Out in the Sunshine

from Sept. 8 2006

Ahh, Miami. The tropical vapor. The sunlight so bright that it casts a yellow incubator glow over the 33139. My home. It's also the setting for this year's National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association conference and this is my first time attending.

I'm here helping man the NYTIMES/Globe booth and telling people what a great paper I write for and the possible opportunities there for inquiring journalists and ambitious college students - if they can handle the deep winter freeze. I feel like the gay Cuban ambassador for the paper as I sit in the booth and pass out pens and chocolate globes to anyone with a sweet tooth.

I also wanted to come to this event because I wanted to see what NLGJA was all about. Part of me was confused why there was a NLGJA group. I find that most newsrooms have plenty of gay journalists/editors. I'm a member of the Hispanic journalists association because we're underrepresented in most mainstream newsrooms. (Same goes with black, Asian American and Native American journalists.)

So I felt like I needed to explore NLGJA in person. In the past three days, I've met some incredibly talented gay journalists and editors with a common interest: our love of being storytellers and communicators. It has felt like one big reunion, seeing old friends from Miami and other newspapers and TV outlets from across the country. It's also been a chance to meet new faces, engage in a dialogue, be friends, and share in our newsroom and gay experiences. It felt like one big extended family. It's Friendster in person. Unity. Connections.

I sat in a workshop listening to print and broadcast colleagues talk about the convergence of our mediums and the benefit of being able to cross from print to the Web or from radio to TV since they all seem to be overlapping in one way or another.

One of the most interesting panels I sat in focused on gay TV anchors and their experiences with being out off-camera which also touched on the lack of openly gay women broadcast journalists.
There was Craig Stevens, the co-news anchor for Miami's Channel 7 featured in the photo to the left. He talked about how fortunate he is to work at a station that embraces and encourages him being open in the community even though some of his on-air colleagues aren't as out as he is.

There was CNN's anchor Thomas Roberts telling an audience how he's proud of his partner and how he has gradually come out at work over the years. (Being a panel speaker at a gay journalists conference, he said, was the biggest step he took to really being out in public.)

"When you hold something back, that's all everyone wants to know,'' he told the audience.

There were the CBS reporters from LOGO. My friend Itay Hod -- pictured below -- kept making silly faces at me that would make me crack-up in mid-sentence during interviews. Itay spoke at a diversity meet-and-greet event Friday night for minority journalists.
(me with Itay)


So all in all, it's been a gay old time. I'm glad I've been a part of NLGJA (say that three times) this year. I can't wait for next year. At least I know I'll have some new friends to hang out with and share stories, like an annual reunion. San Diego, here I come.

September 08, 2006

A selfishly fun read

Here's a book review I wrote on Bob Smith's "Selfish and Peverse" novel. Click here.

Write On, Tucson!

"Imagine you're telling a good friend a story. That's how you should think of your article,'' I told one of the college students I've been mentoring this week at the New York Times Student Journalism Institute at the University of Arizona in Tucson. "How would you tell your friend this story?" I continued.

I'm in this sometimes cool and sometimes warm city that is filled with towering cacti called saguaros, which seem to want to bend down and hug me whenever I walk by one of them during my two-mile walks between the hotel and university. And during these walks, I can't help but gaze at the nearby mountains which encircle Tuscon like a natural earthy necklace or marvel at the fighter jets that zoom over the valley as they take off or land at the nearby air force base. I've been hunkered down in a computer lab working with 20 Latino students as they report and write stories for this website: nytimes-institute.com. Each day, they've been assigned stories and deadlines. They've had editing and revisions and then more assignments. Basically, a real working newsroom overseen by a small crew of New York Times Company editors, reporters and copy editors. I'm here helping representing the Globe and the Features side of the editing/writing process, coaching the students and helping them write colorful narratives, thoughtful profiles, and light-hearted cultural stories. I've done my best to make the writing process as well as the editing process, fun!

And so far, it's been a blast. I've always thought of myself as more of a writer. Never (eew!) an editor. But this past week, I was able to play the role of an editor (okay, a very laid back and giggly editor) and help gently guide these students through some nips and tucks in their copy. For me, the mentoring has been refreshing. I helped Nate on his feature on the rise of sweat lodges among Native and Mexican Americans in Tucson and beyond who find spiritual and medicinal healing through the ceremonies. I sat with Arcynta as she reworked her profile on a reformed gang banger whose past violent life still haunts her. I helped James with his story on covert Latinos who don't have an obvious Hispanic last name despite speaking Spanish or looking Latino. All in all, I'm so happy that I'm here as a coach and sharing any morsel of knowledge I've gained as a journalist over the years. Even though the stories don't carry my byline as they usually do in The Globe, I feel proud that I helped these students make their stories shine just a little bit brighter. And hopefully, they will walk away knowing that they learned something from all of us. And maybe that's what mentoring is all about.

To read some of their stories, please visit: www.nytimes-institute.com

(photo to the left and above is of the University of Arizona campus. This is the mall, the center of the campus. I used to walk to and from the hotel and the Department of Journalism. Look at the mountains in the background.)

The Truth About Fiction: How To Write it When You've Got Another Job

I just got back from a great weekend in Fort Lauderdale where the National Writers' Workshop was held. About 400 journalists/writers attended the various workshops aimed at making us better at our craft. I headlined my own workshop titled "The Truth About Fiction: How To Write It When You Work Full-Time.'' The South Florida Sun Sentinel organizers asked me to be a speaker on this topic because people are always asking me how I find time to write fiction when I write full-time at The Boston Globe.

My workshop followed a viewing of an inspired-Long Lost Sulu episode from Star Trek which looked just like the original show. Then I was on. I wasn't sure how anyone can follow such a workshop but I did my best and used the Vulcan peace sign to say, "Write Long and Prosper!" Okay, it was a little cheezy but I made most of the 100 people sitting in Salon B laugh when I stood at the podium. (A great thank you to Sun Sentinel Business editor, dear college friend and former Boston Globe summer intern Anne Vasquez for such a great intro and for making this happen.)

I talked for an hour and answered great intelligent questions about newspaper writing vs. fiction writing and the mysterious world of book publishing. I am going to post below some of the suggestions I shared with the audience on how to make time to write fiction. I hope my readers or aspiring writers find these tips helpful.

FINDING TIME:
You can’t be a writer if you don’t write. It’s that simple. But you also have to make time to do it. There are no short-cuts. Some writers prefer to write once they get up, as a warm-up for an hour or so. Other writers prefer to write at night, at the end of the day, letting the words flow on paper or their keyboards. Some of us like to scribble notes and paragraphs down on a pad during our lunch break. You have the time, you just have to prioritize. If you squirrel away blocks of time, an hour here, half hour there each week, you’ll start building up your short-story or novel. Give yourself a block of time with no interruptions. No cell phone. No TV. No Internet access. Just write, free-flowing. If you give yourself an hour, treat yourself at the end of that hour by turning on the TV or eating a cookie or something sweet. (that’s what I do.) But then go back and give yourself another hour. You’ll be surprised as to how much writing gets done. The Boston Globe’s Metro editor, Brian McGrory, has written five crime novels in the last 10 years. He would carve out eight-hours on Saturdays or Sundays to write. It took him about eight months to a year to finish one book.

WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT:
Once you make the time, write about something you know, something you are passionate about, something important to you, an experience you want to share. If you don’t enjoy what you are writing about, chances are, you won’t want to write. You have to be excited about the topic or it won’t work. You won't seeing me write about nuclear scientists or engineers. I don't anything about those careers.

CHAPTER BY CHAPTER:
Some writers try to write 2,000 word chapters, which is a long newspaper features story or used to be. Don’t worry about the editing at first. Just write stream of consciousness. Once you have some paragraphs, a few pages or 2,000 words, walk away from the copy. Come back the next day or the next time you write and rewrite it. Let the creativity guide you. Some writers try to write once a week. If you estimate you can write a chapter a week, within six to nine months, you should have a book done. You can’t run a marathon in one night (okay, maybe some people can.) Most people need to train, mile by mile. Think of each chapter or story as a mile. With patience and discipline, those chapters/stories will grow into a connective thread, a book. You’ll be doing your own literary marathon. You have it in you to get it done.

