Of Mothers, Heroes and Role Models

My mother turned 74 last Friday. Without much fanfare, I called her as I always to do to wish her health, love and prosperity in the coming year. Birthdays have become much more to me than just a rite of passage. It is a matter of survival, for you see, my mother has fought many illnesses, and survived cancer. Such is the impact that the illness had on me, that it has brought many things into perspective as the years have passed. My view of the world is different from most people of my generation, for I dare to think and not conform.


It is no secret that my partner and I have been trying to become parents for some time. I have always wanted to be a parent, but it took Glen until he has 42 to realize that he wanted the same. One of our main concerns has always been what role models our child may have. Many of the heroes I grew up with and the role models I had are no longer living. Thus, one day I decided to ponder what role models I would want my niece, nephews and my own child to have in their lives. They are still very young, and being molded by their parents and the world. People think that heroes and role models need to be individuals outside of our own circle: celebrities, sport figures and the like. Not so for me. I came to the realization that I have had heroes and role models very near me in this life and those are the examples I would like my child to follow. Yes, there are celebrities mentioned here, but what is important is how they influenced me and not their celebrity.

1. My father. Such a quiet man. Very patient, very kind. The first memory I have of an act of selfless kindness came from him. I can transport myself to that moment and still feel the sun in my face and feel everything that surrounded me. As my dad and I walked along the sidewalk in the city where I grew up, an old, and very frail blind man was trying to cross the street. Every time he tried, the light would change from red to green and the poor man had no one to help him. My dad walked me to the nearest store, it was called “La Favorita”, (we bought all our shoes there) and told one of the attendants if they could watch me for a moment. He then proceeded to walk towards the blind man. As I could not hear the conversation through the glass window, I can only surmise that dad asked the blind man if he could assist him. There was my father, who just a minute ago had been in a massive rush to go meet my mother and sisters, stopping everything to help someone in need. I remember it taking a long time, but cross the street they did, with my father holding the blind man’s hand until they were safely on the other side. My father came back to collect me and I recall looking at him thinking that something between us had changed, but at the tender age of 4, I could not decipher what it was. My dad’s name is Edwin, which means “good friend”. If there is someone in this world who lives up to his or her name, he does, for no one has met a more gentle soul. People of all ages especially children always want to be around him.  So do I.

2. My mother. What a strong woman; what a strong character! Though there are things that all children resent about their parents, there are experiences that I am very grateful to my mother for. She is after all, a survivor. Cancer is a subject that we have covered and spoken about so much in my family, that it goes without saying that if there is one thing I admire about her, is her fighting spirit. There is never an obstacle too high for her. She will keep on fighting. Back when she was a teenager, she finished high school at 16 and college at 20. This was on an era when women did not aspire to be more than home-makers, nuns or teachers. As one of the only 3 women in her college graduating class, my mother was a pioneer. She was one of 13 children in a household which lived through the Great Depression. Somehow, her memories of her childhood are always happy ones. The first time I thought of my mother as a heroine was not when she got cancer, but when I was 7 years old. A terrible hurricane, Eloise, had hit the Island, and the rains, slides and floods left many people homeless. We lived on a hill, but the nearest neighborhood to us, was at the bottom of that hill and flooded badly. I don’t know how or why my parents made such a decision, but they asked my oldest sister to watch over me and my other sister and they got in the car. Before they left, they told us to please not be scared, that they were just going to see what they could to do help. Help they did. After a couple of hours they brought home another family with them. Apparently the shelters had gotten full and that family did not have a place to stay. My mother frantically prepared a bathroom and a bedroom for the four of them. She cooked them a hot meal in the small gas range we had for emergencies.  She made them change into some old clothes we had stashed away. That family stayed with us for two days until they were allowed to return to their home once the waters resided, and other family members could come to collect them. Neither my mother nor my father ever brought this up to anyone. Theirs was an act of selfless generosity. During the aftermath of that hurricane, my mother, who also worked for the school meal program, went to the nearest school to help prepare meals for those in need. I remember staying at that school for a long afternoon while my mother cooked not only for others, but for her children as well. Her need to help others has always been second nature. My mother is the one who has always been near her siblings as they have lived the last days on this earth and has seen that those days are lived in harmony and with dignity. 

