So Where Is Everybody?

So where is everybody?

That’s what a friend, José, wanted to know. He’s up on the news, he reads all the island’s newspapers every day; then he reads The New York Times for national and world news. Like me, he’s a news junkie; also like me, there are writers and journalists in his family.

And journalists, as I heard in exhausting detail—OK, I confess it. When the old man was lecturing on the importance of a free and objective press, I tuned him out, those many years ago. Look, does any 15-year old hang on his father’s lips?

Now, of course, it’s different. I see him, in my mind’s eye, listening on Tuesday nights to the City Council meetings, which were broadcast over the radio. Jack, my father, was probably the only guy who ever listened, but that was OK. If only one guy listens, but then goes and writes a blistering editorial in the newspaper the next day—well, the system works.    

There’s a real question, however, if the system works down here. The island is mesmerized by the capture of la viuda—the widow—who is in fact quite a merry widow. Here’s a pic….

Well, I confess it, I spent several hours of my life yesterday poking about and hanging with the widow as well. But today, la viuda is still splashing around on the front page of the New Day; I, however, am moving on.

“No, José, no. It can’t be….”

He swore it was. And then he told me the story.

In 1993, our governor, who was by the way a pediatric orthopedic surgeon, instituted a health plan. Essentially, he did away with the socialized health system and spent the money giving it to private insurers. The system continues to this day, said José, with 1.6 million patients.

“What,” I squawked at José, “are you telling me that half of the island is on the government’s health plan?”

Yes.

The island, for the purpose of the health plan, is divided into 8 regions, and various health providers are asked regularly to submit bids. Thus, it was no surprise when the new providers were announced last Thursday. What was the surprise?

For the first time, the entire island is going to be insured by one company—Triple-S.

Is that a big deal? Well, the doctors aren’t too happy. Here’s one:

“Tanto pacientes como médicos estamos a merced de esta organización, llámese como se llame. Le da un poder de casi $2,000 millones a una sola empresa, le da más que eso, le da una arrogancia sin límites. Va a disponer de pacientes, de clase médica, como le da la gana”, afirmó el doctor Eduardo Ibarra, presidente del Colegio de Médicos Cirujanos.

 (“Patients as well as doctors are at the mercy of this organization, call it what you will. It gives the power of almost 2 billion dollars to one enterprise, more than that, it gives unlimited arrogance. They can do whatever they want to patients and doctors,” stated Dr. Eduardo Ibarra, president of the College of Medical Surgeons.)

The politicians aren’t happy, either:

 “Preocupa grandemente que se conceda casi un monopolio de los servicios de Salud a Triple S. Sobre todo, se ha señalado constantemente que el secretario de Salud, Francisco Joglar Pesquera, ha tenido serios conflictos de intereses con dicha compañía y que esta contratación no abona a la confianza pública sobre dichos procesos de contratación”, afirmó el expresidente de la Comisión de Salud.

(“I worry greatly that this concedes almost a monopoly on the services of Health to Triple S. Above all, it’s been shown constantly that the secretary of health, Francisco Joglar Pesquera, has had serious conflicts of interest with this company and that this contract does not meet the public’s trust about the process of awarding contracts,” the former president of the Health Commission stated.)

Conflict of interest?

“What’s that all about?” I asked José.

Francisco Joglar Pesquera’s previous job?

Senior Vice President and Medical Director for Triple S.

“What?” I’ve gone beyond squawking, now I’m just squeaking.

“Yes,” said José.

I’m dumbfounded.

“This is blatant.”

“Don’t worry,” said José so seriously that I knew he was joking. “Joglar took himself out of the whole process. He recused himself, and gave it all to his sub-secretary. Then he went into his office, shut the door, closed his eyes and covered his ears. And when the sub-secretary knocked on the secretary’s door five minutes later, Joglar was just as surprised as the rest of us. So it was fair. See?”

Oddly enough, the essential health of the political system of the United States is that people are pissed off. We’re angry, frustrated, and—some of us—almost explosive. But that’s good—all that energy and foment can lead to change.

