Gay Life..The Best Time Ever.

I never really understood the dynamics of my mother and folks around her. She always seem so free and like she knew the secrets of life. Always smiling and joking around. Everyone around her loved her, even today. My mother has a way of speaking that makes you want to know her story a little further. You want to get to know what in life she had to experience in order for her to be so wise. She's always been the happiest woman I know. Everywhere she goes its a guaranteed fun time. Yet with all of her wonderful attributes, she's never been the type to get along with someone for too long.

We lived at Padrino Pablito for a couple of years. I recall getting lectures from him about boys and not having them touch me. He would say, "No dejes que ningun hombre te manucee", which roughly translates into "Don't ever let any man put his hands all over you". I laugh now, considering I was only 6. But in retrospect, he was making sure I knew what was right and wrong. I had to prepare myself for the hardships of being a young lady.

I was always very close to Padrino Pablito. He was like a second father to me, my grandfather being my first dad. I can honestly say, he was more of a man than any heterosexual man I've ever met. He always defended my mother from her siblings. Particularly those who thought she was worshiping the devil since she was living in the house of a Santero. I remember him confronting one of my uncles who came with the intent of taking my mom back home by force. Hand on his hip, red as a tomato and with a very firm and feminine voice he told my uncle, "Vete pal' carajo, de aqui nadie saca a mi ahijada cabron". Maybe it was Padrino Pablitos 6 foot stature or maybe it was the look in his eyes, but my uncle left that house and never came back.

It was time later when my mom decided to move to her own apartment. It was a small place. I recall sleeping with my mom because there was only one bedroom. Of course I didn't mind, I think I never slept alone for most of my childhood. My mom and I always shared a bed.

But now that we lived on our own, I was more alone than ever. My mother being a single mother couldn't stop working. And taking me to my grandmother's was definitely not an option after what she discovered my abuse. So, she would instruct me what to eat when I arrived home from school. Asked that I not open the door to anyone and made sure that she called at almost every hour. I think this is why I've become such an independent person. Almost to a fault. It took many years for me to feel okay in asking anyone for help. This cycle went on for some time. There were weekends I stayed with my mother's friends because she had to work. I never felt comfortable at any one's house when my mother wasn't around. I was always treated differently as soon as my mom left. Even her friends treated me as if I was a pest. At times I overheard them speak about how my mom was irresponsible and that I was a bastard. So I would go to a corner and play with the toys my mother left me and wished that she would just hurry up and get me. I would get in trouble for not wanting to play with her friends kids. Those kids were bad, they would pull my hair and hit me. Take my barbies and rip the heads off.

I remember one time, I had a fight with my baby-sitter's daughter. The girl ended up telling her mother that I hit her, so I ended up punished. When the mother asked what happened, I told her that I didn't do anything. So she slapped me and called me a liar. She blamed my mother for being so lenient with me and that's why I was such a liar.

My mother arrived early Sunday morning to see my face completely red from being slapped. She looked at her friend and slapped her out of the blue and without warning. Then she asked, how did it feel. She went on to say other vulgarities about me coming out of her (you know what) and that no one needed to touch me but her. I never stayed at that house again.

Soon there after we were back at Padrino Pablito's house..thank God!

New Homes, Old Religions..

After my mother moved from my grandmother's house, things got really interesting in my house. My mother has never been the type to want to be in a home without a sense of family. So living alone was never her ideal option when moving out. So she decided to move in with her god-father, Pablo.

"Padrino Pablito", god-father Pablito, was a very large man who was the most eccentric individual that I have ever met. He was large, gay, loud, bold and proud of it all. Looking back he was a pioneer in the equal rights for all lifestyles before it was necessary. I remember his round bed. Yup, round bed. It was so comfortable and always had a new animal print blanket on it. Talk about stereo-types.

Padrino Pablito lived in a more urban area, so it was definitely a change in the surrounding. He owned the second and third floor of a building. So we lived the second floor and the third floor was a roof which had a built in kitchen and a small club house for me. I spent endless hours on that roof, playing with my dolls and pretending that they were my friends.

The problem was that at Padrino Pablito's there were never any kids. It was seldom when folk's kids were brought over. He never liked kids, he used to tell me that I had to be the first kids he's ever loved. He found kids to be annoying and too needy. I find this to be comical now, but back then I desperately wished I could at least play with anyone.

Another new addition to my world, the exposure to the Santeria religion. Pablito was very much involved in the religion. He had a room specifically for his "soperas" or porcelain containers used to house the saints. I would see folks at the house have these meetings, dressed all in white, speaking in tongues I never heard before and lots of music. In the beginning I found it to be very scary. I never truly understood what was going on but I knew that I didn't want to be part of anything, other than the music. I loved the sounds of the drums and singing. Being exposed to Santeria so early in life taught me to open minded to other folks' believes. To understand that there's more out there than just one way of thinking when loving "Papa Dios". (that's what I've been taught to call God).

What many folks don't understand about Santeria, is that is not a black and white as it refers to God. Santeros do believe in God as well as the assistance of other beings in their requests and prayers.

I always found it fascinating when Pablo used to read the "caracoles" to folks, and actually be right about things. I wondered how shells can actually give you insight on what is happening and will happen to you.

Soon after, Padrino's eccentricity, no kids and Santeria became very familiar. But like everything else in my life, once things become the norm something changes..

In the Beginning..Part 2

As a child I really didn't see much wrong with my family life. I believed everyone lived with their grandmother, 3 uncles, 1 aunt and their mother. Everyone shared rooms and slept in the same bed as their grandmother. I never missed having a father, mainly because you could never miss what you never had.

