The Father I Know; the man I want to be

Not very many gay men have the best relationship with their father. Now, I am not speaking for ALL gay men, I am just stating that some men out there either have had a falling out with them due to the fact that they are gay or something else that happened in their lives. Most young gay men side with their mom...hence the momma's boy equals a gay boy (fyi, this is NOT always the case).  My story, which I have written about, changed after my coming out...or I should say my father asking me if I was gay.

This is not an episode of Glee, where there is a big dramatic climax filled with some reinvented 80's/90's pop song ballad, and people holding hands and saying "It Gets Better" (...but it does get better, trust me.) My father and I had an alright relationship. He wasn't too involved in what I did, he did the obligatory violin recitals, took us to the park, and made sure we had what we needed. But my dad and I lacked the communication of a father and son, or at least the communication I perceived we should have (damn telenovelas!) There was no sitting down, telling me about the birds and the bees, and that when I grow up I would need to make sure to put on a condom. He didn't show me how to change my oil or repair a flat if I ever found myself on the side of the road wearing my Prada loafers and Dolce and Gabbana shirt. Now, I don't blame him for not showing me that...after all my father gave me the life he never had. He wanted to make it as easy as possible for me.

After coming out, my father did a complete 180. He became very involved in where I was going and who I was going with. He wanted to know if I was dating anyone and most of all if I was happy. You see it took me moving out and establishing my own life, for my dad to communicate...and say, "Mijo, I love you and the man you have become." He told me he never once doubted me and what I would do in my life and that me graduating from both high school and college were the highlights of his life. You see my father never graduated from high school let alone middle school. So for him to see me studying all night, with my advanced Calculus books, Biology, Physics, and everything in between meant a lot to him because it is something he never got to do.

It took my dad breaking down emotionally (because we stopped talking for a year...difference, cheating, and me not forgiving him)...but it took him opening up and sharing his darkest secret to me...it took me 25 years to say, "Dad...I love you." No one should ever wait that long to hear it. Truth is I always loved my dad, I just didn't think that is what WE did.

I have seen my dad go through a lot. The loss of both his parents, the loss of three jobs, and the loss of his childhood in order to make money for his family and future. From his odd end jobs at the candle factory where he swore he saw the devil once to being a landscape supervisor and finally having an office job where he had his own secretary.

Growing up I always heard my dad put The Doors on the record player and old 8-tracks. I would watch him mimic the words, sometimes I wondered if he even knew what he was saying. There was a gleam in my dad's eyes, his youth shone through. He swayed back and forth, playing his air guitar or while working outside on some new cabinets he was making. Most people say, if you hear my dad laugh and speak...you hear me.

In an effort to capture my dad's lost youth, I was able to get tickets to see Wild Child, a tribute band to The Doors. It was my dad's 59th birthday and we had never experienced something together. My friends and I went and picked him up that evening and we drove over to The House of Blues in Anaheim where the band was playing. My dad was taken aback with the sights and all of the palm trees. He kept adding up the cost of each palm tree and how expensive one block would be...only my dad. We were waiting in line and my dad kept commenting that he didn't realize a lot of young people loved The Doors, followed jokingly by, "Do you think we could get some weed?" I had to explain to my dad that the last thing I wanted to do was get him high.

But, there we were standing in line. My dad looked so antsy, like a little child waiting in line to see Santa Claus, minus all the crying. His eyes kept darting back and forth, seeing all the people, inquiring why there were so many young people. He couldn't believe how many young people loved the sound and music of The Doors; a group he grew up listening to. I had to tell him that some music spans generations regardless of when it became popular. Before we knew it the line started moving. In we went, where we decided we all needed to take birthday shots. Right after that the beer started coming. My dad has never really seen me drink or even say a cuss word. One of the few things I have yet to ever do in front of my parents...I refuse to use such language in front of them.  Mostly out of respect and well in my eyes I am still the little boy trying to make my parents proud.

Four beers in, the music is going. My dad and I are dancing, singing, yelling.....feeling and wanting more. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I looked over to my dad, and the look on his face, priceless.

When people tell me that I look and act like my dad...I get happy...because he is the ONLY man I ever wanted to be. Dad, I love you.