“Los pillos,” people say, with a shrug of the shoulders, a glance skyward.

The thieves.

Speaking of our elected officials as thieves is dangerous. It implies a cynicism, a consent to be stolen from, an apathy that nothing can change. And that means, of course, that nothing will change.

José was right….

Where is everybody?

Death of a Rich Canadian

Every evening at seven or eight, most of the women (and some of the men) on the island plant themselves in front of a television and gorge themselves on several hours of steamy romance, diabolical intrigues, crimes of passion combined with greed, incest, infidelity, and virtually every other crime or vice that you can imagine. They’re watching las novelas, technically las telenovelas, or the soaps.

There are, however, occasions when life imitates art, and one of them is unfolding today on the island. Because yesterday, Áurea Vázquez Rijos was arrested in Madrid when arriving at the airport from Italy, where she had been living.

Why was she arrested?

Well, the FBI is curious to know what really happened sometime on the night of 22 September 2005, when Vázquez and her husband, Adam Joel Anhang Uster, were brutally attacked. OK—Anhang was murdered, she sustained a head injury that required surgery, and was hospitalized. And the murder was not a particularly well thought out affair: it took place in the old city slightly after midnight, and was witnessed by several people.

Murders in Puerto Rico usually take place for only a couple of reason: drugs and passion. But this case was interesting because it featured that very well worn but still very powerful motivator…money.

Lot’s of it.

Anhang was Canadian, 32, an entrepreneur who had been CFO for Dr. Ho Casino (an on-line gaming operation) and the CEO of CWC Gaming, as well as being a part owner of a luxury hotel on Vieques, a small island off the coast of Puerto Rico. Apparently, he was well liked, very intelligent, and, as one business partner said, “frail and nerdy.” Not, in short, a difficult man to kill.

The couple met in 2002, began dating, going out to the movies, and going to parties. He praised her, she teased him by saying that he would never take her seriously: she was Latina, and so off limits. Well, he called her bluff, and they were soon living together. In 2004, the parents and little sister of Anhang came to Puerto Rico, and stayed with the couple. Here’s what Vazquez says about the visit:

Ellos no aceptaban que yo era latina y que no era judía ortodoxa. Lo más que odiaba el papá era que yo era latina (se ríe al decirlo). Lo odiaba. Pero nunca tuvimos problemas mayores con su familia. Él tenía problemas con su papá normalmente, como todo hijo con su padre. Pero nunca hubo guerra. Yo no podía ir a tantas cosas porque no era judía. Pero ya había conocido primos, algunos tíos, fui a Canadá tres veces con él. Conocí sus amistades.

Loose translation:

They didn’t accept me because I was Latina and not orthodox Jew. The father hated me the most because I was Latina (laughs while saying it). He hated it. But I never had major problems with his family. Adam had problems with his father—normal things like any son with his father. But there was never a war. I couldn’t go to so many things because I wasn’t Jewish. But I had met his cousins, some uncles, I went to Canada three times with him. I met his friends.

The relationship went sour—according to Vázquez, Anhang was under the sway of his business  partner, Roberto Cacho, who hated her because of previous business dealings that had gone west. In the days after the murder, rumors whirled that Vázquez, who had bought a bar in the old city, was having an affair. At any rate, the couple sought marriage counseling, which proved fruitless. Anhang filed for divorce.

 En caso de un divorcio, ella recibiría anualmente entre 126,000 dólares y $180,000 durante dos años, o hasta que volviera a casarse. Si Anghan moría antes del divorcio, la viuda recibiría 23.1 millones de dólares.

Well, the economic incentive is pretty clear—a max of $180,000 for two years after a divorce, or $23.1 million bucks if Anhang died before the divorce. All this from the prenuptial agreement they signed.

In a crime like this, you’d expect some action—money may not talk, but it can whisper very effectively. And Anhang’s father came to the island, to rattle cages and get some justice done. Significantly, nothing happened. Vázquez remained in the hospital for a month, during which she received—according to her—one visit only from the police. That occurred two days after her surgery, when she was sedated with morphine.

