Valentine's Day

I haven't written much lately. Most of my thoughts have been reactive or inchoate. I have tried not to react too much to the provocations that life puts in my way, whether they be remote or near. It is just so exhausting to have one's emotions tugged by stupid cardinals (George) and fine editorials (The Tablet), or by the ebb and flow of ordinary life. So on Valentines Day, let me just say a few personal words.


When I was a school child, I already knew that this was the most awkward of days. I was not artistic as a child, and am still not artistic. (But I thought all gays were artistic! Another stereotype dashed!)  So all the attempts in the world to cut doilies and to write cards neatly only resulted in a mess of glue and paper and smudges of crayon or ink. And even in the first, second and third grade, I knew that something was 'off.' I just had no interest in giving valentines. And getting them seemed too much to hope for. I couldn't have articulated who I wanted to give them to, or receive them from. I only knew that it was all beyond me. So I only gave Valentines when it was a required class project, and only received them when it was required by the teacher that everyone make a valentine for everyone in the class, so no one would be left out. Those teachers were well intended, but we all knew the truth. Hapless me, and my hapless friends, just wanted to get past this day and on to Washington's Birthday, with its stories of cherry trees felled, and honesty, and strength enough to throw a coin across the Rappahonnock River, and fights with Frenchmen and Indians and English. Now that was a holiday I could relate to.


In my college years and young adulthood, it just didn't seem part of the program to celebrate Valentine's Day. We were mostly waiters and bartenders and other service personnel in those years, and we were pressed into service to cover for others who had dates, real dates, or real spouses. The day was beside the point for us, and we were beside the point to even our friends. After all, if you've spent your year in hiding and subterfuge and denial, you can't exactly protest on Valentine's eve that you do have a real reason with a real person not to work that night.


Valentine's day in a house of celibates is interesting. Everyone is touched to some degree by a feeling of wistfulness, a feeling of being left out. At least in the houses where men are young enough to remember. I have lived in religious houses with the old and crusty. They weren't even aware that it was Valentine's Day (and equally outside of much else in popular culture). I remember once going from restaurant to restaurant with an aged group of priests, and only at the third place where the wait was hours long did someone ask in all innocence: "why are so many people out tonight?" How can you lead pastorally when you are so out of touch? How can you shepherd if you don't know where your sheep are? In my defense, I at least, knew that we'd be lucky to find a table at a greasy spoon on the 14th of February. But I was not consulted, being then still a mere youth in my 40s. Clerical years, like dog years, are different from ordinary counting. Only in a group of Catholic priests is the 50 year old called "the young one" (but that's another post entirely).


So this Valentine's Day is bittersweet. Human love and I have passed each other by. Usually that is OK. But tonight I wish the worlds's lovers well, and wonder what it would be like if I were to be among them.