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Sunday, Mar 21, 2010
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Cultural departures |
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| Cultural departures | |
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by Jennifer Vanasco -
Special to the SGN I live in a Dominican neighborhood in New York, and in the mornings the men huddle across the street from my apartment, arguing about where the van should be parked and who should buy the coffee. Last week, I trundled outside with my suitcase, heading to Paris. I was stopped by one of those men, Timo, whom I often talk to when I'm walking my dog. "My friend, wait. You're driving to the airport?" he asked, nodding at my car. Yes, I told him. He picked up my suitcase. "I'll drive you in the van," he said. I demurred a moment, but there my suitcase was, inside the doors. "That's so nice of you," I said. "Thank you." Timo is a Vietnam vet. He has the calloused hands of a carpenter, the wrinkled face of someone who's spent a good amount of time outside. He moved to New York when he was 10, with his family. I know all about him, because we've talked about him and his children, about discrimination he's faced as a Dominican, about salsa dancing, about how he thinks race and color shouldn't matter so much - but we've never talked about me. That was about to change. "So," he said in his musical English, "Why are you going to Paris? To see a lover?" "To see a friend," I said. "But you don't have a lover. You're single." It was a statement, not a question. "I'm single," I confirmed. "Why are you not married?" I looked at him a moment. His eyes were fixed on the Long Island Expressway; when he flicked his eyes at me, they were friendly. "You know I'm Gay, right?" I said. He shifted on his seat. "The other guys tell me you're Gay. They see the rainbow on your car. But a beautiful girl like you should have a man." "I don't want a man," I said. "But I would like to be in a relationship." "Maybe you haven't tried hard enough to be with a man," he said. "I've been with a man. I like women better," I said. "But maybe, if you tried&." he said again. "I like you. I think you can do it." I looked out the window; it was overcast and traffic was moving quickly. There were patches of green on trees, still, mixed in with the golds and reds. I was thinking about what to say. Timo and I have a language barrier - he's been here a long time, but so immersed in his community that English is still a bit tricky, and my Spanish is awful - but more important, we have a culture barrier. "Why is this that you're Gay?" he said. "The men joke because I like you. But I do like you. I think we are friends. But I don't understand." I reached around in my brain, looking for metaphors. "Well maybe it's kind of like being Dominican," I said. "You were born Dominican. You're light-skinned - you could choose to pass in the world as something else. Or even as Puerto Rican, which you say might make your life easier. "But you don't. You love being Dominican, not just because you were born Dominican, but also because of the people you love who are also that way, because of the traditions you share, because of the culture. "It's kind of like that for me," I said. "I was born Gay. I could marry a man, but I wouldn't be as happy as I am with women. And I like Gay culture. I'm at home here. I speak the language" He shifted lanes smoothly. We were at the airport. At the departures terminal, he turned to look at me. "Maybe," he said. "Or maybe you just need to try more. You should have children." "You're right about that," I said. "I do want children." "Well, I guess even if you're a Gay you can have children. Children are the point of life." I nodded and smiled. Maybe, I thought, we were coming to an understanding. He lifted my suitcase out of the van, placed it gently on the sidewalk, shook my hand. "I'll pray to San Antonio for you," he said firmly. "Uh, OK," I said. "For safe traveling?" "For to find you a man. A good man. San Antonio will take care of it." "I think I'm OK without his help," I said, smiling a little sadly. "But thank you." I thought about our conversation all the way to Paris. I was upset. Should I have said something differently? Should I have gotten angry? How can I be friends with someone who won't accept this very basic thing about me - whose culture makes it hard for him to even understand it? I returned home - Timo saw me alight from the taxi and ran across the street. "My friend! You're back! I've missed you!" he said. And somehow things were the same as they had been before. Jennifer Vanasco is an award-winning columnist. E-mail her at jennifer.vanasco@gmail.com |
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