Lugo an Autobiography

By Edwin Lugo

Working in the entertainment industry as a Puerto Rican (Nuyorican) Latino has culminated in a fulfilling life. I am the proud Nephew of Roberto Clemente Walker. I stared on Broadway in Paul Simon's musical "The Capeman", signed as a Recording Artist to RCA Records and as a Songwriter to BMG/Universal music. I was grateful to Perform for the Troops with The Armed Forces Entertainment/USO around the world. I was honored to co/write a song on the Grammy Award winning "Just Chillin" by Norman Brown, and won Amateur night at The Legendary Apollo Theatre. An Actor on T.V, Lugo is a Young Arts Alumni and member SAGAFTRA, NARAS, ASCAP, BMI and SESAC. I won The Presidents Volunteer Service Award for my work with children at the New York Performing Arts Academy. Every opportunity has been relished.

When I made it to performing arts high school in Manhattan I made a promise to myself to write everything down. I began my journal when I was 15 years old and lived in Public Housing in the Castle Hill Projects in The Bronx directly across the street from Jennifer Lopez's house. Lugo an autobiography is a record of creative real life stories of growing up in the industry where I was not supposed to excel. The fulfilled life comes with many challenges. My most difficult challenge is my bipolar illness. We all know that many famous performing artists and icons were and are bipolar. Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando were both bipolar. And the list goes on. But the truth about bipolar illness is that it is very painful, difficult, misunderstood, stigmatized and often misdiagnosed. "Lugo an autobiography" goes deep to explain how debilitating an illness this can be and goes on to show that under the right medical care one can lead a productive and successful career and life. This book also delves into the complex workings of the creative artist. It has examples of movie treatments, ideas, poetry, lyrics and every day musings. It also deals with serious issues regarding explicit sexuality, sexual identity, LGBTQIA+ relationships and family. Religion is also a very prominent topic in this book since I was raised very Christian where being a Performing Artist was frowned upon. This book is a journal of my experience growing up and fulfilling my life as a singer, songwriter, performer as well as expressing myself and defining myself in my own image. It is a difficult account through the maze that is my mind and the blessing that is my life. No detail is spared in bringing you the story of my life. I am an entertainer. I am an artist which came up from a place where I was not supposed to come from. No one gave me the permission to be me, to the contrary I was supposed to die, I was supposed to be in jail, I was supposed to fail yet here I am. I beat the odds. Yes, I have been successful because I have also failed many, many times and I am still fighting. I am fighting for my art, I am fighting for my life, I am fighting for my sanity, I am fighting for my family, I am fighting for my love and my same sex identity. This is a record of my scorecard. It really does not matter how many times you're Knocked down what matters is how many times you get up is serious talk and not a metaphor. Inside you will find insight into what it means to be Young gifted and Puerto Rican in America. Every obstacle, every naysayer, every racist, every cynic and every judge could not outweigh my passion or my lust for learning and Art. I overcame and crushed them all and continued on my path. Fortunately, my talent was recognized, applauded and celebrated by both visionaries and the public. I am very grateful for all of the artistic opportunities and the friends who have lifted me up. I am very glad that I have been able to share my Art with the world. I am very blessed. And this book shows you how I did it, and how I am still doing it because I feel that I have not even scratched the surface. It's only beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667898315

