Lack of Huevos (PART I)

Jot@s Anónim@s:
Anonymous

There’s no worse feeling in the world than making your parents cry. To know that you are the reason for their discontent is to know betrayal and heartbreak at the same time. That’s what happened a couple of weeks ago when I came out to my father.

I’d been dwelling over it night and day during that week. To confess something that in my heart I felt that he already knew. The morning of my coming out, my sister approached me with the subject.

"I think it’s time you tell dad," she said.

Her freshly plucked eyebrows caught my attention and it was the only thing I could seem to focus on. Or maybe it was that I wanted to shift my attention on anything but my sexuality.

"He’s gone a long way since his drinking days and therapy is doing him good," she continued as she struggled to look for my lost thoughts.

She is right, I thought. My father is no longer the man who would disappear on the weekends in one of his alcohol-fueled binge parties. He is no longer the man who struck me down for my lack of masculinity. He is what you call a sober person.

Though I’ve long forgiven the man who would carry a round leather flask, I’ve yet to find the man who I can call my friend.

In my heart, I just knew it was time.

There is no book on how to prepare your coming out to your parents, let alone your Mexican dad. Maybe there is a Chicken Soup for the Ashamed Mexican Son Who Won’t Come Out To His Father Due To His Lack of Huevos, but I’ve been too obsessed with David Sedaris lately to read anything else.

I worked late that night, so my father came by my job to pick me up. I tried to make conversation to open some sort of dialogue between us. I asked if he was hungry. He only nodded. I tried the almost rainy weather, the family back in Mexico, my old shoes, and even President Barack Obama. It was useless. I only managed to get a few words from him.

It was right around the corner from my house that I opened with "I have something to tell you."
As we parked in the driveway and both of us were silent, the rain started pouring in the most cliché way possible. And then it was just the two of us. Inside his car. With the pouring rain outside. I cannot make this shit up.

"Just say whatever you have to say," he said.

He wouldn’t look at me. The both of us were staring at the white garage door in front of us. The cracked wood from the garage door created some sort of nifty design, nearing a piece of masterpiece artwork. The kind of artwork that you just don’t understand but cannot take your eyes away from because you don’t want to accept the fact that you don’t know shit about art.

"Look dad, I think you know what I want to say and I just don’t know how to say it," I said, looking him in the right side of his face.

He knew what I was talking about. The tears began to pour from his eyes. It was as though he was competing with the tears coming from the sky. His were tears of sadness and disappointment.

"I assure you that I wish I wasn’t gay." ¶

Look for 'Part II' in the next issue.

Just a Girl Out Looking For Love

Jot@s Anónim@s
Anonymous ♀

I can see Tila Tequila claiming that her "bisexual dating show," A Shot at Love, made same-sex relationships acceptable and was the curious variable that pushed through the legalization of same-sex marriage in California in early 2008. I can hear my male coworker telling me how the woman who is walking out the door has a beautiful body as he bites his lip, apparently admitting me into the vulgar world of "those who like women." I remember going on a date with a guy recently and hearing the "Ahh…" that follows the admission of a kink; the one accompanied by private thoughts of him and me… and some other chick. The stereotypes and personalities constrict me and it’s like - whoa.

I first came to understand my sexuality in the contemplative solace of a far-away land - I studied abroad my junior year. At that time, I was twenty, 15 pounds lighter and a women’s studies major. I was taking a class titled Sexualities and Feminism, taught by an F-to-M transsexual. The beginning of the course reminded everyone that sex isn’t so black-and-white - intersex people, anyone? We discovered the barbaric lengths to which Western society will go to eliminate the so-called "gray areas" of nature by surgically altering newborn-baby genitalia. We flipped through the history of sexuality, Bible through contemporary politics. If I had done all my readings, it would have been an even lovelier class.

And, in between all this talk of pre-op and post-op, and of using prosthetics to urinate standing up (funnels, anyone?), my dear professor proposed something one morning that began the end of my sexual paranoia and confusion. He proposed that people’s sexualities change based on factors of society, culture and stage on one’s life - that sexuality is not static and that indeed, it is fluid.

It clicked at that moment. All the instances of doubt flashed through my mind like primitive thoughts that I’d been too close-minded to let develop. What had been until then, a desire to classify and fit in somewhere seemed to suddenly dissipate into the sea of enlightenment that was my human mind. I breathed. I was going to be okay.

I brought all this back to the States with me, and it is here that the liberty of my love and desire tinkered with and met the realities of identity. The more I stopped resisting my inclinations, the more it became apparent that in accepting fluidity, I would have to take up a queer identity. It was inevitable because I started getting really annoyed when people assumed I only liked men, or terribly peeved whenever homophobia was expressed. I’d always gotten angry anyway, but suddenly it was personal. So, it is ironic that the identity that had freed me from myself actually trapped me publicly. I didn’t expect that.

