Behind “The Unmasking”: My Role as a Choreographer & Dance Educator

A few months ago when I made the decision to put my dance company, marked dance project, on hiatus, I knew I did not want that to mean that my work as a choreographer and dance educator would come to a halt.

            

In the fall of 2013 my friend Andrea Kramer and I began discussing the possibility of having me as a guest choreographer for Ballet Forte at Wings Conservatory’s 2013-2014 season. Of course I was interested in working with BFWC, having been a guest teacher in the past, I knew her students were hard workers and had a strong foundation of technique.

            

I remember feeling intimidated as I walked into the studio on audition day alongside the other guest choreographers, one a New York University graduate, the other a BFWC alum, and then there was this fierce woman who was an assistant to an established choreographer. All of them had formal dance education under their belts, degrees in dance, etc. Meanwhile, I was working on a degree in women’s and gender studies with minors in journalism and public relations. However, like much of the past 7 years in my dance career, I did what felt authentic to me. I did what I’ve become known for; I pushed the dancers to show me their artistry, and not just their technique. As a person with a disability, I can’t do all the things that are typical and expected of men who dance, but being the communicator that I am, I learned how to use my body, and the bodies of my assistants, and my words to express to the dancers what I was envisioning in my head.

            

Initially, I had no idea what I was going to set on the 6 dancers that I picked from the audition but I knew I wanted it to be reflective on the past year of my life. I was already working on a new piece for my company, “Our America” which explored the social issues around gun violence in America, and knew that I wanted this piece to be a strong contrast to any of the group work I have ever done before. I wanted to challenge myself to go deeper, not to be afraid to push boundaries, and to remain true to the story I was trying to tell through movement.

            

The biggest lesson as I embarked on this process was learned through the interactions I had with the dancers. Many of who were early teens, what I was asking of them took a great deal of maturity and commitment. I was trying to tell the story of my life in the past year, how I struggled with perfectionism, and did not want to show my true self. I had spent years hiding behind a mask, trying to deal with the lows and blows that came from vulnerability. “The Unmasking” represents my own journey through self-discovery and awareness. It was my daring greatly moment, the end result of the courage I had gathered to remove my own mask, to give up trying to be perfect and allow myself to be flawed, to be fully human. One of the dancers was struggling with perfectionism, like myself, she was overextended and the pressure to be perfect was making her world crumble. She had missed hours of rehearsals, so much so that I had to threaten to remove her from the piece if she did not fully commit to the process.

            

Anyone that knows me well knows that I am a big softy but I have high standards for any work project that my name is being attached to, and when the dancer showed up late again, I had to have a difficult conversation. It was the first time in my career that I resented the fact that I was not just a choreographer, but also an educator. It was my job to help this young dancer and do something that no one else around her seemed to be doing; I pushed her off the pedestal. Everyone in her life put her on a pedestal, without considering how the height would cause the fall to be that more detrimental. They were breeding her to live a life of perfection, something she would surely fail at accomplishing. I told her that I had to take her out of the piece, that I could not contribute to supporting the pedestal she was placed on and that I needed her to stop trying to be perfect.

            

She broke down. Crying and pleading with me to let her back into the piece, I held her. I cried with her. And I made her repeat the following sentence over and over again, “I am 16. I am human and I am not perfect.” Once she gathered her breath, I asked her to teach her role to the other dancers and to remain a part of the creative process as an understudy. Some might think that decision was cruel of me, but I needed her to understand that life has a way of humbling us, and that if we respond with humility to our circumstances; there could be a chance of redemption. She taught her section with such grace and clarity, she cared enough about the piece to make sure she taught her peers thoroughly. I had every dancer audition for her role with her watching, and while they were all talented, it was clear to me that she needed to play this role more than I needed her to. I asked the rest of the cast if they felt she should be given another chance, since after all, they were the ones being most affected by her missed rehearsal time. Each and every one of them said yes, I turned to her and said she was given one more chance.  

