6/12/24
I did not grow up surrounded by any kind of art or even encouraged to partake in artistic activities if there were any. In truth, the idea of being an artist seemed so remote, so foreign, and so out of my reach.
My main source of entertainment when I was little (in the early 80’s) was watching afternoon telenovelas with my mother and the rest of my female relatives. However, soon I learned that boys were not supposed to watch telenovelas. Boys were supposed to be outside, in the barrio, playing soccer with other boys, under the hot Equatorial sun, covered in sweat and filth, learning street talk and acquire that certain roughness that boys are expected to exhibit from a young age.
But I hated filth. I’d tell my mother when she’d ask me why I don’t like playing with boys outside: “Esos niños apestan. Están sudados.”
I’ve always hated sweat and stench. It was the expectation that I, too, would follow the normal path of stench that all my male relatives and all the boys in my neighborhood naturally flocked to.
When I didn’t, that is when my problems really began…