MEMORIAS

It was one of the many small circle of friends’ meetings where we would talk and remember the friend, the loved one not longer with us. As we shared our own memories, the lover cried. No one in the group went over and tried to console him; none of us were one those characters who in moments like that might use the opportunity to take center stage. It was his pain and separation, and only his. There were times when Mark Doty was quoted. He had written about similar gatherings and had lost his lover of many years, "I remember thinking it didn't matter which of us it was, that his news was mine."

ON THE BEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING WITH LOUISE GLUCK AND A BARRILITO

It is how I feel when I read Louise Gluck’s poetry, a constant sensation of a very light discomfort that never leads into a clarification, as to why is there under my skin. It never bursts, blocking me from exploring the poet’s work impact on my psyche, but bringing me to my Cd player, to play Fado music. I rather read a Romantic who painfully and grandiloquently describes how the rupture with his lover led him to the garden, get a rose, pinching himself with a thorn and bleeding to death, surrounded by flowers in the outskirts of industrial Hannover. 

My body can be quite clear when talking to me. It can spend just one minute, an hour or a day, year, decade searching for an answer. How it looks for responses seems to depend on my mind, which in itself is driven by an inner power that I cannot call with no other name but spirit. Then the body knows. It talks to me, getting help from a drink: a shot of a 25 year old Barrilito given to me as a present by my neighbor. My palate leads me to know the quality of the aged spirit of the rum, to wonder about the sugar cane that began to give form to it. 

My body talks to me talking to itself, saying I am hungry, in love, full of hate and, at times, it goes into clear and no-nonsense words, “You already had three shots, dizzy, stop drinking, and go to bed.” Aged spirits are much easier to handle than younger ones. They are firm, strong tight masses, full of aromas that bring so many levels of sensations and words and joy, pure joy, clear sense of purpose, things that Gluck’s poetry seem to lack. 

SI LA VISTA FUESE SUFICIENTE

Si la vista fuese suficiente, no necesitaríamos las palabras, el cantar de un gallo, el arrullo, el consuelo de una brisa, o la fría noche en tus brazos, besos, al mirar en la distancia, podríamos alcanzar a vernos la nuca. 

LIMOGES EN SANTURCE

 La invitación era para cócteles a las siete, cena a las nueve, luego ir a uno de los bares en uno de los hoteles del Condado a tomar más licor, para terminar en uno de los bares gays de Santurce. Llegué a las siete y treinta, no quería dar las impresión de que estaba emocionado o súper impresionado con el que me hubiesen invitado a salir con un grupo tan chic. Esa fue la palabra que usó Tuto para describirlos: "chic". “Son bien chic”. Como lo dijo tan serio, no sé si fue en tono de burla o que verdaderamente creía que así eran los demás invitados.

Cuando llegué, Tuto todavía no estaba allí. Me lo temía. Además de que era un cínico empedernido, disfrutaba de la jodedera y los buenos vinos, pero no de los formalismos. No era de dudar de que ni se apareciese por la muy elegante cena o de que andaba por los cafetines de la Placita de Mercado de Santurce. No era la primera ni la última vez que lo hacía, dejar plantada a la gente para irse a beber a los bares de cualquier barrio popular. En uno de esos bares fue que lo conocí. El grupo chic lo seguía invitando por los vínculos escolares y sociales que los unían: se crió en el mismo sector clases medias, y estudió en el mismo colegio donde fueron educados los anfitriones.

Saludé con entereza,  apreté fuertemente la mano de cada uno de los otros invitados, sonreí, y con un “sí, sí” estuve de acuerdo que era amigo de Tuto. Acepté una copa de vino blanco, y no más ya estaba relajado y sintiéndome cómodo en el muy elegantemente decorado apartamento, abrí los ojos, algo soprendido, cuando vi que uno de los invitados apuntaba con su dedo, al tener de frente la bandeja de porcelana donde traían los entremeses, y decía con un leve gritito y respiración ahogada, estirando la o: “Limooges”.

“Qué carajo hago yo aquí”: me pregunté. Mis platos no son parte de un juego, no tienen procedencia ni nomenclatura. Los compré en quincallas, pulgueros; otros son heredados o regalados. Nada cuadra en mi casa y mi vida está completamente falta de abolengo, apellidos históricos, colegios de renombre y vacaciones con mis padres en Europa. El relajamiento duró muy poco. Peor todavía, como soy algo torpe, temía que pudiese romper un plato.

