As I try to walk on the straight and narrow–stopping only for the important things in life like street corner hot dogs and shiny pennies thrown on the streets of Brooklyn–it seems that everyone around me is breaking up. And although every break up causes a different type of break down–I can’t help but wonder, “What does your break up say about you?”

Whether it’s been five months or six years, there’s a sense of sadness that greets you in the morning and an amount of hurt that hugs you to sleep at night. People belief in the myth that if you’re the one doing the “breaking up” as opposed to the one who got dumped–things will be peachy–but that’s a false sense of relief. No matter what side if the break up line you’re standing on–in the end, you have a rough time ahead. Just ask Jennifer Lopez and Mark Anthony about their break up/divorce; no amount of double-sided breast tape can hold those two together.

My friend Sarah recently ended her six month romance two weeks ago and she’d be able to move forward except that the guy won’t stop calling, e-mailing and texting her to come back. I don’t blame him, she’s quite the little firecracker-hot mama type that you don’t want to let go of. So why did it take Sarah six months to figure it out, “it’s time to break up.” She did what many of us do–she ignored her heart’s red flags and kept hoping things would change. But when he confessed his love for her a few months back–and she wasn’t able to reciprocate–her heart’s auto-pilot took over and came in for an abrupt love-landing.

Another couple, Danny & Mark, broke things off after 10 years. They reached a point where they both noticed they couldn’t see eye-to-eye with one another and the relationship suffered. A feeling of desperation washed over them like dirty pool water that had been peed in. That pee-water feeling caused them to make one of the hardest decisions ever–to go their separate ways. If you know Danny & Mark, you’ll see their facebook status is still “in a relationship” because changing that status–according to Mark will make it official and they’re dealing with a lot right now and making it public would be extra pain sprinkles on their break-up sundae.

In both cases–the break up was done respectfully and handled in an adult manner with both parties realizing they couldn’t ignore their heart strings being plucked while screaming, “Child, this ain’t working any more!” (If their heart was a ghetto Black woman) And in both cases they’re all struggling with the idea of “What if” and “Maybe if I would have stuck it out a little longer…”

But that ideology rarely works out when the relationship just isn’t working. But they will soon realize that as they walked away from their bad romance–they took a few steps closer towards happiness and that says more about them as a person that sticking it out would. If it’s broke and can’t be fixed–don’t stick it in the corner and pretend everything is good;  instead, let it go, put in on the side of the street and let the universe take it from there.

What struggles have you dealt with when breaking up? Does one party ever have it easier than the other? Share your thoughts and leave a comment.

In a courtship, there comes a time when the “honeymoon” phase is over and you get to the nitty gritty part of the realtionship; personally, I like the nitty gritty because it’s a place you’ve established with your partner, gay or straight–ah hell, even a goat–that you feel comfortable in. It’s waking up in the morning and no longer rushing out of bed before they wake up to put concealer on in order to hide the bags or the dark circles that have taken up residence above your cheeks and because your partner loves you for who you are, you’re okay with it. But, there’s also another side to that comfort zone, and it’s called the mind twister.

Since the boyfriend and I are on financial budgets, and he’s only one week/payment away from paying off his $3,000 credit card debt (I paid mine off last week) we’re both keeping a tight eye of our finances like two Texas pedophile Catholic priests keeping an eye on the only blond and blue-eyed alter boy after communion. And well, last night, when going over our monthly expenses, things got a little nasty.

This morning on my way to get my Herbalife protein shake I called Cris, my bff of 26 years.

Nando: I’m so pissed at the BF right now, he was so evil to me last night.

Cris: What happened?

Nando: He asked why I was asking for $18 since the internet bill total was only $11.

Cris: And?

Nando: Well, how dare he!

Cris: Ah, I see–you put his statement through your mind twister.

Nando: My what?

Cris: Your mind twister. It’s a communication problem that stems from filtering your partner’s/spouse’s statements through your personal mind twister — you know, twisting the things they say around in your mind until you come up with a meaning that’s usually not what they meant but that’s also drenched with insults.

Nando: You mean…

Cris: Yip, Example. My husband sees I have a new dress on and says, “Is that a new dress?” Since I’ve been using the mind twister for years, it only takes me a few seconds to filter it–so despite what he said, I hear, “Did you just spend more money?” or “Did you really need to buy another dress?” and the last one–which is always the best/worst “That must be a new dress because it doesn’t make you look fat like all your other ones.”

Nando: Wow, you’re good!

Cris: Been married for five years, it takes practice.

Nando: So you think that’s what I did?

Cris: Totally. Cause you and I both know he was only asking. I would have asked to. Why were you asking for $18 when it was only $11?

Nando: I didn’t have the internet bill with me when I met with our finance guy so I estimated that the total bill was around $32. And when I don’t know the exact bill amount, our finance guy rounds up, so he budgeted $18 each for the internet.

