Records on Living Room Walls

As my grandmother left her home of Cuba behind with only a porcelain doll and small duffel bag of clothes to remember it by, not much was promised. Behind her, she left her family, friends, school, home; everything she had ever known was traded for a plane ticket to a country filled with unfamiliarity. She did, however, have one thing that the Castro regime did not succeed in taking from her: her parents, sister, and brother. Together, they struggled to acclimate to a new country, language, and culture, all the while fighting to make sure theirs did not go forgotten. Though years passed and The United States began to feel like more and more of a home, the story of my great uncle’s coming out and getting diagnosed with HIV proved that hardships could be found even in “the land of the free and home of the brave.” 

Growing up, I remember visiting my great-grandmother’s house and admiring dozens of platinum records and pictures on the walls, remnants of a man I would never get the chance to meet. I would gaze at the framed memorial curiously, my bright young eyes staring into those of a tall, dark-haired man who was familiar in an unknown way, close yet somewhere far, somewhere out of reach. I remember wondering, time after time, if he was staring back at me, too, if the joy behind his eyes was born of a happiness that him and his music were being remembered, being honored, being celebrated. When I look back on my great-grandmother’s house, this is what I remember: the hours spent trying to come to know the man with the loving eyes and bushy mustache through his life’s work hanging on living room walls. 

It wasn’t until later that my grandmother found the strength to tell me his story, but once I knew it, I never seemed to miss the ways it defined my family and our belief system. My grandmother’s brother, Aristedes Jacobs, defied social norms of his time and traditions of his culture by coming out as gay during the peak of the AIDS epidemic. Though sexuality was a taboo subject that lived up to the notorious saying of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I often think of the courage it took Ari to face his traditional Cuban family knowing that their culture challenged them to reject his identity outright. 

Heartbreakingly, Ari was a victim of his era and was diagnosed with HIV in his young adulthood. Soon enough, the disease stole away my grandmother's baby brother, leaving me to learn of his legacy through tear-ridden stories and records on living room walls. Though his legacy is a heartache that is still felt by my grandparents, father, uncles, and aunts, I am certain that it has challenged the traditional Hispanic view of homosexuality and replaced it with a yearning for acceptance and empathy within my family. 

Cuban refugees forced to flee in the wake of immense political unrest, my grandmother and her family struggled to create a life and a legacy for themselves in America whilst honoring the ones they left behind. To them, culture and pride were everything; if they did not uphold the values of their country, they would find the mark it left on them slowly fading into oblivion. One of these values, encapsulated by the Spanish word “machismo”, created a deep-rooted and traditional belief in toxic masculinity and homophobia which seeped its way into the inner workings of my family. The term created an idealized and often completely unattainable version of men as unemotional, dominant breadwinners who strived for nothing more than power and women. Machismo culture not only worsened pre-existing gender norms, but it also perpetuated a culture of fear surrounding sexuality. Men like Ari who, by Cuban standards, did not live up to the machismo characteristics by practicing homosexuality were considered weak and inmasculine by nature. Forced to decide between their identities and ostracization by their communities and families, many men chose not to relinquish their pride and value by coming out and instead led lives dominated by fear and shame. 

My great uncle, despite having come out to his two sisters and living his truth behind closed doors, was no exception to the exemplification of discomfort surrounding sexuality within his family. Even after the disease began to deteriorate his body and mind alike, Ari had yet to share his diagnosis or even come out to his parents, and these words were ones left unspoken. Though my great-grandparents inevitably learned of his sexuality and the disease that stole his life away, the conversation was one they could never bring themselves to have; at the mercy of shame, fear, and tradition, Ari was forced to carry a piece of himself to the grave with him. 

While his death undoubtedly left behind insurmountable regret, pain, and suffering, the stories I have heard growing up have been centered on his life, his legacy, and the lessons learned in his wake. Ari’s identity completely challenged his culture, and it forced my family to reassess and redefine the beliefs upon which we build our legacies. In addition to serving as a hammer with which to tear down narrow walls encompassing narrow viewpoints, his story is a motif for the beauty and possibility of growth.  After his death, my great-grandmother showed her acceptance in her own ways; she wore a red pin which symbolizes HIV awareness to his funeral and even requested to be buried at his side. Today, I am proud to say that my family is one who accepts all people for their differences, and they have raised me to do the same. Despite the fact that society and culture pressured them to ostracize him, my family evolved into one who was proud of his story, who speaks fondly of his legacy and passed it on to me so I had this opportunity to do the same.

Though the little girl who used to admire the records on the walls of her great-grandmother's house has now grown up and learned the reality of the man with the bright eyes and bushy mustache, she is still within me somewhere, still searching for places our lives may be paralleled. More than anything, I know Ari through the people who cherished him, and I am grateful to have grown up hearing stories of the way he touched the people I love. If nothing else, we have this in common; we have loved, lived, and laughed with the same people, the very best of people. I wonder if the best parts of Ari live on in those who knew and loved him; if he shares my grandmother’s passion or my aunt’s empathy or my father’s drive. I wonder if his spirit still feels my family to the brim, if he sends them signs or visits his namesake, Ariana, from time to time. I wonder if he looks down on them, and on what they have created, and if he is proud that they overcame tragedy and instead used their pain to fuel progression. 

At his core, Ari was a man who lived his life in pursuit of happiness, and being gay was only one small part of this. A music producer and promoter in the iconic disco era, he loved to create music and share it with those around him. One of my favorite stories is told by my grandfather, who recalls the time Ari casually invited YMCA’s Village People to enjoy dinner with his extremely conservative and unknowing Cuban family. The platinum records I used to admire on the walls of my great grandparents’ living room are pieces of history, symbols of a budding success that Ari was only beginning to acquire and an impact that would long outlive the numbered years he was given. Though the records have since been taken down and the house in which they hung has become someone else’s home, Ari’s legacy lives and breathes through not only my family, but through every person we love, every difference we accept, and every moment we cherish in his honor.