Mario's Musings

Equality.

Here we are in June 2020 and that word, that concept, is more loaded than ever before. So much has happened this month, indeed this year, to test and redefine our notions of equality, that most if not all of us might be feeling exhausted and overwhelmed.

I’m a Hispanic gay man, so equality is an incredibly powerful reality for me. I am very passionate about personal freedom and inclusiveness. Both are at the very heart of why I’ve been a liberal since my first year of college. June is LGBTQ Pride Month, so the serendipity of this being the month with so many national events that transform and validate equality weighs heavily on my mind.

How does this writer sort out his thoughts and emotions? By writing. But this time, I’m going to forgo the usual neat outlines and perfect conclusions. I’m going to delve, stream-of-consciousness, into my psyche. You’ve been warned.

Gay Pride – For years I’ve always been ambivalent about celebrating Gay Pride Month. I’m proud to be gay 365 days a year, so why do I need to shout it out on this one specific month? Well, there is power in voices. There is strength in being counted. I’m married to the love of my life, and I don’t ever want to be discriminated against for being simply who I am. The recent Supreme Court ruling that LGBTQ workers are protected from job discrimination filled me with happiness and, yes, pride. Lots of pride. All of us – lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer – just want to be treated equally.

Black Lives Matter – They do, now more than ever. The systemic racism in this country hit its boiling-over point with the murder of George Floyd at the hands (or knees) of Minneapolis police. Protesting and preaching continues at fever pitch. It seems that maybe, just maybe, change is in the air. I, for one, welcome it with open arms. There is no reason – none! – why any human being should be killed over something they can’t control. Skin color comes to mind, and so does sexual orientation. Equality is inclusiveness.

Dreamers – I’m a dreamer, but I’m not a Dreamer. Dreamers are recipients of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program. The Supreme Court delivered yet another monumental ruling in June, that President Trump can’t end DACA as he had planned to. That decision warms my heart, because back in 1967 I was a toddler arriving from Cuba with his family. I would soon have many dreams about my life in this country, which is the only country I truly know. I became a citizen, I graduated from college, I bought property. I live the American dream every day. I feel deep down inside the equality that Dreamers crave.

National Pandemic – Life in 2020 is indeed turned upside down by a virus that has wreaked physical and emotional havoc on the world. There are those of us that continue to do the right things – wearing masks inside public places, keeping that magical six feet social distance, refraining from mingling even with friends and family. But there are those others that can’t be bothered. Or, perhaps better put, refuse to see the life-threatening seriousness of a novel, deadly, and very contagious virus. I can’t convince them otherwise, nor will I try. What I can do is steer clear of them and continue to do the right things. Because this virus, like all viruses, is an equal opportunity scourge.

I keep thinking of rainbows. There’s the rainbow flag, which is the quintessential symbol of gay pride, of course. But even beyond that, rainbows are beacons. They colorfully light the way for everybody. They are perfectly drawn images where a variety of colors have equal presence. A rainbow is the festive manifestation of equality.

We went for a neighborhood drive on a grey, chilly and wet Saturday evening in early April. It was just the two of us in the car. You could call it a leisurely sightseeing tour of familiar homes from the comfort and safety of a moving vehicle. No masks necessary, nobody disembarked.

As we explored this street and the other street, that cul-de-sac and the next cul-de-sac, we commented on architecture, landscaping, and paint colors. The simplicity of the outing lifted our spirits. We held hands as we drove, telling each other how much we needed this little respite from the surreal existence of living in the coronavirus pandemic.

Oh what we take for granted.

We are both very lucky. I’ve been working from home since March 17, as have most of my coworkers. My bosses, all the way up the ladder to the company president, immediately had the compassion and humanity to keep us out of harm’s way. The transition was logistically seamless thanks to our fabulous IT department. Emotionally, well, it’s been an adjustment. But we’re in this together, so there is strength in numbers.

