Mario's Musings

Time marches on. Many of you will remember that as the title of a No. 1 country hit by Tracy Lawrence back in 1996. The song chronicles the dysfunctional lives of one family through the decades – from mom and dad’s crumbling marriage to sister and brother’s forays into styles and substances.

But the message of the tune is bigger than any singer and genre. Time does indeed march on, and with it comes changes. In the real world, those changes – we hope – make us wiser, kinder, nobler, and perhaps even happier. This is a story about all the above. In our increasingly harsh society, how refreshing it is that humanity can prevail. I’ve recently witnessed humanity up close and personal.

It was late June, and we were in South Florida for our 40^th high school reunion. The event, which I helped organize, was intended to be casual, outdoors, communal, and fun. We had a nice turnout of people who all laughed, drank, ate, and reminisced together. That alone would have been enough for me to think, “Yes, this was a success.” But there was more.

In attendance was a former middle and high school classmate who back then was, let’s just say, less than kind to me. When I learned he was coming, it gently jogged my memory, but I found myself having no ill feelings at all. I learned long ago that holding grudges only destroys the owner of the grudge, not the recipient. He arrived and I said hello, wrote his name on the adhesive tag, and handed it to him with a smile. I thought nothing else of it.

He then walked up to me and looked me right in the eyes, “I want to say I’m sorry for the way I treated you when we were in high school.” I was floored and, frankly, at a loss for words. I tossed out something inadequate like we were kids and kids do stupid things, but we are adults now. We both laughed and he gave me a hug.

As the reunion progressed, I made up my mind that before we left, I would tell him something much more appropriate and meaningful. We all helped clean up and pack leftovers and I seized my opportunity. I pulled him aside and said, “I want you to know that I forgave you a very long time ago. But what you said to me earlier was very sweet and I thank you.” He gave me another hug.

Ah, humanity. Now, fast forward to late July. We were at a baby shower for a former co-worker that now lives out of state but came back to town just to celebrate the impending birth of his son. I always enjoyed his company, and our many music talks together. He’s an IT pro and it was he who helped me set up my Mario’s Musings blog. Anyway, as the afternoon progressed and I watched his pregnant fiancée join in the baby shower games, I thought how sweet it was that he found his soulmate, that his life is now focused on starting a family, that he has discovered his place in this world.

Time marches on, indeed. In September, we will return to South Florida for the wedding of my nephew. Let me start by saying his fiancée is lovely inside and out, as is my nephew. Let me also say that I am incredibly proud of him, a 25-year-old man who earned his master’s degree, teaches middle school students with autism, and already owns his home. He’s encountered a setback or two in his young life but has never wallowed in self-pity or allowed his cards to impede his progress. He has more fortitude than so many people I know.

And here we are. I’m soon to turn 58, time keeps marching on. I wouldn’t trade a single year or a single experience. I am who I am today because time marched on. There is no greater feeling than to be surrounded by beautiful people who allowed time to make them wiser, kinder, nobler, and yes, happier.

I have a love-hate relationship with traveling. There, I said it. I also have a multiple personality reaction to traveling. Whew, there’s another one off my chest. Before you start thinking that I’m literally crazy, let me explain.

Traveling pushes all my buttons – good and bad. At its worst, traveling does a tap-dancing number on my anxiety. The actual traveling part of traveling is essentially a huffing and puffing game of rushing to pack, rushing to get to the airport, rushing to make that flight…rushing, rushing, rushing. Then there’s the insecurity part of it. You’re away from home, outside of your comfort zone, in unfamiliar surroundings, and no longer within arm’s reach of something you may need that you unfortunately forgot to bring. It’s an anxiety meltdown.

That’s the very reason that, time and time again, the first couple of days of the vacation trip are particularly edgy for me. I recognize my anxious insecurities, my penchant for PTSD. It’s getting better, but I’m still working on it.

And yet, as I grow older, I want to travel more. Why? Because the physical and emotional benefits of traveling are quite immense. There is so much psychological and intellectual enrichment from visiting another state, another country, another population, and another group of people that don’t live exactly the way you do. I come away with a deeper understanding of me and my life. That comparison factor, stacking up your comforts against those of complete strangers, gives me invaluable perspective. I always arrive back home from a vacation with a sense of reflection and appreciation.

