How Are You?

The third sentence you’re taught when learning another language always seems to be, “How are you?” Hello; goodbye; how are you. My name is Spencer; I need to go to the bathroom; how are you. When I began learning Spanish in sixth grade, I was already acquainted with ¿Cómo estás?, words that floated through the hallways of my junior high and over the dinner tables of friends whose tongues were loyal to the old country, at least in front of their parents. To the parents and the hallways I’d respond “Bien,” or “Muy bien” — my limited vocabulary didn’t leave many options, not until classes began. But once that happened, I could be mal o contenta o cansada. Casi todo el tiempo, estoy triste.

As my knowledge of the language heightened, so did the expectation that I begin to detail my emotions in class. ¿Por qué estás triste? And I did not know how to say, “I think I might be depressed,” or “I’m afraid to leave this classroom because of who I might run into.” The language was becoming more difficult, but it was expanding on my feelings — giving them agency, admitting that they even existed — that was the real challenge.

I haven’t taken a Spanish class in over a decade, but there’s one thing I remember: “How are you?” is the same in any language. You avoid answering it for too long, and you eventually forget how to.

At the suggestion of the high school dean, my parents drive me to therapy one Friday morning. The catalyst for this session looks a little different to each of us; my dean is concerned because I’ll be spending my last months before college in summer school; my parents are fed up with the door slamming and the exploding and the unexplained distance between us, recently upgraded to ‘immeasurable.’ We correspond mostly through tears (mom), screaming (me), yelling (dad), silence (all together, now). Occasionally they’ll leave a message on a friend’s answering machine when I’ve been gone a few days, another one of our tailor-fit communication methods.

My parents believe I agreed to the session because of an ultimatum they gave me, but I actually had things I need to talk about — things I’m too ashamed and confused about to tell anyone with a familiar ear. I feel isolated in plain sight, always surrounded by people but never discussing anything important, never trusting that I can. I believe my situation is unworkable, that I can’t have a healthy and open relationship with anyone I know; I require a fresh slate, a second life, one with new players and no memories.

I mean to tell her all of this, the therapist, but instead I tell her a story — an hour-long story that to this day I haven't told anyone else — and before I know it the hour is gone, with it the chance to be honest about how I feel, how I am. I never see the therapist again after that, told my parents, “I don’t think I need to,” and I believed it. Sometimes all you need is for someone to listen.

“Okay, for example. Say you found out that your mom is sick; your mom has terminal cancer. Suddenly, there’s this outpouring of support for you that never existed before. People are actually going out of their way to make sure you’re all right, from every direction it’s coming — it’s inescapable, the support. And initially, that’s great because all of these little interruptions, these phone calls and messages and cooked meals distract you from the terrifying reality that your mother is going to die; but at some point, it becomes not-so-great. At some point, you begin to feel as though you solely exist in the context of your mother’s illness. And it’s bad enough that this morbid inevitability is following you every second of every day, but now it’s what people refer to you as — ‘my friend whose mother is dying of cancer’ — and the things you thought about before you got the news — your crushing debt and your crumbling relationships and just… a fucking traffic ticket you still haven’t paid — these things have taken a backseat, they are not supposed to matter anymore. No one asks about these things. No one asks how you are. It’s just “How’s your mom?” And the irony is that talking about these trivial, meaningless things is all it would take to distract you, to keep your mind off of your mom for one fucking second, but everyone’s too afraid to ask and you’re too afraid to tell. You’re too afraid to say, ‘My job is killing me,’ without adding, ‘…and my mother is dying’ to the end of it. This is how your existence is defined, for the foreseeable future. Is there a name for that? Is there some sort of… psychological term that you know of?”

“Sounds a little like mild PTSD. Maybe Survivor’s Guilt? Not Munchausen by Proxy… hm. I mean, this feeling you’re describing, it’s pretty common.”

“So, no word for wishing someone would just ask how you’re doing.”

“Maybe just loneliness.”

“I know you didn’t know how bad it was. No one did. I mean, no one asked.” My friend is explaining his addiction, how it ended (silently, privately) and I’m ashamed to admit that just hours ago I’d told him all I wanted was to be asked how I was. How people ask, but don’t expect a real answer; don’t even wait for one. And as he recalled his last few nights using, I realized I was guilty. One of them. A person who doesn’t require an honest answer. Sure, I’d asked him how he was doing, just not in a real way. Not in a way that told him he could take his time, tell me something naked. And he’d acted accordingly.