            

When I began choreographing “The Unmasking”—the majority of the work was choreographed in 2 weekends, 4 rehearsals, approximately 18 hours. During the time that I began setting the work, I was overextended, the truth is, I was traveling for work, writing papers for classes, working (2) part time jobs, and working with my dance company, I was also setting work as an alumni choreographer for my high school. Knowing I needed to slow down, we didn’t have additional rehearsals until a month later. This is not common for me, to begin work and not fully finish it and then to have so much time in between. But I was practicing the lesson I had been trying to teach the dancer; I said to myself, “I am 22. I am human and I am not perfect.”

            

As the dancers and I returned to the studio to finish the work and clean the piece, I saw the entire piece with a renewed perspective and began changing the choreography and the music. Two days before the premiere, we had our final cleaning rehearsal and by the end of the two hours, we had boiled down the past year of my life into 9 minutes. On Wednesday, we premiered "The Unmasking" and the audience reactions assured me that the entire process I went through to create the piece was worth it. All of the dancers did exactly what I asked of them, they performed and spilled their souls on that stage. I lost my breath as I saw it for the first time in full costume and on stage, with the lights. 

The most intimate piece I have ever choreographed, “The Unmasking” and the process to create it will always hold a special place in my heart. Special thanks to Kevin Hurtado, my friend and assistant, who without, creating this piece would have been nearly impossible. Taking our masks off can be difficult but not nearly as difficult as trying to be perfect. Perfectionism is something we strive for but never something we attain. Remember that you are human and innately imperfect. Put your mask down, show us your flaws and all and cry if you have to. 

Writer's Note:

As a writer, I love for the stories I write and the material I create to be shared and discussed-- however, I ask that you respect my intellectual property and that you attribute my writing if you decide to share it on any other platform:

Written by Mark Travis Rivera | www.MarkTravisRivera.com.

Thank you in advance. 

Between Two Wonders

Writer's Note (trigger warning): this piece talks about sexual abuse. It took me months to write this piece and it took me some time to decide whether or not I would share it, but I know there's someone out there who may be able to relate. You are not alone. 

Dear Diary,                                                                                                                              

            I woke up with roses blooming in my stomach. This must be a dream I thought as I looked to my left and saw his wonder—there he laid resting as I turned to my right and saw the view from his eighth story balcony. Miami’s beautiful weather always did leave me wanting more sun and less snow. I had a smile that could not be removed; it was imprinted on my face like the ones we see on clowns- slightly unbearable, slightly frightening, and yet freakishly understandable.

            The ocean seemed massive and endless, as wide as the horizon and as deep as the galaxy.  The sun hovered over the ocean, resting its rays of light upon the waves as if somehow that would lessen the intensity with which the tides hit the sandy shore. It seemed to work in the early hours of that Friday morning. The waves—small, serene, and for a moment all I could hear was the soft clash against the shore and the sound of a man breathing calmly in his sleep. I was between two wonders and both left me equally breathless—I took my hands, which felt weightless and attempted to pinch myself back to reality. Grabbing hold of my exposed thighs, I tried to snap back to reality. This was a dream I kept telling myself. 

            His existence seemed unreal, he couldn’t have flown the distance, rented a car, and booked a hotel just to spend my last two nights in Miami with me. A couple of nights before his arrival, he and I had been chatting via text and I shared with him that I was going to write a poem about him but my ego would not let me write it. He replied, “I was going to book a ticket to Miami but my ego wouldn’t let me do it.” I thought he was kidding. He lives in New York City; a forty-minute train ride away from where I live in New Jersey. Why the hell would he spend all that money just to fly down to Miami? Then he asked me for my address, I gave him my New Jersey home address before realizing he was asking me for my Miami address. I was shocked, I did not believe that a guy would go out of his way to make me feel special. Shortly after he sends me a photo of him in his hotel room, he really did fly out to see me.