Take an innocent act like feeling attraction towards a woman, for instance. Before I gave myself the liberty to look at a woman and feel that attraction, I always felt society’s pull inside me. Look at her. No, wait! What are you doing - she’s a girl! Then, when I gave myself the liberty, the urge to respect her suddenly worried me. It was no longer "looking at her is wrong", but "looking at her is going to freak her out." When I look at women, I would hate to disrespect them and their heterosexuality. I would hate to stare at their boobs. I would hate to stare at their butts. It’s hard to help, sure, but I would hate for a woman to think of me as a creep; it’s happened before.

As a woman, I know what it’s like to be under the objectifying male gaze. And while I don’t want to ever fight my feelings of attraction again, I also would hate to imitate that gaze. I know what I think of men who stare at my body with savage lust.

Sometimes I wish we all wore tags. Mine would read: Chicana, feminist, atheist, fluid sexuality. I wish we did, and that it was matter-of-fact and that no one got their asses kicked for it. I would identify other open mujeres and smile at them without hesitation. But I guess that’s what those rainbow accessories are for.

And I write all this to say the following: to love women and men and everything in between is an honest and innocent desire. I want to stop feeling like a freak. I want my sexuality to stop being perceived as a fucking kink. I want my love to be invisible and ordinary, just like yours.

Once, She Loved a Girl

Jot@s Anónim@s
Anonymous




From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 3:22 PM

heyyy load the photos!!! (;
hope you slept well... cuz... i didn't really sleep at all LOL


From: \\\LIKEmeBEFORE///
Date: Aug 26, 2008 3:39 PM

Details, girl!


From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 3:57 PM

okay, okay...so here it goes.
I got there around 3:30am. we chatted...and chatted some more.
I was sooo nervous cuz, fuck, I haven't kissed anyone other than Gloria for the past year.
So yeah, he said he was nervous too... then he kissed me (:
GREAATTTT!!! Make-out session (soft lips) it was nice.
I hate it when someone shoves their tongue down your throat, ya' know?

Umm...then well, foreplay....(VERY GOOD!!!)
Don't like going down on a guy at all... UHG!!! So yeah, that didn't happen.

Then, he got like a guy (I GUESS) A lil' more rough? Like a rabbit? I guess, lol... dang... I don't miss that AT ALL!!!!

I can think back to all the guys i messed with and I always had this feeling with them...(LIKE FEELING UNEASY. ALWAYS THINKING... 'FUCK... I WISH IT WAS OVER ALREADY CUZ I DON'T FEEL ANYTHING')

SO... that's when i started to miss being with a girl – I was trying to make sure that it wasn't ME missing GLORIA...but instead me missing a girl...
I miss a girl's soft skin...how they smell so pretty...their hair...how I know their bodies more... I missed it );

So yeah... I didn't even cum with him. Not like that's new, but yeah... I think I’m a complete sleaze...
I don't think that means I won't kiss a guy… but sleeping with them is sooo boring... (I guess like Jessica said... "for Shits 'n' Giggles")

Okay! feedback... cuz it almost seems like I'm having an identity crisis!


From: \\\LIKEmeBEFORE///
Date: Aug 26, 2008 4:41 PM

first of all... you've got game. i give you props for that. :)

I think you're affirming what you like, womyn. you know what you want. being with the guy makes you know what you want. And you did a power play... 'for Shits n Giggles'... that is so awesome.

i felt like i was reading a novel, you should publish this. for real... this is great work. I think people should see this.
you were describing feelings i haven't felt since i met kazu. you know... when it meant something.
you know what you like


From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 4:50 PM

wow Luis... thanks
Can't believe I'm 25 and just finding this out about myself...but it's okay though, right?
I guess it did make me feel more empowered...it almost really wasn't about sex. It was about finding out something. SO I CAN KNOW...

ummmmmm what do you mean by a power play???


From: \\\LIKEmeBEFORE///
Date: Aug 26, 2008 5:03 PM

You were in control the whole time with the guy. you know what you want.

From: ms. mumbles
Date: Aug 26, 2008 5:08 PM

That makes me happy...
you know what I realized? Since I've been getting hit on a lot...from these two guys...then that total drunk chick last night...and Molina...saying what she said (even if nada will ever happen)

it's nice to know...shit. Am I attractive...? Do I still have game? (;

Las Dudosas

Iris Arcón

Bisexuality could have stopped the ban on same-sex marriage. I know, you’re all probably thinking, "What the hell are you talking about?" More open people, less Mormons, and fewer hateful people could have stopped the ban on same sex marriages. But isn’t bisexuality somewhat like that? It can be said that bisexuals are open to either a man or a woman, right? Some see it as confusion, while others see bisexuality as the place in between. A place where you have chosen not to choose. You are not on a "side" yet. Oh, that infamous "side." The side that changes you forever. Ni de aqui, ni de alla. Estás dudosa o dudoso. However, you choose to define bisexuality, I do believe that everyone should be bisexual. Bisexuality could help us understand sexuality in so many ways. More importantly, the hostility towards bisexuals that might exist out there, especially towards bisexual women, need not be necessary. Before I dig myself into a deeper grave with my fellow lesbians and gays (or anyone else reading this), hear me out first.

