Friday, October 31, 2014

The Million Dollar Question in Queer History.

How did you know you were gay?

                                                                   I didn't. 
My earliest memory that I recall perceiving a difference between me and the rest of the boys was in kindergarten. It was during a rehearsal for my graduation dance; each couple had been assigned, and I was not feeling it. No, I did not want to dance with a boy; and I definitely did not want to be a girl. I just knew that the girl-boy situation was not my cup of tea. But I was five years old, I did not pay attention to such things; all I wanted to do was color books and come up with different uses for my cars and trucks that Grandma had bought me every year on January sixth.

I grew up as an only child; yes, I do have another siblings, but they lived with my Mother (and that's a story I'll tell you later). It was just Grandma and myself in the household, so any theory regarding too much female influence is out of the question; sure Grandma was there all along, but she raised seven other males and they all are as straight as they can be. In Mexico, mid-nineties, kids would gather in the street to play all evening, so I did have interaction with other boys, and we played games that boys played. But I always prefered the company of girls; I felt more comfortable. And that's the very first time when someone else pointed out my scarlet letter: MARICON.
I remember the boy that said it. And I remember that the rest of the kids giggled, maybe in embarrassment for me, or maybe out of fear because that boy was older and mean, or maybe they also agreed and were glad that someone finally said it. So I walked away. There was a fence in between my house and me, so I had to walk around it all while being laughed at, and told that I was no longer welcome to play with them. I remember that moment very clear, and I also remember the shame blurring my sight, burning down my cheeks. So if you ask me now the question at the very top of this entry, I can give you a more specific answer: I knew I was gay when someone called me a faggot, even before I knew myself what was going on. I knew I was gay when someone put shame on my name before I could figure it out myself. I knew I was different, I wasn't an idiot, but I just couldn't come up with a word to identify how I was feeling inside. I knew I was more sensitive and delicate than other boys, and I had heard grown ups whisper as soon as Grandma and I walked past them; but it wasn't an issue for me nor for Grandma. Until that evening when my world came crashing down at the sound of that word, and the echo of their laughter.
MARICON. PUTO. MANO CHUECA. I knew the meaning of these words at five years old. I had seen and heard them all before used on the town homosexuals. And I was ashamed and terrified to be called any of those names. I hated every single one of those words. I was five years old and each word stung me, bruised me, scarred me. Even though I knew I wasn't a slut (puto), and that my hand was not limp (mano chueca) and it had nothing to do with my being gay, I was still a maricon (faggot) in their eyes --because that's what they heard from their parents, from their family, from the friends, and other people around.

Now, tell me how did you know you were heterosexual?

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The Writer.

It was on my thirteenth birthday when I wrote my first journal entry. It was a notebook that Grandma bought here and took it to Mexico for me; it was the perfect gift. Besides the $1 chapstick that she gave me, but that's a whole different story that I'll probably tell you later. 
I went under drastic changes during my teenage years, and I saw myself losing control over my life. And it was the time when I needed an outlet to my feelings and thoughts that I started jotting down in that notebook about my mixed emotions. Ever since, for almost over a decade now, I have been keeping track of my life in paper; amounting to seven backpacks full of notebooks that I have filled out with every detail of my upbringing. From my experience with eating disorders to my decision to come to the USA; from the first ESL class to my first college paper, and everything else in between. I love the fact that I can open up a notebook and all my dirty little secrets will pour out; I love the fact that I can look back, read about the tough times, and remind myself where I come from. It keeps me grounded and humble. 
As I grow older, my life adventures have diminished. My life has become much of work, home, repeat; and I am not complaining, I enjoy my life. My point is, I really don't have much to write about in my journals anymore. So I started this blog, to share my life experiences with you, friends and strangers that happen to run into this. My journals are personal, I will be buried with them (okay, probably not, but they will continue to remain private); but this blog has given me the opportunity to reflect on my life, choose the event that I want to share, and that's what I do -hoping that my mistakes serve as a lesson for someone to learn from, and avoid making the same decisions. I am not a life coach, and I am not telling you how to live your life, but if anyone is lost and my experiences makes them feel like they're not alone, then my mission will be accomplished. Also, as I told a friend recently (when she asked why I am obsessed with blogging), it is therapeutic for me. Everyone have their own way to cope with stressful situations in life, in my case, I write. So it is my outlet, just as my journals were an outlet at some point, this blog helps me to sort out my mind. 
With that being said, I am not an example to follow either. I am just someone that wants to help you up when you need it. I do not intend to show off any of my 'accomplishments' either, if I have any; but I do want to highlight the things I've done for myself. I would like to call it a spark of hope, if my crazy ass can do it, so can anyone. We just need to keep on trying, never giving up, and we can do whatever we set our mind to. And that's why I continue to write, even if nobody is reading.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Friendships in our twenties.

Saying that I am far from perfect would be the biggest understatement ever told. Not just about myself, but about anybody. That's why we have others to tell us where, when, and how we fucked up; it's called being a friend, or just anyone that cares about someone. Yet, we continue to be selfish, childish, and stubborn. We choose to hold on to our perspective, and push aside the advice we get from others; unknowingly, sometimes we push a little too far, sending friendships down the drain.

Every so often we get lucky to have a second chance; some other times, as it has happened to me, it goes unnoticed and I play along -as if nothing is going on. Being the better person seems to be the only option, or as I call it, appreciating the person much more than they deserve. We're all human, and we all make mistakes. I usually look at life this way, it is the healthiest thing to do. There is no reason to throw more wood to the fire; if I said what it needed to be said, and my friend doesn't break the pattern, I will move on with my life. I did what I thought necessary, and as adults, we are responsible for our own actions. In 2014, I will hold you liable for every move you make; you have no valid excuses to withdraw from them.

As a friend of yours, if I see you doing something fucked up that may hurt you, I will tell you. There is no YOLO in my vocabulary. There are times, I admit, but not when you're at risk. If I see you are the one causing the pain, I will call you out on your bullshit. And I am willing to risk your friendship not because I don't care about you, but in the contrary; I give many fucks and that's why I get on our face. Besides harming someone else, you're also doing it to yourself, and to me; if I am willing to put a stop to your shit, I am risking your friendship, and that will hurt like a muthafucka. So it's a losing game for everyone, unless someone takes the first step towards a changing attitude.

I guess my downfall has always been that I care too much.
I guess my downfall has also been that I don't give a fuck.