BLIND
A MEMOIR
By Belo Miguel Cipriani
Copyright 2011 Belo Miguel Cipriani
Published by Belo Miguel Cipriani at Smashwords
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
This memoir is based on my experience in losing my vision and learning to navigate the sighted-centric world. The blind are, before anything else, people and therefore may respond to or encounter different experiences with adaptive technology and social services from the ones described in this book. My memoir has in part actual events, persons, and companies. However, a number of the characters, incidents, and companies portrayed and the names used herein are fictionalized. Any resemblance of the fictitious incidents, companies, or characters to actual events, companies, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
I dedicate Blind: A Memoir to my mom, Sonia, my four sisters, Emely, Rocio, Dulce, and Michelle, and my brother in-law, John. They were my backbone through my emotional and physical recovery. Without their support, I would have not been able to conquer blindness.
Contents
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Kate, Tori, Sarah, Lauren, Chelsa, Jeramy, Richard, and Adam. They are all members of my writing posse whose feedback helped shape my memoir.
I also want to express my deep appreciation to LeShawn, Jeff, Maurice, Don, Tammie, Whinde, Mona, Hilary, and Marisa. The group of friends that never stopped dialing my cell phone, even when I stopped returning calls for a while.
A special thanks to Justin T. Lotspeich, Darth Cabrol-Easton, and Brad Paterson, who never allowed me to give up on publishing and were great cheerleaders/coaches throughout my entire manuscript editing process.
Introduction
For two years, I struggled with the idea of putting my story on paper. Although I received plenty of encouragement, I had a pain in my stomach when I tried to write it down that told me it was not time yet. I now know there were two powerful forces keeping me from doing what I understood would be beneficial for both my mind and my soul. The first notion holding me back was the hope that I could possibly get my sight back. It was obvious to me later that denial was the toughest phase to surpass in my mourning period. Second, I was afraid that putting myself back in all of those moments of pain, sorrow, and anxiety would spiral me into depression. I locked away any thoughts of telling my story.
After my first writing class, I was inspired by all the kind voices in the room that applauded my initial in-class writing exercise. I went back to my dorm, still feeling uneasy about writing my story, and attempted to write “The Siren Song.” Three hours of listening to my computer read back the words and sentences that captured my horrific fate tortured me. For a few minutes, I contemplated dropping out of the class altogether. I heard Madge grunt during my moment of despair and confusion. I felt her front paws on my leg and kept my hands on the keyboard. She began to lick my tears and got me to smile. I decided to put “The Siren Song” on ice and dedicated my first piece, “Hi Dad,” to my new partner, who gave me the best pep talk ever.
After submitting my first piece to class for workshopping, I focused on side stories and gathered the skills and tools needed to take on the more emotional chapters, which came toward the later part of my master’s program. Especially in the beginning, I found myself using humor and self-deprecation to make the difficult passages easier. As I progressed through the graduate course work, I gathered the strength to attempt the more painful and numbing parts of my memoir, only working on the stories my soul would tolerate at the time.
When I was newly blind, my friends and family struggled to find any memoirs about adults losing sight to read to me. By writing a story that reflects a more contemporary journey through blindness, I want to offer hope to the future generations of blind men and women who seek understanding and empathy.
1
The Siren’s Song
One of the first sounds I learned to detect and fully understand was the song of a screaming ambulance. As a little boy, I would run toward the window every time that scary noise appeared in my simple world. I would glance back at my mom, my hand flat on the glass, and eagerly await a response. Mom would sadly answer, “Someone’s hurt; we should close our eyes and pray for them.” As I got older, I realized these massive sound waves didn’t just alert one of another’s injury, but, in many cases, they shouted that death was nearby and lingering. As I journeyed through different parts of the world, I was quite intrigued to notice that despite the language spoken, that high-pitched tune had the same meaning in every quaint, small town and every grand metropolis.
Working in San Francisco’s financial district desensitized me, and I could tuck away all of my childhood fears and superstitions. Those chaotic alarms that came from the fast-moving white vans and cop cars became part of my daily soundtrack. On a fogless and busy Friday filled with errands, I dared to take on the condensed shops and piles of people on the sloped streets of downtown San Francisco. An overpriced haircut and two cups of coffee later, my over-caffeinated body vibrated down a quiet set of steps near Market Street to make some calls. I had only been single for a short period; however, with the help of close friends and the Internet, I had quickly added a few names to my trendy new phone. After sliding my thumb up and down the silver buttons a couple of times, I was able to schedule a dinner for later that day with an old lover the Web had reconnected me with. I remained on the steps, enjoying the intoxicating high one gets from scheduling that special date. I stared as if in a trance into the hazel sky and began to drift. Beethoven’s Fifth started to play. I had assigned new ringtones to friends and family since the addition of my slick, hip toy and didn’t always recognize the tone. I read the three-letter word and quickly answered, “Hi, Mom.”
She started to tell me about her trip as I uncoiled my Armani tie with my free hand and stretched my right leg. It was our usual weekly check-in until she cautiously said, “I hope you’re not going out tonight. It’s the thirteenth, you know!”
I smiled and replied, “I’m not planning to stay out that late.” Just like when I told lies as a kid, I looked away from the phone as if the lens on the camera were an extension of her stare. Suddenly, I felt and saw a roaring fire truck make its way down Second Street and turn onto Market. Knowing well the fire department was the opening act, I said to my mom, “It’s too loud; let me call you tomorrow.” The concert was in full session by the time I closed my phone and snuggled it back in my pants pocket. I rushed down to the subway to get away, my mother’s words guiding me back to my adolescence.
Y
Although I have four sisters, I always felt my mom was more overprotective of me, since I was a gay man living in a Latino neighborhood with old worldviews. As a teen, Mom would always warn me to be careful, even if I was just going across the street. She told me of distant relatives and friends who shared my “likes” and how they often disappeared, leaving nothing but memories behind. Like Xavier’s School for the Gifted, my mom would let my friends hide in our home where they felt safe, accepted, and, most importantly, not like mutants. Most of the people I was bringing home were other teenage boys I met on the newly introduced World Wide Web. Unlike me, they lacked their parents’ support and often just wanted to hang out. My mom kept all gatherings PG-13, and everyone felt comfortable with the relaxed social agenda.
Among the flock of new acquaintances were two brothers—both gay and almost a decade apart in age. Although the elder brother was obviously the more responsible and ethical one, the younger brother seemed to call the shots.
Carlos, although only sixteen, was as experienced as the guys my older sisters dated. He drank, smoked, and mysteriously attended high school in another city. Carlos was a legend within the local gay community. He was often courted by men twice his age and always managed to get out of relationships before they got serious. His older brother, Rodrigo, was the complete opposite: he would rarely talk and was socially awkward. Nonetheless, the brothers and I, and a fourth guy named Jesus, became inseparable for a while. Armed with our fake IDs and Rodrigo as our reliable driver, we ventured to gay bars as far north from our San Jose neighborhood as Sacramento and as far south as Salinas. It was both fun and extremely deviant to be part of the crowd of kids who were popular outside of school cliques. This is how I rationalized the concept of staying up late and drinking on school nights, allowing myself to get caught up in the toxic gay scene of the time.
We had been hanging out for a few months and could have printed tour-style T-shirts with all the clubs we had visited. It was a typical Friday night, and we were making our way to the notorious Bench and Bar club in Oakland when I sobered up the car by saying, “Umm, I can’t hang out next weekend.”
Jesus nearly spilled his Irish slurpie and asked, “Why, bitch?”
I shyly replied, “I have to take my SATs; I want to go to college.”
Their disengaged and uninterested sighs filled the car. After that, things were never the same. I repeatedly canceled on them as I prepared for college and, eventually, was admitted to a small Catholic university in Belmont, California, where my life took a new turn. Carlos and the gang came to my dorm a few times but never stayed for very long. We maintained a loose friendship for a while, but as years passed, they became just other faces in a bar I would fondly greet after slow recognition.