We recently returned from a Hawaiian cruise. We spent a good couple of days in each of the four main islands – Oahu, the Big Island, Kauai, and Maui. The plane ride to get to Honolulu was about 9 hours, which immediately brought home the utter remoteness of the paradise we call Hawaii. Now when they toss off the phrase “the mainland,” I know exactly what they mean. There is a huge separation and disconnect from the rest of the United States. That’s at once exhilarating and terrifying. It’s also amazing perspective. It frames your own existence with such clarity.

What has this epic vacation done for us? Well, aside from it being the longest vacation we’ve ever taken (even the Alaskan cruise in 2015 wasn’t as long!), it has ignited a burgeoning passion for traveling. I know, that sounds like a contradiction given everything I’ve just detailed about my topsy-turvy affair with traveling. At 57, I have realized that not only is life too short to spend it all in an eventless comfort zone, but traveling is the ultimate book-come-to-life experience. An avid reader here, so this is an automatic fascination.

Steve and I are already booked for a Panama Canal cruise in early 2023. We will get to experience the marvel that is the Panama Canal, as well as visit Grand Turk, Turks & Caicos, Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands, Willemstad, Curacao, Oranjestad, Aruba, Puerto Limon, Costa Rica, and Panama City, Panama. We are excited!

This will be our third cruise. We learned a few things after the first one that we applied to the second one. We learned a few things after the second one that we are applying to this one. For instance, balcony cabins are a must! Believe me, they are worth every extra penny. Oh, and pack everything you think you will need then double it. What seems easily accessible to you at home may be a rare extravagance somewhere else.

Yet here’s what’s truly important – traveling helps me understand me. It helps me dissect my insecurities and my PTSD. It helps me control my anxiety. It helps me see beyond the microcosm that is my world. That’s what I call therapy with a view.

I’m a Hispanic gay man, non-religious, liberal, pro-choice, vegetarian, and naturalized citizen of the United States. You’ve heard of a double whammy? Well, I’m a multiple whammy. Lately all those whammies are weighing on me like several pink elephants perched on my shoulders. It’s exhausting.

Today’s climate, both political and even societal, makes me seriously wonder if I belong in this country. That’s a heartbreaking thought because not only have I spent nearly all my life in this great country – I arrived in the US from Cuba when I was a toddler – but I’m a property-owning, hard-working, tax-paying, law-abiding member of this historic nation.

Why shouldn’t I belong here? Why shouldn’t I have the same rights everybody else has? I contribute to this society; I have been working steadily since I was 14, and I have a clean legal and financial record. I treat people like I want to be treated. I do lots of charity work – from monetary donations to volunteering my time. I firmly believe in the live and let live mantra. I’ve been with my now-husband Steve for nearly 33 years, and we have been legally married since 2019. So why shouldn’t I have the same rights everybody else has? Why shouldn’t I be here?

But the wind is ominous. The recent attack on women’s rights, both appalling and distressing, leaves no doubt that LGBTQ rights are next. I don’t fit into the white, US-born, heterosexual male, Christian, conservative mold. I never did. I never will.

What makes all this even more maddening, and saddening is that I love my life. I love my job. I love my husband. I love my family. I love our home. I love this country. As I get ready to turn 57, I have delightful dreams of peaceful retirement surrounded by loved ones and a house that we have turned into a sanctuary. I don’t want to go anywhere.

So, I am living my solidarity out loud. I am fighting the good fight with cylinders revving and megaphones buzzing. Believe me, I thought twice about writing and publishing this blog post. While I’ve never shied away from serious subjects in my Mario’s Musings blog, this one made me pause. I consulted a couple of friends and then plunged full steam ahead. To paraphrase Olympic gold medalist and National Soccer Hall of Fame athlete Abby Wambach, who said similar words in an inspiring commencement speech she recently gave to graduates of Loyola Marymount University, I am going to live my solidarity out loud.

I will not remain silent. I have re-emerged much more politically active than I have ever been, including going beyond just voting by contributing to candidates as well as joining local Democratic groups. The time has come for me to become more a part of the solution than I’ve ever tried to be. Being proactive is the most beneficial way that I combat my anxiety.

