Hairspray & Fideo

A Mexican Immigrant and a 1st generation Chicana raised a baby and this is what they got

2011-12-07T10:43:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, Facebook was flooded with the flow of memes of John Pike’s famous and atrocious pepper-spraying of UC Davis Students. Last week, the most popular thing to share was a YouTube video circulated by Moveon.org. Titled “Two Lesbians Raised A Baby And This Is What They Got,” the video is of Zach Wahls, the son of two lesbians, addressing the Iowa House of Representatives public forum on House Joint Resolution 6. (The resolution proposed an amendment to the Constitution of the State of Iowa specifying marriage between one man and one woman as the only legal union that is valid or recognized in the state.)

Chances are, you were already familiar with this video. And chances are, you shared it, liked it, commented on it, and maybe even shed a tear while watching it. Truth is, the video is very inspiring for many. The Moveon.org post has been rather successful at bringing awareness about, and (at a minimum) stirring the emotions of supporters for, marriage equality. At least in that way that marriage equality is a one-dimensional fight that cannot be bothered with analyses of racism, classism or sexism. This is his testimony:

By now, I am sure you are expecting me to bring forth a critique. And I will. But first, I must clarify that my critiques will not be of Zach Wahls or his family.

I am writing this post inspired by this video because of the rich fodder it provides for having a dialogue around some of the underlying assumptions, narratives and values that carry the marriage equality movement. But more so, because these assumptions, narratives and values live comfortably within the subconscious rhetoric of white progressives and progressive people of color who buy into them, making it ever challenging for some of us to be a part of the conversation.

Call me crazy. Call me a writer. Language matters.

Now, on to the conversation.

A friend observed (and I agree) that this speech has a very specific context and, within such context, it is relevant, strategic and effective. Although the resolution did pass, the impact of the speech is significant. Now, considering that lawmakers and the experiment of government are not who and where we have traditionally gone to for leadership on matters of racial or economic justice, it is quite possible that Zach Wahls was the best person to have addressed these lawmakers, and that his message was the best message to deliver in this context. (It has been over a decade since I abandoned the silly idea that the first person lawmakers think about for matters of non-punitive government action looks anything like me.) I will even suggest that the strategy of suggesting that the Chairman would be proud of such a son could not have been delivered by a better literal embodiment (even if the chairman were a person of color).

The place where my critiques begin to surface is not where Zach Wahls enters the scene of the marriage equality movement. Rather, my concerns are triggered by the reality that this speech, with more than 15,000,000 hits on YouTube, no longer lives solely within the context of legislative hearings. This speech and, more importantly, these assumptions, narratives and values, live in the subconscious, in the conscious mind, and in the national “equality” rhetoric that so readily embraces, coddles and nurtures such ideals and standards. By bringing this speech to the forefront as a national movement strategy, Moveon.org (or the person who posted it onto the Moveon site) has provided an opportunity for public discussion and debate about the speech and its content.

For purposes of attempting some semblance of organized thinking, I am laying out a few concerns based on themes in the speech. This is not with the intention of contradicting the speaker as these are his words and I am sure they are very true and real for him and his family. Instead, I offer these thoughts hoping to engage in dialogue around how such language, in a broader public realm, affect and marginalize communities of color, and contribute toward making the marriage equality movement (and the LGBT Movement for that matter) irrelevant, and antithetical to racial and economic justice movements.

[Note: There are many themes, spoken and unspoken, within this video. I am only focusing on a few.]

Theme 1: Our family really isn't so different from any other [Iowa] family.

In a society wrought with ignorance and fear, a common strategy for changing people’s hearts and minds seems to be that of assuaging their fears by humanizing the disenfranchised. A popular tactic has been that of pointing out the similarities between the fearful and powerful, and the vulnerable and powerless. By similarities, we are not talking about a shared human experience, but those ways in which the dominant culture sees a reflection of its own values, religious practices, and socioeconomic status(es) (or aspirations) and allegiance. Whatever the success rate of such a strategy, I question what it means to bring about “justice” by placing the burden of societal ignorance and fear on the shoulders of those targeted by injustice.

Secondly, we live in a country where phrases like “All-American” and “boy next door” are thrown around carelessly. They are a part of a public lexicon and illustrate a specific ideal and physical standard. They define the epitome of gay male desire, ~~including~~ particularly for many fellow gay men of color.

Who do you think of when you hear these phrases? Chances are you do not think of me. I certainly would not. Which is an interesting irony to live with given that throughout my life, the “boy next door” has never looked like the boy such a phrase evokes. So, when the speaker, who embodies the dominant culture and is, in fact, the “All-American boy next door,” says “Our family really is not so different from any other Iowa family,” I stop to wonder, what images of families are going through the minds of his audience (legislators and YouTube viewers alike). Let us not pretend the speaker’s race, gender identity, assumed class status and religious inclinations are irrelevant to his message. These factors are embedded in the delivery of the speech, and, more importantly, in the constructs of its recipients.

So, what happens to those families who are very different from any other Iowa family? Those who, by their very existence, render impossible the concept of "any other Iowa family"? What happens when the subconscious fails to help pretend they do not exist?

What of the family that does not frequent a church, was not in the position to subsidize their child’s public education, nor send their child to a university? What of those families that are not and will not birth and/or raise children? On their own externally defined merit, are these families worthy of marriage equality? If so, let us make viral a YouTube video of their testimony, with their own markers for success, as well.

Theme 2: We’re Iowans, we don’t expect anyone to solve our problems for us. We’ll fight our own battles. We just hope for equal and fair treatment from our government.

Perhaps I have watched too many Republican primary debates, but this smells a little much like “Bootstrap” dogma. We live in a society of relationships. I have never solved my own problems, nor fought my own battles. Sure, I worked like hell and fought like hell, but all aided by a number of critical factors, such as: publicly subsidized medical care during my mother’s pregnancy and the day I was born; a publicly funded primary education; a publicly funded college education, which I was able to complete while riding a public bus that navigated the publicly funded streets of San José, CA, and so on (you get the idea).

Besides irrational, this theme struck me as problematic in that it begins to set a classist and racist undertone. This is one of the ways the marriage equality movement has failed to understand how distant its vision is from the realities of everyday life for poor and working class people of color. In essence, this “theme” begins to make a distinction between “self-sufficient” “Americans” who do not “need” the government to fix their problems, and those “other” “Americans” who do (translation: poor people, people of color). This narrative begins surfacing the truth that the marriage equality movement is ready to leave poor and people of color behind once its goals have been met.

I was raised by a gay couple and I’m doing pretty well.

Standing alone, this statement sounds pretty harmless, and potentially moving. Until we learn what “doing pretty well” means. For a plethora of reasons, these definitions of “doing pretty well” do not apply to a lot of people. In a merit-based society, the belief is that this is the result of laziness, lack of ambition and publicly funded mediocrity. For those of us interested in structural analysis, we believe that the story is far more complicated, with roots tracing back to the early invasion of these lands, American genocide domestically and internationally, slavery, the wrath of a post-slavery America, and so on.

Yes, there is Oprah, President Obama and Jennifer Lopez. Hell, even I made it through college, grad school and into a comfortable middle class job. But let us not kid ourselves. A number of conditions beyond hard work and perseverance were necessary for such “successes” to exist.

I was raised by a Mexican immigrant and a first-generation Chicana, and I am doing pretty well by socially accepted standards. But, just as my experience is not universal, neither is Zach’s. Which is not to say that this is what he was arguing. Rather, it is to caution those inspired by this speech to stop to think about what your subconscious is telling you.

Once we start applying ideals of universal success and results, we begin making distinctions between who is worthy of justice and who is not (a tenet of the criminal justice system). What of the two lesbians who raise a young adult who is doing pretty well by their own standards? What if those standards not only fall beneath the universal ideals we embrace, but are also considered morally or legally reprehensible? Will you applaud them too?

You are telling Iowans that some among you are second class citizens who do not have the right to marry the person you love.

Ah, the “second-class citizens” argument. It seems incomprehensible for the privileged white, those born in this country, those born into a financially stable family, those born with a penis and testicles, to understand the apathetic rolling-of-eyes they receive from those of us who come from generations of second class citizenry (I will not get into the absurdity of “citizenship” altogether).

I agree that preventing same-sex couples from partaking in a civil engagement afforded opposite-sex couples is unjust. However, until ~~the marriage equality movement~~ privileged gays and lesbians start aligning themselves with the rest of the second-class population, I say:

Welcome to our world.

One could say my words only serve to polarize or derail the conversation. This is not my intent. Rather, I hope to offer that the conversation is not broad enough, that it excludes far too many of us (most of us, I would argue). If we are to bring about meaningful transformation, a change that is sustainable, we must include the voices of those who hold an intellectual, physical and spiritual understanding of the complexities and contradictions of living within ever-racialized economically exploitive contexts; those who do not have the choice to pretend to be oblivious to injustice; those who are called to arms by conviction, not by the sudden realization that their entitlements have been compromised.

Finally, the sexual orientation; race; gender expression(s); immigrant, poor and working class experiences; language; and, languages, of my parents have everything to do with the content of my character. That 27-year-old immigrant mexicano and that 21-year-old first-generation Chicana raised a baby, and I am what they got.

Do you support drug testing to get approval to be on Welfare? If so, why are we friends?

2011-11-10T09:12:00.000-08:00

In a country where people are exploited on a daily basis, what do we do to relieve or ignore the feeling that we are oppressed? Well, we oppress others-- if not by hitting the voting booths, by participating in a Facebook poll.

Yesterday, my Facebook feed featured several friends who had clicked yes on the following poll:

Now, I do not know Nathan Skol Vikings Lee, an adult man who wears his favorite sexual position on his jersey (talk about flaunting your sexual preferences). I do not know any of his 60,544 friends and I, hopefully, do not know most of the 1,748,371 people who participated in his poll. I do, however, know some of them as they somehow ended up on my Friends list.

I know that Facebook friendships can often be as deep and memorable as a Republican's logic, but some of my "friends" on the social networking site are actually my friends. So, while not surprised, I was deeply disturbed to see some of these friends exercise their right to self-righteous policy-by-mouseclick action. [Side note: Facebook was useful in getting Betty White to host SNL, but if this is how we start changing policy, I'm moving to another planet.] More disturbing, however, is that all of these friends voting "YES" on Mr. 69's poll are people of color-- all from poor and working class families.

A bit irate, I posted the following status update last night:

As I noted in the stream of dialogue that followed, my status update is in response to people readily jumping on the opportunity to endorse, collude with, and push for the criminalization of poor and working class women (particularly women of color).

There seems to be a sick belief that by virtue of paying taxes into a government that then (very conditionally, and after multiple hoops and vicious monitoring) provides public assistance to people in financial need, "we" somehow earn the right to strip those in need of fundamental rights (such as Privacy, as a friend noted in an earlier comment) and impose economic and criminal sanctions at will. What I found discombobulating about my pro-drug testing friends' actions, is that they, like me, are children of poor and working class women of color. In essence, they are saying that in the event of financial hardship, their mothers must also be drug-tested in order to receive financial benefits.

I am not arguing against the reality that our communities struggle with and against substance use and abuse. I am arguing against the fact that this poll and those voting for it ungently suggest women receiving or applying for welfare are substance users. And, in any event, to be so eager to impose economic sanctions on our mothers, sisters and grandmothers when it does little to nothing in addressing the substance use and abuse challenges our communities experience, is awfully disturbing to say the least.

For medical reasons, I have blood drawn often. Each time I visit my local phlebotomist, I read the statement of regulations telling people what will disqualify their urine sample. I am disturbed, not by the existence of regulations (I seem to have grown accustomed to being policed on this planet), but by the tacit assumption that, left to our own accord, people will veer into criminal activity ("criminal" being an arbitrary concept, applied mostly on people of color, of course).

I am disheartened by the hypocrisy, moral myopia and plain ignorance in those who find pleasure in the criminalization of poor and working class women and women of color, without recognizing that these women are our mothers, our grandmothers, our sisters, and, one day, our daughters and granddaughters. By this logic, we should also start drug testing our 80 year old abuelas before granting them Medicare benefits.

Lastly, I find it ironic to focus on imposing accountability measures for poor and working class women at a time when people around the world are revolting against the lack of accountability of corporations that receive more public support than our mothers ever will. As it turns out, not only are corporations now considered people, they are people who deserve more respect, privacy and freedom than poor and working class women do.

To close, I must again ask those who voted "YES" on this poll:

How and why are we friends?

Remembering the Roots of Consciousness: Why I support New Fire

2011-10-28T10:43:00.000-07:00

Theater and ceremony, New Fire follows
the sacred geography of Indigenous American
ancestors to tell a story of rapture and return.

For a few years, my blog description read:

I was supposed to be a Mexican, then came Manifest Destiny and I became a Mexican American. Then came that second grade teacher and I became Hispanic. Then came that one white woman and I became a spic. Then came that one college course and I became Chicano. Then came Cherríe Moraga and I became Xicano.

My path toward consciousness has been a lengthy, complex and ever-invigorating process. There has been much I have had to unlearn in my search for a colored enlightenment. A search for self-realization. A surfacing of self-determination.

This has not been a solitary path. The aisles I walk through are covered with graffiti scripture left behind, being written as we live, by the hearts and minds of my elders and my sistren. The mesquite-lined veredas I travel were cleared long before I learned to pronounce my name. I come from somewhere.

The writer in me descends from those who came before, those who write today. I am a part of a future ancestry, crafting for future generations. And I know, I came from somewhere.

The consciousness that carries and guards me through a world replete with misogyny, white supremacy and economic exploitation, has been shaped by the pens of women of color. Women by the name of Cherríe Moraga, Sharon Bridgforth, Gloria Anzaldúa, Ana Sisnett, and so, so many more. I know where I come from.

It is in remembering where my consciousness comes from, where its first roots sprung, that I recognize, not the obligation, but the opportunity to be a part of supporting bringing about story-making that will guide us further into consciousness. This is why I support bringing to the stage Cherríe Moraga's newest play, New Fire: To Put Things Right Again.

If you once took a class in Feminist Studies, Women's studies, Ethnic studies, Chicana/o studies or anything of the sort, chances are, you have come across the words of Cherríe Moraga. If you have moved within progressive womanist, people of color circles, you understand that these, too, are informed by Moraga's craft. Whoever you are, if we know of each other, chances are your own consciousness has been touched by Moraga's work.

As one within a communal practice, politic, of consciousness, join me. Be a part of story-making, support bringing New Fire to fruition. Be a part of bringing this new play to the stage.

Donate today by visiting the New Fire Kickstarter Campaign Page.

Under Threat of Marriage

2011-10-25T09:15:00.000-07:00

In a family, indeed a culture, deathly obsessed with normalcy and public opinion, marriage has been perhaps the only constant and universally applicable aspiration. Every one of us, girl or boy (gender dichotomies being the only other familial constant), groomed (poorly at that) to one day become someone’s wife: the abnegated and obedient giver of unconditional love, devotion and body; or, someone’s husband: the selfish and conditional taker of love, devotion and body.

More than a right of passage, marriage was the inevitable step to take toward fulfilling one’s purpose in life: produce and reproduce. Those who failed to reproduce this home-based structure of capitalist and moral manufactured goods were begrudgingly seated at the children’s table, looked upon with sad and disappointed glances accompanied by profound sighs of hope. At least this was the fate of ripe –and past due– for marriage single men. Single women of age and beyond, who had failed to meet their obligation were either left para vestir santos or relegated to the status of whoredom if they had failed to marry or maintain a marriage; the status of those who entered motherhood outside of marriage was (is) much worse.

As a young boy growing up in Chihuahua, marriage was held to a sacred standard that surpassed even Catholicism. My abuela Antonia, who readily abandoned the Pope for the arms of Baptists missionaries, even attributed health benefits to those who exchanged vows. She believed marriage even helped overcome lifelong medical conditions.

