I usually do not smoke yesterday’s cigarette, but today I am desperate. Did I make the right decision to leave the New York City/New Jersey area to head North? “Don’t look back,” I tell myself, but that’s hard to do when the most electrifying part of my life happened there.
It all started in the summer of 1991, in NYC. I was a 21-year-old semi-awkward Puerto Rican lesbian. The type you could not tell was more of a ‘Lipstick Lesbian’. I was not ashamed. It was a way of blending roles, something I have done ever since.
It was my senior year at Rutgers University in New Jersey. I was nowhere close to supporting myself, so the logical place for me to live was with Mami, who was in her early forties. She was very wise then, as she is now, with her dark eyes and thin, tall frame. She was working two jobs: a factory job during the day and a custodian position at a trucking company at night. Working all those hours took its toll on her.
Mami knew I was struggling with my identity. Not only the lesbian part–which I always knew–but my roots. I was too white for the Puerto Ricans and too brown for Whites. I never really belonged. Of course, Mami had an answer even before I thought of asking the question.
Mami needed help with the night shift, so I started vacuuming the office floors at the trucking company. It was hard physical labor, but I did not mind. The second day of vacuuming, Mami conveniently introduced me to a co-worker. Her name was Maria.
Maria was a 36-year-old Puerto Rican bisexual woman. She was stocky and shorter than me, and her hair was always styled in a perm-mullet. Maria’s warm smile drew me to her, and she quickly gravitated towards me. She did not speak English, so I had to speak Spanish to her. We must have spoken for 20 minutes, then gone back to work. Before leaving for the night, she gave me her number so I could call her.
Four walls and a telephone call later. We must have spoken for hours. Maria was married but was pending a divorce. She had no children. I explained to her that I was single and not ready to commit to anyone. She chuckled, but I really was not ready.
A couple of days had passed since our phone call but I knew I would be speaking to her soon. We made plans for my “Coming Out” debut at a bar called Escuelita (the little Schoolhouse), located on Eighth Avenue and West 39th Street in NYC. The club itself was a flight of stairs going down into a dark room. After we showed our ID, we were rushed in.
The bar was filled only with Budweiser, Bacardi rum, and Coca-Cola bottles. The music was loud, and so was the vibe. Tito Nieves’s “De mi Enamorate letra” blasted through the dance hall. It was predominantly filled with gay men, but there were a few lesbians. I remember the “Buchas” (Puerto Rican reference to a Butch lesbian) and the Fems.
Maria looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking. Finally, I am Home.
Maria did forewarn me about the “code of respect.” If they were a couple, let them be and move on; otherwise, face the consequences of the “Bucha” and/or the Fem.
Maria grabbed my hands to dance, even though I resisted at first. I did surrender to the music and thought, “Why not?” I’d never danced salsa, but it came to me naturally.
A night of dancing and laughter was shared throughout the evening. I recall going many times after that night. Escuelita gave me an outlet. The smell of stale cigarettes permeated the dance floor. My first proper kiss was there, and, most importantly, my first love of many.
I finally belonged, as a semi-awkward Puerto Rican Lesbian. Too white for Puerto Ricans and too brown for Whites. It leaves me with a little smile.
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