Because you know what? I want to stay legally married to my beautiful husband. I want to enjoy all the perks that everyday citizens of this country get for doing the right thing and living their lives without infringing on anybody else’s. I want to belong here.

I’m a Hispanic gay man, non-religious, liberal, pro-choice, vegetarian, and naturalized citizen of the United States. I’m here to stay.

PHOTO — Before and after: On the left, the crusty thing. On the right: At the tail end of peeling.

I have an actinic keratoses. Trust me, it sounds way worse than it is. Simply put, it’s a crusty spot in the middle of my forehead where it meets the hairline that refused to go away. We tried to freeze it with nitrogen. It came back. We tried a prescription lotion. It laughed. So, the next step was a chemo cream compound treatment, twice a day for 7 days. I ended up with a raging sunburn on my forehead and now, nearly a month later and lots of peeling, it is all but gone. Fingers crossed.

An actinic keratoses is pre-cancerous with a quite low 5% chance a year to become skin cancer. I now wear a hat every time I take a walk in the hot Texas sun. The skin is the human body’s largest organ, so taking care of it is a must. Lesson learned.

But that crusty little pest on my noggin took on symbolic meaning. I’m 56. When the dermatologist said “pre-cancerous” to me, even though it was followed by that single digit possibility, mortality slapped me in the face. It was a Cher on Nicholas Cage in Moonstruck moment. “Snap out of it!”

It didn’t help that just as I started slathering my forehead with cold fire cream, mortality was dancing all around me. My wonderful husband Steve lost his grandfather, a sweet and gentle man who died at the age of 105. My lovely mother-in-law began treatments to readdress an ailment that had been dormant for a long while. And a dear, beautiful friend, one of our closest here in Texas, embarked on a bumpy ride to deal with a stage-four cancer diagnosis.

Both are fine, by the way. They are still enjoying life and we are delighting at having them close. But that mortality character, man. Can’t I just tell it to get out of here? Go on! Git!

Life isn’t that easy. Neither is death. That means that, for me, mortality’s unwelcomed visit has served as a wake-up call. Take nothing for granted. Live life to its fullest. Enjoy today because it’s all you have. Hug the ones you love. Tell them you love them every chance you get. How many times have we read those lines in greeting cards? They’re true.

It was during a particularly low moment, when mortality was just jitterbugging mere inches from me, that I had a few dark thoughts. I’m not the deep, dark thoughts type. But the human psyche can only handle one crisis at a time. I felt like I was dealing with four. There was one recent morning when the walls started to close in on me. I had a roughly sketched out plan. Then I cried. The tears cleansed my soul. I hit my rock bottom and I had the wherewithal to keep one hand on the rope so that I could pull myself back to the surface.

Here I am. I have a cherished home that I share with my husband, the love of my life for nearly 33 years. I have a great job that I enjoy. I have friends that make me smile. I have family that shields my back. I have a zest for life that no pesky, crusty, forehead thing can stifle.

All of us, every single one of us, need to allow ourselves the freedom to feel, to fret, and then to cry. It is that inner well that will eventually wash away the anguish and leave behind a clean slate to focus on happiness. We are human, which means mortality is going to pop in unannounced. Don’t let it catch you by surprise.

My name is Mario and I hate my genes. There, I said it. I feel better already. The truth is I hate two of my genes – my bad lower back and my propensity for diabetes. Both are gifts from my parents. My late father passed down the “spaghetti spine,” as he used to call it, to my sister, my brother, and me. My mom, stemming from her family, gave me the propensity for diabetes.

In fact, in our immediate nucleus of five I am the only one that isn’t diabetic. Believe me, that’s an accomplishment because I work very hard and diligently to keep the Big D at bay. Then there’s the lower back issues. I already had back surgery in 2004, a lovely discectomy that while successful has created some havoc with my glutes and lower back muscles.

But this isn’t a woe-is-me story. Nope, I’m done wallowing. I’m done catastrophizing. I’m done letting my anxiety (another gift from the folks!) paralyze me into fear. I’m doing. I’m moving. I’m exuding positivity. And now, I’m sharing it with you.

The secret to reclaiming your life, and I hope I don’t sound like a cheesy infomercial, is to surround yourself with smart, caring, knowledgeable people that can share some of that wisdom. Who better than family?