The Future is Queer; this boy has his OWN story

It is the year 2033 and the world is in a peaceful place. Thanks to my Mexican heritage I look like I am in my 40's (because what kind of story would this be if I was old and wrinkly, so ungay). My partner is Mark, who was also my ex...my 9 year relationship, which turns out a continued relationship. Somewhere along the road we got past our differences and learned that we are who we are, and that is enough, we are enough. He was always 14 years older than me, his silver hair had fully come in, whisked aboved his high forehead. That gleam of youth was still present in his deep brown eyes...curiousity, always wanting to know.

Sadly, my parents had passed away recently, and I was on a quest to get something I thought I had lost forever; a remembrance of who they were, a token of my childhood. There is no real way to describe what I am looking for, it is love...an energy, a token of who they are...of what I have with my parents. There was only one way to retrieve this lost item, through time travel.

The journey was set, we were to go back in time, back to the year 1986. In no way were we to alter the past. Isn't that the point of all time travel? To not disrupt the past as to change the future. Then again isn't the mere fact that we could time travel a disruption of the past and soon to be future. We would try our best....easy for my partner, he was in Texas during my childhood. In we go into the shiny, disco ball time machine sphere (the influence of Lady Gaga in years to come). In a matter of seconds the machine is up and running, shaking, and then...we arrive.

The machine arrives right smack in the middle of my parent's living room. Way to make an entrance. There in front of me, as if it was just yesterday, my parents are there. The tears had to be held back. I could never give away who I was, just that I was on a mission to acquire something from them. But as you'd expect, how could anyone pass up a chance to spend the day with their family? I decided that I would take some time and talk to my parents, and figure where they were in their lives.

As the hours passed some of my other family came through. I was able to see my sister and older brother, two people I had lost contact with for quite some time. The last time we saw each other was when my parents had passed away. I was left with all the details of their funeral, but that's besides the point. One person I never saw was myself...as a kid. I wasn't around.

In a blink of an eye we went with my parents to this playground, where everyone was playing on an inflatable jumper. Dark figures lingered in the corners. Ghostly. The playground slowly started to deflate and the kids began to yell, forgetting that nothing could happen to them, after all it was plastic. The figures began to move. Going after the children. Some were yelling in terror while the other kids tried to show them that nothing could happen and instead they should laugh at it...then I caught a glimpse of my younger self. The shadows were trying to capture him.

Short, slim, dark black hair, big dark brown eyes. We caught each other looking, as if looking into a mirror, we recognized one another, but I knew better...I had to keep my distance. I marched in front of myself without a care. Nothing in the world could prepare me for what would be in my future. If only someone could tell the little boy that life would be alright, and that things will happen, and from them will come something bigger than himself. He would teach the world that we can accept difference, and that somethings we do don't make us who we are. A constant battle.

We went back to my parents house, where I was to collect what I had come down for. We went into the attic, and there it was. It was beautiful, it was bright and glowing. To everyone it was something different. To me it was peace.

My parents were running late and had to pick up younger me from school. Mark and I decided we would follow with them and then take off back to our time. We sat at school waiting for the bell to ring. Before I knew it we were moving into the classroom where I was in. My teacher, exactly how I remembered him. He looked at me, rather curiously, as if he saw a ghost. Had he known who I was? My parents introduced us as extended family members, and the whole class just sat there and looked at us, parents and all. He began to ask us questions...questions...that brought out the obvious. What I had forgot the whole time was our clothing...they weren't representative of the time, and my teacher caught on quickly. Rather than fight it, we went with it...and who I was was given away. Younger me sat there, looking at me, studying me, my parents, had faded away...a distant memory. They were no longer in the classroom. What had I done?

The teacher asked my partner about his life and who he was. He asked if he was married. Mark answered, yes. My old teacher continued asking questions, where is your wife? I finally couldn't take it that my partner was about to sit there and lie about who we are...so I spoke up, I am his husband, there is no wife. Old troubles from the past reared their ugly head. Everyone giggled, they said why didn't you just say that in the beginning. Just like that...it didn't phase them, we were the norm in a past that was already being shaped from the present/future disruption.

We stuck around to answer all the question the parents and children had. Everything from our silly suits, to our time machine. Making sure to stay clear from anything that will happen and affect the world we live in, for them and ourselves. After much questioning, it was time for us to take off. I had received what I came for, but my parents were long gone, and I couldn't say goodbye. Then a tug came at my pants, it was me....younger me. I bent down and hugged myself...and then he asked, am I gay?

