Carlos – Page 3 – Sage Telling Your Story

June 4, 2013February 26, 2019

Life After Truth by Carlos

I have been outed!

My partner, Ron, and I solidified our relationship on May 1st, entering into a civil union within hours after Colorado enacted them. In preparation for the historical event, we had our tuxedos dry cleaned, purchased new wristwatches to signal a new dawning, and planned a private celebration. I found myself strangely calm, that is until hours before the ceremony when I couldn’t cinch my cummerbund or tie my shoelaces. Suddenly, I understood why some people metamorphose into terrors just before their big day. It was becoming real. After all, I was committing to one man for a continued lifetime of discoveries…in real time.

Upon been ushered into the Wellington Webb Building, I inexplicably unleashed all fears, all doubts, all anxieties, and I became child-like with anticipation. Dignitaries congratulated the couples; families and supporters whooped it up; even tired agents at the Clerk and Recorder’s Office maintained genuine smiles of inclusiveness, conveying this was our day to declare that we in the LGBT community were taking another step closer toward full-fledged citizenship. I realized this was a victory in spite of it not offering full marriage rights.

Being so dapper, and hopefully so cute, every reporter wanted to photograph and interview us. Though we have never been in the closet, admittedly neither have we worn our relationship on our sleeves. That morning, we kicked the closet door open and agreed to every photograph, every interview. Only one reporter was ingenuous, an interviewer who forgot to mention she represented a conservative religious publication. Initially, her questions were innocent enough, perhaps to lull us into complacency. However, my suspicions were aroused when she queried us about whether the legalization of civil unions could in time lead to marital contracts by blood relatives or parties of three or more, arguments that have been used by homophobic institutions to prevent our forming legal families. I caught a whiff of the dankness from the rock from which she had crawled. Upon learning of the organization she represented, I unleashed a diatribe of impunities, informing her in no uncertain terms that as a former believer, I had long ago rejected its patriarchal, sanctimonious, we-are-the-chosen-of-God attitudes. To her credit she stayed in place as I defined the difference between those of us who embrace our spirituality and those of her belief who cater to their religiosity. I informed her that my unconditionally-loving God, was present and, no doubt, was at that moment dancing an Irish jig to a Mexican marimba band while singing in key of his sons and daughters whom He loved and validated and in whom He was well-pleased. I felt victorious as she slithered away, although I doubt that anything within her doxology had changed. After all, oppressors never see themselves in need of transformation, never realizing that bigotry wrapped in prayer is still bigotry. It is for us, the former oppressed, to raise our voices and our fists and repudiate their canons. Only when they feel the ire and the tension of our convictions, do they relinquish their self-appointed power…and then only grudgingly.

When Ron and I were finally ushered into the magistrate’s arena, my stalwart, stoic bravado betrayed me as tears bubbled up in the corner of my eyes, and we solemnly repeated our vows and exchanged rings. It was finally real; it was now official. Reflecting over the last few days, I feel different. For some reason that I am only now beginning to understand, I feel so much closer to my beloved. Our union bonded us as though we were enveloped in a lotus of love.

The next morning I was awakened by the ringing of the phone. Groggily, I answered. Friends were calling to inform us that our pictures of the night before were posted on the internet. My initial reaction was one of nothing-good-can-come-from-this, much like Howard Brackett’s reaction when outed in the romantic comedy In and Out. Apparently, people we have influenced throughout the years were heralding our exodus from behind the closet door. We had been fully outed, no ifs, ands or buts. Therefore, we accepted the inevitable, recognizing that in spite of ourselves a new chapter was opening up in our lives. There was little to do except be grateful for an act of synchronicity. Anonymity was no longer an option. Thus, we accepted our outing with courage, knowing honesty and love can never be wrong.

A new sun has truly arisen, and something good has emerged from it. Therefore, let us live our lives as though we have been outed. Let us finally be free, free, free. Let the echoes resonate in every nook and cranny as we slam the closet door behind us and build a new foundation for a brave new world.