Mirroring the story of many queer people I know, I worked tirelessly to compensate for the fact that I would never grant my family the joy of seeing me standing at the foot of an altar waiting for a woman who, more than being dressed in white, was worthy (in their eyes) of wearing such a color. Early on, I knew I would fail to perform the most sacred of acts. My only other option was to excel in every other possible way. My academic and professional achievements became the consolation prizes with which I attempted to hide the lifelong shame I brought to the mythological family legacies of marriage and happiness.

The night I was disowned my father called me a rama seca, a dried branch, of our family tree. The son of the patriarch, my body and way of loving cut the circulation of Herrera genes. I strangled the hope for offspring and desecrated the purpose for which my family’s white and male creator brought me to this world.

It was in the process of mourning the consequences of loving with integrity that I learned to celebrate the painfully earned immunity that my queerness had given me. As one whose unconsecrated love would never be condoned or celebrated, I was free to love on my own terms. Most liberating of all, I was free to equate and separate love and desire as I pleased, with whom I pleased, and with as many as I pleased. I was no longer bound.

In the midst of my newfound joy and newly discovered emotional and sexual freedom, came the right to marry. With the strike of pens, elected officials and courts in various parts of the world began granting same-sex couples the right to enter into legal and, in some cases, moral contract.

I confused our path toward government-sanctioned love with the possibility that this love, this way of loving, would one day also become sanctioned by the world I live in, and more importantly, those with whom I share these last names. Sadly, with some exceptions, I was right.

The advent of equality has granted others the right to toss my love and way of loving to the wretched realm of normalcy. My relationship to one man now grants me the privilege of being distinguished, respected and called upon for matters of family and industry. Yet I am not allowed to speak, much less openly live, the sexuality of my queerness. The casualty of equality has been my desire.

I support the right to marry in as much as it is unjust for it to be a special right reserved for those who partake in heterosexual dyads, but I do not abandon my convictions in the process. I celebrate and honor the legal marriages of my loved ones, and truly cherish those whose legal contracts exist within revolutionary constructs of love and partnership, while remaining critical of a movement that has fed my desire to the gods of normativity and acceptance.

I do not believe it serves anyone for us to witness the shaping of homonormative mores without being critical. This movement toward equality has made marriage sacrosanct, at times mirroring the oppressive dogma-infused enforcement laid upon the opposite gender loving. My fear is that, as our once queer cultures shift toward normalcy, we may be giving up the right to choose in exchange for the right to marry.

Sacred as it may be, the marriage we seek access to is not void of the pervasive ills feminists have long warned about. Even as critiques of the marriage equality movement persist, critical dialogue around “marriage” itself is an unspeakable sin. It is dangerous to believe that marriage, an institution infused by (some would argue, born out of) misogyny, racism and economic exploitation, is immune to such forces simply by existing within same-sex contexts. There is nothing about the modern-day LGBT movement that leads me to believe this would be a given.

Certainly, I hold hope that the manufacturing of equality will lead toward a changed social consciousness that values the same-sex performance of couplehood, such that the bodies of such performers are treated with dignity and respect. But I do not fool myself in believing that those who refuse to perform legislative and morally approved relationship roles will enjoy the same treatment.

Such happiness is not bestowed upon those who dare love on their own terms; those who love more than one; those who love multiple genders, as well as genderless and multiple-gendered bodies; and, those who refuse to love at all. It seems we have conflated the right to marry with the obligation to do so. For others to assume I will marry one day is dangerously close and familiar to the expectation that I will. For marriage to be an option for queer communities might be a sign of progress, yet for it to become the norm is a sad tragedy.

Imagining Ourselves Possible: 26 years and counting

2011-10-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

The poet Marvin K. White speaks often about the importance of knowing one’s lineage, remembering who signed our birth certificates. He has said that “we don’t just appear out of nowhere, we come from somewhere.” These are teachings I carry with me daily.

My heart and skin are tattooed with the names of the midwives, parteras and healers who walked me into this world of consciousness and art. Women, men, some who are both, others who are neither, were all a part of bringing me into a world of resistance and possibility— the names written on my birth certificate. The birthing center, allgo, a statewide queer people of color organization.

In 2001, the organization went by the name of ALLGO (Austin Latina/o Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Organization). It was a thriving organism of arts, health education and critical organizing. It was a center of cultural awakening and engagement. It was a site of change.

Over the following eight years, I went from being a client, a volunteer, a board member, associate director, executive director, and director of arts & community building. In these eight years of growth and learning, the organization changed names to allgo, a queer people of color organization (to better reflect the wholeness of the organization's community), to allgo, a statewide queer people of color organization (as part of efforts to support organizing and the arts across Texas).

My eight years at allgo were the most transformative of my artistic/activist life. I was held by an incomparable ever-expansive community of queer people of color, white and straight allies, students, teachers, artists, organizers, elders, children, youth and the occasional elected official. Raised in Christian traditions of second-births, I now know that allgo was where I truly was born again. Only this time, I was born into a consciousness rooted in ancient traditions, critical resistance, artistic fervor and communal imagination. allgo is my birthplace.

Today, allgo turns 26 years old. What began as a pool party on October 12, 1985 (Día de la Raza) -- with over 200 guests in attendance –- has grown to be an important and unwavering space in the history and ongoing redaction of the realization of social justice movements. One of the longest standing queer people of color organizations in the country, allgo is a living testimony to the power of a people who dare imagine ourselves possible.

The further this economy and politically centric agendas continue to exacerbate the marginalization and disenfranchisement of our communities, the more critical organizations like allgo are.

Be a part of continuing the legacy of resistance and possibility by supporting allgo today. Whether you are in Texas or far away (as I am today), all of us have an opportunity to sit at the intersections of possibilities, arts and organizing. Join me.

Be a part of the next 26 years.

Click here to learn more about allgo's work.

Click here to join the mailing list.

Click here to donate today.

White men are sacred, the rest of us not so much*

2011-08-01T13:02:00.000-07:00

Perhaps one of the best explanations for the ways in which white male privilege is nurtured and sustained by white supremacy (and the structures of racism that surround us) I have ever heard is that white men are sacred. Although, not in the way that all beings and all of nature are sacred. Rather, in the way that white men are sacred and the rest of us less so.

The lesson came from the one graduate school professor I encountered who ever dared utter the word “racism.” She, out of some 30 all-white professors St. Edward’s University put me in front of over the course of two graduate programs, was the least liked by her peers and the Jesuit institution that upheld their collective (and sacred) whiteness. In one statement, this professor articulated what was simultaneously the most perturbing and the most logical explanation for the world of racism I have struggled to make sense of since childhood.

Through the lens of (white) feminism, I understood that capitalist, as well as sociocultural and religious (both of which arguably serve capitalist purposes) institutions sustain and require the throne on which white men sit. Through women of color feminisms I learned that these same institutions create a hierarchy of privilege that is not entirely linear. For instance, as white women celebrated the victory of entering the workforce, women of color were not only already working, but now had more white women’s homes and children to tend to.

Yet the sanctity of white maleness is not irrevocable. White gay men’s argument that they are “second-class citizens” is a perfect example. White gay men appear to be, by virtue of being gay, less sacred than their heterosexual identifying (not necessarily practicing) counterparts. Although, they are certainly more sacred than someone like me.

And so, with years of attempting to make sense of the LGBT movement’s inability and unwillingness to be inclusive of the L’s, the B’s, the T’s, the non-white, and so on, successively, I turn to this professor’s logic: white men are sacred, the rest of us not so much.

Understanding how the LGBT movement simultaneously erases those not white and male from its history, and maintains us at the margins of its present, is a daunting task. [Note: I must recognize that there have been some selective, at times strange, nods to people of color.] The fact that primarily white men lead the LGBT movement today defies any practical logic I can conjure. The idea is absurd simply by looking at our communities demographically. Even strategically, it makes no sense to sustain a mostly white male leadership structure at a time when conservatives court communities of color against LGBT rights by insisting that all things LGBT are white, middle-to-upper class, and male. And yet, look around.

I have been in countless spaces in which queer folks of color argue against the LGBT Agenda (known also as Gay Inc.), insisting that its priorities are inconsistent with those of LGBT people of color. I disagree.

I believe that marriage equality, the dismantling of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell (DADT), and the passing of a (trans-inclusive!) Employment Nondiscrimination Act (ENDA), to name a few, is in fact relevant for communities of color. Certainly, I continue to believe marriage is a capitalist, sexist and racist structure; I am not in favor of enhancing the military industrial complex and further enabling U.S. imperialism and ongoing global massacring; and, fighting for ENDA implies people 1) have or can attain a job, and 2) can be safeguarded from nuanced institutional discrimination. With all these contradictions, assessing the ways in which queer communities of color are further disenfranchised and harmed by the absence of marriage equality, the existence of DADT and the lack of employment nondiscrimination policies, tell me these issues are relevant and a priority to people of color as well. That said, I understand how our communities contest these issues as our priorities, particularly when compared to issues such as healthcare, housing and immigration. Gay, Inc. does an exceptional job at making "its" issues irrelevant to our daily lives.

When marriage equality is defended through public examples of affluent white male couplehood, I find myself making leaps of faith to believe marriage equality is about people of color— especially people of color who partner with people of color. In 2004, conservatives in Texas pushed for a constitutional amendment defining marriage as being between a man and a woman. Arguing in favor of what was known as Prop 2, anti-LGBT advocates strategically described marriage equality as something privileged white gay men wanted. In turn, the LGBT leadership of Texas reinforced this image by offering mostly all white couples in their messaging. The occasional appearance of a person of color happened when their significant other was white. I never saw a couple in which both were people of color. Apparently we are as common as unicorns or hot summers in San Francisco.

In 2008, the fight against Prop 8 showed that even in *ahem* liberal California, marriage equality is a white gay male issue. Conservatives made the argument to communities of color, and LGBT leadership again reiterated this through its “No On 8” campaign. And yet, what came after November 4, 2008, was perhaps the most telling.

Angry that people of color had taken away their right to marry, white gay men took to the streets, the blogosphere and traditional media to make their anger known. Dan Savage even called it “Black Homophobia.”

And so it was, in 2008, white gay men came out of the racism closet, and openly articulated what the LGBT movement quietly nurtures.

While Dan Savage and Andrew Sullivan blamed communities of color for taking away their right to marry, I was left with a choice. Either I agreed and blindly and uncritically denounced my communities, or I contested such arguments as racist and untrue. I chose the latter.

What I once believed to be reluctance toward inclusion, I now understand as simple logic. On its own accord, the LGBT movement is not a women’s movement, a bisexual movement, a transgender movement, a people of color movement, and so on. It is, from what I have witnessed first hand and from the inside, a movement that aims to reinstate the rights and privileges that white gay men lost by virtue of being gay. The LGBT movement –unceasingly breaking the hearts of so many of us– is for the sacred, the rest of us not so much.

California’s fight against Prop 8 illustrated the LGBT movement’s relationship to people of color: we are either the conduit or the barrier to a movement aimed at reinstating the privileges of white gay men. And while some of us consequentially benefit from the LGBT movement’s progress, by looking at its leadership, messaging and strategies, one might not know these benefits were intentional.

Luckily, queer people of color, my trans sisters, brothers and those who identify as both and/or neither, those who are bi, and those who fall under none of these (often) rigid categories, are not leaving the LGBT movement to its own accord. Not only do we belong at the table, we insist on building a new one.

________________________

*No white men were harmed in the writing of this post. White male privilege, however, hopefully was.

Amy Winehouse: An honoring and a farewell to one of ours

2011-07-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

Today, artists around the world can feel a shift in the incandescence that connects us. A “shift in the force,” if you will, at the expansive loss that is the departure of Amy Winehouse.

A woman whose brilliance crooned the deepest corners of souls refusing to take love and loss for granted. A lyricist whose craft confronted the troubling complexities of love, embraced the ridicule of desire, and forced us to bask in the limelight of our own tragedies.

Those of us who write, paint, dance, move, photograph, etch.. from those dark corners, those shamed and pained moments most people ignore or bring to light only in the darkest hours of the night, know tragedy is more than performance. And yet, audiences applaud our performance of tragedy as if it were entirely fictionalized and ungrounded in the realities of our lives. Even as we seek to overcome the tragedies of our pasts, the suffering of our present, and the prophecy of tomorrow’s pain, performance is all you might care to notice.

So as you dismiss the tragic loss of Amy Winehouse as “unsurprising” or “inevitable,” think about the painting you pass by today, the song you hear but don’t listen to, the dancing body you are too busy to pay attention to. Stop to look, listen and feel. Artists are more than your servants of entertainment, we embody what you might be too afraid to recognize in yourself.

Let Amy Winehouse’s death weigh on you, be surprised, mourn and sit silently with the rest of us, as we honor and send love for the peaceful transition of one of ours.

Vandalism comes in many forms

2011-06-30T11:35:00.000-07:00

Somewhat big news on the LGBT front is that HRC’s Dupont Circle Action(?) Center and Store(!) in D.C. was vandalized over Pride weekend. Apparently a group calling themselves “The Right Honorable Wicked Stepmothers’ Traveling, Drinking and Debating Society and Men’s Auxiliary” (as much as I hate acronyms, I think they need one) took responsibility for the action through a press release. HRC’s interpretation: “…some are more interested in fostering division in the community.”

A few thoughts…

After living in San Francisco and being indoctrinated in its composting ways, I would disagree with the paint-throwing tactic; it’s not very green. The spray painted “Stonewall” on the sidewalk, while symbolic, will end up washed away into sewer drains, more than likely eventually landing in the drinking water of poor families or what wildlife is left surrounding D.C. No es bueno.

However, there is something to be said about acts of resistance. In its press release, the Urgently In Need of An Acronym group evokes the three nights of Stonewall, ACT-UP and the first Pride march in New York. And while folks at Queerty are right to say that these three historic efforts were all public, I wouldn’t completely dismiss this weekend’s actions as mere irresponsible or drug and alcohol-induced vandalism. I think there is more to unearth here.

To be clear, I am not a member of the pink paint group (I would have insisted on a less tongue-twisting name), nor am I interested in throwing paint or any other materials at people or organizations. But I am interested in thinking about the ways in which acts of resistance serve to agitate and make clear that the status quo institutions pretend to glide through does not go unnoticed. Vandalism comes in many forms.

HRC’s betrayal of Trans folks by standing behind a non-Trans inclusive Employment Nondiscrimination Act was an act of vandalism against our communities. The consistent exclusion of people of color is an act of vandalism against our communities (one report does not constitute inclusion nor relevance). The obscene argument for “incremental gains” is an act of vandalism against our communities.

Our communities have a history of being vandalized. We carry the scars and remnants of the paint of betrayal and indifference thrown at us year after year. This paint is toxic too.

I am not proposing we go on defacing organization’s storefronts or enacting any form of violence. What I am proposing is that we remember and be critical of the fact that HRC and other LGBT institutions have long lost the pulse of our communities (assuming they ever knew how to find our pulse). To assume that embodying values and carrying forward agendas that are at once irrelevant and fundamentally against queer liberation, racial justice, economic justice, gender justice, and so on, without being held accountable is both irresponsible and offensive. This is how division is fostered.

If there’s one thing that pink paint left spelled on the HRC glass, it’s that our communities are watching.

