After I graduated from the fifth grade, Mami asked me if I wanted to go to St. Brendan’s, a private school connected to our church. It was across the street from my elementary school, so I passed by it every day. I remember thinking that the kids who went there didn’t have backpacks—they had luggage. Rolling bags that were overstuffed with books. Probably more books for one semester than I would’ve used for all three years at Middle School 80.
“What do you think?” she asked.
But more than the hours of homework I imagined the students had each night, what stuck out to me was that it was a religious school. One that was very strict. One that probably wouldn’t approve of someone like me.
“Nah, I don’t wanna go to that school,” I said.
She shrugged, and after a short summer, I began sixth grade at Middle School 80. And there, I tried even harder to blend in, to not be noticed.
MS 80 was just a few blocks from my house, and every morning the kids lined up outside, on the basketball courts, waiting for the bell to ring and the doors to open. At first, I got to school early. But I didn’t like being part of a crowd. I didn’t want to be around so many people. I didn’t want to give anyone the chance of calling me out. And so I started showing up later and later, after everyone else was already inside. After school, it was the same story. I took the back way home, walking alone down the quiet streets so that nobody could say anything to me. I stayed as far away as I could from those fuckers, but I couldn’t always avoid them.
There was this one kid, Shaun, who always called me names. I tried to make myself small, to blend in, but when he’d pass me in the hallways, he gave me shit.
“You better get out of my way, faggot,” he said. “Or I’ll fuck you up.”
“What the fuck you talking about?” I said. “I’m not gay.”
“Oh you wanna go?” he said, raising his arms and puffing up his chest.
Luckily, the bell rang, and I rushed into my classroom before things got worse.
But even in class, he was ready to pick on me. I always felt uneasy around him, worried about what he’d say or do. And it started to impact my learning. If I raised my hand to answer a question or to speak up in class, he’d repeat what I’d say in a high-pitched, feminine voice. It was the simplest form of teasing, but it was constant, and it hit me right where I was the most vulnerable. I became silent more and more in class.
I wasn’t the only one who got bullied at school. My friend Justin got bullied, too.
“Fag!”
“Are you gay?”
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
But Justin was much more comfortable, much more out there than I was. He wore tight clothes. He walked confidently down the hallway like a girl who knew she was fine.
I could never act like that, I thought, in awe of his confidence. Instead, I was just backing away, tryna cover myself up. Tryn’ not to be bullied as much. I kept my distance from Justin at school so that nobody would question why I was hanging out with someone so flamboyant. For the yearly talent show, he performed “Toxic” by Britney Spears full out. He crawled on the ground all sexy-like, flashed his hands around his face like she does in the music video. Some kids laughed, but most of them cheered him on. Everyone was expecting something like this from him, but I’d never imagined someone could be so open, so free.
ANOTHER BIRTHDAY was coming, and it was a big one: my sixteenth.
After school, I used to watch the MTV show My Super Sweet Sixteen; by the time I was in the eighth grade, it was one of my favorites, one of the few things that helped me forget how awkward and out of place I felt. When it was on, I could enter a kind of fantasy world, one with princess gowns and tiaras and rhinestone-studded shoes. So when Mami asked me what I wanted for my sixteenth birthday, I told her: a party. In a big venue, disco ball boomin’, the dance floor packed with kids from my school having the time of their lives—the whole nine.
I knew I couldn’t dress like the girls from the show at my own party. I knew I couldn’t get my makeup or nails done. It was weird enough for a guy in my neighborhood to have a birthday party at all. But I needed this party. This party was gonna make me feel good. I didn’t tell anyone, but the truth was: this party was going to make me feel like me.
“Let me talk to Papi,” Mami said.
El Coral was a restaurant just two short blocks from our house, next to Mami’s nail salon and the bodega. It wasn’t a place any of us really knew about or went to, but at the time it was one of the only Latin bars around. (All of the other bars, farther down the avenue, were Irish pubs.) I’d heard that there was a private event space upstairs, and after finding out what it would cost to have the party there, Papi agreed.
“Oh my God!” I said to them. “I have the best parents ever!”
I thought, This is gonna be the shit!
I didn’t call it a Sweet Sixteen because I knew that was going to be too obvious, so I called it a Sixteen Bash. I had so much fun with the whole process: the planning, passing out the invites at school. Because I was a few years older than most of my classmates, I was excited that I was going to be the first to have a party like this. I remember sitting with Seli on the couch, flipping through a catalog she had that sold party supplies and decorations. At first I wanted something Hollywood-themed, like a Red Carpet Affair. I’d bought these cute black-tie invitations at the ninety-nine cents store, and I used those to invite around fifty people. But then in the catalog I saw this package for a Mardi Gras party, with masks and beads and glittery streamers, and I was sold. We ordered a cake—half guava, half custard—from our family’s spot, the legendary bakery Resposteria Nitin. Everything was purple, green, gold.
