In 1981, I was a student of art history at Columbia University. I was twenty -one years old and worked to support myself in a variety of jobs. Colombia was the All-Boys School at the time. Old oak offices and a million cigarettes. (You can smoke in the chapter). I did not know much about the university-not even it was the University of All-Boys-until I got there. It was a new world for me. I have lived most of my life until then in a family of girls. Now there was a family of children.
I did not live on the campus. I lived with my aunt, my uncle, and cousin of the elderly in Brooklyn. Almost at that time, MA, inspired by her sister and older daughter, was planning to move from Brooklyn, where she grew up, to Atlanta. new beginning. It was more than fifty after that. I made it clear that there are certain rules that I had to follow if I would stay with my aunt’s family. I had to pay the rent, twenty dollars a week. “No one lives for free,” said what.
Initially, my aunt objected to the mandate: I was just a school. But Master was designed. It was either that or I will come and live with her and my little brother in Georgia. There were several reasons that my mother puts. One of my father was. As long as she knew him, he lived free of rent with his mother, who was my mother’s economic reverence. “Mrs. Williams can throw a handful of peas in a bowl and nourish a full army,” said Master. Mrs. Williams had a husband and two other children – two girls – but, for her, my father always came first.
Master did not want me to be a copy of my father, a man who can love women less and get more of them because of that – and not if she had anything to do with him. And it had to do with it, with everything. I grew up in a society – the Western Society of India – did not put much bonus on the bodies of women, as any kind of intimate relationship was a joke. People mocked you to express longing, or, if you are a man, to share it with only one woman, or to show affection for your children.
For a long period of his life, Daddy had two women to care – MR. Williams and my mother – but I had one huge love: others. I believed in society, and all of us wanted to belong to it, even my father, despite the fact that he was living in his mother’s house and born in a family that laughed at her goodness.
Perhaps I had a reduced corpse, in the world from which she came, but she fought for her right to put her foot. And when I put it, the world was different. After she put her foot, she went to school and went to work. Every week I paid my aunt rent. In my room in her home, I had a desk, piles of books and a typewriter. I tried to write. I was writing.
Life in Colombia was strange. All of these children. I can smell them. Many of them in their bodies are indifferent to their smell. They raised their arms up, and the kingdom came, the air was different. Gay was less prepared to REK. It would be unseen, and life has already proven that it is not polite, after it produced strange bodies in 1981, for example. Signal boys have not only been removed from time or so from Stonnol and two decades were removed from extortion or prison due to “seam”, so caution and madness in our bones were. Sometimes, we committed great works of love or anger separately, while the only general encroachment that we allowed for ourselves is to throw the sparkling solid words in the air, hoping that they would not flourish and cut us on the knees.
I have never seen many rich, or wealthy for me, people in one place before. I am surprised, first, with their hair. For years, we have made what we have, and we are like hair. Its customers were all black women. Many words and fears in their hair. Colombia’s children’s hair was very shiny and feed well. They had good teeth, healthy bodies, and strong nipples that were displayed in sunny days when, who were sitting on the steps of campus, removed their shirts, and one of them, at least, was not ashamed. They have grown tennis or squash in Connecticut, Rod Island, or North. In the summer, they went to the head. Their families knew each other and this was a source of unusual pride among them, and not from bitter jokes or distant dissatisfaction.
Manhattan always belonged to my father. He used to take me and my little brother to foreign films and then eat foreign food. He was deeply interested in the white people who stare wondering what we were doing in a tears hall, for example, on the upper eastern side. We ate Blintzes in Germantown, and Lev Oman caught up in “immigrants”. Then we took Daddy to the house to Crown Heights, and for a while, it looked like Sweden.
In Colombia, I couldn’t pretend I was elsewhere; I He was somewhere else. All of that – the major buildings, wave on a wave of stone steps – were like a stage to become. But to become what? Abi Manhattan gave me, and now I took him without him. He had no active role in this New York – in New York – and perhaps that was in itself a work to become mine.
Everything was very strange, or wanted to be. I don’t mean Queer like CAMP – the loyal commitment to manufacture – but Queer is like my mind, which was interested in everything that was distorted. In this new uncommon place, I felt the freedom to continue the things that sparked me, just as it was with my older sisters when I was a boy, before I put an end to all of that – what I was turning to, a kind of anomalous?
In my family, I never answered the question of its kind, because I could not trust anyone in the answer. There is no Fajgi who grew up in eastern New York or Crown Heights in the 1960s and seventies who trust in the inhabitants of those worlds, knowing that he was gay.
