MANSFIELD — Mansfield native Aurelio Villa Luna Diaz writes and sings about past sins, loves, confusion, pain, future loves, friendships — and sexual abuse.
There’s no easy way around telling his story, but he makes an attempt through his lurid lyrics as the musical act Chico’s Brother.
“Most people have no idea what I’m singing about,” he said with glint in his eyes.
He was first abused at the age of 4 by a 10-year-old boy. This memory still lives vividly in Diaz’s mind. But the memory might have faded if it weren’t for what came later in life.
Diaz was sexually abused by close family members multiple times throughout his adolescence, at age 7 and again at age 14.
He told others in his family, even neighbors. But some thought he was fishing for attention. He was told to lie about the incidents because an investigation into his family might dredge up other incriminating details. So, to protect them, he did.
The offender, however, wound up in jail for a couple days when a neighbor alerted police shortly after the latest incident. Diaz’s mother, who worked second shift, was not home each time it happened. When the news spread throughout the neighborhood and his school, Diaz told his friends it never happened — he was embarrassed.
To this day, Diaz said the topic remains under the rug where it was swept. But some of the smut escapes through his lyrics, and much of it is on his newest album, “40: Hopscotchin’ Carcasses.”
In it, he writes about his life’s carcasses — dead versions of himself underscored often by painful experiences.
Voluntary estrangement
Diaz left his Mansfield home at age 18, fresh out of high school with a plan: there is no plan. He headed south, bound to start over, free from the pain and confusion in the rearview mirror — he didn’t look back for 10 years.
He landed at an abandoned tire factory in Columbus, where he squatted with seven other homeless wayward sons. He eventually found work as a sandwich maker at Subway, then was introduced to social work. By this point, he lived in an apartment without a phone or a chance of his family finding him.
Eventually, his sister, Anna Maria, tracked him down. She had news: the main source of his unutterable pain, confusion and humiliation had died after a long battle with hepatitis C.
“She knocked on my door and when I opened it and saw her, I just slammed it shut. I didn’t want anything to do with them. It was bad,” he remembered.
He learned of the news later while reading the note she slid under his door.
“I always wondered why it was me …” Diaz sighed, tears welling. “Sorry …”
He wiped away the tears, sniffled and hopscotched to the next subject.
Social work slowly became his career. He said he didn’t know it, but looking back, working with those who had struggled through similar experiences was a means for vicarious healing. Diaz never talked about what happened as a child because he felt no one understood — but the patients, or clients, did.
“It didn’t seem like a job,” he said of working in different social service companies. “I got to learn about peoples’ lives and it was a huge challenge. But it’s so good.”
He worked with Huckleberry House, then Faith Missions. Until finally, at 40-years-old, he works for Richland Newhope as the Lead Recreation Coordinator.
Chico’s Brother, his music
It wasn’t until about three years ago that Diaz decided to start singing his poetry.
Chico’s Brother is his therapy. His lyrics are memories of his childhood and 10-year family hiatus in Columbus, seared into tear-stained composition notebook pages like charcoal on tenderloin.
His instrument, the autoharp, represents the pleasant flattery for his grandmother, who also plays the unusual sound maker. The name for his musical expression is his way of embracing an identity.
“I am literally Chico’s brother,” he explained. “Growing up, everyone knew me as his brother.”
His brother, Francisco “Chico” Diaz, who is only one year older, was athletic and popular in school.
“I hated being known as that. No one knew who I was.”
Throughout the years, however, Diaz has grown to accept himself and consequently, his brother. He now proudly embraces the childhood identity.
“One day I was at a show and in the bathroom at some bar. There was another guy who, when we crossed paths in the bathroom, said I looked familiar to him. I thought he did, too. He said, ‘Aren’t you Chico’s brother?’” Diaz said, laughing.
“At that moment, I decided … why not embrace it? It’s who I am.”
From that moment, Diaz has endeavored to make music that he’s described as “avant ghetto” because he said it best portrays a mix of his writing style and content.
“I use a lot of slang, it’s how I write. And it’s also kind of urban and ethnic, but it’s not a color thing,” he said.
His lyrics are tell-it-straight stories of his past, riddled with enigmatic jabs hinting at sexual abuse. But, like some musicians who use their lyrics as political manifestos, his aren’t designed to influence societal change.
“They’re healing for me. I don’t sing to change people. It’s personal, but I’m willing to share it.”
The lyrics are like trains that chug his listeners through an introspective journey; but they take him for a ride too. Some of that stuff, namely, the sexual abuse, is too complicated to understand.
“I’ve always wondered what would have happened to me if it wasn’t me,” he said, pausing to let the tears pass. “Why was I targeted? But here I am.”
‘It’s not something I want to forget’
For Diaz, singing and writing about the painful experiences has helped him move on. He has forgiven those who hurt him. But he still seeks reconciliation.
“We’ve (he and his family members) never had a discussion about it,” he said. “It’s not something I want to forget.”
He tried to forget it while living in Columbus, but the wounds were literally too close to home. Being sexually abused by a family member is not something that can be erased. So now, instead of forgiving and forgetting, he seeks to educate and understand by showing empathy.
“I’m definitely not condoning it, but something had to happen to someone if they do that sort of thing,” Diaz said of sex offenders. “It’s a sad thing.”
His job sometimes has him rubbing shoulders with sex offenders and sexual abuse victims. Because he has personal experience with the latter, he is able to educate the often confused victims.
“Sometimes they don’t even know they’ve been abused. It happens all the time,” he said. “We have classes for that sort of thing and we talk through that.”
Diaz is known around the area for his bubbling personality, his quick smile and his knack for making new friends. The sexual abuse is like a scar behind a camouflaged bandage that he rarely peels off. But when he does, two things become apparent:
1. He has forgiven but not forgotten.
2. He is who he is because of what happened.
“It’s a huge part of why I do what I do,” he said.
