Becoming Hope - Removing the Disguise

Chapter 1

Slits in the closet

When I was a child, I devoted most of my time asking myself: why was I here? Where did I fit in? Did I belong, and could I have been dumped on the wrong planet by the Jesus bird on the way down? I had so many questions, but early on, I identified a couple things about myself I learned that if I was going to make it in this world, I would have to attain, absorb, and assimilate things that most five-year-old black boys from the projects wouldn’t take up until that stereotypical white teacher at the local problem school made an attempt to “see something significant in them.”

I didn’t desire to be told I was exceptional. Hell, I was openly gay at five in the housing projects of Liberty City in Miami. I was the only person in my grade who could do a cartwheel and drop into a split with ease, and Moesha was my hero. Yes, the character from the hit TV sitcom starring “boy Is mine” singer Brandy was my hero. I regularly spoke to myself about what that meant, and what my story said about me to other people. How vital were their conclusions compared to my own? Was I really significant if only I knew it, and how did I alter that truth if it turned out to be accurate?

Growing up, the air was crisp, and time ran in slow motion. I was doing what felt comfortable, being who I was supposed to be at the time, which was fine by me because it proved to be easy. It took me forever to figure out relationships, and a lot of that had to do with the fact that most boys in my neighborhood weren’t exploring sexuality like I was. I liked Barbies, playing with them in secret. I wanted to be on the cheer-leading team, and I loved Beyoncé.

It’s safe to say that by ten I was a raging stereotype. Being gay did nothing but intensify my situation I had with bullies. I recall sitting in my room as a kid, not having cable, but finding a gay-centered show. The only catch was that it was entirely in Spanish. Although my Father’s side of the family was from both Haiti and Cuba, I hadn’t learned a lick of Spanish. This was largely due to my grandma on my father’s side moving to New York for a large portion of my life. I guess in some ways that saved me. I could only imagine what some of those discussions would sound like in English if I had come out to her. I hold on to the memory of seeing two men kiss for the first time on TV. I found myself gasping for air while simultaneously resisting the strong impulse to be kissed that way. I wanted to be loved the way that Pedro seemed to love Juan, piecing together what I could through the lens of my ten-year-old mind and my lack of Spanish lessons. I wanted to feel feminine and soft. I wanted to feel like Juan.

I was in for a rude awakening though. There was this neighborhood bully when I was growing up. Unlike most of the others, he was special because he was handsome. I never discovered how old he was, but I knew he was older than me. I wanted to know which apartment he lived in, but I never found out. He was caramel-skinned and framed like a god of sorts. I noticed he was entirely black, but his eyes were a piercing blue-grey that practically always made me smile at the sight of them, and made just about everyone wonder where he came from. His teeth were perfect, and for a kid, he had this melodic deep voice that made him so much more attractive when he spoke!

One summer, I decided I would watch him and all the other “big boys” play basketball. I got my kicks out of watching them shirtless and sweaty, pretending to be drawing hopscotch squares with the girls. I kept my eyes on him at all times. I knew everything about his tendencies and his body. I learned when he would fake a shot or jump for the goal. My only curiosity was what was under the shorts: where did that tuft of hair on his stomach lead? I look back not knowing much about sex except what I had heard on the street and the things I could dream up while watching my gay tela-novella. I was innocent, but in just one very sudden experience, the bully was about to teach me a few things I needed to know about sexual experiences with men.

It was hot as hell and my grandma decided to force me outside to play. I figured if I had to, I’d make my way to the court where I could at least watch the boys play basketball. After making my way to the candy lady for a “froza cup” (a slang term for frozen juice in a cup: my flavor of choice being mango frozen), I headed to the empty court. I was pissed because it was hot and I made the walk, but no one was there. With my cup in hand cooling me off, I sat down and just watched the cars go by through the fence that surrounds the court. It was shaping up to be a peaceful day, until I got whacked with a basketball. I turned around to see it was Mr. Bully himself: shirtless, wearing his blue Nike gym shorts with the hole in the bottom right leg that he tore the day that one of the twins from across the street tripped him after they lost a pickup game. He looked down at me and asked, “you wanna play?”

