From: rjchou@oakhill.sps.mot.com (Ri Jen Chou)
Subject: experiences of a gay AA, part 7 of 11
Organization: Motorola Inc., Austin, Texas
Date: Fri, 31 Jul 1992 16:07:37 GMT

[ this is part 7 of 11.   comments, questions welcome    -rjchou ]

Todd VII

After I told Todd I loved him, I felt utterly helpless.  It wasn't be-
cause  I  didn't  know  what I wanted - I knew  *exactly* what I wanted
- but because I felt *powerless* to go after it. This was a  terrible
feeling, a paralysis that not only fed on all my fears of making a wrong
move but also  taunted   me  with the promise of unimaginable joy if
only if I dared to risk and made a move. But I didn't have the guts to
do it.  I didn't dare pursue this more aggressively. I didn't  dare risk
losing Todd.  Coward.  I was falling deeper and deeper in  love  with
him.  And all I could do was to wait.  At times I felt doomed to twist
in the wind for all eternity, yet another victim of unrequited love.

At the same time, my relationship with my parents - with my mother  in
particular - was getting worse and worse. I'm sure that my feelings  for
Todd,  my fear  of  rejection, my fear of being all alone in the world
all played a part in the deterioration.  Rejection by Todd, by my
peers, by my  parents.  All these contributed to the nightmare that had
me  firmly  chained and tightly  bound. Something had to give, and soon.
I hoped that it wasn't going to be my sanity, or what little I had left.

In the middle of August 1986 I went to LA to be  in the  wedding of a
much-beloved friend.  Dave W. and I met at Arrowbear Music Camp years
and years ago, when we were both in high school, and had kept up a close
friendship ever since.  I flew into LA a week early and spent much of
the time with Dave  and  his  family  and  with other  musical  friends.
(Most  of  my  friends  in the southern California area are people I met
through music: from  school,  in orchestras,  or at Arrowbear.)  I felt
home again, to be with and interact with friends who spoke a language
unbounded by  words,  the language  of  emotions  and  sounds.   What
joy!

I *did* meet Allan (Todd's roommate from his undergrad days) in the mid-
dle of the  week,  had  dinner  with him, and talked a lot about Todd,
of course.  I was trying to get as much information about his past as I
could, but Allan didn't know much more than what I already knew about
Todd.  After dinner we called Todd.  I dialed my phone number, hoping
Todd was home.  He was.  "Hello?" "Hi Buckwheat!", I said,  and his re-
ply was a warm  and  vibrant  "Hiiii".  Allan  laughed and teased
me,"Ooooh, how cuuuuute!" Todd and I talked for a while, mostly about
little things, about my visit to LA, about how he was doing in Austin.
Then in a  most  innocent  and boyish  voice,  Todd  told  me that my
goldfish weren't doing very well, maybe dying and he didn't know *what*
to do.  Of course, he couldn't tell  me  what  was  wrong with  them,
except that "they're looking kinda sickly."  Sigh. I need more informa-
tion than that.  My precious goldfish were dying!   I could only suggest
general remedy and hope that  they  would  hang  on until I got home in
a few days. Then I could take care of them properly.  We said our
"goodbye and see you soon", and handed the phone over to Allan.  While
they were talking, I had a tremendous urge to hop on the next  flight
back to Austin, back to take care of my fish, but most of all, to be
with Todd again.

Dave's wedding was beautiful,  wonderfully  filled  with  music.  Glori-
ous   trumpet fanfares  and  florishes,  beautiful  voices  lifted  in
joy, and resounding organ hymns filled the sanctuary.   And I  was
filled with  such  joy  and  excitement  that  I *knew* this was where I
belonged, that music was "home" for me.  Music was  probably  the most
important  part  of my life in junior high and high school.  Yet I had
neglected it for much of my college and graduate years.  What a fool I
had been.