I’ll start off by painting a picture of the kinds of hostility that I have noticed in the "gay world." Ask most lesbians and gays in the bars of Los Angeles and they’ll tell you their thoughts on the fallacy of bisexuality. Many who identify as lesbians and gays do not believe there is such a thing.

Ask any straight woman or man however, and they’ll say that bisexuals do exist.

I have noticed a difference between the reaction to bisexuality that some gays and lesbians express. Tell most lesbians you meet that you are a bisexual woman, and you’ll get an immediate "look." A look of, "Then why the fuck are you wasting my time? There’s no such thing as bisexuality." It’s a look that says, "Well you’re either in or you’re not in. You cannot be both." As a woman trying to find a good woman where my options consist of the few gay clubs and a friend of a friend of a friend that knows a lesbian (that might be single), the search can be very frustrating. I understand that lesbians are looking for other women with whom they can have stable, loving relationships and that they do not want to be left for a man, but nobody wants to be left for anyone else, man or woman, right? Maybe it is the betrayal for another man that might make lesbians think twice about getting involved with bisexual women. I do not quite know. Whatever it is, I do believe the attitude is completely unnecessary.

In contrast, a bisexual man can tell a gay man that he is bisexual and the response will be completely different. The gay man will immediately say, "Oh, don’t worry hon’, you’ll be gay soon." The reaction to bisexual men versus bisexual women makes me rather upset. Why do men get to be bisexual with less judgment while women get "the look?" I have never come across a gay man who realized he was straight after all and then started dating women again. I have also never come across a bisexual man who did not turn out to be gay over time, but I would love to meet one though. That would be a great experience for men, and it would help us understand sexuality. Bisexuality in all men could help them understand what it is like to be part of an oppressed group, as well. If all of the men and women that had voted for the ban on sex-marriage had been bisexual, they would have understood us more. Could that have helped us keep same-sex marriages?

So, why is the reaction different for bisexual men and bisexual women? Why is society still harsher on women than on men? Even more importantly, why are lesbians and gays harsher on women than on men? Shouldn’t gays and lesbians know what it’s like to be in situations where there are all sorts of pressures from family, religion, and culture?

Homosexuality is completely different for men and women. Society has constructed our culture to believe that men are puñales upon any sort of contact with the same sex. Any sexual arousal that comes from being attracted to masculinity is considered well, gay. For them, it’s put quite plain and simple. Men cannot go back. They have already betrayed heterosexuality. When it really should not have been. That is why the reaction at bars is always, "You’ll be gay soon." That is also why it is easier for men to be gay. I am not saying this in terms of who gets harassed more (men or women) or who can get away with this or that more. That would be putting two oppressed groups in a competition over which one is more oppressed and it is certainly not what I want to do. I am referring to this in terms of the path to a "defined" sexuality, something that is more black and white. It is easier for gay men to identify as gay men because of what they should never ever do: enjoy sex with another man. It is not the same for women though. But why?

There are certain pressures that women experience, but men do not and they never will. If men grew up to be either gay or straight, they were always raised to be straight men. Gay men were raised to be heterosexual and to marry a woman. Men were raised to receive servitude from women and they were taught to be dominant and in charge. Yes, I acknowledge that there are also many abusive same-sex relationships, but gay men were still not raised like Latinas. I, as many other Latinas do, know exactly what it feels like to grow up a Catholic girl with the constant pressure to serve the men of the house. I know what it feels like to have been raised with the concept that "true love" and "the one" will only come from a man. I have had heterosexuality and traditions hammered into my head ever since I can remember. I am a woman: a bastion of my culture. My children will inherit my culture and in order to do so I had to understand that for women things are a certain way. I could never relate to it of course, because I never saw myself married to a man, let alone serving him. But that was how it was shaped for me, for us. Men never experienced this.

It is that quest to avoid continuous sexism that has made female sexuality more fluid. Gay men, being men, have never and will never have to flee sexism like women. That quest to be treated with respect, equality, and as wonderful, beautiful women that we are has been the reason for much judgment on behalf of many. And it should not.

