The Good Homosexual - Part One

UNO

Miguel Ortiz crossed the border as you, who are not Mexican, would expect – illegally and under cover of night. I could start Miguel’s story back in Mexico – could tell you of his soccer exploits and his mother and younger sister and all the other humanizing background that will make you care, but I think instead I will jump right to where Miguel got off the bus at the corner of 32^nd and Las Palmeras Drive in the City of Angels. It was a hot summer night and he could feel the warmth of the pavement through his llanquis, the cheap, tire-rubber sandals he wore on his cracked feet.

If you or I were to put on a pair of these sandals, we would be blistered and wincing in a few short steps. But Miguel’s were the feet of a barrio kid – toughened from years of barefoot soccer and hobnailed tire rubber. Miguel smiled as he began to walk up the drive, marveling at the even, un-cracked pavement, manicured lawns and rows of graceful palms. Tomorrow he would take his uncle’s advice – find a communidad of his countrymen, people would help him find work and a place to stay. Soon he would be learning English and earning real American dolares to send home to his mother and sister. Tonight, though, Miguel was walking.

He had always loved walking at home, and here beneath the towering palms of his future he strode with confidence and an eager smile upon his face. Soon, Miguel found himself in a quiet residential area. The houses grew bigger and bigger, and more elaborate. Many had gates and walls, and the blue light flickering off the trees and second floor walls whispered of the luxurious swimming pools and high lifestyle Miguel had seen on TV. This was the Los Angeles he had dreamed of.