3. My sisters. There is much I can say about them. They were my heroines, but mostly my role models. Being the youngest, I always have had the advantage of learning from their life experiences. Following them in school was always a challenge as I was constantly being compared with these two straight-A students who were good at everything, from making friends to playing sports. There was much I had to live up to. I still do. I am grateful to them for leading the way. It took a lot of courage for them to leave home to come to the US to study and work as young adults--leaving everything that was familiar and safe behind. It took great courage for one of them to attempt to get pregnant against the advice from doctors and for the other one to go to Russia to adopt her two children.  Somehow, I cannot imagine life without my niece and my two nephews.

4. Jill Conner Browne. I really don’t know what possessed me to buy Jill’s first book, The Sweet Potato Queens Book of Love. Probably the cover. There was something haunting about a line of middle-aged women with green sequence mini dresses, big red hair, tiaras and romps and tits to go for miles. It was all very amusing. When I decided to finally buy the book, Glen and I were on our way from Atlanta to Louisiana to visit his parents and had made a stop in Alabama, at the Mobile’s Barnes and Noble. Tired of listening to music, we opted for the audio book. Boy, did we laugh! Since then I have read (actually listened) to all of Jill’s books. Depression is a debilitating condition and it was Jill’s humor that in more than one occasion stopped the tears that ran through my face during that very dark period of my life. I have met Jill precisely one, at a book signing, and highly doubt that she will ever remember me, but I will be always grateful to her for giving me life. She taught me that laughter is indeed the best medicine. More than anyone I know. I have written to her to express my gratitude for what she, unknowingly, did for me. She is a heroine to me and to countless others. True to form, the only book I have of hers on physical form, she signed as she promised on her first book. The same way she signs books to all the men who request her signature: “To the only man I ever really loved”. I do feel loved. And now when I listened to her and laugh, I do so full of joy.

5. Jennifer Patterson and Clarissa Dickson-Wright (aka The Two Fat Ladies). My mother is great cook. I learned my love of the kitchen from her. For many years, I lived on my own, and seldom cooked for anyone, lest for occasionally for friends and boyfriends. When my partner and I met, I found on him someone who loves to eat, and thus my romance with the kitchen was re-ignited. To me, Clarissa and Jennifer were the two aunts I never had. Not that I didn’t have Aunts, but none like I really would have liked. I had never felt such affinity with someone I watched on the telly. As soon as I watched them for the first time, I bonded with them accross the tube.  Never mind we were an ocean apart. It was Clarissa and Jennifer who inspired me to become the great cook (I am told) that I am today. I am not a Chef. My interest in is food merely scientific and anthropological. Whatever it is they did, it made me want to experiment with food, and try new things. I began to write my own recipes in great measure due to them. To this day, I continue to do so and hope someday to pass along those recipes to my beloved God-daughter, who shares my love of food. The fun Jennifer and Clarissa had while cooking, reminded me of how my own mother used to sing with great abandon in the kitchen. Somehow, they made me reconnect with that part of my childhood. Some years later, when I learned of Jennifer’s passing due to cancer, I felt such an emotional connection as I have never felt with someone I had never met. Her death had left a void my soul. I did write to Clarissa soon after at her office in Aberdeen, where she was the university’s Rector, though she never replied.  In that missive, I extended my condolences and told her how much the two of them had meant to me. Last year, I read Clarissa’s autobiography and my admiration for her grew. To have had been reared in privilege, to then lose it all to alcoholism and emerge from the depth of darkness as she did, is a remarkable story.

