Well, sorta…
I moved to Mexico a dozen years ago and immediately placed an online ad seeking a bilingual roommate. I knew little about local Mexican culture, equally little about the city of Guadalajara and my Spanish was rudimentary at best. The ad said “gay” because the country is very religious and I didn’t want my identity to seem like a secret…or become a surprise.
Javier, 22, answered the ad and we met and talked. He was so innocent and so nervous, I liked him immediately. The day after our meeting, he expressed his desire that we be friends as well as roommates. I helped him move from his aunt’s home and we quickly became fast friends.
My first questions of him were about the gay lifestyle of Guadalajara and his friends. Which were his favorite bars? Was he dating? Did he have a boyfriend? No, actually, I was the only person who knew he was gay. He’d never been to a gay bar, never had a date, never talked with anyone about being gay. Nada. I was stunned!
As we got to know each other, we discussed our backgrounds, feelings and experiences regularly and at length. Of course, he had lots of questions and was appreciative of answers from experience. He was such a likeable and vulnerable kid, I slipped easily into the “gay mentor” role. And when I explained the concept to him, I included the observation that we had all been raised by straight parents. That resonated with him and made us “family” in the gay sense.
As he began to venture out, I was on hand when he made his first trek to the premier, gay dance club, “Angel’s” (conveniently located right across the street), when he had his first date (after primping and pacing for an hour!) and he even shared with me his first romantic encounter.
But outside of me (and Octavio, his novio), he wouldn’t chance letting anyone know about his sexuality. If he was suspected or accused of being gay, he cringed and fled in shame. And we'd talk about it. (It should be noted that although Mexicanos are adamantly live-and-let-live, you can be fired from your job for any reason your employer desires, including being gay.)
At the same time, I was learning about the abandonment he’d suffered in his childhood. His father, mother and custodial aunt had each left him without reason, dumping him on someone else to raise. Even his older brother, at age 22, died in the Sonoran desert trying to enter the U.S., illegally. And many times Javier was left wondering why he’d been left behind. What was wrong with him? What had he done?
On the day I had to return to the Bay Area to find consulting work, Javier admitted his certainty that he would never see me again. He was despondent. And in tears. Everyone he loved left him, he said, and he was resigned to his fate. I hugged him as I tried to console him and reassure him.
I was very concerned because we’d worked out an elaborate system of transferring money internationally so he could maintain the apartment and pay the bills until I returned in a few months. I needed him to keep up his end of the bargain.
I already knew how much I would miss him and this wasn’t helping at all! Back in the U.S., I spent a fortune on the phone just keeping in touch, assuaging his fears by demonstrating that we would always be friends.
Eighteen months later, I would adopt him in California as my son. I specifically wanted to prove my promise to him but I also wanted to guarantee our relationship…for me. He was the most genuine, honorable and humble young man I’d ever met and I wanted us to be family for my sake, too. He even took my Irish last name for his own. Consider: Ernesto Javier Avila Finnegan. Catchy, no? Honestly, I was deeply touched.
But in the first month I was gone, Octavio dumped him. More abandonment! Javier was crushed. “I wish you were here so we could drinks beers until we fall down,” he said in his best, non-idiomatic construction. I still wasn’t working and hated to think of him being alone, so I sent him a ticket to San Francisco. It was his first trip outside Guadalajara and his first plane ride.
I was still staying with close friends in Sonoma whom I’d told all about him. They agreed that he would benefit from a visit and they really wanted to meet him.
>>>>>New para
Stephen and Tawny were young progressives and very open-minded. In fact, Stephen had a gay, younger brother. I told them how secretive and fearful Javier was and we concocted a plan to help cure him of his shame: they wouldn’t say anything about Stephen’s brother and I would set him up to “come out.”
When I picked Javier up at the airport, I told him the “truth” on the way home: Everyone I knew in California knew I was gay and, therefore, any man seen with me would be assumed to be gay, also. Including him. My eyes were stern; his got big. “Everyone?”
