Tags:
Humor,
Religión,
Gay,
Lgbt,
Sexuality,
story,
collection,
Community,
Puerto Rico,
transgressive,
mundo cruel,
santurce,
luis negrón,
suzanne jill levine,
manuel puig
THE CHOSEN ONE
Ever since I was little Iâve heard my mother tell the story, more than once, that when they presented me at church, barely forty days old, the preacher predicted that I would not be like other boys, that every step I took would be a step toward Jehovah. I grew up with the certainty of being anointed.
My brothers and father were opposed to this idea. Papi swore to my mother that they werenât bringing me up right, that all the church and religion was going to ruin me. My brothers, backed by Papi, never went to church. They made sure I had something to talk about in Bible class when weâd discuss Job and his trials. Theyâd hide my Bible and my neckties. Theyâd spray me with the hose minutes before the bus arrived to take Mami and me to worship. If I cried, Papi would make me fight them and would shout at me:
âDefend yourself like a man, goddamn it!â
I felt comfortable at church. Theyâd take me from town to town as a child preacher. The adults would ask my advice; the women would beg me for visions. One night during a vigil, I went out to the bathroom. The only light outside was the one on the toilet. When I entered, I heard a noise and as I approached the urinal stall I saw sister Pacaâs son doing brother Pabónâs son from behind.
At that moment I had my first true revelation. My whole body was telling me that I wanted to be in the place where brother Pabónâs son was. When they noticed me they got scared, but I was able to calm them down when I started to lower my pants. I wasnât able to touch them, though, because at that very same moment brother Samuel came in and caught us.
The news reached Papi through my brothers, who were eager for the beating that would follow. With the eyes of a Pharisee, while Mami turned up the volume on the radio that was playing the evangelical station, Papi grabbed my whole face with one hand and crushed it like a ball of paper in his fist. He took off his belt and whipped my back. When he saw that I wasnât crying, that I didnât make a peep, he whipped my face with the buckle until the little choir on the radio stopped singing. He left both of my eyes swollen and my nose broken. After the swelling went down my face was transformed. It looked like the faces of the saints in those little prayer cards my grandmother, the Catholic, kept in her house. For the other boys it was irresistible. They all wanted to be my boyfriend.
The preacherâs son gave me an illustrated Bible on Valentineâs Day. I liked to look at the pictures: Adam covered with a big fig leaf, ashamed to notice his private parts for the first time, and me with him; Lotâs wife turned to salt, looking toward the burning city because you just had to; Davidâs torso, strong and magnificent; Goliathâs legs, with him being a giant and all, my imagination soared.
My father decided to go to church too to see if he could change me by force of prayer. He was tired of giving me beatings every time he caught me making out with a male cousin or walked in on me when I was modeling in front of the family mirror. Heâd drag me out of the bathroom at the supermarket where Iâd hook up with meat packers. Heâd slap me hard or punch me with his clenched fist, and I just took it. Beatings with leather belts, belt buckles, flip-flops, wooden switches from tamarind or gandules trees that my grandmother sent from Arroyo, or pulled off the lemon tree that we had in the yard. I hated the lemon tree. One time my brothers and I claimed we had seen the Virgin appear on top of it. The news upset Mami and, fearing that the house would be filled with Catholics, she cut it down and there were no more switches.
When I turned fifteen it was my turn to be baptized. I didnât let Mami buy my outfit at Barrio Obrero. I made her give me the money and I went to the mall instead. The clothes had to be white. I bought a pair of linen trousers
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley