online kept us connected for the rest of our teen years. At the start of senior year, we ended up working side-by-side at CVS, and once again I had the pleasure of seeing Amanda every day. I will never forget the night when she rang up a junior high tormentor while we were both working the cash registers. After he left, she told me how much nicer he was now. I wished I'd taken her approach to people, and to life, back when we were teenagers. Amanda weathered much more than I ever did, and yet she never let that affect her exquisuitely positive attitude. She was never blind or naive or living in a fantasy world. Her positivity was entirely by choice, and it never, ever wavered. She consciously chose to feel only love for all people. Eventually, all people loved her right back. And how rightfully so. 

Amanda's beautiful senior photo and caption in the Class of 2000 High School Yearbook.

I can't recall if I finally told Amanda I was gay shortly after I left CVS or shortly after we started college. Telling her was something I'd wanted to do for a long time, and one day I finally wrote her an email message to set the record straight--so to speak. As detailed in past blog entries, I knew all too well what it was like to be infatuated with a guy who either did not share the same feelings and/or the same sexual orientation. Inflicting that pain onto Amanda of all people was something I never ceased to be afraid of doing. I don't know if she knew I was gay by that time I finally told her, but from the reply she sent back, all the way up to the last messages we ever exchanged, it never affected our friendship one way or another. We went on to maintain communication for years by way of AIM, email, and eventually Facebook. Some time in 2004 or 2005, we ran into one another again at a grocery store in the same plaza where we'd once worked together at CVS. I remember that hug we shared and the warmth between us so vividly, and I keep remembering it all the time now because that happy moment was the last time I ever saw Amanda. 

Last May, when I posted an essay I wrote in high school about my junior high experience, there was never any mention of my friend Amanda. This was not an oversight: I removed all references to Amanda entirely from the piece I wrote at sixteen about what it was like being thirteen. I didn't want posting the full-length essay to stir up potentially painful memories of our shared experiences, not until I had given her the chance to read what I had written and to both have a conversation about it in person. Ever since I posted my "Vogue" tribute we had been planning to get together in Boston for a proper reunion. In spite of the image I have attempted to construct with my video and my blog, these last few years of my life have been wrought with different kinds of pain that have taken a physical and emotional toll on my nearest loved ones. I kept hoping this was a chapter about to end, and that once things were back on track in my life I would resume all of my dormant social activities and pick up friendships where they were left off. In spite of all my wishful thinking, said chapter has yet to end. In the midst of so much turmoil, I became intensely reclusive, but was too vain and too ashamed to let this on to all but a trusted few. Amanda was among those few. She understood where I was at, and why I was waiting for things to be better so that our catch-up in the city would be "well worth the wait". Alas, speaking in the purely physical sense, that reunion was not to be. 

Having beaten cancer as a little girl, Amanda spent a great deal of her time working with the American Cancer Society. She had a passion for helping people that was informed not only by her extraordinary soul but also by her own brave battle as a child. I naively thought she would spend the rest of her life doing so, never once thinking that the disease would come back to take her as a young adult. Just six days into 2013, I learned that Amanda was once again battling cancer, but that this battle would not be won. I subsequently spent the next several days thinking of nothing but Amanda, generating all of the energy and prayers that I could in hopes that all of the love going her way could miraculously heal her. On the night of January 9th, I learned that Amanda was in good spirits, as positive and upbeat as ever. But I also learned that she was going into a hospice the next day. In the hours that followed, I came to terms with the inevitable, and spent a great deal of time listening to music and reflecting on my memories of someone so extraordinary. Although I am a very emotional person, my emotions typically don't reveal themselves in times of sadness. I often say that I only cry in Bette Davis movies, that my appreciation of her greatest dramatic work is certainly deepened by its ability to release my own repressed emotions when I need it most. But as January 9th became January 10th, I shed many tears for the life journey that was coming to an end much, much sooner than any of us could ever have expected. In my heart, I said goodbye that night. Some twelve hours later, on a most unusually warm and sunny afternoon in January, Amanda's journey came to an end.

