It was on my last birthday that someone welcomed me to my "Jesus Year". Jesus was 33 the year that he, you know, died and rose again. 33 was his last year on Earth, his big year of miracles and persecution and water-to-wine and whatnot. 33 was one hell of a challenge for The Man. It was also the year of Resurrection. It was a year which, by my standards, kind of sucked and kind of rocked, depending on how you look at it.
Now, I'm no Jesus. The ways in which I might resemble The Man are few and far between. I'm good people, sure, but I certainly ain't no miracle worker. However, I've been thinking a lot about my "Jesus Year", this year of 33, this year of double numbers. 33 has been a tough year, REAL tough. Not "crucified and was buried" tough, but tough enough that I don't ever want to have to do it again. In thinking about 33, I've been thinking about double numbers, 22 and 44 and 88 (crossing my fingers). And I'm seeing parallels that give me pause.
11. 11 was a decent enough year. 5th grade, no real disasters to speak of. Except for my hair. 11 was the year of The Most Unfortunate Afro. Really, my afro began at age 8, when, unable to handle my too-thick, waist-length hair, my mother took me to a shopping mall hair salon and handed my prized locks over to an unskilled day laborer. In a matter of minutes, my beautiful hair went from long-and-unruly to round-and-unruly with a series of ill-aimed scissor-slashings. "Shoulder length" doesn't exist with hair like mine. What appears to be shoulder length when wet becomes Bozo the Clown round when dry. My afro began at age 8, and it didn't begin to grow out until almost age 13. But 11 was the most unfortunate year of The Afro. It was the year that puberty kicked in, and my skinny kid body began to get round like my hair. 11 was the year the Ben Von Klemperer shouted out on the playground, "Hey Meg, why is your butt so big?" 11 was the year that my K-Mart clothes really began to look cheap, as they tried to accommodate themselves to my still-growing legs and my growth-stunted torso. 11 was the year of Mister Huff and orange Tic Tacs and refusing to wear a bra. 11 was the beginning of my Bad Girl phase, the year of smoking found cigarette butts and stealing cheap beer from the fridge. 11 was my Ugly Year, my year of awkward changes and strange new thought patterns and the roundest afro any white kid could ever grow. 11 is not a year I'd like to repeat.
But for my double-number years, 11 was a good one. And the parallels between 11 and my other double-number years are few and far between. 22 and 33, well....
22 began in the best way. It was my senior year of college, one month before I graduated (with honors!). I loved Emerson. I had amazing friends, loved my classes, was well-respected by my peers and my professors. It was also a year of Killer Hair. Anyway, on my birthday, I came home to find my Boston Chinatown apartment packed full of people. My friends had thrown me a surprise party, and holy crap, was I surprised! It was a great night, a night when I felt loved by many and was full of hope for the future. At the end of the night, when everyone had gone to their respective homes, I got to lay next to Alex and know that he loved me. It was perfect. There was no way I could have known then that this was the beginning of one of the hardest years of my life. See, 22 was the Year of Philly. It was the Year of the Butcher Shop. It was the Year of Too Many Street Drugs and Way Too Little Sleep. I started 22 surrounded by people who loved and respected me, I started 22 as an actor with a future, I started 22 in a city I was at home in. And months later, I was ridiculed for being a "college girl", I was doing no acting, and I was living in a suburb where there was nothing to walk to and working in a crumbling section of a city where I felt lost. The only "friends" I had were my co-workers at the butcher shop, an older couple who I had little in common with but seemed cool enough, until the night when they proposed that me and Alex engage in a little wife-swapping with them. (Which might have been cool, if I was into fat bald guys and Alex was into really fat balding ladies. Which we weren't.) 22 was a year of hitting rock bottom and wondering if I would ever feel happy again. 22 was a year of hiding under my covers and making few phone calls, because really, what did I have to talk about? The price of chicken leg quarters? The stench of hog maws and souse meat? The quality of Philly dope versus Boston dope? 22 was a year of false accusations and fighting to prove my innocence. 22 was a year of struggling to hold onto some sense of who I was. And 22 was a year of deciding that ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, going through withdrawal and getting clean, packing my bags and making a March move to a new corner of the country. Seattle. 22 ended with a sense of relief, a sense that things could only get better because I had seen the worst. 22 ended with a sense of Beginning, a feeling that I was closing an ugly chapter and beginning a new adventure.
33. I'm still in the thick of it, perhaps too much in it's midst to be able to see it clearly. But the similarities between 33 and 22 are impossible not to see.
33 began in the best way. It was my final year of grad school, one month before I graduated (no honors this time, but only because my program didn't work that way). I loved Columbia. I had amazing friends, loved my classes, was well-respected by my peers and my professors. I also had killer hair. This time, there was no surprise party to welcome me to 33. Rather, I threw myself a party at my brothers' East Village bar, Angels & Kings. I sent out an email to lots of people and was surprised to see how many showed up. The place was packed! I was overwhelmed with love, and I danced and laughed and felt like a queen. And in the wee hours of the morning, I got to lay next to Alex and know that he loved me. My Jesus year began in celebration. Months later, I moved from the city I adored, where I was surrounded by people who loved me and thought of me as a pretty kick-ass actor, to a city where I knew no one and felt like a foreigner. This time, there's no butcher shop. In fact, there's no job. There's no suburb, but I still can't walk to anything. There's no acting. There's no sense of Who I Am. There's also no dope, which is a good thing. But this year has undoubtedly been One Of The Hardest Years Of My Life. It has been a year of false accusations and trying to prove one's innocence (this time, in an actual courtroom). It has been a year of persecution, of poverty, of hiding under covers and ignoring the phone. (After all, what do I have to talk about? The price of chicken at Trader Joe's? The stench of the sewage after a desert rainstorm? The quality of Vegas Grimaldi's versus Brooklyn Grimaldi's?) It has been a year of isolation and doubt, a year of "Is this what my life is to be?" And it is now becoming a year of ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, packing my bags, and making a March move back to that favorite corner of the country. Seattle. And when 33 is finished, I am hoping it will bring a sense of relief, a sense of survival. I am hoping it will be the end of an ugly chapter and the beginning of a new adventure.
My Jesus Year reaches completion in a matter of months. I don't see any crucifixion in my future, though I suppose it's too early to rule anything out. Before it ends, my lover will have to go to court to learn his fate. The persecution of this year is mine only by default. It is his innocence which must be proven, it is his life that hangs in the balance. He is also in his Jesus Year, after all. He and I are tied together, though, so my Fate rests with his. (I'm talking about Alex, not Jesus. In case you were confused.) If 33 continues to parallel 22, then all will work out as it should, and Alex and I will have much to celebrate as 33 turns into 34. Jesus never made it to 34, but he made it to a much better plane of existence, if you're into that kind of Heavenly thang. I'm not looking for miracles, I'm just looking for peace, for a little happiness, and for a chance to be Me. I want to go to auditions and do shows and make a little money and remember who I am. I'm no Jesus, that's for sure, but I am kind of awesome. At least, I should be. I used to be. And I plan on getting there again. Maybe at 34. And that sounds pretty much like Heaven.
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