Queer Men of Color in Love

eljotitodeperris:

I never came out to anyone — and the idea of coming out has always been foreign to me. I was 11 when people started calling me gay. I didn’t know what it meant, but the scrutiny around my mannerisms taught me that it was wrong. Before I was able to be curious about my crushes on other boys, I trained my brain to stop before ever going there.

In seventh grade, I fell in love with punk music. I started with The Ramones, which instantly became my favorite, before moving to more hardcore bands like The Unseen or Charged GBH. Being labeled the “gay kid,” in sixth grade made me a social pariah. Punk music and its rich history, spanning decades and transporting me to different cities like London and New York, became my haven. It was my imagined community at a time in my life where I had none.

A few guys in my middle school thought I was too gay to like punk. They teased me and even made a Myspace page about me being a faggot. The verbal threats eventually escalated to physical violence. Kicks and punches, nothing I couldn’t fend off.

Then one day, during one of our almost daily scuffles, Daniel — who was at least half a foot taller than me — stabbed me in the head with a pencil. My first inclination was to not tell anyone because I knew it would come to light that I was being harassed for being perceived to be gay. It was during lunch and I only had one more class left, which was band. I thought I could just take care of it on my own and no one would have to find out about it. I asked my fellow tuba-player sitting next to me to look at it. The fear in his face worried me and he told me that because I was bleeding so much, I should go to the nurse. She confirmed my fears and told me to go to the emergency room.

I nervously called my mom and told her that I was feeling ok but that some guy stabbed me in the head with a pencil. I strategized ways to tell her as little as possible while also not inviting any further questions. It also happened to be her 30th birthday, which we spent in the emergency room.

In the hours of the waiting room, I hoped that she wouldn’t ask for details as to why I was stabbed. I brushed off her inquiries and told her that he just had issues and I didn’t know why. Even though I still had no idea I was gay — my desire for other boys pushed towards the back of my brain — I felt a deep shame for people thinking I was gay. How could I explain to my mom that the kids at school for over a year and a half had called me gay? How could I explain to her that I wasn’t gay even though everyone thought I was? Would she still love me if I did?

I was in 9th grade English class when the straw finally broke the camel’s back. A boy called me a maricón and I retorted: “So what if I am?” He looked mortified. “You’re gay?” “Yes, I’m bisexual.”

Before this moment I had never thought of myself as bisexual. My desires for men were not really accessible to me. I had a couple of girlfriends and I was attracted to them. I could easily access my emotions for them. Indeed, I actively fed my curiosities for girls, while I starved my curiosities for boys. But after externalizing the label, I felt a freedom to finally let myself explore these thoughts and desires buried deep in my brain.

That moment was the closest I ever had to coming out. Queerness was somehow always attached to me and after that day I decided to stop denying it. Yes, I was the gay kid. Yes, I did have crushes on other boys in my class, and I didn’t want to feel ashamed for it anymore.

It’s taken me years to realize that something really precious was taken away from me: a curiosity about myself. Before I was able to enjoy the pleasure and excitement of desire, I learned about shame. For years that shame was reinforced by threats of and actual violence. In order to survive, I pushed down life’s greatest joys deep inside of me, only to come out when I finally decided I couldn’t live like this anymore — a big decision for a fourteen-year-old to make.

The thing about shame is that it can be, and often is, insidious. I still struggle to come face to face with my desires. Before I can see the contours of a desire, something deep inside wakes up and shuts it off. I’ve been an out and proud homosexual since I was 14, but at 29 years old, I still struggle with shame. Reflecting on the years of torment and violence I experienced as a young person, it is no surprise.

In order to heal, I have decided to be curious about myself. What have I stopped myself from wanting? How can I name that thing for which I cannot name? My desires and my wants — like my queerness — are precious. And even though I never “came out,” nor have I ever needed to, I am still working through shame.

Feelings are natural in the most literal sense because our bodies produce them, but words and ideas give our feelings meaning and a lens to make sense of them. Without the language necessary for understanding myself, my earliest desires were not only incomprehensible but also inaccessible to me. Labels can be useful to name broader feelings and experiences, but they are ultimately starting points for understanding ourselves. Although I am grateful for the label for giving me permission to name broader desires, my journey in understanding myself does not end with a label.