Tuto nunca llegó. Saqué mis mejores modales, cené, comparti la sobremesa, ofrecí alguna razón para excusarme y no poder acompañarlos por la vida nocturna de Santurce, y salí como alma que lleva el diablo. Me sentí libre al poder abandonar aquel grupo de maricas estreñidas por la historia, y me fui hasta la Placita de Santurce, al cafetín donde sabía que iba a encontrar al sinvergüenza de mi amigo del alma. Cuando me vio llegar azorado, con mirada de “yo te mato”, el muy, pero que muy maricón malicioso -y lo mucho que lo quería- echó una carcajada y preguntó: "¿Cómo te fue”?”. 

(Este relato está dedicado a mi querido amigo, J. Batlle, QEPD, quien disfrutaba de la versión original, la real, de burlarse de los gays "falsos burgueses", de exagerar la o del Limoooges, y de los cafetines de Santurce. Es la cuarta versión del mismo como parte de mi intención de presentar mis escritos "en proceso" que sirvan para evidenciar mis teorías sobre blogueros, inluidas en este blog. )

QUÉ HACER FRENTE AL CHICO AFEMINADO O LA NENA MACHÚA

La joven maestra se acercó a mi oficina y con la sinceridad que pocos tienen en situaciones donde hay que aceptar los prejuicios, abrirse sin tapujos, contó casi avergonzada, adolorida, por qué sentía una ira enorme cuando tenía que trabajar con el chico, su estudiante en escuela primaria, que era bien afeminado. No era la única ni la última, ni la rabia hacia el otro se limita a los que la sienten frente a los chicos cuyos gestos no responden a los del "macho estereotipado" o las niñas poco femeninas. Incluye a cómo tratamos a los de otro color de piel o etnia o religión, y hasta dentro de un mismo pueblo o grupo, a los que pertenecen a otras clases sociales, económicas. Qué mucho gay o heterosexual se cree que flota sobre los demás por asuntos de estatus, de la percepción del "yo desasociado".

Frente a las dos situaciones como aquellas que mi estudiante de maestría y maestra de primaria -yo para nada era o soy buen terapeuta- presentó, tuve que separarme (después de todo mi vida en el CCNY no era una camino de rosas), y bosquejar mi respuesta: primero, ella y su reacción visceral; segundo el chico. Decidí empezar con los sentimientos de ella, aunque destructivos, no se podía negar su existencia. Hablamos un rato sobre la historia de los hombres y mujeres homosexuales y cómo eran usados y maltrados, sin muchos saber verdaderamente lo que causaba la homosexualidad o intersexualidad, y cuán peor era para los que lucían -aunque no fuesen homosexuales, como lo era su estudiante, afeminados o masculinas. Ella era también víctima de la historia. Luego, sobre el niño y lo que él tenía que vivir todos los días, sin poder articular las vivencias, sensaciones, visión de su diario existir. Algo consolada, dijo que le parecía que la madre lo trataba bien y no era afectada por el “afeminaniento” del hijo. 

No todas las madres o padres o maestros responden con respeto y amor hacia los hijos o hijas que no cumplen con las “normas” que la sociedad formula y organiza en distintos contextos o en cada momento de la historia, ni tratan de educarse sobre el tema. Conozco suficientes casos para armar todo un texto, algunos personales, otros contados por amigos y estudiantes, además de los que son discutidos en la literatura. Los suicidios no dejan de aparecer en los diarios. En CCNY tenía una compañera típica católica pequeño burguesa liberal que, de vez en cuando, entraba a mi oficina y me decía que no hablara sobre mi homosexualidad. Si lo hacía era como parte de los contenidos en los cursos. Y no eran los años cincuenta. Eran los ochenta, después de yo haber pasado años en terapia, estudiar y leer extensamente sobre el asunto y participado en activismo político “pos-Stonewall”. Por suerte, tenía otros compañeros que no eran víctimas de la ignoracia ni usaban mi cuerpo para protegerse ellos. La maestra, la madre, el padre, el hermano mayor que reacciona con ira y violencia frente al niño afeminado o niña masculina, dicen más de ellos que de los que a temprana edad viven rodeados de tanta crueldad e ignorancia. 

