Parting is such sweet sorrow

One of my favorite authors in the English language is William Shakespeare. One of the reasons I enjoyed Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country so much is the tie-ins with Shakespeare that came all throughout the movie. It made sense because Christopher Plummer was cast as a Shakespeare-spouting Klingon in the movie.

The reason the title I used for this post came to mind was that my manager's last day at Capital One Bank was today. Ben had been there for five years and was moving to New Orleans. He was originally from Texas and he mentioned to me that New Orleans was closer to home for him. Even so, the fact that he was leaving was a stunner for me. The day he told me he'd put in his two-weeks notice saw me absolutely stunned. As the final hours soon became the final minutes of his tenure as our manager, people began to feel a genuine sadness. A couple of the women who were on Ben's team before the change in schedules that officially happened today were crying.

I'm not one who likes to show emotion that way. On some level, I have the tendency to try to show a stiff upper lip inherited from my mother's side of the family. Dad #1 is much more likely to wear his heart on his sleeve than either my mother or I are. Even so, I felt a powerful sense of sadness with Ben's departure. I told one of the women about it and she told me she could tell I was feeling "some kind of way" ever since Ben announced he was leaving. It may not have been as obvious as it was when the other woman had to log off and go somewhere to cry, but either it was obvious enough for others to pick it up in me or she's well tuned to my feelings.

After working with Ben for a year and a half (not counting the one month I was in training prior to officially starting on the floor), we'd developed a strong working relationship first. But before long, we also became friends. I hadn't sent him a Facebook friend request until today, about an hour after he'd left the contact center for the last time, but that's because I have an unofficial policy against friending a boss. In real terms, I felt comfortable going to him not just for advice on work-related matters. I also went to him as a sounding board for matters that didn't directly have to do with my work. I came to love his generosity, the genuine manner he treated people, and how knowledgeable he was about the company.

It will be a different experience for me whenever I find out who my new manager will be. I have a good rapport with the two remaining managers. CeCe was a colleague working with me on Ben's team for a while. In recent months, Maria has started treating me as if I were one of her peers rather than a subordinate. If it's a new hire who becomes my manager, it will be different having to establish a working relationship first. But, hey, anything can happen.

A funny thing happened today as I was getting ready to leave for the day. One of my colleagues said one of his relatives thought I was the manager from the picture of me, him and Ben. Then he said I was essentially the boss, but without a title. It's actually the way I prefer it. I don't need the extra headaches that come with management. I prefer the element of influence, especially relative to my rank. Even so, I will say this about the possibility of becoming a frontline manager: Never say never.

"Special treatment" or not?

When I was a kid, there were a number of times I got treated differently from other kids. Often, it went past the point of resentment on the part of other kids who had no idea why someone else was treated differently from them. At that age, you're just aware of what seems to be an obvious injustice. I'm not sure all of the whys and wherefores that went into that special treatment, but suffice to say, it made things a rough go.

That feeling led to years of my wanting to not be treated differently from other folks. If someone were going to try to do something for me that he or she wouldn't do for someone else, it made me uncomfortable, even if I'd earned the special treatment.

Flash back to Saturday night. I went to The Barking Dog in College Park, which has become my regular place in College Park to relax and have a beer or few. One of the guys who had been a barback and bouncer there was now bartending. His name is Sam. He saw me and then offered me a beer on him. I accepted because I don't make it a habit to turn down free drinks, plus, he's cool.

Then later, I was chatting with a woman who obviously knew him about the fact that we both firmly believe in tipping well. I mentioned something I read in a list of do's and don'ts for patrons at a bar. After finishing the story, Sam chose to add emphasis to the point by stating that he's seen times when the place is packed and bartenders will stop what they're doing and get me a beer. That story brought back some of the awkward moments of getting special treatment from the past, but I took it in stride this time. I ended up having four or five beers and three shots. Total tab? Four dollars. My tip was $6. I also believe in tipping on the pre-discounted tab.

One of the reasons had to do with something I remember from seeing former Dallas Cowboys coach Jimmy Johnson talk about his management style as head coach. He didn't treat his players equally, and he made that a point of emphasis in his speech. He used an example of players falling asleep in a meeting. He said if a third string tight end fell asleep in a meeting, he would cut the guy. However, if Troy Aikman, then a stellar quarterback, fell asleep, he'd simply go up to him and say, "Troy! Troy! Wake up!"

Even so, getting used to special treatment -- if it's earned -- is something I need to work on.

Something I always found amusing finally made sense on Thursday night. If you've read any of my previous blogs where I mentioned hilariously unexpected homoerotic moments, there's a recurring theme. Namely, whenever they happen to me or in my sight, I'm keenly aware of how awkward they make me feel.

So why is it just now starting to make sense? I went to go hang out with a friend who was celebrating his 52nd birthday. He was there with several people, including a 23-year-old roommate who was also gay. Many of the other people left to go their separate ways shortly after I arrived. I was unable to take time off and spend a lot of time at Nellie's, a gay sports bar in D.C. where the festivities were taking place. Thus, I got there toward the very end of the time at Nellie's.

After a few minutes and a couple of pictures, we went to Cobalt, which is a more typical gay club. For one of the few times in my life, I found I did not hate the experience. I hate clubs with a passion. This one, however, didn't have quite as much of the same feel I hate. I wrote "clubs" and not "gay clubs" or "straight clubs" for a reason. The pounding music, the having to scream at the top of your lungs to be heard or have someone send decibel-shattering soundwaves into your inner ear for you to hear them, and the overpriced drinks do not appeal to me. I'm more at home at a sports bar or at a karaoke bar. In those places, I can relax, listen to reasonable volume music or rock out on stage.