Cris: And what did you hear him say when he said, “Why is $11 and you’re asking for $18?

Nando: Stop stealing my money you nasty fat Mexican whore.

Cris: Oh yeah, you’re good! I didn’t get to that level until 2 years of marriage.

Nando: So now what?

Cris: You have to realize that he was only questioning the amounts. Wouldn’t you? He’s finally being responsible with his money, something that you’ve helped him discover–that’s where he was coming from. We use the mind twister because of the baggage we’re still carrying, you know that, but it’s up to you to intercept the mind twister and not take it personal. Anyone who’s met your BF knows he’d never say a thing like that.

Nando: Well, why do you still use it?

Cris: I need the leverage. I’ve had 2 kids that have ruined my body and he still has a 6-pack.

Nando: Got’cha.

Could Cris be right? Do we all have a mind twister we filter our partner’s or spouses words through? Is that just part of human nature or is it something that we can let go, like a small purple balloon being released into the sky? I can’t help but wonder, “In a time when good relationships are as hard to tame as windy tornadoes; are we doomed into a cycle of filtering statements because of bad baggage, or are mind twisters something we can eventually untangle?”

Many say that love actually can be found all around us–if we look hard enough; especially at airports. No one’s seen with tears of anger when they greet someone or feels hate while holding up a “Welcome Back Home” sign–but for me, I used to feel the extra load of loneliness when traveling–I never had that special someone wishing me safe travels or greeting me with a smile on my return flight home. But things have changed. In as little as two months–my life is different; because of the boyfriend, Santiago.

When we met, I knew there was something special about Santiago, something different–a calming yet refreshing vibe and I quickly recognized his worth–and the only question was; did he feel the same? You see, when dating, especially in New York, the problem isn’t meeting people, it’s meeting people on the same dating page as you. And we’re faced with so many new issues: who pays on the first date or when to bring your shampoo over to when do you say, “I love you.“  But as Santiago and I took it date by date, shaping our own dating experience and ignored several “rules” placed by people who just really wanted to make a buck or two with their “expertise” advice, we kept our eye on the big picture–respect. It also didn’t hurt any that we’re both Mexican and “do the nasties” any chance we get–don’t judge.

So when I decided to take a trip to Iowa–where I run to when I need some time away from the city to reconnect with family–I did the unthinkable–I asked the boyfriend to come even though we had only been together for one month. He agreed. (Not sure which one of the two was the craziest; me for asking or him for accepting) But we did it–we took the leap–against the advice of a few experts and close friends. I wasn’t sure if I was sure–did I really want him to come? What if we fought? What if my family didn’t like him? What if he didn’t like my family? There were so many “what ifs” in the picture–so I did the one thing I’m good at–I got a new canvas and started a new art project. I made the decision to take a leap of faith based on our excellent communication, mutual respect, and his love of family.

Tonight is our last day here in Iowa, we leave for the airport tomorrow at 6 am and head back to Brooklyn. And it’s been an amazing week, he seamlessly fit in and created bonds with all of my family; I can’t begin to describe how all the kids have latched onto him–even the youngest of the bunch, Isabella (the two-year-old visiting from Croatia) and who can’t pronounce his name entirely but runs to our room in the mornings and yells, “Donde esta Ago?” Which translates to, “Where is Santiago?” I think he’s going to miss her the most–I found the two having a tea party with her speaking Croatian while he sang her a Spanish folk song about a China tea shop. Neither one of them understood one another, but the smiles and hugs they exchanged told me that language wasn’t a real priority. 

I’m glad Santiago came along and made such a huge splash in the hearts of the poeple here in Iowa. His kind heart and generuos spirit were greatly accepted and appreciated. He and I grew closer on this trip as we learned how to handle stressful situations without exchanging one harsh word–that’s an accomplishment. As the world grows with knowledge that’s available online, books, and audiotapes, and with so many sites on “how to date”, “the rules to land a man”, and guides on “what not to do when dating”–I can’t help but wonder, “When will we learn the simple rule of  just following our hearts?”

me and my sister (and my Mickey)

Living in New York City, you meet people from many walks of life. When people meet me, they become fascinated and overwhelmed with my history. And I sometimes forget what makes them take interest in a little chubby Mexican Gay boy who was adopted at birth. But then I think about it and realize, “Oh, yeah, I guess that’s why–but still, I wonder?”