THEATER OF THE GROTESQUE IN ARIEL’S APARTMENT

The apartment was in itself an art piece, a very personal one; not a copy of a Mondrian or the latest fashionable architect, much less a furniture store showroom. As one walked into the foyer there was a big copy of a Mapplerthope photo, an imposing portrait of a black man, standing guard, watching the visitor. The print was hung over the shelves, holding his always on music equipment. He loved disco music. The foyer led the visitor into a two level living room, typical of the 1940’s building. He built a platform next to the spacious windows where he had a small table and two chairs, facing the notorious and iconic Chelsea Hotel. For a few years, the Living Theater troupe had its headquarters there and often we were entertained by their street performances; few of them intended to represent life as a dreamy fairy tale. After Guillermo’s death, his lover -an architect- of many years, he changed the place, and with the exception of two or three Ikea pieces, he built the rest of the furniture. Two of his big canvas, recreating the universe, hung on the living room walls. The place was comfortable, inviting to observe it and relax, until the false sense of peace was shaken. He placed around different corners, angles, a wall here and there, underneath a chair, crawling into a lamp, plastic copies of insects, a roach or a beetle, a small line of ants; and in the bathroom, next to the sink and on top of the toothbrush and paste cup, a case holding an extensive set of different types of teeth he had gotten from the dentist who had an office in the first floor of the elegant and period piece building. After Guillermo’s death he rarely invited people, but it was always a great pleasure to see their reactions when they realize (conscious or not) they were on stage with the Theater of the Grotesque. 

LA BUSCONA, NO DE QUEVEDO, EN CCNY

Ella leía; no procesaba lo leído. Citaba a Paulo Freire y hacía comentarios  -teorías sacadas de la manga- sobre tal grupo racial o colonizado o étnico como si fuesen verdades absolutas; apoyaba y premiaba directores escolares cuyas escuelas primarias parecían cuarteles militares; publica artículos reciclados, tomados de las monografías que ssu estudiantes escribían; instalaba títulos -Educación Especial Bilingüe: hay que ver e! currículo- a base de lo que el Estado sugería o requería sin darse cuenta de que lo propuesto, rellenado con referencias de otros campos, carecía de suficientes estudios y material académico para armar un curso, mucho menos una maestría; permitía y fomentaba sutilmente la homofobia sin conocer nada sobre la biología que hace de los cuerpos el ser muy distintos unos de otros; prefería oir a una académica europea hablar sobre las lenguas minoritarias, que a los miembros de esas comunidades. Se creía muy astuta y lo único que era, una buscona caminando por los pasillos de la academia. 

UN ECUATORIANO EN NEW JERSEY

Antes de viajar le dijeron sus amigos que evitara juntarse con otros latinos en los Estados Unidos. Llegó entusiasmado a visitar sus parientes en un pueblo clase obrera, media baja, cerca de la ciudad de Nueva York con una población numerosa de cubanos, dominicanos, ecuatorianos, colombianos, y al norte del mismo, los pueblos más afluyentes donde la población es mayoritariamente “blanca”: los llamados "wasps", italianos e irlandeses. Aprendió a usar la transportación pública, y ni se sentaba al lado de la gente con aspecto “latino”. Pensó que se había colado e integrado, ya que él se veia y era visto como “blanco” en su Guayaquil natal. Nunca se le ocurrió que sus ojos achinados, su tez blanco-amarillento, pelo rizo lo colocaban dentro de lo que los gringos llaman un "high yellow", un mestizo; hasta que un día, un grupo de supremacistas “blancos” lo siguieron cuando se bajó del autobús y le dieron una paliza, mientras lo llamaban, “fucking nigger”. Nunca entendió porque lo llamaban “negro”. 

LA ZORRA SIN UVAS

Lo pediste: perdón. Tienes buenos modales, conoces cómo deben comportarse los chicos de familia clase media. No te engañes. No me engañas. Fundamentalmente, sigues igual. No ha cambiado nada en tu moral de zorra en una fábula. Quieres las uvas y un final feliz. Recuerda que Esopo no escribió cuentos de hadas.

