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Internalizing society's fear and abhorrence towards gayness and Latinidad, I learned how to hate myself. Stereotypes of gay men and antithetical stereotypes of Latino men have made me unintelligible to a world that ignores and silences the struggles of my communities.
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The constant fragmenting of my humanity into oppressed categories of race, skin color, gender, and sexuality made it almost impossible for me to exist as a whole human. My sadness continued to chip away at my core. I never told him about the hole in my chest that kept me up at night. I didn’t know I was allowed to be vulnerable. I never thought he could be attracted to me if he saw the real me. Even though we regularly hooked up, he never saw me naked. Every day people would yell at us, threaten us, and sometimes spit at us. He was thin and hairless and lighter than me. I met my first boyfriend when I was 16-years-old: a Mexican boy who had just moved from Riverside. Again, I was alone and I was thirsty to see myself. Alongside these images of gay men, my hairy, fat brown body felt foreign. When I searched for images of myself, I only found images of hypermasculine and mostly hairless Latino men. My sexuality consequently developed out of a medium that worshipped smooth, muscled white men. I first understood my homosexuality from porn. Coming from a predominately Latinx city and Latinx high school, learning about gay people transported me to my first predominately white cultural sphere. How could I have revealed the thoughts that were eating me away when I was convinced my existence was an accident?Īs soon I stopped denying my queerness, I tried to learn all I could about what it meant. I thought no one could ever understand who I was. When I finally accepted that I was a maricón at 13, I acknowledged something that had been so intimate and uniquely me my whole life: I was different and I was alone. I never thought I could be because, quite frankly, I didn’t know what it meant. Through middle school, I was teased for being gay. I remember having crushes on other boys as early as elementary school, but I figured out enough of the world to know to keep it to myself. When I was 13, a student in my English class called me a maricón. Though I had never heard of a gay person, I quickly figured out that it was something to be avoided at all costs. I was 11-years-old when I first understood that people were calling me a faggot at school. When she tried to help me, my dad yelled at her and told her not to or I’ll end up a joto (Mexican Spanish for faggot). My mom, still a teenager at the time, watched me cry as I picked myself up. Was 2-years-old when I was first called a faggot.