If this case is anything, it’s a magnificent demonstration of the colossal ineptitude of our police force. Anhang’s father came right out and said it—the couple was going through a bitter divorce, Adam had no enemies, Vázquez had to have something to do with the murder of her husband. Vázquez, in turn, alleged that she had been the victim of physical abuse at the hands of her husband.

Predictably, the fight about money began. Anhang had a life insurance policy for ten million. Vázquez tried to collect—rumor is that she never did, because Anhang’s father came down and spent a couple of years fighting to make sure she didn’t get her hands on the dough. Also, of course, pressing for justice to be done.

Which it was. Or rather, an appearance of justice occurred in October of 2007, when our local police decided to run down to the seaside slum that lies outside the old city’s walls, La Perla, and arrest one of the boys.

OK—so there was no physical evidence against him. Worse, an eyewitness testified that the man, Jonathan Román, was definitely NOT the guy who had murdered Anhang. But if a grieving and very rich Canadian man needed a trial and conviction—the thinking may have gone—well, not a problem! So the jury declared him guilty, and the judge sentenced him to 105 years in prison.

“Of course he’s being framed,” said Mr. Fernández, about to enjoy his postprandial cigar. “Everybody knows that. The guy probably made a deal, or the street was too hot for him, or they’ll wait until the Canadian is off the island and then he’ll ‘escape.’’

He went on to propose other possibilities, logical and or possible only in the Caribbean.

Then something happened, perhaps related to the nonpayment of the three million dollars that allegedly Vázquez was to pay the real hit man, Alex Pabón Colón, who is known on the streets as Alex el Loco. Letters surfaced in which it was clear that el Loco had conspired with Vázquez and her sister to relieve Anhang of the tedious chore of living. El Loco wanted his money—well, what professional wouldn’t—and also his saxophone, which was at the bar Vázquez owned. He made several not very original threats, and dismissed as unlikely her pleas that she was broke; she had sold her business, after all.

When confronted, el Loco confessed, and that meant that the ostensible killer, who had spent two-and-a-half years in jail, could be set free. Which he was, with everybody declaring that they had never, never believed that he was guilty, and much patting on the back! Justice had been done! The truth—as God ordained it—had come out! The system worked, and the public trust had been restored! (Word on the street, by the way, is that he got half a million not to sue....)

Curiously, this interpretation, which captivated and conquered the warm Latin imagination, was unconvincing to colder temperaments to the north. Anhang pere said, “won’t you please the hell get involved,” or words to that effect, to the FBI. So the FBI came down and came very soon to the conclusion—as had 3.7 million people of the rest of the island—that Aurora Vázquez, in conspiracy with several others (her sister, et al), had caused el Loco to kill Anhang.

Well, things were looking rather hot for Vázquez, when she decided or discovered that she had a passion for art. (Confession—this is the way I remember it; I can’t be sure that’s what it was). And where do you go to satisfy a taste for art? What country is utterly saturated with art?

Italy.

Which has—good Roman Catholics that they are—an extradition policy that states that no person who might face the death penalty can be extradited. And Vázquez, of course….

So Vázquez had been cooling her heels for five years, having twins by her new Italian lover, working at a travel agency, and dealing occasionally with whatever pesky press bothered her with events long gone.

Then she got careless. She used her American passport to fly to Spain last weekend. And that tipped off the FBI and Interpol, who contacted Spanish authorities. And Spain, which may be just as Catholic, tends to be a bit more bloodthirsty than those merry Italians.

Extradition will take time, but it will take place.

Readers, stay tuned!  