Santurce, Puerto Rico. Photographer: Jack Delano 1942

We lived in a very humble neighborhood called "Playita", which roughly translates to the little beach. Essentially it was a little street with several man-made houses. All of the houses were made of concrete, oddly shaped and ceilings made a wavy aluminum. It was a true treat to hear raindrops fall whenever it rained. Till this day, the very sound makes me relive those days.

Our home was built by my grandfather. He was in the process of finishing up the wall when he suffered an aneurysm. My grandmother never had the courage to have anyone finish the house, so it remained unfinished until her death in 2002.

Mano a Mano lounge at ESJ Towers. Hotel where my mom worked for many years

The first years of my life were pretty normal by all standards. I grew up very close to my grandmother, mainly because she was my main care taker while my mother worked in the hotel industry in Isla Verde. My mom had studied communications in college and decided to become a switchboard operator. There were times that she would work 24 hours straight and I would not see my mother for days. Looking back, she was just trying to do the best she could with what tools she had available to her.

What was not so normal were the constant fighting and physical altercations in my household. Unfortunately being the only child in the house I not only witness all of these altercations but at times became the victim. My abuse came at the hands of my aunt, my mother's younger sister.

I belive now that most of my physical abuse by her hands were just an outcry of her own frustrations. But its hard to justify an adult beating a 2 year old. It took some time for my mom to realize what was going on due to her extensive work schedule and my ability to always be a silly kid. She recounts the story of my having episodes where I would just not want to play and claim I had a headache. At first she would find it comical that her 2 year old would ask her to leave her alone because of headaches, but it wasn't long before she realize that there was truth to my claims. On an off day from her job, my mom was brushing my hair, when I started to cry and claim that I had a "chichon" (bump) on my head. When she felt my head full of long black hair, she felt not only one but several bumps.

I recall only the screams and my mother on top of my aunt. Soon after we moved from my grandmothers into a one bedroom studio. This was only the beginning of our many moves.

From the Beginning...

Deciding to give a more thorough background of me, I decided to start from the beginning of it all. I was born in Santurce, Puerto Rico on June 8th (mid 70s). My mother, a 21 year old full of life and lacking in experiences decided to become a single mom. She had met my dad, a medical school student, in New York City and started a brief but intense relationship. More on that later. Dad's family comes from India yet decided to migrate to Guyana. So most of his life he lived in tropical Guyana. He's a mix between Abbu from The Simpsons and Tony Montana.

From the start the details of my immediate family have been sketchy. From what I understand, my mom was summoned to Puerto Rico by my grandfather because he was sick. She left the next day after receiving word without really saying good bye to my father. Later, she finds out that she is in fact pregnant, but at that time my dad had moved and not left a forwarding address. It's not until later on in life that I find out the truth of the whole story.

As far as I can remember I never looked like anyone in my family. Besides my grandmother I was the only one with straight hair. My complexion was different, my features were different, my NAME was definitely different. I never really fit in with my mom's family although I was raised to respect and love them. I was mostly close to my grandma after my grandfather death. I never really missed a "father figure" because I had 4 uncles that were constantly looking after me. They made sure I was spoiled, disciplined, loved and defended. It was not until my mom decided to move away from the family that I began to realize that not only am I different than anyone I've grown up with, but I also did not have a father living in my house. Not once had I used the word "dad" or "daddy" in my childhood.

This really affected me more than I realized at the time. But of course you don't realize this way until you're an adult that you realize how deep your childhood affects you....

30 Day Challenge!

So, I've decided to give myself a challenge. It seems that in order for me to actually get my butt writing is to put myself to work and not rely on "inspiration". So here it is. For the next 30 days I will be posting a new entry regarding the random things that happen to me and my personal search for the writer in me.

I've decided to be completely open and to share anything and everything that comes to my mind. This is a new one for me since I am infamous for keeping my personal feelings very private and not sharing with anyone anything other than kind words. It can get exhausting, especially when going through a break up and the other things that come with just being involved in living. But if I'm ever to really get to the point where I can write I will have to do some digging and sharing. Ugh!

I am totally anxious and hopeful that my over sharing will not come back to haunt me.

Can you be a better writer if you didn't have a T.V.?

I've become convinced that if I didnt' have a television I would be 100 times more efficient! I've been trying and trying to get myself to sit down and write, and guess what? Basketball Wives reunion show was on. How could I miss that!?! Then, I promise myself that after the show I would buckle down and start at the very least doing an outline. But then Cupcake Wars was on. How do I find the ideal balance between writing what I know needs to be written and watching the rich schedule of amazing shows (that although I can catch On Demand) are too enticing not to watch it right now!

Do I want it bad enough?

The Journey continues.....

Working From Home

It's incredible how the human mind works. I swear we must be born to be lazy! all of the time doI hear folks (including myself) say, "I'd write more, do more, if I had the time". Here I am working from home due to medical issues, and I haven't written not one word towards my works. I want to be able to be like those folks on tv that can dedicate hours on end writing about their life or their novel and it's plot. Instead, I find myself looking at my Facebook account, Twitter and trying to advertise my Adornos Boricua Organic Sofrito. The truth is that I know I want to write more, I have something that I know I can write about and others will enjoy, and yet I'm becoming my own personal obstacle.

I cannot be the only one that feels that way. Could it be insecurity in what I want to write about? Perhaps Its that once I start to dedicate some time to writing I go into a blank. I don't know.

Muah and God bless!
Charlotte