            I have always been the guy that other guys run away from, I was not the guy that others often went out of their way to let me know I was worthy, or loved, or special enough. I looked at his selfie and I instantly turned red in the face, I could not stop smiling, I could not stop laughing, this was unreal. It did not feel real until he picked me up in his rental car; him being from the Midwest, I figured he knew how to drive but we live in the Tri-State area where traveling via train and subway is the norm. There he was in the flesh, driving me to his hotel room, but all I could think about on my way to the hotel was the last night he and I spent together.

            It was a disaster to say the least. My feelings for him were growing stronger but he had a way of leaving me feeling insecure and uncertain. He had a way of leaving me in the in-between; left pondering whether or not I was in this alone, whether I was the only one between the two of us that cared deeply, if I was the only one falling in love. He had spent the night in my place, living in a dorm room, he slept in the spare bed I had. Earlier in the day we had spent some time cuddling but when it came time to go to sleep, he did not suggest that I lay beside him. I desperately wanted to lie beside him, so in the middle of the night I woke up and lay next to him. I asked him if I could hold him, half asleep he said yes. But what he really wanted to say was no. What he really wanted was for me to stay in my own bed, he felt violated, despite the fact that he asked me to rub on his chest, despite the fact that he grabbed hold of my penis until I reached my climax.

            We were navigating the grey space between the black and white of our lives; his brown skin against my white skin, we were both unsure about what it all meant. All he knew was that I was falling for him and all I knew was that I was the one who would have a lot to lose—after all, men throw themselves at him left and right. He is the popular kid and I resorted back to my middle school self: the awkward kid who was not liked, never popular, and definitely not one to be desired.

            After the last time we saw one another, we’d go weeks without talking. It would take several intense conversations but he and I would reach the conclusion that we both cared for one another and wanted to remain in each other’s lives. A few days later he arrived in Miami. As we rode in the car I did my best to create small talk because I did not just want to keep staring at him. He kept asking what I was looking at but I just could not believe that he was within reach. As we approached the hotel and entered the room I was relieved to see two full size beds. After what happened between us the last time we spent the night together, I was afraid of having to sleep in bed next to him.

            The truth is that I am afraid that I have been damaged by past trauma. Recently, I decided to share that as a child I experienced abuse from both boys and girls in my family. I was attempting to suppress the memories because one of my abusers is someone in my immediate family and I could not handle remembering how they treated me. As a young gay man, society had conditioned me to believe that my only value was my body and the sexual behaviors I would participate in.  I realized that in my attempt to ignore the deep rooted shame, in my attempt to pretend that none of it happened, I was repeating the cycle of abuse. The truth is I struggle with intimacy; I struggle to accept the fact that a guy could hold me without having to fuck me.

            There he laid with his eyes shut, at peace, laying in the glow of his wonder. I woke up to him on my left—a man who had to design his own path. There, with his blackish tank top and his grey underwear laid a man who I have come to care for deeply. The wrinkles around his eyes, the lines on his forehead—proof of his struggle, proof of his laugher, proof that he has lived a life that at times aged him far too soon. Maybe an effect of the testosterone shots, but it did not matter because as he smiled and said, “I know I’m cute in my sleep,” he must have felt the heaviness of my awe stricken gaze, I rolled my eyes and silently agreed with him. I did not want him to think I thought he was as beautiful, as handsome, as wonderful in my eyes as the ocean was in the eyes of the countless that sought it out daily.

            I did not want to be one who fell from a cliff to feel the impact of my body clashing into the ocean’s thin but powerful armor. I did not want to be the one who fell for a man who would put in the effort to make me feel this special. I didn’t want to get caught in the in between again, lost in translation, trying to determine what it all meant to have him in bed next to me. All I could think about was the tragic ending that was surely coming. Shame, fear, and experience taught me that foreboding joy would lessen the hurt of being walked out on, of having someone decide that despite how great he thought I was, I was not worth stepping into the arena for.