My husband, Steve, can’t work from home. As a respiratory therapist at a heart hospital, he’s in that essentials list. But so far so good. That he works at a specialty hospital certainly helps keep him out of potentially dangerous situations.

Life in these COVID-19 times keeps moving. I have a homemade mask now, graciously donated by one of Steve’s coworkers. I wear it during my neighborhood walks, which I take daily, and my once a week trips to Sprouts for groceries. Steve uses a hospital mask for the same. I wash my hands a gabillion times a day. I make all of my meals at home, which as a vegan had already been a part of my day-to-day routine. Everything else that you can think of I’ve been mail ordering for home delivery.

So much has changed, and yet so much remains the same.

It is during a national crisis, one that stealthily made its way into the homes of everybody and anybody, that you see what’s always been there with different eyes. There is a Japanese maple tree in our back yard that is full of gorgeous red leaves. This lovely tree struggled a little bit after being planted more than a year ago. It stood bare and pale for months. All of a sudden, as February turned to March, it donned its crimson wardrobe.

I have the perfect view of that Japanese maple from a window in my bedroom. Every day, as I make my bed and get dressed for “work” in my attempt to embrace some semblance of normality, I stop for a minute to contemplate the Japanese maple. It brings me peace. It brings me solace. It fills me with hope that we will all weather this storm in as close to one piece as possible.

The coronavirus hit home. I have a coworker in the hospital struggling with the horrible disease. He is improving, thankfully, and we are all breathing a sigh of relief. But there’s no escaping the reality that all of us are vulnerable. That coworker is 20 years younger than I am, healthy, vibrant. I enjoyed a couple of lunch outings with him, and we have worked closely on a couple of occasions. Learning about his struggle hit me hard, as he became the first person I know personally that is fighting the virus.

Perhaps this is all a wake-up call for society, for us hustle-and-bustle human beings that get lost in our own consumption without clearly understanding how it affects the balance of the universe. Yes, that probably sounds quite existential. But the message is simple: We cannot take life and each other for granted. We cannot continue to live as if nothing and nobody is living around us.

When we make it through this ordeal, and we will make it through, let us not forget what really matters. I’m lucky to have a beautiful home and a gorgeous husband – inside and out. I’m lucky to have a great job that allows me to keep working, keep earning a paycheck, all while remaining safe from a deadly scourge. I’m lucky to have the luxury of taking a neighborhood drive to admire houses not far from my own.

And I’m lucky to have a handsome Japanese maple displaying its beautiful red leaves just outside my bedroom window. May I never take it for granted.

Three months later I still get asked the same question: “How is married life?” And I still hesitate to answer. Don’t get me wrong, married life is awesome. But married life is not a whole lot different from life the last 30 years. And yet, now there’s a piece of paper that legally binds us together as husbands. We wear matching rings. We had the official marriage ceremony. Did that not change anything?

Steve and I have been together for three decades. He is, without a doubt, the love of my life. I remember the summer of 1994 vividly. We were living in Miami, where we both grew up, and we had an apartment together. That year was our fifth anniversary. We were just a couple of 20-somethings still finding our way in both the career world and the relationship world. Our partnership had already been through a few rough spots, but we always managed to find our way back to each other.

But I wasn’t sure what the future would hold. My newspaper writing career was still nascent, still stuck in that developing stage, and I wanted to kick it up a notch. Through some serendipity, and a few well-positioned people that tossed out my name, I ended up in Dallas for a job interview with The Dallas Morning News. Nothing happens until it happens, right, so Steve and I just rolled with the universe. He already had a sweet, secure gig as a respiratory therapist at a local hospital. I was the one with the ambitions to grow and move.

I was offered the job in Dallas – better pay, better benefits, better position. I immediately said yes. Now, how to tell Steve? We sat outside at a local restaurant. We were about to have dinner.

“I love you with all my heart and soul,” I told him. “I accepted the job in Dallas. As much as I want you with me, I can’t force you to move. Especially when you have a great job here and you wouldn’t have one upon arriving in Dallas.” He looked at me and without missing a beat replied, “When do we leave?”

