That’s What Friends Are For

Spring is upon us and as usual I go deep throwing things out. Rummaging through the infamous junk drawer I came upon some old flyers from clubs that I use to go to. These flyers were during the Freestyle and 90’s house music era. The memories that are attached to these incredible exciting times of my nightlife in NYC are epic.

As I started looking through them I was automatically transported to a time in my life that really had not many worries. I ate, shitted, talked and breathed dancing. I had a tribe, a group of friends that was considered family to its core. We all loved, laughed, danced and partied together with no worry in the world. We understood each other and there was never strife among us. We were the family that fell short for us at home. It was seriously magical. Till this day we are all close.

When I finished looking at the flyers I had a huge smile on my face. I put them back in the box, back in the closet on the top shelf. I sat on the bed and it was when I exhaled that it hit me. This feeling of awareness that came with a little pain at the same time. It didn’t make me cry but what it did do was keep me still, just staring off with a blank stare on my face being only aware of the sounds around me. It was in that moment of stillness that the memories once again played themselves out but in fast forward mode, it was a blur but I was still able to maintain the faces of us, the group, the tribe.

It was in that flash of moment that I saw us as who we were- broken. How we this group of such different individuals were family to each other at a time when life was just way to hard for us to bare alone. We helped each other at a time where self reflecting was mental suicide. We needed each other’s company so that our everyday life didn’t overwhelm us. With us as a group together there was acceptance in a silent way. There was this love that showed itself in camaraderie, in the blunts we smoked, the laughs we indulged in that was hiding hurt and loneliness. Sometimes words were not even said and we just knew that together we were not going to get eaten alive from the nightmares that was our youthful life. How the music and dancing and singing healed more deeper than hugs and kisses, gave us an understanding our parents didn’t have for us.

This moment that lasted minutes revealed an epiphany that had attached to it a longing of brother/sisterhood. When the moment passed I knew that I was blessed. That through all the madness something greater than us as a whole had always had its hand in our lives. That we were always weaving magic even when we weren’t aware of it. That we at ONE huge point in our lives were guided together in sheer real unconditional love.

It was preparing a foundation that until this day is still strong. Some of us moved away, crested families, made careers but the love is real. I thank god I had this because I couldn’t imagine what would’ve became of me if I didn’t.

Hurts A Little Less

What a whirlwind these last two weeks have been. It wasn’t until yesterday Wednesday the 2nd that a fog lifted and I realized a few things.

Taking care of my mother is far more than just being present. It effects all areas of my life not to mention the inner work it has made me go through. Having her with me has allowed me to take a serious hard realistic look at myself. I was never one to run from truth but this bitter pill, this worn out canvas I look at was brutal.

Generational trauma is a thing! It’s rough and gritty and at times painful and honest. It doesn’t give you much room to even squirm. It will invite itself abruptly, sitting there all regal to remind you that there is work to be done. That there is fear right around the corner. It will whisper all the stories you held on to from a distance. It shows all your memories, childhood moments in technicolor. It will be loud and in your face. God bless the child is what I say.

Mommy’s health has been declining. She’s early 80’s. Though she still is sassy and speaks with no filter I can see her fully. She’s frail. She has no concept half the time of where she is. As long as there are familiar faces she is fine. She no longer walks. Either she has no desire to or really can’t is what we are trying to find out. Food is no longer a joy. This mother of mine was an amazing cook. It’s hard to see the woman that taught me how to cook every Spanish dish from scratch has no palette at all.

It is now 3 days since she went to the physical therapy rehabilitation center. We will see. I pray that she can at least walk with assistance. That she makes that body of hers move so that it can tell her she is still alive.

I’m also no fool. I won’t put all my eggs in ONE basket. if she was to tell me, looking right in my face and tell me she is tired, I’ll be just as accepting. Let’s be real here anyway you put it I’ll be in my feelings so I might as well go with the flow instead grate my emotions on a chalkboard. All I ever ask is when the time comes that I am ready !

Don’t Be So Fragile Dude!

I have been openly gay all of my life. You will always hear me say i have never ben in the closet. As a kid i was allowed to run the streets rampant being who I was and expressing myself as how i felt.

How i felt was a girl. That was how i saw myself. I was extremely feminine, twitch and all. Looking at me It was very obvious I was a gay kid, it didn’t take long. Now let us be clear that I was that kid in the 80’s. When being gay was not welcomed, when it was asking for an instant ass whooping, when it was a guarantee that there was going to be bullying attached to it every single day. I can’t say that my childhood was easy. It wasn’t but i survived.

