A Life Reimagined: Smiling Politely While My World Was on Fire

I am honored that my short story will be included in the International Memoir Association 2027 edition of the anthology Shaking The Tree, volume 9. It is a short read.

I used to think survival meant silence. That if you smiled politely—even when your

whole world was on fire—you’d be okay. And I was. I was the perfect little boy that

mothers wished their sons to be. No, really. I’m fine.

I grew up during the Great Depression in the bi-racial projects, a gay Jewish boy

surrounded by chain-link fences, bruised egos, and overcooked brisket. My mother

believed in God, good manners, and the power of Lysol. My father believed in hard

work and not talking about things—especially feelings. We didn’t talk about my being

gay. We didn’t talk about anything.

At school, I was the boy with the sharp tongue and better taste than anyone else in the

lunchroom. I didn’t play sports, but I could accessorize a corduroy blazer like a pint-

sized Liberace. I was voted “Most Likely to Redesign the School Uniform.” I was also

voted “Most Likely to Get Beat Up Behind the Dumpster.”

At synagogue, the rabbi would say, “Let us rise.” I rose. With good posture.

I wouldn’t hide who I was. So instead, I became more of it. My head held high.

At home, when things got tense – which they often did – I cracked a joke. A well-placed one-liner could diffuse almost anything. I learned early that if you could make

people laugh, they wouldn’t notice you were bleeding.

I dreamed of escape. And not just any escape. A glamorous one.

Then, there was Paris. Yes, that Paris. The one with croissants, couture, and cafés

where people actually sit and talk instead of scrolling on their cell phones.

How I got there is a blur involving charm, hustle, and a passport photo that did not look

like me, but to be fair, I looked pretty damned good.

Paris changed everything. The city didn’t just accept me. It flirted with me. It seduced

me. Whispered to me. Said, “Darling, wear the scarf. Order the wine. Be you.”

So I did. In Paris, I wasn’t “that funny little gay Jewish kid from the projects.”

I was mysterious. Exotic. I was chic.

I fell in love—with men, with cheese, with the way the French say “Zut!” like it’s a full

sentence. There were candlelit dinners and moonlit kisses and one very ill-advised love

affair with a man who wore velvet slippers. I regret nothing—except not owning those

slippers.

But like all good things, Paris eventually faded.

Reality called. And her area code was 90210.I landed in Beverly Hills, where reinvention is an Olympic sport and no one tells the

truth about their age, their hairline, or their second husband. It’s a town where an

aristocrat is a person who can trace their ancestry back to their father.

And that’s where I found my next act: fashion.

Me. A gay Jewish kid from the projects.

Suddenly dressing people whose closets cost more than my entire childhood. I was

styling actors and actresses, designing spaces, curating wardrobes, and lives, advising

what to wear as if my life depended on it. And some days, it did.

I climbed the ladder in Gucci loafers and worked the runway from the sidelines. I

polished identities. I made other people look perfect while holding my own life together

with double-stick tape and prayer.

But here’s what they don’t show in the glossy spreads: Success doesn’t erase where

you came from. It just gives you better lighting.

Behind the designer labels and Rodeo Drive charm, I was still that kid from the

projects. Still wondering. Am I too gay? Too Jewish? Too much? Does my insecurity

show?

There were heartbreaks. Oh, man, there were heartbreaks. There were passionate

flings and poorly timed crushes. There were vodka-tonic nights where I laughed too

loud and texted too much. There were relationships that ended not with a bang but

with a beautifully worded “It’s not you, it’s me” and mutual ghosting.I had my heart broken in four languages and three time zones.

And still— No, really. I’m fine. Because somewhere between Paris and Palm Springs,

Prada and Passover, I stopped trying to be someone else. I embraced the fabulous,

flawed, fierce human I am. I am the gay Jewish boy who broke the rules, bent the

trends, and lived to tell the tale. I’ve laughed with drag queens. Wept in dressing

rooms. Toasted life with strangers, and held hands with dying friends as we said

goodbye.

I’ve reinvented myself so many times, I have frequent flyer miles with my own identity.

And through it all, I’ve kept telling stories. Stories to survive. Stories to connect. Stories

to say, “Hey—no, I’m fine. I’m still here.” Some are very naughty. Some are very nice.

All are true.

People still say to me, “You should write a book!” I did.

Then they ask, “How did you live through all that?” And I smile. Because life didn’t turn

out the way I expected. It turned out better. Not easier. Not simpler. But fuller. More

real.

More mine.

I’ve danced in Paris. I’ve cried in Palm Springs. I’ve told jokes to silence pain. I’ve

loved deeply and been loved back—though not always in the same moment.So when people ask me, “Are you okay?” I answer honestly. I’m not just okay.

I’m everything. And I wouldn’t trade it. Well… maybe for one more night in Paris. Or a

size 32 waist again.

But otherwise—And this one? This life? It’s mine.

And, no really, I’m fine.