Steve and I turned houses into homes in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. We endured job changes, an illness or two, deaths in both our families, and we’re still together. About six months ago we brought up marriage again. Ever since marriage equality became a reality, Steve and I have talked about marriage. We always wanted to have power of attorney so that if something happened to one of us the other could speak and be heard. A marriage license would certainly take care of that and then some.

Yet the marriage thing never seemed all that important. We own our home together. We are each other’s beneficiary. We lead peaceful, productive lives. We don’t need to get married. But there was something about 30 years, a magical number. We talked, we researched, we talked some more.

On September 21, 2019, at our home in Hurst, in front of about 40 friends and family, we exchanged vows. We kept the ceremony simple and casual. We wanted it to have a homey feeling. We wanted it to express 30 years of love and devotion.

Now we have that coveted marriage certificate. We have the engraved rings. We have the great wedding photos taken by our awesome photographer friend Edgar Tavera. I now call Steve my husband and it carries much more weight. In the eyes of the law, he is truly my husband.

Getting married has given our relationship another level of heft. I don’t love Steve any more because we signed a marriage license. I adore Steve with or without that piece of paper. Yet in the eyes of the land, we are now legitimate. There is something, well, prideful about that. We belong together now more than ever.

So how is married life? It’s beautiful because I’m still with the man that I love inside and out.

*Photo by Edgar Tavera

Where is home?

We were in Chicago recently on vacation. During one of our many days of exploring the city, we took a train ride to Oak Park, Illinois. The village on the west side of Chicago was home to famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Our mission was to tour his home in Oak Park, now a museum, as well as a handful of nearby homes that he designed for others.

In our 15 minute walk to Wright’s house we cut through a neighborhood park – an idyllic, quiet and green, homey and lush, peaceful and inviting park where we saw families enjoying a gorgeous fall day. For a brief moment I became wistful. Without slowing my gait, I looked around, breathed in the sunshine and asked myself: “Am I where I’m supposed to be?”

I will admit that vacations frequently do this to me. Maybe it’s a grass-is-always-greener thing. Maybe I just want to do a comparison test. Maybe deep down inside my soul has a restless streak. Am I where I’m supposed to be?

My husband Steve and I, back then domestic partners, moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth area in 1994. A new job brought us here from Miami, where we both grew up, and we quickly settled into a rented apartment in Northeast Dallas. We bought our first house seven years later. It was a quaint and picturesque split-level structure that we absolutely loved despite a few obvious problems, particularly the weather perils of a reverse grade lot. But it was our first shot at homeownership and to this day we both still hold a special place in our hearts for that warm home.

Life took a few topsy-turvy turns – new jobs, financial burdens – and we sold the house in 2014. We decided to downsize and try townhouse living. Still in Dallas, and a mere 8 minutes from the split-level abode, we settled into a townhouse community. We dove into the constraints of homeowner’s association rules (and fees!), and tried our best to make that cute townhouse our home. We remodeled the kitchen and bathrooms, painted the walls, strategically hung up artwork to make the most of the high ceilings. And yet, something never seemed right. In my heart of hearts, I never quite felt at home.

Three-and-a-half years later came more changes. Because you know, the biggest constant in life is change. We both got new jobs, and mine was now 50 miles away. The commutes were killing me. I love my job, but truth be told I didn’t quite love that townhouse.

In late September 2017, we said goodbye to Dallas for good and moved into a 1966, mid-century modern styled ranch house in Hurst, a mid-city between Dallas and Fort Worth. Suddenly I was about 25 minutes from work and back in a detached house. Logistically, the scenario was perfect.

But there was something deeper. I fell in love with this house. The way the sunlight bathes all the rooms. The tranquil nature of the home, even with a major highway merely two blocks away. There are the mature trees surrounding the house, and the super cool rectangular glass panes that give the living room so much character.

