A Glaring Omission

I made peace with being cast out by others pretty early in life. As lonely as it may sound, I don’t recall many times during childhood when those actions affected me any longer than a moment or two. Being deemed the weird/gay/weird gay freak by everyone from neighborhood kids to blood relatives allowed me the privilege of sneaking away whenever I pleased to dive deeper into hobbies that molded the proud pop culture geek and writer I am today.

There is, however, one instance from my adulthood where I was cast aside that troubles me. I would say this particular moment is one that, for lack of better phrasing, messed me up on levels I’m just starting to move past. If I sound relatively bothered in the words to come, it’s because I still am.

Even as I walked through the tall glass doors of the media company that hired me in 2015, I didn’t believe what was happening. Just a month before, I was almost certain that I would never make it out of my Bronx neighborhood; much less, be anything other than a stay-at-home freelance writer who made just enough money to keep Momma off my back.

For almost six years, I had been building my freelance career from the bottom up, finally finding promise and stability in a professional space that satisfied both the creator within and the mildly stubborn person who never took to customer service or professional authority well.

Writer’s note: Yes, I realize editors fit the bill of “professional authority,” but I was usually able to resolve their criticism and corrections by remembering that they, to some degree, were fellow creatives – just more demonic than most.

As I walked around the glass-plated conference room in the office (there was a lot of glass in this place), I found who I was ultimately seeking: My supervisors.

Technically, I had known Shane and Patrick for months by that point. Every morning, they were the teammates I touched base with before I composed my first article. We had gotten along mostly well. Shane was known for going above and beyond to ensure all writers were in the best headspace at any given moment. Patrick, meanwhile, was perfect in assigning hot topics geared toward our most knowledgeable interests.

They both welcomed me to the office and the state of California with open arms. Like myself, they were transplants from other parts of the country; Shane from the Midwest, and Patrick from the South. At the time, many of Patrick’s articles had been based on the culture shock of moving from a state with actual seasons, to one that felt like an endless summer vacation. These posts had done extremely well and gone viral. I made a mental note to look to Patrick’s smarts and work ethic as the standard to build on going forward.

That afternoon, Patrick invited me to lunch to properly celebrate my arrival, and get a handle on someone he had only known through text. As he waxed poetically about California life and how cool it was to have another East Coaster in the office, I couldn’t help but be positively triggered by his wit and words.

He was extremely charismatic, but not to the point of overbearing my energy or the conversation. Admittedly, he wasn’t too bad on the eyes, either – but I knew not to, as Momma would say, shit where I eat. Also, he was very straight, so there was nothing to worry about on that front. Still, I enjoyed his company. It felt like the beginning of my first friendship in California.

When I came into the office the next day, I found Patrick chatting it up with another writer I hadn’t seen before. Patrick would soon share that Sam, the other writer, had been brought on the team before I was, but was absent the day I arrived. Like Patrick, Sam was just as kind during our introduction. Still, Sam’s aura, full of natural confidence, made me feel somewhat intimidated.

As I made my way to my desk, I could hear Patrick and Sam still chatting in the background about whatever topic I previously interrupted. That afternoon, Patrick asked us both to join him for lunch, but it became clear very quickly that this time around, I would be nothing more than a one-person audience for the Patrick and Sam Show.

With Patrick and Sam being immediately cliquey, I gravitated toward some of my other co-workers who joined the team as time went on. None of them are worth mentioning other than Alyx, another California native who had come to us by way of Sam, with whom they were good friends. Almost from the start, I felt a closeness with Alyx that I hadn’t with anyone else in the office. Despite having more connections to the entertainment world than any of us, they were humble and kind. It also helped that our experiences with Black mothers gave Alyx and me a similar view of life and the world around us.

One particularly normal weekday, Patrick came into my section to ask Sam, Alyx, myself, and the rest of our team out to lunch. By this point, I learned that most of Patrick’s group invitations were often centered on Sam and some of the female writers in the office. The rest of us tended to just tag along.

As we made our way to the elevator, we talked about the day we had so far, and what would come once we returned from lunch. I don’t remember exactly who I was talking to or what I was even talking about, but I do remember what yanked me away from the topic and my overall state of mind.

“Do you have to be so loud,” Patrick asked with annoyance, looking directly at me.

The entire hallway went silent. Behind Patrick, workers from the office directly across ours began to peer through the doorway at us. After a beat that felt like more of an extended mix, I apologized to Patrick for my supposed raised voice. As the elevator arrived, I made an excuse to return to the office to retreive something. As you may have guessed, I did not go to lunch with my co-workers that day.

Rule no. 1: Never tell a neurodivergent gay New Yorker to be quiet. They will honor your request… forever.