In the weeks since Amanda's passing, she has remained at the forefront of my mind. Memories of adolescence came back to me with almost supernatural clarity in those final days of her life, so that those experiences, once again, all seem recent. Only what I once viewed as a source of guilt or shame or sadness I now view in an entirely positive light. I look back on the times we shared together in junior high school as pure happiness, because I finally appreciate why this was Amanda's perspective all along. For years I was fixated on a fear that I had hurt Amanda more than anyone else by not feeling for her the way she felt for me, especially as we were both going through such an awkward and challenging stage together. I can finally see that she was far more content than someone as neurotic as I could ever have appreciated, least of all at thirteen. I remember seeing her one day at the start of seventh grade wearing black cowboy boots and thinking of how cool she looked, and I'm pretty sure that's the day when our friendship really began. At a school dance held in the junior high cafeteria a few weeks later, Amanda asked me to dance, and I accepted but was shy about dancing to anything but a waltz-y slow song--indeed, the carefree Vogue Boy was long gone. But Amanda had no hesitation whatsoever, and I keep smiling to myself as I remember her immediately grooving along with the song, never revealing a trace of the insecurity that I felt defined by. 

The night before Amanda's life ended, I was consumed by grief for her family. But on the night of her passing, I was consumed by positivity, thrilled by the awesome power of her incredible spirit. That night, I didn't cry. I danced. Normally when I dance in private I have a secret fear that someone is outside my window filming me. But this time I didn't feel any fear. I didn't feel anything negative at all. I was, and still am, determined to live my life as positively and as optimistically as Amanda did. She loved life, every day of it, whether good or bad or ugly or beautiful or painful or pleasurable. She faced more adversity than I ever did and she yet she was never one to complain or to expect sympathy. She may not have been tall, but she was a tower of strength. She had not one ounce of cynicism in her, and yet she was never without a sense of humor. I speak for countless lives touched when I say that I love her with all my heart. 

On the night of January 11th, I listened to "Forever Young" for the first time since Amanda's journey here came to an end. I was under the open sky on a starry night, and I wished for a shooting star to appear while I listened. When the song ended, I felt connected to Amanda despite not having seen one. I thought to myself, "I don't need to see anything to know you're near." I blew a kiss up to the sky, to a small patch of black in the center of that blanket of stars. And then a comet shot across that patch, slowly and brightly, taking my breath away. I was once again consumed by positivity, by Amanda's positivity. Now every time I drift back towards sadness, I remember that moment, and am incapable of feeling anything but gratitude and happiness. And every time I listen to Laura Branigan sing "Forever Young", Amanda is among those angels who I feel so especially near. 

Origins of My Love: Happy Madonna Day 2012!

I remember the first time that I ever saw Madonna vogue. It wasn’t 1989, when she performed “Express Yourself” at the VMAs, nor was it in 1990, when “Vogue” was all over MTV. I was intrigued by Madonna in the 80s, and fell in love with her as Breathless Mahoney in 1990, but my obsession with Diana Ross blotted out all other singers for several years. It wasn’t until 1991, a few months before I film my own tribute, that I saw a segment of Madonna and Oliver Crumes Jr. vogue-ing in the iconic David Fincher music video. It was the morning after the American Music Awards, and someone on the news showed a clip. My mind was immediately blown: it was electrifying, the most incredible dancing I had ever seen, and I simply could not fathom anything being cooler. 

I was with my Mom when she rented The Immaculate Collection on video for me. She told the bespectacled, curly-haired teenager behind the video store counter that I wanted to learn how to vogue. I can still hear his one word response: “Ouch”. When my Mom subsequently asked if there was anything on the videotape that would be too racy for a nine year old, he said that the only objectionable bit was a moment where one of Madonna’s dancers put his head under her skirt for several seconds. Yes folks, it’s true: my Mom subsequently had to screen the “Vogue” video and VMA performance before I could watch. But perhaps the totally life-changing impact of The Immaculate Collection videotape was underlined by the fact it was, literally, “Mom-approved”.