Just like that, the question formed on his lips before they transpired. A child wanting to know his future. As if he needed to know in order to prepare himself for what might be.

I told him I couldn't tell him that...I know who I am now. We sat there looking at each other. The truth is I could never tell him who he was, he had to figure that on his own, and that no matter what he decided in his life, not that it's a choice, but that I would love him no matter what. After all you are me and I am you. Then before I knew it, I told him something will happen to you in life, and you have to be strong, you have to be courageous....you will learn a lot from it and it will make you who you are. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently, you are GREAT!

Maybe that was my way of hoping some past occurances would change, but the truth is I wouldn't want him to do it differently. He would have to learn from it, in his own way, and from it he will learn that life is so much more than just a label. He must fight, listen to the voice within...let that outcry from within rise and be heard. This boy is not the same, he has a story...his own story.

2011. I awake in my bed. It's a new day.

In the #SpiritDay; Join the Conversation

If you didn't know, well now you do. Today is #SpiritDay, which means wear purple and show your support for the LGBT community's fight against bullying. You can check out GLAAD and turn your Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr picture purple for the day or read some compelling stories. Either way join in on the conversation, make a change!

Here are a couple of personal stories I have written about bullying and it's effects. Remember the only rule in everything, is be YOU...and be safe! Love, xo.

>>Do you remember? I do, how could I forget.
>>Bullying: That Was My Past, This Is Our Present
>>More stories about my youth

Bullying: That Was My Past, This Is Our Present

Turn on the television. There it is, another kid committing suicide because of bullying. I find myself glued to the television, I watch the Youtube videos, I hear what people are saying...poor guy. If only I could have been there for him. To hold his hand and tell him, it can and WILL be alright. Talk about it, call someone, SCREAM! An intensity impregnates my body, starting in my stomach, growing to every extremity. My mind begins to swirl asking itself, how do we live in this crazy world? Crazy, we don't even know each other, but I understand. Time goes by as I am sitting there thinking about it...I cry.

I can sit here and tell you all the statistics of how many kids kill themselves from bullying or are being bullied. But if you are reading this and you are one of the kids being bullied, we both know it doesn't mean a damn thing. It's happening, it is real...but it doesn't have to continue.

I know lately my posts have been a little melancholy in nature. Some not about dating, and that is alright. My blog is not just about that. It is a forum, a place for discourse to happen amongst men, boys, guys, people. We sit down, discuss, share...together we learn about our lived and shared experiences. Some of my readers maybe have never experienced bullying, I say you are lucky and I hope you never do. It plays on every level that is YOU. It creeps into every crevice of your brain, slowly draining into your body as the neurons deliver every painful blow. Your body doesn't know what to do with it, so instead you find yourself holding on to the feeling, gripping your hands so tight, until they turn white, knowing that if you opened them the hurt will be released. You try but to much avail, you can't.

...truth is, I have been called a faggot since I was about 8 years old. Has it ended, no. Even into adulthood I have experienced the same bullying, kid's words hurt when you are young. It is the end of the world, you want to pull yourself into a ball and cry and wish it all went away. You wonder, why would another human being want to hurt me? What did I do that caused disruption in their daily life, to incur such hatred, such dislike? Is it because of the color of my skin? My sexual orientation? My height? Maybe I am not butch enough. Maybe, my financial status isn't the same as yours. Who knows?

There was a point in my life that I questioned who I was because of the bullying. In adulthood, I figured the reason I was gay was because I was called it every day of my life. Have I lost you? All the bullying and name calling, I thought, made me gay or made me believe I was gay. How fucked up in the head do you have to be, right? Here is an adult questioning if his mere existence as a gay man was made up because of bullying and name calling. Am I the only one who has ever had that cross their mind? I tried to conceive in my head the idea that what I was doing was wrong and the only reason I could be doing anything that I am doing in my life today, or at that point, was because I figured better to be it, what they were calling me, than to try and be something else. It was too much work, too much effort. People had me figured out...had I?

