Notes Of An Uninteresting Event

At the airport recently, before boarding a flight to Brussels, I overheard a conversation between friends sitting at the next table. They were traveling to visit a friend of theirs in Amsterdam, whom one of them said they had been lifelong friends with, knowing him for over twenty years. These people looked like they were in their early twenties, so I guessed they had all known each other since primary school. One recalled how this friend was great when he would come “home” around Christmas or during the summer to meet up with them, but he wouldn’t really call or message regularly enough or respond to their messages outside of those times. They were concerned for this friend and were using the trip to reconnect. I had to leave to board my own flight before their conversation concluded, but I thought about it as I sat down for the two-hour plane journey, writing some notes on my phone about how it made me feel and considering the story I wanted to write.

Since beginning this blog, “Notes of an Uninteresting Event,” a title I borrowed and amended from a Deftones track, “Anniversary of an Uninteresting Event,” I’ve found that it helps me process my thoughts, concerns, and worries—a sort of therapy. Reflecting on that overheard conversation, I concluded that I was really putting myself in the shoes of the guy this group was traveling to Amsterdam to visit, while also considering the absence of childhood friends in my life. I often ruminate about the group of lads I grew up with when I was between the ages of four and fourteen. I played football with these lads in the ‘green area’ of our estate, explored the barley fields, rode bikes, played tip the can, built camps, climbed trees, and so much more that I still remember—all the things you’d expect to do with friends your own age.

However, when I turned fourteen in the mid-1990s, that friendship abruptly ended when they found out I was gay—right at the start of those formative adolescent years. I started this blog to encourage myself to think about that time in my life and to reach inward to my fourteen-year-old self, who I know felt betrayed, lost, and more, but couldn’t talk about it or understand why at the time. I want them to see me now, married to an amazing man and living a life I never thought I’d have. I want them to talk with my fourteen-year-old self, the part of me who still looks back at the time when I lost all those who could have been his lifelong friends. That’s why the conversation I overheard was so triggering—because yes, I would very much like my group of childhood friends to come visit me to see if I’m doing okay.