Portland — Never Seen, But Always Heard

I did not arrive in Portland, Maine as someone who had everything figured out.

I arrived carrying years of experiences, pain, and memories I had never fully processed.

The worst thing that happened to me in Portland happened first.

I was raped.

I am not going to soften that word. It happened. And in the aftermath, I also learned I had contracted HIV. Two realities landing at the same time, each one heavy enough on its own.

I responded the only way I have ever known how.

I sat down at Blackstones — a gay bar in Portland — and I wrote about it publicly. I named what happened. I put the truth onto the page when every instinct says to hide.

And something happened that I did not expect.

People saw me.

Not in spite of what I wrote. Because of it.

My sister said something to me once that I have never forgotten.

“Vinny, you’re never seen, but you’re always heard.”

She was right.

I had spent my whole life being unseen. The boy with the red dictionary. The ears black and blue that nobody asked about twice. The man on Franklin Street. The man sitting outside in the Portland winter.

Unseen.

But the words always traveled further than I did.

You’re never seen, but you’re always heard.

That became the truest thing anyone ever said about me. And it became the reason I never stopped writing.