As long as I've been in mixed gender environments, I've had crushes on boys. In some cases there is a quick moment of realization and a switch flips in my heart and that guy becomes THE guy. In kindergarten it was Sean, a friendly boy in my class who was funny, sweet and gave me his phone number. I remember my sister studying the little scrap of paper with his handwriting and saying, "But it only has six numbers." Well, we were five. He tried. There was a yearly outdoor party my family used to attend. We would drive through rolling hills to a sleepy estate that sprawled over acres of grass with big old shade bearing trees. It was a party where people gathered in small groups because the total number of people in attendance was too big to be contained in one spot. At this party you may never even see the hosts, and people came and went according to their schedules, because the point was to show up, bask in the surroundings and enjoy the serendipity of not knowing whose path you'll cross. This was the type of thing where, if you were a kid, it was imperative to find the other kids and figure out if anyone was playing games or getting into something interesting while the parents were socializing.
This party was where I found Sean from my kindergarten class. We quickly paired off and found a tall grassy hill, which promised fun times of rolling down on your side and running back up to do it all over again. We weren't consumed with the fear of ticks or any of the other dangers the modern world tells us are lurking in the grass. At the bottom of the hill was a parking area where a young woman walked towards us. "You should try rolling down the hill," Sean told her. I couldn't believe it. We didn't know this person, and here he was, boldly suggesting this grown up roll down the hill in her nice blouse and skirt. "Oh, I rolled down the hill earlier," she replied, a typical grown up lie. I thought that was the end of it. There's no way she'll do it, I thought, but with enough persuasion, Sean had this person going up the side of the hill and rolling down, nice clothes and all. That was the glimmer moment for Sean. I was duly impressed, this boy from my class who didn't even know his complete phone number, had successfully gotten a grown up to do his bidding. That's some serious rizz, as the kids say (are they still using that term?).
Other crushes followed. In first grade I liked two different boys, Brian P., a quiet dark-haired boy known for his drawing skills, and Michael F. who had a soft rounded face, loose curly hair, and a gentle demeanor (They both had Italian last names; first grade was my era of returning to the roots on my mother's side). Most years I set my sights on one boy, usually not a popular one that everyone liked, but a boy who seemed perfect to me. In fifth grade it was a short Jewish kid named Derek Y. who engaged with me in sort of a love-hate thing. Our desks were near each other and we spent the school day roasting each other, but also sharing what we liked -- those red, black and white Air Jordan high tops, and "Broken Wings" by Mr. Mister. Despite our witty banter, I was sure he liked the girl everyone else--boys and girls-- seemed to like: Amber C., who had arrived at our school in third grade as a beacon of style with her Benetton sweatshirts, skinny Guess jeans, perfectly permed shaggy hair and glowing complexion. Imagine my surprise when a friend approached me to ask if I wanted to "go out" with Derek. What? He liked me? He liked me? I was too shocked to consider the consequences of saying yes so I rejected the offer immediately. In my world, unrequited love was supposed to stay that way.
Sixth grade was an anomaly -- I didn't really like anyone that year. Many of the kids in my neighborhood got shuffled into a different elementary school much closer to where we lived which meant there would be no sequel with Derek, no chance to right the wrongs. That year I spent a lot of time pining over him, regretful of my rejection. I hoped that seventh grade -- junior high school -- meant we would be reunited in the same school again. I imagined visiting my old elementary school and making amends, admitting that I actually had liked him, and that yes, I would like to go out with him. At this point I was self aware enough to understand my runaway imagination wasn't normal. This kind of daydreaming was strictly between me, myself and I. If I kept journals back then, all the possible scenarios would have been written down, the make believe scenes played out, and I'd click my pen, shut the book and hide it. This is why I'm amazed when my kids tell me about interactions, observations and thoughts about their latest crushes. For me, that was highly classified information, certainly not something to share with my mother or even my older sister lest they found a way to use my vulnerability against me.