Sometime before I officially signed on as a proper employee at the company, I got a peek at a side of Patrick that didn’t come into focus until that day at the elevator.

As a junior writer, all articles were to be submitted to Patrick before they went live. Once they were drafted and edited, writers had to email Patrick to notify him of their completion – at which time, he would then perform further edits before finally publishing them. On one such day, I had been assigned to cover a hot trending topic. After the final edit of my post, I emailed the copy to Patrick and waited for him to respond. 30 minutes later, that hadn’t occurred.

After a second email went unanswered and knowing that Patrick, like myself, was often glued to Twitter (to fish out trending topics), I decided to tweet him to get his attention. Within moments, he finally responded via email but not how I expected.

“Moving forward, I would appreciate it if we corresponded about work solely through email. Your article is now live. Thank you.”

But that’s exactly what I did, Patrick – twice.

I refrained from stating that directly, along with some other choice words but it was quite difficult.

After the group returned from lunch, Patrick offered his take of an apology for his elevator outburst (“Sorry, but you were being so loud. Did you even notice?”). Regardless, I chose to keep my distance from him. Over the next few weeks, I only attended group lunches if Patrick wasn’t around to lead or organize them. No one in the office noticed the change in my attitude and habit other than Alyx. They were the only person to check in on me after that embarrassing encounter.

The last group outing I remember with Patrick occurred on my birthday in October. For some reason, he was convinced I needed to try loaded taco fries for the first time to mark the occasion. For the record, they were gross.

Following another coarse interaction where he laughed off my excitement for a then-upcoming Janet Jackson concert (“Does she even have albums after ‘Control’?) and a breach of Rule no. 2 (“Never make fun of a Black music legend to a neurodivergent gay New Yorker”), I dialed back all interactions with Patrick that weren’t themed on professional matters. Not long after this, Sam, Alyx, and I were all laid off from the media company - on the same day, no less! - due to an alleged lack of funding. I don’t remember if Patrick left his comfortable leather chair to even say goodbye.

The company would shut down completely the following January. By this point, I was back in NYC, feeling the weight of losing my dream job, and being the only person forced to return to the life they had long outgrown. Alyx, Sam, and I kept in contact after we were all let go from the company. It was the sole saving grace, though even then, I would feel a jealous pang every now and then knowing that Alyx and Sam could bounce back easily. To this day, that hasn’t fully happened for me, at least not professionally.

Later that same month, a post with multiple tags attached to my former co-workers popped up on my Facebook feed. It was a long letter from Patrick, who I had unfriended months before (we were still connected on Twitter, however). His words, warm as the California sun I deeply missed, expressed gratitude to every person on the team, by name, for being part of a truly life-changing experience… except for one. I was the only person he did not mention.

Writer’s note no. 2: Before anyone attempts to use my own words against me, there were several co-workers Patrick mentioned who weren’t his Facebook friends at the time he posted the letter. I should know. I checked his friend list and re-read the letter numerous times to cross-check any linked profiles - and to ensure I hadn't missed my name accidentally.

Patrick and I spent approximately six months in the same office, with nothing more than a door separating the desks we worked from every Monday through Friday. I worked just as hard; if not harder, as he did, using the talent I was blessed with to make other people way more money than I ever made. Like him, I tried my hardest to keep a company afloat that; I would later learn, was already severely failing due to reasons I’m still legally not allowed to state publicly.

To make matters worse, due to this job, I lost six months with my late mother, who was mentally and emotionally struggling to get by on her own without her two sons – one who died less than two weeks before I arrived in California, and the other, who still remembers the look of sadness and loss on her face as I entered the airport that dreary April morning. I barely got to hug her goodbye before being rushed into the terminal by airport employees.

Rule no. 3: Never lessen or negate a neurodivergent gay New Yorker who gave up everything to sign on to the company you both gave your blood, sweat, and tears to. You will feel their wrath for years to come.

How dare you, Patrick, try to erase me from that story - how fucking dare you. Yes, I'm still angry and no, I haven't forgiven you.

To this day, I do not know why Patrick did not include me in his letter. I would later discover that Patrick and two former co-workers started a new “publication” to keep their names and words active in online journalism. I never received an invite to join them, but that isn’t surprising. I have considered confronting Patrick directly over the years. Other than a few limited online interactions, I haven’t said much to him. This is the first time I’ve expressed this hurt in full – and I think I needed to, to finally start healing and let go of the past.

It's still “fuck Patrick” on this end, though. I’m good without him or that association. Is that petty of me to say? Possibly, but then, so was his letter. 🤷🏿‍♂️