A week ago, I met up with a friend of mine at a bar. We talked for hours about stuff going on, including the women in our lives. In college, like many other women, she came out of the closet to her friends as bisexual. She started her first long-term relationship with a woman about a year ago. It was a relationship that not only made her acknowledge her lesbianism, but unfortunately it also left her emotionally damaged. Even though it hasn’t been the relationship that she had wished it was, she knows she’s a lesbian.

"I met a guy the other day at the bar."

"A man?"

"Yeah. He’s so nice to me. Doesn’t treat me like shit. Makes me feel good again, you know?

That’s what I need right now."

"Yeah. I can tell. There’s a smile on your face now."

"I haven’t met women. And well, you know how hard it is to meet good women."

"Yeah. I know."

Many lesbians and gays might say that she doesn’t know what she wants, that she’s confused; how can she go back to a man? She needs to choose a side.

This all brings me back to Proposition 8. We all know what it feels like to be judged by our love for the same sex. We have all experienced it and many of us will continue to experience it. This is exactly what we are doing to our fellow bisexuals. Yes, some might turn out to be straight. Many will also be either gay or lesbians. Some will choose not to choose.

But, no matter what happens to them and what "side" they have chosen, they will all know what it feels like to be on our side. They have experienced it. They have walked in our shoes. The ones that have figured out that they are straight, know exactly what we go through every single day in society. They have stepped outside of their privilege bubble and they have lived as an oppressed group. That in itself means so much. Isn’t that sort of what we would like to get across to the entire nation in the first place? Don’t we want some sort of understanding from the heterosexual majority? Yet, we cannot give that understanding to bisexuals? How can we expect understanding when we cannot give it to each other in the first place? I believe that if everyone were bisexual, we wouldn’t have had a ban on same-sex marriage. If everyone could understand and experience what it is like to be a lesbian or gay, they would not have taken our right to marry away. Bisexuals, no matter what "side" they choose, are our allies.

So, lesbians, chill the fuck out with your "looks." Straight men and women, please become bisexual. Gay men, stay bisexual. And you bisexuals, just stay cool. ¶

Jot@ Diaries: Intro

Chicken Shit

Artist: Adrian _____?

La niña de mis ojos

Anonymous
I rushed home from the university to live the moment on my computer. I planned on YouTubing Obama’s speech as soon as I could lock myself in my room and get on my laptop. On the long ride home, I had been listening to a punk version of "A Change is Gonna Come", thinking it perfect for the occasion. Later, I was delighted to hear him quote the song in his victory speech. "It’s been a long time coming," he bellowed.

And then, in the midst of all the tears of joy and the surreal quality of the night, I kept anxiously refreshing the Los Angeles Times web page for results of the California elections.

I had a headache, but I kept clicking and clicking, getting the most up-to-date results as the minutes went by. Even as I was hearing our president-elect speak in the YouTube video, I couldn’t help but refresh the page. It looked like it was passing, but that was from preliminary results in conservative counties, the web site said. Hope. I clicked again and again until my head hurt so much that I decided to just sleep on it.

In the morning, things were still muddy, but I kept the Internet close. By mid-afternoon however, it was getting clear: voting Californians, well about fifty-two percent of them, had passed the motion that would amend the state’s constitution to define marriage as that which occurs between a man and a woman. That’s when I started to get different feelings about these historic elections.

It was Saturday night after the elections. With the weight of human hate on my shoulders and the thought of comfy chickens, I had a right to be emotionally exhausted. But that was nothing that a good evening spent at my grandmother’s house with all my cousins, aunts and uncles couldn’t wisp away. Yeah.

I was sitting in the living room when my uncle approached me. He got straight to the point.

"What did you vote on Prop 8?"

"What do you think?" I answered him, coolly.

"I think that you voted ‘no’," he replied.

"And you?" I asked, almost reluctantly but unable to refuse his attempt at meaningful conversation.

"I voted ‘yes’ because I do not want my kids to be taught blah, blah, blah, gibberish, blah…" referencing of course, the successful public-schools-will-turn-your-kids-gay-if-this-proposition-does-not-pass television propaganda.

I stared at him for a second. I sighed. I had to try.

"But it’s not going to make them gay. And what’s wrong with that anyway?" I told him.

Then, my other uncle and his wife decided to chime in. That is how, in what seemed like five seconds, a one-on-one discussion turned into a yelling match. Even my mom was trying to help me. After a few minutes of listening to the same circular arguments, I let myself sink into the background. I sat there, sandwiched between these gay-passionate straight folks.

"Gays this! Gays that!"

"Oh, the horror! Fragile little children will get so confused!"

"Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!"

Then, my uncle stopped all conversation, marking a triumphant victory for the haters in the room. Thundering with druggie-turned-apostle-of-Christ wisdom, he turned to look at my mother, who was arguing against him. His forehead vein popping, he challenged her. He asked her the make-it or break-it question:

"¿Pero está bien moralmente? Crees eso en tu corazón?"