Book preview

Introduction

With no exaggeration I was reared in an area of The Bronx where in if you came out the front (or worse back) doors of the building, every time, without fail you were risking your life. Drug dealers and gunfire were in control of everything and everyone. Get away from the windows. My mother would yell at us over the popping of daily rhythmic gunfire. We were living through a war. The walls of these buildings were cold, always sweaty wet and industrial. Putrid bodily functions plastered in elevators and stairwells where no bleach or ammonia could ever eliminate the smell. This was the 90’s where miniature plastic bottles with tiny red blue and green tops crushed under your feet; Free new toys we played with till we learned what crack cocaine was. This was public housing. We were told to sit down be quiet and listen. If you were evicted from here you were truly wretched. This is what you are. You are Black. B is for Black, and this is how the Government officially categorizes humans on paper. This is where you are from, this is how you need to speak, this is how you must act, pray, aspire, hope and feel. The truth was that I knew the opposite to be true and I especially loved when I defied them all at every turn with my education. My only weapon was my education, my speech and manners. My only way out was my education. There is nothing in this world more powerful than an educated human. I knew who I was where as so many people I knew did not know who they were or from where they came. I grew up with people who had accepted all their assigned labels. I lived among them but was never one of them and they never accepted me completely. I am an American of Puerto Rican decent, which means a mixture of Native American Taino, African and Spanish. Ask any child in the African diaspora of any hue or completion, who are you? Where did you come from? Who told that you were black? They cannot tell you. Please stop and meditate on the ocean of humans it took to get to finally produce you and be grateful. You are here. You made it. Do not easily accept the label they decide to give you to make them feel good in their grandeur. Meditate and ask your ancestors why did you let them take your music, your art, your style, and your sacred names then let them call you black? Why did you allow them to cut off your identity? Why would you let them? Then ask if they did it in order to survive under pure terrorism, violence, bondage and torture they endured for millennia? Look how we are all still to this day surviving under similar (be they nuanced) circumstances. Do not take their name. Stockholm syndrome will dictate you accept being so called black or whatever they choose to call you this time around but no one can tell you who or what you are. James Baldwin should be required reading. Africans were not kidnaped here then asked Now what do you want to be called? Then the Africans all chose Black! We were told what we were. The second you decide to accept the label black or white or whatever people decide to call you, you are doomed. Here we are 2017 and on a government contract to rent an apartment the real estate manager checks off a box B for Black under ethnicity for me. I soon corrected her, a Jamaican woman. We are all humans with history and ethnic origins. What would you like she said. What have you got? I said. After she checked in her computer she said I have Native American Taino. That’s good! I’m that! And Puerto Rican? she asked? Yes and that too. I said. We all have the universal right to be free and self defined. Turns out that according to my DNA I am 20.2% Nigerian, 19.1% Iberian, 15.4% Central American Taino, 9.1% Italian, 36.2% and 8% other ethnicities. Hell, I am what I decide I am, not you. I am what science and I say I am. I choose what I am to be called if you please, thank you very much. Know thyself.

This book is a remarkable document that sheds light on Bi Polar disorder, sexuality, religion, social structures, politics, religion and drugs using lyrics, poetry, stories or film treatments, explicit sexual situations, prayers and humor to inspire and invigorate. An Artists life is the hardest. This collection of journal entries spanning over thirty plus years in the life of Edwin Lugo who was raised in The Bronx and is a working Artist today. His appearances on Broadway and TV and vast musical catalogue are well documented. He is the proud owner of the Trademark name Lugo as a recording Artist and has a long list of songs, lyrics, music, poetry and writing copyrights.

The Artist pays the price. –Marvin Gaye.

I am the Son of Noemi and Cesar born in 1968 at babies’ hospital in New York City. I was a Jaundice baby scheduled for a full blood transfusion but my father prayed for me and as my cradle then shook with the power of God. I was healed, it was a miracle. I was raised the son of a Pentecostal preacher and Reverend Pastor. I was the shining example of Christianity imbued with art and mythology. We were Puerto Rican of Spanish language ethnicity. I was an infant singer in church. I was only three years old and the Bronx was good to us for a time until we moved to the projects. My Mom and Dad are Americans who came from Puerto Rico who met in Manhattan but married and settled in the South Bronx. My mother in Puerto Rico was orphaned by her mother at the age of four and orphaned again by her father years later. She is an intelligent, attractive, bright and shy personality but ferocious in character and ideals. She is from the big city of Carolina in Puerto Rico and her Cousin was Baseball hall of famer and humanitarian Roberto Clemente. They were both from Carolina and grew up together. At the high school in Carolina she remembers how the other kids made fun of Roberto and called him a crazy blackie who plays baseball all day. We never did get to meet our beloved Cousin Roberto who became world famous and died in the service of others. My young father was a sharp dressed fast talking bon vivant singer of Native American, Taino and Spanish decent. He came from the Puerto Rican mountains of Maunabo and married up to a fine ethnically mixed city girl. My father was obsessed with baseball and loved the fact that Roberto Clemente was in the family. Mom and Dad had four children, two girls and two boys.