I was in such shock that the words he was saying were actually aimed at me that I’m not really sure if I acknowledged the question. I just remember having no clue what I was doing. I was playing, he was letting me win, and I liked it. Then it started raining. We ran into this electrical closet that stank like piss and old cigars. It was pretty dark except for the slits of light coming from the closet like openings in the door. We didn’t talk we just sat there waiting and looking and listening. Then he asked me the question, “you gay or somethin?” I just said “yea,” hoping that the conversation would be over soon after. He stood up and my heart froze. He walked over to me and pulled his pants down. His dick was so big and veiny and hairy. I was instantly turned on, but being ten I had no idea what he wanted from me other than look at it. He pushed the head at my lips and said, “suck it.” I looked at the door and took a nervous breath. He told me that he was “watching, there ain’t nobody out there.” Part of me was curious, while the other half of me was scared shitless. My mind was racing in fifty different directions.“Kiss me first,” I said. “Kiss me and I’ll do it.” He pulled me up to him by my chin and leaned in to kiss me. I had never really kissed anyone before, let alone another boy, but his touch felt good.

He put my hand on his dick and it throbbed in my hand. He slowly pushed me down and I just did what felt natural. I had no clue if it felt good or if I was even sucking the right parts, but I knew I was enjoying the moment. He was keeping watch, so I let my guard down and he groaned out curse words while I explored. Then the door flew open. I tried to jerk away from him but he held my head tight. When I finally managed to snatch away, he came all over the wall. I was in tears and could barely breathe. I kept telling myself, “but he was watching! Why would he let them open the door?” In this case, “them” meant a dozen kids from the project complex just watching and laughing. He tucked his dick back in his blue shorts and t as he walked into the crowd of laughing kids, casually remarked, “told y’all he was a faggot.”

The constant sense of depression and loneliness I felt once I hit puberty is largely due to that incident. It made me second guess sex. It wasn’t fun. It was painful and embarrassing. I was waiting around for fairy tale love with boys that I didn’t have any attachment to myself as a person. I wanted someone to choose me. I wanted to be held. I wanted to escape!

Around thirteen years old, I realized that my grandparents had a drug habit. They would take a walk every Friday, coming back to make my brother and I close the door. It would usually be an hour before my grandmother would come storming in with pupils as wide as the sun with her sights set on me. She always chose me! At first, it was mental abuse. She would make me clean the bathtub with a toothbrush and swear it wasn’t clean each time. Every time I did it, I felt little pieces of me understanding those “white people shows.” I understood the drama and the pain. I felt what they felt except for the fact that I wasn’t white and my life wouldn’t take a turn for the better. I couldn’t expect my life to jump to my happy ending in the next 45 minutes, because it was just that: Life. It was real and I had to live through it, in it, and survive it if I was ever gonna be happy.

I recall smiling a lot, but never truly identifying as “happy.” I chose to fake it. I was an actor, and this was my everyday role: a young, whimsical gay boy from the hood in Miami, Florida who just doesn’t belong. I didn’t have to audition for this part and it didn’t pay, but I accepted it because if I didn’t, I would be dead, or something in between life and death. I spent a lot of time in my head, replaying interviews with TV host about my latest film or book. I talked to myself a lot, because it was seldom that I found people that understood me. As social as I was, I was also very private about the things that bothered me the most. I was quiet about my anger, my dreams, and my ever changing discovery of love. I knew that it was unlikely that anyone would understand even if I did vent, so I tried not to.

I had one real friend as an adolescent: Jonathan. He was handsome and had the face of a full grown man at the age of seven and I remember the first day we met like it was yesterday because it was also my first brush with rejection. I walked into Ms. Sotolongo’s...