So, for those of us who have never been in a closet, who like me, have been out for more than half of our lives, our exploration of ourselves, and externalizing the parts of ourselves that still feel heavy with shame, can be a life-long process. In order to heal from growing up in a homophobic world, I invite you to ask yourself: what is something you want but are too afraid to name? It’s ok to start small.

eljotitodeperris:

I never came out to anyone — and the idea of coming out has always been foreign to me. I was 11 when people started calling me gay. I didn’t know what it meant, but the scrutiny around my mannerisms taught me that it was wrong. Before I was able to be curious about my crushes on other boys, I trained my brain to stop before ever going there.

In seventh grade, I fell in love with punk music. I started with The Ramones, which instantly became my favorite, before moving to more hardcore bands like The Unseen or Charged GBH. Being labeled the “gay kid,” in sixth grade made me a social pariah. Punk music and its rich history, spanning decades and transporting me to different cities like London and New York, became my haven. It was my imagined community at a time in my life where I had none.

A few guys in my middle school thought I was too gay to like punk. They teased me and even made a Myspace page about me being a faggot. The verbal threats eventually escalated to physical violence. Kicks and punches, nothing I couldn’t fend off.

Then one day, during one of our almost daily scuffles, Daniel — who was at least half a foot taller than me — stabbed me in the head with a pencil. My first inclination was to not tell anyone because I knew it would come to light that I was being harassed for being perceived to be gay. It was during lunch and I only had one more class left, which was band. I thought I could just take care of it on my own and no one would have to find out about it. I asked my fellow tuba-player sitting next to me to look at it. The fear in his face worried me and he told me that because I was bleeding so much, I should go to the nurse. She confirmed my fears and told me to go to the emergency room.

I nervously called my mom and told her that I was feeling ok but that some guy stabbed me in the head with a pencil. I strategized ways to tell her as little as possible while also not inviting any further questions. It also happened to be her 30th birthday, which we spent in the emergency room.

In the hours of the waiting room, I hoped that she wouldn’t ask for details as to why I was stabbed. I brushed off her inquiries and told her that he just had issues and I didn’t know why. Even though I still had no idea I was gay — my desire for other boys pushed towards the back of my brain — I felt a deep shame for people thinking I was gay. How could I explain to my mom that the kids at school for over a year and a half had called me gay? How could I explain to her that I wasn’t gay even though everyone thought I was? Would she still love me if I did?

I was in 9th grade English class when the straw finally broke the camel’s back. A boy called me a maricón and I retorted: “So what if I am?” He looked mortified. “You’re gay?” “Yes, I’m bisexual.”

Before this moment I had never thought of myself as bisexual. My desires for men were not really accessible to me. I had a couple of girlfriends and I was attracted to them. I could easily access my emotions for them. Indeed, I actively fed my curiosities for girls, while I starved my curiosities for boys. But after externalizing the label, I felt a freedom to finally let myself explore these thoughts and desires buried deep in my brain.

That moment was the closest I ever had to coming out. Queerness was somehow always attached to me and after that day I decided to stop denying it. Yes, I was the gay kid. Yes, I did have crushes on other boys in my class, and I didn’t want to feel ashamed for it anymore.

It’s taken me years to realize that something really precious was taken away from me: a curiosity about myself. Before I was able to enjoy the pleasure and excitement of desire, I learned about shame. For years that shame was reinforced by threats of and actual violence. In order to survive, I pushed down life’s greatest joys deep inside of me, only to come out when I finally decided I couldn’t live like this anymore — a big decision for a fourteen-year-old to make.

The thing about shame is that it can be, and often is, insidious. I still struggle to come face to face with my desires. Before I can see the contours of a desire, something deep inside wakes up and shuts it off. I’ve been an out and proud homosexual since I was 14, but at 29 years old, I still struggle with shame. Reflecting on the years of torment and violence I experienced as a young person, it is no surprise.

