why we are
Sam Viverito
Creator
Please allow me to introduce myself. I am a 65+-year-old gay man (you have to guess the +) that has had a wonderful life, until recently. I lost my partner of 39 years. Luckily, I was allowed to be at his bedside and was with him when he passed. Going through this ordeal, I had a realization that made me so angry that I needed to tell my story.
I had a great family that loved and accepted me. Yet, I did not accept myself. My parents allowed me to take dance lessons when I was 11 years old. They tried for two years to discourage it but once I started the lessons, they were behind me 100%. It wasn’t until I saw the movie Billy Elliot that I gave a thought to what my Italian, Catholic father thought of raising a son who danced. One of my most cherished memories was when I worked with Rita Moreno’s Vegas Act. She always introduced me as, “Frankie’s son, Sam Viverito.” My father called me to tell me his co-worker from the electric company had seen me in the show and he was proud of me.
My parents were so eager for me to come out to them, but I couldn’t. I felt I would be less than the perfect son. While it did not cost me a relationship with my parents, it was not a totally open and honest one. After they passed, I mourned the fact that I denied myself to them and them to me fully. It was my fault not theirs.
I had two long-term relationships and my family was accepting and always included my partners as members of the family. My husband and my brother are both named Michael. When I spoke with my mother she would ask, “Are you talking about my Michael or yours?”
“My Michael.” For that’s what he will always be. We had a great life together – many good friends, an apartment in NYC, and a house on 20-acre outside of Woodstock. However, it wasn’t until I sat beside his hospital bed while he was on a ventilator and in a coma that I realized something.
The hospital staff knew I was Michael’s husband. They were wonderful and I did not feel any kind of discrimination from the nurses or doctors. The first day I saw Michael in the hospital bed his arms were tied down so he would not pull out the tube. I held his hand and talked to him the entire time I was allowed to visit. Two days later he was sedated much more so instead of being tied to the bed he had on “mittens” to stop him from pulling the tube out. I had to take off the mitten in order to hold his hand. Every day as I held his hand, I also covered it with the sheet. When the nurses or doctors came into the room, I instinctually pulled my hand away and covered his hand until they left.
Michael was eight years older than me and neither of us were comfortable with showing affection in public. I was a little more willing but did not push the issue out of respect to him. However, I did want to walk down the streets of NYC holding hands like I saw so many younger couples (both gay and straight) do but didn’t. I did sometimes slide my hand under his arm when we were on our block walking home at night but that didn’t last for more than a few steps.
Now for my realization. I became aware of how I was denied the opportunity to share my love for Michael openly because of the way I looked at myself and the culture I grew up in. I denied myself the opportunity to socialize with like-minded people growing up. Actually, I was terrified of gay people because I bought into what society wanted me to. I know that until I was 19 years old, I could be lobotomized, if a doctor deemed it the correct treatment. I was told the Mattachine Society was a Man-Boy organization full of pedophiles. It is no wonder my self-fulfilling prophecy was to grow old alone and be an alcoholic. Because of my life with Michael, I am happy to say I learned that prophecy was bullshit.
I want The HAPI Festival to show younger LGBTQ+ and the world, there is much diversity in our community, and it is something not to fear but to embrace. Let’s celebrate our similarities, not our differences.
