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This indecisiveness would have amused my brother. Don’t be such a chickenshit, he might have said. He switched from fag to chickenshit after I told him I was gay. This was typical of Henry; when I least expected it, he was a good big brother. In fact, when I told him I was worried about coming out to our parents, he came out to them instead—“to test the waters”—a couple of years before I came out to them. After a week, Henry told them he’d been kidding. “Mom was pissed, but dad thought it was funny,” he later explained.
This indecisiveness would have amused my brother. Don’t be such a chickenshit, he might have said. He switched from fag to chickenshit after I told him I was gay. This was typical of Henry; when I least expected it, he was a good big brother. In fact, when I told him I was worried about coming out to our parents, he came out to them instead—“to test the waters”—a couple of years before I came out to them. After a week, Henry told them he’d been kidding. “Mom was pissed, but dad thought it was funny,” he later explained.
My theory: the misery of his adulthood was an order of magnitude greater than the misery of his youth, and over time, less miserable somehow transformed into “good old times.”
My theory: the misery of his adulthood was an order of magnitude greater than the misery of his youth, and over time, less miserable somehow transformed into “good old times.”
Better isn’t a fair or apt description of how I view myself. I don’t think I’m intrinsically better or more important than anyone else, but I admit that I consider myself … something. Correct, maybe. After all, I did the things we were supposed to do. I did my homework. I got good grades. I seldom disobeyed my parents. I applied to college. I got into college. I went to graduate school. I got a job teaching at a university. I put down 25 percent for my small apartment. I don’t own a car. I buy my produce at the farmers market. I speak three languages well, and a few others so-so. I support a
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Better isn’t a fair or apt description of how I view myself. I don’t think I’m intrinsically better or more important than anyone else, but I admit that I consider myself … something. Correct, maybe. After all, I did the things we were supposed to do. I did my homework. I got good grades. I seldom disobeyed my parents. I applied to college. I got into college. I went to graduate school. I got a job teaching at a university. I put down 25 percent for my small apartment. I don’t own a car. I buy my produce at the farmers market. I speak three languages well, and a few others so-so. I support a
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Be better in order to be equal.
White, in a way, remained right. White was safe. White was clean. White was quiet. White was attractive. White was next door. White was on TV. White was on the cover. White were the teachers. White were the doctors. White was the president—all of them. White was the Lord and Savior. White was on top. White was everything.
Who looked like Andrés? Mom. Dad. Brother. Aunt. Uncle. Cousin. Other cousin. Black-and-white pictures of grandparents. Landscapers. Busboys. Porters. Villains. Speedy Gonzales. Ricky Ricardo, sort of. Anita from West Side Story. The casts of Stand and Deliver and La Bamba
Jeremy’s confidence was my first sexually transmitted illness.
“Everything in moderation, including moderation. Everything in moderation, including moderation.”
Everyone seemed to socialize so naturally, while for him, the business of interaction was merely another exam for which he hadn’t studied.
“What if—I think I still love you,” he says.
“Why are you being this way? What did I do?” “You didn’t do anything. This is all me.” “Me? Aren’t I at least part of you now?”
“Please don’t be upset,” Andy begged. “What can I do? I don’t want to leave you either. We can figure something out. I’ve narrowed it down to two schools. Both are driving distance away. Five, six hours. You can visit whenever you want, or—I called the school, there’s a community college nearby, and we—” “Let’s get married.” Jeremy’s red eyes, tousled hair, loosened tie, and unbuttoned shirt made the proposal seem dire and unintended, but also honest. Andy felt little control over his lips, which extended upward into a glorious smile. “I mean it. I only need you,” Jeremy continued.
“Marry me, Andrés.” “I will.”
“What happened? How does someone stop feeling all of a sudden?
“Listen to me, Andrés. Whatever I have done to ruin your life, por favor, find a way to fix it. I’m an old lady. I can’t fix anything, but you are still young. Go to therapy. Yell at me. Hit me if you want. Just don’t hold it all in. Don’t repeat our mistakes. Your brother is exactly who we made him to be. And his failures are my failures. He’s dead because I’m being punished for what I did wrong.”
I’m allowed to be wrong. And you’re allowed to be better.
Your first baby. It’s hard for you to imagine, but Henry was like my friend. I was his mother, but he was my only friend. The only person I talked to every day. The only person who listened to me. We ate together and sang together and learned English together.
Research has shown that minorities who live in areas with more people like themselves are healthier than those who live outside of their communities. Being outnumbered, it seems, takes a physical and psychological toll.
When in doubt, What’s your favorite pizza place? can lead to a robust conversation
If we’re not actively fighting oppression then we probably shouldn’t be contributing to it in any way, big or small.