At school, I was keeping things low-key so that no one would suspect anything of me. I did things I thought a regular guy would do. I wore loose-fitting pants and kept my hair short. I even had a girlfriend. A student at St. Brendan’s, she was pretty and shy, with long, curly hair. But it was like wearing an outfit that doesn’t fit. I always felt uncomfortable in my clothes, awkward with her. But this party was an excuse to let things go a little. To be flashy. To celebrate me. I talked the party up! And the kids at school all seemed excited, saying that they’d be there. Still, part of me knew I couldn’t be too out there. I couldn’t risk being found out. And so I didn’t invite Justin. Because what would the other kids suspect about me if I invited someone as out there as he was?
The day of the party, I played the diva. Tony took me to get a haircut and hooked me up with a white Lacoste shirt. I didn’t get my nails or makeup done like I wanted to, but I went to Nancy, Mami’s nail lady, and she waxed my eyebrows for the first time.
Seli and Gina, one of my cousins, hooked the party hall up with decorations. Colored lights were flashin’. Trays and trays of food—rice and pepper steak, lasagna, salad—were set up banquet style in the front of the room, and tables and chairs circled the dance floor. The cake was in the back, beside the DJ, in front of shiny, metallic curtains that hung from the ceiling. With the music playing and the lights going, it was like my own private club.
At first, it was just my family there. Mami and Papi, my siblings, a few cousins. Kimberly, the girl who lived below us, came with her brother and cousins. We were all dancing, having a good time, but I was distracted. I was wondering when everyone else was gonna show. My girlfriend came, but not for long. She was dressed up, looking all grown in her mom’s high-heeled boots, some tight pants, and an open-back top. She hadn’t told her parents about the party, or about me, and just a few minutes after she showed, her mom stormed up the stairs. She talked to Mami in quick Spanish, and then dragged her daughter home. I’m sure she got into some real trouble that night, but to be honest, I was kind of relieved when she left; I was afraid that my family was gonna be watching us together, that I was gonna have to put on a show.
I started texting my friends from school on my Sidekick.
Yo, you coming to my party?
Yeah, we’ll be there!
But the minutes just ticked on by. Why did hardly anyone show? I wondered. Is it because they can tell what I really am? I tried not to look sad, but I felt so bad for Mami and Papi. They put so much money and effort into making this party just how I wanted. And it was—but without the huge crowd, without dozens of kids from my school trying to get close to me on the dance floor.
I started to feel really low. Damn, I thought. But when I looked around at those who were there, a feeling of happiness washed over me. My sisters and cousins and neighbors were dressed up and dancing. Mami and Papi had thrown me a party. My immediate people, the ones who really loved me, were there. I got my party, and I was grateful for that. I joined my family on the dance floor and thought to all who didn’t come, Y’all are the ones who lost.
“YOU BETTER watch yourself, faggot!”
The bell had rung, and the hallway was nearly empty. I turned around and saw Shaun standing in front of a row of lockers.
“Shut the fuck up,” I said.
“What did you say to me, homo?”
“I’m not gay. And you fucking heard me.”
On most days, I’d have been walking away by this point. I’d have been afraid of getting in a fight, of having my ass kicked. But something that day told me to hold my ground.
When I went to school the day after my party, I asked my so-called friends why they never showed. “My grandmother was sick.” Or, “My mom wouldn’t let me.” I didn’t question them, but deep inside I was asking: Come on, really? I tried to push it to the back of my mind. I even lied about how poppin’ it was. “Mad people came,” I said. “It was so much fun! Y’all missed out!”
I think the experience of being let down at my party and of all of the frustrations that had been building up over the years from constantly being bullied finally caused me to reach a breaking point. That day in the hallway, I decided that I’d just had enough. I was gonna defend myself.
Shaun walked up to me slowly. Then he grabbed my shoulders and head and put me into a headlock. Somehow, I got out of it, and I saw an anger swell inside of him that I’d never seen before. He lunged toward me again, headbutting his forehead against mine. He’s really trying to hurt me, I thought. He’s going to fuck me up.
Instead of being scared, this realization gave me fuel, and I was furious in a way I can never remember being before. Something inside me snapped. The next thing I knew I had his shoulders between my hands. I pushed him up against the gray-blue lockers, and I started banging his head against their small metal doors. And I didn’t stop. I just kept slamming the back of his head, over and over and over, into the lockers. I wasn’t just hitting Shaun, who made my life at MS 80 a living hell, but I was hitting everyone who’d made fun of me over the years. Everyone who’d called me names. Everyone who’d lied to me about coming to my party. It wasn’t long before I blacked out, letting my anger and frustration and rage take me over entirely.
Eventually, teachers and other students came out into the hallway to see what all the commotion was. My teacher, the teacher next door, my counselor, someone from the dean’s office—they all came rushing toward us and pulled me off of him. When I came to my senses, I was shaking. I looked up at him and saw the shock on his face. He didn’t know I was capable of reacting that way—and neither did I.
This isn’t me, I thought. I was afraid of what I’d done, of what I realized I was capable of.
My brother Tony came to pick me up early from school that day. I was afraid of what was gonna happen next, that I was gonna be in trouble for fighting, for getting sent home. But as we were walking, he asked me about what happened and I told him. We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and he looked at me and grabbed my shoulder. “Good,” he said. “You handled it good.”
