saturday night, at four in the morning, i said goodbye to my best friend, and i truly don't know for sure if or when i will see him again. this was not the parting of people barely able to maintain even the pretense of a real friendship; it was a long goodbye, but it was not a
Long Goodbye, not the long "fuck you;" this was not the burning of a bridge. this was an affirmation of love between two friends, and a recognition of our mutual yearning for each other, and our future together, and the things we hope to and know we will achieve. Kiran is leaving for Iraq in less than two weeks.
he has been living in Colorado for the last couple years at the "request" of the U.S. Army. he's come home when was able, usually every four, five months or so, but his visits are never for long enough, and their brevity makes them feel too few and far between. i have known him since i was twelve, since the sixth grade, and i can remember our first meeting. i had heard of him before i met him: i was told we should be introduced, and i remember being taken aback at just how friendly and socially capable this kid seemed. conversation came naturally to his lips, in his mouth words were only pleasant things; they were not bitter catalysts the way they were in everyone else's usage: to wield, to burn, to precipitate a conflict...Kiran was just...nice. the nicest guy i have ever met. Kiran glides through social situations the same way a dancer dances, or a painter paints, or a pianist sits down at the keys: you can tell he knows what he's doing, he's well practiced. but most of all, it comes naturally to him. a far cry from me, who can manage being sociable, manage it even with some deftness and charm, but who, at the end of the day, can't wait to get away from everyone so the unbearable weight of having to carry, literally carry, a conversation can float off of my shoulders. it is tiring work; i put in a good day, but i celebrate the moment i get to punch out and go home.
this is how well Kiran can get along: at twelve, he could carry a conversation with my
parents. or my friend Joel's parents. or your parents. anyone's parents, it didn't matter. the point was they were parents, adults, grown-ups, and i was terrified of them, and sometimes i still am.
i can't even carry a conversation with my parents
now, at 25. but Kiran is gifted. he's not particularly overtalkative. he's just comfortable.
and he's a great guy. we weren't best friends in middle school, and we weren't best friends in highschool either. at least, not the way we are now. for awhile we lost touch a bit, during the diaspora of the college years, but here, in buffalo...this town has a way of scooping and scraping everyone back together, even if its only for just a short while. Kiran had made it out of RIT alive, but just barely: the ROTC program he used to get some extra funding for a top notch education also required him to put in some hard time as an officer in the Army. who could tell that september 11th would happen, that the Iraq War would spring up, that the whole plan would backfire? i'm not particularly political, and i don't have a stance on the war, but Kiran has to be over there for at least a year, and i'm going to miss my friend.
i love Kiran. you can't
not love Kiran, but i love him. he came back to buffalo for a few months after college, awaiting his assignment to Fort Knox for training, and i found him again. there aren't three people on the planet that could have gotten me to come out with him and the ol' Amherst crew, that could make me feel comfortable and included with them the way he did. there aren't three people on the planet i can be so completely myself in front of without their flinching -- all the good, all the bad, all the ugly. Kiran has seen it all and is still the most loyal and encouraging friend i've ever had.
saturday night was Kiran's last night in town before being deployed. he managed to find two and a half days to come home, and have a last hurrah. Katie Hurley and Jeff Addis both flew up and out of NYC to see him off. i had gotten out of work late, and i couldn't make it to Mr. Goodbar until about 1:30, but the usual crowd of Amherst grads was there. i was only supposed to stay for a drink; i had to get up at six the next morning and drive out to White Plains to see my sister Becka as Ezekiel Cheever in 'the Crucible.' but how could i leave? i stayed for an extra drink and made it last until last call -- at around 3:30 in buffalo -- at which point i loaded my car with a drunk Kiran and a drunk Jeff to take them back to their parent's houses. my apartment is only a three minute walk right around the corner from Goodbar. but i would do anything for Kiran. and driving 25 minutes out to the suburbs to drop him off is really not that big of a deal. we let Jeff off first, and i took Kiran to his street, right outside of his building. he told me to park, and we got out, and had the last two cigarettes of the night; it had to be 40 degrees out.