My boyfriend at the time never had a clue that things like this were running through my head. Instead I would poke fun at him for being bisexual, and not knowing what he actually liked. I would go into fits of rage, rage that I had pent up in myself..because underneath all of what people thought me to be or formulated me to be, I never truly knew who I was. Inside was a kid struggling to break free and make sense of who he was apart from the name calling. It was a constant mental torment. Just a fraction of the craziness I had in store. It was me trying to break free of myself and who I thought was created for me, and he was on the receiving end of my battered soul search trying to reclaim my childhood.

Home life for me was easy. My parents were and are very loving people. I just never thought I could go to them about being called names. Instead as a young boy, I would sit in my room and listen to Mariah Carey's, Hero, over and over. Sometimes I wondered to myself, would any of this ALL be over? Will someone really come and make it all better? When I grow up, would I be free to be myself?

I see the people who end their lives due to bullying, and I wonder why? Why? Wasn't there someone you could turn to and call a friend? Where is your family? But, could they really help? You can be surrounded by a million people but yet still feel so alone...I know that feeling. The idea to end my life never crossed my mind...instead I wished for bad things to happen to me, to end it all. Sometime I would go for a drive, swirl down the winding street, get onto the freeway in the middle of the night, and hope that maybe I'd get into a bad accident where I ram into a wall. Or, I would take walks, to escape reality, and hope that maybe I was assaulted. I know what you are thinking, how fucked up is this kid? ...bullying plays with everything in your being. Logic and common sense aren't present, only the feeling, this feeling that is stuck inside every ounce of you flowing through your cells, carried by your blood, you can't escape it.

...a good friend told me, Daniel that was your past. True, it was, but bullying is another kid's present, and for some unlucky others, their future. Together WE need to put a stop to it. Volunteer, talk, ask, listen...be there.

I know it is hard to ask for help but it is there...so please TALK.

The Trevor Project: 866-488-7386
California Youth Crisis Line: 800-843-5200

Do you remember...I do, how could I forget?

Hey there, how have you been? Remember me, Conrad...it's Daniel. It has been awhile since we spoke...actually it has been about 19 years, but who's counting, right? I am sure you don't remember but you sat across from me with your blonde shaggy hair to your shoulders, wearing a striped shirt with grey cargo pants. I was the small-framed, dark haired, brown-eyed shy boy who hardly spoke to people, but yet managed to say hello to you. Do you remember...?

We were both brand new to the school. You and I had just transferred over from another elementary school so that we could continue in the music program. You played the trumpet, I played the violin. Sitting in Mr. Flores' classroom trying to figure out what was next. Will we be the two kids outcasted for being new? Little did we know that making sure our crayons were in correct order or what time recess is would become of little importance. A few days later after talking and sharing bologna sandwiches and Kraft cheese crackers we became best friends. We were good, right? Every day at recess we would sit under the trees, talk, play marbles, it didn't matter, we got along just fine. Sometimes we would go into the sandlot and join some of the other guys and girls. Play on the monkey bars, chicken fight, the things kids do...remember?

A month had passed by, and we had to leave our classroom due to school overcrowding. Our grade was being combined with another higher grade. It was another major shift. New kids, older kids, we no longer sat at the same table.We spoke a little less. You sat with a few of the older kids, and two of them became your new best friends...and then it happened.

It wasn't long that you somehow integrated yourself into this new group. It was rapid and smooth, no fight against the current. Before I knew it, we stopped speaking to one another. We no longer were hanging out during recess, you spent all of your time with these two older guys. Maybe that is when it started...the mind shift, the fact that you began to become someone different. It wasn't long when...

"Fag." "Faggot"...now do you remember?

Everyday grew worse. The name calling, along with your friends' crude remarks. Did you feel important? Where you the MAN? Did it make you feel good inside, knowing that you hurt your best friend (or at least I thought)? Your friends would laugh and cheer you on. Their laughter, the prize to your fight. The sad part is you were never brave enough to do it in front of a crowd. Was it because you did care about hurting my feelings or, were you just a scared little boy who knew getting in trouble would be far worse than calling me a fag?

The name calling went on for weeks. I kept it all inside, never shed a tear. Never told a soul. You would never know that, but then again you had written me off as a friend. So did it really matter? Probably not.