In the Western India society, we knew one person. He never said that he was gay, but he informed her through his quick love for women and the fact that he lived in Manhattan. I loved my mother – they were my cousins far away, and when he came to a visit, I heard family members and neighbors and the like they refer to him as a “aunt’s man.” For them, it was not just a queen. Every queen they ever knew and despised, felt disgusted and enjoyed it, and it was a secret, then spit it, rejected it and rejected it. Because this is the way the bias work: you are one thing that represents all the bad things for others. Didn’t the racist elders describe this way? But homosexuals were not skin tone. It was a state of existence, awareness of taking your race – or anything else that life gave you – and made it different. My ability, as a aunt, told me that I love those who considered me a position, or a kind of act of evil grandmother, that the tapes were made of different things – but what are things?
This happened in the way in which love occurs – while you don’t expect it despite its desire for everything. I was in Colombia for a semester or so when I fell with a small group of players, most of them, like me, were studying the history of art. The most interesting was from Orange County, California, the son of a single mother who worked as a nurse in Disneyland. He had a pale skin that was easily wiped, dark curly blond hair, beautiful hands-my father’s hands thick, but gesture, like that. He was a great reader of philosophy, and made me want to read seriously and widely.
Roland Bartis He fell with a boom on the academic planet in Colombia years ago and was loved by that group of players. My smart friend read it and spent his excessive style – a new way to be a “author.” However, for me, Partis’s writing was like the finest embroidery in the air: the author was not only able to see him. What was all of this talking about the “other” in reality?
One of the reasons why these queens love Partis, I think, without fully understanding the structural that it is specialized, is that it was far from being strange. They were too. Despite Stonewall and other political developments, my new friends were barely out of the cabinet (others never left). They grew up in parts of America, in 1981, it was still ideologically in 1956.
We had a relationship in the philosophical language, and my blond friend. Tony Morrison “Sel“I came to him, the extent of his interest in hearing my father and how he had been spoiled by his mother, just as Mill Milk was in Morrison.”Solomon’s song“
We passed the books back and forth, back and forth, and the words in it made the earth more solid under our feet. I kept trying with Parts because I loved my friend and found something I got to know in the emotional language in “Roland Bartis of Roland PartisAnd “and”Lover’s speech.Indeed, in the previous book, it was just a picture, and it showed the line that got me. The picture, in black and white, showed a young man being held in his mother’s arms. It was too big to be carried, but his mother did not manage it without any sign of a complaint or a surprise. Four words-“.The demand for love– Expressing a world: This was me, and all of us, with our diamonds.
In “a lover of a lover”, I was taken through Partis’s interpretation of “the cry of love”: “I want to understand myself, to make myself a concept, make myself known, and convert; I want someone to take me with him.” In fact, I wanted my friend to take me books to his mind, discover stories with me, upload me with his thought, and join me in a community disco. In this imagined disco, there was a largely strange crowd. The hall was small, and frankly what appeared to be a house. In community disco, DJ played the role of Chaka Khan, princeand Philip Glass Einstein on the beach, Jin Olivor sings “some charming evening”, and the voices of East Harlem, “the right to be free,” Dion Warwick We ask us to take a “message to Michael”, ” BouquetOf course, singing “station to a station”, describes Label how to make me “descend” shivering, “and Elon sings many things. All of these songs were, of course, one song – a song of wishes – and fill the room even if there was whether it was wandering in everything. You feel panic because it was not the love of panic?
My friend had a friend of a friend. Let’s call it why. He grew up in a mass of buildings known as “well -off housing” on the eastern side, with his white mother, a social worker. His father, who was black, did not know why. The other person was colored in that group of gay boys in Colombia, and given the feeling of cultural unity that I assumed that he felt his sincerity and our spiritual weapons, I felt that I had to love. For a long time I thought I did it because I thought I should.
He did not attach us to each other sexually. From the first, our relationship and discomfort was family, not romantic. Les was interested in the class, not as a way to eliminate his race, but as a way to get himself out of his background. In Colombia, he wanted not to be the story of its origin; Everything was about an arrival legend. He surpassed the white boys in being a white boy. Brucek in a way that embraced the lack of capitalism to charity: there was room for only one category, and this chapter was the acquisition and brutality in holding the world – more. This was in the era of Lacoste, Chinos and LL BEAN Leather Places and Boots. Somehow, the Les’s Lacoste shirt holes stood more compact and harder than any of these other players.
