In My Own Words

This isn’t the club’s record. That one exists elsewhere, and it’s thorough, and it’s true, and it will outlast all of us. This is the other one — the parts of it that were never going to fit in minutes. I couldn’t get them onto paper myself yet, so this is where they start, in my own words, mostly just as I said them.

It began with a pattern I didn’t choose so much as inherit: I stayed quiet, and when it boiled over, I blew up. I hadn’t done a good job of communicating within the club. I was expecting a unilateral effort from the brothers to try to understand me while I made myself purposefully illegible — purposefully avoidant. I was treating the club like my family, the kind where my voice was never acknowledged, until, one night, it wasn’t quiet anymore.

Somewhere in the aftermath I decided to try something else. I’m using the procedures established to finally make my voice heard, rather than letting things fester and blowing up on people who don’t deserve it. I’m sorry it took so long to realize that’s what was needed. I left the WhatsApp group. I got off Facebook for three weeks. I brought a motion that encounters should be in person, all parties present. I’m done performing, I said — important things need to be organic and analog, not synthetic and disembodied.

The apology I meant most went to Nicholas, someone I’d hurt, expecting nothing back:

“I need to apologize for blowing up on you. That behavior was inexcusable, aggressive, and entirely unfair. You did not deserve to bear the brunt of my inability to communicate like a man or a brother. For too long I’ve allowed internal club tensions to build up inside me while remaining purposefully avoidant. It reached a point where I exploded. I used you as the proxy for my own unresolved frustration, and in doing so I broke the trust that a brotherhood requires. I know that my actions and the hostile environment I created were a reason for you choosing to leave the club. It is a failure on my part that my conduct drove out a brother who belongs here. I do not expect a response, and I do not expect forgiveness. You deserved to be treated with respect, and I failed you.”

His answer was not kind. I’m leaving that part off this page. What I said, I still meant.

Underneath the strategy was the fear, most nights unspoken until it wasn’t: I don’t want to be the reason the club folds, but I don’t want to be the scapegoat. Near two in the morning, once, I said this feels like an example of why I never use my voice — though now I wonder if it’s because I keep finding people who don’t want me to use it… or maybe I found it too late. Am I an anomaly? Do I not fit in? Is this a self selection error?

To Herb I wrote the line I’m keeping longer than almost anything else from this: my admission vote required my presence, and my expulsion vote did not. I told Deshawn that if I need to be removed, so that Tim W can’t use me as a deflection, then I’m willing to go without causing a scene. And when Herb told me Tommy had resigned, and that more members were threatening to leave, I asked him plainly if: he resigned because I submitted minute corrections? I only submitted them after running them against Craig’s memory of the meeting.

The long night came before the morning did. I was alone in a city where strangers kept knowing the Highwaymen’s name, and their knowledge felt accusatory. I’m alone, I said. I’m not in crisis. I’m exhausted, and belonging never feels quite close enough to touch. Later, it’s ok — I told them I was going to get a room for the night.

And still, before I knew how the day would end, I already knew how I’d wear it: if today’s my last day as a Highwayman, I’ll wear the colors with pride and dignity.

The vote happened. Some of what came after didn’t depend on it.

What I said, before any of that came back to me, is still the truest thing on this page: I’ll wear the colors with pride and dignity.

There is more room after this entry. It’s for whatever comes next — when I’m ready.