That brings me to my brother and sister-in-law, Brian and Karen Friedman. They own Winter Garden Yoga, a former brick-and-mortar studio in Florida that is now completely online. It took me a long while to get to them. It was after tenures with chiropractic care, Pilates once a week, and counseling to try and control my anxiety the natural way. Better late than never.

With Karen, I adjusted my diet to maximize sugar-control, protein-quotient, and the almighty health benefits. I’ve been a vegan for more than four years, and I’m now veering toward vegetarian. I’m still vigilant about what I eat but this time I’m armed with so much research, facts, trial-and-error, and good common eating sense that I know I’m on the right track.

With Brian, I have become a student of isometric muscle exercises. I have learned how to safely work those glutes and lower back muscles. No gym required. I’ve bought a few tools here and there and Brian teaches me new moves just about every week during our Zoom calls. I will admit it took us a while to find a groove – my glute muscles are stubborn, baby – but here we are.

Perhaps even more important than exercise, Brian has taught me how to tweak everyday moves. You know, the mundane stuff you don’t think about until it hurts doing it. He has helped me rethink the way I reach for something I dropped, the way that I sit at the computer, and the way that I walk. Ever tried walking backwards? It’s awesome exercise for your back side, plus it’s super fun.

Brian also introduced me to Crooked, a paramount book about the back pain industry and the road to recovery that has already made a huge impact in my life. The combo of reading Crooked, working with Brian, continuing my counseling, and controlling my anxiety has led me to quit the chiropractic care that was a monthly staple for me since 1995. That, my friends, is monumental.

Am I done taming my genes? Ha! Not in the least. I will be taming my genes until I’m ashes in an urn. The difference is that now I’m in charge, not my genes. I am working with them. We are a pre-arranged marriage that neither of us could prevent. So, we’re making the best of each other to keep the union at peace and optimum functionality.

My name is Mario and I hate my genes. But we’re finally living in harmony.

Photo credit by Jasmin Sessler.

When gay pride month comes around in June, I take it with a polite grain of salt. I am proud to be a gay man. But then again, I’m also proud to be a gay man for the remaining 11 months of the year. What makes these 30 days so special?  

I’ve enjoyed gay pride parades. I’ve worshipped at the altar of the great RuPaul. I’ve basked in the big, bright colors of the rainbow flag. Still, I felt no ardent affinity for the booming gay pride pronouncement.

Until 2021. This June, this Gay Pride Month, this soul-revealing year is completely different. Maybe I wasn’t paying that much attention before, but it seems like Gay Pride 2021 is bolder and braver, wider and wiser than any other in the past. Everywhere I turn I see signs of gay pride. I see acknowledgement and celebration from the obvious and the not so obvious. I see and sense a spirit of inclusion and recognition aimed at all things LGBTQ that seemed absent before.

I recently saw a social media ad for Cracker Barrel featuring a picture of the homestyle cooking restaurant’s trademark front porch rocking chairs painted in the rainbow colors of the gay pride flag. The message accompanying the image was one of togetherness, of inclusion, of everybody is part of the family. Let me tell you, even if that’s a marvelously crafted marketing campaign and nothing more, I’m still stunned. This is Cracker Barrel, people. It doesn’t get more country conservative than Cracker Barrel.

Sign of the times? I hope so. Hope is the operative word here. Hope is the word for 2021. After the tumultuous last four years, which culminated in a deadly virus that locked down life as we knew it, hope has certainly sprung eternal. How fitting then that Gay Pride 2021 is riding the wave of spring into the ocean of summer. The moment, this moment, is significant.

Significant moments, at least for me, always prompt reflection. I’m 55 years old, married to the man I’ve spent 32 years of life with, and extremely happy with the progression of my professional career and my personal livelihood. But I never forget where I came from.

I was bullied in grade school because I was gay, although back then I didn’t have a clue. It wasn’t until I was in college that a series of personal events led me to pause, question, and then eventually accept. In my past life as a journalist, I made sure to strike a careful balance between out and loud and in and mute. My closet door never flung open, it steadily crept ajar until the sun blazed my path.

