The Heavy Life of Pansies.

And then he came upon a stone that looked like it was left from recent road improvement work, off to the side of the road and only slightly dusted by the recent wind. He sat and looked at the building on the opposite side of the soccer field. A wide, slightly slanted, multi-level roof covered in red clay “tejas”, trying hard to blend in with the much older buildings that surrounded it, as if anyone would miss the new construction, the brand new wooden beams still smelling of fresh stain, the large and shiny silver cross upon its peak: Don Bosco.

My mother tells me that she wanted to have a boy and a girl—in a house with a white picket fence, but neither dogs nor cats, because she’s allergic to them. She was happy when she got pregnant the first time; the doctor said she’d have a boy, and it’s good, she thought, to have the boy first. He would grow up big and strong and protect his little sister and everybody would be happy. About six months into the pregnancy, while my father beat her, she broke her back, or was it cracked? Either way, she was in bed the rest of the pregnancy, which was difficult and painful—but she had her boy.

The doctor told her she couldn’t have any more kids, that it would kill her, and that she’d better take steps to prevent any future pregnancies. But she wanted her daughter, and a little over a year later, I was born.

I’m not a girl.

I still wonder if what happened after had something to do with the way she felt, or if she treated me differently because of it and that’s why I was like I was. What ifs, though, are just the kind of waste of time people of leisure do to replace a life well lived. My mother raised my brother and me pretty much the same way, and still we came out very differently. I am gay; he was straight. He was always very masculine, but I (up until the fourth grade) was very effeminate.

This is the story of how that changed.

People were playing soccer, a friendly game taking just the near half of the field, a priest or two competing with the kids right out of catechism class. On the opposite side of the field, two teams of elementary kids were changing into their bright red and blue uniforms, about to start an official league game. Two joggers crossed his line of sight, on their way around the grounds. Freshly-planted shrubs lined the road that led to the rectory behind the church. As he followed the joggers with his eyes, he noticed father Mario, long black coat and ecclesiastic collar on, making his way out to him, on his daily walk after the morning’s mass.

Kids always called me names. I was the “typical,” girly little boy all the bullies tease, and all the other kids tease too because they’d hate to feel they’re at the bottom of the teasing ladder. I had plenty of bigger problems in my life at the time, though, so it was ok. Getting teased, and sometimes beaten and generally derided and mostly ignored still hurt, but deep down inside I still had my mother, and that’s all that mattered, and my books, and I had church. I went to church despite my parents’ best intentions. They were progressive, revolutionary, educated, agnostic. I needed a God a little closer to the ground—one you could talk with, not discuss over dinner. My aunt, who thought it was miraculous that I wasn’t retarded, had given me a bible that I carried with me and read whenever I had a little free time. I started going to church (which was only a couple of blocks away, and very near my aunt’s house) three or four times a week. I asked the priest to teach me catechism, because my parents wouldn’t take me. It is because of that priest that after all these years I have not lost faith in the church, because despite the evil in some men’s hearts, I know there are far more whose great wisdom and boundless love and generosity far outweighs their animal cravings, men of good heart who do not publicize their good deeds and thus go unrewarded, unknown, and end up grouped with the criminals through no fault of theirs.

Let’s call him Father Mario. An old man recently moved to the tropics from Andalucia or some other place with a heavy accent who nonetheless tamed his tongue to speak to us natives softly and wisely. And then there was Mr. Velez, who taught biology and drove a CJ9, and talked to us all the same, even me. When other kids would tease me and even my older brother would say nothing, Mr. Velez would quickly distract the group and get attention away from me. I think he avoided chastising them because he knew he would not always be there and kids are vengeful and hold grudges a long, long time.

I didn’t play sports because I was no good at them—I was no good at them because nobody would play with me. But that, too, was ok, because it gave me time to read, and reading one learns more, and when one knows more, the adults show interest, and ask “important” questions and smile and nod knowingly and hand out candy and money. I should have had an old man, an accordion and a tin cup, for all it was, but it was positive and I felt good, so I didn’t mind.

I didn’t mind till I was in the third grade. That year, I started liking this girl in my class. I even wrote the little note with the fateful “circle yes or no” at the bottom. She was so pretty, I thought, and smart, and funny, and she played all the sports during recess and knew the answers in class. I thought she was smart enough to be my girlfriend. But she wanted nothing to do with me, because of what all the kids were saying about me, she said. She wanted a real boy for her boyfriend, and whatever I was, I was not that. So I got to thinking.

I was a reasonably smart kid, and I knew what boys were and what girls were: I had read all about it in the Encyclopedia Britannica. I knew I was a boy, but what was real?

