Careening through "Career Day"

Recent and not so recent events in my life have served to focus my thoughts and energies on the reality that I am in transition-Transition in affairs of the heart. Possibly location. Most definitely in the arena of life experience and perspective. And more frightening, I am embracing transition in the aspect of career.

My time as a trucker seems to be over. 17 years is a long time in which to grow comfortable with a way of life and a pursuit. Yet my commitment to the trucking industry continues. Even as this threat of change looms, I've jumped off that comfortable familiar cliff toward accepting this change. I now hurdle downward toward the rocks of reality. Although I remain convinced that at the last minute a wave will rush in and gently cushion such an uncertain fall, I cling to a comfortable denial regarding a few inconvenient circumstances surrounding my dive.

The fact I'm a non swimmer, and that my rescuing wave is the temporary residence of a great white shark who hasn't eaten since he went on the Adkins diet should be of concern, but it isn't. There is only so much a person can stand to accept in the midst of a life changing dive and the other details simply must remain unimportant in this allegory.

Yesterday I was thinking about careers and for some reason a very unpleasant memory stood out of the recesses of my mind, reclaiming my attention. Cringing, I willed the memory out of my mind. But as is the way with suppressed horrible and disturbing memories, once rekindled they like to stay around for awhile and enjoy the light and do further damage. As much as I tried to exercise this most ghastly event, I could only acknowledge the truth found within: That from an early age, my gay card has always had serious flaws.

The memory involved elementary school.

I was once a proud member of Mrs. Larsens third grade class, attending Lake Burien Elementary School in a suburb of Seattle. A school that I should add has since been leveled, probably in response to the story that I'm about to relay. If memory serves correctly I was my class President, I was popular, and I was, even at that early age, very good at acquiring surprisingly creative head injuries. It's a gift that continues unimpeded to this day.

My teacher, Mrs Larsen exemplified a hip, total empowerment chic. She idealistically believed that the bright shining little munchkins under her charge could be anything we wanted to be. Sadly Mrs. Larsen made the mistake of putting her theory into practice. She devised a life changing event simply known as "Career Day". This event would seriously influence and ultimately affect her own career.

I still remember the excitement leading up to "Career Day". Our flyered class event was all the talk of the playground and promised to be way better than filmstrip day or even more motivating than those highly anticipated get-out-of-class early, "snow" days. "Career Day" included the typical standard elements of instruction but even better, offered real-live, hands-on opportunities to explore the various career paths so breathlessly laid out before us. This was long before the whole trendy "life coach" thing started, and Mrs Larsen bravely ventured into what was essentially uncharted primary education territory.

In the world of elementary school academia, Mrs Larsen was a trailblazer.

Her "thinking outside the box" approach to a third grader's education was all very, very exciting and groundbreaking stuff. Other educators observed us, gathering in the back of the room, taking notes. This was going to be the highlight of Mrs. Larsens teaching career.

Remarkably some of the parents also shared Mrs. Larsen's vision. They excitedly volunteered to share their job skills. Demonstrating what occupation they performed day in and day out, these volunteers plied their trade before a very friendly and appreciative audience. Standing in the front of our class, nervously performing their occupational pursuits to a sympathetic and easily impressed audience was the affirmation stuff that parental units dream of. Here was where some of there parents could finally resolve their own long buried, unappreciated show and tell issues. Unfortunately, such dreams can easily become nightmares under the right third grade inspiration.

Now for the record, my gay card has always seemed quite primitive. When I look around and compare myself against the occupational skill sets of my fellow gay and lesbian friends, the math isn't right. I have never felt the attraction, competence, or intrigue of pursuing a job as a professional hair stylist, model, or department store/retail manager. I've never felt talented enough to pursue a career as an interior designer, nor have I been all that accomplished in the kitchen. I didn't even take my first flight in a jet plane until well into my thirties-a fact which obviously demonstrated a very real disinterest in becoming a flight attendant.

My friends worry and sometimes speculate that I might not be gay. If I am, how did it come to be that I have gayboi version 1.1? Especially when they boast personally tailored advanced Home Good uploads, offering dizzying recipe computations and the most fabulous and flawless fashion sense.

I've wondered all of this myself. Yesterday while watching my friend Kevin cooking in the kitchen, an explanation finally came to me.

I can blame all of my gay incompetence on Mrs. Larsen's "Career Day'. Specifically my enthusiastic and eager participation in the hair styling segment.

The details remain a bit foggy as I've tried to remember them. Thankfully the human mind has an ability to erase or obscure the more particularly devastating and disastrous moments of our youth. I do remember that my partner for this particular "learning unit" of "Career Day" was a brave and tough girl named Kirsten.

Because both of our last names began with early letters in the alphabet, seating charts kept Kirsten and I in close proximity to one another for the majority of our grade school career. Up to this point, this had been a good thing and Kirsten and I were chummy enough playground friends.

Paired up, Kirsten and I listened in fascination as a woman who was not related to any of our classmates introduced us to the wide-open, exciting world of hairstyling. The woman standing before us wore a white lab coat and I recall that she worked at one of the big department stores in downtown Seattle. The woman announced that she made heaps of money, which immediately impressed the class. She told us that she'd gone to beauty school and that she met all sorts of interesting people in her occupation. We were spell bound.

Now, the beautiful thing about "Career Day" was getting to do the "hands-on" part of each "learning unit". This occurred at the conclusion of each speaker's speech. The demonstrator would stand before us and actually demonstrate a particular skill set. Then we'd get to try performing the same activity as the professional while they walked around and supervised.

These skill sets were very basic. Because of this, I really don't think even the most skeptical or overtly cautious educator could have foreseen what happened next, because most people just don't imagine that sort of disaster. Prior to that day, I don't believe anyone ever considered a "Hair Combing" "Learning Unit" could become life threatening.

After her speech the hairstylist woman in the white lab coat grabbed a large plastic tray and began passing out plastic combs to the entire class. We were told to wait until she was ready and then she called Mrs Larsen to the front of the class. The hairstylist began showing us how she combed out a clients hair. It seemed very easy and very fun.

I looked at my partner Kirsten. She smiled, "Do me first Tim."

She turned her back to me and I began to run the comb through her long glowing hair just like the stylist was doing to Mrs. Larsen. Kirsten's extensive beautiful hair was actually much thicker than it appeared and I encountered difficulty making a complete pass all the way through her locks. Sometimes the comb snagged and Kirsten screamed, "Ouch! Not so hard!"

I decided that it would be easier if rather than just making long gentle strokes all the way down her head to the small of Kirsten's back, I would just make shorter, more rapid strokes closer to her head. This seemed to work far better and Kirsten leaned her head back toward me. I did not remove the comb from her hair as I worked, and as I combed I began to dance around and make exaggerated movements which made Kirsten laugh, and even some of our fellow classmates thought it was funny.

Yet as I worked, I began to notice that the strokes seemed increasingly impeded and that the comb wouldn't travel as far through her hair. In fact, the comb seemed somewhat caught. Each movement became shorter and shorter. I pulled back on the comb to start over but I couldn't seem to get the comb free. Drawing closer to Kirsten, I examined my work as I sped up the combing motions. The hair just seemed to withdraw like one of those Barbie dolls where you push a button and all Barbie's hair just instantly evaporates into nothing. Within a few more strokes, absolutely no play was left in the comb. I pulled gently as a test.

Kirsten screamed again. "Ouch!"

I let go of the comb. The comb did not fall to the ground but now stood perpendicular and suspended tight against Kirsten's head. I stared in disbelief. I'd never seen a comb do that before and being a guy and having a perpetual buzz cut, I simply could not believe my eyes. I pulled on the comb once again hoping to break this most awful spell. Kirsten yelled. "Tim! Stop it!"

The comb remained stuck. It stood completely tight against Kirsten's head. It would not budge. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed. Nope, they were all combing away on each other as if their lives depended on it. Then Kirsten just had to do it. She just had to reach around to the back of her head and feel the comb.

She screamed.

Not just any scream but a really loud, horrible, awful, worst moment of your entire life scream.

Mrs. Larsen and the hairstylist immediately rushed toward us. Kirsten was already sobbing. The class stared at this "Learning Unit" spectacle as they gathered closer. The people at the back of the room were no longer taking notes and the other parents had these knowing expressions of horror on their faces.

The stylist asked Mrs Larsen where her scissors were, saying something about there was only one way to fix this and that she'd never seen a more tangled mess in her whole life. Mrs Larsen motioned toward the desk, in a silent gesture that seemed more like shock than anything. The stylist found the scissors and we all watched fascinated as she began to cut the comb out of Kirsten's hair. It took a very long time.

Mrs Larsen told me that I should go sit in the principal's office, that I wasn't in trouble but that when Kirsten's parents got there they might not want to see me. I left class thinking that career day was turning out to be a total gyp.

The next day Kirsten appeared back in our class. Everything was different about her hair. Now she sported a bob cut with a large bald area on the back of her head. She wouldn't look at me. During recess she got a bunch of sixth grade girls to chase me and several other boys around the playground and we pretended to be really, really scared even though we really weren't.

Post "Career Day" my friendship with Kirsten was forever altered. I faced Kirsten's hostility for the remainder of third grade. The sixth graders only hated us for a couple days, then they admitted that actually they thought it was pretty funny. Over time, Kirsten's hair grew back, she healed, and the bald spot began to blend. I felt horrible and the scars remain. That was my last year at Lake Burien Elementary School and my family moved me to exile in Oregon. I never did get a chance to patch up my relationship with Kirsten.

I did not know it at the time but this would become the first of many examples in my life where I've learned just how long it can take a woman to forgive a man. Especially when a bad hairstyle is involved.

Now as I think back on "Career Day", "Learning Units" and bald spots, its probably a good thing that I haven't pursued many of those infamous gay occupations. People are way more lawsuit happy these days, and because God has this habit of going "all justice is mine sayeth the lord", I think its best to just lie low and leave the creative stuff to the professionals. I have this sense that if I ever do venture into the world of traditional gay pursuits, Kirsten will wind up as one of my clients.

That kind of karma is probably best left unserved.


~An update on Brad Steele...


Yesterday we reported that IGRA Cowboy Brad Steele was hospitalized with a serious Staph infection. This morning we are happy to report that although Steele isn't totally out of the woods, the hospital did remove the IV and that he is at home comfortable and in recovery from his bought with this serious infection. He appreciates everyone's prayers and asks that you continue to keep him in your thoughts and lift him up in your prayers that the infection does not reoccur.