Poetry: On This Lake

2011-06-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

today I found you
perched as an eagle straddling my legs
devouring my serpent
surrounded by the lake of your bed
staring back at me with a prophetic gaze

years of nomadic fate, choked
as your claw tightened further
I built an empire on this lake
if only for a moment

your throat erased political divisions
territories became regions
you had no beginning
I had no end

as Aztlán returning to its whole
and holy state
these bodies of men merged
you found the native in my fruit
I fulfilled my purpose if only for a moment

[Originally published in the Yellow Medicine Review: International Queer Indigenous Issue, edited by Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán. With over 80 contributors from indigeneous communities around the world, this book is a must for your collections. To purchase a copy, visit http://bit.ly/qivCt]

[IL]LEGITIMATE POETICS: Reconciling (or not) Radical Craft & the Literary Establishment

2011-06-04T12:05:00.000-07:00

Have you ever asked a poet why they write? It’s a fun question to ask. I would venture to say you would typically hear a profound (at times, perhaps cliché) response that evokes or explicitly articulates a philosophical and/or spiritual purpose. I have heard poets say they write for their community, they write to remember, they write to hold hope, they write to survive… and so the list goes.

No matter the oil that fuels our midnight flickering flame, most poets I have broken bread and stanza with write from sacred spaces composed of intricate amalgamations of memory and prophecy, affliction and bliss, irreverence and worship, insurgency and pacifism, desire and duplicity. The poetry I have been blessed to caress over the years show signs of roots tracing back to the richly complex wombs of inspiration. I insist poetry is more than compiled descriptions of dichotomies. Rather, gathering places of sweet-layered literary cacophonies spinning, resting and exploding at the speed and mind-baffling complexity of a planetary revolution.

Given that I liken the craft of poetry to the sacred scribing of biblical verses, I struggle to wrap my head around the bureaucracy of poetics. Not that I am entirely against institutional constructions of form. But, as I do with all institutional inventions, I call them into question, abstain from revering and resist abidance. Having questioned the existence of god, I must also hold the poetic establishment against the sun.

In my fervent resistance against the institutionalization of a sacred act, I spent a good eight years refusing to entertain the prospect of MFA programs. I met heartbroken writers who barely survived their MFA experience, including one novelist who stopped writing upon graduation. Over the years, I pictured MFA programs as predatory monsters taking the form of the Little Mermaid’s Ursula, offering their gift of legitimacy in exchange for the voices of their prey. Of course, my fears, while not entirely unfounded, were not completely fallacious either.

Although I remain skeptical of the industrialization of poetry, I decided to apply to a bilingual MFA program— and was admitted. Primarily, I applied out of the longing to receive the same degree of support and feedback in Spanish poetry as I receive in English. Having heard from other bilingual poets in monolingual English programs, who receive mere pats on the back for their Spanish work, I decided against applying to such linguistically enfeebled programs. I am honored to have been one of the six writers admitted to the University of Texas-El Paso’s Online Bilingual MFA Program. I look forward to the growth my writing will experience. Yet, I remain fearful of what I (not necessarily my writing) will look like in 2014. To be clear, I do not fear the MFA itself, but the culture of MFAs.

As with MFA programs, I have looked at publishing with a sense of reluctance. I was raised within a queer people of color-led movement of radical thinking and doing— a movement of transgressive people, thought and action. So when the world of publishing declares rules for what acceptable and legitimate forms of publishing are, I find myself resisting.

From the queer communities of color context I was raised in, publishing is not about profit or notoriety. Rather, the purpose of publishing is, to quote my sister and fierce poet, Rajasvini Bhansali, for the “production of knowledge.” As radical community-rooted poets, our stanzas do more than describe our values— they construct manifestos. Within this context, institutional standards of legitimized publishing become irrelevant, if not direct ideological and pragmatic impediments to the production, dissemination and engagement of our knowledge.

I come from the Bridgforth School of Writing where truth is inherent to craft. A school where one is asked to articulate how one’s resistance speaks to the work. A school where community is not forged, but in a constant organic process of birthing. A school where the body and its memory are mightier than the pen. It was under the mentorship of the brilliant Sharon Bridgforth that I found my voice and purpose on this planet.

As a radically trained cultural worker, I spent most of my 20’s advocating (at times fighting) for queer artists of color whose embodied artistic intention push against conventional white and heterocentric standards of art. Fueled by the values and training of queer people of color and radical ally sisters who created and sustain allgo (a statewide queer people of color organization in Texas), I stood-up to funding bodies who would rather fund the regurgitation of works by a European man dead nearly 400 years, over the innovative cutting-edge and autonomous craft of Southern butch dykes.

Inspired by, and in collaboration with, the genius of Joe Jiménez, Sharon Bridgforth, Jennifer Margulies and Dr. T. Jackie Cuevas, allgo launched itself into publishing. This energy led to the publishing of Virginia Grise and Irma Mayorga’s The Panza Monologues (based on the play by the same name, which engages in community dialogue on the Chicana body), as well as two anthologies, Queer Codex: Chile Love (a collection of works by queer men of color writers, performers and visual artists) and Queer Codex: ROOTED! (a collection of works by queer womyn and trans writers, performers and visual artists). During this period, my own book, Santo de la Pata Alzada: Poems from the Queer/Xicano/Positve Pen was published by the radical and feminist Evelyn Street Press.

And yet, with all my training in community-based publishing and arts production, as well as the beautiful and caring experience I had in the publishing of my first collection of poetry, I found myself allowing notions of legitimacy to plague my mind vis à vis my future in publishing. The more I began to move in the world as a Writer, the more the structures of industrialized poetics questioned my relationship to the establishment they jealously protect.

This is my retaliation.

What does Vanity Publishing mean to someone who has lived an entire life at the margins of institutional acknowledgement? Are we to assume that a self-published author has no writing community that offers support, feedback and spaces for growth? Thus, rendering the self-published work substandard (insert “whose standard” here), as if all work published traditionally were of supreme quality. By these rules, is the self-published person even an author?

Similarly, while theater companies producing the work of its membership are treasured, nonprofit publishers and collectives are called into question when publishing the work of their own. Even as ethical inquiries arise for poetry contests where winners have questionable ties to judges, the books remain published and valid in the eyes of the industry. In a world of such artistic double standards and, dare I say, classist, sexist and racist assumptions, what hope is left for writers whose training takes place in community backyards and living rooms, and not in the pale halls of the academy?

When so many of us come to poetry hoping to make sense of ourselves and our surroundings, and longing to imagine a future that is possible, being confronted with structural regulations for valid writing is a challenge, if not a reappearance of oppressions we sought to overcome through our art-making. Poets enter non-linear processes of craft-development, self-discovery, self-defining and self-identification, only to be forced to define ourselves by the rigid terms of institutions (e.g. AWP Conference bio guidelines and restrictions). Dare upset the poetic establishment and find yourself relegated to the outskirts (at best) or becoming (or remaining) irrelevant in its eyes. The poetic establishment has the final say.

I do not mean to disregard MFA programs or their value as spaces for writers to develop and refine their craft (for god’s sake, I’m about to start attending one). Nor do I intend to dismiss the role of traditional publishing in the lives and careers of my sistren, or demean their successes. To the contrary, I applaud and celebrate with them as they receive acclaim, distinguished awards and residencies, and publishing opportunities. I believe our communities deserve to enter and exist in those spaces. For without us, the literary establishment is illegitimate.

I raise these questions to engage my fellow writers in dialogue, to engage in public self-critique, and to open my own submission to the literary establishment for the critique of my sistren. I refuse to hold myself to the standard of a profiteering self-serving machine, but will submit to the voices of my peers. I look to you, my sistren, for guidance on how we might hold the establishment accountable, and, more importantly, how we continue to develop sistemas autóctonas (autochthonous systems) for the production of knowledge.

Ricky Martin's MAS Tour: Por esto, y tanto más, gracias.

2011-05-19T20:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m a huge Ricky Martin fan. I’ve been a lover of his music since the longhair days of “Fuego Contra Fuego.” In the early 90’s, I’d rush home to catch him as “Pablo” in Alcanzar una Estrella II, and Sundays I would be glued to the tv waiting for Ricky to make an appearance on Siempre en Domingo.

Years later, the very thought of Ricky’s music takes me back to my pre-teen years of crushes on boys in Secundaria, and the silence that stood between us. Having collected all of his albums and holding “Las Almas del Silencio” as his most artistic effort yet, I couldn’t help but (literally) jump out of bed when a cousin sent a text offering me tickets to Ricky’s MAS concert in San José.

After inviting and coordinating with a few friends, we were on the road from San Francisco to my hometown of San José. On the way, I played a number of Ricky’s songs ranging from “Dime Que Me Quieres,” stopping at the infamous “Livin’ la Vida Loca” crossover days, cruising through his tattooed reggaetón days of LIFE, and landing with the music video for “Lo Mejor de Mi Vida Eres Tú.” I was ready.

Although much of my time thinking and writing about Ricky this past year has been less about his music and more about his coming out and what it means for our communities, I wasn’t expecting anything overtly queer at the concert. Well, except for the sea of brown gay & bi men, of course.

As we arrived at the venue, I was happy to see my fellow jotos and patos representing with fierce rhinestone shirts and enough sharp eyebrows to cut a Luis Miguel fan. What I didn’t expect were the Christian protestors holding up the “Gay Sex is Sin” signs I’m used to seeing at Gay Pride.

I felt terrible thinking I had underestimated Ricky and that the Christians knew him better than I did. Never had I imagined a Ricky Martin concert would be worthy of warnings of a burning Sodom and Gomorra. The Christians did. And they were right.

Ricky’s MAS tour delivered on each letter of its acronym. He brought the música, he gave the alma, and baby, he delivered on the sexo.

I realize this is sacrilegious, but Ricky’s concert was gayer than any of the seven Juan Gabriel concerts I’ve been to. Yes, Juanga prances about, says things like “Si me caigo me cogen,” and has grown mustache-sporting men crying like Sanjaya’s preteen fan on American Idol. However, for all of Juan Gabriel’s beautiful femme fierceness and the lovemaking that goes on between him and his audience, it all remains masked under the clout of the unspeakable.

Ricky, on the other hand, left me speechless when he held one of his male dancer’s head as the dancer slid his hands down Ricky’s thighs. I’ve been gay long enough to know, that there is a gay move. And he didn’t stop there. The electrifying erotically sensual bi-gendered orgy-like performance that took place on a long sofa while he sang “I Am,” was enough to have the gays fanning ourselves and clutching our pearls (pay attention at 0:24 and on):

Still, for those who thought they had room to dismiss the (not-so)subtle sensual man-on-man moments in the concert, Ricky made the queerness explicit. In what reminded me of Madonna’s “Confessions” moment in the Confessions Tour, one of Ricky’s dancers performed solo as his coming out experience was narrated overhead. Beginning with the struggles of growing up with a father who insisted he learn to box and arriving with his libratory moment of discovering his love for dance and his revelation as a gay man. The screaming of the crowd erased all remaining ambiguity: This was a queer Latino concert.

Topping off what was a surprisingly gay and expectedly delicious concert, was Ricky’s encore performance of “Lo Mejor de Mi Vida Eres Tú.” The feel-good song that brought us the queer and different-affirming video, was brought to a close by Ricky offering the following words:

“Lo único que necesitamos en este momento son los mismos derechos para todo el mundo. Lo único que queremos es igualdad, ni más ni menos… I’m talking about equality, ladies and gentlemen, not more, not less, just equality.”

Now all you bitter gays who dismissed Ricky Martin’s coming out as inconsequential and cowardly too late, imagine an arena of Latinas and Latinos, many of whom speak Spanish as their primary (perhaps only) language, applauding an openly gay, culturally rooted and historically present artist delivering words that many queer Latino men like myself could never say to our own families.

Early on, I saw Ricky Martin’s coming out as an important opportunity for queer boys in the U.S. and Latino América who, in their isolation, would now have the opportunity to bear witness to a Latin superstar move openly in his public’s eyes as gay. Months after his coming out, I hailed Ricky’s appearance on the front cover of People en Español’s Father’s Day issue as an important historical moment for our communities. With a readership of 6.4 million people, Ricky, with his two children (Valentino and Matteo) in arms, would be on Supermercado stands and coffee tables across the country.

And yet, it took Christian protestors to make me realize that even I, in all my pro-Ricky arguments, had underestimated just how important he has become. I only hope that in the future I am not blindsided by my own limited capacity to imagine what Ricky Martin has in store for the future.

As the poet, Marvin K. White, recently said, “As with Don Lemon, Ricky Martin is one of the few who came out with his ethnicity intact.”

Por esto, y tanto más, Ricky, gracias.

What’s with all the straight jokes?

2011-05-18T14:19:00.000-07:00

If you’ve read my blog once or twice, you’ve figured out that I’m avidly sarcastic and fervently irreverent. Having inherited much of these traits from my beautifully fierce abuela’s, I make no apologies. From religion to politics, pop culture to food, if it’s within my reach, it’s fodder.

That said, sarcasm and irreverence aren’t without context. For instance, my piece about her Holiest Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” song was less about Gaga or the biological pre-determination of sexuality, and more about offering a critique of a gay movement’s de-queerifying of our bodies as part of a strategy to gain legislative ground. Similarly, my piece about Mexican Americans not being in the Mexican diaspora, but being integral members of Mexicanidad in all its/our complexities, was to challenge the ways in which our relationship(s) with México and other people of Mexican descent, might collude with and reinforce the fictitious borders created by –and to sustain– the invasion-birthed and fueled invention some like to call the United States of America.

Often, my statements are so far fetched they are actually beyond my own beliefs. I make the statements, however, to illicit thought, to encourage dialogue, and to challenge any sense of normativity that might pervade our consciousness and thus stand in the way of others’ (and our own) freedom.

Along the lines of sarcasm and irreverence, I've recently taken to Twitter and Facebook to make a series of statements that take a jab at heterosexuality. A couple weeks ago, I wrote about a straight couple kissing in the Castro by tweeting:

“I don’t appreciate straight people flaunting their sexual preferences in public. #SanFrancisco #Castro”

And yesterday, upon discussing the complexities of Republican Latinas and Latinos with a friend, I posted what I thought was a harmless, albeit sarcastic, tweet that was followed by an apparently disgusted self-identified non-republican (read from bottom to top):

Apologizing for the comment would disregard my initial intent. While my comment came across as crass, it was intended to be irreverent. My irreverence: the sanctity of heterosexuality.

Obviously, I will love my children regardless of their sexual orientation, gender identity, and their relationship to the fluid and ever-expanding gender continuum. I haven't dedicated my life to queer liberation to revert to a backwards sex-negative moralist idiot. And while we will have hours of political discussions over their republicanism, I will certainly love them still. Now that those ridiculously obvious points have been made, I’d like to get back to my irreverent intentions.

I understand that the majority of people on this planet practice some version of heterosexuality. I understand that most of these people might believe they were born heterosexual. I also understand that it is possible that their heterosexuality is biological. What I don’t understand is how heterosexuality continues to be the norm.

It’s 2011, non-heterosexual practicing and/or identifying people have been around for a very long time. We’re everywhere. We’re on tv. We’re on the radio. We hold political offices. We're in universities. We're delivering your mail. We're teaching your children. And more importantly, we’re in your family.

Nonetheless, non-heterosexuality is not the first possibility that comes to mind. Think of the mother who takes her toddler-aged boy to play with her friend’s toddler-aged girl, and the cute comments that follow in which the little girl is said to be the little boy’s girlfriend. Adorable, right? Sure. But what if the toddler-aged boy had a play date with another toddler-aged boy? Where are the cute comments then?

One might say that calling two toddler-aged boys “boyfriends” uncomfortably suggests a sexuality or romanticism in children. And, while we could have long conversations about our societies’ hesitance to talk about sexuality as part of early stages of human development (not that we’re that good at talking about it as part of adult-aged stages of human development), saying that the toddler-aged boy and toddler-aged girl are boyfriend and girlfriend remains cute. I believe the uncomfortable feelings evoked by calling two toddler-aged boys “boyfriends” is strictly about the identifying of the "helpless and innocent" boys as anything but heterosexual. After all, heterosexuality is the norm, right?