CARRY A NOTEPAD:
A lot of writers are armed with notepads to jot down ideas or phrases. Some of us even eavesdrop on conversations at our local coffee shop to hear different kinds of dialogue. You never know when an idea for a scene or story might come so having a notepad or a notebook with you is a good idea to take notes. (If you see me at Barnes and Nobles in Boston or Coral Gables scribbling on a notepad and yet I’m leaning a little too close to the other table, you’ll know what I am doing.)

ONE LAST THING:
The key thing is you must enjoy the process because writing is a solitary endeavor. No one can do it for you. It’s you and your computer so get comfortable. Many writers look at the process as one of painful torment, woe-is-me, I’m a writer. Don’t listen to them. To create characters and sit down on your keyboard until your butt is asleep should be fun, fun, fun whether you are published or not. If you don’t get any joy from it, then why do it? Making it fun gets the job done.

And one more thing, enough reading. Go and write!



October 02, 2007 in Writer's Corner

Diaz on (Junot) Diaz

Here is a profile I wrote on Junot Diaz's new novel "The Brief Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao." Click on: story


From Sept. 10, 2007

The Novel in You (Getting Started) and Editing yourself Tip

The novel in you
I've always enjoyed writing. It was like breathing for me, something I needed to do but it was also something that seemed part of who I was. From high school and throughout college, I always scribbled down poems, penned short stories, wrote letters to my godmother or journal entries about something I saw, imagined, or experienced. Writing was an outlet from my every day assignments. I dreamed of being a writer one day and I realized early enough that I could do this for a living as a journalist and still do the creative writing on the side.

I just never thought I could write a book. That always seemed out of reach, something for the big name writers, the elite scribes. Writing a novel seemed intimidating, like tackling a mountain. How do I get started? How do I write it? How do I do this? How long would it take? Am I good enough?

So I stuck to writing what I felt comfortable with - a short story. One wintery New England Friday night, I wrote about something I knew, something that provided much inspiration here in Boston as well as Miami. Looking for an outlet from my city articles at The Globe, I sat down and began writing about a fictional night out with three different guys. I took on the voice of one of the guys. The words just came to me, flowing onto the screen. I wrote it for me, as a creative exercise, not thinking this could be something more.

When I was done, I filed the 3,000 word story away. But as the weekend passed and I began my work week again, the story kept calling me. I felt I could continue, telling the story from the point of view of one of the other guys. Later that week, I plopped myself in front of the computer again and I channeled that other character, how he would see the night. The words sprung onto the screen and the scenes came to life. Inspired, I followed up with another story from the point of a view of the third character. After three stories, it hit me: these stories are chapters. This could be a book. Could I really do this?

I began outlining the characters. I told myself that if I could keep a steady pace, of a chapter a week of about 2,000 words, I could get somewhere. But instead of focusing on a deadline, I wrote from my heart. It was a fun experience, an exercise in channeling different characters and imagining how they would speak and react in various situations.

It wasn't always easy. Sometimes, I couldn't maintain my self-inflicted chapter-a-week deadline because I felt creatively drained from producing my news articles. Other times, I hit a block. I found myself staring at the screen, the ceiling, the carpeting, my nails, anything that I hoped would inspire me. I wanted to throw my laptop out the window into the snow and give up. Whenever that happened, I walked away from the computer and let it be. I went hiking or cycling and waited for the universe to send me something that would inspire me to write again. I couldn't force it. It had to come naturally. Before I knew it in a matter of months, I had a rough draft finished. I surprised myself. Did I really do this?

I think we all have a story to tell and there's a novel in everyone. It just takes dedication, self-discipline, and focus.

You can't learn to run a marathon overnight but you train mile by mile or in this case, story by story. It also takes finding a unique story to tell, something different from what you see out there on the shelves but that people might relate to universally. If you write about what you know and from your heart with a little patience, you'll have something written before you know it. You just have to let the writing guide you.


I'm not crazy, just editing my copy
The Novel in You, part deux

So you've written something, a short story, a novel, a script. Now what? When I finished a rough draft of my book, I did what I usually do when I finish an article for The Globe: I read it out loud. Whenever I write something for the paper, I print it out, walk outside (even when it's snowing,) hop into my Jeep, and read the thing out loud. I end up catching run-on sentences, fragments, or words that don't flow. By reciting it, I find out whether the words have a conversational rhythm and whether I'm conveying what I really want to say. (I also look like I am talking to myself as fellow editors and reporters walk by and probably wonder, who is Johnny talking to? Weirdo!) And I've touched up many sentences after reading my writing out loud before filing a story to my editor. I find the process makes for cleaner copy.

I did this with Boston Boys Club. I read out loud all 300 pages and discovered ways to retool some dialogue, scenes, and passages. The words come to life with this self-editing exercise. You hear the characters. You narrate the scenes. You find out right away when things don't sound "write." (couldn't resist the pun.) After I read my book out loud several times and then polished my copy, I reached out to four people I knew, who weren't familiar with the Boston bar or the Miami scene I wrote about. I very politely asked them (ok, I bribed them with dinner) to read a draft of the book. By doing this, I gathered some feedback on what worked (did the trio of narrators have distinct voices? did they seem real? did I overdose on Spanglish for one of the guys? Was there enough sex?) and what didn't (I needed to develop one of the secondary characters earlier in the novel so his appearance doesn't come out of the blue midway.)

Armed with their critiques, I read the darn thing out loud again (I felt like I was on NPR or something.) I finally reached a point where I felt really good about what I had down on paper.

Again, all it takes is some dedication - and a few good ears. So if you see a guy in a white Jeep talking to himself with a print-out in hand, that'll be me. Please don't think I'm crazy. I'm just revising my writing.

Boston TV News Profiles

(photo from Boston.com)
Anchor Away. My profile on Natalie Jacobson.





Where are Boston's former TV anchors?













Here's a profile I wrote on Randy Price, anchor for WHDH TV Channel 7. Read my story here.









My profile on Liz Walker, longtime WBZ-TV anchor and now a minister. To read my article, click here.


November 20, 2007






Here's my profile on Frances Rivera, Channel 7's main co-anchor for the 5, 6, and 11 p.m. news. I have a story in this week's Globe.

December 18, 2007




HUES AT 11

Red, white and blue hues at 11
I wrote a story on how different local television stations in Boston use certain colors to project messages about who they are to their viewers.


TV NEWS GEEK
To read about them and why they are fascinated by the local TV landscape, click here.

September 01, 2007

Boston Boys Club en Miami y Fort Lauderdale

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I'm feeling the Miami blues. Everytime I get ready to leave Miami and head back to Boston, I travel with a big lump in my throat. My heart wants to stay and I reluctantly board the plane back to Boston even though I have a great life (and a special someone) waiting for me there.

It's so good to be back in my hometown. It was a homecoming for me. I was here for two book readings. One Thursday night at Books & Books in Coral Gables and the other at Borders in Fort Lauderdale. I had a nice turn out at both events, thanks to you, my faithful blog readers and a beautiful article about me and the book in El Nuevo Herald (The Miami Herald's Spanish sister paper.) Here is a link to the story. The story means a lot to me because I used to be a reporter at The Miami Herald but more importantly, because my parents could finally read something about me en espanol and share it with their friends.