My story started June 30, 1975 in Mexico. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. (Child, I hope I don’t get sued for that line) My biological mother didn’t want another child, so the midwife (my future aunt’s mother) made a quick phone call minutes after I was born and called my future adoptive parents and explain, “I have a little boy that nobody wants, do you want him?” My parents, not being able to have children of their own–mom had something wrong with her uterus and my dad was sterile–immediately jumped in their green Cougar and drove all night from Odessa, TX to El Paso, TX. The midwife, after placing me in a wicker basket and covering me with newspapers–making look like she was a newspaper carrier, illegally crossed me from Juarez, Mexico to El Paso, TX–where she prayed that I wouldn’t start crying when the border patrol stopped to question her trip across the border. My parents were at her house hours later and that’s how I got my start.

A few months ago I asked my mom what her favorite childhood memory with me was and she replied, “It was the next day after bringing you home and I had you on the bed (Mexican’s didn’t use cribs back then) and all my friends were present and they all said that you looked like me. I also appreciated not having any scars from childbirth.” That’s my mom, a modern day woman of  the 70s. My sister, who was also adopted–from a different family–is eight years my senior and was super excited to have a baby brother. According to her, her favorite memory was when they brought me home and she pretended that I was her baby.

Because of my parents generous nature (which I hope to one day acquire because I am one greedy Mexican and according to my dad I am the spawn of Satan), when they found out that my biological mother was out of a home, out of money they brought her to the USA and hired her to be my live-in nanny/babysitter for the first few months. Later, they’d come to discover my eight-year-old sister was skipping school to stay at home with me because my biological mother was letting me go hungry and wouldn’t change my diapers during the day–this was 1975, so “Pampers” were not in the picture. They fired her and my independent woman of a mother stayed at home with me instead. My parents always wanted my biological mother to be a part of my life and when saying  my nightly prayers would force me to include her in them. I see now what beautiful people they are–but back then I just thought they were crazy.

My sister and I slept in the same bed and had some of the best talks ever–once I was older. We’d stay up talking about being adopted and what it meant to us. See, to us, it wasn’t a big deal and still to this day, we both don’t feel one way or another about it–sometimes we forget we’re adopted because “family is family” and we all argue, love and gossip–just like yours. Since then, both my sister and I have met our biological brothers and sisters, something that our parents helped us do–and people will look at us crazy when I say, Oh, this is my sister’s sister–when we all hang out together–because it’s all complicated! (But when you ask us, we say we only have one sibling–each other–but then we have to back track)

When I came out to my family, I knew my mom and sister would be fine with it–in fact after telling my mother, she lit up a cigarette, requested a Pepsi and told me to move out of the way, because Hunter, her favorite show, was about to come on. It was my dad I was worried about. I knew he always wanted a son who was into sports and to help him hot-tar the roof, but that wasn’t me, instead I’d bake him brownies and gave him wardrobe suggestions. Now, everyone in my family knows my business and to them…I’m “just me,”  in fact when I go home to visit they call me by my nickname, which I will NEVER EVER REVEAL–and it’s comforting.

So as I go on my life’s journey–I know I’ll meet people who will continue to be fascinated with my life and ask how it’s possible that I can write about it in such a manner that ropes in humor, drama and what at times seems like fiction, but my answer remains the same, it’s because I’m gay, Mexican, and adopted.

And they say the show must go on, but I’m having trouble believing so. I just got a call from my sister saying that my dad, who was already in the hospital, took a turn for the worse, and is now in ICU.

I can’t say that my dad is the strongest, sweetest, or the coolest because that would be a lie. He’s the dad that embarrasses me, makes me pull my hair out, but he does loves me unconditionally (and he’s proven that time and time again). Not a lot of Mexican’s adopted in the 1970s, but he and my mother made special room for me in their hearts and gave me a home, identify and humor. Yes, I am Gay, Mexican and Adopted.

My dad called me a few month ago and said, “Mijo, I want to see you—can you please come for a visit?” I went home to Odessa, TX and spent some time with him. I’ve never felt so special in my entire life.

When I arrived, he walked over to me and in his loving father tone said, “You look like a retard with all that hair up in the air. What’s wrong with you?” I rolled my eyes, walked away from him and held my tongue. “Come back, get closer,” he said. “You have so much grey hair in your beard, look; I’m 63-years-old and I don’t have a single grey hair on me. You’re getting old boy!”

I couldn’t hold it in, “Well, the boys in New York love it—and it gets me non-stop sex.” He rolled his eyes, walked away and yelled for my mother.

Now, he’s in the hospital and the doctors don’t think he will be making it and they are asking my family to make some decisions concerning his health options. He’s pulled through before and I’m hoping he does it again—it’s not his time—he’s got so much to tease me about. I take it back; he is the strongest, sweetest and the coolest.

This post above was written in 2008 — my dad passed away June 2011. The last conversation I had with him was on Mother’s Day when he asked me to come for a visit. I made plans to visit in July. I was too late. But on that phone call–he gave me tips on how to BBQ and told me a few jokes. He will be missed; his energy, humor and BBQ lives on.