In my upbringing there are certain things I noticed that until, this day occurs and though at the time i ignored it, I no longer do now. It happens when I meet guys. it happens when i am hanging out with my friends and they introduce me to other guys in passing, it happens when i am in an area when people are meeting each other. I will go to extend my hand with a handshake as we are being introduced and they will shake my hand but squeeze it real hard. they do this as a way of saying “I am straight!” or let me flex my strength just in case they think of coming on to me they know that i am stronger than them. When they do this it not only annoys me but makes me feel uncomfortable. Many times they would do this and I would just ignore it, me silently knowing that not only no one saw it but that the guy or guys in the group that we are chilling with are homophobic. it would end up with me being uncomfortable and whichever guys did it would make it their business to avoid any type of interaction with me for the rest of the night.

Now when I meet men and am greeted with his type of behavior i squeeze their hand just as hard. I make it a habit to look at them right in their face to make sure that they know that i know they are homophobic. i also am not the first one to take my hand away. I no longer become all submissive and uncomfortable. My head is held high and depending how i feel you might get a smile. I do this to get my power back and usually they feel uncomfortable. It is no longer my job to provide them with a safe space. It is not my job to care for their fragile ego or under threat because of my presence, because I am comfortable with who I am. that is no longer the narrative.

I am experienced enough in this gay life i have walked in that the majority of men that act that way have had a gay thought in their mind and seeing me conjures up those feelings that they have yet to come to terms with. I am a reminder to them that i exist and that i am not submissive to their presence. I am a whole threat to cis-gender men because i am comfortable with myself. Plus if you really want to know many men when they see me automatically think of me in a sexual way and the fact that it ran through their mind messes with them. They don’t necessarily have to be gay but the fact that i am an openly gay man and they see it, for a very brief second that mental picture crosses their mind. that disturbs them and have no idea why it should.

I mean like I said earlier I have always been gay so not only is it funny to me but does it ever occur that when I see straight people that image doesn’t run through my mind. Doesn’t it run through their mind that even though they may be aesthetically appealing it doesn’t man I want them. I have spent way too much of my life trying to make life easy and comfortable for them while they insisted on making mine a living hell. i have been way too nice with making myself small just for the sake of them to feel bigger. I look at it this way- if you need to flex that way you pretty much are not the alpha male you think you are.

With that being said hello fellas, mother is here and I am not going away and not apologizing for your fragile egos ever again!!!!


I’m sitting here and just thinking of the gay experience. Being gay at the times I was young till now. Yes things have changed but not by much. I am an entertainer, a performer in all mediums of art, a facilitator for workshops. I try my hardest to make a safe space for everyone. All the while I am fully aware that in doing this I am breaking many misconceptions of what people think about when they see and hear that I’m gay.

I’m honest with myself and very transparent when I say that at no time in my life, since young till now that I was able to hide my gayness. I was extremely flamboyant as a child. There was no direction or example for me to follow growing up. For me being gay meant I wanted to be a girl and I wanted everything that was attached to that narrative. Well all the good stuff- boyfriend, husband, home and children. In a nutshell I wanted to be loved, to be accepted, to live a normal life that every straight person had. Little did I know that that was going to be far from the truth I was to live. There’s no narrative supporting this. All that the world knew was that what I was was demented, deviant, mentally sick. There was never a day from friends to family that did not remind me how sick it was. Television depicted me as either a murderer or something to laugh at. In turn that was what I saw as well and didn’t strive for anything better. I was defeated before I even knew what the war was.

This story didn’t get better for me till I really started taking this talent I have to a serious level. When I decided to attach a voice to myself, a voice that came with a story, a voice that had a lot to say was when the signs all loaded to myself. That I would have to find a place within myself that was willing to peek away at every thing that was told me, that had to take everything I experienced and put it away, not let it East away at me into my belief system. It still didn’t mean that I was going to have a hard time. Hatred of who I was still existed and it came in a more sinister way. It showed itself with how people treated me.

Until present moment I still bump into people, especially men mind you, that don’t feel I’m worthy of the money I ask for. I bump into ones that don’t take me serious enough though I have the credentials. They sit to do business with me and I can tell that me being openly gay is a huge factor to how they expect me to not only act but settle for. I see how me being gay isn’t enough to make me one of the boys!