Rejecting my mother’s admonition to respect the power of the day, I happily prepared for a night on the town. Pete and I had been flirting for years, and although this was not a first date, it felt like such. We agreed to meet at “corporate headquarters,” Castro and Eighteenth Street, where we then veered to the latest gay hangout. My friend Don called, and I struggled to make out his words over the background music at The Café, a few blocks down. Pete and I then agreed to move the party because he was eager to meet my friends.
After a few introductions and exchange of hugs, I realized I had left my jacket at the last place. I excused myself and made my way back to Badlands. I picked up my coat and decided to wear it despite the warm air. I was halfway back to The Café when I heard a childlike voice say, “Hey, Belo!”
I turned my head toward the right and saw Rodrigo leaning on a wall that curved into a parking lot. I walked toward him and quickly embraced his thin body. I anxiously asked, “How’s Carlos?”
He responded, “He’s over here; come quick.”
I smiled, following him toward the back of the building. I saw Carlos and two others I did not know leaning against a dark-colored SUV, and I nonchalantly walked up and asked, “Hey, Carlos; what’s up?”
He rolled his eyes and said, “I’m surprised you’re out and not taking a class.”
Puzzled, I answered, “What the hell does that mean?”
Rodrigo, who usually didn’t say much, then echoed Carlos, saying, “Yeah, we’ve seen you change; you think you’re the shit now.”
Carlos then walked toward me saying, “You know, I own a real estate company and am making a bunch of money. We make more money than you’ll ever see!”
His dark brown eyes looked straight into mine as he pushed me back. Tapping into my martial arts training, I allowed my body to absorb the push and took three steps back.
I looked around as if I were taking pictures with my eyes and said, “Good for you!” I began to shift my body and turn around and felt the first impact in the back of my head. A cyclone of punches then followed, and I was knocked to the ground. A series of kicking and kneeing came after, and I tried hard to block what I could until my body surrendered. I felt warm liquid roll down my head and face, and I looked up for a quick moment and saw Carlos kick his leg back as he charged his foot into my face. I yelled, “Carlos, nooo!” and before I completed pronouncing the o-o-o, I felt his boot crushing my right eye.
I began to experience the deepest silence in my life. New to darkness, I was unsure if I was alive or not. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I hit the “send” key twice and heard Don’s voice. I then whispered, “Help.” I lay flat on the pavement feeling only the warm liquid wrapping my head, my broken skin kissing the concrete. I felt like a sailor in a vast black sea, falling under the spell of the familiar song, the hypnotic sound growing louder and louder as the choir of sirens called for me.
2
Raffle Day
I was in Mrs. Del Mar’s second-grade class when I had my first encounter with vision loss. It was a typical weekday full of math and science activities with a quick story time sandwiched before lunch. I don’t recall the book Mrs. Del Mar was reading to us; the only thing that plays vividly in my mind is sitting on the floor, legs tucked against my Ninja Turtle shirt. My eyes completely glazed in awe and admiration for the beautiful woman who read so clearly to us. The story came to an end, and then she went on to make a few announcements: “Today, I’ll be handing out tickets for this Friday’s raffle after we all get our eyes checked by the school nurse this afternoon.” The bell rang, and she then enthusiastically yelled, “See you guys after lunch!”
Every week Mrs. Del Mar would add the name of a student who showed excellence in answering questions in class or for good behavior into a yellow plastic container that lived on her desk. Although getting tickets was never an issue for me, it was a few months into the year, and I had yet to hear my name called out. I would sometimes lie in bed, after my mom or dad had tucked me in, and dream about winning one of those great prizes the other kids had taken home. Although none of the toys or school supplies the students won had much monetary value, I still wanted to be part of that handful of boys and girls that were cheered and clapped for during the gift selection process each week.
