Two Pittsburgh Boys

I feel safe writing about my impressions of the following boys in my life, because I am confident that none of them read my blog. For those of you who know them personally, you may certainly tell them what I have written if you are so inclined; however, your relaying this information is not the reason for my writing it. I am writing to try and redefine my relationships with various friends in Pittsburgh, and in order to do that, I must investigate who these people have become.

I had lunch this afternoon with Andy, and I once again cannot help but marvel at what a different person he has become during my six-month absence. Sitting across the table from me, eating Asian food (with chopsticks!) was the introspective, curious boy I remember befriending my senior year. Here in front of me was the Andy who interrupted my late-night homework with online discussions about religion and mortality and who wrote such a thoughtful message in my senior yearbook. Now, we talk about our jobs, our research, the mind (ours as well as others’), motivation, and (as always) purpose in life.

These are the kind of discussions I crave. This is the only way I know how to meaningfully relate to people: to share ideas about what matters to me and influences my life. I have found myself discussing people, particularly people we know in common, with many of my other friends. This is logical, because it provides a safe, easy groundwork for conversation to which both of us can contribute. Yet, it feels empty to just recite what we know about others in order to make conversation. It is just very difficult to begin a conversation about what does matter unless both people are on the same wavelength. Andy and I are on that wavelength again, and I cannot appreciate it enough. I hope I will have the chance to spend a great deal more time with him as the summer progresses, because I don’t know if I will ever have this opportunity again after we graduate.

Meanwhile, in spite of the turmoil that has constituted our recent relationship, Ben and I have also spent a significant chunk of time together in the last several days. On one hand, things with him have not changed a bit since I left for England: he still makes the same promises to “try harder” to repair our friendship, to renew my trust in him, to regain his footing on the life he once led. He’s still trying to get back on track with his parents, his girlfriend, his tennis career, his college education, and his own sense of motivation in general. I am willing to give him what little credit he has earned thus far: he has not irresponsibly cancelled plans without telling me yet, nor has he become defensive against many of the derogatory and reproachful things I have said to him. He understands that I do not trust him, and he seems willing to work and wait for that to change. (For now.) However, these things were supposedly all true six months ago, and then we proceeded to not communicate for half a year. Thus, I’m not getting my hopes up. Instead, I am just enjoying each moment I spend with him in that moment and not looking one second farther into the future.

What has changed in the last six months, though, is Ben’s ability to self-observe. Over our past few encounters, he has verbalized many realizations about himself and his actions that I never thought he would make. He knows which of his choices are wrong, and he knows he needs to plan ahead to avoid future wrong choices. (Sounds obvious to most of us, but Ben has always been rather deficient at decision-making.) He knows he needs to take his life one day at a time, one battle at a time, and one person at a time. He can acknowledge that he has hurt others without becoming defensive for the actions that hurt them, and he knows that he needs to make reparations in spite of not being able to offer an explanation for why he destroyed our friendship in the first place. All of these things are signs of—for lack of a better term—“growing up.” Granted, these are only baby steps, and Ben does an overabundance of backpedaling, but at least he is showing potential for change.

Interestingly, in comparing my interactions with and feelings regarding these two boys, I am discovering that I have more in common with Andy than I do with Ben. I don’t mean to imply that this is because I am more similar to Andy—that has always been true. We are both intellectual, we are both introspective, and we both enjoy variety in our lives (regarding people, activities, sports, food, etc.). Ben and I, on the other hand, are two of the most dissimilar people in the whole world: he wants everyone to like him, whereas I only hang out with people whose company I sincerely enjoy; he likes big social parties while I like small group gatherings; and at a very fundamental level, he watches movies while I read books. Ben hates vegetables; I couldn’t live without them. Nonetheless, none of these similarities or dissimilarities mattered in high school. While Andy and I did develop a close relationship during our senior year, it never grew to the capacity of my relationship with Ben.

I don’t feel closer to Andy right now, but I do feel more distant from Ben. Moreover, I feel that I could become closer to Andy now far more poignantly than that I will ever experience the same closeness Ben and I shared in high school. It’s an odd realization, and it reflects not only on how those two boys have changed, but on how I have changed, as well.