Category: writing

The Naked Truth: How Stripping Down Built My Self-Confidence


In my first foray into the world of Folsom Street East (the largest fetish block party on the East Coast), I didn’t know what to expect. A friend of mine had asked me to go with him. Upon our arrival, one of the first tents we encountered was of the Visual AIDS — an organization that utilizes art to provoke dialogue and supports HIV+ artists. A (very) handsome semi-naked man greeted us cheerfully and invited us to support the cause: “Do you want to take a Polaroid for Benjamin’s project?” I was in for the thrill of the ride and had promised myself I would let whatever happened, happen. We signed a waiver (which we didn’t read) and as we headed down the cue my friend started stripping down. Was there a memo I never got? We were in the middle of the street in broad daylight.

Being naked in public was basically my worst fear, coming to life. “Well, if you can go surfing, you can get naked in front of hundreds of people, it’ll be a nice test!” — I figured. I took my clothes off, leaving on only the skimpy jockstraps I was wearing. Onlookers immediately complimented me for keeping it classic and not branching out with one of those more recent, colorful designs. “Wow, the real sports jock, that’s hot!” Parents and their young children walked by as I laid my clothes down on the foldable table; it was all vonnegutesque.

I had never experienced such freedom. I had never felt so proud about myself, my sexuality, and my body, no matter how imperfect it is. Believe me, I was still petrified, but somehow, it clicked. I was finally able to accept my body image for what it is. I felt I could stop comparing myself to all the hot bodies I see in the gym, or the porn stars in the movies that everyone watches, but no one cares to admit. I felt like one of them, not apart from them. There was nothing so terrible about my figure. No, I don’t have a six pack, yes, there are muffin tops (perhaps from eating too many muffins), and my hair doesn’t always have the perfect wave, but that’s all me.

On my walk home, I wondered: Do these so-called “hot bodies” feel 100% confident about themselves? Or do they, too, sometimes look at people like me and find something they would like to have? Do they also compare and despair?

After turning down a couple of post-Folsom festivities (the polaroid shot was enough of a thrill), I could not stop thinking of how fun it was to let go of all my fears for that moment, to be (semi) naked in front of other people. I thought about Nodeth Vang, a photographer who had once asked if I would pose for him. “I love your hair and how you look in your apartment,” he said. I sent him a message; he was thrilled to hear from me. We set a date for our photoshoot. This was an opportunity to see myself as others see me. I wanted to discover how I looked on camera. No, I wanted to find out how I looked naked, on camera. I needed to know whether all my self-criticism was a reality or a fantasy.

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I will tell you that the photoshoot was one of the most exciting and sensual experiences I have ever had. I was in love with myself and my body for the first time in my life. I was completely comfortable naked in whatever scenario imaginable.

A few weeks passed, and I received an email from the artist from Folsom, Benjamin Fredrickson. I recalled he was a very sweet guy, talented too; “a real artist” I thought. His work had been shown in museums and art galleries, there was nothing gauche about it. Benjamin sent the polaroid from the fair to my friend and I. We were both happy with the result. The picture was adorable, not at all sleazy (as it could have been) and it absolutely captured our friendship and our relationship: two grown men who deeply cared (and perhaps had the hots) for each other. In the email, he ended with “if you would like to pose for another portrait, don’t hesitate to contact”. So I did.

Benjamin and I met for coffee one afternoon after work, we talked for over an hour and shared so many interests. He was definitely not a pervert, I felt safe. We set a date and time for our shoot, shook hands and went our separate ways. I couldn’t wait to contribute with him as an artist. I wanted to understand what different interpretations might arise from different shoots and artistic visions. Moreover, I wanted to feel that same thrill I’d felt before.

What happened for me that day was cathartic, I learned to let go of all the shame I had been carrying since my years as a fat kid, and just have fun. Benjamin put me in the most unexpected positions; I simply followed his lead. He told me to bend over, push my ass up, bend my legs over my head, stand up, sit down… I did it all! I felt complete serenity and connected with what those models must have felt when posing for Picasso. There is a connection that occurs, a fire that sparks in the eye of the artist and the way he thinks and interprets your beauty is so personal and unique to him. That is what I wanted to see in the film. At that moment I had no judgement; at that moment I was certain I would never feel ashamed of what I was doing. Whether those images ended in a magazine or an art show, it all made sense to me. At that moment I finally understood the difference between nudity for art and pornography. I know, this could unleash a long drawn-out conversation, but in my head it became simple and neither are bad or wrong — they simply are.