The bell rang, and I quickly shoved a chicken nugget in my mouth and rushed my tray to a small window where a nice woman took it from me. I ran as fast as my little Reeboks would get me back to my class. I was the last one in, and Mrs. Del Mar said, “You’re late again; the nurse is already waiting for you in her office.”
I joined three of my classmates at the nurse’s office, the same classmates near me in line every time they used the alphabet to herd us. The nurse signaled me in with a quick hand gesture, and I immediately jumped up. She had me look into a tube and read a series of lines. I did fine until reaching the bottom two rows. I then started to rub my eyes, and the nurse kindly said, “Don’t do that, hon; that doesn’t help.” She quickly scribbled on a paper and asked me to give it to my mom.
A school bus ride later, I made my way home and ripped my backpack in half and handed my mom the note from the nurse. Unable to understand the English, she had my older sister translate it for her. My mother then asked my sister to book an appointment with the optometrist at the mall for the next day. I was excited to miss school because that meant I would not have to be there until Raffle Day.
My dad wore glasses, and I thought it was somewhat cool to get a pair of my own. I showed up to school with my new set of eyes and spotted another girl with a new pair of spectacles too. No one in class mentioned my glasses, and class work resumed as usual. A few minutes before the day was done, Mrs. Del Mar struck a triangle to announce the big weekly raffle. My eyes, now magnified by the glass in front of them, glowed with joy. Mrs. Del Mar reached into the yellow shiny box and said, “We’re only choosing one winner today, since we’re short on time.” She then paused and called my name flatly. I couldn’t believe it! My new glasses were already proving to be good luck for me. I hopped to the front of the class and was overwhelmed by the voices cheering and shouting. Mrs. Del Mar then pulled out a giant black plastic bag, the ones I’m sure they used in the school kitchen. She went on to say, “Since it’s just you this week, let’s change things around a bit.” I ran my fingers on the side of my hair and behind my neck and remained silent. Mrs. Del Mar continued, “There are a few prizes in this bag, and you must stick your hand in and pick one without peeking.”
I quietly asked, “Why can’t I just look in the bag and pick something?”
Mrs. Del Mar replied, “Well, because someday you may not have your sight.” I did as I was told, not fully understanding her words, and pulled out a box of scented markers. Grinning from ear to ear, I made my way back to my desk.
3
Decay
It had only been two days since my betrayers banished me to another dimension. Nothing felt, smelled, tasted, or, to my surprise, sounded the same. Taking a few steps was torturous; moving through space without sight seemed like an out-of-body experience. My coworker Josie drove me to the hospital for the first scheduled surgery as I had no close relatives in the city. Josie worked out of our Placerville office, which is a two-hour drive from San Francisco. I had only been with the firm for about a month; however, Josie and I quickly became friends as our roles permitted us to talk on the phone daily. She was among the group who came to offer me their support during the first forty-eight hours following the assault. Josie was the first person I met without sight. I had a visual memory for everyone else, but we had only known each other through phone and email interaction. She practiced yoga and was always taking some sculpting or painting class after work. What Josie lacked in size, she made up for in strength. As she helped my sore and bruised body climb into her car, I felt the safety of her fit arms. Her calm voice helped me not focus on the excruciating pain I had been experiencing for hours and allowed me to reflect on my fate. I focused on the endless rollercoaster ride of San Francisco hills, feeling lost in this very familiar landscape.
“We’re almost there; we’re just hitting some light traffic,” Josie said.
I struggled to respond, “Thank you, Josie; thank you very much,” still surprised she had offered to help after only knowing me a few weeks.
“Glad I could be here today,” she quickly answered.
One of my mom’s old sayings popped into my head, and I repeated it: “They say that one can discover who his true friends are when he’s in jail or the hospital.”
Josie answered, “I believe that.”