© 20 May 2013

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

April 3, 2013February 26, 2019

One Monday Afternoon by Carlos

The great spiritual leader Paramabhansa Yogananda wrote, “Every day and minute and hour is a window through which you may see eternity.” The message is quite profound: you have to know yourself in order to see eternity, to come into the kingdom. Although it would have been very convenient if I could have embraced my God-given gift of being a gay man by sequestering myself from the world, I required the guidance of a mentor to goad me into the eternity of my self-awareness. In an act of synchronicity one Monday morning, my mentor made his appearance, providing the inspiration that was to coalesce within my life. He became my Prometheus as I prepared to pummel off a promontory and soar through uncharted currents on my journey toward self-empowerment.

When I was but a child, maybe 8, my uncle grabbed me by the testicles and drew out a pocket knife threatening to castrate me. After all, I wasn’t an overly masculine child, and that offended his sensibilities. I preferred the quietness of solitude, and I believed and I knew that if I were quiet enough, I could understand the chanting of the cicadas as they raised their incantations like Gregorian chants up to the sun. I knew that if I lay down upon the earth, I could feel the sunflower seeds shaking off winter’s darkness as spring rains caressed them out of slumber. Later, when I was a naive but sexually germinating boy in high school, I landed my first job as a dishwasher at a greasy spoon in my hometown in west Texas. Clearly, others already suspected what I was so fearful to recognize, that I was destined to venture after the passion that at that point in my life had no name. On the first day of the job, the cook and I were alone, cleaning up the back kitchen. He approached with what at the time was a sinfully wondrous sight, his massive dick upraised and pulsing in his hand, pointed in my direction, clearly inviting me to touch, to savor, to worship. With some hesitation, I touched it and loved it…that is until my Catholic guilt compelled me to run out like Little Miss Muffett distracted from her dripping curds her creamy whey upon discovering the forbidden and potentially dangerous spider within reach. I walked to a nearby church, prostrated myself before a statue of a crucified Christ festooned in a scanty white loin cloth, daring not to entertain ill thoughts, and I asked for redemption, for penance, for a sign. In spite of the absurdity of the situation, He did not descend from that cross in rage nor did bolts of lightening strike me dead as I had half expected. He simply peered into my soul with his all-knowing unconditionally loving glass eyes, and in that moment of incomprehensible insight and compassion, I still felt stained]. If only I had known then what I know now…that God always answers my prayers with a yes, a not yet, or an I-have-something-better-in-mind-for-you. After all, my redemption was still out of reach.

On a spring Monday afternoon in late March, just before Easter, I left the hallowed halls of my classes at the University of Texas thinking about poetry and philosophy, logic and art. The air was thick with the aroma of sweet chaparral and sagebrush; the sky was a rapturous vault of blue. I walked oblivious to my bus stop when he caught my eye, a chiseled, blue-eyed, stud-of-a-man wearing a loose-fitting jumpsuit, conveniently unzipped down to his chest as well as a twirled mustache that only made his beguiling smile that much more delicious. He winked at me behind his black sunglasses and signaled me with his head to follow. Being aroused by possibilities of the unknown, I gave chase. I don’t know if I was shaking in trepidation of eternal banishment, imagining my neighbors’ wrath or whether I shook in anticipation of finally giving in to my temptations…probably both. I was determined that the intoxicating melody played out by the musician’s panpipes would envelop me, and that I would discover the joy of forbidden fruit even if it resulted in a fiery descent into pandemonium. I walked dutifully beside my satyr, enticed by the sensory and sensual testosterone emanating from our pores. We found a quiet place and chatted briefly, being circumspect lest we compromise too much. Our brief conversation enveloped in euphemisms culminated with my agreement to broach my inner sanctum. On that Monday afternoon my infatuations found new heights; we limited our passions to shy touching and ever-so-gentle brushing of the lips rather than torrid love-making since I was so obviously inexperienced; however, I knew deep within the core of my being that this man would in time pull me out of the quagmire of my fears. Over the next few weeks, our quiet interludes metamorphosed into a passion no longer cloaked in the aura of strawberry candles glowing from ruby-red globes or passionate crescendos from Tchaikovsky’s tragic, but romantic orchestrations. He became my mentor, my safety net, the one man who embodied all men. That afternoon was the beginning of a new life for me, and I understood the mysterious spirit that compels the barren-looking tree to bud with intoxicating liqueur every spring, thus enticing the bee to the sacred calyx of its blooms on their synchronized quest toward eternity. I started to awaken out of my blissful ignorance, and more importantly, I started to look at my accusers, daring them to threaten to castrate me again. In spite of the fact that I preferred to practice my violin rather than play war games with olive-hued plastic soldiers, I learned I was a man that March afternoon. I learned that what we call chance, may, in fact, be the logic of God. No one, not my uncle, not the fathers of the Church, and not the sanctimonious bullies within any arena or playground would ever again scapegoat me for their own failures. I recognized on that Monday afternoon that if I intuitively longed to touch a man’s engorged penis or enraptured heart and feel their strength, it was my destiny, my legacy.

