Brown Bear Nation Welcome to the Brown Bear Episodes. Sit back, relax, read, view, and possibly enjoy the post-grad saga of a girl with no shame and a whole lot of heart.

Fourth in the Hands I Hold Series

I pictured the first guy to ever make me cry, a lot taller and ….whiter. What can I say I have a thing for the pale and lanky…I pictured a first kiss in an art museum examining Degas and Manet, exploring what abstract meaning the literal creations offer. I pictured watching, no, critiquing good films and laughing at obnoxious ones. I pictured him…just like me, I guess but, male. In reality, he ended up being about two inches taller than I and we were probably about the same complexion. The difference lying in the fact that he was Mexican and I was the weird black chick he worked with.

                I, like many of my comrades know am rather garrulous, often crude and a bit of a smart ass. I expected that I would come across someone who would out do me and instead I found someone who could undo me. He was quiet, incredibly humble and he had remarkable manners. He lived in the neighbor we worked in and everyone, not kidding, everyone loved this kid. He was their good guy, the sweetheart to the ladies and a strong justified guy to the males. I remember when we had our orientation for the AmeriCorps program. When it was my turn to say something during one of those shitty ice breakers, I used the opportunity to make an ass out of myself. He also took his time and said something of substance. Many of other members had gone to school with him and always waited for him to say something. I just blew him off as shy. I wasn’t exactly looking for “somebody to love” as Queen would put it so I never paid the males I worked with any mind. I’ll admit I was a man-hater before him. I used and abused, but I’ve said this all before.

We went to the park to clean up during our last day of orientation. It was then that he first spoke to me. He casually walked up beside and asked me about something I had said during the last ice breaker. I think it had something to do with if I really wanted to be Scorpion from Street Fighter. I smiled. I used to have this smile I would give to people when I wanted to make them believe I was sweet and harmless.  I gave it to him. It was an unconscious move, but he laughed at me. He told me that he wanted to be Cyclops from the X-men game. I have a feeling he could see right through me. We talked for a bit as we walked and when we parted ways I had no inclination to talk to him or flirt with him. I stalked the guys I liked as if they were prey back then. I’d lead them to believe that they were in control, that they were smooth talking me, and then I’d go in for the kill. Muhahahah. Wait, scratch that. I just meant I had a plan of action. It was all a game to me, not that I was a serial killer.

 Through the next few weeks of working together, I learned more and more about him. The gang of coworkers would try to get me to speak Spanish and roll my “r’s” better and I would spit some of my poetry for them. I found out that he too wrote poetry and I was excited. I’d meant guys who “wrote” poetry, but it was never profound and it was all “cut my life into pieces, this is my last resort, suffocation, no bleeding don’t give a fuck if I cut my arm, bleeding.” My first serious boyfriend even wrote that Emo shit in French which made it even worse. I wanted to ask him if he wanted me to lend him a tampon. I always had to move his hair from in front of his lovely almond Asian eye to look him in the eyes and tell him I loved it. I LIEDDDD! However, this time I had found a poet. He brought me a notebook of some of his stuff. It takes a lot for me to be blown away and I was. I really was. The verse, the words, the rhythm. I heard everything in my head and it was beautiful. It came to together, piece after piece. I could tell he was careful, meticulous, ya know methodical. His poetry was about everything from growing up with his father to politics in Mexico. There were no clichés or trite combinations. I was ashamed at my own crap. He asked to see my stuff so I let him borrow my collection. He said he could see my vision, my imagery, my emotion was raw.  He was surprised by my collection, that he didn’t know any other people with the passion for writing. He could understand a conflict within it and I knew his pieces exhibited the same characteristic.

From there we began to talk more and more. Slowly, I found him incredibly intriguing. He and I were different. I think I might have for the first time in my life been embarrassed about my crude language and absurd behavior. He would laugh so hard with and at me, but I just didn’t want to make him laugh. I wanted him to respect me. My intrigue eventually morphed like a transformer into something that seemed like walking, talking “interest.” I genuinely liked that kid. I denied it for a bit because he wasn’t my type, but I made it a point to get to work early enough to chat and I would go on lunch break at the same time. So, I came out the closet of denial and I decided that I should probably do something about it. I’m a ballsy chick. I don’t wait around.

I wrote a poem about him as queer and romance as if sounds and I let him read it. I didn’t mention his name or anything obvious about him, but there was subtly hinting. He didn’t say anything to let me know he figured it out, but he said he like the poem itself. At that point I didn’t know if he had figured it out and didn’t want to hurt my feelings or if he was oblivious. I didn’t want to ask. I thought I might come off as that ugly persistent fat chick at the bar. You’re trying to be nice to her, but she won’t go away. So finally you have to just tell her, “Hey, I’m not interested in you. Why? Because I don’t wanna have to use a pulley system to lift up that roll to get to your vagina.” I didn’t want that to happen. I have too much pride so I let it go. 

He ended up replying in poem form about a week later. He, however, had to out do me and recite his poem to me. We figured things out from there and he eventually became my perfect boyfriend, my trophy boyfriend I guess you’d say. I wanted everyone to meet my gentleman who could do no wrong, who opened my doors and never let me pay for anything. Yet, I’ve learned that even good men falter and perfection is for the naïve. He ended up breaking my heart and bringing back to reality. I had this ideal in my heart about the first guy I would love and he shattered it. I had an ideal about him, the perfect guy and he shattered it. Although I wanted to put nine in him like 50 Cent at the time, I ended up gaining a beautiful understanding about expectations. I learned to LOSE them. When I let go of his hand, I recognized what I really wanted in a guy. When he came along, he was something fresh, something new. I don’t want perfection in my guy. I want to be complimented by his nature and insulted by his quips. I want to be able to pay for something and be okay with acting like an ass. Iwant him to act like an ass with me. I don’t ever want to feel like I need to change for anyone and I guess most of all, I really do want him to be pale and lanky. No, no, I want a friend. Someone who respects me enough to tell me the truth.