6. Patti LuPone. La LuPone made want to sing. When I was in elementary school, I was part of the choir. Same in high school. Little did I realize years later, when I auditioned for the Atlanta Gay Men’s Chorus, one of the best and most prestigious of such organizations in the nation, that I lacked technique, and that singing, like any other sport, necessitated my full attention, daily practice and exercise. I did eventually acquired that technique and what came out of my mouth is a voice that I had never heard before. Performing is something I always felt drawn to, but the three seasons that I sung with the AGMC were some of the most fulfilling and exciting of my life. Listening to recordings of Patti LuPone, put me in touch with my vocal range, as I am able to sign almost everything she does, though on my own style. Singing also gave exposure to many different people and afforded me opportunities I would have never had otherwise. For example, recognizing a at some moment of the pure genius of Mozart, whose Requiem I was able to perform with the AGMC as the background music to the Atlanta Ballet’s world premier ballet of the same name. Singing Mozart was almost a mystical experienced as I instinctively knew what notes would follow others when first introduced to one of his choral pieces.  I am saving the one CD released with my soloist voice in it as a treasure.

7. Hailey Eddy. Definitely the best boss I have ever had. Hailey was smart, funny, generous, caring, a good teacher and very, very patient. I was just 26 when I began to work with Hailey. I say work with and not for because she always made her subordinates know that she was part of a team, and that each of us had as much to contribute to the success of our enterprise as she did. We were all stakeholders to each other. Like the leader of a team paddling a canoe, she knew that everyone had to pull their own weight on the same measure, so that the vessel could remain afloat. She guided me through learning the ropes of leadership with kindness and patience. Where others had made me defensive, she gave me calmness, stability and pride in what I did. It was no surprise then that when I was afflicted with an illness that took me away from work for three weeks and for which I lost 15 pounds in three days, she was the one who did the most to keep me alive. She made me eat, painful as it was. She kept close watch over me. She gave me strength. She gave me advise. She bought my food and medicine. Tell me of a boss who would do that for anyone these days? Hailey did. Now that I am in the position to lead, the is only one person in the world after whom I want to model my behavior, my gold standard…Hailey Eddy.

8. Karen Armstrong. Karen Armstrong calls herself a “freelance monotheist.” I am proud to count myself amongst one of her numbers. Growing up in the Catholic Church meant that I was exposed to a set of dogma and theologies that defined god as demanding, ever-watchful, and vengeful deity, and one who must be feared. Years later, I realized that this “god” had died for me and I left the Christian church. It was not until I read Karen’s books, especially A History of God and The Spiral Staircase, that this part of my life began to acquire new meaning. I have often made reference to Karen on this blog. She taught me to look at the message and concept of the divine in a very different light. Like Karen, I am trying to not to leave any stone unturned, and have looked endlessly for where God resides. My suspicions were correct all along: God resides within oneself. There is no better teaching and way to find enlightenment than living with compassion—the thread that unites all the Abrahamic religions of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Every day now, when I set of to start my day, I remember the Golden Rule: “Don’t do onto others what you have not done onto you”.

These are individuals who what guided my life and have molded who I am today. There are countless others, but I wanted to write about the most significant ones hitherto. At the end of the day, I realize that these individuals have been teachers, but like any good and wise teacher, they have only led me to the threshold of the temple. I am responsible to what I accomplish with the lessons, wisdom and blessings I that have been bestowed upon me. I imagine that in heaven, at the end of a long corridor, there must be a mirror. One day, I want to be able to look at myself in that mirror and say that the reflection who looks back at me is someone who has “paid it forward”, someone who has been a role model, and if I am lucky, someone's hero. That is the best legacy I can leave for my nice, nephews and maybe, if it is in the cards, my own child. Rest assured.

Lent...and Renewal

As I was brought up in a Catholic household, and educated in a Catholic school, it only seems appropriate that I would share my thoughts on the traditions of Lent. Traditions mean different things to different people, as they should. It is through our own personal understanding of the “mysteries”, that we are able to make sense of the world around us. I have never been, nor will I be a fanatic, fundamentalist, dogmatic Christian. For that reason, I call myself a Pagan. It is my belief that our understanding of the world is proportionally related to our experiences in this life. Those experiences mold my understanding of the Creative Life Force, or that which most Christians call God or even Jesus. It is through the lessons of Jesus, Buddha, Mohammad or Mother Earth that we grow in our Enlightment.

