My Body, My Canvas: Efra's Memoirs
Friends, I’m reaching out to you at this time because I need your support in bringing to fruition the narrative of my life in a book form. Mine is a story about overcoming child and sex abuse--surviving adversities as a migrant guest alone in a country far away from family and home. It is also a story of love, lust, adventure, discovery, coming to terms with my sexuality and finding the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. A story I believe will enlighten many about subject matters seldom talked about at the dinner table. At the beginning of the pandemic shutdown, I started writing short stories reflecting on my past and sharing them with friends on social media. The positive response and comments I received from many of you have been overwhelming and nothing short of a big shot of encouragement and inspiration. A year later, I found myself sitting in front of a computer, revisiting my life from the earliest memories conceived, and moving forward. I’m up to the task. My immediate goal is to take the next six months to focus on finishing writing my memoirs and possibly have it on your table by the new year. If you donate $100 dollars or more, your gift will be a limited first edition copy signed by yours truly. Every little bit helps and is greatly appreciated. Gracias and Aloha!
***This fundraiser is being managed by Arendt Speser and Andante Books (Port Townsend, WA). All proceeds go directly to Efra to support the publication of My Body, My Canvas.
An excerpt from the forthcoming book:
When I was about 11, an older boy named Rico and I were really good friends. He was 14 and we often shared snacks, went swimming and fishing, and horsed around on the beach, where his parents had a restaurant where I used to sell puka shell necklaces. He could very well be the first boy I was attracted to but didn’t know it myself--I admired him because he was nice and good at everything he did. We were always together but one day a rumor started when some of our peers jokingly asked if we were boyfriends. He got upset and started distancing himself from me--but one day, on a desolate beach he came up from behind, grabbed me and said, “If I’m to be your boyfriend the least we can do is fuck.” Then he proceeded to pull my shorts down and rape me.
I cried and cursed him for doing that to me, I wished he would die or disappear--I was having problems with increased teasing and bullying at school, I trusted him, I was betrayed and broken over the incident-- I became angry and quiet for some time, something changed in me, something snapped, nothing was the same after that--all the insults hurled at me at school had manifested and turned into a reality after that fateful day--I was a faggot, indeed, it was proven, I was Rico’s bitch, he had sex with me so it must be true. I laid in bed many nights thinking why me, why me, why me? crying myself to sleep.
A few months after the life-altering incident that no one knew about, I saw Rico taking off in the early morning with others for a fishing trip on a day nature unleashed its fury onto Punta de Mita. That day, in the afternoon, all sorts of animals seemed to be worried, flying and running around looking for shelter--the radio was warning hurricane Andres was lingering outside on the Pacific Ocean. Before nightfall my father tied all our furniture to a tree right next to our hut--the sky darkened, raindrops as big as a fist started falling, the wind howled and we all huddled together in our hut for hours through the night with lightning illuminating our thunder-horrified faces--we were in the middle of a hurricane.
The wind and rain subsided and you could hear thunder in the distance just before the sun started to come up. Our chickens suffocated and were all slammed dead against cactus trees, creeks were overflowing, dead animals everywhere. It was a natural disaster with catastrophic consequences to our little village--the feeling of despair seeing people's homes in disarray and the ocean’s unusual calm after the storm--we were usually almost completely disconnected from the world, but this was extreme. The worst came later that day. From the top of the hill where our little hut stood and had miraculously survived the storm, we watched families walk down to the beach and gather on the shore crying, wailing and calling the names of their loved-ones who were presumed missing or dead. That’s how our family learned that day several fishermen from our village were lost at sea--Rico was one of them.