REJECTION LETTERS

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

You still here? Still sane? Can you handle it? If you’re reading this, chances you are an adult. Chronologically speaking, at least. Mentally, who knows? But, if you are a chronological adult, chances are you’ve heard this two-letter word quite a few times.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

The better question is, how many times have you used it? How many times in a day? A week? A month?

    YOUR LIFE?

    Some people have to deal with it more often than others. We hear it from our parents, siblings, teachers, employers… everyone. Do we have the right answer? Do we have the right qualifications? Do you have this brand of toilet paper?

Actors hear it from directors. Writers hear it from publishers. Doctoral candidates hear it from their departments.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

            NO.

Males hear it from females.

            YES.

  Am I being misogynist? In reality, yes, women ask out men, but how often does that scenario happen? Ladies, when is the last time you asked a guy out on a date? There is pressure and stigma that goes with guys who are unable to get a date.

    Yes, I know women have to deal with rejection, and that’s a different story. Rejection for females is different than it is for men, and since I am not a woman, I cannot attest to that feeling or the thought process that goes with it. I’m going to talk about being rejected as a man.

    When I was in sixth grade, I developed a severe crush on a girl in my class. I thought she was absolutely beautiful, and her personality was amazing. I was smitten. I invited her to my bar mitzvah simply so I could have the pleasure of holding her in my arms and dancing with her. I did my best to charm her, get on her good side, imbed myself in her heart and mind.

    Seventh grade. We took a bus once a week to Central Grammar School in the middle of town for Industrial Arts. I had been building up the courage all week and had the support of the other guys in my class. This was it. I knew if I could get her to go out with me, I’d finally, at long last, be accepted as one of the Cool Kids. After all, you couldn’t be a nerdy outcast with a girlfriend, right?

    “Hey, Do you want to go out with me?”

    The cheers from my classmates drowned out her response. I was positive the response was positive.

    “No, no thanks.”

    Everything stopped. My happiness was gone in a heartbeat. My focus was off the rest of the day.

    It was the first of many. I asked other girls, both in my school as well as a couple others. My main focus remained this one girl. She was everything I wanted, and I felt that if I was persistent, I’d win her over. I made her tapes, wrote her poems and letters. I composed one letter with the help of my mother, who saw and was aware of my affections for this girl. She edited my work and even mailed the letter for me. Two days later, a police officer showed up at my parents’ house with an admonishment from the girl’s parents warning me not to bother her any more. My folks were flabbergasted and asked why, and the officer told us her parents had intercepted the letter and found it disturbing. My mom had the cop read the letter, who shared our confusion once he finished. He even asked me to write a similar letter for him to his wife. Either way, I got the hint.

    No more letters.

    I was depressed. Writing was my strong point. Words on paper were much more elegant than my speaking voice. My parents assured me there was someone out there for me, I simply had to keep looking and keep trying.

    I did so. All through the remainder of grade school I tried, and one by one the girls in my class, both at my school and others, turned me down. I attended all the cheesy 8^th-grade make-out parties only to leave quietly after everyone had paired off. I watched enviously as my friends held and kissed all the pretty girls, girls who had once and again rejected my affections. The trend continued in high school as I got to know a wider range of people and tried my hardest to win some hearts, all to no avail. Those two letters, over and over again. NO. NO. NO.

    I finally got a yes near the end of sophomore year. She was a friend, we had many friends in common, she was smart and pretty… we lasted two weeks. She said I was smothering.

    I had a date during the summer. I gave her my football jacket. Mom made me take it back, and that was that. There were more shoot downs, including a small handful at summer camp. A memorable one was a belated rejection. The camp I went to was in the Berkshire mountains, a sleep-away camp for Jewish kids. I had gone in 1992 and returned in 1993. Camp consisted of two four-week sessions. At the end of each session was Banquet, a semi-formal dinner, song session and cultural dancing to celebrate the last night of the session. Traditionally, you could ask someone to be your date. It was a fairly big deal, like asking someone to prom.

    In 1993 I asked a girl in my unit to go with me. Again, she was nice, very pretty, and I figured what the hell. And she said yes. I was thrilled. I had gotten a pretty girl to say yes to a date with me. I wrote home to my parents, who were equally excited. They wanted pictures. I told them I’d get some. The day of the banquet, maybe two hours before the event (I had showered and shaved, so it had to be soon before), one of the girl’s friends came across Olim Hill and informed me the girl would not be attending Banquet with me. You see, there as a guy she liked, and I had beaten him to the punch in asking her to go. She didn’t want me to feel bad, so she had said yes. But now she was afraid of how HE would feel, so she was leaving me alone so she could go with him. I was stunned. Shocked. I was humiliated. I politely asked the friend to relay the question “How does leaving me abandoned an hour before Banquet not make me feel bad?” and went to my bunk. The girl came by herself to apologize and explain, and I didn’t want to hear it. My unit heads came by and asked me to come to the dining hall. I refused, explaining: “It’s humiliating, to have someone say yes and then to shoot you down after everyone in the world knows you’d be going with someone. Why face those looks by showing up alone?” They told me the girl felt “really bad” about it, and I didn’t care. “I don’t imagine it’s any worse than what I feel, and she shouldn’t have said yes in the first place. This is worse.” I’m friends with this girl on Facebook now. I wonder if she even remembers this event. I sure do.

    The next yes was at my first job. I was working at Miami Subs Grill in the parking lot of the Post Mall. I was a line cook, she was a cashier. We flirted, she gave me her number, we went out, I was elated. We lasted a year and a half, during which time she gradually patronized and degraded me. In our last three months we broke up three times. First me, then her, and finally me again. My first real girlfriend, and I broke up with HER. The feeling of rejection was still there, though. Somewhere along the line she had stopped returning my affections, and to me, that was unacceptable.