Speaking of my parents, they were the highlight of my book reading Thursday night and they surprised me in a good way. My parents know I'm gay. They've known that since I came out to them at 17. But we really don't talk about it because I don't want to make them uncomfortable in their old age. So when El Nuevo Herald ran their article, I wasn't sure how they were going to react. I know they love me unconditionally but sometimes, I feel a little awkward telling them about my gay writing and adventures. So I was hesitant to show them the Spanish article but I'm glad I did. They each read it twice and said how happy they were and beamed with pride. They even called some people. It turns out, my Tio Aldo y Tia Antonia in Kendall happened to read it while at the doctor's office and they too were really proud. So my awkwardness stemmed from me and only me. I should have given my family more credit. Sometimes, our fears tend to make things more than what they are.

When it came time for me to get ready for my book reading Thursday night, my dad knocked on my bedroom door and asked in Spanish, "Can you give me and your mom a ride to the bookstore? We don't want to get lost in Coral Gables. We want to see you do your reading. We don't want to miss it."

It was one of the sweetest gestures my parents have ever done for me. At the reading, they sat in the back row as I read the first few pages of Boston Boys Club. They laughed when I read some words in Spanish. I knew they couldn't understand most of what I was reading but they did their best to follow along. Sometimes, you don't need words to understand what someone is saying. I could have read anything and it wouldn't have mattered to them. They just wanted to see me share something I wrote from my heart with anyone who came to listen.



It couldn't have been too comfortable for them to sit there and listen to me read about three gay friends meeting at Club Cafe but they settled in their chairs and smiled whenever I looked up from my page in the book. Afterwards, they introduced themselves to the audience and shook people's hands. It was such a touching moment.


Later that night, after the crowd left, I drove my parents back to our house on the beach. As I opened the Jeep's door open to help my dad out, I said "Papi, thanks for coming tonight. I really appreciated it." As he slowly climbed out of the Jeep, he said "You're our son and we're always going to support you in everything you do, no matter what."

"Of course,'' my mother jumped in. "You did a good job. I don't think anyone noticed that you were nervous."

And moments like these make it hard for me to return to my other home in Boston whenever I come for a visit.

Above and below are photos from the book reading Thursday night. A big thank you to everyone who came out (including my parents and "my brother from another mother", Eric) and a special thanks to Steve Rothaus of The Miami Herald for a great introduction and for photographing the event for the Gay South Florida blog in The Miami Herald where there are more photos from the reading. (below is a photo of me with one of my closest friends, Eric.)

Remembering Pedro

I wrote this entry below a year ago to commemorate Pedro Zamora. In the spirit of World Aids Day/weekend, I thought I should repost it and update it. I plan to make this an annual tradition, to honor his spirit and his work.)

A psychic once proclaimed that Pedro Zamora was born to save lives. I know many who can attest to that.

Pedro died last month 13 years ago, the day after the final episode of The Real World San Francisco aired. He died from complications from AIDS after a three-year crusade to educate folks, especially young people, about the illness.

You don't hear much about Pedro anymore. The years have passed. There was a street named after him in West Miami-Dade. A former clinic in Boston also carried his name. MTV no longer shows the reruns from his season.

Sometimes, I can't help but wonder what a positive role model Pedro would be today to a whole new generation of young people. He showed people that AIDS was everywhere. Young or old, gay or straight, it's there. And a few moments of pleasure could never be worth risking one's life. He also taught people how to avoid catching the virus - and how to deal with people who had it.

He made an impression on me right away when I was 20 because I saw a little of myself in him. We were both Miami Cubans, about the same age and gay and I was just beginning to embark on the real world of dating. (We also had the trademark thick dark eyebrows.) When The Real World cameras highlighted his tight-knit and affectionate Cuban family, I saw some of my own family reflected in his. Pedro's thick Cuban accent was music to my ears, part of Miami's soundtrack. He was on The Real World when cast members had real stories to tell besides the I-got-drunk-and-hooked-up-with-so-and-so tales.

I always wished I could have met Pedro. If I had, I would have said "Gracias chico!" for educating me and so many of my fellow friends in Miami and beyond.

December 03, 2007 in Cuban Being

My sister, the fighter

(This story was a finalist for the upcoming Chicken Soup for the Brothers'/Sisters' Soul. I didn't make the final cut (darn it!) but I wanted to share this little tribute to my sister who says I don't talk about her that much. By the way, she's cute and single! She'd be great on The Bachelorette but she doesn't listen to me.)
"But you said you would fix the gas cap!" my sister Cary scolded the dealer. "That's my little brother's new car and you are backing down on your promise,'' she persisted.

My sister wouldn't back down. And wouldn't you know it, the dealer replaced the faulty gas cap and gave me a new one, for my slightly used Toyota Tercel.

I was 18 at the time and it was one of many times when my big sister fought for me. Ever since I was born, she's been there for me, usually pushing me to fight harder for something. If I didn't fight, she would for me.

I always found this (and when she calls me little brother or John) annoying. I would cringe and roll my eyes when she would make a scene in her efforts to get something done for me. I guess because I've always been more mellow and laid back and a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Cary, on the other hand, wasn't. She'll push, prod, and bulldoze some more until I got the best deal I could.

In high school, when I was overlooked for an Advanced Placement History class, Cary stormed into the department head's office and presented my case. "He's on the honor roll. Just because he didn't score very high on a placement test doesn't mean he can't do the work,'' I remember her later recounting the story to me. And wouldn't you know it, I ended up making the cut for the class, thanks to Cary.

I don't know what I would have done without my sister growing up in Miami Beach. Our parents, Cuban exiles, didn't speak a word of English but Cary did. She was there at every parent-teacher open house throughout all my elementary, middle and high school years. She served as a translator between my parents and my teachers. She helped me navigate the sudden overwhelming load of classes and electives in middle and high school. She explained the importance of the PSAT and the SAT. She filled out my college and financial aid applications. Whenever we had a problem with a bill collector, Cary was the mediator between my parents and the company.

When I began interning in high school at The Miami Herald, she read every article and translated them for our parents so they can read what I had written, something she still does today with my Globe articles. (I don't think she has read the more sexual parts of my book to my parents but that's okay.)

My sister fights for me so passionately because she was a born a fighter. Born six months premature as a twin, she and her sister Miladys were kept in incubators for four months. My parents trekked to and from the hospital every day to watch the tiny twins struggle to breathe with their underdeveloped lungs. Only one survived. Cary. My parents always said she survived because she fought to live and it's been a trait that has defined her life and mine.

When I was born four years later, my sister probably felt like she had to take care of me and fight for me, the way she had hoped she could have for her identical twin. As I got older, Cary was always there, fighting my battles, even when I didn't see any ahead. Nothing was ever good enough for me. My sister always stepped in to find me the best shirts, jeans, sneakers, bicycle, and yes, cars.

When I bought a new car not too long ago in Boston, I kept thinking about what my sister would ask the salesman or the financial manager to get a better deal. When I wasn't sure, I politely excused myself from the salesman, turned around, and dialed Cary on my cell phone. "What do you think of this? Does it sound like a good deal?" I asked Cary who lives 1,600 miles away in Miami. "No. You can get a better deal,'' she said. "You deserve the best!"

I got two good deals - the car I wanted and a great sister.

June 20, 2007 in Cuban Being

Speaking Volumes

More network TV shows are using espanol. Read the story: here.

I discuss the story on NECN here.

(photo above is of Eddie Cibrian, Cuban-American actor)

December 18, 2006 in Cuban Being

Coming Out in the Sunshine

(My friend, Ethan Gray of shadesofgray, suggested I share my own coming out story after we exchanged some emails about his own coming out story this week. It's a topic that has been coming up lately besides the Thomas Roberts news machine. A close friend of mine is dating a Dominican guy who just came out of the closet and is struggling with his family about it. And last night at dinner with my friend Priya and two new friends, they asked me how I came out. So here's my story.)

"Mami, papi, I'm not sure if I like guys or girls,'' I blurted to my parents, in the hallway of our house outside their bedroom. I was 16 and I always felt close to my parents and that I could tell them anything and so, I did.

My mom covered her eyes and began to weep. My dad looked away, disappointment in his light brown eyes that silently yelled "Ay no..mi hijo no es gay!" I cried, a ball constricting in my throat. I felt like I let my parents down for the first time. I told them I was confused because there was a guy in my journalism class that I had a really bad crush on and I didn't know how to deal with this but I had liked girls too at one point.

After a few deep breaths, my mom came over and hugged me tightly and kissed me on my neck. My dad didn't know how to react.

My parents are old-school Cubans. My mother was the lady of the house, the homemaker who tried to solve everything while my dad was at work. My dad was the hardworking macho type, who observed more than talked but did his best for us by working 16 hour days. In the traditional Hispanic world, if a man is gay, he is often perceived as less of a man, un maricone, un pato. I could sense that my dad felt guilty, like he had failed me somehow by not being around as much. I could intuit that my mom felt just as guilty for always dragging me to Dadeland and Aventura mall with her, my sister and my aunt and female cousins in tow. I felt the most guilt, for shattering the image they had of their good son and the hopes they had for me (marriage, kids.)

I remember the tension was thick in the air and my mom said she and my dad would find a way to help me deal with this. So they found me a psychologist. That was their solution.

After days of extreme awkwardness in the Diaz household where I would pass my dad in the hallway or in the kitchen and he wouldn't utter a word to me, my parents sent me to a therapist in Hialeah, a nice woman who would sit back and just listen to me talk. She really didn't ask a lot of questions and I didn't feel any different after leaving her office. After a few weeks, my parents noticed I still wasn't the happy big-smiling Johnny I was before. For my school pictures that fall, I faked a smile and my dad saw right through it.

"That's not you! You're not happy!" he said in Spanish which only added another layer of pressure. They wanted to see the old Johnny and I couldn't seem to bring him back, no matter how many good grades I got in Trig or Honors English.

So they dropped this therapist and found me another one, who was highly recommended. Dr. Alvarez, an animated and insightful man who was also a college professor. Immediately, I felt comfortable and I also felt a Cuban connection with him. From the beginning, he said I don't have to define myself right away, just to enjoy being a teenager and high school because it only happens once. He described life as a play with different characters who come and go in our lives and with different acts that represent phases in our life. He assured me I would get through this and move onto the next act and that I would be a stronger person for it. He said "Don't be ashamed of who you are."

Each Thursday afternoon, I would sign out of Beach High and drive to West Hialeah for my session with him. (I don't know why my parents sent me to Hialeah. It's a hell of a commute from Miami Beach.) And each week, I felt my confidence rise and I felt comfortable with whom I was. I knew I was gay but I just wanted to enjoy my junior year and I didn't want to dwell on it too much.

At this point, I had saved enough to buy my own car, a sky-blue 1984 Honda Accord hatchback, I began interning at The Miami Herald in Beach Neighbors and worked part-time at The Gap as a stock boy. I became more active with school service groups and volunteered at marathons and arts festivals. I was my old self again. I felt good. I felt like me. A few months and several hundred miles later on my car, the doc thought I was where I should be. He called my parents to tell them he wanted to discontinue the sessions. Before I saw him for the last time, he told me what he had told them when he sat them down in his office.

"Does Johnny get bad grades?" he asked them.

"Ah, no, he gets Bs and As and he's in all honors,'' my mom and dad replied.

"Does Johnny do drugs?"

"Ah, no. He knows better. Besides, he had asthma when he was un nene,'' my mom answered.

"Does Johnny have bad friends, bad influences?"

"Ah no. He's had the same friends since kindergarten. Cristina, Kelly, Melissa, and some other girls.''

"Does Johnny goof off after school, is he in a gang?" the doc asked.

"Ah no, he just started working at The Miami Herald and The Gap. He just bought his first car,'' my dad answered.

"So...WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR SON? You should be thankful that he's such a good kid!" the doc said.

"We want to know that he's not gay, that he will be okay,'' my dad told him.

"But he will be okay. Let him be his own person. He will define himself in his own way and in his own time. If you pressure him, he has the capability of moving away after high school. Let him be. Johnny knows what he is and so do you. He's happy again. Let him be."

And so, that was it. My parents never brought it up again. They only asked me about my car, my Herald articles, my grades, the weather, and my friends, whom they knew. They backed off and let me be me and I have always loved them for that.

The only other time it came up after that was when I was 23 and I was seriously dating my first boyfriend, Dan. After taping the Real World Miami, Dan and I were commuting back and forth between Miami and New Brunswick so we could see each other. My parents were supportive of Dan and me and they got to know him through his broken Spanish and their broken English.

I remember one Thursday afternoon when I told Papi I was going to visit Dan again for another weekend in New Jersey, he gave me one of his, I'm-worried-about-you looks. He said in Spanish, "Yonito, I know what you are and I accept you. You are my son and I love you but you don't know New Jersey or New York that well and I want you to be very careful up there, ok."

I smiled at him and sat down at the edge of his bed. I held his hand and said "I know Papi. I know. Thank you.''

September 15, 2006 in Cuban Being

Summer treats: Papi's mamey and vanilla shakes

"Johnnnny...your dad's here."

As soon as I heard that call from my friends at summer camp, I knew it was time for Papi's vanilla shakes.
Whether I played baseball, Checkers or ran laps around Muss Park in Miami Beach, I would be on the look out for Papi's cream-colored Pontiac Grand Prix in the early afternoon. The car's sporty engine carried a particular thumping mechanical hum so I always knew when Papi was near.
I always looked forward to these visits. He worked in the mornings as an exterminator, ridding roaches from Beach hotels and people's homes and apartments. He would then go home for lunch and relax for two hours until he had to get ready for his second job, as a waiter at a Cuban restaurant in South Beach. He worked as a waiter since he came to Miami from his native Cuba in 1968 with Mami and he managed to make a decent living from all the tourists tips.
But with his long hours at both jobs (He would get home at 2:30 a.m. each night), I rarely saw Papi, except for glimpses in the morning as I headed to school or on his days off, Thursdays and Sunday mornings.
So these quick visits he would make always made my heart -- like those shakes - melt during the summers.
"Johnnnny...your dad's here,'' one of my friends would shout from the playground on those typical steamy Miami summer days.
When I heard those words, I would stop whatever I was doing and dash to the front of the park, with two or three friends in tow.
And each time, there was Papi , parked in the parking lot, with the passenger window open and a smile on his face. His black wavy hair was slicked back and he wore his usual crisp white buttoned-down short sleeve waiter's shirt and black pants.
Whenever I approached the car, with my friends Melissa, Kellyn or Cristina behind me, Papi would hold up a medium-sized Vanilla shake from Burger King for me and hand it over.
"Como estas Yonito,'' he would tell me, calling me by my family nickname. "Que hicistes hoy?'' he would then say, inquiring about my day, while flashing his electric smile.
I would briefly talk about jump-roping, running laps or about whatever I did that morning as I took sips from my frosty shake.
"Fui nadando hoy y jugue la pelota,'' I would answer him in Spanish, about swimming and playing baseball and then translate the conversation to my friends except for Cristina, another cubanita who spoke Spanish like I did.
These few minutes each afternoon was Papi's way of spending time with me. I understood at an early age that Papi worked so hard so that Mami, my sister and I could have the kind of good life he never had while growing up poor and fatherless on a farm in Cuba.
Most of my friends' fathers worked 9-5 jobs, as lawyers, doctors or dentists and they would be home each night for dinner. Papi didn't have that luxury. He was taking people's orders and serving them dinner, meals like arroz con pollo or media noches each night. He never complained about his long hours. He just did what he felt he had to do for us.
So these quick visits made up for the time he wasn't home when I got home from camp or from school. At least I could say I saw him once during the day.
Though he spoke broken English, he tried his best to communicate with my more American, English-speaking friends.
"Melissa, how are jou today?"
Sometimes, Papi would bring a doughnut or un pastelito. When we had Sugy, our sugar-colored little mutt dog, Papi would bring him too so I could pet him and so my friends could see my diminutive gregarious dog. But the vanilla shake was the most common treat from Papi and I would share sips with my friends.
Over the years, during my childhood, the cars changed, from a Dodge Aspen to a Toyota pick-up truck. As I got older, I moved up from camp to camp, from Muss Park, made up of mostly kids in kindergarten to third grade, to Polo Park, from fourth grade to sixth grade. And Papi followed me from park to park, always with a shake in hand.
As I got older and moved on from the summer camps, I would drive to his restaurant to see him. There, he would make me his own shakes, from mamey and mango to banana and chocolate. But my favorite was vanilla.
I now call Boston my new home and Papi and Mami still live in our old house in Miami Beach, a few blocks from those parks where I spent my childhood summers.
Now retired from his two jobs, Papi has all the time on his hands to relax and enjoy life with Mami at home and taking walks on the beach at dusk.
His hair is still slicked back though mostly gray but he still knows how to make a mean shake.
When I come home for visits, he offers to make me one and I'm reminded of those hot summer vanilla shake days.