PANDEMICS (1980-2020), MEDICAL PLANS AND CRUELTY

A close friend, a woman, suffers of allergies and during certain times of the year, the symptoms get worse. This time, around three months ago, she began to feel sick, tired and was treated for her allergies. The treatment did not help. As she began to deteriorate, unable to use hr arms, legs, drink or eat easily, the doctor stopped the treatment and did all kind of tests to find out what was going on. The tests had to be sent to the USA and came back indicating she has an autoimmune disease. As she became more ill, they rushed her to the hospital and was treated with very strong dosages of cortisone. She was placed in a large room with four more patients. Within two weeks all the patients became infected with Covid. 

As it happens in Puerto Rican hospitals, unless you are rich and can pay for a private nurse, relatives usually stay 24 hours with the patient, helping with the basics: bathing, feeding them. Her husband was there for two weeks, and when she tested positive also, he asked if the hospital was going to test him. “No”, was the answer, to go home, get a referral from his doctor and be tested. He also came out positive and did the 14 days quarantine and then turned out negative. Luckily, the rest of the family came out negative. Like all Covid patients, she was isolated and no one but medical staff is allowed in her room. They communicate with her through the smartphones, but she cannot respond. For reasons that are not clear to me, her treatment of the original autoimmune disease was stopped and new ones, experimental, dealing with the virus began. She is a very good friend, with unconditional solidarity like “primitive Catholics” were with each other before Christianity fell into the hands of politicians; a  strong woman who is not easily scared, determined and ready to act, a Puerto Rican “matrona” in the fullest meaning of the world. A friend we all should have. 

As I wait daily for news -her husband and son keep me informed, I read two short stories dealing with medical plans: Indian Camp by Ernest Hemingway; and Face Time by Lorrie Moore. Cruelty and medicine are themes addressed in both stories. Hemingway does not hide it, places it right on the face of the reader. Moore is more reserved, dresses up cruelty as part of medical protocols, uncertain science as it is applied by medicine, experimenting with people. While talking with my friend’s husband and son, news are not very promising, I find that both of them sound very tired, kind of having given up with the “mistakes”, not on purpose, made by the medical professionals, institutions. Cruelty is not in their vision of what has taken place.

During the previous pandemic, around 1980, my very good friend Frank was hospitalized and isolated. He suffered of what was informally known as the “Gay disease”. It was not yet in the public domain but some gays in San Francisco and New York were becoming very sick and doctors did not know what was going on. Visitors could see him through a glassed wall. The medical personnel treated him, but were simply figuring out it this or that medicine would work out. None did. Some made him sicker. He gradually became emaciated. The broad shoulders, strong arms, legs, handsome face, man ended up looking like a character from a horror movie: big eyes and a skeleton. He died around two or three months after being hospitalized. 

When I first visited him, the hospital social worker asked me if I could meet with her. I knew nothing about what was going on and was informed about it, interviewed, gave names of other people who knew him and that we were just the best of friends, no sex. Luckily, it was not a communist country, otherwise, I would have been interned and never heard of again. Some quarantines are more restrictive than others, more so, when nothing is known about the disease. 

Frank was the first friend of mine who became infected with HIV. As time went by, more of my friends began to get sick, all of them died; one killed himself in my apartment. I was away for the weekend and the memory of rushing back to New York to deal with the police, cleaning the mess left by him in the bathroom, where the suicide took place, seems now like it was a cathartic event. I did not ask another friend who knew what was going to happen, how he did it, but the walls of the bathroom were covered with excrements. It did not look like it was a peaceful life-death transition. Having very supportive friends helped me go through the process, including, dealing with my work at CCNY, and face the “very nice” liberal petite bourgeoisie hetero colleagues. Had they known what was going on among gay men, their passive-agressive kindness would have taken a not so pleasant turn. 

In Hemingway’s story, once the lady gave birth, the baby bathed, they went over to check on the husband. He could not take the pain his wife was going thru and killed himself, slashing his throat. Moore ends her tale ascertaining that  her father’s desire to be able to live up to November and be able to vote was too much to hope for.

After my friend’s burial a group of friends got together to held a memorial. We did not talk about the disease, suicide nor praised his greatness or used the moment to go into “touchie-feelie” anecdotes. Like the “grand queens”, gays of my generation can be and act, we dished and trashed him. We had very good wines and “pate de foie gras” -one of them used to call it using Americana gay talk “French liver spread.” There were some straight friends in the memorial, and all they could do was laugh; and, I am sure, say to themselves, “Oh, my God!, they’ve been cruel.”