"The Etiquette of Proper Introductions"

"The Etiquette of Proper Introductions"

"Hello, nice to meet you," "Likewise." I cannot even describe how much I hate those words and all of their sordid variations. Whenever I hear them, I feel my stomach folding in on itself and the muscles of my diaphragm beginning to crunch. I get sweaty and tunnelvision starts to limit my eyesight to a couple tiny pinpricks. I try to fight paralysis by lifting my hand and extending it forward. I grope around until I grip another, all before everything culminates in a moist, jilted farce of a traditional handshake. Afterward, you may leave the introduction thinking of me as, "Robbie Ross, the guy with the weird handshake and sweaty palms." That's all well and good, however. I'd much rather be that than, "Robbie Ross, the faggot."

They say you can tell a lot about a man through his handshake; and by "a lot," they mean "his sexual orientation." The kicker is that I don't want to be limited to that. I don't want to be limited to mental images of me with a pansy lisp instead of my sharp, Canadian-British bark. I don't want to be limited to imaginings of me lying face-down on a sweat-drenched bed while some anonymous, hirsute sexual liaison pounds my waifish form from behind. I don't want to be limited to electron microscope pictures of my cell-walls breaking while the AIDS virus rampages through my immune system.

Sadly, that's just what I am limited to as I stand under the scrutinizing eyes of Jim/Geff/Harry/My New Step-Uncle. His green, be-medal'd military uniform looks ridiculous against the buttercream tablecloths and balloon garlands of my Aunt Nin's wedding reception. My outfit helps me camouflage, at least. Black, white, and gray with an adventurous green silk tie. However conservative, though, I know Ralph/Joe/Fred still sees me in bondage leather and an ill-fitting speedo.



Rewind to "Bobbie" Ross, age fourteen. The reverse ugly duckling. A cute, precocious little kid who was growing up to be maladroit and inadequate in every sense. Here we see young Bobbie alone in his room with his face illuminated blue and tan by a handmedown computer screen. He's crunched up in his chair, knees to his chin and finger sporadically tapping the left-click button on his mouse. He's had a really bad day, so don't bug him.

The only things he can hear are the sounds of BBC Worldwide on the television downstairs occasionally drowned out by his Mother giving the stern "what-for" to someone on the other end of the phone. He can make out words like "pneumonia," "fountain," and "Bobbie." It's almost a relief when the sounds go back to being muffled honking.

He doesn't have pneumonia and he's not catching a cold. He's just suffering from lacerations of the dignity and third degree burns to the pride. He also shows symptoms of a fractured ego, but doctors need to confirm that before providing any TLC. So, until then, he'll be forced to just lick his own wounds and hope the enzymes in his spit make them heal.

Suddenly, the BBC News Pundits shut up, almost as if they're going to eavesdrop on the phone conversation. They'd be disappointed to find out, however, that the exchange is over. A snappy "Goodbye!" is heard before the house goes gravely silent, but for the whirring and occasional clanking of little Bobbie's computer tower.

A look of curious apprehension comes over Bobbie's face as he goes completely still to listen. The sound of pacing mixed with the rustle of plastic grocery bags emanates from downstairs. Poor Bobbie hopes that the drama is over for now. He hates being the center of attention.

"Bobbie! BOBBIE!"

He stays frozen as the heavy sound of footfalls come up the stairs and across the faux-antique carpet-runner in the hallway. He's not really even sure what he did wrong. He knows not to place the blame on the other kids because his twisted, self-created philosophy dictates that everything boils down to being his fault, somehow. Somewhere, way far down on the cladogram, every disaster begins with Bobbie. He's not sure how far down he is, this time, but he knows that there's no escaping the aftermath.



Frank/Tim/Dick looks positively disgusted. Under the plasticky bill of his military-issue commander's hat, his eyes look like two shiny coins, glinting on his dark face. The way his caterpillar-eyebrows are pinched tells me that he finds me detestable. I'm shifting from foot to foot, tapdancing in place. He's standing stone-still, a big moss-covered tree in a rustling forest of wedding guests.

Mother has gone off to speak with someone else by now, just another faceless tulle-and-tafetta-clad relative whose name I don't care to know. I try and distract myself from this situation by looking in the direction she went. I'm hoping that I'll find her so I can skitter away with not more than a "nice meeting you" and the "mama's boy" gay stereotype embraced.

No dice. I can't find my Mother and I'm stuck here in this little table-lined grotto in the middle of a ballroom with some homophobic sod. He hasn't even heard my voice and he's already made up his mind that he hates me. Trust me on this one; I know the look. As if to make matters more awkward, some warbly Celine Dion song comes on after a catty introduction from the DJ inviting all the "lovers out there" to "get close together." The whole room is swimming in the oscillating glints of a disco ball.



Rewind again to little Bobbie Ross, the beloved baby of the family. He's down in the "study," an area of the house nearly untouched since his father died before he could remember. When the house was built, this room probably belonged to a doctor or a lawyer. The bookshelves were probably full of medical manuals or law books. The desk was probably littered with an organized frenzy of obsolete writing implements and scholarly paperwork. The walls were probably plastered with framed diplomas and maps of Europe. Probably.

Now, everything is bought from cheap design warehouses. A few decorative boxes designed to look like books sit on the shelves. They're placed so no one notices right off the bat that there are duplicate, hyperbolically thick copies of Huckleberry Finn and Tess of the D'urbervilles. Among them sit faded self-help books from the 80's and a few novels written with the intention of empowering single females. A doodled-on calendar takes up most of the dusty desk surface.