And I heard my mother falter. I continued to stare at my lap, at that moment feeling quite detached from the world. I knew better than to hold her accountable for anything. I let them keep talking, keep yelling, keep knowing.

But, I’m not the type to let it stay like that. My patience has its limits and I finally decided to interject. I took a deep breath.

"As a…bi…sexual," I struggled to declare. They turned to look at me. "Bisexual" isn’t even the label I like, but given the audience, I wasn’t too concerned with the technicalities. I did it as a sort of plea for authority on the subject, for respect, for a bit of compassion.

And it only made them listen for a few seconds in momentary discomfort. They smiled smugly, as if I was trying to trick them out of their convictions by presenting worthless evidence. They weren’t fooled by my honesty. They resumed the argument and by then, my face was scrunched and I was crying.

I stood up quickly and retreated to my cousin’s room – I had just come out to my family. For the first time in twenty-two years, they seemed to be complete strangers, arrogant inhibitors of love and progress. I wondered how they could be my lifelong support and joy, and then turn into fiery rhetorical wolves at the passing of a petty law. None of this was about marriage. None of it was about civil rights. It was about allowing advocates of tradition to openly express their otherwise politically incorrect homophobia. They needed to sit me down in the living room and tell me what was up because of course, they were able to vote for it on Tuesday. Their too-often-repressed voices had to be heard! I guess.

I sat on my cousin’s bed sniffling. See, this whole "degenerate" sexuality thing is fairly new to me. I just came out to myself this year. Perhaps that is why I couldn’t handle it like a woman with ovaries. It’s so damn fresh.

I got up to look at myself in my cousin’s makeup mirror. I was crying, but I also did not want my eyeliner to run, which is an excellent thought for subduing tears. Stepping in closer, I looked into the peaceful depth of the blue-shadowed, brown eyes that were staring back at me. Like a clairvoyant, I tried to see the future revealed in my misty eyes.

The thought bit, and I asked the forces that be to show me if there was any way that years from now, I could end up with only a taste for boys. I concentrated and looked in deep, but at that moment, I could only see la niña de mis ojos. ¶

Uncovering the Lie

Gloria Anzaldúa

"Some of us take another route. We try to make ourselves conscious of the Shadow-Beast, stare at the sexual lust and lust for power and destruction we see on its face, discern among its features the undershadow that the reigning order of heterosexual males project on our Beast. Yet still others of us take it another step: we try to waken the Shadow-Beast inside us. Not many jump at the chance to confront the Shadow-Beast in the mirror without flinching at her lidless serpent eyes, her cold clammy moist hand dragging us underground, fangs bared and hissing. How does one put feathers on this particular serpent? But a few of us have been lucky – on the face of the Shadow-Beast we have seen not lust but tenderness; on its face we have uncovered the lie."

:from Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza

Who doesn’t want to save the children?

Iris Arcón

On Election Day, I was checking the polls anxiously waiting to see the results. When I got the results that Obama had won, I cried, but it was a bittersweet victory. The ban of same-sex marriage completely devastated many of us. We received the news along with numerous statistics that African American and Latinos had voted ‘yes’ on Proposition 8. I was furious. Why did Latinos, mi raza, vote against me? Upon hearing this, I wanted to protest in Compton and East LA. I wanted to scream, "How fucking dare you take away my right to marry the woman of my dreams? Who gives you that right? ¿Es mas, a ustedes qué les importa con quien me caso? How can you ban us from having the same rights as everyone else when you know what it feels like to be discriminated? We are all in the same struggle together and you hurt us like that?" Yes, I’ll admit to this anger, frustration, disappointment that I felt towards my community and the black community. I’m not proud of it, but you have to understand it was not easy. It hurt so much. Worst of all, I fell for the lies.

Some people say that California put the propositions on the ballot and that Californians voted as a democracy. Each campaign had a chance to win and now it is over. Pardon mis chilangueadas, but ¡ni madres! The opposing side clearly used many lies to win, especially about schools teaching children "gay things."

Jack O’Connell, the California Superintendent of Schools stated that, "Prop 8 has nothing to do with schools or kids. Our schools aren’t required to teach anything about marriage."

Proposition 8 had nothing to do with altering the school curriculum, but the opposing side made everyone believe that farce. At a family dinner, this was the topic of discussion. The majority of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, all Catholics, believed that it was not their business to interfere with someone’s life. That was where my family, and possibly a lot of other people, hesitated. And that is where all of the lies worked. We must also remember that history has showed us that majority consensus is not always fair.