Chris Hayes

OK, here—direct from Wikipedia—is the timeline of the Edward Snowden revelations:

•    On June 5, The Guardian released a top secret order of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court (FISC) that ordered a business division of Verizon Communications to provide "on an ongoing daily basis" metadata for all telephone calls "wholly within the United States, including local telephone calls" and all calls made "between the United States and abroad."[23]

•    On June 6, The Guardian and The Washington Post revealed the existence of PRISM, a clandestine electronic surveillance program that allegedly allows the NSA to access e-mail, web searches, and other Internet traffic in realtime.[24][25]

•    On June 9, The Guardian revealed Boundless Informant, a system that "details and even maps by country the voluminous amount of information [the NSA] collects from computer and telephone networks."

•    On June 12, the South China Morning Post disclosed that the NSA has been hacking into computers in China and Hong Kong since 2009.[26]

•    On June 17, The Guardian reported that the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ), a British intelligence agency, had intercepted foreign politicians' communications at the 2009 G-20 London Summit.[27]

•    On June 20, The Guardian revealed two secret documents, signed by Attorney General Eric Holder, describing the rules by which the NSA determines whether targets of investigations are foreign or domestic.[28]

•    On June 21, The Guardian made further disclosures about 'Tempora,' an 18-month-old British operation by GCHQ to intercept and store mass quantities of fiber-optic traffic.[29]

•    On June 23, the South China Morning Post reported that Snowden had said the NSA had hacked Chinese mobile-phone companies to collect millions of text messages and had also hacked Tsinghua University in Beijing and the Asian fiber-optic network operator Pacnet. The newspaper said Snowden provided documents that listed details of specific episodes during a four-year period.[30][31] According to Glenn Greenwald, "What motivated that leak though was a need to ingratiate himself to the people of Hong Kong and China."[32]

•    On June 25, Greenwald reported Snowden claims that he had sent files with NSA secrets to associates for his personal insurance, and that their contents would be revealed should something untoward happen to him.[32]

•    On June 29, Der Spiegel reported that the NSA had planted bugs in EU offices in Washington, New York, and Brussels, and had infiltrated their computer networks, according to documents provided by Snowden.[33][34]

Damaging stuff, right?

Or is it? As Chris Hayes points out in the video below, Osama bin Laden knew perfectly well that the US was tracking him—that’s why he never used cell phones and communicated through couriers. True, some of his associates used them, and also true, that helped us catch bin Laden. But let’s face it, any serious terrorist would have to be pretty stupid not to assume that cell phones, emails and internet use are being monitored.

I ask all this for a simple reason: I’m trying to figure out what damage, if any, Edward Snowden has caused. What has he said that terrorists didn’t know? Has he really put lives in jeopardy? Did the Chinese really not know, or suspect or assume, that the US hacked their systems? Does any diplomat of any country think that a hotel room is un-bugged?

And Hayes makes an interesting point. Barbara Starr, the veteran CNN reporter on the Pentagon, came out with leaked information that indicated that the government is able to observe the terrorist organizations frantically trying to change providers. And Hayes wonders—isn’t that information just as dangerous as anything Snowden revealed? Oh, and he points out that nobody is slamming Starr, but Greenwald, the Guardian reporter who is revealing information from Snowden, got tarred a couple days ago by the news that he had been involved in the porn industry (as a lawyer, not a participant…).

Hayes’s point? A leak in favor of surveillance is OK; a leak against surveillance is not.

Snowden has stripped the United States of its ability to be a hypocrite. We can no longer pretend that we are not snooping on everyone: friends, foes, and our own people. But is there really, as Hayes says at the end of the clip, a secret government?

Well, in 1987, Bill Moyers said there was, pissing the conservatives off so much that they threatened to cut off PBS funding for years. Moyers makes the point: the National Security Act of 1947 created something that we had never had in this country before. Never before had we worried full time about our security. Never before had we had the concept of enemies at work against us.

Enemies for very good reasons—an Iranian points out in the documentary that there is no Iranian family without at least one member tortured or killed by the Shah’s secret police. The police the CIA trained after they had overthrown an elected leader and installed the Shah. And how many other nations has the CIA messed with? How much blood is on their hands?

Correction…

…our hands.

Of course the world is pissed at us, of course they’re laughing at us. Guess what?

They’re right, we’re wrong.