The reason I insist that my homosexuality is a choice is because it defiantly suggests that those around me who are heterosexual-practicing and/or identifying also made the choice to be heterosexual (suggesting they could have also chosen to be queer). Honestly, I couldn't care less about what choices or biological pre-disposition straight people make or have in relationship to their sexuality. It’s technically none of my business. But when my rights, my family, my livelihood, and my very life are put in the moral, cultural and legal hands of heterosexuals, their sexuality becomes my business.

My first tweet about a straight couple in the Castro was in contrast to the dangerous repercussions queer people face when they dare demonstrate public displays of affection in most parts of this planet. (For as long as my partner and I risk our lives each time we kiss outside of a queer-friendly or affirming location, I will continue to growl each time I see a straight couple obliviously kissing in the Castro.) In the same tweet, I criticize them for "flaunting their sexual preferences in public," which is a mere play on ignorant statements made by allegedly heterosexual practicing and/or identified people who allegedly tolerate queer folk. Similarly, when I say I will accept my children’s choice to be heterosexual, it is a jab at the insulting notion that any parent would ever have to “accept” their child’s sexuality. [Note to parents: We, your children, are better off when you affirm and celebrate all of who we are, rather than just accepting parts of who we are.]

Heteronormativity is dangerous and pervasive. As long as it exists and is manifested (especially by my loved ones), I will continue to be irreverent toward it and those who choose to live such a lifestyle while remaining oblivious to the fact that their privilege is built on (among other things) the suffering of those whose ways of loving and desiring are far more expansive than the limited construction of heterosexuality allows.

I don’t know if @mary8078 was offended because she’s a heterosexual-practicing and/or identifying person, or if she’s an ally of those who choose the heterosexual lifestyle. What I do know is that my tweet was a sacrilegious jab at heterosexuality and straight privilege. And for this, @mary8078 and the rest of those who are offended by my “straight jokes,” I say:

You're welcome.

Gay white-centricity: HRC & It Gets Better Campaign

2011-05-14T13:10:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember the first time I went off on a gay* organization or effort for not being inclusive of people of color. I don’t remember if it was an AIDS-services organization, a statewide LGBT lobbying group, a queer youth organization, or the infamous Human Rights Campaign. Perhaps the reason I can’t remember is because they eventually began to blur in my mind.

After 10 years either working within or paying attention to queer organizing, the arts, or social services, I have found that most (yup, most) gay groups and efforts have one thing in common: a doleful absence of people of color.

Whether it’s an underrepresentation in its staff and/or board, the priorities of its efforts, the language it deploys, or its constituency, people of color values or bodies are rarely found. It would seem that the one characteristic these groups share (aside from being gay groups) is the overt neglect or indifference for inclusion.

Queer communities of color and allies across the country have spent years demanding gay groups and efforts address their white-centricity. Some gay groups sought to address these critiques by doing such things as HRC’s Friendsraiser in Austin, where HRC hosted the “hotdog & beer” version of their annual gala. The purpose of the tailgate-like event was to attract people of color. Because, really, the only reason folks of color weren’t attending HRC’s gala was the ticket price and 3.5-star hotel meals and champagne, right?

As with the Friendsraiser, most of these efforts fall flat.

Several years ago, I attended a roundtable meeting of LGBT leaders in Austin to discuss strategies for including people of color. At the meeting, a well-known and respected white lesbian leader turned to me (the only person of color in the room) and said, “People of color don’t come to our events. Tell us why.” After successfully holding in a monstrous laugh, I responded by inviting those in the room to return to their respective offices and pay attention to the whiteness in their organizations, rather than the absence of people of color.

Of course, the group was offended. One participant threw his arms in the air saying, “You don’t understand how much we’ve done for you people.” When I responded, “I think you already have your answer,” said leader walked out the door.

I didn’t ask the group to look to the whiteness in their organizations simply to offend them. I asked because the initial question assumed that the problem with under-representation fell on the shoulders of people of color. If this is an organization’s point of departure, it will never be able to address its underrepresentation. In fact, blaming people of color for not “showing up” is itself a product gay white-centricity (dare I say, racism).

Inclusion, however, isn’t about making people of color feel good. It’s about making gay groups and efforts relevant. In 2007, HRC spent a good chunk of money on a national initiative titled Equality Forward, which was meant “to better understand what’s important to LGBT people of color.” With years of people of color demanding they address the issues that are actually priorities for our communities, the survey mostly added insult to injury. That they weren't (aren't) paying attention is hardly a result of our communities' silence. Nonetheless, the report was issued.

The year is now 2011. I've turned purple holding my breath waiting to see the report translate into organizational transformation. That said, HRC is always an easy target. So let's look at another example:

Lately, I rely on Hulu to satisfy my thirst for bad tv. As a result, I completely missed the Google Chrome It Gets Better ad that appeared during an episode of Glee (and apparently during American Idol). Thanks to YouTube, I was able to watch it… again, and again, and again. And, well, I have a lil’ something to say about it…

Personally, I cringed the first time I saw Dan Savage and his partner, Terry, go on and on about attaining the homonormative dream and strolling through the streets of Paris with a child. I cringed, not because I take issue with their life story or way of life (that’s none of my business), but because of the assumed (or affirmed) suggestion that it getting better is directly proportionate to the privilege one has access to.

I don’t mean to be crass and dismiss the tragedies that birthed this project. With the suicides of queer youth receiving media attention (although queer youth suicides sadly did not begin last summer), our community was grieving and seeking solutions. Somehow, It Gets Better was baptized as the one.

There are a number of critiques floating around about the campaign and its strategy. Whether it’s the criticism over the fact that the campaign was not youth-led or informed, or outrage over the race, class and gender assumptions embedded in the message. No doubt, It Gets Better has some serious problems (not least is the people seeming to believe it’s our best solution).

With as much criticism as the campaign has received, the Google ad does little to make the campaign any more relevant to queer youth of color. Although the messages spoken by those featured in the clip are inspiring and have the potential to resonate with some youth, the sheer whiteness of the ad speaks volumes. After watching the ad multiple times, I was –somehow–shocked by the fact that only one dark-skinned person of color appeared in the ad.

Yet again, a gay effort seamlessly illustrates gay white-centricity, revealing that:

1) “Gay” is in fact a white construct;

2) Google, Savage and the thinkers behind the ad were too busy to do some quick googling and learn that people of color represent far more than .04 percent of the population as the demographics in the ad might suggest;

3) Gay is to Inclusion what Water is to Oil; or,

4) All of the above.

It’s been nearly 10 years since I first started asking myself why gay groups consistently and clearly intentionally exclude people of color. When whiteness dominates gay discourse, widely publicized values, and organizational strategies, I am left to wonder if inclusion is harder than rocket science or if racism is as sacredly gay as a rainbow flag.

See for yourself:

[NOTE: The use of the word "gay" over LGBT or queer is not a misstatement]

America Needs Fatima Responds

2011-04-18T10:33:00.000-07:00

[Only a few days later, America Needs Fatima responded to my e-mail regarding their "Protest Alma López Exhibit" call to action. The e-mail is below, with a string of e-mail communications. Though unsurprising, the violence in their language is palpable. And, yes, I am a smart-mouth.]

From: ANF@americaneedsfatima.org
To: Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
Date: Mon, Apr 18, 2011 at 9:51 AM
Subject: Re: America Needs Fatima: What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color

Lorenzo,

Your email is dribble and is NOT CATHOLIC in the least sense! Therefore, no more placing pearls before swine.

You are a heretic! You are full of bad will and venom! You ridiculous and worthless email has fallen on deaf ears.

Send it to someone who will listen to your rants. We do not care to listen to your foaming at the snout! You have nothing to say that has anything to do with the Catholic Faith or the true Mother of God!

Wake up and come out of your fog, son of a brown woman.

______________________________________________

[My response.]

From: Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
To: ANF@americaneedsfatima.org
Date: Mon, Apr 18, 2011 at 10:18 AM
Subject: Re: America Needs Fatima: What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color

Thank you for your prompt response. You are correct, my e-mail is not catholic. It is humane and centered on values of love, justice and compassion.

I appreciate your attention to my e-mail as, in your response, I am clear it did not fall on deaf ears. You heard me loud and clear.

With love,

Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
The son of a Brown Woman (note: not in small caps)

P.S. I suggest you research the A.D. 325 Council of Nicaea and learn about the pagan roots of your Catholocism, and the invention of a Trinity. Technically, I'm not the only heretic here.

______________________________________________

[ANF's response.]

From: ANF@americaneedsfatima.org
To: Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
Date: Mon, Apr 18, 2011 at 10:43 AM
Subject: Re: America Needs Fatima: What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color

Lorenzo,

You do not get it! Nonetheless, believe what you will!
I say again, It went no further then our "trash" bin! Mr. Ritchie did not see this email, nor will he! The directors of America Needs Fatima have not seen this rubbish, nor will they!
It stops with me. Consider it GONE! It is out of our system! DELETED!
Your email is garbage. IT IS NOT CATHOLIC! Your ramblings are not remotely worthy of the TRUE MOTHER of GOD, let alone some demented, brown colored woman whom you wish to idolize!
Therefore, once again, your first email, AND YOUR SECOND, and any hereafter have gone, and will go into the sewer ~ where they belong!
Thinking that your dribble has not fallen on deaf ears...well, what can I say!
I guess that will be your own little secret!

______________________________________________

[My final response to this person.]

From: Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
To: ANF@americaneedsfatima.org
Date: Mon, Apr 18, 2011 at 10:51 AM
Subject: Re: America Needs Fatima: What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color

The year is 2011. I guarantee you, Mr. Ritchie will receive my e-mail. Which, by virtue of being in your memory, is in your system.

Be blessed.

______________________________________________

[And it gets worse.]

From: ANF@americaneedsfatima.org
To: Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
Date: Mon, Apr 18, 2011 at 10:43 AM
Subject: Re: America Needs Fatima: What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color

...Also in my memory are etched the horrific images of the dead children that I picked up off the street as a police officer years ago!
Nonetheless, I have NEVER ACTED on them in any way, nor do I share them with anyone. They will go no where...just like your 'brown" crap will go no where!
The year is 2011. Bravo! I can see that not much gets around you!
Nonetheless, my computer system is NOT REMOTELY linked to Mr. Ritchie's,,,anymore then mine is linked to yours! And just as I am in no way, shape, fashion or form linked to your system, neither is Mr. Ritchie linked to mine.
That should not be to hard for your educated mind to grasp!
Third email going into the toilet!

______________________________________________

[Rather than engaging the angry person above, I sent the following email (including a forward of the above emails) to the Executive Director of ANF expressing my concern over their staff's language. Note: This is the Mr. Ritchie mentioned by ANF staff above.]

From: Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
To: reritchie@gmail.com
Date: Tue, Apr 19, 2011 at 2:37 PM
Subject: Concerns regarding America Needs Fatima staff's distasteful language

Dear Mr. Ritchie,

I hope this e-mail finds you well and blessed. Below is the communication interaction I had with one of your staff members yesterday. This interaction comes after I submitted my letter of concern regarding your "Protest Alma Lopez Exhibit" call to action.

While it is clear and unsurprising that your organization and the values of the communities of color I belong to are at odds, I continue deeply disturbed by the language utilized by your staff. As far as your organization is concerned, I had hoped for a civil engagement among people of differing opinions.

The topic of Our Lady certainly brings up intense emotions for all of us, regardless of where we stand on the issue. And while my initial letter illustrates my passion on the issue, it is constructed with intention and civility. To have been called swine by your staff is an affront on my person and a reflection of the type of organization you direct.

This communication is with the intention of bringing my concerns to you. I do not expect a response as your organization has eloquently articulated its values and capacity (or lack thereof) to engage in civil discourse. As you can see from the last e-mail I received yesterday, the racism and classism inherent in your staff's language (eg. "just like your 'brown' crap will go no where!") highlights the utter disdain toward people of color, and reifies America Needs Fatima's inability to engage others with dignity and civility.

I pray your leadership will address the detestable manner with which your people respond to concerns.

In peace and hope for our communities,

Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano

What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color: A response to America Needs Fatima

2011-04-15T16:06:00.000-07:00

[Letter in response to America Needs Fatima, which is organizing a protest of Alma López' Our Lady to be on exhibit at the Oakland Museum of California in May of this year. For more on Alma López' work, visit almalopez.com. For excellent analysis of the controversy surrounding Our Lady and discussion on other works by López and other Chicana artists, check-out Our Lady of Controversy: Alma López's Irreverent Apparition.]

Dear America Needs Fatima organizers of the “Protest Alma López Exhibit,”

It is with deep sorrow that I write to you in response to your “Protest Alma López Exhibit” call to action. Having read your plea to organize against Alma López’ Our Lady at the Oakland Museum of California, I find myself painfully disturbed by your misinterpretation of López’ work, as well as your audacity to attempt to censor the voices and images of women of color.

The voices and works of women of color are as critical as ever at a time when communities of color are the targets of white supremacist institutions sustaining and relying on political, cultural and religious systems and policies that reinforce structural racism. It is not accidental that communities of color disproportionately carry the brunt of health disparities in this country, that boys and young men of color are brutally targeted by the criminal justice system, or that girls and women of color continue to be measured by their worth as reproductive, industrial and sexual purveyors in a capitalist structure.

Women of color artists have long exposed the fact that political, cultural and religious entities serve as devices toward ensuring the ongoing disenfranchisement of our communities and the exploitation of our bodies. The abominate language in your call to action is a violent manifestation of how these devices serve to attack and suppress our communities. Your “peaceful and prayerful protest” stands in direct contradiction with your distorted and vicious description of Alma López’ Our Lady.

In reading your call I am left to wonder whether, in your angry tirade against women of color, you took the responsible step toward understanding the love and intention with which López imagined Our Lady. What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color. The “topless woman-angel” in Our Lady is a brown woman in open embrace, revealing the beauty innate in brown women’s bodies. Defining women of color breasts as illustrative blasphemy speaks to your relationship to women of color, their bodies and their “place” and “use” in this society.

For generations, communities of color have found refuge and hope in the arts. Through the arts we have made sense of the world around us, named that which afflicts us, and articulated ourselves as free, thriving and loving. Our Lady offers an opportunity for the one who stands before her to relate, question, understand and imagine existing and future possibilities for ourselves and our communities.

I take great offense to your attempt to relegate the “topless woman-angel” as a sinful depiction of women. When I stand before Our Lady, I see my mother, I see my abuelas and I see la Virgen de Guadalupe. I see these four women who have been utilized as tools for capitalist gains— women who institutions such as yours have attempted to strip from their sexuality, their spirit, indeed, their agency as sacred beings.

Regardless of where one stands along the continuum of faith, the “bikini wearing” Virgin illustrates the power of resistance embodied in our communities' struggle for liberation from oppressive forces and institutions that insist on controlling and profiting from our lives through the political, cultural and religious legislation of our bodies.

As I stand before Our Lady, I see a brown woman standing in defiance, unwilling to accept imposed roles assigned and imposed onto her and her sisters’ bodies. She is the embodiment of La Virgen. She has lifted her gaze to confront those who have long reaped the capitalist benefits of subjecting women of color to the roles of abnegate mother or detestable whore.

She is looking at you, America Needs Fatima, in the eye. For your call to action goes beyond protesting Our Lady, Alma López’ work, or the Oakland Museum of California. In your call, you protest women of color. You protest my sisters’ right to self-determination, to recognize themselves as beautiful, brown, whole and strong. It is not God’s Holy Mother for whom you increase your “acts of reparation.” It is the women of color, defiantly articulating themselves as sacred, who you seek to persecute.