Chapter 6
SELENIS
Around the time Jose was in middle school, we received news that Ruth had passed. My mother didn’t know how to address the news or how to tell Jose. I told her that I would handle it. I wonder now why I offered. I think I wanted to protect my mother from discomfort and sadness. I also believed that I could deliver the news in a way that would allow Jose to open up to me.
As to the specifics of where we were, my memory fails me. All I can remember is a stillness that engulfed the two of us in that moment.
“I’m really sorry to have to tell you this,” I said softly. “We heard today that Ruth died.”
Silence.
“It’s okay to be sad,” I said.
Again: silence.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He didn’t speak but instead said no with a small shake of his head. I could see water pool in his eyes and a look of confusion take over his face. Now, I know that this is the look of a child in the midst of processing terrible news. A look of sadness and confusion and disbelief.
The next day, I tried to get him to open up again.
“How are you feeling? Are you sad?”
This time, he spoke. But it was nothing more than a quick “no” before changing the subject. I suspected that there was a lot more behind that single word, but I didn’t push it. I will admit, though I am ashamed to do so, that in that moment I felt relief. Ruth was gone, as was the threat of her taking him away from us.
DURING THOSE YEARS, I belonged to a comedy troupe called Nuyorican Rule. We performed once a month at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in the Lower East Side. I wasn’t earning financially, but I was earning in experience. It was a time of tremendous growth for me as an artist. Comedy is not easy! You have to be quick and ready, and I loved it. We wrote our own material, and we were responsible for our own costumes and props. So it was normal to walk into my room then and see a collection of wigs, everything from straight blond to full afro. I kept a wicker trunk filled with my comedy collection. And every so often, things would just go missing. If I couldn’t find a blouse, or a necklace, or a costume for a performance, I knew where it was. I knew who had it. And I didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Let Jose do what he needs to do, I thought.
Sometimes, when getting ready for an audition or a night out, I wouldn’t be able to find a specific top or pair of shoes. I’d roll my eyes and sigh. “Come on! Why does it have to be that shirt?!” But I never asked, I just let it be. The only time I ever confronted Jose was the night before the wedding, when he broke my shoe. All this time, through all of the missing clothes and accessories, I felt like I was supporting Jose in my own little way. I was turning the other cheek. Pretending like nothing was happening. And there he went, breaking my shoe. Over time, I learned to hide the things I really loved.
Nothing he took was lost forever; eventually, things resurfaced. Sometimes, if I was desperate, I’d go into his room and search way in the back of his closet or under his bed—and there it would be. It didn’t take long for me to become familiar with all the hiding places. Other times, my mother would find things I’d been looking for—stockings, a dress, a gaudy jeweled necklace. She would come running out of the room and say to me, “¿Mira, tu no estaba buscando esto?”
She and I had an understanding: We wouldn’t make a big deal about it to others. We didn’t outright speak about it, just as we never spoke about how we interpreted Jose’s femininity as being gay, but it was something that was clear between the two of us.
But what I didn’t know: Was dressing up in women’s clothes a normal thing for a gay man to do? I wasn’t sure, and so I talked about Jose and his habits with a close friend of mine from the theater. He laughed.
“Oh, hunnie,” he said. “You know, I used to put my mother’s rollers or pins in my hair—that’s just what we do!”
I accepted this and believed it to be true—but I also knew that there was something more. That there was something about Jose’s essence that was more than being gay.
ONE DAY, WHEN Jose was in the eighth grade, he introduced me to his girlfriend.
Your what?! I wanted to ask. Instead, I was polite and smiled as I reached to shake h
er hand.
“Oh, hi! It’s good to meet you,” I said.
Jose was giggling, trying to hide his face. “Oh my God, what?! Seli!” He looked like the cat who just ate the canary.
He and I both knew this was not real. And I’m pretty sure that the girl, deep down, knew as well. She was pretty, short and cute with long reddish hair and a shy expression on her face. Oh, girl, I thought to myself, please don’t fall for him.
But the way they hung around each other—it was clear they weren’t boyfriend-and-girlfriend. They were just friends, and Jose wouldn’t look at me without grinning or laughing.
Well, this is cute, I thought.
WHEN JOSE ANNOUNCED that he wanted a birthday party, I knew what he had in mind: a Sweet Sixteen and all that comes with it. But in our small, close-knit neighborhood in the Bronx, boys didn’t have Sweet Sixteens. They rarely had birthday parties. I remember my brothers hearing the news and asking, “He wants what?”
My own sixteenth birthday party was a production, one that took an entire year to plan. I organized rehearsals with my friends and cousins—sixteen couples in total. They came to my house for months before the event to practice the dance routines I’d planned for the big day. The waltz, the Hustle, a dance with my boyfriend, the father-daughter dance. My dress was literally a wedding dress. When I first tried it on, I fell in love—it was massive, with lots of lace and plenty of tulle for pouf. I paired it with white gloves and a tiara Mami and I purchased at a bridal store in downtown Manhattan, and I wore ballerina slippers.
My Sister Page 6