I have written before about the role that Madonna played in my life during middle school, and how this forever deepened my already great love of her as both an artist and a human being. My junior high experience began in Fall 1994 with the release of Madonna's Bedtime Stories and the broadcast of the FOX TV movie Madonna: Innocence Lost, and it ended in Spring 1996 with the completion of Evita and the announcement of Madonna's pregnancy. This paper was written at the beginning of that era, around the time when "Secret" and that terrific Kurt Loder special No Bull:The Making of "Take A Bow" were getting heavy rotation on MTV. I wrote this short composition as an assignment for a class called "General Music". It was meant to provide a few biographical details about a particular musical artist, which we would read to the class before one of the artist's songs would be played. I think we had to analyze the structure of the song, or something technical like that, but I only remember writing the intro: it was the first of many essays about the greatness of Madonna. 

As would be the case with many of my subsequent compositions about Madonna, up to this day, it occasionally reads more like a press release than a school assignment....and I'm okay with that. Most of the details came from the coffee table book Madonna by Marie Cahill, the first book I ever bought about her and still my 2nd favorite after Matthew Rettenmund's peerless Encylopedia Madonnica. The only other Madonna book I may have had at that time was Christopher Andersen's bestselling 1991 biography, and my only other sources would have been information I'd picked up from TV broadcasts and a hilariously dated 1991 videotape that I believe was, like the Andersen bio, titled Madonna: Unauthorized!. I mention this because, in the seventh grade, I had yet to learn about in-text citations. I also made a few grammatical mistakes, but I'm leaving in all of the typos so as to maintain the purity of my thirteen year old voice. 

My writing has changed a great deal since I wrote this, but my love for Madonna remains the same. To celebrate both her birthday AND twenty-five years since the release of the film, song, soundtrack album, and world tour by the name of Who's That Girl, here is the first time I ever wrote about Madonna. 

                                 MADONNA

Madonna. Almost everyone pictures something in his or her minds after hearing that word. Some may see a young woman in an ivory white, lace two piece on-stage belting out tunes like her hit single Into the Groove, or her classics Material Girl and Like A Virgin. Others may picture a  with a long black dress puffing a cigar on Late Show with David Letterman. Though some are positive and some are negative, many people immediately see a snapshot of the world famous superstar upon hearing her name. Madonna’s career had been speculated by critics to be a failure in the long run. Yet since 1983, when these comments were made about her first album, called Madonna, the singer has released 8 more albums, done special benefit concerts, done 4 tours, starred in 12 motion pictures (One of which was MADE before her success), and become both an international superstar and a legendary culture icon.

            Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone was born on August 16^th, 1958. Born in Bay City, Michigan, she was the first child in what would become a family of six children. At the tender age of 7, Madonna suffered the tragedy of losing her mother, also named Madonna, to breast cancer. Their father went through depression during this period after the loss, and since he couldn’t balance a full time job and family life, for a short time he was forced to send the children to live with family, a choice he didn’t want to make. Luckily, the family was brought back together, but when they returned, the housekeeper was, surprisingly, their stepmother, and the couple later had two more children. Throughout her life, Madonna says she has had difficulty dealing with her mother passing away. She also quotes that her 1989 single Oh Father was an “attempt to embrace and accept” the loss of her mother.

            The song I have chosen to play, Who’s That Girl?, is from the film of the same name, starring Madonna and Griffin Dunne. Though the film has Madonna in the lead role and a mild resemblance to the classic Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant comedy Bringing Up Baby, the film was crucified by critics and was a bomb at the box office. Madonna did not need to worry about that very much, though. The film was originally going to be called Slammer, but Madonna was having a challenging time coming up with a title song to go with this. Lucky for Madonna, the title became Who’s That Girl?, and the song was a hit. In fact, Madonna’s second tour became The Who’s That Girl Tour. The international tour made up to $500,000 for each show. It has been said that Madonna attempted to make the show entertaining to everyone,  since stadiums where shows take place can separate the audience from he or she who is on stage, by, as Marie Cahill calls it, “making the show visually exciting”. Now, you can hear the song sung that in 1987 was sung to audiences throughout the world. 

Happy Birthday Madonna & Happy Madonna Day To You All! XO