Bruce’s Online Journal

“I write because I don’t know what I think, until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

Week of February 26, 2001

Sip ahead to Fri

February 26

Writing up the report on my Saturday night AA meeting, I was at a loss as to what to put down for the topic of discussion. Finally I decided. The Botsford School of Dance.

One of the reasons that I like the Saturday meeting so much is that we usually have a lot of laughs. It seems like every week there’s at least one anecdote that has tears running down our faces and you’re bound to hear the occasional snort. Or at least a guffaw.

The chair on Saturday got sidetracked now and again while telling his story. Of course he had some help too. Near the end of his story, he was telling us about trying to get in touch with his feminine side shortly after coming out. The meeting secretary, a lesbian, cut in, “Yeah, I wish I could find my feminine side!” And we were off.

That sent him back to his childhood, recalling his mother asking if he wanted to attend The Botsford School of Dance. He told her no, that only sissy boys went to dance school and he wasn’t a sissy boy.

He ended his story a minute or two later and opened the floor for discussion. The first person to speak, a lesbian, told how her mother wanted her to go to The Botsford School of Dance. She thought it was for sissy boys too. This brought more laughter.

And the next four speakers, each building on the last, had something to say about their childhoods and The Botsford School of Dance. By this time all anyone had to say was “Botsford” and the whole room would erupt in laughter. We were laughing at the sheer coincidence of it all. I mean, how many gay and lesbian recovering alcoholics can there be at the same room at the same time with stories about The Botsford School of Dance?

The next speaker told how right now, she lives just down the hill from The Botsford School of Dance. When she was done, no one else seemed to want to speak. Apparently, we’d exhausted the supply of anecdotes about The Botsford School of Dance.

With three minutes left of the meeting, we all looked at each other wondering if anyone was going to speak up. Seizing the moment, I started, “Good evening, my name is Bruce…” I let it hang a second, “and I dance like a straight man.”

The automatic response from the group, “Hi Bruce”, was followed by absolute silence. Then one-by-one as they realized what I’d said, the giggles started. Rising like a wave and spreading across the room, it became full blown laughter.

Exercising perfect timing, I waited for it to die down and followed up with, “It’s something that’s brought great shame to me in my life…” This time, I think I heard a snort in there somewhere.

Bending Step Two somewhat, “And I’ve come to believe, that only a power greater than myself can save me from this fate…” Now I really had ‘em.

“And that power is…” [a beat] “The Botsford School of Dance.” I’m not sure, but I think someone wet themselves. The obligatory last sentence, “Thanks for letting me share” was lost in the laughter. Even I was laughing with everyone.

A minute to go and the speaker asked the customary, “Does anyone have a burning desire?”

The girl sitting on my left said, “Yes. My name is […] and I also dance like a straight man.”

We were still snickering through the closing prayer.

Okay, so you’ve gotta be in recovery and you had to be there, but it's all I got tonight…

March 2

Yippie! February’s over!

As for March, this lion and lamb thing has always confused me. Is it twice as good as February, which has only one mascot? Why don’t other months have mascots?

I was looking at the weather forecast yesterday morning, trying to decide which mascot it was going to be. “Mainly gray with periods of light snow. Accumulations of an inch or less is expected. Watch for some areas of lake effect snow to develop. Additional accumulation in the persistent bands.” Add to that high in the mid 20s and light winds. There’s no clear winner.

The snow held off until overnight last night. It’s an unusual combination of tiny fine flakes and no wind. It’s dead still. As a result, all the tree limbs are decked out but not droopy like they’d be if it was a wet sticky snow. It’s so still that the snow piled up on the most unusual places. There’s actually two inches of the stuff on the telephone and cable TV wires; the thin ones that run from the pole to the house.

I went out walking in it earlier this morning. I had a couple of errands to run, which was as good an excuse as any to go for a walk in the snow. Although the streets are fairly clear, the sidewalks are untouched. I followed in the footsteps of two other hardy souls (soles?) and blazed a new trail past the bus stop.

The high water mark on my pants is at just over six inches. There’s more of the stuff than I judged looking out the window. What’s normally a ten-minute walk each way turned into a ten-minute walk followed by a ten-minute trudge there and a 20-minute trudge home. I enjoyed it anyway. It’s a really pretty day out there with the snow covering everything. The snow soaks up so much sound that although the sidewalk is adjacent to the curb, it was like a walk in the park.