"when i get out of the Army in two years, man, Jeff and i are heading out to L.A., and you know who's coming with us..." it was more of a statement than a question, and anyway, yes, i did know who. "you gotta come with us." that was where it was going to happen, he told me. that was where things happened, and that was where we would go make them happen. "i know you can do it, you have the looks, you have the talent. we're going to go out there. when we get there..." when we get there, we would write. we would make movies, and act and direct, and make it happen. "its not a question of
'if' its going to happen. it
will happen." in his mouth, i knew the words were sincere, genuine. true even. it was not a question of if it was going to happen. it wasn't even a question of when. it wasn't even a
question. "we're 25. we are so young. we have all the time in the world. and i'm going to come back from Iraq, and get out of the Army, and we're gonna go to L.A...."
i'm glad someone besides me can feel this, the inevitability of it. i am going to create; we are going to create together.
"you and jeff, you're like my brothers. i love you." he said into my shoulder as we hugged; he kissed me on the cheek. "i love you too." i kissed him back. we are brothers. even if any of that stuff never happens. if we never make it happen, if we never get to L.A.; if he never gets out of the Army, and God forbid, even if he never comes home from Iraq, Kiran will be my brother, and my best friend. there is no one like him.
it was cold out, and he was shivering, and we let each other go, and he ran up to his apartment door, and into the apartment like he always does. i stayed to watch and make sure he got in all right, like i always do (because you never know when your parents might lock you out or when you'll forget your key).
and i drove to back to my parents' house, and got down the stairs and into the sofa at about 4:39 to take a nap and get ready for the long drive the "next day" that i meant to start at 6. i thought i set my alarm, but i didn't wake up until 6:30, and i didn't really get on the road for another hour. i had to be in White Plains by 2pm, when the curtain went up on 'the Crucible.' much coffee and gasoline were purchased, and i made it to Manhattanville College by 1pm, which is a time unheard of, and should be logged in all the record books. five and a half hours, from Buffalo to NYC. all on a suspended liscence. and other than the fact that i counted 25 patrol cars on the way there, the other details of the drive are mostly uninteresting.
my sister Rebekah had invited me up to see her in the play. she had invited me months ago. and whenever my twin sisters invite me to their shows i always try to go. i knew this was coming, and i had planned for it, but really, between the loyalties to saturday night and sunday morning there was nothing to do, and no sleep to be had. i was not looking forward to this drive. and i feared the slow creep of sleep that might blot out the performance i was supposed to be watching later. but i had to go; i wanted to go. Beka was in a show, and besides, Rachael would be there too. and i haven't seen my sisters in a year.
i didn't grow up with Rebekah and Rachael. i didn't grow up with Michelle and Autumn and Liz either. the sister i grew up with was Katie; we were both adopted; me at seven weeks and Katie at seven months. about three and a half years ago i found my birth family. i used to think that i never cared to find them, that i was never curious about them. i used to think it was what my parents wanted of me, the duty of an adopted son; that anything else would be disrespect. for years i stifled the desire to know my birth family. people would always ask me: "don't you want to meet your real mom?" and i would lie to them and tell them "no," and i had myself so convinced that the only sign of the truth was reduced to a dark tickling thrill i would smother inside of me and never pursue. "i'll get to meet her one day in heaven," i'd say.
a few years ago, i found them. i had called the adoption agency and asked them to open the files. i knew a little bit of information: my mother had married, and had given birth to two girls, twins. i had twin sisters out there. they would be eighteen now. i couldn't stifle the curiosity any longer. other people take their family, their parents for granted. sure, sometimes you don't get along with them, sometimes you hate them, but if you are particularly stubborn you know which parent to blame for that, or from which parent you get the shape of your lips or the color of your eyes, or your predilection for reese's peanut butter cups. and if you have siblings, you can see what they got, and what skipped you, and it all tells you a little bit more about yourself, and who you are, and how and why you are. other people take that for granted, and i wanted that -- i wanted to know those things. the parents who adopted me, my parents, are great -- they are truly wonderful and loving people -- but we do not get along in close quarters, and if they ever have at all, it wasn't until recently that they understood me on a fundamental level. everyone always tells me that all families are like that, that all children have this problem with their parents. but they cannot know precisely how different it feels from what seems like the norm in everyone else's family. they cannot know how truly bewildering it is, how awkward it is to be of completely different stuff than the people you call father and mother. other people have these problems with their parents, but mine have caused a rift that feels so gaping at times as to seem almost uncrossable.