August 30, 2006 in Cuban Being

"Loco, what are you doing?"

August 06, 2006
"Loco...what are you doing?"
"Loco, what are you doing?" is how most of our conversations began. They were with mi amigo Racso here in Boston. He called me in the mornings on a break from teaching or after school on his way home to Somerville, or at night just as I was leaving the paper.

We talked daily, sometimes three times a day, about our work days, our stresses, his nervousness about moving to Germany, about his love life or the lack of mine. We would "hangear,'' our word for hanging out which meant anything from me coming over to his Somerville condo to watch Project Runway or Que Pasa USA? episodes. "Hangear" also meant that I would keep him company as he folded his laundry or accompany him as he walked his dog around the block.

No matter what we did, we always had fun even if that included him making one of his comical sarcastic "You think?" comments when I asked a rhetorical question or him grinning at one of my goofy but cheezy jokes. On roadtrips to New York City or P-town, if he made me listen to a certain Shakira song, I would playfully get him back by playing the Pussycat Dolls or Gloria Estefan's Go Away.

Yesterday, I dropped off Rasco and his gray poodle Louie at Logan airport for their big move to Germany. I gladly took him to the airport like I always have for his trips to Miami because that's what good friends do. But this time, I won't be picking him up. He's embarking on a new chapter in his life with his partner in Berlin and pursuing his dream of living in Europe and I am truly happy for Racso.

At the airport, I kept a brave face because I knew how nervous and stressed he was from the move and he needed to lean on my inner strength one last time so I kept my tears and the tightening ball in my throat at bay. (Anyone who knows me knows that when I cry, you must cry with me.) I hugged Racso tightly and wished him a safe trip. After I dropped his pack of friends off at their homes from the airport, I began to miss my friend's presence.

For over a year, Rasco has been my Cuban comfort. He brought a little of Miami to my Boston. We both grew up in Miami with super macho grande fathers cut from the same cloth. We have overprotective older sisters and we're both gay Cubanitos. We found ourselves in Boston pursuing our careers, his as an English teacher and mine as a writer. I know if we had met in high school, we would have been bestfriends but I would have been a senior to his freshman.

While I have other wonderful friends here in Boston whom I love, Racso added a little something something extra to my life in Beantown. He's the little brother I wished I always had. He was like family. (People even thought we looked a little alike with our short dark hair, thick eyebrows, brown eyes and light olive skin.)

So I couldn't help but worry like a brother yesterday as soon as I dropped him off at the airport. I kept hoping he'd be okay in Germany. Thoughts swam in my head "What if he gets stranded somewhere? What if he gets lost? What if he gets sick?" But then I remembered he's in good hands with his partner.

Although Boston feels a little empty to me right now with my friend gone, I know I'll be seeing him in Miami for the holidays and I'm already planning on seeing him in Germany in the fall. Maybe I can add a little Cuban comfort to his new home with my visit the same way he has helped Boston feel more like my home since early last year. I'm also warmed by the thought that any day now, I'll be getting an overseas call that begins with "Loco...what are you doing?"



August 06, 2006 in Cuban Being

Being Cuban: Having a media noche packed in your lunch bag

There's a nice story in today's NYTIMES about being Cuban and American and the cultural tug-of-war that comes with identifying with that hyphenated-label.

The story talks about how some Cuban-born Miami residents would like to return to the island nation one day but that after 45 years, their lives are pretty much rooted in Miami. They've moved on in one way or another. The story talks about how some of their Miami-born children have full lives in Miami and would have a hard time re-establishing themselves in a country they've only experienced through stories told by Cuban-born relatives via generations and the Florida straits.

This has been a big topic lately but nothing new to anyone who is Cuban or American or Cuban/American. I was recently interviewed by the Univision-Boston affiliate on this issue because of the changes going on in Cuba this week.

In Boston, I identify myself as Cuban-American because that's exactly what I am, born in Miami to Cuban parents. My name says it all: Johnny Diaz. (You can't get more American than Johnny or more Cuban than Diaz.) And I feel equally both. My DNA is Cuban but my sensibilities and upbringing is very much American. It's that duality that co-exists in many of us and defines who we are, giving us two worlds to draw from. (I was probably the only kid in my Miami Beach elementary school classes whose Cuban mother packed him a media noche sandwich for lunch every morning.) Like I said, we have one foot in one culture or the other at any given time. And I for one, feel very culturally blessed for it.

Anyway, enough about me, read the story.


August 03, 2006 in Cuban Being

THE VERDICT IS IN: JUDGE MARIA LOPEZ RULES THIS PARTY




"Eres Cubano!" Judge Maria Lopez greeted me when I arrived at her majestic Newton home for a private party for Boston Latinas the other night.

"Si, soy Cubano-Americano,'' I gushed at the door, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I was feeling a little funny for attending a party solely for Latinas and I knew I was going to be one of the few guys there but then I realized I was one of two. (Lopez's husband was the other dude at the party of two dozen women.) But awkwardness disappeared right away.

"Where were you born?" she asked by the lip of the door as other professional Latinas mingled in her home which looked like a mini Museum of Fine Arts with her collection of paintings filling every inch of her walls.

"Miami!" I said, lighting up at the thought of the warm tropical weather back home. "But I live here now, like you.''

So I met another Beantown Cuban or Cubana as you might say.
Maria Lopez has her own syndicated court TV show where she dispenses her rulings with a mix of sass and Spanish. Maria was born in Cuba and moved to Boston at an early age. She's become a household name, not just in Massachusetts but around the country for her outspokenness and tell-it-like-is manner in court. It's why she landed on the Boston bench and how she got her job on TV, which has been extended for a second season.

She welcomed guests into her home with some of the pluck that people get to see everyday on her court show.

On this night, she invited her guests to celebrate the launch of EntreAmigos, the new publication that features snapshots of Hispanics attending Boston social events. (I wrote a Globe story on this recently.) The magazine, which is a publication of El Planeta newspaper, made its debut in December, with Maria on the cover. She's also on the pub's editorial committee. "We are arriving, Boston's Latino social scene," Maria said in her nasal Spanish voice to the group of about women as they stood in her living room, admiring the artwork and high ceilings. The party was also a way for Hispanic women -- writers, journalists, artists, and community activists -- to meet one another and gab in English and Spanish and I got to practice my quickly-fading Spanish with them. It's a rare scene in Boston, having such professional Latinas such as playwright and Wellesley professor Melinda Lopez (who wrote Sonia Flew), Boston Univision anchor Sara Suarez and Maria Lopez all under the same roof interacting with one another and proudly sharing their experiences as Latinas in Boston.

