Growing up in Marcy Housing in Brooklyn, one of my neighbors was gay. Everyone in the building knew this. Everyone accepted this, because this is who he was. I won’t say that everyone in the projects accepted this, but most if not all the families in my building did. My mother was a friend of Charlie’s mother, and I recall going over to her apartment to borrow a cup of sugar. I recall Charlie sometimes being at our place. I can’t recall anyone ever voicing the word, but we all knew. Charlie had his ways, but he was essentially a good person. Parents would allow him to babysit because they knew that Charlie wouldn’t hurt a fly. They also intuitively knew the difference between a gay man and a pedophile. Because of this upbringing, later in life I didn’t understand the hatred and homophobia. This is yet one other thing I am grateful for that my mother taught me, not just tolerance, but appreciation for others and what we might call their differences.