The last five years of my life have been all about self-acceptance and discovery, I’ve done things I never believed were possible. I learned surfing, I jumped from the top of a waterfall, I wrote a screenplay and I fell in love. Twice. Loving myself and my body, as it is, was probably my last threshold. I am happy to say I crossed it and will hopefully never go back again. First, I had to come out of the closet, then, I had to be accepted by my gay peers and live up to unrealistic beauty standards. Most of those standards however, lived in my head. Today all I want is to be real and happy. We are all different from each other, there is definitely room for everyone.

How Models Taught Me it is OK to Miss Home

One of my assignments in fourth grade was to read a book about a girl who traveled abroad on an exchange student program. This was a thoroughly engaging tale of chasing independence, dealing with a language barrier, new cultures, and experiencing feeling homesick for the first time. After the class had read the book and turned in the essays, the school arranged for the author to come in to give a lecture. The girl was probably no more than ten years our senior and had attended our school. I had a transcendental experience; it was the first time I had met someone who had actually left home and gone somewhere else. Everything started to make sense to me. Everything, but the idea of feeling homesick.

“Why would she be crying just because she wasn’t home?” I didn’t get it. To me, getting out should feel more like a blessing than a curse. There was nothing wrong with my family or my upbringing, but I felt a longing for life abroad ever since I could remember. It made no sense, and I could not explain it; I only knew how I felt.

A few years later, when I was eighteen, I finally got my first opportunity to go somewhere. I didn’t exactly make it out of Brazil, but I was moving from Porto Alegre to São Paulo, which was significant. I was the first in my family to take such a big step and one of my first friends to go anywhere, for good. Think of it as moving from Charleston to New York. It was huge!

I remember dealing with models who were very young (but not much younger than I was), most of them between 14 and 16 years old. Many girls adjusted well to life in the biggest metropolis of Brazil, pounding the pavement trying to make it in the world of modeling. A few others, however, had terrible bouts of depression and loneliness and broke down quickly. Every now and then, a girl would come into the office crying and desperate to get on the phone with her mother, just because she missed her parents or felt overwhelmed by the size of the city. I couldn’t relate to that feeling. I never cried, I never felt separated, I never felt distant. I was happy. What could be better than pursuing a career in one of the best modeling agencies in the world?

The first few months in my new city went by smoothly. I had to travel down south a couple of times to gather more of my belongings, so I still maintained a fairly close connection with my family. I didn’t have a place of my own; I was couch surfing with a friend of a friend until I figured things out. The distance from where I was staying to work was enormous. I had to take two buses, and the journey could last anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, and that’s not counting the late nights. The neighborhood was not only dangerous, but the buses took longer than usual, as they ran more infrequently. As the challenges grew, I began to understand, to a small degree, what some of those girls might have felt too.

Many years have passed since those first months in São Paulo. I now live in New York and find myself experiencing unique layers of emotional pain. It’s been three years since the last time I was home. A series of events kept me from making the trip back from New York, including a breakup, a green card, and a new apartment. Life happened, and before I knew it, I found myself feeling anxious and irritable. I became an emotional wreck. I watch cartoons, and I cry; the Lipitor commercials come on TV, and I cry; I listen to music, and I cry; heck, even Homeland has been making me cry. I have become a running joke among the people who know me.

I send Christmas cards with corny pictures of my cat and me, I write letters, I FaceTime. I used to denounce the holidays; now I love them. These days I celebrate tradition, and all I long for is a home of my own. For this person, who always believed in being independent and in belonging to the world, it’s quite a change. Could I be homesick?

Through a very painful process of shedding layers of pride and old resentments I believe I finally got to a point where I am able to accept my roots for what they are. I can finally admit that indeed I do miss home and all the drama that can be attached to it. My life may not be in the south of Brazil, but that doesn’t mean I have to abandon it all behind.

I’ve grown to admire and enjoy some of the traditions from my home country and state. I am proud of our beautiful sunsets, the tree-lined streets, the quality of life, the cultural vain that beats stronger than in most parts of that country. I celebrate the gaucho culture, our funny musical accent and even our orange (or is it red?) taxi cabs.

Being home is an opportunity to remember, recharge and reconnect. Going back gives me the chance to look at how far I’ve come and how capable I am of chasing dreams and goals that sometimes feel unsurmountable. When I’m homesick I realize that all those things were possible because of where I came from. The fact that I came from a reality so distant from the goals I was looking to achieve made me even more resilient. Home may be difficult, but it’s unlike any other place I’ve been to. Home is provincial, but it’s where some of my most special memories and connections are. As I age and experience life on life’s terms, I also realize that home is always going to be the place I turn to for reference and support, no matter where I end up.