            What I did not know was that the two nights I spent with him in Miami would be the last time I’d spend time with him; it would be the last time he and I would have a face to face conversation. It would be the last time he wrapped his arms around me, the last time I’d lay my head against his chest, the last time our lips would meet, the last time we’d stare into each other’s eyes. Weeks after our return from Miami, we would have another argument. I was tired of existing in limbo: we were “just friends”—but we were friends who kissed one another. We were friends who shared intense intimate moments. We’d have these romantic experiences when we would hang out but it was never a “date”. I was in need of certainty and he was persistent in not wanting to provide me with the stability I craved.

            Between two wonders exists one definite truth: love is not always shared in an equitable manner. My love for him could not knock down his walls; it could not make him take all of my love with him. Instead of embracing all of me, he pushed me over the cliff. He let me fall with no intentions of catching me before I would hit the ground. I think of him daily. I think about our final nights together and sometimes it hurts my heart to carry the love I still have for my dream man made. It hurts to know that he could walk away, proving once more to me that love is elusive. It is my greatness they adore but my heart they ignore, that despite how wonderful they claim I am, there’s something about me that prevents them from fully loving me. Between two wonders I am forced to face my worn out, bitter, hurt, scared, and lonely self. I am forced to remind myself that I am enough, that I am indeed deserving of love and belonging.

Writer's Note:

As a writer, I love for the stories I write and the material I create to be shared and discussed-- however, I ask that you respect my intellectual property and that you attribute my writing if you decide to share it on any other platform:

Written by Mark Travis Rivera | www.MarkTravisRivera.com.

Thank you in advance. 

            

To My Unborn Daughter: The Story of Your Name

Every March at William Paterson University, The Women's Center hosts their annual Women's History Month Essay Contest where individuals are encouraged to write about a woman who has inspired them and encouraged their dreams and I couldn't think of a better woman to write about than my Aunty, Jonnine DeLoatch, who is the Director of the Sophomore and Junior Experience at William Paterson and a mentor to many young people. 

When I thought about the essay, I figured I wanted to write about Jonnine, a woman who has enriched my life in a huge way. I don't ever imagine having children but if I do, I will make sure my daughter's name includes Nini-- a nickname that Jonnine is often referred to as. 

To My Unborn Daughter: The Story of Your Name

Dedicated to Jonnine DeLoatch 

            The day you are born I will call you Nini. When you are old enough to understand why, I will tell you the story of your name. I will share this letter with you so you know that much thought and consideration went into the selection of your name. A name you will carry with you for as long as you choose.

            You were named after a survivor, after a source of light in the lives of countless, after a woman filled with wisdom. Your name was inspired by a woman who helped me grow, a woman who inspired me from the moment I first met her. I will call you Nini so that I am reminded that no matter what you will have to endure in life, you will have the strength to continue to walk your path. A reminder that freedom is yours and wisdom is gained through endurance.

            Nini was the nickname of a woman named Jonnine DeLoatch, a woman I would first meet during my first semester in college. It was the summer of 2010 and I was sitting in my freshmen seminar course when a guest speaker came to class to discuss emotional intelligence. The first thing I noticed about the guest speaker was her distinct walk because she had a limp. As a person who grew up with a disability, who visibly walked different than the others in my class because of cerebral palsy, I instantly felt a connection to Jonnine. What Jonnine and I both didn’t know that summer is that she and I would form a connection that would serve as an anchor in my life when the storm got dangerous.

            Jonnine or ‘Nini’ as she is affectionately known as is the kind of mentor you would be lucky to have. She is the kind of woman I hope you grow up to be like; intelligent, passionate, talented, honest, compassionate, and a fierce protector of those she claims as the children she never had. When Jonnine speaks to me—she does not only speak to my logical and emotional self, she speaks to the core of my being. Her words, always firm and delivered with love allowed me to navigate my time at William Paterson, and will remain with me forever.