God, that mischievous trickster, smiled upon me for no longer denying the gift He had bestowed upon me. And on that Monday afternoon, I recognized why only I had understood the chant of the cicadas or been moved to tears by the gyrating dance of sunflower seeds beneath my feet. And from that day forward, I re-birthed myself enfolded in a sublime awareness that I would always look with anticipation for the next adventure, for the next ride, prepared to turn my world around.

About the Author

Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter. I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming. Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic
romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands. I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.

March 7, 2013February 26, 2019

Tightrope Walking by Carlos

The writer Arturo Islas once wrote, “Much of my terror can be traced to childhood, terrors about being Mexican and about Mexicans.” How well I understand this premise, for I too have always lived in bilateral worlds, arenas that often fail to foster a safe and empowering ambiance regardless of the direction in which I gravitate. Rather, like a marionette pulled first by the strings of one command, then by the contortions of another, I perform my awkward gyrations wearing a supercilious smile on my polychromed mask.

I sit at my mother’s house in El Paso, a plateful of campechanas, laberintos, pan de huevo and a earthenware pitcher of warm champurado, our evening repast, as I endeavor to draw out the voices of her past, voices that will all too soon dissipate with the hot desert wind like a monsoon storm pelting its contents on a weathered, sun-bleached arroyo. In spite of her fragile health, she makes her way from the kitchen table at which she has been seated to the stove, constantly vigilant of her olla de frijoles and chilaquiles simmering on the back burner…not bad for the 94-year-old matriarch of my family! The ravages of time herald her toward the grave, but at least her mind
remains agile, quick to partake in a pilgrimage back to the chronicles of her past.

Unbeknownst to her, these episodes take on an almost mythical context, resulting in my own awakening as she fleshes the past like a 45 rpm record speeding through time and space, hovering momentarily, and dying off in a drone of silent eternity. I sit opposite her, my mind formulating scenarios of lost worlds, discerning images I recognize only
via cracked, sepia photographs, hearing whispers of melodies like the calling of some primordial memory in the distant crannies of my mind. I sit, eyes riveted upon those of this survivor of life’s labyrinthian canyons, harvesting any and all treasures from the depths of her soul…vignettes of my past, oracles of my future. Off in the horizon, I begin to hear the whispers of the blind soothsayer lamenting the blustery storm descending upon me.