Then I started wondering, why couldn’t African Americans and Latinos relate to this discrimination? Many Latinos agreed that banning same-sex marriage would not make all of us equal. I feel that LGBT activists did not reach out to the Latino or Black population, and now my community along with the African American community are being blamed. Initially, I too blamed both communities, and I did not question the older, religious groups. It made me wonder if this was for a reason. It would certainly not be the first time that we have been put against each other. Even when I attended the consecutive marches, I felt out of place. I arrived wearing my "Legalize LA" t-shirt wanting to speak up for two groups and "kill two birds with one stone." I felt several faces stare down at it. The primarily white faces made me question so many things. Of course Latinos and Blacks could not relate to this discrimination! The LGBT community did not approach Latinos or Blacks.

My sister, a straight Latina, brought this to my attention. She realized that there were so many commercials for the ‘Yes’ campaign, but where were the commercials for "No on 8" in Latino and black programming? The "Yes on 8" campaign rolled constant commercials stating that they wanted to "save the children." Who doesn’t want to save the children? I even wanted to save the children! Yes, religion played a huge role in this campaign, but there are a lot of religious, Latino families with Queer sons and daughters, and the "No on 8" campaign did not tap into this reality. The LGBT community did not approach my community and now it blames it.

It isn’t until now, with the Day Without Gays movement on December 10th, that I have seen something where the Latino community can relate and understand the similar discrimination. A Day without Gays will be a nationwide Strike and Boycott in support of marriage as a right for all Americans. It was "inspired by the film A Day Without A Mexican and the nationwide strike in 2006 called A Day Without Immigrants that protested against proposed immigration laws." You see, this is what needed to be done ahead of time before harsh, racist remarks were made. I am glad that it is happening, but it only took place after we failed to interact with the Latino community.

I have big hopes that good things will happen. We will overturn the vote. You can see it in the marches that have taken place. A lot of us are pissed off and a lot of us want to do something about it. It is nice to see us all together fighting for this cause. We can only learn from this. We will not turn on our communities. Neither the Latino communities nor the Black communities are to blame. We will not blame the equally oppressed. Instead we will unite; we will all get to see a wonderful wedding day.

¡Que viva la jotería!

TRANS-Migration

For more information on trans-migration issues, please visit: Sylvia Rivera Law Project

Elisa

Anonymous
When I was eleven years old I went to Robert A. Millikan Middle School in Sherman Oaks because I had nothing else to do during the Summer. We couldn’t possibly afford anything fancy like a summer camp and I didn’t really have any friends, so my mom decided to send me to Summer school. She didn’t care about the classes I took, she only wanted for me to have something to do for three months. They had open enrollment back then, so it didn’t matter that I was a poor kid from Van Nuys. I would just have to take the bus every morning and take it back down a three-mile stretch of street.

I had an entire Summer and a slew of choices. I settled on taking "Introduction to Design Concepts" and "Environmental Art" (apparently, they meant murals). There was one other girl who had the same classes and took the same bus home. Her name was Elisa. She was thirteen and therefore an older girl. She had a pretty face, thin and with a birthmark painted on the left side of her face, like the milk you just poured into your café. Her hair was long and wavy, the color of canela. She had fairy-like hands and moved with a swift gentleness that betrayed her personality and her strawberry-scented conditioner.

She had been born in East LA. Her mother was from Guatemala. She had grown up like every child of an immigrant; at the crossroads of two cultures. Constant conflicts with her grandmother had made her strong, though not without a hint of sadness. She had slender shoulders and they were strong and determined. She was always confident, even when she didn’t really believe that she was. She was rebellious and constantly dressed in red, black, and white (this was before The White Stripes). Her studded belt matched her leather boots and her chains jingled with her stride.

When I met Elisa, I considered myself to be what every other 11 year-old girl didshould be; normal. I listened to pop music and I wanted to be popular. Elisa, on the other hand, listened to punk rock, alternative rock, and metal. I started looking for all the rock music that I could find, hoping that I would at least like some of it, and that I could bring back something to talk to her about. Mamá was startled with my sudden changes in music tastes. I told her that I was finally being an individual, breaking free from the pack, and listening to what I wanted to instead of what I was told to (words still too big for me to comprehend just yet).

After meeting Elisa, I no longer wanted to be another sheep, another cog in the capitalist society that we had been bred into (I had yet to learn what capitalist meant). I wanted to dress like her, be like her, and just have more things in common with her. Even if I had never decided to try and please her with all my sudden changes in likes and dislikes. She was a catalyst in my life for uncovering a new emotion in me; jealousy.

I will always remember the last time that I saw her…

It was the last day of Summer school and she was going to high school in the Fall. I turned around as the doors were closing, to wave goodbye to her one last time, to try and memorize her face before she left me forever. But she didn’t notice. I watched her profile smile and her delicate wrists slide a piece of her hair behind her ear. She was talking to one of the boys who always rode the bus. To be fair, he was actually very cute, but she still wasn’t looking at me. Me, who she would never see again. As she laughed, her eyes sparkled. She didn’t love me.