We always act accordingly when asked, “How are you?” We say, “Fine,” or “Okay,” or sometimes even, “Great,” because it’s just a formality, right? You’re just being polite, you don’t actually want to know. I’m guilty of that, too. Of pessimism, of choking out one-word answers, of making sure you get to your lunch date on time, that you’re not held captive by my benign emotions. My friend, he’s guilty too. We’re all guilty of not asking, of not telling; but mostly we’re guilty of wanting people to love us without knowing how to let them.

How I am right now is this: terrified of the future. I pretend everything will work out, because recognizing the implausibility of reaching the traditional adult milestones I once believed were givens is enough to paralyze me completely. It’s overwhelming. I’m overwhelmed. I’m disappointed in myself for blaming someone I care about for my emotions when I know I’m the one who controls them, when I know it’s a privilege to be responsible for them. I’m afraid to be more honest, but I’m ready to stop hiding from myself and from people who want the best for me. I’m ready to stop pretending everything is “fine.” I’m ready to ask how you are — and not when we’re about to rush off in opposite directions, not at a loud party, not like some automated machine that spits out rhetorical questions veiled as interest. I’m ready to ask you halfway through a long conversation, in the middle of your day, when I can tell it’s all you want to hear. I’m ready to listen.

How are you?

That Awkward Moment When You Realize You're Not All That Awkward

The internet has stripped several English words of their meanings. “Like” now means “am aware of.” “Love” now means “like.” “Complicated” now means “promiscuous.”

Probably the most misapplied word on the web, though, is “awkward.” Once a descriptor of genuine discomfort, the word now refers to anything quirky, unexpected, or mildly inconvenient.

I’m all for change of usage. “Hopefully” used to mean “full of hope.” (Ex: The Red Sox fan hopefully attended the season’s final game, only to have his dreams dashed to oblivion by the team’s sloppy play.) Now it’s generally used to indicate eager anticipation. (Ex: Hopefully this bus station bathroom has been cleaned this decade!) Great. Fine.

But something about the re-purposing of “awkward” really grates on me. I think it’s because of the new trend where socially capable people pretend that they’re helpless fumbling losers. And it’s leaving us genuine dorks out in the cold. Sorry, pretty girls with glasses. My apologies, handsome dudes who played varsity sports. Awkward is our word. And even amongst the uncool, it’s widely overused.

To be completely honest, I’ve grown from a gawky, goofy teen into a pretty reasonable adult. So it’s a word that usually doesn’t even apply to me that often. But I’m carrying the banner. Why? Because when I was in high school I played the piano and decided to try and grow a beard and wrote school-spirit themed song parodies for our annual variety show. That may seem like a Triple Crown of awkward, but I owned it then and don’t feel embarrassed by it now. Goofy is in the eye of the beholder.

Here’s a handy guide to distinguishing authentic awkwardness from counterfeit discomfort, or fauxkwardness:

Accidentally walking in on strangers of the opposite sex washing their hands because you went into the wrong bathroom: NOT AWKWARD

Your significant other’s mom walking in on you flexing nude in front of a mirror while whispering “I am a pretty pony,” to yourself: AWKWARD

Saying “I love you,” to a co-worker as you hang up the phone: NOT AWKWARD

Whispering “I love you,” to a co-worker after you brushed up against each other in the hallway after a sexual harassment seminar: AWKWARD

Spilling a water glass on the floor: NOT AWKWARD

Spilling a full beer on a recovering alcoholic on a first date: AWKWARD

Someone wearing the same shirt as you to a party: NOT AWKWARD

Someone wearing a mask of your face, complete with actual hair they had surreptitiously plucked from your unsuspecting head, to a party: AWKWARD

Hitting on a girl who turns out to have a boyfriend: NOT AWKWARD

Hitting on a girl who turns out to have a girlfriend: STILL NOT AWKWARD

Hitting on a girl who turns out to have a pimp: MAJOR LEAGUE AWKWARD

White guy in “urban” gear walking into a club: NOT AWKWARD

Any guy with a comb over walking anywhere, ever: AWKWARD

Natalie Portman in Garden State doing a zany dance in front of one person in the privacy of her own home: NOT AWKWARD