Later that evening, at the wedding dinner, I started to feel quite sad.
I was happy for Dave; he just married the love of his life, someone who
makes him happy and fulfilled.  But I felt an emptiness in me, a sadness
that stemmed from knowing deep in my heart that my love for Todd was not
returned.  At least, not yet.   Dave's mom asked me,"So, Ri-Jen, we got
Dave married, now it's your turn.  We've got to find you that special
someone."  I could only sigh, and lament,"I'm working on it, I'm working
on it."  Sigh.

Coincidentally, there was a Memorial Concert the next day  for  a man
who  has affected me most profoundly, in both my development as  a
musician  and  as   a   person.   Mr.   Ohlendorf,   known affectionate-
ly  as  Mr O., had passed away the previous May.  His tiredless efforts
in music education and endless generosity  will not  be  forgotten  by
anyone  fortunate  enough to have come in contact with  him.   Certainly
not  by  me  nor  my  peers.   He virtually singlehandedly raised the
music programs in the schools of Southern  California  to  heights  of
excellance,  developing outstanding  programs  in the jr high and high
school levels, and encouraging, educating,  promoting  aspiring  young
musicians  in  his  years  of  music education.  One facet of the oppor-
tunities he provided was Arrowbear Music Camp, up in the San Bernandino
Mtns, where I attended and worked from jr high through graduating from
college, and where I met Dave.

The Memorial was attended by  several  hundred  people,  a  first chance
for  a  reunion  of  the "Arrowbear family" since Mr. O's death. Nearly
three hundred  musicians  brought  instruments  and voices  up into the
mountain retreat to bring forth music, to pay tribute  to  a  man  whose
kindness  inspires  me  always.   We rehearsed  the 1812 Overture (the
version with full choir) for a few hours  in  the  morning,  then
played  it  later  in  the afternoon,  dedicated  to  the  memory of Mr.
O.   This performance was as much for us as for the audience of our
friends and families.  We played like a group possessed, inspired, play-
ing with such power and passion that one rarely experiences.  The
strings  were lush and sonorous, the brass bright  and punctuating, the
woodwinds full and  deep,  and the  choir soared in resonating hymn.
The cannon shots resounded forcefully, and the chimes at the end rang
out triumphantly. It was an absolutely astonishing performance.

Sure, we missed a few notes, but together, we played way beyond our in-
dividual abilities. As the  last  chord reverberated  down  the  ravine
where  we  played,  in a natural amphitheater, and the sounds drifted
down the  mountainside,  the tears  began  flowing. Within seconds there
was not a dry eye anywhere. The audience was instantly on its feet,
roaring  its appreciation  while  we  players  could  only  stand  in
tribute, profoundly moved by what all of us  had  just  done.  In  a
more inspired  performance  I have never been, a more moved audience I
have never seen.  We stood in tears, some sobbing quietly, others pain-
fully  wailing.  The floodgates had been opened and the grief that we
all felt for the passing of Mr. O came pouring  out.   We grieved  for
the  passing  of Mr. O, for the tremendous loss each one of us felt, for
we shall no longer  have the  pleasure  of  his  company,  his stories,
his teachings, his friendship.  "Dare to be great",  he  had  told
us,"dare  to  be great,  but  don't  forget your fellow man.  We are all
brothers.  Respect and love each other."

There was such pain the faces of the people around me, such grief and
sadness as we filed out of the ravine back into camp.  I felt numb - I
had tears in my eyes, but unable to cry.  The loss I felt was immense,
but something was keeping it deep inside.  We slowly made our way back
into camp, and said our goodbyes to each other and to Mr. O.   Our hugs
were prolonged and tight, not wanting to let go, not wanting to release
from the comforting embrace. No one wanted to leave, not yet ready to
return to our respective lives.