            Your name is part of a legacy—you were named after a woman who survived Cancer, a woman who overcame radical religious conditions, a woman who dared to live her truth, a woman who dared to strut through life with a smile on her face even when circumstance tried to hinder her grace. I want you to proclaim your name with pride, know that deep inside of you exist the history of a name that made me the kind of father I am today.

            I will call you Nini and when you ask me why your name was chosen, I will tell you that sometimes our blessings aren’t something we seek out and find, sometimes our blessings just have a way of limping into our lives during a time we need them the most. I will call you Nini and you will understand why you must always cherish your name with pride.  

Writer's Note:

As a writer, I love for the stories I write and the material I create to be shared and discussed-- however, I ask that you respect my intellectual property and that you attribute my writing if you decide to share it on any other platform:

Written by Mark Travis Rivera | www.MarkTravisRivera.com.

Thank you in advance. 

Between Two Wonders (An Excerpt)

         I woke up with roses blooming in my stomach. This must be a dream I thought as I looked to my left and saw his wonder—there he laid resting as I turned to my right and saw the view from his eighth story balcony. Miami’s beautiful weather always did leave me wanting more sun and less snow. I had a smile that could not be removed; it was imprinted on my face like the ones we see on clowns- slightly unbearable, slightly frightening, and yet freakishly understandable. 

            Its existence seemed massive and endless, as wide as the horizon and as deep as the galaxy.  The sun hovered over the ocean, resting its rays of light upon the waves as if somehow that would lessen the intensity in which the tides hit the sandy shore. It seemed to work in the early hours on that Friday morning. The waves—small, serene, and for a moment all I could hear was the soft clash against the shore and the sound of a man breathing calmly in his sleep. I was between two wonders and both left me equally breathless—I took my hands, which felt as heavy as a feather and attempted to pinch myself back to reality. Grabbing hold of my exposed thighs, I tried to snap back to reality, this was a dream I kept telling myself.  

            His existence seemed unreal, he couldn’t have flown the distance, rented a car, and booked a hotel just to spend my last two nights in Miami with me. I was in a dream. There he laid with his eyes shut, at peace, laying in the glow of his wonder. I woke up to him on my left—a man who had to design his own path. There, with his blackish tank top and his grey underwear laid a man who I have come to care for deeply. The wrinkles around his eyes, the lines on his forehead—proof of his struggle, proof of his laugher, proof that he has lived a life that at times aged him far too soon. 

            Maybe an effect of the testosterone shots, but it did not matter because as he smiled and said, “I know I’m cute in my sleep,” he must have felt the heaviness of my awe stricken gaze, I rolled my eyes and silently agreed with him. I did not want him to think I thought he was as beautiful, as handsome, as wonderful in my eyes as the ocean was in the eyes of the countless that sought it out daily.

            I did not want to be one who fell from a cliff to feel the impact of my body clashing into the ocean’s thin but powerful armor. I did not want to be the one who fell for a man who would put in the effort to make me feel this special. I was between two wonders but something deep inside me told me to relish in this moment because none of it was my actual reality.

An Open Letter To A Destructive Lover

    I remember the first time we met, there was a sparkle in your eye, and those rich brown eyes had me enticed.

     

     I remember our first date; you showed me beauty in the city I had known growing up across the river in Jersey.

     

     I remember taking you to Hooters, it was your first time, and I insisted that you eat the wings- as we looked at the servers in awe of their beauty, remember the blonde twins you took a photo with?

     

     I remember going to your apartment, my first time in Harlem, and five stories up; I thought the staircase would never end.

     I remember the first time we kissed, we were watching “A New Day” by Celine Dion, your lips made me melt, I swear I felt fireworks soaring into the night sky.

     I remember thinking we wasted no time getting intimate, but we were caught up in the moment, I couldn’t foresee the crash waiting ahead of me.

     I remember the first time you cooked for me; you were the first guy to ever do so, I felt special.

     I remember you cooked breakfast and we were listening to Sara Bareilles’ latest album, I didn’t know it then, but the song, “Breathe Again” would become the number one played song on my iTunes.