Mostly I love the way the house makes us feel. Both of us – and it was Steve who first saw the genuine potential – feel so at home here. We feel more at home than we did even in our quaint split-level. If home is your sanctuary, our spirits always yearn for the rejuvenation.

Am I where I’m supposed to be? Home is where the heart is, as the cliché goes. Steve is by my side, and that surpasses any combo of four walls, a floor, and a roof. But home is supposed to be a respite. It’s supposed to be a place where you recharge and let your imagination run free. It’s a building that breathes and speaks and nurtures.

On our last night in Chicago, I was anxious. I was anxious to come back to our 1966 mid-century modern styled ranch house in Hurst. Home was calling me. It was calling us. It missed us and we missed it. It was time to come back.

Steve and I have said more than once, almost daily actually, that this will be our last home. This is it. This is the one. We certainly can’t predict the future, but we can envision it. What I see is two men growing old blissfully in the comfort and care of a house in Hurst.

So, where is home? It’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

If you make yourself an island, I’m gonna sail straight out to you…
— “Island,” Julia Fordham, 1989

People are like islands. Some are welcoming, surrounded by lush blue waters and tropical greenery. They have piers and bridges making it easy to arrive and depart. Others are remote, planted far away from civilization and devoid of any man-made amenities. Those waters are intimidating, casting a dark hue that permanently shades the landscape.

My family are now islands. Yes, plural. Before my father’s death in 2006 I thought we were all on one island sharing the same emotional and sometimes even physical terrain. Sadly, that is no longer the case. Time, personalities, and even emotions have created a splinter effect.

When I was an adolescent and into my early teen years, my brother and I shared a bedroom and a house owned by my parents. Our relationship was steady but sometimes rocky. Really, we were typical brothers getting on each other’s nerves and yet coming together in a rare act of solidarity when the time was right. My brother had a bit of a tumultuous young adult life before he diligently worked on himself and emerged a truly beautiful human being.

My brother and I are on separate islands. But they sit close enough that a sturdy bridge connects them. Even though we don’t live in the same state, reaching him is as quick and seamless as a text, a phone call, or even email. Today, with both of us in our 50’s and busy with work, spouses, and in his case children, I feel closer to my brother than I ever have. He is my lifeline to my family.

Then there’s my mother and sister. Oh, how in life tables turn and emotions morph. I always felt so close to my mother and by extension close to my sister. Talking to both of those unapologetically Cuban women used to be a most pleasurable adventure. My mother always had sage advice, many times in the form of Cuban axioms that I still remember today. My sister, although high maintenance, usually impressed me with her sheer survival skills. Hers hasn’t been the most enjoyable life – from two divorces to a slew of health issues. Yet for the most part she managed to thrive and prosper.

My father’s death changed all of that. My mother and my sister now live together, each clinging to the other with a stranglehold so fierce that it is impenetrable. They have created, either by choice or by dire necessity, an insular world where only they are inhabitants. Communicating with them is surely possible, but frequently arduous. Even providing financial help, which I do monthly, is a complicated process.

My mother and sister are both on one island. It sits a good 10 miles from mine and is accessible only by boat or a long, treacherous swim. Some days I hop on the small ship. Most days I find myself just opting to stay put. We slowly grow more distant as time goes by. It saddens me, but I’ve accepted it. Therapy continues to help, as does my willingness to stay positive and to realize that I can’t fix other people. I can only fix myself.

I will always be there for my family. They are in my blood. I love my brother, my mother, and my sister. But I’ve learned that bonds we once thought were unbreakable can certainly crack, maybe even completely tear. Blame it on the complexities of human nature taxed by the passing of time.

People are like islands. Some are close enough for a swim. Some are too far for a yacht.

Hi. My name is Mario. I have anxiety.

Really, this is more self-actualization statement than surprise revelation. I mean, I knew this. I knew this even as far back as childhood. I’ve always been Type A, a worrier, an organizer, an over-thinker, a do-gooder. Stressing and processing are natural instincts. Oh, and did I mention that I have an active imagination that runs away with me unless I lasso it back in with the same tenacity as a champion rodeo competitor?

