City of God. Gil Cuadros
© 1994 by Gil Cuadros
All Rights Reserved
Cover design & photography by Rex Ray
Book design by Amy Scholder
Typography by Harvest Graphics
“At Risk” first appeared in Asklepios Journal, 1990; “RM#,” in Art X Press, Volume 1, No. 1, 1990; “There are places you don’t walk at night, alone,” Harbinger, 1990; “Sight,” in Blood Whispers 2, 1994; “Unprotected,” in Indivisible, 1991; “Indulgences,” in High Risk 2, 1994.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cuadros, Gil.
City of God / Gil Cuadros.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-87286-295-X: $9.95
1. Hispanic American gays — California — Los Angeles — Literary collections. 2. AIDS (Disease) — Patients — California — Los Angeles — Literary collections. 3. Hispanic American men — California — Los Angeles — Literary collections. 4. Hispanic Americans — California — Los Angeles — Literary collections. 5. Gay men — California — Los Angeles — Literary collections. 6. Los Angeles (Calif.) — Literary collections. I. Title.
PS3553.U22C58 1994
818’.5409 — dc20
94-23225
CIP
CITY LIGHTS BOOKS are edited by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Nancy J. Peters and published at the City Lights Bookstore, 261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
At the end of 1987, when my lover John died, I was given two years to live according to my doctor’s estimate. Writing literally saved or at least extended my life. Still I couldn’t have done it without the guidance and support of my much loved teacher Terry Wolverton. She listened and stood by me in my times of grief and struggle with my diagnosis as well as the joyful times and the little work time we actually had left for writing after sharing in class. Anything to avoid that writing part.
My life is doubly blessed with the two most important men in my heart: Marcus Antonio and Kevin Martin.
I’d also like to acknowledge Thom Cardwell and David Hirsch whose meteoric love for each other has inspired my life beyond words.
Furthermore I owe thanks to the Brody Art Foundation and PEN/USA West for their financial support and encouragement. Finally love and light to John-Roger and MSIA, Michael Niemoeller, Paul Attinello, Luis Alfaro and VIVA and Laura Aguilar.
For John Edward Milosch
1952–1987
Contents
Chivalry
My Aztlan: White Place
Unprotected
Holy
Baptism
Letting Go
Sight
2
To the First Time
Dear Richard
My Father Near Retirement
Bordertowns
Resurrection
There are Places You don’t Walk at Night, Alone
The Breath of God that Brings Life
Turmoil
At Risk
Even Months after the Death, John Dreams
The Quilt Series
1. 911
2. ICU
3. REM
4. RM#
5. 4AM
6. DOA
Conquering Immortality
1
INDULGENCES
My mother and father had both come from the same home town, Merced, California. They romanticized the red checkerboard-patterned water tower on J Street, the Purina feed store on K, the old, semi-demolished church that looked like Mexico, rough-hewn, gritty pink stone L Street. Pulling off the highway, my parents would cluck their tongues, stare out of our black Impala, disbelieving the changes. They told my brother and me of the time when blacks kept to their own side of town. “Now the place has gone to pot.”
Dad parked at the small grocery store, El Mercado Merced, a converted house with boarded-up windows and wrought iron bars for protection. The place had a little bit of everything: warped, dark, wooden shelves carrying sodas, tortillas, lard and eggs, things the neighbors always seemed to run out of first. It was central to both sides of my family. Uncle Ruben lived near the corner; Grandma Lupe, across the street; Uncle Cosme, next to her. My great-grandfather Tomas had lived two houses down. “Papa” would walk this street every day, wave to my relatives as he passed by, his blanched wooden cane steadying his balance, the handle dark where he gripped. It was Ruben who went to try to see in the windows why Papa hadn’t gone by that day. It was Cosme who called two days ago to tell us Papa was dead.
My little brother and I ached to get out of the car, the long ride had caused our legs to fall asleep. Jess had complained the whole way that I was invading his side; my father turned from his steering: “Do I have to remind you that you are fourteen years old and should just ignore your younger brother?” Dad was already irritated and said he was going to take Jess to Grandma Lupe’s. I was to go with my mother. My mother wanted me to mind because someone had died.
“It’s out of respect,” she warned while she collected the things she needed from the glove box: a mirror, make-up, tissue. And as we walked the short distance down the street, I looked back and saw my father pull a six-pack of beer from the old cooler in front of the mercado. His hands dripped melted crushed ice, and the sidewalk became stained with its moisture.
My great-grandfather’s house always reminded me of a ranch, the oppressive heat of the San Joaquin Valley, the large wagon wheel leaning against the standing mail box, the way the long, tan, stucco building hugged the ground. I expected tumbleweeds to roll by, a rattlesnake to be coiled seductively in the flower bed’s rocks. My mother’s cousin, Evelyn, had been taking care of Papa and she met us at the door before we even knocked. My mother had just straightened herself again, licking