America Needs Fatima organizers of the “Protest Alma López Exhibit,” your un-peaceful agitation of your base has violent roots that you must reconcile as followers of a doctrine of compassion. The perpetuated notion of brown women’s bodies as reproductive, industrial and sexual instruments leads to rape, exploitation and countless heartless acts against girls and women of color. You must examine your words and your actions in relation to the legacies of violence against women of color in this and other countries.

In the name of our mothers, our grandmothers, and our communities, I admonish you.

Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano

The son of a Brown Woman.

[Homenaje a Selena] Virgen Morena de Tacones Altos: Selena y Yo en el Aire

2011-03-31T10:24:00.000-07:00

Selena
[April 16, 1971 - March 31, 1995]

Virgen Morena de Tacones Altos: Selena y Yo en el Aire

virgencita bailadora

escucha a quien ruega

que el año aproxima y agrega

otro sin poderte ver

virgencita de voz

de escote blindado

eres mezcla de llano

de sol

arrebatada en un soplo

escucha el desfile de historias

del por qué es que te fuiste

desquiciando la fe

si rogarte con cumbias no es sagrado

que me lleve el viento para acompañarte de una vez

santa del ritmo tejano

ven a escucharme

que la riña que traigo invadiendo

coloniza mi vientre

virgen del busto venerado

hablando en tu idioma

llegué a arribar en tu suelo

desde tierras lejanas

vengo buscando en tu terreno

respuesta al desdén social que hay en mí

que el haber sido penetrado sin forro

fue método más no la razón del existir

del fin de tanto y comienzo para buscarme en ti

mi color como en ti

mi lengua igual de desigual

y mi cuerpo que marchita como la flor en ti

buscando en tu imagen maneras para sobrevivir

________________________________________________________

Santo de la Pata Alzada: Poems from the Queer/Xicano/Positive Pen

[Evelyn Street Press, 2005]

Change.org Posts: LGBT People of Color, LGBT Movement, LGBT Racism, People of Color Homophobia

2011-03-30T12:24:00.000-07:00

Last year, I was recruited to be a writer for Change.org's Race in America cause (since incorporated into the Human Rights cause). For about half a year, I was a part of a crew of bloggers offering commentary on topics related to race and racism in the U.S. The experience was phenomenal and gave me the opportunity to work with some cutting-edge thinkers and editors. Although I am no longer writing for Change.org, I have organized the pieces by theme(s) and providing their respective links on Hairspray & Fideo.

The following pieces were written in response to issues related to LGBT People of Color, the LGBT Movement, LGBT Racism and People of Color Homophobia.

Tragic Bitches Do Las Vegas

2011-03-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Troy Wise [Image Amplified]

Adelina Anthony, Dino Foxx and I are reading from our recently published book:

Tragic Bitches: An Experiment in Queer Xicana & Xicano Performance Poetry

[Kórima Press, 2011]

As part of Women's History Month, we'll be performing in Las Vegas!

Thursday, March 24, 2011 -- 7pm

University of Nevada, Las Vegas

Maryland Parkway

Student Union Room 208

Las Vegas, NV

For more information or to purchase Tragic Bitches, visit tragicbitches.com

Change.org Posts: Arizona SB1070, Anti-Immigrant Hysteria

2011-03-15T22:39:00.000-07:00

The following pieces were written in response to Arizona SB1070, related arguments and events, and other anti-immigrant hysteria.

[Click the links for full article on Change.org]

We Were Here: My Meditation, Mourning and Homage to a Necessary Film

2011-03-02T11:51:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, my compañero and I went to the Castro Theater to catch Burlesque (because the movie isn’t gay enough already). During the previews, one came up about a documentary on the AIDS pandemic in San Francisco.

 The title: We Were Here: Voices From The AIDS Years in San Francisco.

The minute the preview was over, I knew I had to return to the theater to see it alone. Not out of my anti-social nature, but because I wanted to sit and take communion with the stories of these men. Just as communion is a private moment between the believer and god, I wanted my private moment with the men who paved the way for me.

 Last night, I went to church. First stop: Walgreens for tissue. Then, it was off to the Castro Theater. A bag of popcorn, some water and a dark corner later, I was ready to partake.
 David Weissman, the director of the film, gave a brief introduction. Two sentences into his welcome a tear began to gather. Just like my old Pentecostal church days, the stream of tears continued throughout the movie. Only this time, my body wasn’t trying to cleanse the sin and impurity of loving men, it was honoring and thanking the men who made it possible for my way of loving to exist.

 We Were Here is a powerful and necessary documentary. The thread of stories, the trembling voices of those interviewed, and the faces of those violently attacked, are all the weaving of a story tied to my own.

 My training would have me write about the ways in which the film could have further reflected the diversity of our communities and the layered complexities experienced by men of color. By now, we know well that the presence of HIV/AIDS in our communities is complicated by the amalgamation of racism, classism and sexism (which homophobia stems from), as well as many other ‘isms and ‘phobias. Yet, today I present no critique.

 Instead, I offer my gratitude to the people who made this film possible. I offer my indebtedness to Ed Wolf, Paul Poneberg, Daniel Godlstein, Guy Clark and Eileen Glutzer for their stories, and, more importantly, the gift of their love and fierceness at the peak of our shared catastrophe.

I offer my love to the men who are now spirit.

 As a queer man, I honor the lives of the men we lost because our families did not know better. Lost, because a country would leave us to die as something less than human. Lost, because a god of mercy was used as an excuse to rid his followers from following a doctrine of compassion. Lost, because a government couldn’t or wouldn’t move fast enough. Lost, because of a belief that we somehow deserve this.

 I am part of the brood, the children, of generations of men whose love was called a sin. Men who did nothing wrong. Men who were castigated for loving and desiring one another. Men whose love and desire were acts of resistance.

 I am a descendant of these men. My love and desire are also acts of resistance. My body, my writing and the love I have learned to construct and partake in, are all offerings I bring to the altar of their memory.

 They are here still.

_____________________________________________

WE WERE HERE (trailer) from David Weissman.

New Book! Tragic Bitches: An Experiment in Queer Xicana & Xicano Performance Poetry

2011-02-24T07:34:00.000-08:00

Announcing the first book published by Kórima Press!
Order it today!

Conceived and developed by Adelina Anthony,Dino Foxx and Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano, Tragic Bitches documents the process and poetry of three queer Xicana/o artists seeking to revel and heal in the darkest and most vulnerable spaces of love, desire and loss.

Praise for Tragic Bitches

In the tradition of old school street shouters and house kids/running the streets with madness.

These Tragic Bitches offer their sacrificed hearts to us. With shameless truth telling/raucous wit

and words so beautiful it hurts this work heals.

Warrior-marked. Urban Saints. Sinning Shaman. Loudly Queer. Distinctly Xicana/o.

Re-imagining form and tradition/honoring the dead. Speaking the unspeakable.

These poets tell everything honey.

I Loves me some Tragic Bitches.

Don't miss your chance to get you some...

Sharon Bridgforth

RedBone Press Lambda Award winning

Author of the bull-jean stories.

_________________________________________________

After witnessing the fearless embodied testimonios of these poetas from intimate teatro en Berkeley to expansive auditorium en Austin I remain a loyal follower of their palabra. Lorenzo, Dino, and Adelina synthesize disarming invocations of memories lost…and then (re)membered. They offer us biting social critiques of colonial legacies mapped onto MeXican@ queer bodies…under the covers. These fierce performatic@s offer us intricate excavations of memory, language, amor, deseo, confianza and ultimately…liberation.

Micaela Díaz-Sánchez, Ph.D.

Mellon Postdoctoral Fellow Latina/o

Studies, African American Studies,

Northwestern University

_________________________________________________

Watch out cuz the bitches will hunt you down, call you out publicly with their poetry and cut you with their barrio lyricism. I remember watching las tres perform their tragedias in a plaza made stage - tecate and cigarettes, lit velas and the moon - they laid it all out, sin pelos en la lengua. Their shit talking and "puro pinche chisme" was a radical manifesto declaring their refusal to live silently. Ain't nothin but truth ya'll and that's "the way Jotos do it. The way we were meant to."

Virginia Grise

Co-author of The Panza Monologue

_________________________________________________

Tragic Bitches was the most beautiful, heart breaking, love filling, and hilarious piece to grace our stage. It is poetry that is real and speaks to our very core.

Sarah Guerra

Program Director, La Peña Cultural Center,

Berkeley, CA

_________________________________________________

Let this collection serve as a warning to all those hell bent on destroying each other at any cost – betraying family, lovers, and even themselves. Beaten down into the dirt by violent colonial histories and patriarchal traditions, these three super hero poetas emerge covered in blood and wrought with fury to resuscitate generations back to life, love, and freedom. Heartbroken and smokin’ hot in black eyeliner and tight threads, Adelina Anthony, Dino Foxx, and Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano sacrilege the current state of affairs to throw down roots for a more beautiful earth – like, pronto. With crystal clarity, their razor-sharp tongues repossess anger, sorrow, fear, and desire (lots of it) as revolutionary forces. This definitely isn’t for date night, bitches.

Roya Rastegar, Ph.D.

Programmer for Tribeca Film Festival and

Huffington Post Blogger

Sorry Gaga, I was not born this way

2011-02-13T23:49:00.000-08:00

When it comes to the origin of my sexual orientation, my thought process is not all that complex. I prefer to stay away from arguments of nature vs. nurture vs. trauma vs. Madonna. Instead, I go straight to my old school feminist schooling:

Gender is a social construction.

At birth, Dr. Harry (yes, that was his name) saw that I had a penis and called me a boy. My parents seemed to have agreed and eventually gave me a *boy* name. Although, they might have initially doubted the doctor’s words as they waited seven days to name me.

As I approach my 32nd birthday, I continue to somewhat follow the gender designation I was given at birth. I am, as some would say, a gender-conformist, or a cisgendered person, as my gender identity coincides with the one I was given at birth. Nonetheless, the fact that my penis has biological ties does not make my gender identity a biological fact. If sexual orientation is essentially about what gender(s) one is attracted to, said gender(s) would need to be biological in order for sexual orientation to be biological. Otherwise, how would one be "born" with a biological predisposition to be drawn to something that does not exist biologically? Politically and spiritually, I prefer to center the genesis of my desire(s) on choice. This is my ultimate act of resistance toward systems and mores that seek (and too often succeed) to control our self determination.

As Lady Gaga ignites collective hysteria among the gays (or, her little monsters) with her “Born This Way” single, I notice a sense of pride and defiance among those who chant along with her. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with being proud of who you are. I walk the streets wearing the Ricky Martin-inspired “I am a fortunate homosexual man” t-shirt my honey bought me last year. I’m pretty damn proud. Kudos to Gaga for rallying pride (and for getting Ricky Martin to introduce her at the Grammy's!).

However, given that much of the queer experience is now tied to the legislatability of our existence, “Born This Way” comes with its baggage.

Obviously, people have a right to write their own story and assign what belief they find fits best. This post does not intend to undermine said stories. It may very well be that those who believe in a Christian god were, in fact, created gay by said Christian god. Meanwhile, I’m convinced that no god or biological factor made me gay. To quote a brilliant and loved friend, “many truths are possible.”

Instead, I am drawn toward the reasons behind a relentless move to explain or perhaps justify who we are.

Recently, a friend sent me a link to an NPR story about the blog Born This Way!, which features fabulous childhood pictures of queer adults. The pictures come with great write-ups from the respective contributors. On the surface, I’m loving the blog.

I remember being 7 and prancing (yes, prancing) around the house in my mother’s robe and red church heels. I also remember the disturbed look on my father’s face and how quickly I would straighten up to regain his approval.

I don’t know if I was gay then. Sure, I had tons of crushes on boys, though probably more crushes on girls. Perhaps the question is: Was I bi then? Regardless, my Sunday morning robe-n-heels performances might have had less to do with my sexual orientation than about me playing with gender as I played with play-doh. I was a sissy boy who had crushes on boys and girls, and grew up to be a sissy man who has crushes on men as well as a few women. I still don’t call myself bi and pretty much follow Sophia Petrillo’s advice to “stick to what [I] know.”

Perhaps one day I will submit a photo of myself for the blog, but it wont be with the intent to make the argument that I was born gay. It will be to agree that I was born with the capacity to express. In this case, I was expressing gender, not declaring my desire for men.

The reason for only enjoying the blog superficially boils down to the first quote in the NPR article. The quote is from a man who writes about the picture he submitted: “Looking at it now, as a 31-year-old, it only reaffirms what I've always believed — that my being gay wasn't a choice.” This is where the “born this way” argument gets dangerous.

These days, to try to convince others that I was born gay would be to try to justify part of my essence. I don’t need my desire and love for other men to be justified. I demand it be recognized and affirmed. To date, “born this way” has done neither.

I understand the need to justify a queer existence in order to achieve legal rights and protections. By doing so, however, we carry the burden of a faulty legislative process that too often relies on people's —erroneous— Christian-centric moral approval (remember that many inhumane atrocities have and continue to be legally sanctioned in the name of misinterpreted moral imperatives). If we succeed at convincing others we were “born this way,” we might succeed at reaching our legislative goals. But at what cost?

Similarly, if my father believed I was “born this way” he might have reacted differently to my Sunday morning voguing. Perhaps we would have bypassed the phone call to inform me I was disowned, and the subsequent two years of silence. Perhaps we believe that convincing the world we were “born this way” will put an end to the violence queer people face on a daily basis. Perhaps all of this is true.

Still, the argument, then, becomes less about pride and more about fear. I have no interest in fueling my identity with a pragmatic fear-driven strategy to convince others of my humanity. That the world is not yet large enough for all of us to exist whole is an indication that something is wrong with the world, not with us.

I'm a stubborn man who believes in the genius and beauty of being queer. I justify my existence to no one. I was not born this way, but I was born. And that's all you need to know to respect me.

So, vogue on little monsters! Strut your stuff to what sounds like a “Lipsync for your life” 80's throwback. Lady Gaga is indeed an icon, and so are you.

Frida's in the Rainbow Honor Walk, and I am not happy

2011-02-08T07:40:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since I have written a critique about LGBT raceless’ness. Which is not to say I have stopped noticing it, rolling my eyes or holding my breath at every corner. Instead, I have simply opted for taking deep breaths, chuckling, shrugging my shoulders and walking away.

In what might be a combination of exhaustion, apathy, self-preservation and pacifism, I have spent a lot of time walking the streets of San Francisco trying to find the positive aspects about queer life in the Rainbow City. And there are. There are many beautiful benefits to living in a city of most things-queer.

However, I recently came across an article on the Bay Area Reporter, which reported on plans for a Rainbow Honor Walk in the Castro. The BAR reported that 20 names had been chosen out of nearly 150 nominees (Note: Names are of people who have transitioned into spirit). I confess I cringed more at the thought of who would not be included (Audre Lorde, anyone?) than those who were.

I wont report on the names, as you can find them in the BAR article linked above. And, really, I do not take much issue with the list. Sure, there are only 6 women. Sure, I do not see an over-representation of people of color. Sure, I believe that with all the scars the LGBT community carries over overt and subconscious racism and misogyny, at least 11 of the 20 should be some combination of women, trans folk and people of color. But, I am not on the steering committee.

All that said I was very happy to see most of the names on the list, except for one: Frida Kahlo.

Now, I am a brown boy with strong, unrepentant and in-your-face roots. So this has nothing to do with Frida herself. Frida’s work has had a significant influence on my writing since I was teenager. Hell, I saw her exhibit seven times when it was at the SF MOMA. So, for the record, this isn’t an anti-Frida post.