We four spent a relaxed evening over dinner and Javier and I slept on the guestroom futon. In the morning, the first thing he observed was that our hosts seemed to like him. Yes, I assured him, they did. “Stephen and Tawny are very nice. And they know I’m gay?” Yes, most definitely. “And they said nothing about it!” My plan was working.
Over the next month, I introduced him to all my friends and they saw in him just what I had seen. Then I’d remind him that, by association, they knew more about him than he may have considered and more than was mentioned. Truthfully, I have no idea what they thought. After a while, and predictably, the shock of my white lies began to wear off.
We had a great time as I showed him northern California from the redwoods to Big Sur. And much of San Francisco (and probably all of the Castro). He made many, many gay friends if only for a beer in Twin Peaks or a dance at The Café. Many nights I’d sit in the car with a slice of pizza and a newspaper while he cavorted until closing. As a Mexican joven, he was far too considerate to suggest that parents (even unknowing, potentially-adoptive parents) weren’t cool. But I knew the deal.
Before he left, I recapped: all my friends knew him and liked him. They were all his friends now, too. Although we’d only discussed gay topics with gay friends or in gay locations, there were no secrets as to his lifestyle. He was an “out,” gay Mexican-Californian!
When he got home to Guadalajara, he immediately came out to his close friends and family and called me to report his new status. Some were surprised, he told me; some were not. But nobody really cared. They loved him for who he was and just wanted him to be happy. It was then that I told him of my devious plan. We laughed…
And like the rest of us who’ve gone through that process somewhat traumatically, he’s never looked back.
Mi Hijo:
Epilogue:
Right after I left Mexico, Javier’s college aspirations seemed to fall apart. It was understandable to me because of the impossible schedule he’d attempted to keep. But he was supremely disappointed in himself.
When we shared the apartment, I had been waking him at 9 p.m. and taking him to his company’s bus for his overnight shift in the zona industrial. Now he was oversleeping. And he was so exhausted, he was missing school and finally had to withdraw for the semester or lose his scholarship. He was dejected and felt defeated and unworthy.
It was then that I suggested that I pay his bills so he didn’t have to work. He needed living expenses and couldn’t possibly handle both full-time work (48 hours in Mexico) and school. And sometimes he needed money for books and incidentals which he didn’t have. And I could help; I was now working. And we weren’t talking about much money by U.S. standards.
He was not receptive at all; he pointedly said he couldn’t take money from me or anyone. So I reminded him of the depth and permanence of our friendship and its impact on both our lives. I impressed upon him the incredible timing of our meeting. This was fate, kismet; it was meant to be. OK, he finally conceded, but I absolutely had to agree that he would pay me back. Everything. No equivocation.
It was then that I realized I was Javier’s “break” in life. All he needed was a little good fortune, something that went his way. But this intelligent, hard-working, eager, innocent, genuine, industrious guy didn’t see how he deserved it. And I knew he was wrong – everyone deserves a break.
Javier finished his bachelor’s degree in 3 years with a 95 average. His final semester included 53 hours of class time per week plus study, labs and assignments plus tutoring younger students. (“Community service” is a requirement of degree candidates in Mexico.) When I later asked him why he’d felt compelled to compress his education into 3 years, he responded, “because it was your money.” I was dumbfounded…but not surprised.
Although I thought he could get into UC Berkeley Graduate School of Business, I couldn’t qualify him as a California resident’s child for tuition purposes. We then worked on scholarships but 9/11 happened and all possibilities imploded. Since he was more concerned about repaying his student loan than going back to school, he began work for a well-known German electronics firm rather than pursue an MBA. (Did I mention he speaks 4 languages?)
He has done well. Very, very well. He is currently an international logistics manager based in Chicago. (Ironically, he lives only blocks from the house I grew up in. More kismet.) He is responsible for €250M of product and travels internationally. His responsibilities have mushroomed since the tsunami in Japan. He expects all future assignments will have him working out of Corporate in Germany. And on his way out of Guadalajara, he bought me a condominium for my retirement.
Every time I speak to him, my son thanks me for everything good that’s happened in his life. And to this day, he thinks he got the better end of the deal. I can’t thank him enough for what he’s given me.