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March 9, 2004

A Meditation on Skutch

When I moved back to NYC in the summer of 1999, life was pretty complicated. I’d just gone through a difficult, messy breakup—a relationship of nearly five years—and my aunt, whom I was very close with, was dying of ovarian cancer at forty-eight years of age. I was returning to a city where I had no close friends and very little faith or experience in trusting myself. It was a thorny time—though still exciting—as my adult life was, despite its hurdles, a clean slate.

In my first four months I found an apartment in an unknown place (the UES), began a new job, my aunt passed away, then my grandfather, and I felt, in almost all respects, completely alone.

Until that winter, I’d known Skutchie only via phone. At that time, I was working out of a school in East Harlem while our main office was down in the West Village; our primary interaction was in regard to fouled up invoices and budget requests. Let’s just say that I was a tad frightened of Skutchie the CFO.

Of course, this all dissolved one afternoon when, during a West Village visit to fill out insurance forms, I witnessed Skutchie being chased down the office hallway by my boss who was, on all accounts, attempting to twist his nipples. Let’s just say that for me, seeing a member of upper management get his knobs tweaked was a signal that things were going to be okay. No, really.

A slice of pizza, one sloppy night at Pravda, and a bag of popcorn and mustard while watching the tall ships sail down the Hudson River later, Skutchie was one of my closest friends. I’m sure it was more complicated than that, but I can’t really remember how. One minute he was scary finance man, the next he was spending Christmas at my parents’ house. First we were drinking frozen girly drinks in my empty East 77th Street apartment on a hot day, now I’m packing my knapsack to spend the night at his apartment full of boxes. Tomorrow he will move away.

Skutchie is to me an amalgam of many things. He is, of course, my gay boyfriend/husband, as we often joke, my financial conscience, the older brother I never had. He was my mentor for nearly four years, teaching me the ins and outs of a non-profit and New York City school reform. He is often a conduit, in age, spirit, and humor, between my parents and me. He offered me physical shelter when I had no home, emotional shelter when everything seemed broken, including my self.

But most importantly, Skutchie taught me what it is like to have a true family, one that exists not solely on genetics but on heart and mutual strength. In teaching me to rely on him, he also taught me to trust myself. He is so much a part of me that it’s difficult to extract the specifics.

This sounds like a eulogy, but it’s not. I do have trouble imagining tomorrow, a day when I will get home and know, for the first time ever, that he no longer lives in NYC. But at the same time, I know that he is moving into a new stage of his own life. A clean slate, if you will, from which he will work toward building a new wing of happiness. He deserves all the joy that he can get.
I wish my Skutchie all of the love and luck from the depths of my heart. I’m sure that I will be visiting Washington more often than I ever wanted to, just to see him.

Oh, and there better be a cute, loving, domesticated man waiting for him down there. If there’s not, DC has hell to pay.

Posted by callalillie at March 9, 2004 1:09 AM | La Familia

COMMENTS

Posted by: tien at March 9, 2004 8:56 AM

Posted by: mp at March 9, 2004 12:22 PM

Posted by: rachelle on a dell at March 9, 2004 1:25 PM

Posted by: corie at March 9, 2004 6:26 PM