A Little, and a Long Way

OK—this is profoundly embarrassing. I am sitting in a café, which is where I spend a lot of my time. There are two reasons for the hours I spend here: the first is a need for people, since writing can be a solitary profession; the second is that I’m too lazy to make my own food.

I am therefore wasting huge sums of money, something that nobody but the shop owner could condone. And the worst thing? Though I am barely making enough money to keep afloat—as is Mr. Fernández—we are in the richest 4.0% of the world.

I know this because I went to a site called givingwhatwecan.org and entered a (probably too high) estimate of our combined incomes after taxes. And there, right on the page, was the button for “how rich am I?”

The sum I entered was 50,000 USD. OK, what happens when I put in 100,000 USD? “You are in the richest 0.15% of the world’s population,” was the answer. And 1,000,000 USD? Less that 0.1%.

The site is absolutely fascinating, as was the talk by the philosopher Peter Singer, which you can see below. I live perfectly well on $30,000 a year; I am 56; I am willing to donate 10% of my income; I will “retire” at age 65. OK, so I went to another page to see what effect I could have. And guess what? In the 9 years of giving, I would have saved 11 lives, I would have saved 491 years of healthy life, and I would have produced 9,000 years of school attendance.

But wait—suppose I retired at age 85? How would the world fare?

Total you would earn: 870,000 

Total you would donate: 87,000

Lives you could save: 35

Years of healthy life you could save: 1,582

Years of school attendance you'd produce: 29,000

That’s the graphic that popped up at me.

How is it possible? Singer has the explanation:

However, it is also possible to make extremely effective donations towards the world's poorest people. Because they have so little money, every dollar you give can make a tremendous difference — especially if spent on the world's most efficient aid programs. Read on to see just how much you could achieve and how little it would really cost you. 

 OK—so now you know what you’re worth, relative to the world population; as well, you know the effect of contributing whatever percent of your income you’ve chosen; now, where should your money go?

And it’s an important question, because the right charity can be a hundred times more effective than another, less effective one. So which charity gives you the biggest bang for the buck?

Here again, Singer sails through with the answer. He recommends four charities that are the most effective. Here are the four.

Against Malaria Foundation. Why? More than a million people die each year of malaria, 70% of them are kids under 5. A 3$ net can prevent the disease—and 100% of your money goes to the nets. Best of all, you can see where your nets are distributed.  Here’s the website: http://www.againstmalaria.com

Schistosomiasis Control Initiative. The initiative aims to control and then eliminate the parasitical disease schistosomiasis, which afflicts more than 400 million people in sub-Saharan Africa. Untreated, schistosomiasis leads to kidney, liver, and spleen damage; 76 cents will provide a dose of the drug needed to treat and cure. Here’s the website. http://www3.imperial.ac.uk/schisto

Deworm The World. 600 million kids around the world need to be dewormed; less than fifty cents is all it takes to treat one kid. This organization has treated 40 million children in 27 countries. Best, treating kids leads to significantly improved school attendance—a nice added benefit. Here’s the website.   http://www.dewormtheworld.org

Project Healthy Children. The project aims to confront malnutrition by food fortification, essentially supplying the vitamins that you and I take for granted. But a child goes blind every minute—80% of them because of vitamin deficiency. Zinc deficiency kills 800,000 children a year; Vitamin A deficiency kills 2.5 million children under age 5 every year. Here’s the website.  http://projecthealthychildren.org  

Singer came up with the idea of asking people to pledge 10% of their income until the day they retire. Here’s the pledge:

The Pledge to Give

I recognize that I can use part of my income to do a significant amount of good in the developing world. Since I can live well enough on a smaller income, I pledge that from today until the day I retire, I shall give at least ten percent of what I earn to whichever organizations can most effectively use it to help people in developing countries. I make this pledge freely, openly, and without regret.

As well, he came up with the idea of forming chapters of people who are working together to practice effective charity. So far, there are 10 chapters, 317 members, and $126,300,000 pledged.