My Mother’s father (My maternal Grandfather) was born February 20th 1895 he was an African form Nigerian roots. He was named Innocencio Walker and he married a Spanish Caucasian woman named Rosa Alvarez. They lived together in Carolina, Puerto Rico and had many children together but both died very young from tuberculosis. Their house was worth $400.00 back in 1940 and was the only one with a servant, bathroom and running water. Innocencio was employed by the Mayor of Carolina as The Controller of the town. He also owned a store or Almacen.

The year the Mayor lost the election he lost his job as Controller and the opposition party came after him. They were racists who wanted him dead for marrying a Spanish fair woman. When Rosa my Grandmother died he remarried a woman named Eva who gave him two more children. He died soon after of tuberculosis like many other Puerto Ricans at that time.

When I was four I realized I had only one testicle. I showed my mother and she was horrified. She took me to the doctor and days later I was in surgery. I remember the wires pulling the testicle out of my cavity and being in traction but most of all the pain. I have never felt such pain before or since. The wires were pulling my testicle down from my abdomen and the dull pain was excruciating.

Long after this while in puberty the doctor noticed I had too many veins in my testicles and was again my testicles were operated on.

I was always getting cut as a kid, always getting stiches. I often stepped on glass. Once I fell on to a glass requiring stiches. I was always in the hospital for one thin or the other. One day I noticed I could not breathe out my right nostril. It was obstructed by a bone and cartilage growing inside my nose. This surgery was performed once at fifteen then again as an adult. I also suffered from Asthma, Allergies but more seriously from Bipolar disorder/Manic depressive illness.

In the beginning growing up in the south section of the Bronx was good. We lived and worked in the same building where the church was, a small storefront that also served as community center where children would come for their free summer lunches. Some of our summers were spent in Chicago with my Uncle Juan. My Uncle Juan is a Dr. of Education and was well off. He was not uber wealthy but middle class. It was wonderful. We would take the Amtrak train and experience (if only for the summer) life outside the musty storefront church. I had a young girlfriend in Chicago who loved to experiment sexually. She had a large amount of vaginal excretion whenever we played at sex innocently together, but she was beautiful and we were best friends.

The problems all began when we moved to the Projects in the north section of the Bronx. Not only was it far from Manhattan but it was littered with Junkies, Marijuana wafting in the air, smashed beer bottles and the smell of urine, blood and human excrement all the time everywhere. Tenants were violent, loud and terrible people. They were only a handful of neighbors that were truely neighborly like the Vegas family on the 12th floor where I spent most of my time. The Vegas family was wonderful to me. There were three girls and one son and the mother would often feed me and let my hang out there, but the majority of the tenants were dreadful. One day a woman on crack who lived on our floor decided to stab her husband in a jealous rage. He survived but not without loosing a lot of blood. His blood was spattered on the walls of the hall, the walls of the elevator, on the floors and everywhere. It was in this atmosphere that I ran for my life everyday.

April 21, 1986

Dear mess

This is me. I hope that it does not bore you and that this will be the start of a beautiful relationship. As for where you come from, you born on a hot muggy day in May on a number four-subway car where all around me the world comes to a fast standstill. I sit oblivious to the world around me. Instead of watching the dark and empty subway tunnel walls that passes me by top speed I am enveloped in thought. I write and let go.