I didn't know it would become worse. Does anyone EVER really know? Everyone was lined up ready to go in to class after recess. It was a warm day. The sun was blaring onto the asphalt, reflecting back into our eyes. Maybe it was the heat that caused mental delusion, made you do the thing you did. We were at the end of the line, people had already filed in, one by one. You turn around, curl your fist...then a hit to my stomach...FAGGOT. Do you remember? I do. I went ahead and went into class, hunched over, playing it over and over in my mind. I excused myself to the bathroom, at that point I couldn't fight the tears back. It was my first time...getting hit by anybody. The anger grew in my stomach, the area where you hit me. Anger, hate, distrust, it made me sick.

The school year went on as did your abuse. I grew to learn to put away my anger and feelings. Maybe that is what I learned to do whenever I was hurt, because it followed me into adulthood. What was the use of lashing out...I would be the same as you. Wouldn't I? So now I write to you after many years asking you...

Now do you remember me...of course you don't...you are no longer here. The truth is you passed away in high school. But I still remember you.

Born What Way: Where was my Lady Gaga for the 80s and 90s?

-Express Yourself, don't repress yourself.

-Free Your Mind, and the rest will follow.

-Hear the younger generation ask, why do I feel this way, promise of a new day.

-A generation full of courage, come forth with me, are we looking for a better way of life.

If you haven't figured out where each of these lyrics have come from, then you are not a true child of pop culture, or the 80's and 90's. For those who are left in the dark, the answers respectively are Madonna, En Vogue, Paula Abdul, and Janet Jackson. These women opened a dialogue that transcended gender but ones that enveloped race along with it. Now we can argue left and right about who is more of a minority, I am women hear me roar, I am gay and proud, I am black and beautiful, call it what you want, we are all in one struggle. The struggle of equality!

At a very young age I was called a fag. It came from the least likely place one would suspect... family. My cousin felt it was necessary to point out at all times that I was different, that I acted like a girl, that I was more effeminate than masculine. Little did he know, calling me a fag meant nothing. Frankly put, I didn't know what it meant. I just knew it was bad.

Age 11, there I was watching television with my best friend. He spent the night on the weekends, we would play Nintendo, ride our bikes, and play with the local kids. The glowing of the television filled the room and then as we were chatting, the word GAY permeated the room. Newsflash, a priest had molested a child. That part I didn't think twice about. The part that infiltrated my brain was the word gay. Turning to my friend, I asked, "What does gay mean?" Was I prepared to take in this knowledge? Does he even know what I am talking about? His answer was simple, "It is when a guy likes a guy." Honest, simple, that easy... when a guy likes a guy. He proceeded to tell me that what my cousin calls me, fag, it is the same thing, but meaner. Yes, meaner.

Shame set in. Learning the definition of what I had been called for so many years, caused shame and disgust of myself to set in. The next few years kept me fascinated by the word gay. Even though I thought it was bad, I delved into the idea. I knew I was gay, but I dated girls.

Fast forward 2011, "I'm beautiful in my way, 'cause God makes no mistakes, I'm on the right track baby, I was born this way. Don't hide yourself in regret, Just love yourself, and you're set, I'm on the right track baby, I was born this way." Age 11, I didn't have Lady Gaga or any gay male role model to tell me don't have any shame in being who you are. If there were people, I wasn't exposed to them. Yeah, we had the songs aforementioned earlier, but they were geared towards women liberating their sexuality. I am not a woman. I had to forge my own path. Fight the struggles on my own, learn that being me is more than just fine.

Lets face it, this generation of youth has it easy. They have these role models, whether a commoditized pop figure or song, they have them. And, with all  the social media outlets, people can form a community of support. The 80's and 90's might have been a time of race relations and gender identities, but I believe that now, right now, we are at a culmination of events. We, as a community, have everything at our disposal, and we must use it to showcase ourselves as who we are. Normal human beings seeking equality for all. Maybe you and I didn't have a song to tell us all of this, but the point is that it is here, NOW. What will we do with it?

My Father, The Son, and My Lover

I remember the day I came home from a long day at work. It was about 10pm. My partner, at the time, comes out of the kitchen to greet me. He speaks softly, "Your dad just called, something is wrong and I think it's better if he tells you." So, I called him. There I was...dead silent, panicking, then rage came out. Fuck you dad! I hope you die. What was so bad you might ask, my dad called me after he got really sick with being with his new girlfriend. Yeah, girlfriend. My parents were and are still married.