     I remember the first time I made you upset, I had said something negative about Beyonce, as we were laying out in Central Park, and you walked away from me for a few minutes to cool off.

     I remember watching the film, which inspired your tattoo; I began to understand the symbolism, why you decided to mark it on your body.

     I remember getting a phone call sharing exciting news, you had booked your first major show, I was beyond excited for you—your dreams were taking shape, becoming a reality.

     I remember you being the first man I ever let kiss me with morning breath. You had pushed me outside my comfort zone; you brought me to a place of intimacy that I had never experienced before.     

     I remember you making my 20^th birthday so special. You walked out of the bus with flowers in your hand; you were the first man to bring me flowers for my birthday. You blended in with my friends and my sister instantly adored you.

     I remember the night that changed everything, I still shutter at the thought of that night, and it left a big impression on me.

     I remember we were both drunk, it was the end of May, a time that is the most difficult for you.

      I remember we had an amazing night out, returning back to your place in Harlem to cuddle, to sleep, or so I thought.

     I remember you breaking down, tears were falling and you were speaking such nonsense. You threw yourself towards the window and threatened to jump out, I held onto you for dear life.

     I remember the morning after, I had spent the night crying, woke up with my eyes swollen. I prepared to leave as you were in the shower with no intention of saying goodbye. You stopped me and apologized, you hugged me but I didn’t hug back. I walked down the street of Harlem alone for the first time and craved for my bed, which was waiting for me in Jersey.

     I remember when we decided we wouldn’t see each other, I remember feeling so stupid, how could I had been taken for such a ride and not think there was a crash waiting for me?

     I remember the first time I was reminded of that horrible night. I was watching the film, “The Hours” and there was a scene where the man jumps out the window of a New York City apartment and I instantly thought of you, of that night. I broke down in tears; my professor didn’t know what triggered it.

     I remember calling you after class and leaving you a voicemail letting you know I saw the film and was thinking of you.

     I remember the first time we spoke while you were on tour, I had forgiven you for that night, and we spoke for about thirty minutes. We would every so often chat, keeping in touch.

     I remember sitting in therapy talking about you to my therapist, a year later, the impression you left on me was still apparent.

     I remember telling her that I didn’t think you were one to work backwards, that once something ended, you were done with it, done with me.

     I remember the conversations we had leading up to my big move out West. You told me you would be home for the summer; the universe had made it so our paths would cross again. I was excited yet super nervous, two whole years passed us by, you and I were different people now.

     I remember getting ready for our reunion. I was nervous about seeing you again; I wasn’t sure how it would go. I saw you sitting at the café and hugging you for the first time made my heart race, finally we were face to face.

     I remember thinking to myself how attractive I found you; I had forgotten how you physically turned me on. Our lips met, a peck, a friendly hello. You took me to a vegan soul food place, it was then that I realized I trust you enough to have fried tofu; it was surprisingly good, hell I actually liked it.

     I remember we spoke about that night in Harlem, we had both apologized, and it was finally behind us.

     I remember you took me to your hideaway place, you showed me around your hometown, and I was getting to see the place that shaped you into the person you had become.

     I remember writing my first poem since arriving in California, you inspired it, it represented the kind of relationship we had, the in between.

     I remember spending a lot of time with you, more than I think either one of us expected to; this was our second chance, or so I thought.

     I remember the first night I slept over your place, you wrapped your arms around me, I wasn’t ready for that embrace; you told me you only wanted to be friends. I struggled to keep control; it was the first sign that this summer wasn’t going to go as I hoped.

     I remember the difficult conversation we had over dinner a few days after. A college mentor of mine died and you were sitting across from me, I felt shame, like such an awful friend. We spoke our truths, you attempted to teach me that there’s different ways of loving someone. That you could only love me this way, it was up to me to accept that love.