Natalie Portman laughing like a maniac at the Golden Globes after talking about getting knocked up: MUCH CLOSER TO AWKWARD

Watching Black Swan with your little cousin, whose ballet recitals you used to attend: AWKWARD

Forgetting whether the battles of Lexington and Concord were in Massachusetts or New Hampshire: NOT AWKWARD

Being married to a man who hosts “Pray Away the Gay” retreats even though he, himself is clearly gay: AWKWARD

True awkwardness isn’t something that could happen to anyone at any time on account of an innocent miscalculation. It’s the product of unforeseen circumstances, lack of self-awareness, and bad luck.

Calling someone awkward is like calling that person racist, in that there’s no good way to prove you’re not once the accusation has been levied. There is nothing more awkward than watching someone try not to be awkward. Except watching someone try to be overtly not-racist. It’s okay to slip up (not, let’s be clear, in a racist way). That doesn’t mean you’re an incurable dork. We don’t have to pretend that we’re all fumbling semi-competent dweebs just because something happens outside of our predetermined social script.

We designate situations as awkward rather than dealing with the actual emotional ramifications of a situation. Labeling something as “awkward” is like asking for a do-over or negating the validity of what was just said or done. But often, the mistakes and clumsiness are more valuable than an unblemished interaction. Calling out a pause in conversation as an “awkward silence” eliminates the vulnerability of sitting in quiet with another person. Running into an ex in public doesn’t have to be awkward. It can be a genuine moment of connection or repulsion. Brushing it aside tamps down your feelings rather than helping resolve them. What’s the use of that other than to insulate ourselves temporarily against excitement or heartbreak or anxiety or anger? Maybe, if we recognize our emotions for what they really are, we can figure out how to deal with discomfort honestly rather than brushing it aside with a quick roll of the eyes.

Love In An Elevator

It feels like you’ve been waiting forever. You’re idle and you’re impatient, tapping toes and pushing buttons and waiting for a door to open and when it does, when it opens, you smile and you get in and you go for a ride.

You’re not alone, on the way up. This elevator’s occupied — girls with full red lips and pinched cheeks; boys who know your middle name and the origins of your scars; friends who tell you you should go for it or i don’t like her or you know what happened the last time or you really seem to like this one — this elevator is crowded but you’ve committed to this, this ride, you’re invested now.

And one by one, the elevator empties; the temptations dissolve and the whispers quiet and there’s just you left, you who set your sights so high, you who is best suited to take this thing as far as it can go, you who wants to soar. You’re ascending, distant from the earth below you, removed from what you used to know as reality. You’re climbing higher and higher, watching floors pass beneath you, watching numbers alight like they’re keeping count of the times you’ve grinned uncontrollably or the times you’ve blushed or the times you’ve wanted to say i love you but held your tongue instead.

When you reach the top, a floor so high it cannot be named or numbered, you want to stay for a while. You see things from a new perspective: everything below you so far away, so trivial, so foreign. You’ve always been afraid of heights, scared to look down; but now, with your head in the clouds, you can’t remember what it felt like to look at things any way but this. You are higher than you’ve ever been, higher than you knew to be possible, and you like the view.

But what goes up must come down, and so you will. You will and you’ll know it’s coming, you’ll hear the grinding cables and that distant, rhythmic chime that once sounded something like promise but now rings like a fire alarm and you’ll know it’s coming for you, coming to take you back down where you belong. This time you’re not impatient, you’re not tapping toes; this time you’re hoping it never arrives, hoping it stalls, hoping the wires got crossed somehow. This is just a misunderstanding, right?

There’s nowhere to go but down, so that’s where you go, you’re plunging and it feels like a free-fall, like your heart is in your stomach and your stomach is in your knees and your knees are kissing the floor, two pathetic knobs too weak to straighten themselves out, to be of any use, to hold it together. This isn’t a fun ride anymore; this is a derailed rollercoaster, this is a death trap, this is a tragedy.

And passengers will join you in your descent, confining you further, stealing your oxygen so they can say things like you deserve better or you knew this would happen or do the right thing. They’re taking your breath away; you have just enough air to say i know. You know.