the lady from the agency called me back one morning. she woke me up out of a dead sleep to tell me that yes she was able to make contact with my family and that she was sorry to tell me that my mother had passed away seven years ago, but that my grandmother was excited to hear from me and did i want to get in touch with her? "of course," i managed to exhale into the phone.
after awhile i recovered this memory: i was fifteen, and i was home from school, alone, in the afternoon. there was a message on the machine, from the adoption agency. "hello, this is New Life Adoption Agency, we just wanted to let you know...we recently heard from Philip's biological grandmother, who asked us to get in touch with you..." i don't remember all the words exactly, but i remember the awkward pause, the apalling 'i don't know how to say this' pause..."...Philip's birth mother passed away last week..........." i don't remember what the rest of the message said, if anything. but i saved it, and pretended i had never listened to it, and later, when my parents came home, i heard them discussing whether or not they should tell me. i don't remember if they did or not, because i could have blocked that too, but i have the distinct inpression that they kept that piece of information to themselves, because i remember now being in the basement and eavesdropping, and being angry about it.
it was strange that the second time i found out my mother was dead really was the second time i had heard it; it came as a shock each time, but i suppose news like that can never become commonplace. i had known her name, and i had searched online records for it, but until now i never knew the real reason behind my unbudging refusal to look for her name in the online obituaries.
and now, all that's left of her are my sisters, and her sisters, and her mother. and part of me is gone, never to be discovered again on this earth, and only now do i realize the irony and the gravity of telling all of my friends that i will leave the meeting of my real mom for heaven. i hate that i said that. i hate that it is true.
what is two hours of sleep and six hours of driving to see my sisters, then? any time i spend with them is too short a time. i know i am my father's son. Rafe is as much of a good guy as he is an asshole, and he is both in his own way. and i am cut from the same cloth, i see too much of the same pattern to even think of denying that fact. and i'm glad that i know it. but i can't help wondering how much, if at all, am i my mother's son, and what parts of me come from her, and if i will ever be able to see them and if anyone else will ever be able to recognize them in me. i want to know those parts of me, to clutch them, to save them from being drowned out of my life and out of the world.
what a pleasure it is to see Rachael and Rebekah. what a pleasure it is to see them laughing and smiling and agitated, and pissed off, and depressed, and hungry, and happy, and talking, and sleepy and anything else they are. i wish i saw more of it. i would never tire of it. i love being their brother. i wish i was more of a brother for them. i wish i was more a part of their lives, a part of them. we are all practically grown now. and truthfully, i barely know them. i can't help but wondering sometimes if its past the point of my ability to create a bond with them. i am so much an outsider. but i love watching them and being around them, and hugging them and playing with their hair. i wish we weren't so far away.
they were only 11 when our mom died. i can't imagine what that must have been like for them. and i can't believe what amazing women they've turned out to be after everything else that has happened between then and now...which is more than i know about, i'm sure. in some ways i am jealous of all of it: the family, the hardship, the loads of well-earned character, and yes, even the pain.
i've never known my own blood before. 'related' has always been what other people were. it is bizzare to me to know that i have that too, that there are pieces of me in other people...that i
share something with them. it is nothing short of surreal.
maybe, in a couple years, they can follow me out to L.A. maybe i'll have a play written. if i do i'll save a couple spots in the cast for them, and some room on the fold out couch. or, for God's sake, they can just take my bed; i'll sleep on the couch.
