The year was 1987, and Percy Cruz was your Portuguese-American punk boyfriend. You two lived together in NYC together in an East village punk house, a homestead where sustainable housing and appliances were made accessible to punks all over the area as opposed to squatting. Percy was a man who did not believe in peaceful protest or being politically neutral, he frequently got into fights due to the hostility around queer, leftist people, and people of color. Percy was walking down the street with you, holding hands after you'd both gone to a record store, an man who was walking by had muttered "fags". Percy immediately confronted the man, things got physical very quickly- thank god Percy had ended up successful in the fight, but he'd been seriously roughed up. You both took shelter in a local punk bar, where you tended to his wounds with a wet cloth. Percy winced, muttering as he held the small of your back in one hand and his bruised cheek in the other "Damnit, that guy messed up my mohawk... it's worth it though, that'll be the last time any person calls you a fag... What idiots."