I was admitted quickly and rushed to an operating room. Josie and I said our goodbyes, and I felt like I was being prepared to embark on a voyage. I heard both male and female voices prance around me as someone pasted stickers on my chest and another hooked cords to them. I then felt a third person on the other side of the bed unfolding a warm towel as I was noticeably shivering. A kind voice then said, “Mr. Cipriani, we’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
I sighed as I waited for the anesthesia to make its way through my worn limbs. I slowly faded into a deeper darkness, mentally asking Carlos, How could you?
The next few days were extremely confusing and physically painful. I don’t remember leaving the hospital and thought I was dreaming when I woke up to my mother touching my face.
I smelled her lavender perfume and asked, “Mom, is that you?”
She replied, “Yes, I’ve been here since yesterday.” I felt myself embraced by her calm aura.
I whispered, “I’m sorry; I’m sorry about it all.”
She answered with her usual serene style, “Shh, it’s going to get all better soon.”
The doctors struggled to get me on a painkiller that I could stomach. I spent two days throwing up Vicodin and another two days purging Percocet. It got to the point where I threw up my own feces; it made me so angry to lose control of my body and slowly watch it rot. The ophthalmologist did not want me to bathe, since he was afraid water would get into my eyes and cause an infection. Despite my mom’s effort to clean my face, every time she administered the eye drops, the overgrown stubble and scabs would irritate me as the sweat from the bandages made me feel like I was withering away in a dark hole where things went to die.
In between my naps, I reflected on my last relationship—Jim—and the three years as close friends and the four as lovers. I gave in to my desire to call and tell him what happened. I suppose I was hoping there was still enough love between us for him to want to be there. I was hopeful and banking on the genuine human compassion I had discovered in friends like Josie. I asked my mom to help me dial his number, and tears began to crowd my face when I heard his voice. He had a tough time understanding my sentences, but said he would be over later.
It seemed to be immediately that my mom announced his arrival, and I nodded to signal her it was okay to let him in the room.
“Shit!” Jim gasped as I heard his steps approach our old bed. “Are they in jail yet?” he asked.
I answered, “No, I talked to a Detective Robins yesterday though. They’ll be starting an investigation. Can I get a hug?” I asked shyly.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Umm, you look really fragile, and I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
I said, “Okay.” His odd choice of words was ricocheting in the stale room.
He added, “I do want to help though; what can I do?”
I asked if he could move some money around for me, since my mom’s English was limited, and she had been out of the country long enough to be unfamiliar and uneasy with my modern ways of banking. He took the stack of papers and patted me on the shoulder, saying, “I’ll take care of it.”
The next day my mom asked, “When will Jim be arriving?”
I responded, “Soon, very soon, he promised.”
I refused to count the days, but I had the sinking feeling that here was another person I had trusted who kicked me when I was down. Every day became more melancholy for me as the number of unanswered voicemails grew.
After one session of eye drops, my mom said, “That money is gone, but it’s not for us to judge.” I felt her tears fall and mine creeping from under the bandages to join them. I prepared myself to sleep, feeling like unwanted Christmas trees left on curbs across America to decay.
4
Stone Pillows
I launched out of my sleep after feeling the sensation that someone was climbing on top of me and pushing down on my chest, keeping me from breathing. I yelled Jim’s name and suddenly realized I was standing on my bed, my head nearly touching the ceiling, in marionette form. I collapsed back onto my mattress and slowly started to chuckle as I said aloud, “What the fuck.” I looked toward my left and saw my cat sleeping contentedly, completely unaware of my nightmare. I began to shift my body toward the other side of the canopy bed and forced myself to peer into the terrifying vacancy. I leaned over and caressed the pillow with my right hand where, for years, his head had nestled next to mine. I felt my tear ducts fill and jumped out of bed, using my fingers to push the salty mist back.