The historical references of this essay were taken from an article published by the Catholic Church and with all due respect, I do make references to the quotes in that piece, not as an article of faith, but to guide my readers on my understanding of what this tradition means to me.

Most individuals in America are familiar with the festivities of Mardi – Gras or Fat Tuesday. Consequently, they also know that the following day is Ash Wednesday, a time for most Christians to gather at churches to receive a cross of ashes in their forehead by a priest.  The first question, should be, then, why the use of Ashes? The origin of the custom of using ashes in religious ritual is lost in the mists of pre-history, but we find references to the practice in the Old Testament. The prophet Jeremiah, for example, calls for repentance this way: "O daughter of my people, gird on sackcloth, roll in the ashes" (Jer 6:26)

The prophet Isaiah, on the other hand, critiques the use of sackcloth and ashes as inadequate to please God, but in the process he indicates that this practice was well-known in Israel: "Is this the manner of fasting I wish, of keeping a day of penance: that a man bow his head like a reed, and lie in sackcloth and ashes? Do you call this a fast, a day acceptable to the Lord?" (Is 58:5).

The prophet Daniel pleaded for God to rescue Israel with sackcloth and ashes as a sign of Israel's repentance: "I turned to the Lord God, pleading in earnest prayer, with fasting, sackcloth and ashes" (Dn 9:3).

Perhaps the best known example of repentance in the Old Testament also involves sackcloth and ashes. When the prophet Jonah finally obeyed God's command and preached in Nineveh. The word of his message was carried to the king. "When the news reached the king of Nineveh, he rose from his throne, laid aside his robe, covered himself with sackcloth, and sat in the ashes" (Jon 3:6).

In the book of Judith, we find acts of repentance that specify that the ashes were put on people's heads: "And all the Israelite men, women and children who lived in Jerusalem prostrated themselves in front of the temple building, with ashes strewn on their heads, displaying their sackcloth covering before the Lord" (Jdt 4:11; see also 4:15 and 9:1).

Just prior to the New Testament period, the rebels fighting for Jewish independence, the Maccabees, prepared for battle using ashes: "That day they fasted and wore sackcloth; they sprinkled ashes on their heads and tore their clothes" (1 Mc 3:47; see also 4:39).

In the New Testament, Jesus refers to the use of sackcloth and ashes as signs of repentance: "Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the mighty deeds done in your midst had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would long ago have repented in sackcloth and ashes" (Mt 11:21, Lk 10:13).”

In the early church, those who had committed serious sins confessed them to the bishop and were assigned a penance that was to be carried out over a period of time. After completing their penance, they were reconciled by the bishop with a prayer of absolution offered in the midst of the community. These individuals were initially marked with ashes in their foreheads.

During the time they worked out their penances, the “penitents” often had special places in church and wore special garments to indicate their status. Like those who were preparing for Baptism, they were often dismissed from Sunday services after the Liturgy of the Word, what we commonly know as the reading of the Gospel.

This whole process was modeled on the conversion journey of those about to be baptized, because the Church saw falling into serious sin after Baptism as an indication that a person had not really been converted. Penance was a second attempt to foster that conversion. Early Church fathers even called Penance a "second Baptism."

Lent developed in the Church as the whole community prayed and fasted for the catechumens, those being prepared for Baptism. At the same time, those members of the community who were already baptized prepared to renew their baptismal promises at Easter, thus joining the catechumens in seeking to deepen their own conversion. It was natural, then, that the Order of Penitents also focused on Lent, with reconciliation often being celebrated on Holy Thursday so that the newly reconciled could share in the liturgies of the Resurrection.

By the Middle Ages, the emphasis was no longer baptismal. Instead, the main emphasis shifted to the passion and death of the Christ. Lent came to be seen as a time to acknowledge guilt for the sins that led to Christ's passion and death. Repentance was then seen as a way to avoid punishment for sin more than as a way to renew our baptismal commitment.

Later on, the focus on personal penance and the Sacrament of Penance continued in Lent, but the connection to Baptism was no longer obvious to most people. This is reflected in the formula that came to be associated with the distribution of ashes: "Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return." This text focuses on our mortality, as an incentive to take seriously the call to repentance, but there is little hint here of any baptismal meaning. This emphasis on mortality fit well with the medieval experience of life, when the threat of death was always at hand. Many people died very young, and the societal devastation of the plague made death even more prevalent.