I threw the phone so hard that it broke. There I was in fetal position crying. My partner trying to console me, and all I could do was cry. My father told me to not tell my mom. I could never do such a thing. My mom was my rock, she was/is the person I admired and looked up to. How could someone hurt my mom? Especially my dad. She was the one who was there for him when he lost his job, when his parents passed away, she is the glue that kept him and us together.

A year had gone by, my dad and I never spoke. I would visit my family at least once a week making sure to go when he wasn't there.

Christmas passed and New Years Eve came around. My mom pulled us aside and wanted us to reconcile. Those were her wishes for the New Year. There we stood, the man I was becoming and the man that he was frauding to be. He began to cry. My dad, the man who never showed any emotion to me or my sister...was hunched over, crying. He never thought he would see the day that his son would wish him off. I explained why and he listened. Then he proceeded to tell me what spiralled him into this ordeal. I listened.

Then I knew why I was mad. I saw myself in my dad. I fucked up my relationship because I spiralled myself into a hate, depression, and self-loathing. I screwed around to make me feel like I had the upper hand in all of my situations.

I...I...I...I...fuck it, it was I!

I was the death of my relationship. My dad helped me realize it. The next four years were spent making them up to my partner, but inside I knew it would never be the same. I tried to mend my ways, be monogamous, but I could never do it for myself and it wasnt fair for him. In life he taught me a lot. He was my confidante, mentor, above all my best friend and lover. He deserved more than what I could offer. I needed to find myself and make myself happy first. In my last post I wrote about how I needed him for my emotional stability. This time I was learning that I needed to find my own emotional stability...inside of me.

The Socialization of a Young Impressionable Gay Boy

This might not sound PC or even be in line with gender/queer theory today. Frankly, it doesn't matter. I was raised/socialized as a girl. Yeah, I said it. Now I don't mean I was born inter-sexed or my penis was chopped off in an accident while being monstrously circumcised (fyi, I'm not). Simply put, I was raised in what would be typified as women gender roles, from the 1950's, or just maybe within a Mexican cultural context.

Growing up, I was raised with the idea that I should fall in love, find a wife/husband (turned out to be the latter), have kids, and be happy. Be happy. Now there is a concept that is gender-fucked from the beginning in this story. My mom taught me that it is important to fall in love and find someone that would complete me. She wanted me to have the same type of relationship she and my father have...to this date. They have been married for almost 40 years. She taught me that through all the ups and downs, we have to make the best of it. We have to be strong and that everything can and will be worked out, in the name of love. Surprisingly, my mom never spent much time telling this to my older sister. It was always directed towards me. Maybe subconsciously I was being prepped for playing the girl part in the relationship. Unfortunately, there is no better way to describe it, and I don't mean it in a derogatory way towards women. Most of my role models in life are women. In a traditional Mexican cultural ideology, these would be deemed women's role in love, life, and family.

I remember most of my childhood clearly. I didn't fret over toys, especially cars, transformers, and video games. Most of my time was spent helping my mom. Momma's boy? Maybe. On weekends, I would wake up extra early so that I could start doing my chores. My chores were simple; I had to clean the house. That included dusting the tables and my mom's knick-knacks, vacuuming, and cleaning the bathrooms. I don't understand how my mom didn't realize I was different than most little boys. I thought it was normal to clean the house while listening to Mariah Carey's, Emotions, while pretending the Pledge can was my microphone. All in all I was in charge of doing mostly house chores, and my mom prized her home on the fact that her little boy kept it clean. Once again, most parents, especially in Mexican households, would force the men/boys to do yard work. Good thing I had a different family. A progressive one at that! I am not going to lie, my dad sometimes showed a hint of disturb in his eyes when he saw me dancing around cleaning. But he always let me be.

Families are microcosms where we learn the big rules and ideas of life, love, and family. Yes, that is a reoccurring theme for me. The way I was brought up to think of relationships greatly affected on what I seek in my present/future. In the early stages of my 9-year relationship I sought emotional security. Most people thought I was with my partner for financial stability and that he was my sugar daddy. That point is far from the truth. From my socialization through my family, I was seeking someone to nurture me and provide me with security.

Everything I had learned I was trying to put into practice in all my past relationships. I forgot who I was and what I wanted. Truth is, I never formulated those ideas for myself.