In a trance, my feet traced their nightly path to my study, avoiding eye contact with all the pieces of furniture that had witnessed not only his love, but also his infidelity and his sequences of lies. I reached my desk and quickly hit the computer’s power button. I swiveled in my chair as I polished a pair of five-dollar reading glasses I got from Walgreens because I didn’t feel like dealing with my contacts. I then typed the words “sleep” and “nightmare” and began to browse the numerous domains that answered my query. A mouse-clicking marathon later, I came across two sites and joined as a premium member. One website was focused on a diet of foods that promoted better sleep and rest. The second site provided a daily newsletter with tips on a variety of relaxation techniques that would result in a healthier sleeping pattern. All these Web pages relinquished data I desperately sought. Most importantly, I was proud of the fact that I found these solutions, proving to myself I was managing just fine on my own.
The next day at work I did my best to stay up and listen to a manager ramble about new website features. Unaware of the words creeping out of my mouth, I asked, “Um, why are we adding all these again?”
The manager smirked and said, “Well, because we must make our technology accessible to people with disabilities.”
Uninterested, I responded, “Gotcha.”
A few minutes later, I dragged my feet back to my lonely cubicle. I had been working at the bank for a few months now and hadn’t made any friends yet, which was out of character for me. I kept my gaze on my blank notepad and avoided eye contact at all times. I feared that they somehow knew what had happened with my ex or worse that I would accidentally tell them in passing. I played the different scenarios in my head, anxious that I would blurt out, “Jim cheated again!” instead of saying, “Have a good one; see you tomorrow.”
I returned to reviewing résumés for a position for which I was currently recruiting. Out of the thirty-something cover letters I perused, there were two Jims, and I fell off my chair each time the name appeared on my screen. Each time, I would squint at the little word, saying to myself, “I wonder if you’re a cheater too.” I minimized the CVs and double-clicked on my Web browser. I proceeded to type the words “No cheating” and “dating.” I found a site that offered free advice on where to meet monogamous singles and how to spot a cheater. I quickly initiated the three-step process by entering my email address in the edit field next to an image of a smiling heart. I finished typing my vitals and glanced at the bottom of the screen. Seeing the hour, I jumped up, grabbed my coat, and rushed to an early lunch.
I found a quiet coffee shop off an alley street and dialed my friend Eddie in L.A. He answered after the first ring and said, “Hi, Dollface! What’s up?”
I replied, “Not so good. I can’t sleep.”
Eddie comforted me by saying, “Oh honey, you need to get online.”
Rolling my eyes, I responded, “I already did; I joined this site that has these breathing techniques that can reduce my stress and help me sleep.”
He giggled and said, “No, no, no. Do you have something to write with?”
I sighed and said, “Yup.”
Eddie proceeded to give me a list of dating sites and told me about his great results with each one. I shrugged my shoulders, “Thanks, man, I’ll check these out later. I got to get back to the office.”
I called in sick the next day and spent the entire time tackling the list Eddie had provided for me. I booked a date for the weekend, since I was hoping to get better sleep before then.
Although the rest I was seeking never came, I decided to keep the date. We met at Orphan Andy’s, a diner near my gym. The guy was striking and well-dressed; however, all I could think about was how to take his coat from him and roll it into a pillow to sleep on. His name was Marcelo, and he was new to San Francisco. He was full of stories and energy, which made me even more tired. I could see his frustration grow as I called him other names from my queue—first Ryan, then Tom. Halfway into his coffee, he clinched his teeth and said, “You know what? This is bull; I don’t need this shit!” and stormed into the soggy street.
I wobbled out of the booth and into the drizzle, completely unconscious of my body’s actions. I reached the sidewalk and screamed, “I’m sorry; I’m just tired!” My voice echoed off a few buildings, and the crowd standing outside the restaurant stopped talking to glance back at me with pity. It felt weird to get a pity party from bums holding damp cigarettes in their hands. I slumped back home, desperately trying to put the date behind me and arrived at a silent house that teased me with its Edwardian darkness.
