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“When I think of my mom, I think of her big smile. I was adopted by my aunt but i know I have my mother’s spirit with me. She passed when I was about 8 years old from HIV/AIDS. I took it really hard. I don’t know, it’s like when they first tell you,...

“When I think of my mom, I think of her big smile. I was adopted by my aunt but i know I have my mother’s spirit with me. She passed when I was about 8 years old from HIV/AIDS. I took it really hard. I don’t know, it’s like when they first tell you, I really didn’t comprehend it until about a couple of hours later and my brain just snapped. And I felt like everything was just done. Being 8 years old and only knowing your mother and not your father, only knowing certain people in your family and the only thing you’re left with is people that you’re not really that close to.

I think my mother would actually be proud of the fact that I can be who i am by myself. Like, I didn’t need anyone there by my side. I have always been there for myself. So I think she would be really proud that I can do this on my own. I don’t need anybody on my shoulder telling me "you can do this.” because she is there telling me every day that I walk, “You can take the next step.” Ya know, I was born myself and I don’t need anybody to be there to help me.

I just wish she could be here. It’s hard. It’s hard just being here without her. But it makes me smile to know she would be proud of me and proud that I did it.“

Giovanni Martinez-Cruz, Philadelphia

Interviewed by Anthony Leon & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca

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“i never thought i’d make it here.” when felix stated that one sentence during his interview, i was floored. not because it was sad but rather because it is a truth about me that i didn’t know put into words or maybe was too afraid to say out loud. he held up a mirror to me and i was left transformed. thank you felix for being so damn wonderful and courageous. thank you for supporting this project. thank you for existing.

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Louie: So you’re originally from some place in New York I have never heard of (LOL) what is the craziest experience you have had in Philadelphia?

Alejandro: The craziest experience I’ve had in Philadelphia? I briefly befriended a young homeless man in center city. I’d seen him playing a guitar on the sidewalk one day, and a few days later the guitar was gone. He said it been stolen. I spent a late night hanging out with him once, and at some point another homeless youth confronted him about something and lunged at a bunch of us with a switchblade. It was a whole different side of the city that I’ve ever seen.

Louie: So what was it like growing up in your family?

Alejandro: I had a great stretch of happy childhood at first. My parents met while working in the dining room of a hotel in the Hudson Valley, and when I was born, they lived on the second floor of another immigrant family’s house. My happiest memories are from living in a trailer that my parents rented afterwards. I loved the Muppets, so my parents bought me the “Muppet Christmas” record and for Halloween, they painstakingly carved Miss Piggy and Kermit Jack-O-Lanterns for me. As I got closer to adolescence, my parents’ marriage unraveled, and my dad started spending a lot of time elsewhere. He’d worked his way up to Maitre D at the hotel, which was good, but he worked nights, weekends, and holidays my whole childhood. There’s a lot I wish I could’ve learned from him. People respected him. My mom went to college as they were getting divorced, and she raised my sister and me as she got her bachelors, and her masters, and then started teaching English as a second language. When I came out as gay in my late teens, both of my parents were very supportive, though. They’re good people. Now that I’m an adult, I can see what qualities of my own come from them. For better or for worse I’m their creation in many ways.

Louie: You invited me to one of your stand-up performances and you were fuckin’ hilarious. Have you always known you were going to be a comedian?

Alejandro: I didn’t always know I would be a comedian, but I did always know I would be an artist, and I’ve always loved comedy. Self-knowledge is harder to come by than some people think. The only thing I’ve really ever known from the beginning is that I’m not like other people, and the rest of my life has been about trying to find my place in the world. What I love about comedy is that it gives people the freedom to talk about what this life is really like.

Alejandro Morales, Philadelphia by way of Ellenville, New York

Interviewed and Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca

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thebody.com

From Under the Rock: An HIV Activist on Growing Up in The Reagan Crack Years

'I have come a long way from the small room I shared with my mother and brothers,' says Ortiz-Fonseca. 'I no longer have to check spoons for burn residue ...
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My mother began smoking crack in the summer of 1986. At that time, it was widely known as “crack rock.” I was 9 years old and I already had mastered the art of secrecy. I didn’t call it art or survival; it was just life under the “rock.” I learned many things that summer that would forever change me.

