Stuart probably knew all of this, but he could probably also see the vulnerability I was always trying to hide from the world: my fear of failure and not being good enough. This lined up nicely with Rosacoke’s fear of being stuck in the generational poverty and pain of her world. He believed that if I could dig deep enough, I could tap into what I needed to bring this young girl to life.
Stuart knew what he was doing. He would take me for long walks, and we would talk. I started to confide in him, and when I told him I was a virgin (I hadn’t been with a guy, so I thought the term still applied), he almost cried. “That is so sweet!” He was from the South and these were his people. Stuart urged me to see that depth and virginal innocence in me as something I could use creatively. I just had to be strong enough to allow myself to be vulnerable. Great lesson. For art and for life.
The whole time Stuart was directing us in Early Dark, he was sick. “I can’t seem to shake this cold,” he’d say, just about every week. I didn’t think anything of it until one night when I mentioned it to Chris on the phone.
“Oh my god,” Chris said. “He may have AIDS.”
At that time, the early 1980s, AIDS was this mysterious new illness. It was the first I’d heard of it, though it wouldn’t be long before it would decimate the gay male community.
About a year later, when I heard the news that Stuart had died from AIDS-related complications, I was devastated. What a loss.
I DID A LOT OF DRINKING DURING THIS TIME. I HAD company, because we all did. But at least to me, in my own private Idaho of pain, my drinking was different. Unlike the social drinking my friends did, getting to my “first today, badly needed” was compulsive and all-consuming.
I had all four of my impacted wisdom teeth taken out while I was at Cornell, and I couldn’t drink for a while after the surgery because I was wiped out. I realized then that I had boozed it up every single day since my senior year of high school. I drank specifically to get drunk. I’d think nothing of tossing back a six-pack of Miller Lite—anything to get that merciful buzz. Although sometimes the buzz wouldn’t come and I’d just feel bloated.
I wanted to feel good. I just wasn’t sure how to make myself happy, and I wished someone else would get me there. I started spending a lot of time with another grad student, named Hugh. He was a smart, self-deprecating, easygoing guy. We’d go out for dinner at the ABC Café, and he’d look over the vegetarian menu and then order a “rib eye, medium rare.” The humorless vegetarians and bearded lesbians didn’t find it funny. But Hugh cracked me up.
We’d go out to bars and drink, or we’d drink at home, or on some nights, we’d do both. Hugh had some culture, so I started drinking more exotic beers like Heineken, smoking Turkish cigarettes we rolled ourselves, and drinking flavored coffee. No more Folgers. Hugh was a wonderful friend, and I told him everything, including about my relationships with women. He was cool with it.
Hugh in the blue shirt I wish I’d kept. It looked better on me. With Beth, my roommate.
My roommate was moving out, so Hugh moved in. We became inseparable and even started wearing each other’s clothes. I loved spending time with him, but when he started to fall for me, things changed.
I didn’t really want a physical relationship with Hugh, and if it had been just up to me we’d have stayed close friends. He had reasonable heterosexual expectations and was moving our relationship toward sex. I was curious enough, and in need of affection, that I moved with him. We started having sex, which led me to fear I was pregnant every two seconds. An unreasonable fear since we used protection. No matter what we did (or didn’t do) the night before, the next day I was always convinced I was pregnant. Once, Hugh laughed and said to me, “You’d have to be a goddess of fertility to be pregnant after what we did last night.”
Hugh was as sweet and kind as he could be, so I soon found myself despising him. He never gave voice to these feelings, but I knew he was falling in love with me. How did I know? Because I had helped myself to his journal (yes, it’s a pattern). I’d push him away, but he’d just wait patiently for me to come back, which I always did. I needed the comfort and companionship.
Then I became a real asshole. I started pushing away anyone who showed me kindness. That inner diva who had first reared her ugly head at Illinois State reappeared with a vengeance. I was the worst person to have at critiques. No one could do anything right as far as I was concerned, and I made absolutely sure they knew it. In the haughtiest of tones, I’d demand, “What the hell was that?” “How dare you demean Molière in that way!” “Why are you making that face?” “You’re just showing off!” Everything everyone did was wrong, and I couldn’t let anything go. I was undoubtedly an absolute joy to have around.
Thus began my phase of assholatry, a period that would go on for some years. I just felt like something within me was fundamentally broken. In true Psychology 101 fashion, the crap I spewed at them was the crap I wanted to spew at myself. I was scared to death that I didn’t have what it took. Everyone started to steer clear of me, except for Hugh.
I was at one of my lowest points, and Hugh took the brunt of it. I even came to hate his accent, not that he really had one, having grown up in Southern California. He was like a puppy, loyal and loving, which I found pathetic. How dare he love me? What was wrong with him?
I should say that while all of this suffering was unnecessary, it did make for some good comedy. Years later, with lots of distance, I saw my young self in one Sue Sylvester. Hell-bent on revenge and out to crush the dreams of the innocent, Sue is always looking for the next fight. “Get ready for the ride of your life, Will Schuester. You’re about to board the Sue Sylvester Express. Destination horror!” I was awful in those Cornell years, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to make my ridiculousness funny.
In the midst of my turmoil, I had one teacher—a visiting instructor, actually—who saw what I was doing and tried to help me. Her name was Jagienka Zych-Drweski, and I barely remember anything else about her, but I’ve never forgotten what she said to me.
She shook her head with a mix of pity and frustration and said in a thick Polish accent, “Jane. You have to learn to let things roll off your back!”
I wanted to, but I didn’t know how. Unfortunately for me (and anyone else within earshot), it would be years before I’d figure it out.
Eventually I pushed even Hugh away, but shockingly, we stayed friends, and to this day we call each other on our birthdays.
WHEN I GRADUATED FROM CORNELL, MY MOM AND dad and Aunt Marge picked me up for a little family vacation. I was twenty-four, with an overbearing perm and an attitude to match. We were making our way to New York City, where I was hoping to ply my trade in theater.
We drove all up and down the East Coast, sightseeing, the four of us sharing small hotel rooms. I was in a terrible mood the whole time. I was critical of everything and rolled my eyes so frequently I gave myself vertigo. Soon, everyone had had enough of me. Things came to a head in Boston.
My dad wanted to do the Freedom Trail, a walking tour of historical sites in Boston that’s supposed to be a fun, easy way to learn New England history. But we kept losing the trail. We wandered through Boston with Dad saying, “Where’s the goddamn Freedom Trail?” as I let my parents know exactly how stupid I thought the whole thing was by complaining at every turn. “Oh my god, we walked all that way for this?”
The next morning, I opened my eyes to find my mother sitting at the foot of my hotel bed. “You’re ruining my vacation,” she said quietly. I behaved a little better after that, but my inner bitch was only temporarily muzzled.
When the Goddamn Freedom Trail vacation was finally over, they