Doctors make me nervous. So does rush hour traffic. And severe storms. What immediately happens is my stomach becomes a throbbing mess. It doesn’t help that I have both a family history of Type A-ness and a sharp memory that won’t forget a traumatic incident that I endured when I was 13.

Classic signs and symptoms of good ole anxiety.

You’re probably wondering why I’m bringing this up now. I’m 53. Been dealing with this for years. So, what’s new? In the last six years it’s become more intense, more noticeable, and unfortunately less manageable. I can no longer just ignore it. I can’t keep chalking it up to, “Well, that’s just me.”

I’m a proactive guy. I consider myself self-aware and quite capable of looking at myself in the mirror and honestly picking out the flaws that need fixing.

Hi. My name is Mario. I have anxiety.

What am I doing differently now? Glad you asked. Here’s the list:

• I’m seeing a counselor once a month who has profoundly helped me recognize the signs of anxiety and stress, then deal with them in checklist fashion – complete with breathing techniques.
• I’m learning that I can’t fix anybody but myself. Toxic people are getting easier and easier to erase from my life.
• I’m going to bed earlier, waking up earlier, getting to work on time, moving through rush hour carefully and confidently. Most importantly, I’m in much less of a hurry.
• I’m a vegan now and low carb. I’ve lost 22 pounds. This has greatly improved my mindset, my outlook, and my self-image.
• I do a Pilates workout once a week and walk about 13,000 steps a day. Both are super helpful for my serenity.
• I’m working on not worrying about what I can’t control and be as prepared as I can be for what I can control.
• I’m realizing that life is short, this isn’t a dress rehearsal, so I need to live my best life.

I want to add that I’m doing all of this without the help of medication. I have no issue with medication. It’s great, and I know that it truly helps many people live happy lives. More power to them! But for me, for this issue, I need to heal from the inside out. I need to proactively dissect my own insecurities instead of letting a pill put a band aid over them.

Little by little, with each passing day, I’m getting there. Do I still have a bout with anxiety here and there? Oh yeah. But now I know how to deal with it intellectually and physically. I even know how to mitigate it or stop it altogether before it even starts. I’m on my journey.

Hi. My name is Mario. I have anxiety. But I’m getting better.

I remember that it was a sunny, South Florida morning. I was home sick from school. I think I was 13, or was I 14? Anyway, it was just mom and me. I was still in bed but got abruptly woken up because mom was screaming. I ran to the kitchen to find a man in a suit pointing a gun at my mother.

I remember his dark, three-piece suit. I remember his jet-black hair, and that he wore glasses. His face? I couldn’t begin to tell you. When you suffer such a life-altering trauma, some details are forever sketchy.

PTSD is real.

How did he get in the house? Well, my mom told me later that he knocked on the front door and claimed he had left his sunglasses in my father’s office the day before. My dad was an accountant and bookkeeper and he frequently saw clients at his home office, which was on the other end of the house and accessible from outdoors.

My mother asked him to wait outside, she closed and locked the front door, and went to my dad’s office in search of the man’s sunglasses. She found nothing. She relayed the information to him and asked him politely to give her his name and number and she would pass that on to my dad, who had perhaps found his sunglasses and put them away somewhere safe.

The man insisted my mother look again. So, she repeated the process, and again found nothing. Sensing he wasn’t making progress, he asked her for a drink of water. My mother, against her better judgement and just because she wanted to be done with him, let him inside the house. He drew his gun as she was filling the glass.

He didn’t expect to find me home. When I ran to the kitchen he seemed visibly shaken by my presence. In fact, he was anything but calm. I could see his hand tremble as he held the gun. Clearly, this guy was an amateur.

In his desperation to keep us quiet and out of the way, he forced us to lay on the floor between the kitchen wall and the dining room table. My mom burst into nervous fits of screaming. She wouldn’t stop. He panicked and told me, “Shut your mother up or I’m going to kill her!” Those were hard words to hear.

