April 9, nearly midnight, a month and a half and change before my 20th birthday. Hunched, scribbling in my faintly used black Leuchtturm journal I bought myself in January upon returning from an extended spiritual retreat in Pennsylvania that I promised myself I would use. I sit alone in the hollow seminar room of East Pyne, the room where Dante was taught for 35 years, where groundbreaking researchers, entrepreneurs, renowned artists, musicians, Nobel-prize winners, leaders of the free world have conjectured on the Divine Comedy in their first years of undergrad.
Empty chairs stare at me as the dim overhead lights flutter in and out, while the television screen displays drone footage of an unidentifiable American city at night. Behind me, the oddly modern clock, incongruous to the wood-paneled walls, ticks loudly, remaining audible as my noise-canceling earbuds produce the dark academic instrumental playlist I stumbled upon on my phone.
Voices cadence, halt, start once more, and the tunes of an all-men’s a cappella performance resonate into the gothic halls of the manor. Disbelieving the presence of the sounds within the building, I remove my earbuds, only to find the off-beats of the men’s song fit perfectly in time with the ticking of the clock behind me. Stunned, my head shakes in disbelief at the euphonic sound of the group. A group I futilely attempted to join at the beginning of the academic year in September, one of my many unsuccessful pursuits. As my friends got called back and received bids from groups, I struggled to make it past the initial audition round, often finding myself reading rejection emails in my inbox just a few hours after I performed my dutifully rehearsed audition song.
I reopen my journal, attempting to finish an entry tracing my family history from Eastern Europe to Brooklyn to Scarsdale to Israel, and my complicated relationship with Judaism for a presentation I have to give at Hillel tomorrow at noon. At a place where people have found solace in the comforting embrace of their religiosity, I struggle to feel connected, having grown up borderline secular, unaccustomed to the prayers, words, and customs practiced and celebrated by the people with whom I sit. People who don’t have to grapple with being gay and being Jewish. Who don’t have to wonder if the people sitting next to them will one day attend their same-sex wedding. Whose Rabbis haven’t needed to recite Leviticus 20:13, “A man who lies with another male has done an abhorrent act, and they shall both be put to death — and remain the bloodguilt” to tell them that their dual identities are incompatible.
The word “rejection” reverberates in my mind, repeating over and over. My conscious flashes to the dozens of failed applications, tryouts, interviews, where I was on the verge of getting the position, getting a spot on the team, getting hired. Where I could see success, my future, dangling in front of me, yet out of reach.
And instead, I see the people who were also in my shoes; only they were the fortunate ones: the ones who scored the role, made the team, landed the job. And then my mind envisions the younger people, the ones who have yet to discover the many possibilities, but who will, soon, and who will then get the opportunities I failed to obtain, when I had my chance, while I continue to struggle to find my footing. My mind drifts to my childhood and the people whom I emulated and aspired to be — the coaches, lifeguards, counselors — who seemed so much older than me when I was a child, but who are now my age, maybe a year or two older. Soon, I will be older than they were.
“12:15,” reads my watch. Shit. I still haven’t finished my entry and gone to bed.
Just as I pick up my precise, navy blue ballpoint, the wavelike arpeggios of André Laplante’s rendition of “Miroirs III: Une barque sur l’océan” flow through my ears.
A tremor of sentimentality and nostalgia surges from my forehead to the tip of my toes, and I see myself on the couch with my grandmother, watching Call Me By Your Name together on her tablet, because the day I convinced her to watch the film with me, to help her understand my life, her television wasn’t working. Glancing at her during every pivotal moment in the movie, trying to gauge the reaction in her face and eyes. Hoping she could experience the elation, melancholy, heartbreak, longing, for a time in the past, visible but just out of reach — emotions I felt and continue to feel. That she could see her life on the tablet — the way I saw mine. The nexus of youth and old, emerging in laughter, butterflies, and tears.
I see the time on my exes’ beds in New York and Cambodia, watching the film, overwhelmed with emotion, feeling so cared for and desired. I see the first time I kissed a guy, his fresh and invigorating breath emanating in my mouth, his tongue tickling my lips, his warm hand caressing my cheek, his careful, gradual release.
The same way Elio felt for Oliver. The way Oliver cared for Elio.
Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio.
My literary hero, the better version of myself — a prodigy, a polyglot, a man who smokes and drinks and goes to parties, and remains effortlessly lithe, all at age 17. An age old enough to be exposed to the world and digest the nuances that surround it.
But I’m 19 — and not for long. In spite of, or maybe because of, the approaching conclusion of my adolescence, I ruminate on the precocious parts of my life. My relationships, my encounters, my experiences. With my grandmother, going to the Met, discussing the plays and operas we enjoy, debating Verdi and Puccini — her fondness of Rigoletto and my adoration of La Bohème. Spending nights out in New York with my friends, sipping on cocktails and debating the meaning of life, dancing under the dim lights of speakeasies, and going home with men we certainly didn’t come to the city with. Living abroad at 18, away from my family and childhood home. Moments I have had an immense amount of privilege to have been able to experience that no amount of gratitude can ever fully express.
And as I list my interactions, I realize I’m futilely attempting to justify my value, because I know I cannot measure up to the accomplishments of others. The accomplishments of those who’ve received coveted positions, sang under historic arches, toured the country — heck, even made it to Broadway!
I have so much to say but so little time left to express how I feel. In a few weeks, I turn 20, another year farther from the ages of those who have been successful. Another year older, less sheltered by the comforts of youth.
The etude cascades in my body, and I know I must capture this moment, my body aching and tears beginning to form from the corners of my pale eyes while refusing to drip down my trembling face. I open my computer, the ticking of the clock still ringing, and the words of longing, desire, fear release from my fingertips and flow on the blank page of the paper.