I Was A Figure Skater.
An Odyssey of my own, recounted.
I’m tripping hard in Central Park during a DJ set by SG Lewis for Pride and I’m doing my best to not heave. Earlier, I’d very slightly mismeasured my intake; now, I’m having a stronger-than-expected adventure as the music flows through me. For the next two hours, I regret my hubris.
Pride season in New York is typically a dedicated time for me to catch up with my gay network. I confess that my attendance at the many annual Pride Marches (inclusive of the main NYC Pride March as well as the borough- and identity-specific variants) has diminished over the years as I’ve come to prefer avoiding the crowds. Moreover, I dislike the presence of doublespeaking politicians who participate in it for brownie points, and I don’t find much value in standing around in the sun. Spending time with my friends, on the other hand, is all but guaranteed. Lately, that has manifested in us hanging out at the concerts taking place in celebration of our community.
I’d portioned out my dosage in a rush, trying to preserve discretion while eyeballing the amount required to amplify the experience of being lost in a crowd with only melodies and beats to steady me. The quantity had been maybe twice as much as I’d intended, but I’d disregarded my concerns since it was altogether very little and I’d figured that I could handle it because I’m not petite. As my trip began, I wondered if I’d screwed up.
I spend the entirety of the show dissociating. My consciousness leaves my body, as if observing myself from afar, and I do my best to suppress the waves of nausea threatening to overtake me. Over and over, I tell myself that I’m determined to not give in, to circumvent being sick, because I know what’s happening to me is a simple matter of having bitten off more than I had wanted to chew. It’s not life-threatening, but still I manage to send one of my friends off on a mission to procure water from the refreshment stands just in case.
As I float, I converse with myself. My trip is turning out to be more somber than I’d hoped, and I attribute that to my current state of mind. My father has recently taken to nagging me about fulfilling my purpose in life, my dog is nearing the end of his span, I’d just been passed over for the job that all context clues had pointed to me getting—things have been weighing quite heavily on my psyche, and perhaps it’s why I’m having difficulty focusing on the music.
“Let ‘Into You’ take you home,” another friend suggests, when I blurt out that I think I’m having a bad trip as the DJ queues up Ariana Grande. I’m safe, I’m among loved ones, and I do my best to hone in on one of the greatest pop songs ever crafted, but I’m realizing that I might have depression.
Dancing with us is another acquaintance, a friend of a friend, and I feel the sudden urge to ask him if he’s happy, if he’s satisfied with his life and all of his choices. I don’t know him very well, but he seems to be a nice guy and it might be good to connect on a deeper level. This is how I know that I’m too far gone, willing to intrude upon someone’s state of mind, and I stop myself. It’s inappropriate.
By now, my inner conversation has become a full-blown transcendental therapy session with my inner child, who reveals that he’s still hurt from the household issues of his past. I’m not even paying attention to the concert as I apologize to him for my ineptitude, my many mistakes, because I am the individual singularly responsible for his welfare and I feel that I’ve failed him. I’m fiercely protective over him, yet I’ve been unable to give him everything he deserves. “I’m sorry, I love you, I promise I’ll try harder,” I repeat, trancelike, muttering to myself so that nobody else can hear me. I’m determined to break out of my existential downward spiral.
SG Lewis directs the music’s finale to a crescendo, blending Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” into Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” and creating the most religious aural experience I’ve had since his Pride set four years ago. As the show approaches its conclusion, I pull out my phone and start sending out voice memos to some of my friends about how much I love them.
Thankfully, coincidentally, and conveniently, my stupor starts to subside while everything winds down. I owe four dollars to the friend who fetched the water, and I’m blindly following a horde of gay men as we make our way out of Central Park. I have a vague idea of my whereabouts, knowing that I need to head over to the nearest subway station on 72nd St., but I trust the crowd to lead me there. I’m a member of a pilgrimage as the crowd flows with a unified purpose—exit—and pauses to pool at a picturesque spot for everyone to photograph the midtown buildings, generously framed by many tree branches, lit up in rainbow against the Strawberry Moon.
My essay, "I Was A Figure Skater," has found a new home at Blank Canvas Post, where it has very kindly been published in full. I'm grateful for Charlotte's efforts in building a writerly community, and I'm honored to contribute my very humble words towards the endeavor. I also thank Memoir Land for including my essay within their weekly Memoir Monday series.
I had originally conceived the title as “Once A Figure Skater” to fit my self-imposed limit of six syllables (somewhat) rhyming with A YEAR WITHOUT WATER, but I simply liked the final version better. There’s some intentional echoing of words, like ‘dormant’ appearing and then reappearing in somber and happier contexts, meant to highlight its humor and human quality. It is inspired in spirit by Geoffrey Mak’s “The Unholy Son,” which was originally published in The New Yorker, and it is intended to be a tiny part of a much larger piece that I’m hoping to complete about aging, mediocrity, and not living up to one’s fullest potential. Overall, it is about my struggles on the flip side of my Saturn return to break with my own cyclical maladaptive behaviors and make peace with being me.
I’m extraordinarily thankful for my friends who do read my work. Every person who unexpectedly approaches or messages me about my writing pushes me towards bettering my craft. Such support is invaluable.
I love you so much, beauty — I love the adult you are and the child you once were.