And now that the disclaimer has been placed, below are four main reasons I am bothered by her name appearing in this list:

1. I am uncomfortable with people labeling or identifying others as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or queer, based only on how and who they loved. I do not question the fact that Frida loved women. But to identify her as LGBT stamps the identities that some of us have grown to embrace onto her, without regard to the fact that these notions of identities are both generational and potentially limiting to how Frida experienced and manifested her own desire for others.

However important our efforts to identify ancestors who reflect our experiences, I find it problematic to do so without the nuance, care and respect our ancestors deserve.

2. I find this mainstream LGBT community embrace of Frida disingenuous.

Could we honestly say that Madonna, Salma Hayek or those plastic bags found in the Mission had nothing to do with her name landing on this list? Seriously. Before Frida was inhaled by the hungry claws of capitalist consumption (and how much of this are Chicanas and Chicanos responsible for?), how many in the LGBT community knew who she was?

Hell, how many know what a Chicana is?!

3. We are in Aztlán. Where is Gloria Anzaldúa?!

4. I am concerned that Frida might be “our” Latina/o representative. While she certainly resonates with my own experience, I am struggling to find the reason for the steering committee selecting Frida over, say, Sylvia Rivera. Rivera, a transgender mujer who is at the center of queer movement history, was not only among the trans women who fought back at Stonewall, she went on to be a trailblazer in transgender rights.

So, really, Frida?

(Yes, Lorca is on the list too, but, well, that’s a whole other blog post if he is said to represent “us”)

And with this, I bring my rant to a close. Again, I am a huge fan of Frida and am one of those brown people who have her in every room of our home. But in the case of the Rainbow Honor Walk, I find the placement of her name among the first 20 misguided, consumption-based and fad-driven; all of which, if you know her work, is essentially what she was against.

All this said, I am sure the steering committee worked hard and are already receiving numerous complaints about the names excluded (such as Harvey Milk). While I believe we must keep each other accountable and support through our feedback, I also recognize how difficult it is to organize a project with vast community emotional ties.

[Note: Of course, Audre Lorde, Sylvia Rivera and Gloria Anzaldúa are but three examples of who I was saddened not to see on the list. There are countless other women of color who must be included. I look forward to seeing the names added in the future.]

Today, Ricky Martin matters more than ever.

2011-02-01T13:20:00.000-08:00

Last year, I made a big deal about Ricky Martin’s coming out. While many dismissed it as inconsequential or cowardly (because he didn’t do it earlier), I was convinced that the reverberations would be hugely significant. After watching the video to “Lo Mejor De Mi Vida Eres Tú,” I’m more convinced than ever that Ricky Martin is pivotal in our communities’ imagining and expanding of Latinidad.

The first piece I wrote [Why Ricky Matters (to me.. and maybe a few other boys)] on Ricky caught quite a bit of attention through its initial re-posting by my dear friend Andrés Duque at Blabbeando. Shortly after, the piece appeared on Racialicious, lgbtqnation.com and a couple of other blogs. Perhaps the reason for the circulation was that I refused to dismiss Ricky’s coming out as inconsequential and placed a great deal of emphasis on its potential impact on the lives of those struggling with their own identities and ways of expressing and being.

In the piece, I imagined the young boy who lives in rural parts of Latino América or parts of the U.S. (particularly those parts of this country that are inherently and historically Brown), who might be struggling with his own feelings, his own body and/or his own imagination of what is possible.

Revisiting the blog piece today, I realize I was somehow evoking the spirit of the It Gets Better Project. And while I continue extremely critical of this campaign (for many reasons, not the least are its ageist and classist narratives), I do believe the visualization of imagined possibility is important. For the young boy who, like myself in my early teen years, finds himself living in rural México, seeing a public figure with pop culture prominence spanning a few decades might help in the process of imagining and/or visualizing what being a Brown man who loves other men might look like.

Of course, the same arguments of class could be made against my imagining of Ricky Martin’s image as relevant to a young man who might not imagine himself living with the resources the pop star enjoys. However, I believe the difference in this case is that it is Ricky’s embodiment of Latino and Queer that is important (as opposed to Dan Savage’s trips to France as a sign of "it getting better").

Later in the year, I wrote a piece titled “How Ricky Martin is Changing the Face of Latino Fatherhood,” based on Ricky and his two sons' (Valentino and Matteo) appearance on the cover of People En Español’s father’s day issue. Given People En Español’s circulation, the image of an openly gay Latino father and his children, would be in countless Latina/o supermarkets and living rooms. Yet again, the image of Ricky’s queer Latinidad was helping us imagine a more expansive Latinidad that includes more of us.

With Ricky’s reemergence into the public light, we had the opportunity to see a queer Latino strike down racist stereotypes about inherent homophobia in our communities. Perhaps the best example was on The View when Ricky responded to Joy Behar’s suggestion that his culture kept him from coming out. In a moment that made him even more beautiful in my eyes, Ricky refuses to take the bait and simply states that people all over the world are struggling with their sexuality. (Thank you!)

Recently, I was interviewed by the San Antonio Express-News for a piece titled “Ricky’s Rebirth.” In the interview, I reiterated my belief that Ricky Martin’s coming out and public image as a queer Latino father was of monumental significance for our communities (Note: The writer of the article reached out to me because of the aforementioned Change.org piece). Also, in the same article, there were others interviewed who agreed with what might be a mainstream belief that Ricky Martin's coming out is “not a big thing.”

This morning, Ricky's new album "Música + Alma + Sexo," hit stores and I typed faster than my queer fingers could to download it on iTunes. Refusing to shy away from the "sex" in sexuality by daring to have the word "Sexo" in the title of the album, I am excited to see where Ricky takes us as an openly queer historically sensual performer.

Watching two brown men in an affectionate embrace in the “Lo Mejor De Mi Vida Eres Tú” video, I’m pretty darn sure Ricky will continue to matter to me… and maybe a few other boys.

(For the linguistically challenged: The Best Thing About Me Is You)

Génisis Chihuahuense

2010-12-28T09:40:00.000-08:00

Conmemorando el Centenario de la Revolución Mexicana, por la cual la familia de mi padre se arraigó al Ejido San Gregorio. Vivo de luto por la guerra que arrasa la tierra por la que tantas y tantos han dado su vida. Mientras la guerra continúa satisfaciendo la gula Americana, recuerdo con ternura y melancolía, mi Estado Grande.

Génisis Chihuahuense

aquí Tata Dios usó el adobe

pa’l cuero de su gente

pa’ ojos sembró elotes

pa’ venas varas de mesquite

pa’ piernas roca minera

pa’ manos raíces nopaleras

pa’ brazos soga ganadera

pa’ lomo arpilla cebollera

aquí no hay quien se atore

pa’ alma tenemos caliche

pa’ sangre sotol y agua ardiente

pa’ lengua silvestres quelites

pa’ hueso troncos de nogales

pa’ voz canto de chonte

pa’ suerte pata de liebre

pa’ corazón leña del monte

bendito seas pueblo chihuahuense

gente que suda chacales y asadero

no te dejes de quien no sabe

que pa’l orgullo no hay dinero

aquí Dios creó a la mujer y al hombre

con la fuerza del sol del norte

aquí se escurren los cascabeles

por nuestro cabello azabache

Chihuahua, no más no te rajes

por más que se acerquen los buitres

que aquí Dios usa pa’l coraje

un pueblo unido con ixtle

[Este poema forma parte de una colección titulada Agolondrinado: Poemas Norteños]

Risky reading: Emotions, communities, even languages pair for gay poet

2010-12-10T00:07:00.000-08:00

Award-winning writer, Rigoberto González, reviewed my book Santo de la Pata Alzada: Poems from the Queer/Xicano/Positive Pen, for the El Pasto Times in 2006. As part of the 5 year anniversary, I am posting Gonzalez' review:

El Paso Times

Living Sunday, March 5, 2006

Risky reading

Emotions, communities, even languages pair for gay poet

Rigoberto González

Special to the Times

Sunday, March 5, 2006

"Would you forgive me if I spoke of those things not meant to be said," reads the opening lines of Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano's collection "Santo de la Pata Alzada" (Evelyn Street Press, $14 paperback), like a caveat. Expression can come in no other form for a book subtitled "poems from the queer/xicano/positive pen."

Poems in this collection are written in either English or Spanish, and a few entries navigate the two. This strategy mirrors the tones in the poems themselves. Herrera y Lozano moves between extremes, usually love and rage, which are -- like his languages -- not mutually exclusive but partners in passion. "I am the incarnation of filth and purity," he declares.

On a personal journey retold in poetry, the speaker traces the ache of familial rejection, the loss of faith, and the triumphs and failures of same-sex relationships. Religious imagery, however, is what gives these experiences language, as in the poems "Last Prayer: My Farewell to the United Pentecostal Church International," "Altar Boys" and "Three Queens":

tonight is la virgen

yourself and I ...

men that

could have been machos

instead

somos hombres who love men

queens who love

como lo hace ella

And interspersed throughout are the testimonies and "cartas anónimas" that read more like revelations at the confessional -- a combination of exhibitionism and catharsis that juggles yet another binary pair, pleasure and guilt:

for my love is a sin

my sin as ample and

joyful as a kindergarten

morning

Playful, irreverent and homoerotic, Herrera y Lozano's verse is attitude personified, perhaps owning up to the mentorship expressed in the poem "Raised By Drag Queens." In a follow-up poem, drag queen Marlene tells it like it should be:

girl

we are divas

we are fabulous

and we die fabulous

no seas bruta

But underneath this empowerment is the pain of survival and struggle in a homophobic world. "May my cries hover," says the speaker, "so truth can feel the air."

And in the final stanza of the tour de force that closes the collection, "Ode to the Men I Love/ Loved/ Never Did and the Handful the Love/ Loved/ Never Did Me," the poet makes the long-awaited dedication: "to the queer men left to die under the shadow of a flag and their/ our families' backs/ to you/ for you this book."

"Santo de la Pata Alzada," with its brazen title, risk-taking subject matter and colorful vocabulary, is in fact a touching book -- a young poet's story of his exile from home and church, and his arrival to a family and faith in a community no less valuable or valid than the one he lost.

Rigoberto González is an award-winning writer and associate professor of English and Latino studies at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His Web site is at www.rigobertogonzalez.com, and he may be reached at Rigoberto70@aol.com.http://www.amazon.com/Santo-Pata-Alzada-Xicano-Positive/dp/0972391010/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1291833196&sr=8-1

A shout out on the Mexican blog: Tengo un crush con Nuevallorrrr

2010-12-08T10:33:00.000-08:00

My (relatively) new homeboy, Enrique Torre-Molina, a Twitterist and Blogosphere tycoon, posted a shout out to the 5th year anniversary of my book, Santo de la Pata Alzada. The post also includes my poem, "Hairpray and Fideo: My Brown Growing Pains," which is where the title of my blog comes from.

Tengo un crush con Nuevallorrrr is part of my daily reads.

Chécalo here:

Santo de la pata alzada

Interview for the Spanish-language Journal Pterodáctilo

2010-12-06T08:20:00.000-08:00

Joseph M. Pierce recently interviewed me for Pterodáctilo, a journal of the University of Texas-Austin's Department of Spanish and Portuguese. The interview includes selections of my all-Spanish manuscript, Promesas y Amenazas: Poemas de Amor y sus Inconveniencias. All but one of these poems have never been made public. Check it out and catch a sneak peak of my upcoming collection of poetry!

Hyperlink below:

Entrevista a Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano

5 Year Anniversary of Santo de la Pata Alzada

2010-12-03T14:39:00.000-08:00

This month marks the 5^th year publishing anniversary of my book, Santo de la Pata Alzada: Poems from the Queer/Xicano/Positive Pen. To celebrate, I decided to read it all over again, and recount the memories, stories, trauma and beautiful moments of love, desire and hope that are embedded in its pages.

I am reminded of the love and support I received during the process of birthing this book. I am reminded of the gentle and assertive mentorship of Sharon Bridgforth, the fierce editorial eye of Jennifer Margulies, and the brilliant publishing touch of Dr. T. Jackie Cuevas. I am reminded of my compañero, who inspired most of the love poems. I am reminded of my writing family in Austin, those fierce queer writers (even the straight ones were queer) of color, as well as our strong allies. I am reminded of home, of Chihuahua, of that little town of 300 people, of the desert, of the full moon, and of the men who helped shape my desire. Lastly, I am reminded of the nightmare of Pentecost, the vicious and loveless years forcing me to conform into a man less queer and less brown.

Five years later, I am elated to recognize I am still here. I am back in California, still writing, finishing manuscripts and editing what will be the most important book I ever lay hands on, Joto: An Anthology of Queer Ch/Xicano Poetry. The Universe has been good to me. I hope to some day learn how to return the love.

Xénesis (Chapter 1, Verses 1 - 25): A Story of Lesbianas, Love y Revolución

2010-11-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

[Written for and performed at the opening weekend of Queer Xicana Indígena performance artist, Adelina Anthony's groundbreaking tryptic La Hocicona Series.]

(1) In the beginning God created the Cochina and the Perv. (2) Now the Perv was intellectual and cocky, lust was over the surface of her fingertips, and the Spirit of God was hovering over her belly.

(3) And God said, “Let there be lube,” and there was lube. (4) God saw that the lube was good (silicon base), and she separated the flavored from the unscented. (5) God called the lube “AY,” the codeword for more. And there was the Pervertida and her perversions—the first day.

(6) And God said, “Let there be dental dams, even if just for pretend, so la date will think she’s prepared.” (7) So God made the Pervertida and the expectation of a multi-mujer loving dyke. And it was so. (8) God called the dental dams “¡no mames!” And there was lube, and there were dental dams—the second day.

(9) And God said, “Let the Pervertida hover over a Cochina’s face, and let dry lips dampen.” And it was so. (10) God called this act “Love,” and the gathered waters she called “Sí.” And God saw that it was good.

(11) Then God said, “Let the Cochina expect reciprocation: let the pillow-queen Pervertida work, let her worship mujer of the same image, according to their various kinds.” And it was so. (12) Las mujeres produced vegetation: orgasmos bearing raindrops according to their kinds and a u-Haul bearing furniture, expectations, and cats in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. (13) And there was la Cochina, and there was la Pervertida—the third day.

(14) And God said, “Let the lesbianas move-in, separate from the girls on the prowl, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days, and years, and years, and years, (15) and let them process, garden and volunteer to give light on the earth.” And it was so. (16) God made two great lesbianas—the greater Pervertida to govern her own body and the greater Cochina to govern hers. She also made the straights. (17) God set them in the sea of heteros to give light on the earth, (18) to learn to love freely, defiantly in the day and in the night, and to separate love from the State. And God saw that it was good.

(19) And there were lesbianas, and there were heteros—the fourth day. (20) And God said, “Let the jotas gather and form collectives, and let them ponder on matters of revolution, let them raise banners and paint the sky.” (21) So they created the great movimientos of lesbianería and every living being with which the queerness teems and that moves about in them, according to their kinds, and every tortillera and marimacha according to their own kind. And God saw that it was good. (22) God blessed them and said, “Be fruitful and increase in number, and fill the co-ops with patchouli, and let your gatos be neutered for this is right.” (23) And there were tortilleras, and there were gatos —the fifth day.

(24) And God said, “Let the land witness living creatures according to their fluid kinds: the butchas, the high femmes who move along in tacones, and the resistors of butch and femme, each according to their kind.” And it was so. (25) God made the multitude of lesbianas according to their fluid kinds, the butchas who mostly bottom, the high femmes who always top, las otras who are greedy. And God saw that it was bien good.

Note: La Pervertida is inspired by a talk-back of Cherríe Moraga in Santa Ana this summer, La Cochina, pues, from La Educated Cochina. May we all retain or reclaim la pervertida y la cochina in us. Amén.