I learned to check the spoons for burn residue before using them. I taught my brothers to do the same. I learned to hide my single speaker radio before going to school. I taught my brothers to do the same. I learned to play in the dark when the electricity was cut off. I learned that people were more than comfortable calling my mother “crack head” in front of our young eyes and ears. I learned to grow numb and I taught my brothers to do the same.

The greatest lesson I learned was not to be ashamed of my mother. Trust me when I say that this was no easy task during a time when life was polarized by dichotomies of “clean” or “dirty,” “crack head” or human.

These lessons sustained our sanity. These lessons fortified me, along with millions of black and brown families in the 1980s and ‘90s, tried to survive life under the “rock.”

Being the oldest child, I was charged with ensuring that my brothers were fed and taken care of. While I resented the responsibility, it provided me a kind of access to my mother that my brothers didn’t have. After coming down from her high, she would wake me from my sleep to play board games with her at 2 a.m. She would tell me about how AIDS had stolen her friends and how bad she missed them. She would tell me that I was the “good” one and it was my responsibility to keep my younger brother Nicholas out of trouble. We talked about pretty much everything – except life under the “rock.”

It was difficult for anyone in my neighborhood to call someone else’s mother a “crack head” without quickly being reminded that their mother too was a “crack head.” So, the insults had to be more specific; hairs had to be split: “Well at least my mother didn’t sell the TV.” “Well at least we have food in the house.”

My brothers and I were lucky in this sense. Our mother had done neither and so we found solace in that. I believe that this alone helped us to survive with whatever dignity we had left as I watched the will to live disappear from the eyes of other kids living in and being surrounded by crack addiction.

As noted by the U.S. Sentencing Commission, more than one thousand stories about crack appeared in the press in 1986, with NBC reporting over 400 reports on the crack “epidemic” alone. The media coverage was instrumental in shaping the nation’s perception of those who struggled with and/or were directly impacted by crack addiction. This perception has since been inherited by a new generation of HIV advocates and activists, who only associate the Presidency of Ronald Reagan with his failed response to AIDS. But those who survived the Reagan years also associate that time with the government’s swift and violent response to crack that stole the lives and promise of many, deliberately destroying black and brown families.

Thirty years later, the conversation about addiction has shifted dramatically. The same government that demonized, dehumanized and then criminalized people like my mother now urges us all to remember that people struggling with addiction have a disease and require love, patience and treatment. This reminder comes just as the face of addiction is now that of white affluent youth struggling with heroin addiction. This compassion, while critical and necessary, was not made available to black and brown communities that struggled with the presence of crack. I will venture to say that this approach is still NOT available to individuals who still struggle in the shadows of a crack addiction.

Yes, it is important that we evolve as a society and it is equally important that we make amends with ourselves for allowing this to happen on our watch. Even more importantly, we cannot validate our evolution without a true account of what happened, who it happened to and why it happened in the first place.

I have come a long way from the small room I shared with my mother and brothers. I no longer have to check spoons for burn residue but I no longer have family to bear witness to the atrocities we survived.

My mother struggled with addiction until her death last June. My brother Nicholas was murdered in 2001. I sometimes struggle with survivor’s guilt. This is not uncommon for those who have survived war. Every day, I am learning to reconcile my survival with the sacrifices my mother and brother made for me to live life out from under the “rock.”

Atonement is often the last act of any complete apology. As a nation, how do we atone for the heinous behavior of the government during the Reagan years? It’s simple: We don’t ignore the heroes of my generation. Instead, we honor the legacies of my mother and every mother who provided light in darkest days of the war raged on our families. We memorialize them like we would the heroes who were lost in battle.

Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca is an Afro-Boricua artist born and raised in Philadelphia. Louie understands firsthand the impact of intersecting oppressions of racism, homophobia, poverty, and AIDS-phobia. These experiences inspire his commitment to document the lives and oral history of Latino gay and queer men through his project, “The Gran Varones.” Louie is also the 2015 winner of the Hispanic Choice Awards Creative Artist of the Year.

Copyright © 2016 Remedy Health Media, LLC. All rights reserved.

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nope!

i know this is hard to believe for some folks. but here is the actual truth:

showing off our asses is ok.
frequently bathhouses is ok.
enjoying sex is ok.
going to the club is ok.
serving it at the ball is ok.
fagging out is ok.

these are all revolutionary acts. not doing these things does NOT make you more “respectable,” “lovable,” or “political.”

so stop trippin’ boo. you ain’t better than anyone. but here is the gift we offer - no one is better than you either. you too are beautiful.

