An Offering to Those who Love me

For some unknown reason, I'm feeling brave enough to share a piece of writing with you, my loving friends. I've only shared one poem in a public sphere before, in the sense that a high school literary magazine is public. I assumed nobody really read it except the editors, but I found out a year later that I had a fan. An acquaintance's girlfriend had read my poem, and had declared it her new favorite poem. Knowing that someone I'd never met had read and liked my poem was certainly an eye-opening experience. It was humbling. I wanted to meet her, not for the sake of saying, "Hey, I wrote that poem you liked, aren't I cool?" but simply to ask her what she liked about it. It had never even occurred to me that someone would have connected to my poem, but I'm glad I found out about it. It was a wonderful feeling.

Back to the present, though. I wrote this at the end of the first week of classes when it was still warm and I was still spending hours walking around the city at night. Now it's cold, and I no longer enjoy that quite as much, but some great realizations came out of those walks, including this writing. I don't know whether you'd call this poetry or prose. I feel like it falls in between. Prosetry?

I had started to write a preface, further explaining what I meant and what I was thinking during the writing process, but I need to get away from that. I always over-explain; I'm ready to leave well enough alone and let you form your own opinions on the piece.

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Thoughts from Copenhagen
9/2/09, 1:30AM

I.

It was a warm Monday night
I was walking down the street in a part of Copenhagen
Where the sidewalks are too narrow
And the buildings are too old
And yet at the same time not old enough to mask
The 7-11s
The Burger Kings
The Mannequins in the shop windows
Not old enough to maintain the feel of a thousand-year-old city.
And I think about how much of a travesty it is that they’re allowed to sell crap like Coca Cola in a building that King Christian the Fourth frequently visited.
Then I remember that King Christian the Fourth invaded Sweden
So I re-evaluate the relative weight of the two sins.

II.

As I was walking down this very old street, I began to think about my own inability to truly make friends in the first week in Copenhagen
Sure, I had met people, but
How many names could I remember?
How many group dinners had I eaten?
How many board games had I played?
How many philosophical conversations had I started?
How many phone numbers had I collected?
So few.
So few.
And knowing the reason why, I started to walk a little faster.
I thought about how afraid I’ve been my whole life.
That I couldn’t ask a girl for her number for fear that she might think I’m just trying to get her in bed, when all I really want is to make some friends. My self-defeating mindset stands in stark opposition to my preference for the company of women. A preference which has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with loving, nurturing, caring, and all the other important things I almost had socialized out of me in the third grade.
But then again…
Would I turn down sex if the girl made the first move?
Are my reasons for preferring the company of women really so pure and innocent?
Am I a little bit pompous for pouring all of my energy into my disdain for “those guys?”
In the end, am I not just another man with unrealistic expectations and socially imposed heteronormative values?
Maybe I’m not really any better than the misogynist frat boys and abusive fathers and high school boys who use the “nice guy” routine to get into a girl’s pants, and maybe that’s what I’m doing anyway.
What gives me the right to claim the moral high ground, when all I’m doing is sitting around and waiting for her to make the first move so that I can feel less sexist about every sexual encounter
Christ, I’m an asshole.

III.

I’m three kilometers into my five kilometer walk to the bus stop, and a beautiful young woman spills a bag of groceries.
I stop to help her pick them up, all the while wondering if I’m being sexist.
Would I have helped her if she were a man?
Would I have helped her if she seemed less friendly?
Would I have helped her if she weren’t beautiful?
I am so lost in my own thoughts, that I fail to notice when she smiles at me
Or the genuine way she says “thank you.”
And when we go our separate ways, I fail to notice that she looks back at me not once, but twice.
Another opportunity for companionship, lost to fear.

IV.

As I continue towards the bus stop, I make a vow to stop worrying about what other people think.
From now on, I will do what feels right to me, and be honest with myself in the process.
I will respect my needs.
As my professor says, “You have to help yourself before you can help others,”
And as my mother says, “You have to add yourself to the list of people who matter.”
Tomorrow, I will start mattering.
Tomorrow, I will ask a girl for her phone number.
If she thinks I’m just trying to get her in bed and refuses to trade numbers, then that is her loss, not mine.
Tomorrow I will be the friendly, caring, cheerful, funny, charming, level-headed boy I always have been, minus the insecurity.
I get on the bus, ready for tomorrow.

V.

I spend the next day in my room, alone.
There is a substantial difference between the thoughts one has at 11PM in the city versus those at 9AM in the suburbs.
The city is a whole bus ride away, and I am very groggy.
So, music will be my companion for the day.
Besides, Leonard Cohen never rejects me.
In fact, he loves me all the more for my faults.
Once during a family visit, he told me to throw my insecurities aside.
“Ring the bells that still can ring,” he said. “Forget your perfect offering.”
“Easy for you to say,” I responded. “You’re 73 years old and still kicking.”
Leonard says his life hasn’t been all roses; he was robbed by his manager a few years ago, left with only a few thousand dollars in the bank.
I explained to him that he still lived a privileged lifestyle.
“You’ll never truly be poor,” I said. “Just book one show at the largest concert hall in Europe and charge $200 per ticket. You’ll have your millions back in two hours flat.”
“They’d never pay that much to see me,” Leonard said. “I can barely sing anymore, and my voice cracks.”
“There’s a crack in everything,” I reply, punching him playfully in the shoulder. “That’s how the light gets in.”