The Ones They Waited For: A Reflection on Día de los Muertos

2010-11-02T12:17:00.000-07:00

I once detested the ignorant comparison of Halloween and Día de los Muertos— as if sugar skulls were synonymous with jack-o’-lanterns, and altar cloths were the same as ghost sheets. As with other traditions, the honoring of our dead needed to be described through the lens of Americanism, translated into a coding of consumption. This morning, I found myself longing for such days of ignorance.

Today, sugar skulls carry barcodes where the names of our ancestors were once etched between pink and purple swirls. Calaveras are mass-produced as if to match the rate at which we die. Do-It-Yourself Papel Picado kits sit in market aisles, as if to ensure centuries-old traditions of elder teaching remain in our history, vaccinating our bodies against the threat of memory.

Caught between Altar-In-The-Box marketing ploys and those who will never know the name of José Guadalupe Posada, I walk passed buckets of zempasuchil and remember my abuela’s garden of crisantemos in Chihuahua. I remember the yearly ritual of racing against the sun to harvest the bushy flowers before dawn. I remember la viejita insisting they be cut before they wake to welcome the morning rays. As if moved by the rhythms of early morning rooster choirs, we rushed to place the flowers in old buckets, covered them with recycled fertilizer bags and waited to greet the sun.

Piled between old brooms, shovels and buckets of flowers, the procession of trucks made its way from Estación Adela to Valle de Allende, the head of the municipio and meeting place for our dead and our living. In the silent celebration of memory, we fervently brushed, swept and watered tombs that held more than our ancestros’ remains. We were there to unclutter and revive memory, to resurrect the proof that we once were, and awaken the hope that we continue to be.

It is today, years and miles away from the mute celebration of the life that dances around, weaves throughout and breathes within the flesh of our spirits, that I realize why I call this the most sacred of holidays. To have been robbed of land, of identity, of water, of ancestral spiritualities, of healthy food and of life, death would not be stolen as well. It was in the zigzagging of brooms and tears that we claimed, laid hands on, and conjured the spirits who led the way— as if knowing they hold artifacts of our truths.

Para mí, el día de los muertos is more than a fiesta of calavera-painted faces and non-organic Chocolate Abuelita. It is the opportunity to caress the spirits of those I love, those who have transitioned yet continue to guide me, walk with me, and hold me through the coldest of nights. Despite the annoyance of celebrating a hyper-commercialized holiday, I am reminded of the opportunity that is life, the sanctity that is death and the blessing that is possibility.

Today, I honor, remember, hold close and slip into the arms of my muertos. They were the ones they waited for; perhaps I am the one who follows.

Literary Vandalism, or when hate comes knocking on the door

2010-10-22T10:32:00.000-07:00

The first time I visited Austin, I remember walking down South Congress holding my then boyfriend’s (my compañero) hand and hearing the words “fags” come shooting out of a passing car. That was the first and only time I have been maliciously attacked verbally with the word “fag.”

Today I woke up to sad news. A dear friend had ordered my book through Amazon and, upon receiving it and opening the package in his home, he discovered someone had written “FAG” on one of the pages. The book was new.

As queer youth have continued to find no other option but to cease to live, such acts of vandalism are a cruel reminder of how far we are from it getting better. I am saddened by the constant reminder of a world where hatred is so deeply embedded and structurally sustained by a fear of people who love and are loved. I am devastated to know a dear friend had to endure this experience in his home. My heart is broken.

the preventable, the unsalvageable, and the innocent.

2010-10-13T16:03:00.000-07:00

I recently read a post on Colorlines.com entitled Oprah Gets Schools on HIV and Has Her Own Aha! Moment. The article does a great job of surfacing how ignorance prevails when it comes to HIV/AIDS, particularly among people of color. However, the clip itself disturbed me in that there is no context surrounding it to help the viewer get the whole picture regarding what it means to be living with HIV.

While the clip and the accompanying write-up are good for developing a race analysis, it also runs the danger of perpetuating apocalyptic ideas about what it means to live with HIV. My concerns stem from the fact that Bridget, the person calling Oprah on her ignorance, is describing the devastating realities of people living with HIV, without recognizing Oprah's assertions that some people do live healthy and fulfilling lives. And while what Bridget describes is definitely a real experience, without proper context and truly informed messaging, the sensationalism of the clip only adds to the already difficult experience of being diagnosed with HIV.

I do not mean to sugarcoat the experience of living with HIV, nor do I believe anything Bridget says is untrue. However, the absence of nuance is troubling. Even more alarming is the ongoing desire to continue or revive a sense of urgency on the backs of those living with HIV.

Prevention programs, public health officials and the media strive to put an end to HIV infection, but at what cost? It seems those living with HIV are disposable or unsalvageable, and as such, their experiences must be described in horrific ways -only- so as to terrify the negative (also thought of as the innocent) to the point of either wrapping themselves in saran wrap to shake someone's hand or to avoid having sex altogether.

Yes, living with HIV is a serious experience. It is a chronic condition and one that comes with serious challenges. It is also true that not all people have access to health care or medications, that the medications have their side-effects, and that people still die due to complications to HIV/AIDS. Still, there must be more effective and humane ways to work toward preventing further infections while also honoring and supporting those living with HIV to live fulfilling and healthy lives.

It seems the socially accepted difference between those living with HIV and those living with other non-sexually transmitted diseases is that faggots simply deserve what they get. After all, wasn't this the point of the Reagan-era "Gay Cancer" myth?

Sadly, it seems this mentality has seeped into queer thinking about sex and sexuality, and ultimately contributed to the moralizing and normalizing of what was once a door toward sexual liberation. What if HIV prevention messaging were centered on supporting people to make informed decisions? What if we lived in a world where all queer men recognized their own agency and manifested their desire toward each other within mutually consensual, informed and freeing relationships that are completely autonomous and uninfected by social mores?

One can only dream...

Recent interview on identity, poetry and the role queer chicano legacies of survival

2010-10-04T13:28:00.000-07:00

Recent interview with Sean Parris for a podcast series that Sharon Bridgforth, DePaul University Theatre School's Visiting Multicultural Faculty Member, is curating. For more go to: Theatrical Jazz Podcast Series

On the Occasion of the Mexican Bicentennial

2010-09-15T10:44:00.001-07:00

I am tempted to write as a Mexican in the diaspora about Mexicans in the diaspora. Though the truth is, those of us living in what is today called the southwestern part of the United States are not in the diaspora. And while political and economic forces wield their power through military and ideological enforcement to secure the occupation of our home, we do not forget.

I say this, neither to evoke anti-American sentiments nor to pander Mexican nationalist politics. I say this as a fact. We are not in diaspora.

Yet, however strong our roots to this land, I cannot dismiss the fact that the artificial border that cuts through it, also cuts through our sense of belonging, our sense of memory and our sense of truth. On the two hundred year anniversary of Mexican Independence, I offer this, a non-comprehensive, senseless beading of longing, of resistance and of hope:

As I prepare to participate in celebrations and commemorations of Mexican Independence, I am reminded of the complexities and visceral silliness of it all. It would appear nonsensical to celebrate the independence of a people who have yet to experience freedom, much less liberation.

I am reminded of those of us living on this side of the make-believe line drawn across the desert. I am reminded of those of us who cannot return out of fear of not being able to cross again. I am reminded of those who are trapped on that side, navigating the pain of a country ravaged by global imperialism.

I am reminded of the “Drug War” incessantly competing to rival the death toll of the U.S. war on Afghanistan. I am reminded of the relentless starvation of U.S. consumerism that feeds off narcotics and bodies alike. I am reminded of the oblivious and self-serving manner in which the all-consuming American dares call this a “Mexican problem.”

I am reminded of the undocumented workers who died in the World Trade Center and who will never be accounted for. Those who this country will never recognize for its immigration policies establish them as nonexistent. I am reminded of the nation-states from which they come also rejecting their existence.

I am reminded of the women of Juárez, those whose lives are capitalized on even by the best intentioned of Chicana and Chicano scholars. Of a bloodthirsty MAC Cosmetics attempting to capture a wider market by capitalizing on the fatalities of these mujeres.

I am reminded of families who are forced daily to leave their children at the mercy of a vicious public education system that systematically beats the language, memory and values out of them. I am reminded of Ms. Nelson and the pedagogical whip with which she attempted to eradicate my own language, my memory, and my values.

I am reminded of those who risk everything in search of a basic sense of survival for their children and elders. Those who do not seek the farce of the “American Dream,” only the opportunity to provide for their families and communities. Those who are hunted by grotesque vigilantes whose sick audacity justifies their own existence on a land that never welcomed them.

I am reminded of students who are left in limbo, in a purgatory forged by U.S. immigration policies. I am reminded of how privileged my life has been, that I have attended multiple universities without immigration status standing in my way. I am reminded of the need to meditate on how my access is built on my sistren being unable to attend a university of their choice, to access financial aid, to pay in-state tuition, to graduate, to secure a job upon graduation.

I am reminded of how easily we forget our own indigeneity and the wisdom that what roots our memory and our bodies to this land, is not of Spanish origin. I am reminded of the insistence that our belonging is tied to our “Hispanicism,” forgetting that this was the genesis of our loss of memory.

I am reminded of political candidates boasting over the fact that their children do not look like us.

I am reminded of Hernán Cortez, James K. Polk, Janice Kay Brewer and countless merciless leaders who pander to the deepest, most vulgar and inhumane of their followers’ fear. I am reminded of how anti-Mexicanism is an ancient tradition. I am reminded of Cortez’ landing, la Revolución Mexicana, la Batalla de Puebla, the Treaty of Miguel Hidalgo, the Gadsden Purchase, Manifest Destiny, Prop 187, Prop 227, SB 1070, HB 2281. I am reminded of the anti-Mexican movements waiting on the horizon.

On the Bicentennial of Mexican Independence, I am reminded that we are still here. I am reminded that despite the infectious white supremacy that permeates both the U.S. and México, we shall overcome. I am reminded that this is not the beginning, nor the continuation of a two hundred year old shout in Dolores, Hidalgo. I am reminded that freedom and liberation is not what we leave for the next generations to find, but what we must begin to embody today.

Of Ethics, Mores & Privilege of Poets & Poetry

2010-08-21T11:47:00.000-07:00

I was recently made aware of a heated debate that is taking place on two related essays featured on PoetryFoundation.org.

The first essay, The Voices of Hurricane Katrina, Part I: What are the ethics of poetic appropriation? by Abe Louise Young, is a critique of Raymond McDaniel’s un-credited appropriation of personal stories documented on Alive in Truth: The New Orleans Disaster Oral History & Memory Project.

The second essay, The Voices of Hurricane Katrina, Part II: Reflections on found poetry and the creative process by Raymond McDaniel, is a response to the aforementioned critique and an explanation of McDaniel’s process of pulling from Alive in Truth to construct Convention Centers of the New World, a poem in the author’s recently published collection Saltwater Empire.

Below is my contribution to said debate:

Having spent years in graduate school studying ethics and the application of this science to various scenarios, I never ran across poetry as a potential circumstance. In fact, I never ran across any scenario that applied the science of ethics to questions of privilege either. Instead, the entire program focused on law, policy and moral imperatives.

Rather than insist students critique the relationship between law/policy/morality and ethics, there was an underlying assumption that these terms and their practice were unquestionably synonymous. As a queer person of color living in the occupied region known as the Southwestern United States, consideration of synonymity of these terms and practices debilitated the importance and applicability of ethics as a whole.

For instance, to say that law equals ethics would mean that the presence of my family in the United States is inherently unethical given that the first to relocate here did so without legal consent from the United States government. Although born in the United States, applying this framework could deem my presence here unethical because of the manner in which I came to be born within the confines of this nationstate. Lately, conservatives have attempted to resurrect such thinking and intend to challenge the legality of birthright citizenship for those born to parents who have “illegally” or, in the case of synonymous terminology, “unethically” “entered” this country.

Perhaps this argument makes sense from the simple Right/Wrong, Law = Ethics framework. Yet, if one were to turn to the very words considered synonymous with ethical matters and questioned the integrity of such words, would ethics lose their intrinsic and seemingly sacred value? Arguing against undocumented immigration makes sense only in the amnesic consciousness of a country that has legally practiced slavery, genocide, displacement and occupation from its genesis and beyond. It is because of the historically inhumane founding of this country that my family practiced the undocumented crossing of a border built to uphold the immorality of white supremacy.

If morality is synonymous to ethics, the very existence of the United States is unethical. At which point, one must adjust the notion of law/policy/morality being synonymous to ethics in order to apply ethical criteria circumstantially and whimsically-adjusted to our personal and/or collective moral imperatives.

It appears the thread of comments arguing for and against ethical application to Convention Centers of the New World are wandering the surfaces of definition.

Abe Louise Young has brilliantly executed an argument that applies the rule of ethics through a lens critically examining poetic acts of privilege and racism. As someone who agrees with the assertion that anti-racism is a moral imperative, I recognize that the ethical criterion applied to this poem is based on a particular definition of morality. In a world void of context, Abe’s question of ethics in relation to the aforementioned poem could be contested through other definitions of morality.

In reading Raymond McDaniel’s essay, I perceive him as a poet attempting to draw light onto the experiences of “those for whom justice has always been in short supply.” If I were to make truth of my assumption and take it a step further to consider McDaniel a poet committed to social justice ideology, I would unquestionably apply a social justice morality to the discussion of Saltwater Empire. Said notions of morality, then, would inform my ethical lens in relation to the poet’s intention and its resulting products.

Because we live in a world replete with complex, layered and interwoven contexts, I concur with Abe’s asservation that McDaniel plagiarized and appropriated the stories of others. In McDaniel’s defense, the poet states: “I assumed that the records were public, that they existed to be public.” Not so simple.

People of privilege enter dangerous territory when they engage in the extremely difficult and slippery act of writing about or “for” those on whom one’s own privilege is built upon. In this particular case, Abe Louise Young, a white, anti-racist, activist and poet, is putting the white poet to task. For many folks of color, this is what we understand to be one of the many critical roles white allies play in our shared efforts to dismantle and eradicate white supremacy.

Any poet attempting to write in the name of justice must (yes, I said “must”) critically and harshly self-examine their intention, practice and product. Privilege is built on the most pervasive of human atrocities. As such, poetry written to evoke a just consciousness inevitably fails if it itself lacks consciousness of privilege, the history on which it is built, and the structures that sustain it.

From the place of academic and literary integrity, the expropriation of others’ words without proper credit is plagiarism. From the place of social justice movements and values, the appropriation of others’ stories is an act of injustice.

Let us not forget that just as the “isolated phrases, sentences and clusters of sentences” were allegedly found, so to were the land, the people, the stories and the spirits that for centuries have called home what many now call the United States of America.

Is it possible to overanalyze something?

2010-08-13T20:22:00.000-07:00

Below is a brief analysis contributed to a comments thread on one of Change.org's Gay Rights articles. In the thread, readers were complaining over the fact that the article was overanalyzing, being over critical and making a fuss over nothing. I am posting the comment because the discussion got me thinking about the ways in which dialogue gets shut down when someone is unable to engage in a deep exchange. The person then cuts the conversation off by claiming the other side is being too politically correct or hypersensitive. These accusations are typical in race conversations, so I found it interesting to see them within a race-neutral queer space.

Below is the link to the article:

Toy Story 3 Toys With Homophobia

And here are some thoughts I contributed to the discussion:

It is troubling to read that this article "goes too deep." Is that not the purpose of analysis and intellectual debate? It would be one thing to disagree with the analysis. It is completely different to disagree with the fact that the analysis even took place. Depth of analysis is relative to our individual sets of values, ideologies and consciousness. If you disagree with the existence of a topic, why engage?