    Rejection had become a part of my life. I barely even bothered because I felt it was futile. I stopped asking girls out because I knew, knew, knew they would turn me down, so why bother? I don’t remember them all. Not every one of them. There are too many. Some, for some reason, are forever etched in my memory. I don’t know why. I don’t know why that incident at camp sticks the way it does. I don’t know why the girl I dated for three months college is so vivid. Maybe it’s because she says she dated me to make a friend of mine jealous. There’s the girl who broke up with me over IM after I had moved back to Connecticut. There’s the abusive relationship I was in for two years and managed to escape.

    All these experiences are a part of me. It has been a long time since any of it has happened. I’ve moved past them, but I never forget them. They’re always there. As a young man, as a boy, you’re expected to do and be certain things. We’re led to believe that by doing certain things, performing certain acts, we will assert our masculinity and win over the female.

    Is that misogynist? Is that thought, “winning the female,” misogynist? Is it an outdated concept? From children, it’s what we’re taught to do, that primal aspect of masculinity: flowers, candy, poems, cards, sweetness, love, and affection, all these things will show the female that we deserve and are worthy of their attention. See that word?

WORTHY.

A lot of people forget that part. WORTHY. Most people focus on the DESERVE and forget the WORTHY. We are taught from very early on that we are to earn the affection and attention of the fairer sex, that is it up to them choose us based on these feats. We are told that showing how affectionate and attentive we are to them is how we get them into our lives.

    So, are we innately misogynist? What are the little girls taught when they’re at the same age? Are they told to win us over with gifts and tokens and shows of affection? Or to simply “let the boys fawn over you and take your pick?” Because I’ll be honest with you, that’s what it feels like most of the time. It is ingrained in us from a very early age, mostly by our peers, that if we cannot win the princess, we are failures as men. We are raised to believe that if we cannot provide for and care for “our women” that we are failures as men. We are raised to believe that we are to be the breadwinners, the providers, the hunters AND the gatherers. Are women considered chattel? We are raised from very early to believe that love and affection are prizes to be won by the best and strongest. Not only does the media perpetuate this, but yes, THE WOMEN perpetuate this.

    Again, how often do you ask US out? Let the pressure be put on YOU. Here’s an example: BIG BANG THEORY. Penny and Leonard are not longer dating, but they decide to hang out: go the movies, hit a bar. She still expects him to buy the tickets and the popcorn, she still expects him to spring for snacks and drinks at the bar. How often are the tables turned? It happens, I know it does, but let’s be honest: when you go on a date with a guy, who asks who? Who opens the door and pulls out the chair? Who pays for the meal, the event? Who picks up who in whose car? Let us consider these facts. Is it misogynist, and if so, whose fault is it? Our parents? Their parents before then? Or is it our own fault for continuing it?

DADDY'S BOY

            Let me tell you about my father.

            He’s more than a father. He’s a Dad. And more than that, he’s a Daddy. I am the oldest of three, and he has never let me forget that I was here first. My memory is long, and while not all of the ones I hold are pleasant, I now know and understand why I had to have them.

    My father worked multiple jobs when I was younger in order to sustain us. I have vague memories of him coming home, showering, eating, napping for 15-30 minutes, and heading right back out the door. I have memories of him riding a bike down Pond Point Ave in a suit because he had lost his license for too many speeding tickets. I remember my father waking up at two and three in the morning for service calls, and working weekends for the bus company. I remember some of the sacrifices he made, but not all of them.

    I remember good times. I remember how involved he was, how present. ALWAYS PRESENT. I know some of my friends didn’t have that. And I felt fortunate to have my dad involved in so much. Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Talented And Gifted, class trips, projects… so many activities in and out of school. Soccer, football, drama, writing, any interest I had. Movies, TV, music, anything.

    My dad took me to sports events. Yankees/Tigers at Yankee Stadium in 1981. Yale/Harvard. Harlem Globetrotters. Lakers/Celtics at the Civic Center. Nighthawks in New Haven.

    My dad took me to see E.T. at the Capitol Theater in the center of town was when I was 7. That experience changed my life. It gave me guidance to what I wanted to do. MOVIES. To this day, if that movie is on, I am compelled to watch it, and I always cry. ALWAYS. I even tear up when I hear John Williams’ score.

    My dad would listen to me read. I learned early and fast. He always encouraged my education. If I didn’t know a word, I was told to look it up. If I was asked a question and didn’t know the answer, he would tell me to read about it. When I spent time with him, regardless of what we were doing, he was always teaching. If he was working on one of the cars, he would hold up a part and ask if I knew what it was and what it did. If I didn’t, he would explain it.

    My dad taught me what it means to be a man, and how to do it properly. He taught me about priorities and obligation and responsibility. He told me what it means to take care of your family and those nearest and most important to you. He also taught me that not all family is blood, and that family is always the most important thing in your life.

    Our parents take care of us when we are young. They teach us and guide us. What we don’t realize when we’re that small is that we’re also teaching THEM. I didn’t understand that back then. As I watch my brother with his kids, and watch my sister prepare for hers, I also watch my parents. They look over their children with the same look of pride as a teacher watching their students as they graduate.

    My father cried at my bar mitzvah. He cried as they dropped me in North Philadelphia in late August of 1995. Each time, he embraced me tightly, held me, and looked at me as he let me go: “My baby. You’ll always be my first.”

    I’m looking forward to our time tomorrow. We don’t get much of it. When the opportunity arises, I try to take advantage of it. I wanted to take him to Alumni Day at CitiField when the Phillies played the Mets, but the schedule didn’t work out. A new opportunity has arisen, and I’m taking full advantage. Just me and my dad.