PTSD is real.

I put my hand on my mom’s mouth and begged, “Mom, please shut up!” She kept screaming, but at this point the man seemed resigned to just do what he came to do. He turned toward the bedrooms. My dad, who had little regard for banks, usually kept a good sum of money in a mirrored armoire in my parents’ bedroom. It almost seemed as if the man knew this.

As he began walking, the doorbell rang. You see, while my mom was screaming as we were both laying on the floor, a neighbor’s son two houses down was passing in front of our house on the way to his. He heard my mother. As soon as the boy got home, he told his dad that my mom was screaming. His dad, not tall but rather large, immediately walked over to our house.

The doorbell startled the man. His eyes shifted. His hand trembled again. Yet another unexpected snag. He opened the door and our bold neighbor burst into the house, big belly leading the way. This was too much for the man to handle. He panicked, bolted out the door, into his car, and sped off. The ordeal was over. But the trauma lingers.

PTSD is real.

We don’t know who the man was. We filed a police report, but it was essentially useless. He took nothing. Well, except for my sense of security.

Today, more than 40 years later, I still deal with the post traumatic stress disorder of that fateful, sunny morning when I was home sick from school. I still have a recurring dream: It’s late at night and I’m in my parents’ house alone. The doorbell rings. I look out the peephole and see a hand with a gun pointed right at my eyes. Then I wake up.

To this day, right before I go to bed, I still check all the locks. On a good night, I check them only twice. If I’m especially paranoid, I check them more like five times. Counseling has helped. I can now exercise top-down logic (brain to emotions) and stop myself from verifying my house is locked more than a couple of times.

PTSD is real.

We frequently hear about soldiers who deal with post traumatic stress disorders years after they have fought in combat, sometimes watching friends die. But PTSD isn’t particular to a demographic. We can all struggle with PTSD. All it takes is one life-altering trauma.

I will forever remember that sunny, South Florida morning.

I’m married to my lower back. Is it a good marriage? We get along. Some days we fume, other days we smile. We know one can’t live without the other so we try to stay happy and harmonious.

The relationship has been one of metamorphosis. This journey began in 1994, not long after I arrived in Dallas from Miami. New job, new city, new apartment, and well, yes, new backaches. My back went out in 1995 and a coworker recommended a local chiropractor. There began my 20-plus years as a no-pills, no-shots, all-natural patient of the wonderful world of chiropractic care.

But, me being the gotta-exercise nut, I popped in home aerobics tapes. By now my life partner and I are living in our first house. One night I was doing my aerobics and – BAM! – out went my back. Early the next morning I was at the massage therapist (I already had one then) and the chiropractor. More care, more wisdom, more homework, and back to the routine.

Until 2004. I will never forget that morning. I was getting ready for work, in the bathroom with jammies still on, and I leaned over the counter to put on a contact lens. The baseball bat to my waist was fierce, excruciating. I immediately hit the floor, the pain was unbearable. My beautiful husband helped me down the stairs and into the car for an emergency trip to the chiropractor. My lower back, smack dab in the middle, throbbed.

My disc ruptured and fragmented right above my tailbone. The MRI revealed pieces of my disc floating in my lower back. Surgery was imminent. The two months wait to go under the knife was precarious. I could take leisurely walks. That’s it. I was told in no uncertain terms that if my back went out again, I was to be rushed to the emergency room.

I had a discectomy in November 2004. By the following February I was cleared to exercise again. I decided to work with a personal trainer. No more aerobics tapes. Let’s do it right this time. I was in the gym regularly for five years, doing things that to this day can’t believe I mustered.

But disc degeneration (read: arthritis) is no joke. My disc is fine, but my lower back muscles are constant work. Lower back muscle spasms have sent me to the emergency room. They could feel almost as bad as that fateful morning in 2004. Almost.