When a Christian receives ashes on his/her forehead, s/he is to remember who s/he is: a creature of the earth ("Remember that you are dust"), a mortal being ("and to dust you will return”), a person on a journey of conversion ("Turn away from sin and be faithful to the gospel"). It is a statement of renewal.

Through the dark months of winter, natures withdraws into itself and we humans should do the same.  Our purpose should be to review and reorganize the potential of our lives.  Metaphysically speaking, one should have a plan of action for the days when the light returns and we can see clearly who we truly are. This should be a time for us to rest and regain our strength. We must open our hearts and ears to the world. This “conversion” should take place within ourselves...in search of enlightment and wisdom. Gone (or they should be gone) are the days when the established church dictates that we must repent, but I dare say that we must reflect and meditate on the selfish, inappropriate actions we have engaged in...and set goals...and move forth in the world, with a clear and renewed sense of self.  Life renews itself at Springtime. So should we.  We must rise from the ahes of our past endeavors and begin life anew.  As the symbol above, this is a process that continues for the rest of our lives:  it has no beginning and no end, for knowledge and wisdom are infinite and one should never stop learning.  To refuse such process, is to die.

I may not feel the need to go to a church and have ashes placed on my forehead to be reminded of what I must do and who I am. Although I may not do so, I honor my heritage and the traditions of the church I was once such an integral part of. We humans forget often the importance of ritual. It is through ritual that we discover who we really are.  You may be like me and not feel the need to display what you are about to do, but you must always find a way to renew yourself, for this is a proclamation of faith in itself. Faith in yourself.  Rest assured…

Karen Armstrong, Creativity and the Golden Rule

As a former catholic nun, author Karen Armstrong became increasingly disillusioned with the church, which prompted her departure from the convent in 1969. Like many of us, Ms. Armstrong had become fed up with the catholic establishment and wanted to pursue more secular interests. As I felt in my late twenties, she felt that “God” had died for her. Though her faith did not waiver, she realized that the god we had been taught to obey out of fear as children was not the god she wanted in her life. That led to a journey that continues to this day.

I discovered Karen Armstrong’s writing through her book A History of God, in which she addresses the historical impact of the god concept through the first three main belief systems of the world; those being Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Reading that book confirmed many of my beliefs: mainly that the concept of god had been manipulated by humanity to fit its own experience of the divine and expectations of the world, and that such manipulations had led to intolerance and domination of the lower classes by the powerful.

The first civilizations experienced the divine in completely different fashions. Through myth and ritual, these ancient peoples created a mythology by which they tried to make sense of the world that surrounded them. It was through such rituals that they gained a sense of themselves and how to cope with their environment. The myths they created were programs of action. A myth was enacted as ritual so that answers could be found to man’s queries about his existence. This way, mankind learned how to address their concerns about the world. To this day, ritual is an important component of all major religious traditions, including those lesser known ones, such as Wicca, which I tend to address in another entry.

Story-telling was integral part of the mystical experience. As man tried to make sense of what was happening to him, civilization developed creation myths, gods and theologies. With time, these stories were recorded and evolved into complex literary works and traditions. Each major ancient culture, from the Babylonians to the Egyptians developed such works. Eventually, so did the Jews with the Torah. These works are considered by many as direct revelations from God. Even the Koran does not discard the Jewish and Christian Scriptures as fallacy, but as the precursors of the revelation given to the prophet Mohammad by Allah. However, these writings cannot be taken literally.

What is important to realize is that these works are allegories. Scripture must be opened to interpretation. In order to achieve an understanding of ourselves, we need to be able to move from the literal to the mystical. Revelation is an ongoing process. It is different for every human being. It is in the stillness of silence and meditation and in the sparks of creativity that we can experience the divine.