     I remember the first time you came to my new place, once I finally got furniture. We were being silly, splashing water on one another, throwing pie, teasing one another, we laughed.  We sat outside my balcony, looking out at the sunset, drinking our wine. I desperately wanted to be held in your arms. Random music was playing, it felt like the universe was having our conversation through song, or so that’s what you made reference too. In that moment we were in a musical, with my back towards you I tried to hide the tears that fell.

     I remember getting cold, so we came inside from the balcony and we talked. You talked about your former lovers, we both got emotional, and I laid my head on your chest because I wanted to feel your heartbeat.

     I remember asking you to stay, but you insisted you couldn’t, you asked me to stand up and we danced to “Breathe Again”, you held me tight against your chest, I struggled to catch my breath. I walked you out and looked as you disappeared into the darkness of the night.  

     I remember after you left I found myself being an emotional wreck; I was convinced I needed a break from you. We spoke about it for nearly two hours, remember, you made one thing clear to me, I wasn’t wanted despite how much we cared for each other, I wasn’t wanted.

     I remember we went six days without seeing one another, but Pride celebration arrived and I had decided it was better to be in your life in some way than not at all. I put my pride aside and we spent the majority of the day together.

     I remember sleeping over your home for the second time but I was determined not to repeat my mistakes. I attempted to sleep on the floor but my messed up knee was having none of it. I crawled into your bed and kept my arms tightly to my side, barely moving.

     I remember days going by and me making an effort not to be overbearing, not making much contact with you since Pride.

     I remember waking up from my dream, figured it was a sign from the universe that I should say hello to you, so I did. Then you invited me to your home for a BBQ; I was nervous but was looking forward to getting to know your family, the people who helped raise you into the wonderful man that you have become.

     I remember dancing for your family, we were all performing for each other and I literally transcended time and space, for those minutes I had somehow reached a different level, losing myself completely in the movement.

     I remember gasping for air and greeting you in your room with a hug, I felt so alive, dance made me feel so alive.

     I remember us sitting outside your steps, you were sharing more of your life, of the music that inspires you, I found myself comforting you as your emotions began to overcome you.

     I remember how beautiful I thought you looked as you cried, how beautiful it was to see you so exposed, vulnerable, and transparent.

     I remember we decided it was probably best if I spent the night, maybe it was all of the alcohol but something felt different this time around. We watched a foreign film and we cuddled, you put your arm around me, our hands interlocked, suddenly we began to talk about our experiences.

     I remember we got emotional; we are such emotional creatures, you and I. Seeing the tears run down your face, I attempted to wipe your face, I gave you a kiss on your cheek to comfort you. Then you shifted your head, our lips met, and then they met some more.

     I remember my heart racing, I remember you asking if this was a good idea, I replied, “be free, live in the moment”—that was something you were trying to teach me to do. We kissed some more, as our hands began to grab hold of one another, it was another example of the in between.

     I remember thinking to myself that I never wanted the night to come to an end, both of our bodies, exposed, next to each other, nothing about it felt wrong to me, nothing.

     I remember the next day feeling myself riding on an emotional roller coaster, you had spent weeks keeping me away, I wasn’t wanted the same way I wanted you but somehow we both let our guard down. We allowed ourselves to be in the moment.

     I remember wanting to do something special for your birthday, maybe it was just another one of my silly fairy tale fantasies. You shot it down, you were going through some stuff and I was the easiest target. I felt defeated; I was just trying to do something special.

     

    I remember thinking to myself that maybe I made a mistake by allowing us to get intimate in the physical sense, maybe that was too much for you, maybe that made you fearful.

     I remember downing two bottles of wine because I wanted to numb the way I had been feeling; I was mad at myself for caring for someone who wasn’t willing to fully embrace and accept that affection.

     I remember seeing you at the café where I first met you, I remember feeling awkward as I was surrounded by my friends, I bought you a glass of wine for your birthday because I felt like that was the least I could do.

     I remember talking to you outside, we attempted to talk about the situation but it seemed so surface based, I don’t think we were saying exactly what was on our minds.

     I remember later that night we crossed the line. 