I was just the little girl that followed her around. We took the same bus and the same classes, and being her shadow was the most I could really hope for. Even if I was too young to become a good friend, I tried to learn as much as I could from and about her. She radiated with the rebellion that all eleven year-old girls are drawn to. One could even say that she set me on the right track for feminism, equal rights, and critical analysis of established systems. She taught me a lot about myself, and even though I will probably never see her again, I will always remember my first girl-crush. ¶

¡Estás borracho!

Nunca me había emborrachado. No voy a decir que no había tomado antes pero pedo, pedo, nunca había estado. He aquí la historia de aquella noche de abril en la que el alcohol me permitió hablar sin algún temor.

Era la boda de un amigo y la recepción fue al aire libre. Era una noche con mucho viento y sorpresivamente fría. Para ganarle al frío, mi amigo propuso comprar una botella de Patrón. Y así fue. Caminamos a la licorería más cercana y ¡Salud! Pa’ que se nos quite el frío y brindar por una vida mejor. ¿Mejor? Así como estaban las cosas en mi casa, la vida me pesaba.

Pero ahí no terminó la fiesta. Seguimos brindando en la que sería la ex-casa del novio. Más Patrón y una que otra Pacífico. Perdí la cuenta de los shots que me tomé, pero fueron más de seis en menos de cinco minutos. Cuando me paré, me sentí como recién bajado de las teacups de Disneyland, bien mareado. Sentía que estaba patas arriba. Fui al baño y ya casi tomaba agua purificada…con pipí y caca. Casi me caigo de cabeza en el excusado. El mundo seguía dando vuelta y yo seguí tomando más cerveza importada.

Se llegó la hora de ir a casa pues ya eran las tres de la mañana y mi amiga nos llevo a la bola de borrachos a nuestros respectivos hogares. En el carro empecé a hablar, hablar y hablar y también a llorar, llorar, y más llorar. Éramos cinco en el carro y todos sólo me trataban de consolar y hasta hice a algunos llorar.

Llegue a casa con los ojos rojos como si me hubiera fumado un toque de la tía María Juana. Prendí la luz de mi cuarto y ¡Sorpresa! Miré a mi mamá y escuche su dulce voz que me dijo: "¡Estás borracho!"

Y con la facilidad de palabra y la honestidad que el alcohol nos regala, sin pensarlo le dije, "¡Sí, estoy borracho!" – "¿Por qué?" Muy consternada me preguntó. – "¡Tú sabes porque!

Estas palabras se convirtieron en una conversación de una hora. Bueno, yo hablé toda la hora. Ella sólo me escuchaba y me miraba con lástima. Me prometió que todo cambiaría, que ella y yo estaríamos bien. Yo le creí. Me sequé las lágrimas, le besé la nariz, y ella me cobijó y en tres segundos el mundo se apagó.

Esa tormentosa madrugada, le dije a mi amá todo lo que mi corazón sentía después de que por una semana entera ella me dijera que mejor quería estar muerta, que como era posible que yo así fuera, que era una vergüenza, estaba mal, que cochinada, ¡Qué asco! ¡Cambia! ¡Haz algo! ¿No tiene cura?

Todo esto pasó por algo que les dije a mis papás cinco días antes de la borrachera. Mientras lloraba y todo el cuerpo me temblaba, prendí el fosforo que incendiaría el fuego que hasta ahora más me ha quemado el alma. Después de esas cinco palabras llegaron noches de culpa, inseguridad, miedo, coraje, impotencia, dolor, pero también valentía, honor, dignidad y aceptación por quién soy. Así que entre mocos y lágrimas saladas les dije: "Pues, es que soy gay."

NACCS Joto Conference

Iris Arcon














The Second Annual NACCS, Joto Caucus Conference was a three day event full of great presenters and performers including Cherríe Moraga, an internationally-recognized feminist, Chicana lesbian writer.

The conference was called “Sacred Space Making: Mapping Queer Scholarship, Activism, and Performance,” and was hosted by California State University, Los Angeles.

Moraga, who has written such great works including This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, Loving in the War Years: Lo Que Nunca Pasó Por Sus Labios (1983).

The conference had several workshops like “Feminism as a Sacred Space for Queer Men of Color,” “Immigrant Lesbians and Gay Men: the Missing Color in the Rainbow,” and “Queer Documenting, Archiving, and Researching.” Other workshops included, “Conectando Nuestras Fronteras: Bridging Queer Aztlán,” Queer Youth at the Forefront of Youth Organizing; Building Safe, Inclusive and Equitable Schools,” “Postcards from La Raza/Postales de La Raza,” “Implementing Queer Chicana/o Latina/o Studies in the CSU System,” and “Ave María Purisima de l@s jot@s: Testimonios on the Intersections of Religion, Spirituality, and Jota/o Identity,”

The last day was dedicated to Moraga. She read her newest work entitled, “Still Loving in the (Still) War Years.” Her piece embodied her Chicana lesbian side once again. After her reading, we got a chance to hear her reflect on the audience’s questions. She scolded us and said, “Why is there no movement? This scares me.”

