I Bet She Knew It All Along

If you’ve read my other blog, you probably know that my Nanay (actually, my maternal grandmother) died recently. Her death has prompted many hours of reflection on the time that she spent with me. I have long suspected that she probably had me figured out. I think she knew I was gay.

In the late 80’s my father was stationed in the Florida Keys. Our home was in Key West. (Imagine that.) My sister was born while we were there. Since both of my parents worked, my mom brought over her mother to help. Nanay took care of my sister and I through the Key West assignment and through the next.

It was in Key West that things happened to me that would probably make people think that I might like guys. There was boy in the neighborhood. He was a little older than me and we didn’t hang around each other much. In fact, I remember him being a little bit of a bully sometimes. One day, I was playing all by myself which was very unusual in those days. The rest of my friends weren’t home for some reason or another. My parents were gone too. It was only my Nanay and I. I remember I was outside on the driveway. Which meant I was either playing with sidewalk chalk—or frying ants with my magnifying glass. The kid came up and wanted to hang. My friends weren’t around so I guess I was happy to do whatever with him.

I couldn’t tell you why it happened but we ended up under the couch cover in the living room. I think we were trying to play fort or something. Anyways, as we lay side by side, he asked me how I wanted to be kissed. I chose the French kiss because it was more quiet. We moved to a bedroom where we got under the bed covers and had an extended make out session. I can remember how our teeth sometimes clanged together and the sound it made. It got hot and heavy until it ended when he asked me to suck his dick. I didn’t. Pee-Pee came out of that thing! I probably would have but the mood was effectively killed.

I must’ve looked like a mess because when we emerged from the bedroom, we ran into Nanay. She must’ve been in the kitchen working during all this time but she did not look happy. I tried to read her face and it told me that she knew what we had done.

A year or so later, we were in the Philippines. Apparently I was quite the effeminate kid because the new neighborhood kids called me bakla. Basically they were calling me queer or fag. I still didn’t know what queer was. To me, they were calling me a girl. Boys calling each other a girl was something I grew up with even in the States so I didn’t care about it too much. There were some days when the teasing was a little harsh but I still didn’t get the connection. But because I didn’t understand was truly meant, doesn’t mean that Nanay didn’t.

If I really was throwing off signals, why didn’t my father notice? He has said to me that I used to act like a little girl. He probably saw me kissing Jon on the dock that one day because he yelled at me. Jon told me the next day that his father said that Jon and I couldn’t kiss anymore. By the way, don’t think I’m a slut because I’ve only kissed two boys my age. Jon and the other boy. But if he knew I was probably gay, why would he say things that would make me feel so horrible? Why would you make a child feel that love was given on condition?

I knew that my grandmother loved me. I was her grandson who, because of distance, time, and culture, could be a virtual stranger. But I was hers and that’s the way it was.