OK—this is what I’m gonna do. Every day, I’m going to put my change into a piggy bank, which I will empty when full. I’ll take it to the bank, and get it changed; then, I’ll send a quarter of that amount to each one of the four charities.

Second strategy, I’ll play Bach suites once a week in the café where I am spending so profligately my money. I’ll put up a little sign announcing the charity of the week, and ask for donations.

Singer makes two further points—the materialist rat race of working to make money to spend money on stuff that doesn’t make us feel better but does mean we have to go back to work the next day is ridiculous. But oddly, giving money to a worthy cause does make us feel better. So shouldn’t we change trains?

Second, in terms of human impact, the money you donate may be the most important thing—by far—you’ll ever do in your life. 

Una Dama, Though Cynical

“Quizzical,” I thought, when I first saw Antonio Quiñones Calderón. There was something—perhaps an ever-so-slightly raised eyebrow—that suggested puzzlement. Or perhaps it was a newspaperman’s curiosity mixed with slight anxiety?

I have a minor talent—I put people at ease. He sat down and told me his story.

And what a remarkable story. Tony grew up in a small town on the west side of the island seven decades ago; his father died either before he was born or just afterwards (can’t recall). At any rate, he grew up early assuming responsibility.

As well as writing. So he wrote his way through high school, and then headed off to work—he had to help his mother and sister back home. And where does a writer who needs a job get one?

At El Mundo, now defunct but then a very serious, respected newspaper. And Tony—fresh out of high school, no money or time for college—started at the bottom. And he worked his way up, in traditional newspaper fashion, from writing obits to the police beat to covering municipal meetings, to finally get the big stuff.

“I remember the funeral of Muñoz Marín—I was covering it for El Mundo,” he said, “and yes, it was big….”

I’m picking his brains, first because the pickings are very good indeed, and second to get him to talk. What is he writing about now?

“A history of the corruption in Puerto Rico,” said Tony.

“Tony, that’s gonna be one long book,” I said.

We joke a bit—he has a wry, self-deprecating humor.

“And how is your health,” I asked—Tony is in his mid-seventies.

Well, I shouldn’t have worried: Tony has one impressive track record. He wakes up and writes, seven days a week. And he’s put together an impressive body of work: 50 Décadas de historia puertoriqueña, published in 1992; La perversión de la política; En los pasillos de poder: Testimonio íntimo de un Secretario de Prensa, 1998; Reflexiones de periodista; El Libro de Puerto Rico; the list goes on and on up until his most recent book, Carlos Romero Barceló: Una vida por la Igualidad. He has about as many books as you and I have fingers and toes.

Well, if anyone can write a book about ex-governor Romero Barceló, it would be Tony. Why? Because he was press secretary for two terms for him, and served in the same capacity for former Governor Luis A. Ferré.

He is unabashedly a statehooder, feeling—as Ferré did—that he preferred to be a state, but if the US said “no,” he’d be quite content to be independent. But colony is anathema to him.

And though a statehooder, he’s tough and fair-minded: he cuts the politicians who favor statehood no slack.

“You’re a cynical old newspaperman,” I told him, after he had pronounced our legislators “gangsters.”

“Old? Old? The rest I accept, but old?”

Relatively speaking, Tony may have a point: his mother is 92 and going strong.

Well, I know newspaper people, having grown up around them. And Tony reminds me very much of my own father: hardworking, critical but just, dig-until-you-hit-the-pay-dirt.

There’s something more about Tony. Beyond knowing more than almost anyone about the political history of Puerto Rico, he’s an expression of something wonderful about Puerto Rico. A self-made man, he sent his kids off to the States; two of them went to Yale. They’re now judges, lawyers, doctors.

We agreed about it a couple weeks ago. What keeps us on this island, with our horrendous crime, our gangster legislature, our continuing economic crisis? Why don’t we bail out and move to Florida; why not join the majority of Puerto Ricans who live off, not on, the island?

The people.

