Santana

When I first met S, I was living in Las Vegas. I had been there for almost 2 years, going to school and working full time. I was married and we lived in a great house with my mother, who I had hastily extricated from an ugly divorce in Hawaii. It seemed like a good idea at the time, moving my mother and my new husband to a city full of potential. There were jobs, and there was entertainment, and it was warm. I did my research, I interrogated the school recruiter (I intended to go to culinary school while I was there) and made sure that we would both make a living wage. At first, things seemed great, lots of opportunities, I was constantly busy and I was doing well in school. I was after all, going to culinary school after having been in the industry for over 14 years. My classmates and I were all very similar in that way, no rookies or shoemakers, all just brushing up their chops and trying to get that final piece of paper.

I was always searching, for something I wasn’t quite sure. I started to run again, work extra jobs either after school or before school or both. I would go for a massage on sundays and start by washing my truck, and then spending the day at the spa by myself. I was around people constantly, and so solitude was such a gift.

My mother developed a mean gambling habit, or maybe it just reared its ugly head. My not quite ex husband started to exhibit his usual pattern of discontent with work, and repeated his cycle of being perpetually unemployable. Both of these things left me furious, so on top of the discontent, I suppose I just cracked. I mean, I always knew I was gay and I even told him that I wasn’t sure of my orientation when we met. He seemed fine with it, supportive even, unless there was a woman threatening his status.

In walks S….Santana, so named by my good friend because her shoes were designed by Carlos Santana and it was pre “Glee” so the name had  certain street appeal, edgy without being too tough. I should mention that the ex husband and I had been together for at least 12 years at this point, he was good camouflage, I didn’t need to work too hard, and our physical relationship was always secondary to my professional ambition, so I didn’t have to justify our lack of it too often. So Santana and I met at a baby shower. My best friend from HS had called me weeks before asking if I would cater it, in the midst of my busy schedule as a way to get all of her girls together and have a fun weekend away from all of our respective responsibilities. At first it seemed like an ordinary gig, snacks to go with the wine (a champagne cocktail of cava and guava juice we dubbed “the plumeria”, instead of a mimosa, we thought it clever). We all chatted, I brought my wedding album, almost like a PhD defense without knowing it. Santana and I hit it off, making jokes about dental dams and marveling at each others ability to really taste food and flavors. It has been noted by several of our friends that at some point Santana looked at me, and then mentioned to them, that she would follow me home if it were allowed. The weekend ended with a gallery tour and a trip to Starbucks; the mundane things that upper crust ladies do when they get together. Something about that weekend, and that sense of sorority made me send an email to each of them individually thanking them for spending time with me (I was obviously lonely for female companionship). I wanted to continue the conversation, with each of them, each for different reasons. At that time, I thought that taking my mother and brother to Italy or Europe would be a good bonding adventure and so I had started to work more to save for the prospective trip. Santana seemed the most savvy so I reached out to her and asked her for travel tips. We started to talk about feminism and relationships and unbeknownst to me the flirting had begun. I suppose at that time I could have been branded as an “easy target”. But really I was seeking friendship, understanding on a deeper level, which in retrospect is how really great, deep lesbian relationships germinate. I started to fall in love with her, before I even got the chance to see her again, and so we planned a second visit, less than 2 months after our first meeting. She came out for a weekend and it was life changing. We ate sweetly, deliberately, and noticed every nuance of our interaction. I remember having a juvenile bet with a close friend about how soon it would take after I picked her up from the airport for us to consummate our affair. I was quick to shed my clothes, because I was eager to shed my shame about what I truly wanted, which was to be with a woman. I remember so much about that first night, showing her pictures of my family and my past, laying down on the floor so my voice would be deliberate and quiet. Her tiny hand grabbing my thumb after she left to go “scrub the tiny sweaters off her teeth” because she had been in a plane all afternoon. That first kiss, and our fumbling and discovery was so sweet and so sublime that after that weekend I could think of nothing else. It was precisely seven days until I told my husband that I needed a divorce. I thought it would be better if I just begged the million other reasons we didn’t work, and left out the gay. He seemed to fragile for that, right then. I am sure, after seeing my myriad failed facebook relationships he realizes that I am firmly and squarely planted in my gayness. When you want something unequivocally, your mind will cycle over and over the words you need to use, how you will start the conversation, when you will tell them. I remember being at the age where I needed a “thinking spot”. At the time, it was red rock canyon, I would often drive up there on my sunday “day off” and just sit there and zone out and wonder what to do with my life. The day I told him I was leaving, I spent a good 4 hours there, working over that conversation in my mind. I left Las Vegas less than 2 months later, having found a job in Santanas town, packing my belongings in the smallest trailer I could rent and driving as fast as I could in two days across two state lines. I can remember every single song I listened to, the terrain I crossed, and at what time of day. To this day, when I drive through Oregon, I can recall exactly what I was thinking at every rest stop and check point until I was in her arms in my new apartment with my new job awaiting me.

Transformateur: the act of transformation, changing, evolving, making something more than it was when it was first delivered into your hands. As a butcher, this verb seems more worldly and more apt to describe how life truly transforms us either to shatter us, or make us more whole. I miss that wonder, every element of it. The way she reclined in the passenger seat after smelling sweet jasmine tea, the way she would send me CDs of songs that I would then ask her to decipher. Those songs still bring me such languid joy to this day. The kind of languid joy you get after making love to someone all afternoon, just because, leaving you loose limbed with nowhere else to go. She would often leave my apartment after a date, telling me not to walk her to the door, because she knew I was a ball of energy, and that space of quiet was a good one, and staying in it was such a treat for me.

As I age, I realize that these stories are not meant to sadden, they are the facets and nuance and edges that give us our shining character. I miss her every day, but the person I have become is far different than what she was seeking and I still have so much road to cover before I become the perfect mate.