A friend and I walked into a small building that held special memories
of summers past, where I practiced my violin, where I had talks long
into the night with dear friends, where Dave W. and I and a few other
campers spent a few nights because our sleeping area had been flooded by
heavy rains.   We sat on a wooden bench and talked about the day, the
people we talked to, and about what we were feeling.  We recounted
stories that Mr. O had told us, his anecdotes, his admonitions.  In the
middle of one funny story, I laughed and laughed as I imagined Mr. O
telling the story and his hearty laughs emphasing the humor in his sto-
ry.  Gradually my laughter turned into sobs, my tears of laughter turned
into tears of suffering.  I was now wailing uncontrollably, my body
wracked by spasms of wave-upon-wave of grief.  My friend held me, com-
forted me as I cried my eyes out, sharing in my pain, sharing in my
tears.


The grieving process had started, and had a long ways to go before it
would finished.   What an idiot I had been.  I had I came back to Austin
with the resolve to never neglect such an important part of my life
again.  Music was too  important  to me,  too  much  a part of my heart
and soul to put down again, for whatever reason. So what would I do?
Playing  in the  orchestra  would  take  up too much time, time that I
didn't have, and likewise  for  pursuing  a  solo  performance  program.
Being part of a chamber ensemble seemed like just the right thing to do.

I also decided that I really needed help in sorting out my life.  Maybe
Nancy  was  right.  Maybe  some professional counseling could help  me
get back  on  my  feet.   I  still  felt  a certain  shame  in asking
for help, but I was too broken to worry about that now.  I went to the
Student Health Center  at  school  and arranged  to  begin therapy for
working on family relations and dealing with being gay.   Nervously I
filled out a form  indicating  what  I  wanted help  with.  It wasn't
easy to write down that I wanted counseling about my sexuality.  And it
was even worse talking to the intake counselor.  But I did it, and wait-
ed anxiously for the first meeting with my therapist.

In the meantime I thought about my family situation, and  decided that
I  needed  to rally my brothers and sister around me, or at least know
where they stood. I felt close to them,  and  hoped  I could muster
their emotional support.  I called one brother, then the other, and told
each one about falling  in  love  with  Todd, about  my  feelings over
the years.  I also called my sister and told her.  These were among the
most difficult  things  I've had  to do in my life, but once I came out
to them, I felt like a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders.
Each  one  took the news quite well, I thought, each one was accepting,
but there were varying degrees of warmth in  the  responses,  ranging
from deal with it', to 'are you absolutely sure ?' to 'I can deal with
it in an academic or abstract sense, but it's different when it's in
your own family'. I wish I had  more  support,  but  I  really couldn't
expect  otherwise.

It  took me a long time to even try dealing with it, so how could  I
expect  others  to  embrace  it immediately?   They  all  suggested I
*do* seek out counseling to sort out the questions in my mind, and gave
me  encourgment  and pledges  of support.  We all agreed that I could
hold off telling our parents about this.  After all, some woman *could*
come along and  sweep me off my feet, and we would get married and have
lots of little Ri-Jens to say, "Grandpa, grandma!" to my parents, then
there  would be no sense in worrying my parents with any of this, right?
Right.

Summer vacation came to an end.  Most of my goldfish died before I got
back from LA and the rest died within a week. A nasty epidemic swept
through the aquarium while I was gone.  Too bad poor  Todd  didn't  know
what  to  do.  We  cleaned out the tank thoroughly and disinfected it to
guard against  a  resurgence  of whatever  killed  my  fish,  but
somehow I just didn't feel like replacing the goldfish. Perhaps it was a
subconscious  effort  to change  myself,  and  my  environments.  Time
for something new.  Turtles.  Yeah, that's it!  I set up the  tank  to
look  like  a section of a creek, with a pile of rocks rising above the
surface of the water to form an island, and put baby  turtles,  crayf-
ish, perch, and minnows in there.