I guess because it’s soft, white and fluffy, March is in like a lamb.


We had a guest speaker in group on Tuesday. My counselor from Park-Ridge from the first time I tried this sobriety stuff back in 1991. Not so long ago I’d have freaked from embarrassment and shame at running into him. My first reaction this time was, “Maybe I can call in sick.” Then I thought, “Fuck it. If it bothers him, that’s his issue. I’m not going to let it bother me.” So I didn’t. I went to group making no excuses. Halfway through when he came in for his talk, I went to the bathroom.

No, it’s not because I felt ashamed or embarrassed. My teeth were floating and I can only get away with a potty break on pee-in-a-cup day. I was amazed he recognized me and greeted me by name after all these years. And it was good to hear his slant on things again. Everyone has a slightly different take on the subject and his was exactly what I needed to hear Tuesday.

What it really means is that I’m coming to terms with a lot of things. I used to be embarrassed, ashamed and angry with myself that I wasted five years and 51 weeks of sober time. I felt so badly about this past three-year relapse (my “Hemingway years”) that I was suicidal on more than one occasion.

Since then I’ve gotten to know a lot more about relapse and relapsers. I never felt the same way toward other relapsers as I did towards myself. With others, I feel and express sympathy and empathy and I always have kind words to help relieve the guilt that I know intimately. As usual, I single myself out for abuse.

I’ve come to the conclusion that relapse is a required part of recovery. While there may be an exception to this rule, I’ve never met one. Everyone I know who has had to go the rehab or AA route has done it at least twice before they got it, and it’s not due to a lack of sincerity the first time out. I guess it’s like learning to walk. You fall down occasionally until you get it right.


I was late for my Creative Nonfiction class on Wednesday. I got to the bus stop seven minutes early and waited and waited. This was unusual since that particular stop on that particular route is a layover point. The bus normally is there 20 minutes before it’s scheduled to leave. Hmmm.

It was another of those cold sunny days where if you just looked out the window you’d think it was nice out. No. There was enough breeze to blow the cold through my coat, sweatshirt and turtleneck. Still, the sunshine was a nice change of pace.

Ten minutes after it was supposed to leave, the bus limped in to the stop. It had a flat tire. It was one of the dual tires in the back so the driver could keep on going if he drove slowly. He apologized for being late. I thought, Gee, it’s a miracle he got here at all.

He told us he’d already called for a replacement bus and invited us board this one so we could be warm while we waited. Fifteen minutes later, the next bus pulled in. I don’t know what happened to the replacement one. Our driver gave us all free transfers and told the other driver to let us board without paying the fare. I thought it was a nice gesture.


Arriving 20 minutes late for class, I found everyone embroiled in discussing a one of the pieces we took home last week to review. It was a great first draft. The writer could take it in a couple of different directions and do it a couple of different ways. There was lots discussion weighing the relative merits of what could be done with the piece.

The discussion slowly drifted to the subject of the piece. Most everyone has written about subjects close to them, and this was no exception. But it was a subject close to about half the class. They all seemed to have opinions and war stories to back them up. I kept waiting for the instructor to redirect the discussion back to writing. (We had the alternate instructor again this week. Did I post that entry last week?)

I was getting bored, frustrated and restless. It would get to a point where I felt like jumping in to bring us back to the piece, the class or writing in general, then the conversation would turn and head back to the piece.

An hour into the class, forty minutes after I arrived, they were still going. I could take no more. I broke in saying, “With all due respect, everyone here has strongly held opinions on [subject] and interesting experiences to back them up. But this is not a [subject] discussion group. This is a writing class. We have two more pieces to critique and only an hour to do it. I suggest we move on.”

I got looks of relief from the substitute instructor and three or four of my classmates. I got dagger-eyes from one of the discussion participants, and the rest looked slightly embarrassed and began shuffling their papers.

I was amazed on two levels. First, that I had so much patience and when it wore thin, I didn’t explode. Second, other than the one classmate with the dagger-eyes, everyone complied.

The stuff they teach in group really works.

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