The people like Tony: gentle, kind, scrupulously honest, and gently self-ironic. He is egalitarian in a noble way, extending the same courtesy to all. My mother would have called him a “sweet man.”

But we have an expression, down here, probably very old, probably directly from Spain.

Él es una dama.

Notes from a blubbering blogger

It took me a while, but I got it in the end. I have spent an hour quietly crying in a—thank god—mostly empty café.

It was seeing one of the defendants in the Proposition 8 case choke up, put his hand on his husband’s shoulder and say, through tears, “will you please marry me?”

I cry at everything—show me a picture of you daughter’s kindergarten graduation: I’ll cry. A picture of a boy scout helping an old lady across the street? I’ll weep. Hell, in those days when I was busy worrying about my aged mother, the very picture of an old lady would set off sobs.

So I was puzzled by my initial reaction, which—as I told Johnny, my brother—was to kill Antonin Scalia.

“You could take out the other four as well, “ he said.

What happened?

We all came out, or most of us; for most of us, love triumphed. It took some parents a long time, but they got it. It took some gay people a long time, too. But the realization of what life in the closet was like led many of us to say, “fuck it, I’m not hiding it.”

It was a message you didn’t want to give yourself. “I’m not ashamed of myself,” people in the closet would say, “but I’m just not a political person….”

Here’s another….

“It would kill my parents. They’re very religious, very conservative, very….”

Every time you went home, you went home wondering—would this be the time you’d finally have the balls to be honest with your parents? I mean look, you’re in your thirties, you have never brought a girl home, you didn’t date in high school. I mean, do I have to draw you a map?

The amount of energy it took was endless. Nothing was ever easy between you and your parents; there were no relaxed moments. What would you say if they asked? And were they hinting? What was your father saying, when he made a reference—rather forced—to two men who had lived together for years? Was he signaling?

Gary, an old lover, had a big party, to which he invited my parents. And so I met Franny, who was busy chatting with a flamboyantly gay man, a man who undressed me with his eyes, and obviously found me fetching (I may have been then).

“Marc, do you know Rocky?” (…the name being the only masculine thing about him.)

Rocky took my hand in both of his, refused to let go, and breathed, “Darling, I’ve waited all my life to meet you….”

Right—and what was that look in my mother’s eye?

The secret meant that you always had butterflies in your stomach, sweaty palms, a dry mouth. You were prepared to fight or flee—and remember, these are your parents, not your enemies.

You became hypersensitive and a master at reading faces, intonations, gestures. Your nose was always picking up the whiff of suspicion, innuendo, barbed hints. At the end of the day, after you had watched yourself pass on the thirty or forty times that you could have dropped the news, you went to bed exhausted and hating yourself. Why were you so weak?

You were also blaming them—which made no sense, but there it was. Why the hell were they so damn conservative? Why were they so old, so behind the times? A friend comes out to her mother, who pulls a bottle of champagne out to celebrate? Right, and you’re gonna give your father a coronary, and he’ll die right there on the fucking floor, his eyes locking in horror with yours, as your mother is screaming, “See what you’ve done! You’ve killed him!” Right, so that’ll be the scene that replays every damn time you close your eyes at night for the rest of your life….

This is complete nonsense, you know. It’s also now 2AM, a time of day which twists logic the way a psychokinetic twists forks. Oh, and you can’t get up and do anything, because it’s not your house. You’re visiting, your mother is sleeping in the dining room; your father is turning and snorting in the living room. It’s a strange house, and you’re prisoner in the back bedroom.

You’re in the car, they are driving you to the airport, you’ve failed this visit just as you had failed all the others. Do you blurt it out? Of course not, you can’t drop that on then, and then just take off.

You drove your friends who were farther down the road crazy.

“Why doesn’t she just come out to her father—I mean, her father has accepting her brother’s male partner. Hell, if he can do that, he can take a lesbian daughter!”

I’d say this about a friend we both knew.

But I also remembered being there—trapped in car lights of fear and rejection, unable to move, watching as the inevitable came hurtling toward me.

Afraid to make the jump to love and trust….