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his name was marcus. we were both in the midst of surviving the government’s barbaric assault on families who were living and struggling with crack addiction. we were still trying to love our whole selves, our blackness and queerness in the fog of shame that only kids who learned to calm their mother’s paranoia after a hit.

he said, listen to this song. it was 1996 and i was too deep into pop music to give a hip-hop song a chance. marcus said, “no. you need to listen to this. trust me.” i relented and he began to play the song. he reached out to hold my hand and my initial response was “gurl, what the hell?!” and then it hit me. the lyrics moved me emotionally and back to place i had been working so hard to run from. i suddenly knew why he was holding my hand; to keep me from drowning in pent-up emotions. i cried as i let go of much shame. he cried as he held on to my hand.

20 years later, i still cannot listen to this song without crying. it still conjures up indescribable emotions. it still moves me both literally and figuratively. it still reminds me of the power and connection children of mothers who struggled with crack addiction have.i have not spoken to marcus in years. i hope he is still surviving like i am. i hope he knows that when he decided to share this song, it fortified me. marcus,

i send you love & light - wherever you are. - louie

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“Yo no nací en Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico nació en mi.”

“I wasn’t born in Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico was born in me.”

- Mariposa

dear tío rubèn blades:

what up homie? so i read your interview on variety latino. your comments about the role latinos play in the current political landscape were both insightful (i am always learning from you) and hella fucked up (i learned something new about what you think about boricuas born and raised on the mainland.)
here is an except of the interview:

Variety: What role do Latinos have in what is currently happening in politics?

Ruben: Look, I am not an American citizen, I am a legal resident and residents do not allow us to vote. Yes, they want my taxes, but I can not vote. That’s the difference between a Latin American like me who resides in the United States, and people who are sons and daughters of immigrants in the United States.

this response speaks so much truth and highlights the complexities of latino identity in america. pero tío, i gotta say that you should have just stopped there but you didn’t. you went on to say:

“When Jennifer Lopez says that she is Latina, I say, ‘No, she’s from New York’, she’s as American as Trump. …You do not walk around saying that [Robert] De Niro’s Italian … Marc Anthony also, he was born in New York. There is a difference.”

SERIOUSLY!!! surely, you could have continued to make your point about the complexities of latino identity without minimizing and chipping away at the identity of boricuas, specifically a boricua woman. THAT SHIT MAKES YOU LOOK HELLA SEXIST HOMIE. to be fair, you did the same minimizing of marc anthony (who is also boricua) but you didn’t compare his identity to trump. I DON’T EVEN HAVE THE PATIENCE TO UNWRAP THE TRUMP COMPARISON because it’s friday and i am just tryna chill and drink until i blackout. but really tío? it’s like that homie? man, if you had compared the late and great selena, who was also born and raised in america and spoke limited spanish, you would have had to delete your twitter account by 8am this morning because baby, you would have read for filth!

now let me tell you why your points are hella offensive - to me at least, as a boricua. i have been in more than enough spaces with non-boricua/non-carrieban latinos, who came at my neck about because i wasn’t “latino” enough because boricuas have it “easier” than other latinos. I KNOW THAT YOU KNOW THAT THIS IS NOT TRUE but again, it’s friday and blah, blah, blah. i have also had non-carrieban latinos make fun of not just my ability to speak spanish but how all boricuas speak spanish. i imagine that this is not a surprise to you. i know that it doesn’t. you were just trippin’ yesterday.

because i love, honor and respect you and your legacy, i am gonna chalk this up to those moments when we all have when we speak faster than our brains can formulate, process and check our biases. we all have those moments and it is vital that friends, comrades and familia hold us with live while holding us accountable. this letter is just exactly that. but tío, let me also remind you and the other non-carribean latinos who stay minimizing the identity of boricuas…being boricua runs through my veins, it is in my heart and shows up in my warrior spirit so don’t come for us.

in solidarity,

louie a. ortiz-fonseca

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Louie: So how do you like…? Roman: Atlanta? Louie: Yeah Roman: It’s cool I had a lot of beautiful experiences here. A lot of great things have happened. I mean, it’s not where I wanna be but it is where things are poppin’ off. Louie: So do you know...

Louie: So how do you like…?

Roman: Atlanta?