The television perched on the nearby table, my mother’s companion and confidante, is perennially turned on, even now as we speak, perhaps an unspoken reminder that these images, unlike the canonized bones confined in silent graves, are immutable, forever authentically human. As my mother catalogues her life experiences, recounting moments of innocence, of sin, of stooping, mundane life, I occasionally glance at the screen, not in distracted discourtesy of my mother’s odysseys, but curious at the faces flitting in and out of the telenovelas, echoing some private torment. I make mental note of how the media acculturates and molds the Latino cosmology into the
nebulous American dream, too often purchased with one’s own soul as Mephistopheles offers the viewer eternal bliss for 30 pieces of silver. I smile at the antics of star-crossed lovers and ego-driven behemoths as they saunter through their travails in the predictable, tawdry novelas. I know that in these quixotic episodes of life won and lost, no shade of gray dares to besmirch the canvas of paint-by-the-numbers landscapes. Invariably, the innocuous but righteous and anguished victim, usually a character of Christian virtue and naive expectations, will overcome, through tenacity, faith, and maybe just a dose of divine intervention. On the other hand, the villain, more often than not the villainess, that catty bitch, that daughter of Eve, with over-plucked eyebrows and pallid skin pulled back tautly against her scalp, will earn her just retribution, and like Marlowe’s Barabas will be purged in boiling oil for insidiously betraying all godly virtue. I catch snippets of a telenovela, Cosas de la Vida Real, and increasingly am drawn to the transparent plot line, the desecration of my own Holy of Holies. I flit between two realities. My mother’s hand still guides me through a maelstrom of adventures, but like Pandora I am drawn to a necrotized sorcery of the television screen. All too soon, I am humbled, enraged at the obviously licentious and horrific portrayal of the life I know all too well, that of a gay Latino, and the tragic truth is that although I am haunted by a retelling of antiquarian lies, I hope for a parting of the veil and the manifestation of ethereal light. Alas, the portrayal of gay pedophiles and their immoral denials of all that is sacrosanct indoctrinates the masses to lies perpetrated by fear and convenience. As I vacillate between giving ear to my mother’s liturgy while simultaneously taking notice of the lewd permutations foisted on the screen in the name of moral turpitude, I obviously betray the controlled seething raging within me, for my mother glancing over at the screen, silences her voice momentarily, perhaps in silent shame, perhaps conflicted between her own concept of reality and my own. Quite possibly, she instinctually comprehends and even embraces my anger, my pain, provided, of course, all windows facing the neighbors are screened off. Perhaps she grasps the notion that I thrive in many discordant dimensions, most of which remain shadowy and discombobulated. However, since we have never approached the unbroachable, I don’t really know and since the Square-toed One is relentless hobbling in her direction, I know I shall never truly know. And thus, the story telling continues amidst stories that remain imprisoned.

There are so many silent poems I wish I could have shared with this woman, poems that are but gossamer flickers of refracted light streaming from a distant galaxy. I want to share my suicidal torments at being branded a joto in high school, in spite of the fact that in my innocence, I didn’t even know what a joto was. I want to whisper my
shame when I allowed myself to be just momentarily but still inappropriately touched for the first time by a cook at a greasy spoon where I worked as a dishwasher when I was sixteen … a memory that seared my blood but nevertheless sweetened my cornucopia of sensory delight and longings. I want to ask my mother whether my uncle, my tocayo, a man who sometimes threatened to castrate me as a child for being too sensitive, might in fact have been battling with his own reproaches. I want to recount lifetimes spent in front of the sacristy entreating the Nazarene, likewise rejected and crucified, to intercede on my behalf, miraculously purging my sinful inclinations to be held, touched, loved by one of my own. Regretfully my prayers filter like incense to the nave of an existentialistic eternity, His mournful eyes only conveying an I-too-am-as-helpless-as-you gaze down upon me. I want to know whether she would ever cast me upon stony, unfallowed ground for daring to bring a blue-eyed devil into her home, once mine too, and introducing him as my beloved, my champion, my solace and hope. However, my voice is silenced by the pragmatic practicalities vaulted within our respective lives. After all, we are separated by layers of cosmic convolutions labeled life experiences, she being enthroned in her Latina, Catholic, patriarchal world; me nurtured in the arms of my hidden truth, my secret love, my unbridled passions.

Instead I swallow some of my bile engorging itself within my mouth, and I regain my footing on the fraying tightrope, a tightrope that like a Mobius strip has no beginning and no end. Only in time will I come to realize that my mother and I are carved of the same rootstock, having both been nourished by the same nebula that continues to cultivate our spirits. She knows and she accepts in spite of telenovelas’ maudlin attempts at indoctrination. Thus, in silent gratitude, I kneel before the goddess of my idolatry, placing at her feet perfumed honey, molten mercury and sea salt nestled upon a cinnabar bowl, for though He closed His eyes in despair, her eyes were steadfastly directed toward constellations unseen, giving me the confidence to stave off my own martyrdom. I no longer pay heed to the monitor’s nepotism, immersing myself unequivocally in the banquet of my mother’s own voice. And at that milestone moment, the terror of my childhood metamorphoses into cogent jism of stalwart life, and I feel that He who once asked that the cup be removed from His hands imbibes with me in conjoined, unashamed empathy.

About the Author

Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit,and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.