On Beating the Taboo of Spirituality and Creating a Better Life

Spirituality is taboo. No matter how open-minded we are, there’s a glimpse of a thought that prevents us from launching into the topic as we would about a TV show or a play. Whether we hold back to assess the situation and those around us, there is always that voice that whispers “proceed with caution” in the back of our heads.

Over the years, I’ve seen spirituality expressed around me in many different ways. It was this flora of beliefs and practices that helped me find my own expression. I’ve found that people make their connection through religion, meditation, music, dance, support groups and study, to name a few. All of the aforementioned fascinate me for the way that each person builds their own individual relationship with something that is greater and more powerful than themselves. The sum of these examples have touched me in different ways.

I have never considered myself a religious person. I grew up in the south of Brazil, an area predominantly Catholic. My grandmother enrolled me in Sunday school, I was confirmed, joined the Boy Scouts and all that stuff that most kids don’t like to be associated with. I didn’t love those obligations, but I didn’t hate them either. The stories from the bible fascinated me. It was such a different world from the one I lived in. The 10 commandments baffled me. Not stealing? I get it, but some of that stuff just didn’t seem realistic to the 10-year-old version of myself.

Around that same time I met Berenice, my first English teacher. Berenice was Jewish, something completely new to me. I asked her questions, poked around and soon discovered that many of my classmates (in the Catholic school I attended) were Jewish too. I grew fascinated by their rituals and culture; moreover, I was fascinated by the sense of community they possessed. I immediately wanted to be one of them.

One of our religion class teachers, Pedro, was the epitome of cool, and the precise opposite of all other religion teachers, who were middle-aged nuns. Pedro brought his guitar to class, sang songs and created a stimulating environment in which we were invited to ask questions. In his classes we learned more not only about Catholicism, but all religions: Buddhism, Judaism, Islamism, the Amish and everything in between. Suddenly, all of us were engaged.

Some 20 years later I ran into Pedro at my younger brother’s school, during soccer practice. My former teacher was still the same, dreadlocks and guitar included. I was surprised, he recognized me immediately. We caught up briefly and he told me he was let go from that job not long after I left that school. Polite, funny and sensitive as always, he didn’t go into details but I can speculate that perhaps his open minded beliefs and creative methods were a bit much for a traditional institution.

From those classes I remember becoming very aware about a sense of “destiny” and how life is full of coincidences. I also recollect not exactly understanding those feelings. I didn’t understand the purpose of prayer either. I didn’t get what sacrifice of one’s will for that of others meant. All I know is I always believed there was a force in charge of everything, making sure things happened according to a master plan. The problem was I never felt at ease. At one point I felt as if my life was spinning so fast that I was going to fall.

Around 2010, when I was in fact very close to falling, something clicked. My health had deteriorated and my career was collapsing. I had an immense sense of loneliness in New York and was completely afraid. I was then introduced to meditation. My friend told me about his spiritual practice and we launched into discussions about religion. To my surprise he had none, he was agnostic. My friend however, believed that he was in a spiritual path, and that all humans had a connection of the soul. Although agnostic he got on his knees to pray, daily. He did not pray to God, his prayers consisted of words of gratitude for his blessings, but also for all the negative experiences in his life. Those experiences taught him to push through, be stronger, and learn from mistakes.

It was from a simple conversation that the spark lit up a flame and I found myself no longer in the dark. There was hope. I started reading about different spiritual practices and learned to say more yes than no. Begrudgingly I started praying (not knowing what to, but I did it anyway), on my knees, as taught by my grandmother. I would then sit in silence and meditate; or at least I tried to. First for two minutes, than for five, and now sometimes I go for twenty.

Everything has changed and my practice has not remained linear. I’ve said prayers that belong to different religions, merely because I admired the meaning behind the words. I’ve studied different spiritual beliefs, like the Kabbalah, and I found a way back to myself through yoga, which if you had asked me before, I would have told you it was but a fashion trend.

I found that in the stillness of when I am alone I’m granted the answers I didn’t even know I was looking for. I discovered that there can be many different paths that lead to the same destiny, and I can get there a lot more peacefully if I have a spiritual connection. Whether my pursuit is in religion, meditation, or yoga, that’s all irrelevant. We all can connect within when we need answers or even if we simply want to feel re-energized. Millions of people on this planet can’t be wrong, if they have a spiritual practice that works for them then who am I to argue? Exploring different spiritual paths doesn’t take much time, it shouldn’t really cost any money and no one’s ever died from having too much spirituality and serenity in their lives.