Louie: Yeah

Roman: It’s cool I had a lot of beautiful experiences here. A lot of great things have happened. I mean, it’s not where I wanna be but it is where things are poppin’ off.

Louie: So do you know any other Boricuas out here?

Roman: I met two of them. That’s it. We are like Pokémon out here. LOL

Louie: People do try to collect us. No shade. Do you have family here?

Roman: My mom lives here and my sister lives out here somewhere. LOL I left San Diego and came here. I was like “fuck it” let me just go over there.

Louie: How did you wind up in San Diego?

Roman: My friend asked me if I wanted to move there and I was like “Sure.” So I packed my shit and left. I moved from East to West and from North to South…twice.

Louie: Where were you before San Diego?

Roman: I was in Boston where I won the King of Latino Pride 2013.

Louie: Nice! What do you think made you think winner that night?

Roman: I don’t know; my outfits and answers. LOL I easily spent $2000 on my outfits and suits. Pageants are expensive.

Louie: Do you still have your sash?

Roman: Of course, I do. That’s my trophy!

Roman St. James, Atlanta GA

Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca

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Louie: So we have known each other for at for over 20 years.

Angel: Yeah, we are old! LOL

Louie: Almost lol What was it like for you in the 90s?

Angel: We were coming out with respect being ourselves. We had a club called “El Bravo” and we had so much fun. Everything at that time was on the down low; very different than how it is now. We had drag shows and the locas were everywhere but no one fucked with us.  

Louie: What is it like now?

Angel: But now we are who we are opening!  Atrevido con respect. You know what I mean? We are out and we don’t care what people say. That’s good, right? LOL

Louie: But of course loca!

Angel: Gran Varon, I love you.

Louie: I love you too, loca!

Angel Santiago, Philadelphia

Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca

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Louie: So when did you know you were gay?

Danny: Always. Since my first memory, my first attraction, my first crush. I guess I just remember like, you know you are in kindergarten and little girls get crushes on little boys, I was like “why am I crushing on this little boy?” Like little Maria was passing me notes talkin’ about “Do you like me?” I was taught to say “yes” to a girl, so I checked “yes,” But I was really looking at little Edwin over here. (LOL)

In the fourth grade, we had safety patrols, so we were on this trip to Dutch Wonderland in Lancaster and my partner was this other Spanish kid who I was crushing on. I won’t say his name but we were friends and we decided we were going to be partners for the day and we had to hold hands and I was so hype that I got to hold this kid’s hand. I tried hold his hand on the bus. I was like “I’m not letting you go” (LOL)

Louie: We you always okay with it, knowing you were gay?

Danny: No because, the way my family set up, my sister has a different father and she has another set of siblings. My sister had a brother who was also gay and I used to hear the family talk about him like, I don’t like to use the word, but of course they would use the word, “faggot.” They would talk about how feminine he is and that’s how my dad taught me being gay was “wrong.”  So of course I had already had those feelings [attractions] way before that but hearing the way my family spoke of this one dude, I was like alright “this is not something I can tell people and this is something I am supposed to hide.”

When my dad had the birds and the bees talk with me it would always be about females and “oh you gotta look at their tits and look she got a fat ass.” And I was “yeah, ok.” It never really resonated with me but I felt like, alright, I’ll take your word for it. It doesn’t do anything for me but I guess I am so supposed to do that so I am gonna look.

Louie: So what was it like when you came out?

Danny: I got kicked out my house every other week for being gay. It would be like “If you are living under my roof, you can’t live that life.” Alright, fine. You know, once you leave [Vineland], you see the big city. In New York, no one cares what you do. You can have purple hair, purple eyes and blue skin and people wouldn’t look at you twice people are used to seeing that and more over there. So I am pretty sure that two guys holding hands was nothing to them. So every time I would get kicked out, I would hop on a bus to Atlantic City and then from Atlantic City to New York and I would go to The Village. I would see the craziest shit and I would be like “Wow, people don’t even give it a second look over here, why is it such a big deal over there [Vineland]? So every time I would get kicked out, I would stay longer and longer in New York until I just stayed there.

Louie: How old were you?

Danny: I’m 29 now and this was like in 2002.

Louie: What is your relationship with family now?