It's hardly genuine anymore, but Bobbie can still pretend. He has a stack of envelopes and a greasy block of sealing wax. He's writing letters, inviting every living family member whose name he can recall to a "press conference." He has a pit in his stomach, knowing that mailing this stack of letters will be like blowing the little parachute-spores off a dandelion: a bunch of small, white things going in all directions to wreak havoc on lawns across the city, nation, and maybe even world (after all, Aunt Louisa has a summer house in the Hamptons; that's across the ocean).

There's something official about writing these letters in the study. It's as if the paper will smell of wood-polish and leather, conveying to the recepients that the sender means it. Copper stamps and addresses written in cursive script denote extreme gravity. These are letters of near cataclysmic consequence, in Bobbie's still-developing brain.

He looks down at himself, his scrawny body swaddled in an Aquabats concert tee and plaid pyjama pants. He feels ridiculous sitting in that big leather chair. A pang of embarrassment radiates through him, making him wonder how silly he must look to the outside world. Without another thought, he scoops up both his finished and unfinished letters before tossing them unceremoniously in the rubbish bin. He can wait until Christmas, just like anyone else in his situation.



Extending a meaty hand, as big and threatening as a grizzly's paw, Al/Steve/Chris grunts some sort of introductory greeting. There's really no running away without looking mentally-disturbed, at this point. This is it. I have to shake.

Without looking, I consider the size of my bony, lily-white hands. My fingers are delicate and seem as if they'd snap like wineglass stems. I'm almost afraid the callouses on his skin will wrake up my flesh like a cheese-grater. One hand claps over the other in my nonexistent lap. It's like they're embracing in fear, holding each other and quivering in the shadow of Sam/Todd/John's terrifying clutchers.

Just as I predicted, I'm now looking at Hank/Mike/Alf through two tunnels, about as wide as standard #2 pencils. I can feel sweat making damp, gray splotches on the collar of my shirt. It feels as if I've been standing here for hours, but Celine is still trilling about always loving you (whoever "you" is). I don't know what it is I'm so afraid this guy will do to me. Judge me? Ridicule me? Punch me square in my ugly little pixie-nose? Whatever it is, I just know that it's coming at me hard and fast.

I feel like I'm standing against the yellow and black wall of a collision-testing facility (isn't the dummy supposed to be in the car?). I can see myself crumpling at the knee and placing those pale, nearly effeminate hands in front of my face as an army-green car comes hurtling at me on a track. Its windshield is a glossy black and its headlights are glimmering silver. The last thing I see is a sticker on the front bumper that says, "The only rights gays have are the rights to die."



Rewind to the familial pariah "Robert" Ross. He's his dead father's child,
sequestered in a room that smells vaguely of dry turkey and burned yams. His Mother probably doesn't even remember the incident with the other schoolboys and the fountain, and to be perfectly honest, she probably couldn't care. In this day and age, cladograms never lie. It is all his fault, and it doesn't need to boil down far to show that.

The sounds of the revived dinner table, newly liberated of his presence, can be heard cloudy and muffled through the hands covering Robert's ears. A hazy white-gray winter light, turned pink by flesh and veins, can be seen through his clenched eyelids. Poor, disgusting Robert feels like a snail: slimy and detestable, blind and deaf, making himself smaller and smaller until he crawls into a safe little shell buried in the dirt.

He ruined Christmas dinner. He ruined good china plates and lightly tarnished heirloom silverware. He ruined a rustling carpet of tinsel bows and torn wrapping paper. He ruined a warm, sacred family holiday. He might have even ruined Boxing Day (and it's hard to make that any worse). He dashed everyone's hopes and killed the baby of the family just by reintroducing himself as more than a collection of preconceived notions of Ross children.

Rancid, despicable Robert can't help but feel conflicted. On one hand, he feels he might have been too hasty. On the other, he ponders the consequences of allowing the family's bright hopes to gestate even further before maiming them. Who would have thought a revelation so basic and simple could massacre a family? Robert would have been better off sitting down at the table and opening fire with an uzi. At least the allegedly progressive Rosses wouldn't have to live with the grief, then.



Like Superman crushing a car to nothing but accordioned metal and a nonexistent motorist, I throw inhibitions to the wind and whip my hand outward. I firmly grasp Jake/Paul/Earl's grizzly paw and shake it vigourously. It feels like some sort of victory. Accomplishing something so mundane as a handshake is producing the same endorphins as single-handedly winning on the shores of Normandy.

"Nice to meet you," I say to the floor. Baby steps, right? Jeb/Herb/Ted grumbles and scowls. His nostrils flare and his eyebrows furrow. Predictability is once again the essence of comfort.

"I think we'd get along better if you keep to your lonesome and I keep to mine," Greg/Bill/George growls harshly. It's not like I was expecting any different. Most of the family still refuses to speak to me. This guy'll fit in wonderfully.

I'm just one big disappointment after another. I'm not married with heirs to the Ross-family crest. I'm not a decorated mounty in the RCMP. I'm not even the losing candidate in a race for the position of Prime Minister. I'm just black, gray, white, and green, standing a few feet to the left of a parkay dancefloor. I'm mousey hair and sweaty palms, downcast eyes and orthodontically-straightened teeth. I'm a soiled reputation and dead hopes. Bobbie/Robert/Robbie.


And to think, this awkwardness could have been avoided entirely if Mother hadn't have introduced me as "the gay one."