Eventually, you’ll reach the bottom, or what you’ll believe to be the bottom anyway, before you regain your strength and straighten your legs and put one foot in front of the other, before you remember how to walk. You’ll think you’ve reached the bottom but really it’s the ground, really it’s reality, really it’s where you should’ve been all along.

The Last Time You Ever

It’s hard to identify “the last time” until it happens, and even then. Ask anyone who’s loved a traveler, a woman with restless feet and a restless soul. She’ll rip the heart from your chest and run with it to the far corners of the Earth; she’ll disappear in a city with no vowels and no running water, a city with no cell phone service. After months of silence you’ll come to terms with her absence; you’ll picture the last meal you ate together and convince yourself it was the last dinner, the last time. Years might pass; you’ll forget the details that separate fact from fiction, like the laugh lines and the grey hairs and just when you’re about to forget the way she likes her coffee, that’s when you see her again. Turning the corner or eating at a sidewalk café or standing behind you in line at the bank. Because travelers are like homing pigeons, returning to where it all began — even if they don’t return for you. The first time you see her again it’ll shock you, it’ll seem meaningful, serendipitous, but after the third or fourth or fifth time it will begin to register: the last time is elusive, it cannot be predicted.

Last fall, my parents were preparing to move south. My sister and I chose a Sunday to visit and figure out what we could unload before they sold the house: furniture, books, records. After spending the day excavating the garage, we sat down for dinner at a table where we’d passed countless holidays as a family. This was no holiday, though — both of my brothers were notably absent and the mood was more somber than celebratory. We ate in silence until my dad pierced through our thoughts to give voice to what we’d all been thinking: “Whenever I do anything around the house lately, I can’t help but think it’s the last time.”

The last time can be imminent, sometimes, but it can also come when you least expect it. All it takes is one phone call and suddenly you’re scrambling to recall the minutiae of five minutes ago — what was our last conversation and I hope we didn’t fight and did I say I love you? Because I did, I do. The last time can happen while you’re sound asleep, like you went to bed next to someone you loved and woke up to a stranger who’s saying something like “You should go,” or “Do you need to turn the light on to find your things,” and it sounds like she’s speaking a foreign language, like she’s talking in tongues and how does this happen? Hours ago she was there, but she’s been replaced by a vacuous stare and a stale voice, a cold sack of bones and the last time has come and gone without your permission. Had you seen it coming, maybe you would’ve done things differently. Maybe you wouldn’t have come over at all.

After dinner we talk about Pepper, the family dog. She’s fifteen; too ill to survive a trip to Florida, too old to become someone else’s pet. “I think you should put her to sleep,” I tell my dad. She sits five feet away, dazed and joyless. I suspect I’m unfamiliar to her now; she’s experiencing bursts of recognition but for the most part I’m a stranger. I can tell by the way she growls. My dad breaks his own silence with a sigh. “I’m glad you said that, thanks.” And I know it’s genuine, that he needed to hear it from someone else, that he knows it’s the right thing to do. We both kind of stare at nothing for a while, then I scratch behind Pepper’s ear for the last time and prepare for the ride home.

You can set an alarm, mark it on a calendar, tattoo it on your skin and still the last time doesn’t need your permission. What you count on is that you have the power to end things, to label people ‘never again,’ to say farewell forever and mean it. What you count on is having a choice. But you don’t, and you’ll know that when you allow your heart to get broken again despite the protests you made and the caution you took; you’ll know that when you see the Ex at an airport bar even though you swore you’d never set eyes on her again. You’ll know that when you look at a loved one’s funeral face and whisper goodbye and shut the door only for that person to haunt your dreams; for that ghost to find you in the one place where you can touch him, laugh with him outside the bounds of reality.

I hadn’t planned on it, but my sister and I took one last trip to my parent’s house before they locked the doors for good. Everything looked the same as it did two weeks prior, except for the room where Pepper had been. That room was empty, quiet. And sure, I’d said my goodbyes already, I’d pet her and comforted her and thought of it as our ending, our closure. I’d known, the last time I walked out of my parent’s front door, that I would never see her again. But if I knew how quiet the house would be without her, how empty that room would feel, maybe I would’ve done things differently. Maybe I wouldn’t have come over at all.