Danny: With my parents, it’s one of those taboo subjects. Yeah, they know I’m gay but that is something we don’t talk about. They don’t ask “Oh how are you doing? Have you met someone? Have been on a date recently?” or “Congratulations, you just got the right to marry. Do you plan to get married?” It’s more like “How was your day? and “How’s work?” That’s it. My sisters are great with it. They will ask me “Yo, what’s up? You haven’t brought anyone around in 4 years. What’s going on with you? Why are you still single?” My brother, we don’t talk about it too much, but I know if I were to meet somebody, he would have no problem accepting that person.

Louie: Does this impact you’re being in relationships or dating?

Danny: It does because if I am with somebody and we’re on a serious level, part of that is introducing that person to my family. I have introduced one or two people to my family who I thought were gonna stick around for a while. My parents were welcoming, they didn’t treat them any different but in my mind, I can’t bring anybody around my family who is not showing signs of longevity. If I am not sure about you, I am not gonna bring you around my family. I don’t wanna bring someone around my family and then the next day their gone. Then they [my family] ask “What happened to…? Well that’s gay people do.”

Louie: If you could tell 14 year old Danny anything, what would you tell him?

Danny: I would tell him, yeah, People are gonna knock you for who you are or who you would become, rather. Don’t let the words of people affect how you live your life and what you want to do with it. I can’t tell you how many opportunities were knocked out of my hand because I listened to people say “Oh you ain’t shit because you’re gay and you’re gonna come back here, you’re gonna be dying of AIDS and blah, blah, blah” And all that was in my head and I carried that with me for a long time. I’m not doing the best but I was doing well for myself I know many of the people who said those words are eating them right now.

Louie: Thank you.

Danny Molina, Vineland, New Jersey

Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca

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Louie: So let’s start out with your name and what part of Philly you grew up in?

Wilmer: My name is Wilmer Sanchez and I grew up around 7th and Allegheny.

Louie: Oh, I grew up in 9th and Allegheny. It was hell but fun.

Wilmer: It was pretty good, I had a normal childhood, ya know. Running around, playing in the streets, riding bikes, or staying inside.  I was an only child for 10 years then my little sister came along.

Louie: What else do you remember about growing up?

Wilmer: I always felt like I was diffident. I always felt like there was an attraction to other males. I always that something…not that something wasn’t right but that something was definitely different about me than the other boys playing basketball outside.

Louie: Did you ever talk about it with anyone?

Wilmer: No one. I always kept it to myself.  I was always afraid of what other people thought but at the same time, I didn’t notice that it was written all over my face. My parents always had a feeling but I didn’t know that they had that feeling or what I was exuding to them, but no, I didn’t talk to anyone about it.

Louie: Not even a “cool” aunt?

Wilmer: No, not even a cool aunt.

Louie: When did you feel comfortable talking about it?

Wilmer: Wow, that is a great question. I would have to say when I got older, when I finally got older. During my childhood, it was always “don’t ask, don’t tell.” We didn’t bring it up, we didn’t talk about. If anybody had an inkling or any idea about it, it just wasn’t brought up and that is how we always kept it. Even though during middle school and high school, I didn’t talk about it. It was always this “swept under the rug” situation. If you figured it out then you were lucky but if you didn’t or have all the facts lined up to figure it out, you were just kinda in the air with it.

Louie: Is it still “don’t ask, don’t tell?”

Wilmer: Now everybody knows. My mother knows, my father knows, all of my family and friends know, we just don’t talk about…me and my mother, my mother has just started to open up and I can talk to her about certain things. Me and father, we still don’t. It’s like “ok” but we don’t discuss it. But my mother has been coming around recently and it feels good. My sister as well, she is 16 now and she knows, she’s not dumb. Lol
I grew up in a religious household and went to church every Sunday. Same with my grandmother - went to church all the time and I guess because of that I never came out and said anything because I probably didn’t want to disappoint them. I even had girlfriends growing up. I went through that whole faze when you gotta try to find yourself and make others believe that this is who you are and yeah, that is just what it was.