Now here I am, trying to tie-up loose ends in my dating life and relationships. I have learned a lot from my past and have grown to know that what I want is to be an equal in my relationship. Until then, I want to explore myself and who I am. My possibilities. I want to be able to provide for someone else...emotionally. That is why I say, have fun, enjoy life, live and learn! But always, always be SAFE!

Protect your penis...and protect your heart.

Party Like It's 1999: My Coming Out Story

It was just another weekend at my house. My stereo was going, playing the latest house music. I love(d) my deep house. There I was getting ready, dancing, throwing on jeans and a button-up short sleeve, making sure my hair was perfect. Splashing my self with Polo Sport, hey it was the 90's! I smelled good, looked good, I was ready to party it up at Rage Thursdays, Varsity. Yeah, I just dated myself! It was where are all the 18+ year olds went at the time...definitely not like it is now.

There I was waiting for my friends to come by and pick me up; my poor little red Chevy Cavalier couldn't even make it around the corner. That's when I noticed my dad was pacing back and forth. He finally came to a stop, opened the already cracked bathroom door, and asked, "Mijo, can I ask you something?" I said of course...hey the man can ask me whatever he wants, he pays the bills. I swear it rolled out in the best slow motion, "Are you gay?" Caught off guard, wondering, is this my coming out? Is this how I envisioned me telling my family that I like to be with guys both sexually and emotionally? Shouldn't there be more drama, a dream sequence of the not-so-right moment over cutting the turkey on Thanksgiving? Yes, this was my moment, as slow as my dad said it, I spit out a fast YES!

There it was. It was said. It was out there, I couldn't take it back. I didn't want to. It was now a REALITY to him. It was a big deal to me, and as fast as I answered, my dad said, "Ok, I just wanted to know." My dad screwed me over on my coming out. Ok, not really, my dad isn't phased by a lot. I am actually very thankful that my dad was the most understanding Mexican man I have encountered. I am blessed to have the family I have and the values they have instilled in all of us. As fucked up as some people think I might be on here...but dating and family values are different things. I digress...

I went out that night and had fun with my friends. I had told them what happened. They were surprised my dad didn't kill me or kick me out. I was happy too. This whole time I had thought my dad would be disappointed in me. His straight-A kid, who graduated with High Honors, turning out to be gay. We already had a distant relationship, as long as I did good in school it was fine. No real love was ever shown between us. Not a hug, not an I love you. Of course that has changed since.

After my dad, I began to think. Fuck, he is going to tell my mom! How will she take it? Will she hate me? Will she hate that I told my father first? Luckily, my dad did not tell my mom. He told me that was for me to do. This was much easier said than done. It's not right, my dad made it easy coming out!

Before I decided to tell my mom, I needed a support group. I came out to a few family members and my aunt. My aunt helped raise us, my sister and I, while my mom and dad worked when we were younger. We were all a tight knit family, even to this day. My aunt thought that my mom would take it well and that I shouldn't think twice about it. She also said, "Deño, (what she always calls me) I already knew you were. It's not much of a surprise." Everyone had me figured out before I did. I love it!

A few days had passed. My mom was doing the laundry, and there I was sitting and eating lunch she prepared me. I love moms, they make the best food! I was watching Ricki Lake. The topic was my gay son. Perfect! My mom was sitting there after doing laundry with me while I ate. We watched intensely as  people told their stories...silent pause...I turn around, look at her facial expression. In a mousy voice I say, "Mom...what would you do if I was gay?" As if there was a was. She paused and then proceeded to ask me what I was trying to say. I told her, in the most dramatic way of course, "Mom I am gay." She began to cry. Fuck, the very thing I never wanted to make my mom do...cry.

It was 2 weeks later and my mom finally came around to talking to me. She was hurt that I thought I couldn't tell her. She was hurt that my father knew before her. She was hurt that my aunt knew. Note to self: go to mom first, FOR EVERYTHING!

Since then, my family has been there for me 100% in everything I do. My dad continues to want to know that I am alright, and that some guy isn't fucking me over. My mom wants to make sure that I find someone who will fulfill me, love me, and put up with my antics. They want me to have kids with someone and create a family. Yes, people my parents are the best!

Now I just need to find someone they can call son-in-law. The search continues...