Disoriented, I blindly stumbled through my living room and proceeded to dial my Internet company. I told them I was going on vacation and needed the service shut off for a few weeks. I am not sure why I made the call or why I lied, but I knew I had to log off for a while. I went back out to face the black rain and caught the bus to visit a busy bookstore where I browsed the cooking and self-help aisles. I spotted a small round table nestled next to a magazine rack and pulled up a chair to it. I fished out my PDA and began to type in a list of things I wanted to reintroduce in my life. I figured that if I wanted to move on, I had to gain back what I had lost during my relationship with Jim.
At the top of my list, I placed Capoeira and percussion classes, followed by cooking. The list went on, and when I got to item number ten, I clicked on the save option. I stared at the bottom of the miniature screen and began to study the date. I always believed in setting realistic goals for myself and came to the conclusion that two months was enough time to get the list going. April would be a great month, I thought to myself as I began to feel like my life was finally moving in a more positive direction. That night, for the first time in weeks, I fell into a deep sleep from which I did not wake until the cat’s hungry call rang in my ears.
5
Gaymers
East San Jose, like many eastern sections of major California cities, is seen as the dangerous part of town. Despite its reputation for high levels of gang activity, drugs, and teen pregnancy, I felt safe and, most importantly, at home. So when my parents decided to upgrade, although we had only lived in this soulful neighborhood for a few months, I begged them to allow me to stay in the eastside school system. In this microcosm, no one teased me for being a vegetarian or cared that my mom spoke broken English. I was embraced for being myself, and acceptance was worth the hour bus ride from the lavish Rose Garden neighborhood every weekday.
Because I had opted to commute and not attend my local school and picked up dance and Capoeira, my father insisted I contribute to these costs by working part-time. Before I was old enough to get a work permit from my high school, I collected cans to sell to the recycling plant. Eventually, I was old enough to work at a salon as a receptionist where I made decent money for a teenager. Aside from good pay, I got free haircuts and was introduced to trends and fashion by the female stylists. Although I was confident in my appearance and could make even the most serious person crack a smile, I felt alone. I wanted the company of other gay boys to talk to about men and relationships. My search for other gays took me as far as joining the drama class, where I was grossly disappointed. To my surprise, all the guys were straight, and the one bi guy happened to be dating one of the prettiest girls at school.
My closest confidants were my four sisters whose ages ranged from nine to twenty-five and who varied in shades of skin, eyes, and hair. They all shared two traits: fiery tempers and great cheekbones. My sisters and I got along, yet I sometimes felt like an outsider to their sisterly bond. They shared clothes, makeup, and womanly advice. Disinterested with the female anatomy, I yearned for gay brothers.
My loneliness and my desire for gay friends made me quickly attach to them when I found them. The Lopez brothers—Carlos and Rodrigo—Jesus, and I instantly became friends. We shared the same sense of humor, taste in clothes, and enjoyed basking in the limelight. The first time we hung out came about rather casually. I had just gotten off of work at the salon and was listening to my pager’s voicemail with my analog cell phone and sighed with boredom when I heard my different friends offering a night at the movies or at the arcades. I walked the two blocks from my job to my home, focusing on my unhappiness in the Rose Garden neighborhood. All the homes looked like they could be on the cover of a real-estate magazine with their manicured lawns and flowers. In my teenage trance of frustration, the blocks screamed homophobia, especially since all the homes pointed at the happiness of a straight marriage.
When I arrived home, my mother’s petite frame was stretched over the stove, her red hair tightening in the steam coming from the stew pot. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and rushed to my room to check my email. I smiled when I saw I had a few messages from other gay guys, but my excitement melted away when I clicked each message and realized they were all from the East Coast. I walked away from the computer and started to change out of my work clothes. I whispered to myself, “I guess the movies it is.”
I was removing the tags from my new Lacoste shirt when I heard the chime from an instant message. I ran toward my keyboard and noticed it was Jesus messaging me. We had talked in the San Jose chat room a few weeks ago but had yet to meet. He asked me what I was up to for the evening, and I was slightly embarrassed to admit my lame plans. He asked for my number, and, in a few seconds, we were talking on the phone, “Wanna hang out with us tonight?”
I responded, “Who is us?”