Louie: So you kissed a girl? lol

Wilmer: I kissed a girl and I liked it! But I like boys more lol

Wilmer Sanchez, Philadelphia

Photo and Interviewed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca

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maybe i am not woke as fuck.


if that means having to read 
every op-ed posted on facebook
written by mostly grad school educated folks
who use words that i have to google,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that my real life experiences
will be reduced to particles
if my responses to said articles
do not meet the king’s english
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means having to explain,
demonstrate and prove the pain
of hiv positive latino gay men
who are still forced again and again
to live in secrecy,
while processing that shame in secrecy,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that i have to burn sage over lighting blunts,
or sipping wine instead of long island iced teas to heal,
to chill or to fill a space in me
that continues to be peeled away by ridicule,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i can’t sing along
at the top of my fuckin’ lungs
as i hit the quan
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i have to disregard
and pick apart varones 
who are not always equipped
or have the words to articulate
their contribution to the revolution
because breathing and surviving 
oppressive institutions
isn’t impressive for some of us,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that i have to recite quotes 
and passages from books
celebrated and hailed by the “movement”
over my ability to quote and spit lyrics
from my fave mariah and nicki song,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means having to choose
my politics over sucking dick
and having to present as masculine
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means using “movement” terms
only to prove that i have learned
that words matter only when popping off
or creating a spectacle
but NOT being impeccable with my word.
then yes, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means just speaking about social justice action
but never following it up with action
beyond the traction of my finger tips on keyboards
to eloquently write out my thesis for freedom
that my mother cannot read,
then yes, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that my ego 
is the only fragile thing that matters
over safer spaces used as bait to shatter
the teeth of those who are tricked into the belief
that a college degree
will add weight to the very necessary things 
that should be spoken,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means only feeling comfortable sitting on panels
because i can’t handle sitting on porches and stoops
because of how i speak the “truth” 
stopped being accessible
to folks i “speak” for but not speak to,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that i have to police the grammar
of the same people i fight for and write for
just so academics can celebrate my work –
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means celebrating those 
who have chosen to get arrested
while shaming those of us who live 
in arrested development
because of the complexities of our trauma 
isn’t as beautiful and dutiful 
as a five-noun political identity
then, maybe, i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means having to choose between
raising my fists over raising my kids,
because loving son my with all i have
isn’t a trending hashtag,
then no, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means overthinking
until i am on the brink of losing connections
from the people who provide me oxygen,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.
 
if it means that being a leader
requires me to be a constant bleeder
teetering on the edge of insanity to prove
to the next “woke as fuck” muthafucker
that i myself am woke,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

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No one spoke of the beautiful boys
But you did while others kindly whispered
Ugly words that made me shiver
And unkindly delivered my esteem hung on a branch.
I grew deaf to beautiful words
Because I believed that they were lies
The lids on my eyes remained closed
Because I wanted no one to know
Just how often I wanted to die.

No one ever speaks of the beautiful boys,
Ones that move as fancy unfolds
And a graceful stroll
On blood stained concrete,
The boys that made flowers grow
Even in December.
But you remembered our beautiful traits
When the beautiful world just couldn’t wait
To label us the “the tainted ones”
Who painted suns
On bedroom walls to light the nights
When our beautiful bodies were used
For a monster’s delight.
No one teaches beautiful boys
How to fight,
So we never spoke of molestation
But you did.
You looked me in my beautiful eyes and stayed
And said “I believe you. We will be okay”
Reminded me that other boys who understand
The violation of human hands.

I used to let these secrets mold the man
That got scared whenever the lights were dimmed
I smoked the beautiful green earth to forget about him
But you knew and you exhaled
You knew in detail the rhythmic dance
Of feeling ugly, dumb and fat
But you held my body and not for pleasure
And I felt the beauty of peace forever,
You made it better
Because you cried when I cried
The monster beneath my bed finally died
You took my beautiful hands
And we walked across the beautiful sky
Of mercy bound
And our feet never touched the ground
We floated and I noted the clouds we touched
As we roamed
I didn’t realize just how close I was to home
And the beautiful sights I could behold
No one told the beautiful boys that they were
But you did.
You still do.
You still say “I believe you.”
I know of beautiful truths
And beautiful boys because of you
You are the proof because you give
A space and place where the beautiful boy
Can go to live
And we thank you.

a few days ago, i posted this picture. the response i have received has not just been amazingly supportive but it has helped make the little boy inside of me who still struggles with his body in the dark, feel heard.

since then, i have received tons of messages from other men sharing their stories and experiences with sexual abuse. words cannot described how humbled i am that strangers from all over trusted me enough to share something that, for some, requires every bit of courage our bodies can conjure up.

this poem is for us. for those of us who told. and for those of us who didn’t. i believe you.

the gran varones granvarones queer latino latinx boricua poetry art storytelling sexual abuse survivor gay lgbt orgullo stopdefendingrapists bill cosby