Seventh grade brought Eric W. into my world. We had English class together and I hardly spoke directly to him. Over the year I learned he was adopted (if I remember correctly, his adoptive mother was one of the teachers at school). His last name said "Jewish" but his complexion and hair texture was more racially ambiguous. He was kind, but this became the year of getting tongue-tied around my crushes so we didn't talk much. I asked for advice from my friend Janet, who told me to call him, but to act a bit dumb, so he wouldn't feel bad. I knew this was terrible advice and thought, why should I dumb myself down? Who does that? I didn't say that to her, and I also didn't call. I will say both of these people are present day Facebook friends. Eric joined the Marines and is currently a commercial airline pilot (I sure can pick 'em). He also married a black woman, which tells me I had a chance. I say that because as I got older I understood there were guys that didn't look at me that way -- who would never look at me that way -- because I was not the love interest they envisioned for themselves. It's a hard realization, but no one said the truth was easy.
I started eighth grade a month after a cross-country move to California to a place much less diverse than the New York suburb where I'd spent the first thirteen years of my life. This meant people would try to be clever and tell me I'd "look good" with the one or two other black boys in our class. I held nothing personal against these guys, they seemed nice enough. It feels insulting when someone decides for you that you have less than a handful of prospects because they're using the same logic as someone sorting laundry and trying to make a "close enough" pair out of a pile of single, unmatched socks.
My attention ultimately landed on Greg L., a slender boy with a charming sense of humor layered over an angsty soul. This crush stood the test of time, lasting well into high school. To borrow a term from the movie Vanilla Sky, he was a proximity infatuation. Like me, he was also a new kid in eighth grade, and over the years we wound up in many of the same advanced classes. He also had a friend named Dan that my best friend Heather found alluring. As much as I preferred to savor my crushes from afar with as few words exchanged as possible, Heather preferred to take center stage and pursue her love interests for sport (the pursuit of Dan W. will be its own blog post, now that I think about it. Put a pin in that one, I'll come back to it in another post).
One summer, out of the blue, Greg called and asked if I wanted to go to the movies. Would I? I wasn't going to repeat my road not taken with Derek; I said yes. We were both old enough to drive by then and he picked me up in his dad's sporty BMW coupe. After being surprised by my sister's engagement, my dad made a point to be present to meet my date which felt overbearing but understandable. We then drove back over to Greg's house, where his dad greeted me and wished us well. There were no movie theaters in Half Moon Bay, which meant a drive "over the hill" to watch his selection: Beauty and the Beast. The entire time, I could not shake my awkwardness. We know sleep paralysis exists, but maybe "date paralysis" is also a thing. More than once I've ruined what should have been a fun time out trying too hard to think of what to say or how to be in the moment instead of freaking out inside of my head. That date was the first and last one on one outing with Greg. Other occasions followed, including a venture to see Frank Sinatra live, but that time Heather joined us. In some situations I needed a conversation doula to keep things moving along with minimal pain. During those years I pined for Greg, I watched him pine for pale-skinned, cheerleader-adjacent, elfin-looking girls. He was mixed also, but white and Filipino, and I sensed he felt guilt for not feeling the same way about me.
My last high school crush was Rob P. who took up headspace my junior and senior year. He was also my coworker at the library and in many of my classes. Rob had a too cool way about him with his unnaturally colored hair, pierced nose, perpetually baggy jeans and declaration that he had chose to become vegan. He was tall and lean, with a rectangular face and cool blue eyes, an appearance that aligned with his Scandinavian last name. One weekend Heather and I perused the aisles of KMart when she shared how she had spent hours on the phone talking to Rob and his assessment of me was that I was "super nice." She managed to pull out of him that he liked me liked me, and I wasn't exactly sure what to do with this information. We worked together and a library didn't exactly lend itself (see what I did there?) to chit chat. This hand-wringing went on for months, until I went with the absolute dumbest option: telling him in the parking lot right before we embarked on a three hour shift together. "I like you," I said. "Sorry," he replied. And scene.
I always had Heather as my soft place to land with her wise voice of reason. As we proceeded through the agony of our crushes she would remind me that we had so much ahead, with so many more people to meet. High school was going to be a short period in our lives and hopefully not the best part. She was right, of course, but what I didn't realize at the time was that these crushes would continue into adulthood, along with the painful awkardness and overthinking. Stay tuned.
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