I am no stranger to fighting. I am no stranger to being looked down upon just because them being straight makes them feel that they are stronger, that they have the upper hand. They couldn’t be more farther from the truth.

I always say- when dealing with people stay open to their experience. It always adds to the unique factor. I have pulled myself from so many things. Some at my own hands because I didn’t know better. Some because I had no sense of who I was fully. Some was from people that were able to take advantage of this situation. No matter what it was I pulled, scratched, fought, held on and at times went in with eyes closed out of fear, but I moved forward.

Not as I get ready to embark on a whole different level I am fully aware that my peers those in the business won’t encourage. I am sure when I reach out they will look at me like I have 2 heads and each one is painted differently. I’m ready for this. I am the underdog all the time. I will rise. I am sure with scars but I will be here because if you don’t believe in yourself then no one is.


So I have decided to put together all the writing I have done about my mother for my 2Nd book called Unmothered. I wrote the whole year on anything and everything that struck a chord with me. It varied from memories to being in my feelings. I have been taking care of my mother these past 5 years and it has been many things. One of the things is clarity. There is a certain level of acceptance I have been given when it comes to her and things that have happened in my life. The difference in this perspective has really made me look at her in a different way. There isn’t so much anger. There isn’t so much blame. It has made me realize without knowing that I broke a serious cycle of abuse and hurt.

Many times I’d love an apology or some type of words from her but at her ripe old age of 71 it’s not going to happen. Mommy’s memory isn’t sharp at all. I get glimpses of her when I play the old music as I clean out cook. It’s in those moments that I see her. The old jibarita that took a plane and landed in Nueva York. The young vivacious woman that dressed to the 10’s and still believed in love. I see the pero Rican proud woman that struggled and fought for her right to live. This is the mommy I see before kids, before death, before heartache, before the beatings, begged the betrayal. She sits on the sofa and sings those old boleros going back to those days of no worries. When she ran away from Puerto Rico with a promise never ever to return. She sings with authority and strength, one she has when promises were young and naiveness was still fresh in her heart.

When I gathered these essays and put them together I started to get nervous. Every part of me told me that this was going to be a journey I will live through but it will be hard. It will bring me through many emotions and discover things I really #1 didn’t know I felt and #2 have to come to terms with. I have to say that as scary ad it feels I an fully ready. It’s no coincidence I get to have her with me at this point in her life. I an aware that she is here fire me as much as I am for her during this time. I embrace it all.

So this the journey to writing about being Unmothered while still having a mother. That I find peace after all has been written.


There was the weekend parties or get together. Mommy would host.

There would be beer and Bacardi

running, flowing freely.

There was the loud salsa


everyone trying to speak

above the music while

downing shots and chasing it with beer.

Brother and I slept together those days

One of our beds was coat check.

It was these days

her alcoholism was subtle

It was safe. It was joyful,

Full of laughing and lipstick and dancing.

Hung over or not

She was the mommy I knew, recognized

quiet and reserved




She was all good and cleaning

She was basic mommy

The one I got

In spite of my anxiety

in spite of her not noticing

In spite of feeling unsafe


I didn’t ask to be gay. It wasn’t like I woke up and said I’m so tired of being straight let me be gay today. It isn’t like I made the decision to live a life with guaranteed ostracizing and pressure. I was born this way. It was so weird to hear the straight version of boy meets girl. Boy dates girl. Boy marries girl. In my head I automatically identified it with me being girl. It was nerve racking to know that by the time I embraced being who I was I had already overheard through adult conversations that being gay was one of the worst things that can ever happen to a family. I had already heard it was embarrassing. I had heard it was just wrong, an abomination, a huge disappointment. That you hide shit like that. You wasn’t a man if you was gay. I heard that being gay meant there was something wrong with you, a deviant, a freak of nature.

I knew and felt that I was none of those things. I had to stand in my truth even if I did it silently. I had heard of ways parents were dealing with it. Some forced religion on their kids. Others made their kids go to therapy. Some shunned them all completely throwing them out to live on the streets. All of this when in actuality they didn’t have a chance. They were born this way. The battle to be gay is disenchanting. You don’t get medals of honor or loud cheers. Parents aren’t equipped with a How-To book with raising children let alone a gay one. As with all things it’s day to day and more than likely hour by hour.