Todd was fascinated by the turtles.  He spent a lot of time just watch-
ing them, and asked many questions about them and how to keep them hap-
py.  Without any prompting on my part, he was  taking  an  active  role
in  the taking care of the turtles, and also the other aquariums.  This
made me very happy.  Unfortunately, the turtles didn't get along very
well  with  the  crayfish.   Oh,  the  turtles  *liked*  the crayfish,
they  liked them a little too much though, because the crayfish started
disappearing, one by one.  The  turtles  weren't stupid;  they'd wait
until each crayfish molted, then attacked it while its shell was soft.
I provided plenty of  places  for  the cayfish  to  hide  in, but the
turtles got them anyway.  That was the end of any hope for their peace-
ful coexistence.   Soon  there were  no  more crayfish.

Fall semester started at the end of August, and one of the  first things
I  did  before school got underway was to go to the music department and
sign up for a chamber group.  After an audition, I was  assigned  to  a
trio consisting of a strange combination of instruments: clarinet, pi-
ano, and viola. Both of  the  other  two people  in  the  group  were
music  majors,  and  here I was, an engineering grad student.  Jim  was
the  clarinet  player,  very bitchy  and  obviously  gay.   Well,  *I*
thought it was obvious.  Elaine was the pianist, a very talented and
determined  Korean-American woman.   I  think they both wondered why
they got stuck with an engineering grad student. Jim also  wondered,
before  he met  Elaine and me, if we could speak English.  We quickly
put an end to that doubt.  After our initial rehersal  any  reservations
we  had  about  each  other  was quickly dispelled; we had a good ensem-
ble here with great rapport.

Keith came back from  Dallas  and  moved into  the  dorms, onto a gradu-
ate floor, so that he wouldn't have to make meals for himself nor main-
tain an apt. So now, except for Pat,  we were all together again.  Pat
decided UT wasn't for him, and went back to his undergrad school to fin-
ish his Masters.  But we  kept in touch. Classes kept me and everyone
else busy, and my research kept me at school for much of the  day.   But
I  wasn't getting  much  accomplished,  for  my  mind was always else-
where.  It's a miracle that I was able to keep  up  and  do  well  in
my classes,  because I was constantly thinking about Todd.  Our life had
settled more or less into a  routine  where  we  made  dinner together,
then  spent  our  evenings   at  home, doing homework, listening to
music, or watching TV.  Todd was an avid sports fan, so  often  the  TV
would  be turned on to some sporting event or another.   I watched shows
with  him  that  I  wouldn't  normally watch,  just  to  spend time with
him.  Sigh.  Sometimes we would cuddle  while we watched TV or  while
he  read  the  paper.   My activities with the other guys were curtailed
somewhat so I could have more time to spend with jsut Todd.  He almost
never wanted to  do anything  with  them anymore, so if I wanted to go
out with them, I had to do it without  Todd.

Our second year in grad school had started.  We were  starting to  take
different paths in our studies, so we weren't all in the same classes
anymore.  We started a "dinner club"  as  a  means for  us  to  get  to-
gether socially every other week, to set up a format where we could see
each  other  on  a  regular  basis.  We decided  on  a  Sunday  dinner
every  other week, and take turns hosting the evening.  The host was
responsible for the whole dinner, and  could  invite anybody else he
wanted in addition to the core group.  The charter members were Keith,
Jim, Todd,  me,  Dave  B.  and Bill the Cat.  Bill was annointed with
this nickname by Keith for some unknown reason, and it stuck.  I'm not
sure  he  really liked  it, but he didn't complain.

We *did* have a few things in common besides all being electrical en-
gineering grad students.   One  of them  is  the love of good food, and
another is that we could all cook reasonably well.  Except Keith.  Keith
couldn't  even  grill hamburgers at the time, so we were all wondering
what he would do when it was his turn.  Taking us all out to dinner was
an option, although  not a very fun one, but considering the alterna-
tive....  No one could have foreseen that when Keith's  turn  finally
came around,  the  event would have a tremendous  and permanent impact
not only on the dinner club and its group dynamics, but  also  on the
lives of each one of us.



























































-- 
Ri-Jen Chou   		rjchou@decimator.sps.mot.com
Motorola Austin / Eclectic Environs
Newsgroups: soc.culture.asian.american