Today, I hide nothing. But by the same token, I’ve never been the type to grab the bullhorn and announce my gay presence. I treat it as just a matter-of-fact reality of daily life. I talk about my husband casually and unflinchingly. I love serving as a mentor for young gays just peeking out into the beautiful, multi-colored world. I may even occasionally let go a flamboyant Z-snap that would earn Ru’s approval.

Most importantly, I’m proud. I’m proud to be a Cuban American gay man. I’m proud to be a content marketer. I’m proud to be a writer. I’m proud to be me. And this gay pride month, I’m prouder than ever.

Snow is blinding. It’s a canopy of whiteness that casts a pallor on the atmosphere. At first, it looks like every light in the house is on even in the dead of night. But then snow becomes spellbinding. It hypnotizes you, gradually obscuring everything around it until it all descends into an opaque, white-meets-gray haze.

For me, a Miami-raised Cuban-American who moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth area 27 years ago, snow holds no magic. I don’t look forward to it. I don’t build snowmen. I don’t relish watching it fall. I’m not a fan of winter in the least. In fact, I would rather endure a tooth extraction than one week of frigid winter.

Snow equals paralysis, a blanketing freeze that cripples everyday life as we know it. At least that is my experience. It didn’t snow one flake during my 28 years in Miami, so my snow-maggedon rude awakening wasn’t until I moved to DFW. Two events I remember clearly – the foot-plus onslaught of snow in 2010, and the snowy, icy mess that preceded the Super Bowl in 2011. But that was nothing in comparison to the state-wide arctic blast of February 2021. That one didn’t just give us lots of snow and plenty of ice, it also gifted us with single-digits and below-zero temperatures.

Never in my entire life had I endured the Alaskan Tundra-styled deep freeze of the 2021 winter storm. It brought the entire state of Texas, and Texas is a big state, to below-freezing temps. Power outages were everywhere. Clean drinking water became contaminated. State officials scrambled to answer for the wide swath of power losses in the midst of bone-numbing temperatures. Folks fled to shelters (dubbed warming centers), hotels, and hospitals with hypothermia. My husband Steve and I certainly weren’t spared. We lost power almost immediately and ended up about 35 miles from home to stay in a hotel close to Steve’s work. The roads were just too treacherous for him to make three round-trip commutes in three days.

I felt so helpless, so consumed by catastrophic thoughts. Will our house survive this disaster? Will our pipes freeze and burst no matter how many precautions we took to safeguard them? Will all of that blinding snow ever melt?

Winter leaves me nearly catatonic. I don’t function well in cold weather. It affects my lower back, it makes me shiver, it prevents my thoughts from flowing clearly. This seems to have gotten much worse since losing 42 pounds. Call me a skinny wimp, but my body has a really hard time taking the brutal attack of wind chills and temperatures that clock in at less than my age. I’m 55. There’s a reason I have spent my life in two southern states.

Yet we are all on a journey, right? So, let’s make this a learning opportunity. Steve and I have vowed to get our gas fireplace serviced and get a tutorial on how to use it. We were never fireplace people. That’s gonna change quick. We have also decided to purchase a generator once they become less than hot commodities. And hopefully, now that we have firsthand knowledge of the very destructive nature of a winter storm, we will be prepared to do a whole lot more than drip faucets, open sink cabinets, and cover outside spigots.

As for me, I’m not sure I can cleanse my psyche of winter’s horrors. Give me a 100-degree summer day and you won’t hear me complain. I actually love summer. It’s my favorite season. I’m also not sure I won’t ever again be a nervous wreck behind the wheel when there is snow or ice on the roads. However, in life knowledge is always power. There are no more surprises.

Snow is blinding. But I won’t let it blindside me.

I’ve never felt compelled to display the American flag. I walk around my neighborhood regularly and see house after house proudly letting the stars-and-stripes flap in the breeze. I could count the flag poles and easily lose track of the tally. There are that many.

That kind of public manifestation of patriotism never interested me. And it isn’t just a United States thing. I was born in Cuba and never had the urge to display the Cuban flag, either. I’m a proud gay man married to the love of my life, yet the thought of flaunting the rainbow-colored flag is also a firm “nah.” Flags, the quintessential symbol of pride, whether it be nationality, ethnicity, or even fraternity, seem so unnecessary to me.