Make Miami Look Good

When I'm not writing features for The Globe, blogging or going to Boston Market everyday for lunch, I read, A LOT. I sometimes read two books a week. One for the ellipitical machine at the gym. The other at night before I hit the sack. And I love to read books that take place in Boston or in my other favorite city, Miami. For me, a book is a passport, allowing me to travel through another set of eyes. And if the book takes place in Boston or Miami, I get to experience my towns through a whole other reality. Isn't that what reading really is about: stepping into someone else's shoes and taking a journey?

I recently read Make Him Look Good, by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, who details the lives of five mostly Hispanic women who are all connected to Latin pop singer Ricky Biscayne in South Beach. Alisa really burrowed beneath the glamorous South Beach shell and dug deep into Miami's often unsung neighborhoods and people.

To read my book review, click here.

A CUBAN REBEL BELLE



Her name was Loreta Janeta Velazquez and she was a woman way ahead of her time. During the Civil War, she donned a beard and mustache, got her hands on a male uniform and fought as Lt. Harry Buford for the Confederate Army. Yes, she was a cross-dressing Latina soldier but most of all, she was una Cubana, from Havana! Loreta's story is an intriguing yet complicated one about US-Cuban history, race and sexuality. This lady definitely had balls!

I wrote a story in today’s Globe about a Boston filmmaker who is producing a documentary on Loreta and her life in the Civil War. The filmmaker, Maria Agui Carter, spent two years documenting and researching Loreta’s life in New Orleans where she lived as a young woman and learned English and French after leaving Cuba where she spoke Spanish. Carter wanted to produce her film, titled REBEL, because she feels that other Hispanics should know about some of their own heroes in American History.

It’s a fascinating story because Loreta also wrote a 600-page memoir detailing her life on the battlefield as Harry Buford. The book is called The Woman In Battle, The Civil War Narrative of Loreta Janeta Velazquez, Cuban Woman and Confederate Soldier. I have a copy of the book and have been reading it. What a Cuban rebel belle!

To read my article on Loreta, go here or to watch a trailer of the documentary, which comes out this Spring on PBS, go here. The actress playing Loreta is Romi Dias, whom I met last week at the Orchard House in Concord for the reenactment scenes.

Aug. 6, 2006 Cuban Being

Finding Manana...Today

I read "Finding Manana" a few months ago and it left a lasting impression. Growing up in Miami in the "Scarface" era, I was too young to understand Mariel. I remember Papi driving me and my sister in our booger-green 1978 Dodge Aspen to catch a glimpse of the fenced-in tent city under I-95 in downtown Miami. This was the temporary home for many Cubans who came through the port of Mariel. It wasn't until I read this book that I truly grasped how big this exodus was and its impact on not just South Florida but the US. When I shared it with Racso, my Cubanito friend here in Boston, he was like "Chico, I'm Marielito!" and his eyes lit up when I showed him the book. (He grabbed it out of my hands faster than the fast moving mutant in X-Men: The Last Stand) I had no idea he (my friend, not the mutant) was Cuban-born because he never talked about it before. I knew he was Cuban but I assumed he was like me, made in the US with Cuban parts. So I wrote a mini review of the book in case anyone hasn't read it yet.

In "Finding Manana," author Mirta Ojito is literally looking for "Manana,"
a boat that brought her and her family to Key West during the 1980 Mariel
boatlift. But she's also looking for answers that will help her come to
terms with yesterday and the political catalysts that led to one of the
biggest mass migrations in US and Cuban histories.
What began as a memoir, telling those experiences from the power of
memory from her childhood in Cuba, unraveled into a larger story of how
Mariel played out and its effect today on Cubans like her in Miami.
The book seesaws between the personal story and the political and
historic one.
Ojito's personal stories of growing up in Cuba and the profiles of
other Cubans looking to leave their country "shaped like an alligator at
rest" (p. 196) engage the reader the best. But the authoritative tone she
alternates into for the layered factual and historic details tend to slow
"Manana" down to a few knots.
For five months in 1980, Fidel Castrol unleashed 125,000 refugees
from the port of Mariel to South Florida. It's these same people President
Jimmy Carter took in like orphans looking to be adopted.
At 16, Ojito was a Marielita, a term that today still conjures up
images of Cuban's most dangerous and mentally ill criminals, people "with
glazed eyes, shaved heads and what appeared to be prison garb,'' (p. 211)
seen as they came upon Florida's shores.
Through her narratives, Ojito shows there were more to Marielitos
than the image of them projected in the media or in the movie "Scarface."
They were hard-working families looking to escape Fidel Castro's regime for
a better future in the US.
"To me, it was a badge of honor,'' she writes (p. 266). "a
recognition that I belonged to a group of people who had once left their
country as ballast and had managed to stay afloat, and even attain a
measure of success.''
Ojito, for one, mastered English once in South Florida, became a
reporter with The Miami Herald and later, The New York Times where she
shared the 2000 Pulitzer prize for national reporting.
Using her lens as a journalist as well as the power of her memories
of Cuba as her guide, she traces the boatlift to the men who orchestrated
it and how their sometimes overlapping roles ushered this moment in both
countries' histories.
Ojito also chronicles in detail their backstories, which humanizes
them. Ojito sketches people like Hector Sanyustiz, the Cuban bus driver who
barreled through the gates of the Peruvian embassy, which opened the
floodgates for 10,000 Cubans seeking political asylum on its property.
She chronicles the clandestine dialogue with Bernando Benes, the
Miami banker with ties to President Carter and who (meaning Benes) later
held secret meetings with Castro to bring 3,000 political prisoners to the
US.
And then there's captain Mike Howell, the Vietnam veteran who lost
his arm in the war and began chartering his boat from New Orleans. The book
picks up steam here as Ojito builds up to the actual boatlift.
Howell was moved by the story of passionate Cubans looking to pick up
their relatives in Mariel that he agreed to bring them to Key West with
help from his boat, the "Manana," which translates as "Tomorrow" in
English. Ojito paints him as her personal hero.
"The man and the women in front of him seemed determined to go,''
Ojito writes of the group of Cubans who asked Howell's help in New Orleans.
"Saving people was part of the Manana's mission, and Mike relished the idea
of playing savior."
Yet for all the build-up to the actual journey from Mariel to Key
West, there are only a handful of pages of the trip itself.
In "Finding Manana," Ojito doesn't just find the ship that bears its
name. She also finds the real story of Mariel for herself and other fellow
Marielitos.

June 01, 2006 in Cuban Being

The Cuban Kitchen Dance

(This is a short story I wrote that was published last fall in the first ever "Chicken Soup for the Latino Soul'' book. Because a lot of people have asked to read it and because I've given away my own copies of the book, I thought it might be easier to post the story here for anyone who was interested. It's one of those feel-good stories about family. So enjoy!)

The unforgiving heat waves rolled off the stove as the aroma of creamy Cuban cafe perfumed the whole house, floating into the bedrooms and bathrooms and out the backyard into the Miami Beach air.

An earthy steam rose from a pot of potaje (stew) as it bubbled and hissed, while the Queen of Salsa, Celia Cruz, belted out her tunes from a little kitchen counter radio.

There was Mami, center stage, swirling and swaying rhythmically on the kitchen floor as if she were the star of her own Broadway show. Her wisps of auburn hair followed her every move. When she moved to the left, her hair whipped to the left, as if on command. When she moved to the right, it shifted in that direction with the same precision.

Mami always did this. It was her daily kitchen routine. She would break into dance while toasting bread, washing dishes or beating eggs to concoct some sweet Cuban flan. She would spend the day cooking or cleaning while my sister Cary and I were at school and my dad was exterminating bugs at local Miami Beach hotels.

That day was a typical lunch hour for my mom except that I happened to be home. It was Saturday. I was standing in the corner, a ten-year-old boy with coffee-hued curly hair, giggling at the sight of his wacky mother dancing with an invisible partner. And then it happened. The kitchen floor became the dance floor, and Mami suddenly pulled me on center stage, to, ugh, bailar.

Oh, my gosh, I thought to myself. Que pena! Why me? Why not Cary? Where's Papi? Can any of our American neighbors see us through the windows?