Anyway, I bought myself a screwdriver, while my friend's roommate discovered they were $2. In D.C., that's dirt cheap, even though the portion was definitely less than I'd get in College Park or Laurel. He must have downed about five, not to mention anything else he drank the night before. Long story short: when my friend decided it was time to go, his roommate staggered out of the building. He asked me to hold the roommate up, and I agreed to. Then he hailed a cab.

My friend went in first, followed by his roommate. That meant I was going in third. Here's where it gets interesting. The roommate reached out for my hand. I took it, then we sat in the cab for the short ride back to Nellie's. While we were driving back in the cab, the roommate and I held hands with my hand resting on his leg the entire time. Nothing else happened in the car and nothing happened afterward, but I can definitely remember not feeling the same awkwardness I felt with some of the unexpected moments. Then I remember realizing why.

Much of my awkwardness in those moments came as a result of the fact that the guys in the moments that didn't feel right were straight. The guys in those moments that didn't feel awkward were gay. I can't say if it's a prejudice on my part or merely something I need to learn to get more comfortable with, but I can say there's a definite difference when I know a guy is gay and I know he knows I am.

It's Not Make Believe Then...

One of the prevailing themes that I end up coming back to in this blog from time to time is certain events that make me raise an eyebrow.

If anyone has spent any length of time reading carefully over the course of time I've written about sexuality, I've often commented about things that have happened to me that have made me question some of my long-held notions about the way people see sexuality.

I've sung "I Got You Babe" with a straight guy who was very clearly singing the song with me for the comedy factor, but in the most recent times we've done the song, he's actually reached for and held my hand during the part when Sonny sings, "so put your little hand in mine, there ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb." Granted, that added to the comedy factor, but it also struck me as something I never thought would happen when I was younger.

A few years ago, I first noticed young women going out on the town who would hold hands to make sure they stayed close by. They didn't strike me as lesbian, and I am fairly certain all of them identified as straight. However, that became not a big deal over the years because it became increasingly common. However, straight men never do that. Or at least didn't. One night, I happened to get into a conversation with former Maryland men's basketball guard Mike Grinnon at the now defunct Santa Fe Café. At one point, he asked me to walk into the bar with him. Within a few seconds, however, he grabbed my hand and led me into the bar and we continued to hold hands for several minutes while we were inside.

I've seen guys kiss each other on the cheek in recent years, usually between guys who seemed at first impression to be very close friends. A couple of times since my college days, it's even happened to me. What seems confusing, though, is that a straight male friend of mine recently gave me kisses on the cheek on two separate occasions. The first time, he did so TWICE within a few minutes of each other, both during real hugs (not the ever famous "guy hug" you see a lot these days), punctuating the second with the words, "I love you."

Now, I know love can certainly be platonic, but you can understand someone growing up in a more restrictive era being a bit confused about the situation. There was one other situation over a decade ago that I was even more confused by, but I really don't want to get into the details. This one seems strange enough for me.

When did the rules change?

It's official. Well, it was unofficially official yesterday. But now it's official today.

What am I on about? In my last entry about reading the tea leaves, I made a mention about the possibility of moving to a new team where I'd start handing escalated calls. I got an e-mail directed to the members of the new team and was invited to a meeting with other members of this new team where we were officially told we would be on the new team.

Based on the comments from my boss's boss, this new team is essentially a business department all star team of the best bankers in the department. We found out that we'd handle everything from overflow calls from customers wanting an account balance to calls from our high value and high potential customer bases to escalated calls from the regular teams. We were told the company was discussing raises to go along with the increases in responsibility and the fact that we'd all be given manager authority within the bank.

I make it a habit to try not to read into so-called tea leaves for things of this nature until I get official word that it's happened. I've seen too many times when something has been presented to me as a certainty and have it collapse. The latest example is when Patch.com was actually checking references and doing background checks to offer me a position as the editor of their Upper Marlboro Patch. That ultimately fell through because of my previous job history. However, this is happening as of July 1.

As a matter of curiosity I typed up the list of people on the new team in a Microsoft Word document and realized that I was an employee at the company for the shortest time of anyone on the new team. After talking to someone else who is also on the new team, she told me that my lack of tenure with the company was considered when the powers that be decided to offer me the position, but that I was ultimately chosen because of my willingness to research customer accounts, work to resolve problems and demonstrations of leadership. It underscored the comments my trainer made and the guy I mentioned in my last entry made about Capital One considering performance over tenure when offering rewards to their best employees.

Even as I look at what appears to be the greatest work-related triumph of my life, I can't help but think back to the dark days. The days when I was unemployed and earning no income at all. The days when I didn't even have a short-term assignment from my temp agency. The days when the unemployment benefits ran out. The days when I hoped for something -- anything -- that gave me a little bit of money and a little bit of purpose. That makes the moment I'm writing about now that much sweeter. To not only get a job -- any job -- but to get one in which I'm valued as an employee and one in which I've grown as an employee is about as far from the dark days of the past as it gets.

I still think back to some of those dark days with some irritation at Lynn and Bernie, but before I dwell on them too long, I think about a saying which became a R.E.M. song that I play in my head whenever I think about my time now. "Living Well Is The Best Revenge."