What we call God, I like to refer to as the Creative Life Force. It is no surprise that the experience of the divine has such a close link to the arts. Throughout history, music, painting and literary works have been created to the grace of “God.” What we fail to realize is that all creation has a spark of the divine.  We humans fail to relize is the "We are but a thought in the mind of the creator."   The arts are forms of meditation for it is inspiration that moves us through will and concentration to create. To many of us who create, it is that moment of inspiration where we find “God.” It is the experience of elation and “otherworldliness” that makes us give of ourselves. Personally, I have experienced moments when I have felt that it is another power propelling me to give birth to an idea. I never know what the journey will be like. I have a goal and I allow myself to be guided: in perfect love and perfect trust.

Take the myth of Creation in which Adam and Eve are in the Garden of Eden. It is by giving a part of himself, that Adam assists in the creation of Eve. I don’t intend to discuss theology, but you see my point. The divine is achieved by giving of ourselves without selfishness. It is illustrated beautifully in that allegory. Theology should be something that lifts our hearts and engages us to be better human beings, not something that tries to define God literally.  That domesticates that which we cannot see, touch or even understand.

It has been said that we were created in the image of God, and if such is true, then there is no need for us to bow to a deity. We must, therefore look within ourselves to find the true meaning of the divine within us. The divine voice should speak to the reality of the human condition, not work against it. By taking the biblical allegories literally, mankind has fallen into a dangerous fundamentalism that does not allow others to have different perspectives on how to approach the subject of the divine. It goes without saying that wars and oppressive behavior has been engaged to by humanity due to this fundamentalism. However, the test of any faith is compassion, something that our world lacks in great measure. It is the selfishness of nations and the religious establishment has, that has kept us away from the divine, by preaching that their views are the only ones worth pursuing.

In the age of enlightenment, science was put on a collision course with God. The Christian Church did not want to accept that the universe does not revolve around the Earth and Man. Such an egocentric though did not allow for creativity and independent thought to thrive. However, we must realize that religion does not contradict science. To me, the principle of Accommodation, that which indicates that God has chosen to reveal aspects of himself to mankind in a way in which mankind is able to understand has everything to do with science. Therefore Man cannot sit still and believe that he knows everything there is to know, for it is through the journeys of discovery, in whichever form it takes, from the scientific to the secular, that he can understand revelation. There is a reason that “God help those who help themselves.” A wise man seeks wisdom because he knows he does not have it. Therefore, we must be able to accept other’s revelation and share on its merits. Someone said “I believe so that I can understand.” You don’t have to blindly believe in anything. It is your involvement and commitment that helps you achieve a goal. The same applies to achieving that which the Hindus call “Nirvana” and that I call the sparks of the divine.

The world we live in is full of danger because of the intolerance of many to allow others to express their views on such revelations. Our generation has created such an environment in which the powerful have struggled to impose their views on others. Nations and peoples have forgotten that kindness is the true virtue and will not cease until the opposing party is humiliated. They delight in the misfortune of others. You don’t have to look far. These behaviors are even experienced in our daily lives: in the office, on the road, in schools, within families… Man needs to realize that quarrelling about scripture negates scripture itself. Scripture should be a vehicle to reach the divine. Not the end of the road.

One of Ms. Armstrong’s favorite stories, is also one of mine. It goes something like this: One day a pagan approached Rabbi Hillel and told him that he would convert to Judaism if he could recite the whole of the Torah, while standing in one leg, to which the great Rabbi replied “Do not do unto others as you would not have done unto you. That is the whole of the Torah: go and learn it.” This is what is commonly known as “The Golden Rule.” That illustrates that the goal of any religion is COMPASSION, that which is essential to human existence and peace, both inner and outer. To me, that is the whole point of religion and scripture and why we need to strive to reach the divine. I echo the message from Karen Armstrong when I say: do not be blinded by doctrine and scripture. It is all just commentary on the Golden Rule. Rest assured.

On the subject of Gay Pride

To some, the word “Pride” is taken totally out of context. Pride should be a force that propels us to seek justice, not a badge that we choose to “wear” along with some other symbol that affords us permission to behave in an unethical or erratic manner.