Yelling at one another in public, I had became my mother, you called me a motherfucker, and in that moment I knew we had said too much, there was no taking it back.

     I remember finally getting home, with my knee in pain, I rushed to my room and broke down in tears. It was another tragic ending, I was hurt and furious—calling someone out of their name to me is the biggest sign of disrespect and I knew once we began to cross that line, we were blurring the boundaries.

     I remember waking up the next day and trying to make the most of my emotions, trying to go on with my day because there was plenty to be happy about, I was going to see a friend again, I was determined not to let last night bring me to a new low.

     I remember texting you for your birthday, I was debating whether or not I should still attend your celebration, I wasn’t even sure if you would still want me to attend.

     I remember asking the universe for a sign, twenty minutes later my friend called and asked me if I wanted them to come visit me or if I wanted us to go out somewhere. They too were invited to your birthday celebration.

     I remember calling you to see if the invitation was still standing, a part of me expected to hear “no” but you said “yes”. There was a lot of anxiety on my part as I headed over to your place.

     I remember, as I was getting ready to leave, pulling you aside and we apologized. You thanked me for coming, for being the one to call to see if I still could. We hugged and I felt closure.

     I remember the last time we said goodbye to each other as I prepared to leave the Bay and return to my life in Jersey. You would stay behind a bit longer before returning to The City. I cried hysterically because a part of me thought I’d never see you again.

     I remember the last time I saw you before you prepared to hit the road, another tour, another aspect of your dream realized. It was simple, it was easy, I hugged you goodbye and wished you well. From East to West and then East again, you were my destructive lover, a type of soul mate Liz Gilbert describes in “Eat, Pray, Love”—you destroyed my walls, shook me at my core, and broke my heart open so new light can get in.  

     I am writing you this open letter my love because I want you to always remember how you shaped me, how your life impacted mine, and why you will always be special in my life.

     As we prepare for our lives to take us on different roads again, I reflect back on the time we have spent together and I am truly thankful. The laughs, the tears, the joy, and the sorrow—you are special and you are lovable, even if you don’t always think you are deserving of it.

     I want to thank you for giving me hope, for reminding me that I am special, that I am worthy of being loved, and that my big personality is still lovable, even if it can be overbearing at times.

      Thank you for waking me up, for shaking me, for breaking down my guard, for pushing me out of my comfort zone, for challenging me to think deeper than the surface.

     You said this isn’t the end, which may very well be true but who knows what the future holds. If our paths meet again, I will be thankful for that, if they don’t, I will always have these memories, I will always remember you, I will always have love for you, and I hope that there will be a piece of you that will remember me too, even after I’m gone, even after our memories begin to escape us.

Putting Down the Bottle

Feel free to listen to Maria Mena's "This Bottle of Wine" as you read this blog.

For many of us, turning 21 is a defining moment in our young adult life.

Like many high schoolers, on occasion I would have a drink or two at house parties and/or gatherings. I found that drinking wasn't an issue for me unless I was in a bad state of mind. If mentally I was off, then drinking became a major issue.

In the last year, I had some really dangerous and terrible experiences due to alcohol, like many people who are dealing with depression or a lot of various issues-- I was seeking a way to cope. Drinking is my way of coping. Drinking while in this state of mind is not only irresponsible, it is detrimental to my efforts to improve my wellbeing.

As of today, after having to deal with the consequences of an action I took while under the influence, I am putting down the bottle...I am not going to drink. I am not saying I won't ever drink again but until I can figure everything else out, I can't afford to keep numbing.

It's starting to cost me too much to numb, I need to feel what I have to feel and get through this.

I hope me sharing this will give someone the courage to put the bottle down as well, we can't afford to drown ourselves.

A Page a Day in November

                There is a campaign to get writers to write a page a day in November, so starting today I will commit to this pledge—join me in writing.

                I will publish a blog a day about a variety of things in order to take part of the page a day challenge.

             Be sure to follow me on Twitter @markingthepath