I find it both fascinating and critical that we engage in conversations that push our values, ideologies and consciousness. If over analyzing a topic, issue, theory or moment is unnecessary, why are doctoral programs considered among the highest academic achievements in this country? After all, all we do there is analyze our analysis.

As someone living in a "democratic society," I am deeply troubled by the idea that someone might not want to think deeper. I much prefer someone spend days lost in the rabbit hole of theoretical possibilities, than for this person to not apply any intellectual effort at all. After all, this might be the same person that turns around and goes to the ballot booth to weigh their opinion on reproductive health, queer, anti-violence and poverty measures (to name a few). It is our collective responsibility to over-analyze and be critical of the critical. Contributing to a debate by saying it should not be taking place in the first place is hardly a practice of intellectual engagement.

Lastly, that children laugh at the sight of Ken wearing red heels is alarming. Children might not understand the repercussions of their laughter, but they do know that boys in girls clothes is bad. Misogyny is pervasive. The hatred of the feminine is integrated into and informing the cultural mores, institutions and practices in our society (yes, in other countries too, but I'm talking U.S.). "Boys" lines and "Girls" lines are excellent ways to enforce early on that there is a clear-cut division between "two" genders, and that crossing this line is not tolerated.

What of the little boy who longs to wear his mother's heels? What is this child to feel/think/experience when sitting in an audience that laughs hysterically at the sight of a man in heels?

Am I overanalyzing? Damn right I am.

Call for submissions: An Anthology of Queer Chicano Poetry

2010-08-10T10:17:00.000-07:00

Recognizing the critical need for Queer Chicano men to document their stories, break bread with one another and create artifacts for generations to come, this fall Kórima Press will be releasing its first anthology: joto (ho-toh) v.

Embodying a complex and ever-evolving identity, Queer Chicanos hold stories that emanate from the intersections that permeate, constitute and surround our bodies. This anthology seeks to live as a codex of such stories.

Kórima Press seeks poetry submissions from Queer Chicano men writing from and about the spaces of (un)documented desires, racialized nation-states, contested and reclaimed tongues, and overcrowded kitchen tables. Imagined as an amalgamation of Polaroid snapshots, all poetry written from, about, resisting and/or reacting to Queer Chicanismo are welcome. Submissions of any language and combination thereof are accepted.

Submission: Please e-mail submissions@korimapress.com with a single Word (.doc or .docx) or Rich Text Format (.rtf) attachment containing the following:

- Contact information
- 150 - 300 word bio
- A high resolution photograph
- List of pieces submitted
- Up to 10 poems

Please be sure to write the following in the subject line of the email: “Joto Submission: YourLastName”

Deadline: September 30, 2010

Compensation: As a small press, Kórima is unable to provide monetary compensation for submissions. Contributors will receive 3 copies of the anthology and will be able to purchase additional copies at-cost.

NOTE: At-cost amount to be determined upon completion of publication as this is determined by the final dimensions of the anthology.

For more about Kórima Press, visit: korimapress.com

to marry or not to marry

2010-08-06T11:37:00.000-07:00

A good friend recently responded to a post I wrote for Change.org regarding the complexities of marriage equality, the marriage equality movement and lgbt communities of color. The comment was related to the problems of queer folks of color fighting for marriage as if it were equally as important and/or transformative for us as it might be perceived for white gay men. Below are some thoughts...

I think we tread dangerous waters in looking to marriage as the pinnacle of our rights (or the pinnacle of anything for that matter). The stories of women of color, in particular, should be enough for us to know better than to think it is an institution that supports, affirms and honors self-determination or other forms of liberated consciousness and being.

That said, I think it's important to not overlook the basic benefits that come with marriage, which poor and working class folks of color might not have access to. For instance, hospital visitation rights can be secured through certain legal processes, but these require access to resources and information. Of course, this assumes folks can even get into the hospital for care to begin with.

I agree and have written about the ways in which the LGBT movement seems intent on reinstating the privileges that white gay men lost by virtue of being gay. People of color, then, become the conduits and obstacles to, and occasionally unintentional beneficiaries of what rights (and privileges) are secured.

With all that.. would I get married? Yup.

Here's the post we were originally reacting to:
What the Marriage Equality Movement Means To LGBT People of Color

a writer who has influenced my work for nearly 20 years

2010-07-28T17:03:00.000-07:00

Ricardo Arjona has been my favorite lyricist since I was 12. And, somehow I hate every single one of his albums when they first come out, only to end up enamored and obsessed with them after a few weeks of listening to them. His latest, Quinto Piso, is now my favorite album. This song, specifically, is rich, lush, dry and striking. Listening to this, I am reminded of how and why my work is deeply rooted in pedestrian metaphor.

Interview on Pluma Fronteriza

2010-07-13T11:28:00.000-07:00

I was recently interviewed by Ray Rojas over at Pluma Fronteriza. Check it out.

D.C. is the old Las Vegas

2010-06-13T06:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in D.C. for over a week, and still have several days to go before returning to San Francisco. The work I’ve been involved with while here has been incredibly rewarding. I feel honored to have reached a place in my life where the many worlds I navigate have intersected in a project that looks specifically at the intersections of identities and experiences. Few things make a nerd like me this happy.

I’m a fan of D.C. I’m fascinated by the architecture, the posture of its D.C.-oriented inhabitants, and by the irony of invisibility of those who call it home, yet never come near the fire. Perhaps it’s a matter of survival or of structural segregation maintaining inhabitants of color at the margins of the city. Perhaps it’s simply telling of the irrelevance of policies and policy makers emanating from the cracks of old buildings. ¿Yo, qué sé?

D.C. has always struck me as a Las Vegas kind of town. The city that most know is a manufactured context comprised of piles of buildings, rigid streets, gaudy circles, and people running back and forth carrying the lives of millions in their briefcases. As with Vegas, D.C. seems to have been built to serve a specific purpose. Perhaps the only real reason is that one enters Las Vegas full of hope. Sure, we leave Vegas broke, hungover and coughing up feathered boas. Pero, ¿yo qué sé?

I have learned to appreciate D.C. in all its irony. Most of what I see as I walk through the Mall is an amalgamation of tragic contradictions. From the giant penis attributed to George Washington, to the place where the Great Aretha stood with her all-seeing “I will cut you” hat. For a brown boy from Aztlán, D.C. can stir multiple simultaneous and contradicting emotions. The ancestral in me knows I am a visitor of those who called this home centuries ago. I know they are still here. I stand in silence.

I stand at the mall and remember that this city witnessed the planned occupation of the land I have always called home; the only land my peoples have ever called home. D.C. is a complicated place. I am a complicated place.

I offer no reverence. I offer admiration toward the complexities. I offer distrust to its norms. I offer smiles to its museums. I offer laughter at its giant penis.

hierbaloca: the children of aztlán

2010-05-20T07:53:00.001-07:00

may we dance
in the living room of hope
our bodies hold memory
we are desert stones

may we rise
in the face of our pain
as Arizona weeds dare
our fists rise most when blown

our hearts pump through sorrow
making way for what is possible
we are farmers, we harvest our own

we are backyard children
playing, watched by la abuela
weaving through each other’s arms

we are leaves
on branches, on roads
fodder after being shade
cover to elders
food for new leaves to grow

we are the blood
rivers, mama’s veins
we are the return
though we never left

our lungs pump through anguish
manifest what is possible
we are Texas breeze in each other’s hair

we are nopal-raised abuelos
we play dice with tomorrow
betting we will overcome

somos, todos, aztlaneros
our roots run deep, run wild
unharnessed, tainted as the Gulf

we were free, we remember
thievery shall not hold us
we have no papers to show

____________________________
Originally published by Poets Responding to SB 1070.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Poets-Responding-to-SB-1070/117494558268757

Inspired by such luminaries as: Joe Jiménez, Alma Luz Villanueva, James Thomas Stevens, Ku'ualoha Ho'omanawanui, Clemencia Zapata, Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán, Rajasvini Bhansali, Dawn Surratt, Nikhil Aziz, Gloria Nieto, Héctor Silva, Floyd Johnson, Luz Guerra, Diana Gorham, María Salazar, Marvin K. White, Belinda G. Acosta, Juanita Salazar Lamb, Magdalena Barrera, Irene Mata, Victor Vásquez, Ana Ángel, Favianna Rodríguez, Noralee Ortiz, Robert Unzueta, Rosa Revuelta, Martha Ramos Duffer, Elaine Chukan Brown, Chip Livingston, Francisco X. Alarcon, and Lorna Dee Cervantes.

Thoughts on La Mission and the Ongoing Struggle to Broaden Notions of Latino Masculinities

2010-05-04T12:54:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to see a screening of Peter Bratt’s La Mission. The screening, which was part of a limited release, was at San Francisco’s Metreon Theaters. My compañero and I, joined by two of our queer sisters of color, were lucky enough to find seats in relative proximity to each other in the sold-out space.

It was a late night screening and the vast majority of folks in the theater were people of color. In fact, I’d say most of the people there were Latina/o, with a nice mix of generations representing. The experience was unforgettable as all four of us, none of which were born and raised in San Francisco, were sitting in what seemed to be an intimate living room screening of La Mission.

We all smiled and were occasionally misty-eyed as people in the crowd, youth and adults, loudly expressed their pride in the various shots of San Francisco portrayed in the film. During the movie, I realized that this was the first time I had ever witnessed the screening of a film that embodied the geographic and cultural identities of the audience. People not only saw themselves on the big screen, they also saw the places that have shaped and witnessed them.

All in all, I found La Mission to be a beautiful film. I’m not a film critic and will leave that to those who know better. Instead, I’ll limit my thoughts on what moved me most about the movie, and those areas I wish it had gone deeper.

The relationship of Benjamin Bratt’s character, Che Rivera, and his son Jesse, played by Jeremy Ray Valdez, was sweet, raw and in many ways reflective of my own experience with my father. I was further moved by the depiction of comunidad and the ways in which we, as a village, honor our shared responsibility and opportunity to support each other and our children. Even as the father struggled with the realization of his son’s sexuality, their community intervened, loved and supported both of them in a way that rings true to my experiences of community engagement in times of family crisis. This particularly resonated with memories of how my family responded to the teenage pregnancies of cousins and to my own coming out. This isn’t to say my family, or our communities are romantic portraits reminiscent of Norman Rockwell. Rather, it is necessary to honor the fact that even in our messiness and pain, we managed to love each other in the only ways we knew how.

A question I had throughout the film was the extent to which audience members knew what the film was actually about. This was somewhat answered by the collective surprise when Jesse first kissed his boyfriend, Jordan. However, after the initial shock, people seemed to settle with the idea, though I wouldn’t suggest this was a celebration or affirmation of queerness; yet another reflection on my coming out experience.

In addition to the possibility that some in the audience were unaware of the gay theme in the story, people were very surprised when Benjamin and Peter Bratt entered the theater. The Q&A with the actor and the director was a bit all over the place. Nonetheless, I was excited to hear Peter Bratt, who was both the writer and director, talk about his process.

Something that resonated with me was Bratt’s reasoning for the gay theme in the film. To paraphrase, the writer wanted to portray Latino masculinity in its most vulnerable state. According to Bratt, the best way to expose ultimate vulnerability in a Latino who is deeply rooted in what some would argue is a stereotypical depiction of Latino maleness (dare I say machismo), would be in the realization of his son being gay. Hearing this evoked the memory of hearing my father crying inconsolably on the phone while he asked if his suspicions of my sexuality were true. The call, which ended with my father saying I was a dried-up branch of his family, exposed the darkest and scariest of both his and my vulnerability as Latino men.

I appreciate Bratt’s analysis and his courage to quite literally breakdown Latino masculinity on the big screen. However, I am saddened by the fact that he only focused on exposing the vulnerability of the father’s masculinity, and in doing so, left a gaping whole in exploring the vulnerability and possibility of the gay Latino son. Instead, the story seemed to use the son and his sexuality as a conduit, rather than truly honoring the experience of gay Latino men and our relationship with our fathers.

I was also concerned with Bratt’s reinforcement of the notion that gayness is a white construct and something that only exists openly in white-defined spaces such as San Francisco’s Castro District. This is not to say that the Castro is not an important space in queer culture and one that many queer men of color, myself included, have traveled through in the formation of our identities and experience. Yet, to continue leaving gayness within the realm of whiteness speaks to our ongoing inability to claim the many facets of Latina/o sexualities and the many ways we express and manifest gender.

Furthermore, leaving gayness to be embodied by the Castro and a white boyfriend also overlooked the rich history of queer Latinidad that has long been an integral part of San Francisco’s Mission District. As a queer brown man, the LGBT Latina/o community of the Mission, including such spaces as Esta Noche, heavily shaped my identity. Horacio Roque Ramírez, a professor at UC Santa Barbara, has done extensive work on the LGBT Latina/o community of La Misión and has done an excellent job in honoring the legacies of organizing and community building that has taken place over several decades.

To be clear, I am not arguing against depictions of the Castro or against mixed-race relationships. Rather, I ask that we think about what continues to stand in our way of fully acknowledging that LGBT Latinidad can and has long existed outside of the confines and direct influence of white LGBTness. Perhaps acknowledging that queerness can be just as inherently Latina/o as it is to white communities is a vulnerability we are not prepared to experience.

Hairspray & Fideo

A Mexican Immigrant and a 1st generation Chicana raised a baby and this is what they got

Do you support drug testing to get approval to be on Welfare? If so, why are we friends?

Remembering the Roots of Consciousness: Why I support New Fire

Under Threat of Marriage

Imagining Ourselves Possible: 26 years and counting

White men are sacred, the rest of us not so much*

Amy Winehouse: An honoring and a farewell to one of ours

Vandalism comes in many forms

Poetry: On This Lake

[IL]LEGITIMATE POETICS: Reconciling (or not) Radical Craft & the Literary Establishment

Ricky Martin's MAS Tour: Por esto, y tanto más, gracias.

What’s with all the straight jokes?

Gay white-centricity: HRC & It Gets Better Campaign

America Needs Fatima Responds

What you call blasphemy, I call Women of Color: A response to America Needs Fatima

[Homenaje a Selena] Virgen Morena de Tacones Altos: Selena y Yo en el Aire

Change.org Posts: LGBT People of Color, LGBT Movement, LGBT Racism, People of Color Homophobia

Tragic Bitches Do Las Vegas

Change.org Posts: Arizona SB1070, Anti-Immigrant Hysteria

We Were Here: My Meditation, Mourning and Homage to a Necessary Film

New Book! Tragic Bitches: An Experiment in Queer Xicana & Xicano Performance Poetry

Sorry Gaga, I was *not* born this way

Frida's in the Rainbow Honor Walk, and I am not happy

Today, Ricky Martin matters more than ever.

Génisis Chihuahuense

Risky reading: Emotions, communities, even languages pair for gay poet

A shout out on the Mexican blog: Tengo un crush con Nuevallorrrr

Interview for the Spanish-language Journal Pterodáctilo

5 Year Anniversary of Santo de la Pata Alzada

Xénesis (Chapter 1, Verses 1 - 25): A Story of Lesbianas, Love y Revolución

The Ones They Waited For: A Reflection on Día de los Muertos

Literary Vandalism, or when hate comes knocking on the door

the preventable, the unsalvageable, and the innocent.

Recent interview on identity, poetry and the role queer chicano legacies of survival

On the Occasion of the Mexican Bicentennial

Of Ethics, Mores & Privilege of Poets & Poetry

Is it possible to overanalyze something?

Call for submissions: An Anthology of Queer Chicano Poetry

to marry or not to marry

a writer who has influenced my work for nearly 20 years

Interview on Pluma Fronteriza

D.C. is the old Las Vegas

hierbaloca: the children of aztlán

Thoughts on La Mission and the Ongoing Struggle to Broaden Notions of Latino Masculinities

Sorry Gaga, I was not born this way