I was a “late bloomer” and did not come out to my friends and family until I was in my mid twenties. For a long time, I had heard of “Gay Pride” much in the same fashion I had been taught to feel pride in my country, family history and accomplishments. To be honest, I did not know back then what this “Gay Pride” thing was because I had no context in which to define it.

Picture it, San Francisco, the summer of 1994. I had been “out” maybe a year. Some of my friends had taken me under their wing and introduced me to the gay world of the Bay Area. Being a preppy goodie-two-shoes, I had to learn to adapt. Quickly. The learning curve was fast and furious. They took me to gay restaurants, gay bars, gay bookstores, you name it. They would take anywhere the word gay was put in front of.

I leaned to wear “the uniform”. Back then it was blue jeans and white t shirt with black leather boots. Of course, being preppy, my boots were shinny, expensive and came from England. Back then I had a sense of fashion. My first boyfriend once dressed me in leather to “show me off”.   I guess he wanted everyone to meet his “new catch” and have something more in common with me.  I did it to make him happy, but deep inside I knew I could not keep it up. That was not who I was. I was, after all, a preppy goodie-two-shoes, except I had a mouth like a sailor given the right circumstances and the right amount of alcohol.

Back then some of my friends also smoked pot, although not a fact originally known to me. With them, I acquired my “gaydar”, that intuitive sense gay men have that aids them detect one of their own kind from miles away. Very amusing, funny and yes, disturbing...are some of the mating rituals in the gay community.

Growing up what I knew of the Gay world were the Drag Queen prostitutes on the town square. I would see them every Saturday night when my parents took me to get ice cream at the best Chinese – owned ice cream parlour in the city. They did make very much the best sorbets and Ice Creams I had ever tasted. But I digress. To this day, I remember those “ladies” on the town square and I knew I did not want to be like them. So I kept telling myself that if that was being gay was all about, I could not be that way. I wanted no part of that world.

Those crazy days in San Francisco were destructive and much as they were forming. I remember being taken to a leather club where men pissed collectively in a dark bathroom with a tub in the center of it. I remember thinking, what am I doing? This is not me. As a matter of fact, I wanted to end the whole thing right then and there.

Why do I have to label myself, I thought? Why do I need to look and act a certain way? Why do I have to conform to someone’s expectation of what being gay is? Outfits? Drugs? Pissing in a dark room? Leather? With time, I leaned to see the funny side of all this.

The outfits were nothing more than drag to me. To this day, when I see a very macho-acting, leather-wearing gay man, I shout out: Drag! And yes, I did drag a couple of times (the real thing) to much acclaim…but that is another story entirely and the subject for another posting. Yes, I was back then a big fan of Norma Desmond, the character created by Gloria Swanson in Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard. I still have the outfit… If you get pleasure out of something and do not hurt anyone in the process, then so be it. Be yourself and take heart. Others feel the same way.

I am telling you this because none of those things gave me much pride on what or who I was. So what made me feel proud back then? It was the friendship, the camaraderie, the bond my friends and I had with each other. It was the fact that someone who a few years back had been in the same situation had taken me under their wing, much as a new bird learning to fly, and had taught me with care to value myself enough to fly on my own.

It was knowing that I had been with one of my employees until his last days on this earth before he died of AIDS. It was knowing that I made difference in his life. It was witnessing the love and commitment my friends Kelly and Jeffrey and Dawn and Amy felt and still feel for each other. It was knowing that if I fell, someone would be there to catch me, and that someday I would be able to “pay it forward.” It was the fact that I could be myself.

It was the fact that I could stand up to the establishment and the corporate world and show them that I was who I was and that in no way that interfered with my work ethics, my views on religion, or my drive to succeed or my family life.

It was the kindness showed to me by one of the biggest assholes I had ever worked for, who one day came into my office, shut the door and gifted me two books, that in his summation, I needed to read to help me “cope.” He too was an openly gay man and wanted me to know that if I fell in despair or needed a hand, he would also be there.

