Gracias, Tio

I never thought I would say, “Thank goodness for my machista and homophobic uncle and the impact that he has had upon my life.” Though his behavior towards me lacked any affection and was never supportive, the ramifications of his combined actions and inactions shaped my life in a positive way.

In my purposeful navigation through diverse cultures and as a resolute social reformer, I turned out to be a documentary filmmaker and educator. This has propelled me to explore the most obscure documentaries that examine culture and question society. One evening I exited a film screening rather fired up with rage. A brilliant Turkish feature film, BLISS explored “honor killing” as it related to the rape of a woman from a small, antiquated village dominated by orthodox Muslim beliefs. But as I processed the film with a fellow-Latino and gay filmmaker, it was that conversation that ensued that made me connect the dots as to what shaped my being, as well as my feminist ideologies.

For a few years, I have been producing a documentary feature on what it means to be Latina in the United States entitled, Latina Confessions. But the underlying drive to produce this project and the messages contained therein were fueled by a defining moment in my life that took place at the age of 10. In order to supplement our family income, my mother, like many Latinas of her generation in 1968, took care of neighborhood children whose mothers worked. One child that she cared for in particular was four-year old Richie whose mother took refuge from her marriage by living with her aunt. One particular night there was this desperate banging on our front door that almost blew the door off its hinges. The adults in the house followed by the kids in tow ran to see what was happening. When the door finally opened, I witnessed Richie’s mother drenched in blood holding her forehead. Her husband waited for her to return from work and slashed her forehead for leaving him and taking their four-year-old son. It was a time when married Latinas did not leave their husbands unless it was in a box.

Days later, a plainclothes detective knocked on our door and asked if anyone had witnessed the crime. I being a Catholic school boy raised not to tell a lie and taught to always help others in need, invited him in. I went on to tell him everything I had seen. After the detective left, I was in seventh heaven feeling that I had made the most important contribution to someone who had been unjustly wronged. My uncle, a recent Cuban refugee who was left babysitting us and present during the detective’s interview, chastised me belligerently for opening my mouth. He brow-beat me and screamed that this stranger could have been the husband’s friend posing as a detective to determine if there were any witnesses to then return and slay us all.

For me, it was absolutely preposterous that we could stand idly by and not defend this woman, even if it put us all at risk. What this woman had done in leaving this relationship with child – for whatever her reasons – reflected the gumption possessed by Latinas from my community who had contributed to my rearing during the first ten years of my life. They were my role models as strong, Spanish-dominant immigrants who were independent and self-sufficient in pursuing a life where they defined what was best for them and family.

By the age of 12, I had nothing to do with my uncle who culturally was labeled “familia.” Even before I knew I was gay, he sensed by virtue of my demeanor and inability to play sports that I was a “maricon” – and he made me pay for it. At the slightest drop of a hat, whether it was waving good-bye in a child-like manner to my cousin, his six-month-old son or my distaste for meat, he would torture me verbally and emotionally. Today we have no relationship and the last time I reached out was eight years ago when I called from New York upon his mother’s death in Florida, my grandmother, to give my condolences.

So, when processing these bitter memories as a perennial optimist, I have finally evolved to a stage where I can say to myself, “Thanks, Tio, for being my moral compass.” His actions showed me exactly which road not to take in life. I’ve innately gained compassion for those denied rights by championing equal rights for all and devoting my life to ensure that everyone has a voice and story to tell. Who would have thought that with my only uncle failing to serve as a positive role model and without any children of my own, that I would nurture, validate and support countless of youth and women in life as, Tio Louie?

It simply reaffirms in the second decade of a new century that we are all self-made in one way or another. For me it took faith in humanity with love of culture – while shedding some of its limitations. At the end of the day we are the exclusive authors of our identity and the mission we pursue. For better or worse we are also shaped by others in our community who have touched our lives. We all have shackles that have kept us down at some time or the other. But it’s wonderful when you can move beyond those limitations and convert them into proactive measures benefitting others. To that end I say, “Gracias, Tio.”