Still, I am married to my lower back. We are in constant therapy to keep the bond strong. How are we getting along? Pretty good. Don’t get me wrong, the relationship is high-maintenance. I stretch several times a day. I walk 15,000 steps a day. I do an hour of Pilates once a week. That picture above is me at a recent Pilates session. I visit the chiropractor twice a month. And I get a deep tissue massage once a month.

Still no pills, no shots and all-natural. I now have knowledge and experience, two powerful tools in the daily effort to keep my lower back healthy. I’m at my lowest weight ever, hovering between 155 and 156, thanks to my vegan low carb lifestyle. Being lighter on my feet makes my lower back smile.

I’m also surrounded by amazing people who fill my receptive brain with invaluable information. From my so-patient chiropractor Dr. Corey Skinner at Action Chiropractic in Dallas, I’ve learned the nuts and bolts of the lower back – this is connected to this, which is connected to that. He’s also taught me to chill, to breathe, to stop and evaluate before stressing.

From my fabulous massage therapist Scott Fryer at Optimal Stretching in Dallas, I’ve learned better ways to stretch and to understand the twists and turns of my lower back muscles. Because of Scott, when my lower back muscles speak I listen. He also said these prophetic words to me when I was at my lowest with pain and discomfort, “Gravity is kicking your ass.”

Enter the extraordinary Zoe Stein Pierce at Z Moves in Fort Worth. She has not only introduced me to the wonders of Pilates, but she has given me the confidence to recognize my potential and pitfalls. Because of her I am in tune with my flexibility and its shortcomings from the inside out. Zoe put me on an omnipotent wavelength with my body.

All successful, lifelong marriages need attention. My marriage to my lower back is a love affair that beats passionately. I’m keeping it that way.

Brace yourself; I’m going to get political. Actually, I’m going to get personal about my politics. But because I truly believe that the personal can be universal, I’m thinking that there are many others out there like me.

I’m a liberal. But I’m not a liberal because I made a pointed choice between Label A and Label B. I’m a liberal because there is no other alternative for me. I’m a Cuban-American. I’m gay. I’m pro-choice. I’m for gun control. I’m not religious. I’m a total live and let live guy. I treat others the way I want to be treated. I care deeply about humanity. I’m also a vegetarian.

Oh, and I live in Texas. Whew! How’s that for an uphill climb?

I’m very passionate about individual freedom, about representation, about making sure our elected officials embrace all people – all nationalities, all sexualities, all ethnicities, all colors, all shapes, and all sizes. More than 30 years after I cast my first vote, it seems to me that increasingly there are less and less political candidates openly embracing all people. The segmentation is rampant. The exclusion is stifling.

In many ways, I’m the big whammy. I know who I am. I don’t hide it, yet I don’t flaunt it, either. I just live. Sometimes I wonder if it’s harder to live in full color these days. With all the advancements – literally and figuratively – you’d think that tolerance and even acceptance would be an everyday reality. It is, and yet it isn’t. The climate can be hostile, and yet it can be warm and welcoming.

This is exactly why I demand inclusiveness from our elected and to-be-elected officials. Open your arms as if you’re about to hug a house, and then take in as many good people as you reach. The more our leaders fight for the people, the more we all matter.

Let me pontificate on a few freedoms that I fervently defend. Women should have every right to choose whatever it is they want to do with their bodies and the body inside their bodies. Men, particularly men in government, have absolutely no business telling them what they can and can’t do. I’m a man. I can’t bear a child. Who am I to tell a woman that she must? Who is any man to tell a woman that she must? That still boggles my mind.

The LGBTQ community is near and dear to my heart. Sexuality is innate. We don’t choose it. If we chose it, everybody would choose to be heterosexual because it’s the easy, most acceptable way out. Who you love, who you allow in your bedroom, who you marry, and what physical and emotional transformation you undertake is your business. Live and let live.