I didn't know how to dance, but that didn't stop Mami from forcing my two left feet to move. She whipped me around on the kitchen floor the way she whipped fluffy meringue. She twirled me like a strand of pasta!

I tried to escape, but to no avail. Her arms locked me in place. Celia Cruz did her thing on the radio, and Mami did hers in the kitchen, with me in tow.

The music played, and Mami began to strut her stuff.

"Ahora Yonito, a la izquierda, a la derecha, adelante y para atras,'' my mom announced, calling me by my family nickname, telling me to move to the left, then right, back and forth.

I tried to follow her lead, but I couldn't capture the beat. I wanted to breakdance or just break away, period.

"Mami, no quiero hacerlo,'' I complained. "My friends at school don't dance to this stuff.''

Her response? "Ahora Yonny, a la izquierda, a la derecha, adelante y para atras! Anda!"

She wasn't listening, maybe because la Celia was singing at the top of her lungs in the background, or maybe because Mami was gonna teach me how to dance no matter what.

I was frustrated. So was my mom. I kept stepping on her feet instead of the beige kitchen tile. Dancing felt awkward. My skinny legs couldn't keep up with her curvaceous flowing strides. My legs were like two sticks that wouldn't bend. I felt like a right-handed person suddenly forced to write with his left hand.

Seeing my frustration, my mom stopped and told me to listen to the beat pounding from the radio. She held my hands and said to clap whenever I heard the beat.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP CLAP! CLAP! CLAP CLAP!

For a while, it sounded like a round of applause thundering in the kitchen. But then something happened. Mr. Two Left Feet began to catch on. After I clapped to the rapid gunfire of beats, my mom told me to move to them.

Swing back, CLAP!

Step forward, CLAP!

To the left, CLAP!

To the right, CLAP!

My hands were clapping and my feet were stomping, and I found myself swaying and swirling with Mami. The Cuban Kitchen Dance.

The spurts of Latin beats flowed from the radio into my heart, legs and arms. Some beats were rapido. Others were lento. Either way, I caught on to the burst of beats and to the rhythms crackling from the tiny kitchen counter radio. We danced on and on to Celia, then to other timeless Cuban favorites.

My mom lead the way that day, but, eventually, I began to lead her. I twirled her all over the kitchen, then the comedor, as beads of sweat lined our faces, and our hearts thudded to the beats. It was dance fever!

Memories of the Cuban kitchen dance were stirred recently when I bought my first home in Boston, Massachusetts, about 1,500 miles away from Mami's cocina/dance floor. And funny enough, my new kitchen resembles Mami's, with a bright beige tiled floor, wooden kitchen cabinet and a little kitchen radio that sits on my Formica counter.

On weekends, as I prepare my lunch, I catch myself dancing with an invisible partner to the sounds of Gloria Estefan or Shakira, moving to the left, shaking it to the right, adelante y para atras!

I close my eyes, listen to the beat and imagine that I am ten years old all over again, dancing with Mami in our Cuban kitchen.

May 26, 2006 in Cuban Being

Those Daily Cuban calls from Miami

Those daily Cuban calls from Miami
Mami, papi: I'm okay, are you okay?

The call comes in every night, 8 p.m. on the dot, and the conversation goes something like this, even in the summer:

"Hi Johnny! How are you? Did it snow?"

"Doing well, Papi. Ah, no. It doesn't snow here that often in the summer. Just got home from the gym. How are you doing?" "Did you eat yet? How is the Jeep running? Do you have a movie for the night?" Then, it's the same chat with my mother.
"Johnny, hi. How are you? Are you cold? Did you eat? The cat wants to say hi."
In some families, going a week without chatting with your parents is fine. But that's not necessarily the case if you're Hispanic and you live hundreds of miles away from them.
It's a topic that boggles the minds of my friends in the city who are outside the Latino culture. They can't imagine talking to their parents more than, say, once a month. They look at me like an alien from another planet.
"They call you every day , Johnny?" they ask, when my land- line rings in my Dorchester home at 8 p.m., or when my cell starts ringing at 9 p.m. while I'm in a restaurant, because I haven't returned my parents' call.
"Yeah, it's a Cuban thing. It makes them feel good knowing they at least spoke to me sometime in the day, and they can go to sleep knowing that I'm OK. It's only a five-minute conversation. If it brings them that much peace, what can I do?"
I'm not alone in this. My Cuban and Hispanic friends as well as some of my Italian, Spanish, and Greek counterparts relate. They totally get it. Even today, my high school Italian teacher, Mrs. Tucci, calls her twin sister and mother in Italy each morning from Miami.
We have to call our parents at a certain pre-selected time, or earlier if we'll be busy. We face overwhelming guilt if we miss their call, and don't call back.
"Why didn't you call me? I thought something bad had happened to you," is the typical parental response. They start imagining me in some sort of Stephen King-type situation. Suppose my car went off the road and was buried in the snow and I couldn't reach my cellphone to tell them about my day? Suppose I slipped on my Pergo wood-laminate floors and was knocked unconscious as the phone rang? What if I'd been attacked by a dog with a "Cujo" complex outside of Bertucci's?
Why is it that some parents sustain this long-distance umbilical cord with their children, while others adjust to cutting the tie?
Blame it on their culture.
Latin family ties, many people would agree, are closer than those of many other groups in the United States. Our uncles and aunts are like second parents. Our cousins seem like another set of siblings. Back in Spain the mother country as well as Mexico and Cuba, children stay with their parents until they're married. Many continue living at home as adults until they can afford to buy their own houses usually within miles of their parents'. Usually, one child will live near the parents while others might move away a little farther Massachusetts, say.
There's also a generational factor at work.
Mi abuela Nena would call my dad and his five siblings each night between 7 and 9 (depending in which order they were on her list). It was her way of checking up on everyone. This "cast a wide net" approach apparently got passed down to my dad.
The first night after I moved out of my parents' house in Miami Beach to Coral Gables (home to the University of Miami,) the calls started coming in. I'd tell them "Papi, Mami, I live less than eight miles from you," but my reasoning fell on deaf ears. The only time they didn't call was when I had spent the day at their house.

The dial-a-Johnny calls followed me to Boston four years ago because now I was really far away. So my dad has become like his deceased mother, calling and just "seeing how you are doing."

Somehow, 8 p.m. became the selected time to expect their call because it's usually when I get home from the gym after work. On weekends, it's still the same. The only reason my sister has escaped this routine is because she still lives with our parents.

My cousin Mary in Duxbury makes fun of me whenever I'm visiting and Mom calls. Until I point out to her, "Um, Mary, you're always calling your three daughters at least once a day, too!" By the way, my aunt and uncle, who are 80 and 81, call my cousin Mary, who is 46, twice a week.

Even though I think of myself as independent (even a loner, to a degree), I find there is a comfort in knowing that I will get a call each night at 8 from people who love me no matter what.

Maybe because I've seen some friends here who seem disconnected from their families. Even when I am having a bad day or when I am feeling anti-social, it's nice to know that someone wants to know how I am doing. It means I am well-loved.

There are days I don't hear from my parents at 8 p.m. When this happens, I start speed-dialing their number every few minutes.

"Why didn't you answer?" I demand, when they finally pick up. "I thought something had happened to you. I was worried."

May 17, 2006

Mom, she's una Santera

"Mom, she's a Santera!"
"Por favor, don't tell your father about where we're taking you this afternoon or I'll get in trouble,'' my mother urged after we left the house of the spiritual reader. "Tell him that me and your sister took you to Coconut Grove or something.''I knew they were up to something and I knew this would be one of those wacky Diaz family adventures when my mother and sister basically abducted me and took me to a santera. When we pulled up to the townhouse in Miami Lakes, I was greeted by a lovely and energetic blonde woman dressed from head to toe in white. She radiated such good energy and we connected right away. She led me by my hand, sat me at her dining room table, and spread a deck of Tarot cards before me. She began to channel the patron saints and listened to what they had to say about me. Smokey trails from incesence sticks swirled aboved us near the kitchen. My mom and sister sat in the living room pretending not to listen but the spiritual reader picked up on spiritual static, an energy block. They had to go.