In order to heal, I have decided to be curious about myself. What have I stopped myself from wanting? How can I name that thing for which I cannot name? My desires and my wants — like my queerness — are precious. And even though I never “came out,” nor have I ever needed to, I am still working through shame.

Feelings are natural in the most literal sense because our bodies produce them, but words and ideas give our feelings meaning and a lens to make sense of them. Without the language necessary for understanding myself, my earliest desires were not only incomprehensible but also inaccessible to me. Labels can be useful to name broader feelings and experiences, but they are ultimately starting points for understanding ourselves. Although I am grateful for the label for giving me permission to name broader desires, my journey in understanding myself does not end with a label.

So, for those of us who have never been in a closet, who like me, have been out for more than half of our lives, our exploration of ourselves, and externalizing the parts of ourselves that still feel heavy with shame, can be a life-long process. In order to heal from growing up in a homophobic world, I invite you to ask yourself: what is something you want but are too afraid to name? It’s ok to start small.

queermenofcolorinlove:

eljotitodeperris:

I promised I would be more vulnerable and that I would write more this year. Here, in my first published piece of writing, I do both. 

“My isolation was not an accident. The constant fragmenting of my humanity into oppressed categories of race, skin color, gender, and sexuality made it almost impossible for me to exist as a whole human. Stereotypes of gay men and antithetical stereotypes of Latino men have made me unintelligible to a world that ignores and silences the struggles of my communities. Internalizing society’s fear and abhorrence towards gayness and Latinidad, I learned how to hate myself. The shame I internalized because of my isolation made it difficult for me to relate to other people. Without models of gay brown men being vulnerable — let alone existing — I was convinced that the only company I would ever really have was the emptiness inside me. I accepted this truth very early on in my life, and for much of my life it defined me.

We’re taught that before we can be in a relationship, we must first learn to love ourselves. But this is a nearly impossible task because for many of us, particularly queer people of color, loving ourselves is a lifelong journey. This journey to self-love is never linear. It can change every day, and some years are better than others. At what point do we become loveable: able to love and able to be loved? Are we loveable more days than others?

I was 19 when I first felt seen by someone. I shared the shame that had been crushing me since I was a boy. The weight of hundreds of hopeless nights immediately lifted as I delved deeper and deeper into my soul and for once, I wasn’t afraid. When I shared the depths of my fears with someone, I finally felt I could be loved and for the first time in my life, I was whole. When we broke up, I thought I would never be complete again. I eventually learned that my loveability came from this raw openness; and like love, my vulnerability could not expire.”

queermenofcolorinlove:

eljotitodeperris:

I promised I would be more vulnerable and that I would write more this year. Here, in my first published piece of writing, I do both. 

“My isolation was not an accident. The constant fragmenting of my humanity into oppressed categories of race, skin color, gender, and sexuality made it almost impossible for me to exist as a whole human. Stereotypes of gay men and antithetical stereotypes of Latino men have made me unintelligible to a world that ignores and silences the struggles of my communities. Internalizing society’s fear and abhorrence towards gayness and Latinidad, I learned how to hate myself. The shame I internalized because of my isolation made it difficult for me to relate to other people. Without models of gay brown men being vulnerable — let alone existing — I was convinced that the only company I would ever really have was the emptiness inside me. I accepted this truth very early on in my life, and for much of my life it defined me.

We’re taught that before we can be in a relationship, we must first learn to love ourselves. But this is a nearly impossible task because for many of us, particularly queer people of color, loving ourselves is a lifelong journey. This journey to self-love is never linear. It can change every day, and some years are better than others. At what point do we become loveable: able to love and able to be loved? Are we loveable more days than others?

I was 19 when I first felt seen by someone. I shared the shame that had been crushing me since I was a boy. The weight of hundreds of hopeless nights immediately lifted as I delved deeper and deeper into my soul and for once, I wasn’t afraid. When I shared the depths of my fears with someone, I finally felt I could be loved and for the first time in my life, I was whole. When we broke up, I thought I would never be complete again. I eventually learned that my loveability came from this raw openness; and like love, my vulnerability could not expire.”