All we gay kids need is that loving embrace, that reassurance that you have our back no matter what. We need that safety because we are going to know how wicked this world is.


As a kid I loved dancing. I know that everyone loves dancing but I LOVE dancing! I was never able to afford the classes. Let’s face it we were dirt poor. Besides even if mommy had the money she wasn’t going to invest in something that didn’t guarantee a future. So I took it to the streets. The streets taught me to dance. It was on that hard concrete that I learned how to do turns. I was already learning how to make something so hard like concrete work for me and make it into something elegant and pretty. I learned how to express all my anger in the 2 step. It would show itself in the stomping of the feet and the aggression. I danced because it was survival. I had no voice so this was the only way I would be able to let shit go.
Every record I heard I learned it to every detail. I knew when the drums were going to drop. I knew when the bassline would start. I knew where the break down was going to start so I can give it my all. I knew when the chorus was taking me home. Everything about the music spoke to me. The jams at Red Hook Pool park, the block parties where the electricity was taken from the light post, the weekly jams held at church halls anywhere they played music I went.
I was a good dancer. I was fucking real good dancer. I was able to change from masculine to feminine at the switch of a beat and not blink an eye. Dancing was the one thing that was mine. I was in control. My body was mine. It was also one of the very few things that made me believe there was a GOD. When I danced I didn’t think. I just let go. I opened up my mind and followed whatever it was my body wanted to do. This was the streets talking through my body. This was my body letting go of pain and fear, of not having enough, of not being able to, of just existing, of not having enough love. Dancing for me was a statement saying I am here and that I am visible.
When I danced I had no fear when it came to battles. I was never intimidated at all. Many guys slept on me. They thought that if I was gay all I knew how to do was vogue but they were dead wrong. I danced. I danced with my heart, my soul, my spirit guides. I danced as if it was going to be the last time I was going to ever hear music. I danced like it was salvation and this church was giving its last sermon. I loved it. And for the record I won all my battles and yes I knew how to vogue, very well. I finally found something that no one can take away from me. I found the one thing that I was so good at and it was natural. For a very long time that was all I did and I must say I actually believe that it saved me at a time in my life when I didn’t have any direction.
From Thursday to Sunday I was in a club dancing. I didn’t go to mingle or drink or talk I went to dance. If you wanted to find me in a club listen to the music and you will know where to find me. I have a serious connection with music. I can’t even tell you the times I went to a club and cried while I was dancing. There was nothing going on in my life I was crying because the connection I had with music and spirit was indescribable. It was a warm overwhelming feeling that surrounded me. There was a calmness within the chaos right there on the dancefloor within my body and I thanked every part of it every single time.


It’s not the drugs, it never is! It’s always about the pain, the trauma that manifests the run. That is what addiction is- a run! It’s about not wanting to deal! It’s about not wanting to feel! It’s about not having the proper tools in which to cope and accept that pain IS part of this process called life. It’s in the tiredness. It’s found in the relentless day in and day out, every minute at times seconds of feeling the need to run, escape and hide. It’s holding on to the weight of pain that makes an addict run. It’s the fear of the unknown under the guise of everyday living. Then it’s accompanied with the questions. What will happen if I cry and feel all this? What if I allow myself to feel all this anger? What will I become after?

It’s the carrying of shit that was piled on you from others at such a rate that the ONLY survival tactic you have is to run. There is no voice attached to your thoughts. There is no hero in sight with a deep enough level of understanding. So you run in hopes that this pain doesn’t touch you, that it doesn’t make itself seen. Some addicts run for years, some for months but at one point they get tired and that’s when drugs enter the situation.

Once they feel that instantaneous relief it becomes love at first sight. Finally they are not feeling, there is no more fear, there is no replaying of trauma, there is no pain. There is silence. There is deep breathing. There is relief. There is forgetting. It is in this last phase that it then becomes visible to the outside world. The more we don’t want to feel the harder we run. The harder we run the more we use drugs. Addicts become so hellbent that they don’t realize it’s slow suicide, that this using of drugs and all it entails is the last attempt of the addicts spirit crying for help.

Not many make it to sobriety or recovery. They run so hard they die in the process of masking the pain. They die not knowing that though hard it is possible to live without drugs.

I was that addict! I was a runner! Now I am clean over two decades. It’s not an easy task but a hard day clean by far is better than a hard day on drugs.