I would look at the girls, in their little groups, holding hands, and giggling, and playing with dolls, and brushing their hair, and generally being girly. I would look at the boys, picking their noses, and spitting, and hitting, and kicking, and playing with dirt, and generally being boyish. I analyzed every aspect of my being. I took note.

One day, in fourth grade, a little boy started teasing me. Thing is, I always was taller and stronger than anybody in class. I never used that against them, and they soon forgot it. But I was still stronger. The boy kept teasing me and at some point I turned to him and told him to stop. He ignored me and kept going. The teacher, busy with her lecture, did not hear or if she did, did not interfere. The boy continued. I told him to stop, again. He didn’t. I told him I would choke him till he passed out. He didn’t stop. I knew he wouldn’t die if I let go of him just as he passed out, so I got up and grabbed him by the neck and started squeezing. He punched me, kicked me, scratched at me. Other kids tried to stop me. The teacher grabbed me by the wrists and tried with all her strength to pull my hands apart. But I kept squeezing. The boy turned blue and pretty soon passed out. Everybody in class was screaming.

I let go of him. His limp body fell to the ground with an undignified “plop.” I returned to my desk and sat down. The other kids told the teacher what happened, and she led me by the hand and I went quietly to the principal’s office. I sat there, across the hall from the kid, who was taken there after he came to. The nurse had checked him out and said he’d be fine. After a while, almost as if they had timed it, his parents and my parents all came into the office, quietly. There was no shouting, no arguing, no name-calling. The principal took them all into his office and they talked for a few minutes. After that, my parents took me home, and his parents took him home.

I wasn’t punished. Nobody ever mentioned it again. He was at school the next day, and nobody said a word.

But the kids didn’t tease me again. Ever.

We missed you at mass today, Father Mario said. At fifty or so, he was quite ancient to the boy sitting on the stone by the side of the road. With his hand on his waist, the priest leaned back and took a deep breath. The boy did not respond. Are you ok? Still no answer. The priest sat on the stone, by the boy, who now had a tear at the corner of his eye. We leave tomorrow, the boy said. The boy and the priest then prayed things would come out ok. The flight was scheduled for 9:00 a.m.

When other kids tease you, what hurts the most is not what they think, but rather that they’re confirming what you already thought about yourself. Was I not raised by straight parents? Did I not hear everything a patriarchal society has to say about men of questionable masculinity? When even your parents hate you, where do you go for love? Four times a week, I’d be at church, praying things would change. I would pray to God that His most divine hand should come down from the heavens and touch me lightly and make me someone else.

And one Sunday he answered. He said: “heal thyself.” And so I did.

By this time, I knew every nuance and subtle movement my body would make when I willed it to move. I was in the fifth grade, danced every chance I got, played whenever the neighborhood teams were one kid short. I was still girly, but I knew precisely in what way I was girly, and went about changing.

Absolutely every tiny little bit of my personality today was, at some point, evaluated, checked, weighed for masculinity against the standard set by my peers. Whatever did not measure up was replaced with a similar, more masculine bit of behavior from those around me. I write like a priest I once knew. I speak like a teacher I once knew. I drive like a friend from high school. I cross my legs precisely like the tennis coach in high school. I hold my bottle of beer like my father’s best friend. I curve my a’s like my father did. I kick soccer balls like my fourth grade best friend did. I twist my fork in my hand when I eat like my father’s engineer friend used to back in the day. I sit just so, and hold my book on my knee while I read because that’s how I saw it done precisely when I needed to know how to do that.

This is not a sad story. Everybody, without exception is changed by their environment. I am glad that my experience led me to the point where I selected what would change me and how. I am precisely as I have chosen to be. Who can make that claim? Those who’ve picked up bad habits subconsciously should reconsider how they let themselves be so misguided. Those who pick up good habits subconsciously can hardly be proud of the happenstance. I am precisely as I chose to be. My hair parts on the side I chose in the fifth grade.

The few people who know this story are usually saddened by it—which never ceases to amaze me.

The airport was big, and cold, and full of strangers. I, who can never remember anything, remember that day quite clearly. We sat by a planter so we could hide if they came looking for us. We looked down, kept quiet, pretended we weren’t really there. I was by then an expert at disappearing and by the end of that day, we had indeed disappeared—never to be seen again by those who had so threatened us. We were running away. I, who had changed everything, fought everything and won, was running away. That day I saw my father’s fear in his eyes and knew that even strong, brave men fear something. He feared for us, and so he gave everything up and ran, like a scared little girl from a bully, holding her dolly close to her chest.

Somehow, that made me feel better.