Today was very busy activity. I woke up late and ran to catch up with life as usual. Exhausted I ran for the morning Public Transit that would deliver me to my school, the number #13 Bus. Hurriedly I pulled out my counterfeit bus pass I had so painstakingly crafted the night before and with all the suaveness of a three-legged duck I boarded the bus. I soon find myself at school after the hour of pseudo sleep I’d experience every morning sitting or standing on the train. My body was so tired. And if I had to stand any longer my knees would not support me. But seeing my school always gave me a feeling of rejuvenation. My spirit was lifted as I ran up the front steps with the vigor of a gold medal athlete in the run of his life. My school gave me hope and happiness. Maybe because of all the great things the people who once went and now go there mean to me, and most importantly the great things going on in side there, the special people suffering for their art daily who would never want to do anything else or be anywhere else. I really love it, Performing Arts High School. My brother took me to the audition for the school and forged my mother’s signature on the application in order for me to get in. I was unknowingly an Actor and loved every minute of my training. The morning was relegated to the Arts and the afternoon was for academics. Dr. Paul Reisch was my English teacher. He never cut me a break or let me off the hook for anything. He never accepted one word answers when discussing the classics and would urge us to Develop that. Curling his fingers towards him. As a Drama major our uniforms were all black which consisted of a leotard and tee. I had never worn a leotard but I had to go to Capizios dance shop and buy this extremely tight black thick nylon stocking. Mr. Jerome Escow was the principal and head of the Drama department. He was a stout and stable ex military man well into his 60’s who prescribed the Stanislavski method of Acting. Whenever Mr. Escow was in the room you paid respect. Another Acting Teacher was Mr. Bill Britain, his greatest achievement was playing Bozo the clown on channel 11 WPIX TV for many years. He appears in the movie Fame as an acting teacher along with Mr. James Moody who was also our acting teacher. Bill was a smart and astute man who added levity to the regimented method of Acting we were taught. And James was a fiery inspired man who taught me the most I had learned about Acting. In a monologue requiring anger he picked up a chair and threw it against the lockers, which made a deafening noise. The entire class juped. You see now I’m angry! he pronounced. Acting requires a physical action to bring about emotion. Acting is doing. he said. We also studied dance under James Macraw who was a sprite middle aged man who could contort his body into forms and shapes and play the piano beautifully. He had white hair and a thick southern accent. You know I love you kinder but you all are a bunch of bastards and bitches! He would exclaim in his affected southern tone, as he’d try to make us do dance combinations. Dance class was conducted in the lunchroom in the old building and it was common to slip on old food or milk leftover on the floor. We all were waiting on moving to the new building at Lincoln center that would cost millions we were told and would have an official dance room.

We have finally moved from 46th St. in to the new LaGuardia building on 66thst at Lincoln center. The structure in which we work is not completed yet but it really doesn’t make much difference. No one seems to care. Were here now. We have to make the best of it.

One day after school while walking to the train a friend stopped me. He was out of breath. Edwin you have to go here. He gave me an address. There looking for a Puerto Rican kid. I just got back from my audition and this will be good for you. The address was for a famous casting Director Louis DiGiamo up the street. I went and DiGiamo told me to come back the next day with a different color shirt. I did and I got the job. It was for an ABC TV movie of the week called The Children of Times Square shooting in NY and LA. My school had a no work policy but I told the principal I had a family emergency in Puerto Rico and I went off to do my first gig. It was amazing to work with top Actors like Howard Rollins and Joanna Cassidy. Director Cutis Hanson was incredible, he managed the cast of incontrollable kids like a master. My mom and I flew to LA and stayed at an upscale hotel for a week. It was a great experience far from the Bronx.

Lunch at school was more like war, an unfair war at that. Everyone was tossing food. Sam, Paul and Rod all lined up like incompetent soldiers all marched toward me as I ate my lunch. Each one threw some piece of food at me as I was taken completely by surprise. They each ran off and were gone for few. They then scattered and came back to their same incompetent line up. As they marched toward me I readied my defenses and deliberately opened a container of milk and subsequently splashed them all with vitamin D homogenized. The cold milk soaked their clothes and they all threw the remainder of the food in their hands at me and ran from the scene of the unfair and unsettled battle. They did not want to be blamed for the wreckage. These friends can be dicks sometimes. My stop is next and I bid you adieu. Till we meet again.