I come from a very large family. We were very poor and the house we stayed in was extremely small. Not more than a box really. I lived with my folks, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandmother. We kept to ourselves. I didn’t feel much love. Except for that from my grandmother.
In a bygone era our family used to live on a large plantation far far away. How I wish I could live free like that. Wide-open spaces; the sun on my face, not a worry in the world!
Most of my brothers and sisters left home early on in life. Many of them, we never heard from again. It was no surprise. They were happy to get out and forget about their past. But some of them I truly loved and missed when they went away. My sister Charlotte was one of those. She burnt to death a few hours after leaving home, in a fire at a bar downtown. Snuffed out in the prime of her life. Arson. The arsonist was never caught. I never did get over it.
I used to hear rumblings about how bad the outside world was. Rumours. Stories. Urban legends. About how we were restricted as to where we were allowed to go, where we could eat, where we could shop. About how we were discriminated against. About how we were shunned by some and thought utterly disgusting by others. I was never one to believe stories. The hushed talk didn’t worry me much. I wanted to experience everything I could! I wanted to leave my home and my family and live my life.
I wanted to feel what it felt like to be held in a man’s arms, to be brought close to his lips and to feel his breath all over me. I wanted to feel his hands touching me. I wanted to feel his unending desire to be with me. My brothers and cousins used to tease me when I would share this with them. They would call me hurtful names. Fag was the worst. It hurt me deeply. My brother Bruno used to sneer and say that I was poison, and that anyone near me would get sick and die a horrible painful death! I was the butt of many neighbourhood jokes. I would try block out their ridicule and would hear my grandmother’s voice saying softly, “Your time will come, sweet boy. Your time will come.”
And now, finally, my time has indeed come. I am ready to leave home. I am ready to live my life. I am ready to be me. I am ready to find that man of my dreams. I will do my ancestors from the plantation proud. I will do my grandmother and Charlotte proud. I will not let the name of Marlboro down. I will go down in a blaze of glory if I have to. But at least it will be mine. To the last puff, I will be me…