When she uttered those words, “Queer Aztlan: The Re-formation of Chicano Tribe,” Moraga’s powerful article came into my head. She has been saying it all along. In her, Queer Aztlan, she, “felt the racism from the women’s movement, felt the elitism from the gay and lesbian movement; and homophobia and sexism from the Chicano movement.”

That is why she envisioned “Queer Aztlan.” Moraga reflected on, “ a dissolution of an active Chicano movement. The gradual Hispanization of Chicano students, the senselessness of barrio violence, and the poisoning of la frontera. For (her) ‘El Movimiento’ has never been a thing of the past. Those words were playing over and over in my head. She scolded us and asked “Why is there no movement.”

This question of whatever happened to the movement needs to be brought up again. The movement isn’t dead. It’s just waiting. What’s more important is that yeah, students have heard about the Chicano movement, but so many have not. Why don’t we know any of this information? Yes, that is what the walkouts represent.

Why don’t we know about AB540? Why don’t they know about what SB1301 and Prop. 8 stand for? And I can’t help but wonder are we still in the same place? Have we really not progressed anywhere since the Chicano Movement?

Yes, we all know certain things that pertain to immigration like the infamous May Day march. We all know about the raids, but we haven’t learned anything about queer issues. We still need to learn more.

This brings me to another issue. Will immigrants and queers have to fight the same struggle as the Chicano youth of the ‘60s? We are the students that have embodied the spirit of the Chicano Movement. We keep fighting for the all inclusive classes. We want to read about Cherríe Moraga and other writers like her. We don’t want to have to go to the women’s studies department to learn about queer theory and feminism. We don’t want to have to go to the sociology or history department to learn about all aspects of immigration. Our department should have all of these topics within the curriculum.

So with the current redevelopment of the Chicano studies department, has the department remembered to add immigration, Chican@ Feminism, and Queer issues? More importantly why aren’t we requesting these requirements within our curriculums?

One man asked, “You are a prominent lesbian Chicana writer. Where are all of the jotos? Why don’t we have queer men to look up to?”

La Cherríe left us with this, “You all have to go back home and challenge daddy. ¶

Cool Brown Dudes

Most of the guys that belong to Raza remind me of the guys I grew up with in high school. Cool brown dudes who have a passion for sports and a fascination with the female anatomy.

I’ve seen them at the parties. Checking out the girls from Hermanas Unidas and exchanging phone numbers and Myspace Latino addresses. Well, not really. We’re too Americanized to actually use Myspace Latino.

Despite the fact that I am not a Chicano and Latino Studies major, I’ve gotten to know a few of these guys.

But I don’t know if they really know me.

See, I’m gay.

I wouldn’t say right-in-your-face-gay, but definitely gay. I’m the type of gay who is down to chill with the guys and endlessly talk about J-Lo’s butt.

I don’t think I’m that feminine, so I don’t know how many of them know that I’m actually gay. Notice this is the fifth time I type the word gay, which is making me reconsider how much of a gay I really am. But I digress.

The fact that my fellow brown brothers are here for the same reason I am, to get educated and give back to the community, just makes me so proud to share the same room as them, no matter how stained the carpets are or how wiggly the stairs leading up to Raza get.

We brown men, the men who are constantly being portrayed as the gang-banger or the wife beater, are trying to better ourselves by getting an education.

But being a gay Latino can be a bit hard. To try and find acceptance from the same guys who throw the word "fag" here and there and use maricon with a negative connotation towards my people can be quite challenging.

Now, I’m not going to get all gay pride on your brown asses. I just won’t do that. I don’t think I’m all that proud yet. I’m in a stage of my life where I’m still trying to figure out what the future holds for me and wonder when the fuck I am going to graduate already. Managing a job, school and a boyfriend can be tough. But I’m hanging in there.

Like most of you.

I’m hanging in there because I want something better for me and I can’t wait until I am a Latino man with a professional life and leave my parents’ house (yup, still live at home) with a degree that will hopefully make this transition easier.So you see my hermanos, I am not that different from you. We all share the same vision and the same goals. In the eyes of some, we are bound to fail. But we won’t let that happen.

The only difference is that I like to kiss boys. And you guys like to kiss girls. Just like the Catholic Church drilled into our heads. Which probably explains why we are so fucked up in the head when it comes to opening our minds to other people’s sexual preferences. I don’t even think I’m that open. No pun intended, cabrones.