And now, deep breath, the gun control issue. Look, here’s the deal: I don’t own a gun and I have no desire to own a gun. If you are a responsible gun owner who acquired that firearm legally, more power to you. Enjoy! All I want to see is officially regulated mandates to keep those guns from sitting in inexperienced, maniacal, dangerous hands. Period.

As far as I’m concerned, these are all common-sense passions. These are passions that I believe are for the greater good. I vote for the greater good. I vote to make sure that everybody – male, female, black, white, Hispanic, gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, Christian, Jewish, Atheist, gun owner, non-gun-owner – has a voice. I vote to make sure that everybody has representation.

We live in a huge country that’s perched smack dab in the middle of a gargantuan universe. We live next door to families, strangers, lovers, foreigners, military, civilian, and clergy. We must all co-exist. We all breathe the same oxygen.

My politics are personal. Maybe they are also universal. I’m a liberal and I’m proud of it.

Integrity matters. Intentions matter. Greater good matters. Humanity matters. Let’s never forget that.

I wrote that on Facebook. It was inspired by another post I saw that described success as the desired means to an end – no matter how you get there. In other words, success is even greater if you arrive through shortcuts, deception, dishonesty, and mistreatment.

How disheartening. And how empty to truly believe that money, rewards, awards, promotions, and all other self-aggrandizing hosannas are just as worthy if you don’t deserve them or didn’t work hard for them.

I know I’m sounding holier than thou. That isn’t my intention. I like money, rewards, awards, promotions, crowns, etc. etc. See that picture above? Those are my awards. They hang in my home. I’ve won a few plaques and trophies through the years. I packed them carefully through a handful of moves. I keep certificates, even seemingly small and insignificant ones.

Look, it’s nice to get recognized. Really nice. Promotions? Hell yeah! Raises? Gimme! But even at my most ambitious, I would say about 20 years ago, I never took the easy route. When I ventured onto the long road of professional reinvention in 2013, I toiled daily honing and fine-tuning my career purpose, revamping the resume, networking (online and in person) and making sure that all stones were turned and polished before I set them back on the ground.

The reason was paramount. The end reward was tantamount. And feeling like I accomplished something with sweat and smarts was and is, well, priceless.

Maybe it’s a generational thing. Maybe my Generation X, 53-year-old, salt-and-pepper-haired, Cuban-American self knows that he long ago graduated from the school of hard work. Maybe he realizes that today’s younger generation – not all, but certainly some – are just fine with reaping the benefits without crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s. We do live in an instant gratification society, and they did grow up with cell phones and computers at the ready. My generation did not, so that could certainly make a huge difference.

We also live in a society that puts dangerous emphasis on celebrity, fame, notoriety and recognizability as barometers of success. Shoot, we have social media now where anybody and everybody can film mini movies of their otherwise mundane lives and watch it go viral for no real reason other than we’re bored and we need a video to entertain us. I’m guilty. I watch them.

I will say that it drives me nuts when people post pics of their meal before they eat it. Um, who cares? Aren’t you hungry? Eat! When I was a music critic, I got so sick of watching people video filming every minute of a concert. Their arms cramped holding the phone for so long, and surely, they weren’t paying close attention. But by God they got it all on video!

Anyway, I digress. Back to the measure of success. I guess it’s subjective and hey, to each his or her own, right? But for me, I want to know I earned something. I want to feel that sense of accomplishment. I want to live the journey, walking one foot in front of the other, and then taste the sweet victory of the finish line.

Success, like so many things in life, is subjective. It may not mean the same thing for any two people. I learned years ago that I couldn’t take for the sake of taking. I couldn’t lose my personal convictions in my quest for a lofty title, a fat paycheck, and a shiny trophy.

Those awards in the picture above hang in my bedroom, inside my closet to be exact. True, most visitors wouldn’t see them. Even if I gave you a tour of the house you wouldn’t see them. That’s by design. I see them every time I open my closet and pull out a shirt or a pair of shoes. I like them there. I worked hard for every single one of them. That is my definition of success.