Dr. Mock has published Five books with Floricanto Press, Berklety, CA. His articles have appeared on publications like The Chicago Tribune and several gay and lesbian newspapers. He was inducted in The Chicago GLBT Hall of Fame in 2007. He can be reached at: www.carlostmock.com An excerpt of Borrowing Time; A Latino Sexual Odyssey El Velorio – The wake Titi Elisa was dying. I remember like it was yesterday. I was in the second grade and my sister Elena and I were pulled out of school. Our half brother, Manny, was already fighting in Vietnam. Titi Elisa was mamita’s sister. Mamita was my grandmother on my mother’s side. They lived together in a house in Ponce on the other side of the island. At the time, there was no expressway to go to Ponce, so the trip would take three and a half hours, (these days it is only an hour and a half) assuming that papi would not take one of his famous “short cuts” in which case you would never know how long. The worst case that I could remember was a seven-hour trip door to door. The road to Ponce was carved into the slope over two mountain ranges making it very dangerous and curvy. Our maids, Tita and Tina, would need to take anti-nausea medicine, otherwise they would inevitably get sick on the trip. That would be another reason for us to take longer. If either of them would forget their medications, we would be forced to stop until they would get better. Sometimes we would have to stop just to let them puke. Because of the severity of the situation, and because we had no idea how long we would be in Ponce, it was decided to make the trip with just the four of us: Mami, Papi, Elena and I. Papi was forbidden to use any of the shortcuts. Mami was visibly upset. More than one time, we were told not to talk. On our trips to Ponce, papi would play Veo Veo (I see, I See). It would go as follows: Papi: Veo Veo (I see, I See) Mami, Elena, and I: ¿Qué Ves? (What do you see?) Papi: Una cosita (A little thing) Us: ¿Con qué letrecita? (Starting with what little letter?) Papi: La letrecita __ (The little letter __) Then we would guess what he was seeing and whoever guessed would be it. Other times we would sing. In the days before computer games and video recorders, we were forced to come up with our own forms of entertainment. We would do the things that would never be done at home, and they were done as a family. We were forced to be together for a long time, in an enclosed place, so it was hard to get out of it. At our destination, we might part our ways, but here and now we were forced to put on a perfect face without going crazy. In the car, nobody was perfect, yet nobody cared. Today, we did not sing, we did not play games. It was a very long three and a half hour trip. All I was thinking of was that my great aunt was going to die. It was a curious term for me. I thought that she was going to go somewhere where we would not see her again. I was unable to understand why. Why would she leave mamita all alone? Suddenly, a curious calm came into my soul; a kind of dreamy indifference to my situation. Had I been able to understand more of what was going on, I would have concluded that I was not afraid because none of this could possibly be real. Of course, I did not reason this out. I was too young to reason at this moment. I was here to witness death, I was here to become a living instrument: a flesh-and-blood camera, recording this event. Mamita’s house finally came into our visual field. The house was a small Spanish style house in the subdivision of Santa María in Ponce: the stucco was washed out pink; the roof was red-tile. There was a great deal of elaborate tile work at the front steps with an ironwork enclosed balcony with the tiles themselves surrounding the area where windows had been removed to open the balcony to the outside breeze. The tiles were bright blue, turquoise, and white: with complex patterns lending a touch of beauty to the façade. I had posed for pictures at that ironwork when I was a little baby, with mamita and Titi Elisa behind me. The front door looked as though it was meant to keep all-evil from the house. How had death found its way in was beyond my comprehension? We were rushed inside to Titi Elisa’s bed. The rest of the family was already there. I saw cousins that I had no name for, people that would only come together when someone got married, or, like in this case, when someone died (or was about to die). Mami’s sister, her husband and three kids were there. They had already paid their respects and were lined up in the living room awaiting the inevitable. Mamita’s sister, Merche, her husband and three kids were there. They were also waiting. As we were being prepared to say our final goodbye, mamita’s brother arrived with his wife and daughter. There were people there that I had no idea who they were. They were crying; crying aloud. They were holding rosaries, and hitting their chests. (Funny how they were always the same at all the funerals I had been to. I always wondered if they were servants, or were they just paid to add flare to the event…) The family doctor (also a relative) came out and gave mami an update. Titi Elisa’s kidneys had completely shut down. Her blood was unable to filter the impurities her body was making. I overheard the word uremia (Uremia). Apparently back in those times, we had not perfected dialysis, so all there was to do was wait for Titi Elisa to fall in an uremic coma; followed by death. My turn to go inside. Mami asked me to be on my best behavior and kiss Titi Elisa. As I walked inside the room I saw mamita. I ran over to her and kissed her. She was crying. There were more of those ladies inside. They were from the groups that were always crying at funerals. Mamita guided me to Elisa. She told me to be a good boy and say goodbye. It was strange to hear it put that way, but she knew what I was supposed to do. Who was I to question her? It wasn’t easy, if I had let my attention drop for a moment, I would have wanted to ask so many questions, but I knew that was not proper. I wanted to be myself, but I was also supposed to follow instructions. Titi Elisa looked very gray. That was the only way I could describe her. She was dressed in a beautiful blue lace nightgown and had the biggest crucifix I had ever seen on her bosom. Her hair was carefully combed and held together by a lace diadem that matched her bedclothes. Her face had been beautifully made, as if she was going somewhere special. It was when I noticed the Christ on the cross that I felt the presence of father Eduardo. He was a Jesuit priest from our parish in San Juan who had come for the event. I was told to kiss her quickly, because they were going to give her the holy sacrament of extremaunción (the last rites). Elena was rushed in, with mami and papi, so that the holy servant of God could do his work. We then began the process of waiting. There were many servants around. The people that were crying had stopped their mourning duties to go help in the kitchen. A big pot of asopao de pollo (chicken rice soup) was being prepared. Dinnertime came and one by one, the large multitude of people ate until they were satisfied. Just before dessert, there was a foul cry from the room. Titi Elisa was dead. One by one, we went into the bedroom where she lay. She looked happy. I would be unable to describe my recollection in any other way. She looked at peace. I had trouble understanding why everyone was crying. It felt to me like this was a game. Nothing seemed real. Everyone in the room was playing a part, and titi Elisa’s part was to lay still. It all felt like it was an illusion. On Monday morning, everything would go back to normal. I would go to school and everything would be the same. All I had to do was not spoil these people’s dreams. They wanted me to play a part in this sham so I had to go along. They wanted me to believe that titi Elisa was dead, so I was to act accordingly. I was to put on a perfect face (sad) and not go crazy like they were. In the end, my life would become the same daily routine.