It was my sister who celebrated my life and accepted me as who I was and could care less of what the world thought of her baby brother. To her, I was still the best and most talented brother anyone could ever ask for. It was my parents seeing me through the though times and never failing to say “I love you” and “I am proud of you”, despite of their initial disapproval of the gay “lifestyle”. How I hate that word! It is not a lifestyle at all. It is who we are.

It is knowing that others have given their lives so that I can enjoy what I now have. It was witnessing the fight for justice and hearing the stories about Harvey Milk. It was seeing that amongst my beloved friends, there were no racial boundaries. We were all the same. And we loved each other.

To this day, though I have lost touch with some of those people from my past, I have the most sincere and heart felt-affection for them. Dean Foster, if someday you read this, this applies to you too. You were my rock many times and I had conversations with you I never had with any of my other friends, because in my estimation, you were also a preppy goodie-two-shoes that I could relate to.

It is knowing that my beloved and I have been together for over 10 years and that my love for him is greater today than yesterday. It is knowing that I have the confidence to want to become a parent. It has been seeing other gay and lesbian couples succeed as a partnership and as a family. It is knowing that I have been blessed with wonderful people in my life.

Sadly, I know that not many have been as lucky as me. Every time I hear about someone having been beaten to death (Mathew Sheppard), kicked from home, not being able to serve their country with dignity in the military, being harassed by so-called "people of God", being marginized at work, just because of who he or she is, it infuriates me.

On the first Gay Pride celebration I ever attended, the “Dikes on Bikes”, as it is customary in San Francisco, would announce the start of the parade with the roaring of their motorcycles, to the cheer and delight of the crowd. That day, I felt free to be myself and for the first time, I shed a tear of joy for being who I was, and knowing that my world was at crossroad and not at its end. To this day, when I hear a group of motorcycles roar at the start of a parade, I am immediately transported to that moment and my heart rejoices, and my eyes shed a tear. They shed a tear not because I am sad, but because I have lived and loved with my whole heart, because I honor those who came before me and who had to pay the price for what I now enjoy. It is my debt of gratitude.

Being gay does not define who I am. Neither does the color of my skin. My actions do, as do my ethics, my experiences, my friendships and my thoughts. No one chooses to be this way. We are born so.

I refuse to believe that “sexual preference” is a choice because it negates our soul. To me, humanity is nothing but a collection of souls that have chosen to manifest themselves in human form. To me and to countless others, we are merely energy that has transformed itself into who we are. What we choose to do with that energy is what defines us. It is how you affect ourselves and the world at large.

For these and may other reasons I do feel pride. Gay Pride. Of that, you can Rest Assured.

I have toyed with the idea of starting a blog for a long time, but I often wondered who would be interested in listening to what I have to say? I am, by nature, a communicator. It is what I do. It is in my veins. I learn, I absorb, I educate, I influence. At times, the urge to communicate is stronger than food as it is what really feeds my soul.

The pen name I use, Gavriel, was chosen for that very reason. Not to get too much into religion here, the Archangel Gabriel was the announcer, the messenger, the artist. You may wonder why I have chosen not to use my own name. It is not that I am afraid of what other people might think. I could care less. However, I want to protect the innocent, and by default the guilty, albeit not necessarily by choice.

So what is it that I want to share, you may ponder. Well…my opinion about everything: religion, raising children, being gay, not being gay, being Hispanic, not being Hispanic, justice, injustice, science, science fiction, love, unrequited love, education, ignorance, literature, art, cooking (I love cooking), food, politics, philosophy. I do not pretend to know everything, but at least I have an opinion on the subject. There is no subject that may be off limits…much to the chagrin of my dear relatives.

Sometimes I may get too deep into a subject I feel passionate about, but that is how I am. I am passionate about my friends, my family, my work, and the world around me. My muses play tricks on me, as they do with every aware human being I suppose, and the best idea for an essay will hit me at the most inconvenient time…and I have no paper and pen to write on. Wonder what happens with those thoughts? Thoughts are ethereal and organic. I have often wondered if the thought I just lost was caught by someone else by osmosis.

As Khalil Gibran said: “All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.” The important thing is to collect as many crumbs as possible and have a feast. That is what I intend to do. Of that, you can Rest Assured.