Please don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against those that choose to show their patriotism this way. Many flags are quite beautiful – colorful, artistic, and iconic. I also understand that they serve as physical demonstrations of a deep-rooted sense of belonging. Plus, flying a flag inside and outside the privacy of your own home is decidedly your prerogative. Live and let live.

But my patriotism, my idea of serving my country and my nationality, live and breathe in my soul and in my brain. I became a US citizen when I was 12 – March 1978, to be exact – and it is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life. I may have been too young then to realize its importance, but I certainly get it now. I have lived nearly all my life in this great country, and I honor it every day.

Patriotism, to me, is akin to pragmatism. It’s about the greater good. I have been working and paying taxes since I was in high school. I had part-time jobs from 9^th grade all the way to my university graduation. I enjoyed full-tuition scholarships to a two-year community college and then to a university for the final years of my undergraduate studies. I graduated with honors from both institutions. If I was going to be lucky enough to get a free education, I was certainly going to work hard to deserve it.

I’ve paid off three cars. I’ve co-owned three houses, including the current home I share with my husband. I prepare my income tax returns every year in good time. I enjoy patronizing local retailers and ordering online from mostly stateside businesses. My husband and I have a dream to visit all 50 US capitals. So far, we are about half-way.

From my vantage point, those are the hallmarks of moving the country forward. You work for a living, honestly earning your money. You pay your fair share of taxes. You own real estate. You feed the economy by being a consumer. You obey all laws. You are kind to your neighbors. You live peacefully and without any incident that would affect others around you. You uphold the tenets of the society you call home by example, not by symbols. That, my friends, is my ultimate proof of patriotism.

However, I do have a little something that screams United States loyalty. While I don’t own a flag, I do own a shirt. A couple of years ago I bought the coolest shirt. It is red, white, and blue. The colors are arranged in such a way that it could pass for a flag if it were on a pole. Every time I wear that shirt, I think of my Cuban-American heritage and smile. I wear it proudly. I feel like I belong in this country.

The mother of a childhood friend passed away. Learning of her death hit me emotionally and rather unexpectedly. She was a very sweet lady. She always asked my mom and my brother about me. She lived across the street from the house I grew up in. She died in hospice care in that same house. During one of my trips to Miami, I spent a little time with her again. She met my husband Steve.

The memories flooded my mind. Oh I lost track of her son long ago. We drifted apart like so many childhood friendships. Nobody’s fault, it just happens. We grow older and our lives no longer align on the same path. But his mother always had a place in my heart. When I saw her last, long after her son had married and moved away, it was like seeing an old friend, a warm reminder of my innocent childhood days.

My childhood is dying. It’s inevitable. Mentally we are all prepared for that reality, but emotionally we will never be. It doesn’t get easier. I remember when Donna Summer died. I remember when Prince died. I remember when the Bee Gees were all of a sudden only one Brother Gibb. They were pieces of my childhood that faded away.

As human beings, we strongly hold on to memories. Those memories live vividly in our minds, in our hearts. They are static like snapshots that tell a story. When reality barges in and abruptly rearranges that photo we are left with an emotional sea rushing through us. We get caught in an internal push and pull. The memories dive into a tug of war with the reality.

I can still remember clearly the last time I saw her. The house I once knew had changed dramatically thanks to her daughter and son-in-law, who were now its legal owners. But it was still a short walk across the pavement from the home that raised me. She looked older and had survived cancer, but her warmth was as young and strong as ever. Hers had not been the easiest life, but she still managed to see it with positivity and sunniness. Sitting in her living room with Steve by my side felt like yesterday meeting today.

In the last three years I also lost my aunt, my mother’s sister. She was a lady that I considered my second mom during my pre-teen years. I spent the night many times at her house, ate her food, and will never forget her secret recipe for chocolate milk – she added a pinch of salt. I must admit it was inexplicably yummy.

Her adopted son, my cousin, chose to distance himself from the family after her death. I texted him my condolences and even offered a memory or two to express how much his mom meant to me. His response was detached. I guess he felt that he was the family outsider because he wasn’t a blood relative. Now with the death of his one link to us, he made it clear that he was done. That was a double whammy. My childhood is dying.

We can’t go home again. That cliche is the ugly truth. When people who shaped your character, who helped build your very existence leave this world there’s no question that yesterday is gone. All we have left are memories neatly organized in a box.