"You two need to leave. I can't read Johnny. Your presence is blocking the energy flow. I have a block.'' So my mother and sister, who were slightly annoyed that they weren't going to be able to eavesdrop on my session, took off and went to the mall. Ha!

I don't really tell my mom and sister much about my dating life unless it's serious and since I hadn't talked about "anyone" recently, they wanted to know what I was up to back in Boston besides work and talking about the weather. Hence, this ambush santera visit. No one said the word santera, santeria, Chango, Babalu or Obatala but I knew better. In the Cuban community, you don't talk about these things (sort of like being gay) but since I had done an indepth story for The Globe on the growing influence of Santeria in Boston's Latino community and how a santero priest here was bringing the Afro-Cuban religion which has parallels with Catholicism out of its spiritual closet, I knew what my wacky mother and sister I had gotten myself into.

The spiritual reader, for one, was dressed in white, which is protective positive energy and one of the saint's favorite colors. When I went into the bathroom, I sneeked a peek into her bedroom, which was a shrine of apples, oranges, bananas, and muffins to the patron saints of the religion. But I didn't say anything. I just went with the flow. I felt good about this.

After the reading, the spiritual reader and I had a nice long chat. She picked up on things that made me believe she really knew what she was doing. I also left feeling even more at peace than when I had arrived. I felt like I had connected with a higher power thanks to her. I was recharged and enlightened.

When my mom and sister came back to the townhouse, they pelted me with all sorts of questions.

"What did she say? Was it good? Did you leave a donation at the shrine? How much?"

I smiled widely and laughed and kept it to myself in the backseat of our Nissan. When we pulled up to our house in Miami Beach, my dad opened the front door with a quizzical look on his face.

"Oye, where did the three of you run off to? You've been gone all afternoon!"

The three of us looked at each other with smirks on our faces.

"Oh, we went to Coconut Grove!"

To read more about Santeria and how it's been referenced in our popculture (from I Love Lucy and Gloria Estefan songs to novels) read my Globe story here.

January 03, 2007 in Cuban Being

Latino or Hispanic?

Latino or Hispanic?

A Broken Cuban Paradise

My book review on "Broken Paradise."

Raising "Cane"

When the new CBS drama "Cane,'' debuts Tuesday, Cuban-Americans as well as fans of nightime soaps will be tuning in, holding the show to a higher and more complicated standard than other new dramas premiering on network television. For one, the show is a rarity on primetime television: It follows the fictional Duque family, an upscale Cuban-American dynasty that runs a rum and sugar empire in South Florida. With a high-caliber cast that includes Jimmy Smits, Hector Elizondo,and Rita Moreno, the show features the largest Latino ensemble on American television. Actors switch from English to Spanish and some Spanglish, with and without subtitles. The series is also the first prime-time drama to focus on the Cuban immigrant experience. And that has local Cubans and bloggers divided over how well their community will be portrayed.

I have a story in today's Globe about how some Cubans have been conflicted about the show, which has been described as a Cuban "Sopranos" or a Latino "Dallas." When I interviewed Cynthia Cidre, the show's executive producer and the screenwriter of "Mambo Kings," she said she wants the show to be pure entertainment and not about Cuban politics. To read my story, click here.

Family of Writers

After a natural disaster forces Gabriela and her family to immigrate to the United States temporarily, the little girl is frightened. She'll have to leave her bestfriend behind, board a plane, learn a new language and adjust to a new life and culture. But Gabriela has a way of coping in her new home: She sings a song that calms her. And her song may help other kids who don't speak English adapt to their new surroundings. (Think: Dora the Explorer's sweeter and cuter cousin.)

Gabriela is the main character in the new children's book, La Cancion de Gabriela which has just been published by HarperCollins. The book was written by Univision radio's La Doctora Isabel Gomez-Bassols and her son, Eric Vasallo. You might know la doctora as the angel of the airwaves. She's a national Spanish radio psychologist and she gives her callers advice on relationships, raising teenagers, alcoholism, and coming out of the closet. But Isabel often receives calls from Latinas who are trying to help their kids adapt to the United States or deal with trauma from a natural disaster. A mother of four adult children, grandmother and a former Miami-Dade public schools child psychologist, Isabel knows something about helping kids.

The lushly illustrated book, which looks almost like a literary cartoon, takes the reader on Gabriela's journey from her home in Latin America where a volcano and strongs winds force her and her family to relocate to an aunt's house in the United States. We see Gabriela nervous on her first day at school where she sees students who look like her and some from different backgrounds and races. She feels at home there. We see her make a new friend who is scared of rain as she was. We follow Gabriela as she learns a song, Gabriela's song, which centers her whenever she's scared.

What makes the book unique is that it was written by a Cuban mother and her son. Isabel has written several self-help books over the years but this time, she wanted her son Eric Vasallo, a Miami screenwriter, to take the literary helm and collaborate with her on this book, a family project.

I asked Eric some questions about how he wrote the book, which is aimed at kids ages 3-8.

Why did you and your mom write this book?

To speak to Latino children struggling with issues of immigration and/or assimilation into the US. We also wanted to deal with the fear of natural disasters which is such a hot topic and real issue for anyone living on this increasingly hot planet.

What do you hope your young readers will learn from La Cancion de Gabriela?
That change is inevitable, whether it be caused by natural disaster, economic reasons or forced immigration due to a political situation, which are the main reasons latinos emigrate to the US.

What was the writing process like for you? Was it difficult to write in a way that would speak to children?
Extremely, I am used to writing screenplays which allow you to delve deeply into any topic you are inspired by, so it was mainly difficult to write about one simple and non-controversial topic. What helped was poring through different books at the children's book section and getting into that simplistic mindset. Our storyline of dealing with a natural disaster was inspired by a recent event at the time, in Guatemala where thousands were displaced and hundreds were killed due to flooding. It was also shortly after Hurricane Katrina occurred so I decided that since Global Warming isn't going to get any better any time soon,this would be an issue that terrifies children and the best way to tackle it is to deal with the "fear" that these events cause.

Our intention was to calm kid's fears in dealing with Mother Nature's potential wrath. Since my mother is a radio personality, she would get inundated with calls from parents on how to talk to their kid's about natural disasters, (hurricanes, floods, etc). Parents simply did not know how to speak to these children to calm them or to even explain the effects of these events in a way that would not traumatize them. This is how Gabriela's Song was created. It was meant to be a sort of calming mantra for children to repeat to themselves, much in the same way I would repeat my prayers of "Our Father" when I was too scared to go to sleep at night when I was a child.

The original unchanged version of the song is, "Kikiriki-Kikirika, yo no tengo miedo, esto no es na'a!" repeat over and over, breathing deeply as you chant, until you feel calm. This should calm anyone regardless of age and can help deal with any and/or all fearful situations.

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers who dream of being published one day?
If you're lucky to get an offer or interest from a publisher, swallow all of your pride, disconnecting emotionally from your work and just do what they say in order to get published. Once you are published and have a name in the literary world, then you can call the shots (or at least some of them). Until then be as professional as possible, don't take editor's comments too much to heart and more opportunities should come your way. The only time I would put my foot down is when an overzealous editor takes your work and completely changes it to their liking, not even keeping one of your original words or phrases. Then I would say take a stand and work with the editor to re-write it yourself. Don't accept for them to completely change your work. Also,if you have to write about something, just write about what you love. Use what you have learned to teach or inspire others and then flourish on it. Writing is as easy as that. Just share your stories in your voice and above all, be confident!

If you're interested in learning more about the book, which could also be used to teach Spanish to children, click here.

September 05, 2007 in Cuban Being | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)