WE CALL THE TAXI COMPANY that always drives us to the nightclubs, and they seem surprised when we order three cars. The operator asks if she heard right, and when I say yes, the only reason she doesn’t hang up on me is because I’m a regular, so she knows it’s not a prank.

The cars arrive in less than ten minutes, parking in single file in front of our building. We’re already waiting downstairs, drawing attention from every passerby: four drag queens with rainbow-colored clothes, three boys, and a girl carrying plastic bags full of heavy balloons that are firmly tied up so they won’t burst, as well as a speaker big enough that it takes as much space as another passenger.

The taxis form a caravan to a quiet and peaceful street in Copacabana that still has some houses that haven’t been replaced by skyscrapers. Trees ornament both sides of the street, and the lampposts provide plenty of light. Perfect. The more people who can see us, the better.

It’s almost eleven o’clock at night and there isn’t a lot of activity here, but some people still stare in curiosity when the taxis pull up in the quiet neighborhood and all these people in every color of the rainbow get out. We ask the drivers to leave because we don’t want them to end up in trouble in case anything goes wrong. But after hearing what we’re about to do and why, the three drivers refuse to leave and say they’ll wait for us on the next block and that if anything happens we should just run and they’ll be there. They’ve all driven us plenty of times over the years, and they know we’re not vandals but protesters.

As people walk by and turn their heads to check us out, we get organized.

“Where’s his place?” Bibi asks, looking around.

I point to the left of the street and we all cross, facing the pristine wall surrounding Carlos’s house. An electrified barrier tops the concrete wall, and there are no signs of graffiti or even a line drawn by a kid passing by on his way home from school. Sandra crouches down to untie the bags and, as if she were handling grenades, passes the paint-filled balloons to each of the ladies.

“Who wants to go first?” Sandra asks.

Bibi positions herself and gestures to Victor, who hits play on the speaker. It has enough battery to keep playing for at least an hour, and the first mad guitar chords of the Cazuza song “O Tempo Não Para” start booming.

And when the lights in the houses around us start turning on and curious heads appear at the windows, Bibi throws the first balloon at the wall around Carlos’s house, and it explodes in an intense shade of green that sprinkles all over the concrete.

Everyone claps and shouts, calling even more attention to ourselves.

While Cazuza sings that he’s shooting against the sun, that he’s strong and haphazard, Mad Madonna throws a balloon that explodes in a shade of violet; when he sings that he’s tired of running in the opposite direction without a podium finish or the kiss of a girlfriend, Kara Parker throws a balloon that bursts orange; when he sings that the dice are still being cast because time doesn’t stop, Nicolle Lopez throws a balloon that explodes in yellow; when he sings that every other day he survives without a scratch, Ian is the one who grabs a balloon and throws it, and it explodes in blue; when the pool is full of rats and the ideas don’t correspond to facts, Victor grabs the second to last and throws it, and it explodes in indigo; and when, at last, Cazuza sings that he keeps seeing the future repeating the past and that he sees a museum full of novelties, I throw the last balloon, which explodes in a shade of red.

Time doesn’t stop, and everyone is yelling at us from their windows, wondering what’s going on, telling us to turn off the music. We see the lights in the house behind the wall turn on.

“Would you like to do the honors before we run away?” Bibi asks, handing me a can of black spray paint. I take the can and shake it, feeling the ink mix inside the container.

I’ve never spray-painted anything before, but it’s easy. The black ink that comes out doesn’t mix with the paint that’s running down the wall in an explosion of colors.

I write out the words, and we scramble to take a photo. I ask Sandra, Victor, and Ian not to be in it, because the photo will go online and I don’t know how that would affect their lives, and unwillingly the three of them agree. Thanks to Victor’s background in film and the camera that Eric got from one of the photographers who covers nightlife in Rio, all we need is one click to get the perfect shot: All four drag queens, wearing the colors of the rainbow, and me, in a white T-shirt with a red ribbon, smiling by the words I spray-painted on the wall:

+

Henrique Andrade shared a photo

2 HOURS AGO

So, as you can see in the photo above, this happened: A few friends and I decided to take matters into our own graffiti hands and solve a little issue that happened to me this past week. Let me explain. Maybe you know, or maybe you don’t, but the owner of this wall exposed my HIV-positive status online without my permission, which is not only a crime but also shows the character of someone who thinks he has the power to make me “regret” not bending to his wishes. His post went viral, and I received thousands of comments, both positive and negative, from well-intentioned people and from some who think they can point a finger and judge others without even knowing them. And that judgment even manifested as graffiti right outside my house, with words that weren’t exactly as positive or colorful as mine.

I’ve decided to pay him back in kind, and the result is the explosion of color you see here.

Here’s what I need to tell the owner of the wall in this picture: I am fine, Carlos. For real. I have absolutely no regrets—not even for the time I said I didn’t want anything to do with you anymore, ever since the day you decided to disappear. As you’ve already noticed, all our actions have consequences, and I wish all of them could be as beautiful as the unity represented in this photo, or as colorful as the people who take me in day after day and love me no matter what happens. The consequence of your actions, to me, was that I realized there’s a network of people who love me as I am, who don’t judge me for my past, and who teach me, every day, to discover how beautiful and full of color my life can be.

I hope these colors will help you to see how different human beings can be—that not all of them are cruel or willing to make you feel bad just for being who you are. There was a time when I felt bad, when I tried to blame other people, and when I questioned, daily, what had caused my life to take the course it did. But I learned, Carlos—in the passing days, and months, and years—that my life is far too important to be wasted with negative feelings, with ideas that only bring me down instead of up, with thoughts that only get in the way and are of no help. So I decided, way back when you disappeared from my life, that it wasn’t worth it, to suffer for inevitable things and that, instead, I had to focus on being the best version of myself. Today I understand that you were essential to that process.

And for that, I thank you.

3,658 likes

2,200 comments