you existed for all of the boys who knew but knew that obvious questions were never necessary.
from all of the boys like us who wore our pride unapologetically like pretty accessories - we thank you.
sing in peace, juanga.
THE GRAN VARONES
The Gran Varones is a legacy project that uses video and photography to tell the stories of Latino & Afro-Latino Gay, Queer and Trans men. Our stories shine light on what being “out” and “proud” means to us, our families, and our communities.
More you might like
Since there really was no highlight for me in the #VPdebate, I thought I would instead share this tweet from Grindr in response to the discussion on immigration.
Instead of pointing to trauma caused by deportation, the US policies in Latin America and the rest of the world that contribute to migration, or the ways that anti-immigrant rhetoric contributes to the continued exploitation of LGBT immigrants, the (assumedly) white gay man who runs the grindr twitter account is worried about where he is going to get his next booty call if Trump deports undocumented immigrants.
Don’t be fooled into believing they see us as part of their community. For many white gay men, we are only as good as our dick size and asses. The sooner we realize that the sooner we can stop striving for their approval and create our own spaces where we support and love one another.
And if you are white gay man who rejects this type of racial fetishization, then this post isn’t about you. But I am going to need you to call out this racist BS when you come across it in the gay community. Otherwise, this post is about you.
Nelson Flores, Philadelphia
Twitter: @nelsonflores
for the past few months, several community members and groups, including gran varones, have been demanding that the philly queer community and those in leadership positions address the gayborhood’s covert racism and pervasive anti-blackness. but we have been met with not just resistance but with more anti-blackness.
just a week ago the philadelphia’s director of lgbtq affairs was quoted saying “I believe that Gayborhood business owners genuinely want to address the community’s concerns and to ensure that everyone feels safe and welcome.” the foundation of this statement was violent because it communicated that we were making shit up and that if we somehow believe - just believe in the “goodwill” of gay business owners - things will get “better.”
she also mentioned that the office of lgbtq affairs was working with philly black pride on a four point action plan. i have to note that a member of philly pride stated that gran varones and black & brown led efforts were not doing work that is “transformative” in addressing the systematic anti-blackness in the gayboyhood. this was stated when we, along with other folks stated they we were not interested in working with or centering white allies. we experience the statement as an attack. for an established and funded project like philly black pride to minimize the work of grassroots and non-funded efforts like gran varones and the Black & Brown Workers Collective it hella violent. especially when icandy and their shady “no-timbs” policy. but i digress. back to the reason i started this post.
early this morning, a lovely angel posted a video of the owner of icandy, a gay club frequented by black and brown queer folks, repeating the “n” word and laughing. stating at all we want are free drink tickets. chyle! even the person he was talking to in the video gagged. at the end of the video, you hear the person say “oh my god.” i imagined he clutched his pearls.
so after being told that we were creating trouble, we now have receipts! and this receipt is one that comes with coupons, honey! while a sex tape can jumpstart a career - a racist tape still has the power to destroy one.
the owner has posted an “apology” confirming that it is his voice. read below.
the response has been swift with the black & brown workers collective protesting in front of iCandy earlier this evening calling for a boycott as well as demanding the LGBTQ community and leaders address this issue and the anti-blackness that continues to erode philly’s queer community. during the protest, the BBWC passed out “free drink” tickets to people walking into iCandy.
to all black and brown queers challenging the anti-blackness and transphobia in gayborhood all around the country - we salute you and we believe you!
“i never thought i’d make it here.” when felix stated that one sentence
during his interview, i was floored. not because it was sad but rather
because it is a truth about me that i didn’t know put into words or
maybe was too afraid to say out loud. he held up a mirror to me and i
was left transformed. thank you felix for being so damn wonderful and
courageous. thank you for supporting this project. thank you for
existing.
Today is National Latinx AIDS Awareness Day. As expected, you are likely to come across a flood of HIV-related information and facts via social media and public ads. Predictably, this information will remind us that we are a “high-risk” population, will advise us on how and under what conditions to have sex, and most importantly, stress the importance of knowing our status and staying in care. Yes, I get it; this information is important and needed. For the purposes of full disclosure, as an HIV tester and educator, I often get paid to present these very numbers to eager crowds and nervous gay men struggling to remember their last HIV test date. I see value in this work, but I also strongly believe in centering faces over facts, stories over statistics.
For me, this means talking about awareness without the broad strokes inherent in national campaigns. Often I wonder what these campaigns are missing, and almost always I return to the same answer: us. These campaigns often don’t reach us because they were not created with us in mind. It is impossible to address HIV stigma, awareness, and prevention in the Latina/o community without knowledge of our lived experiences. This invisibility and institutional neglect leave us to answer some difficult questions on our own. For example, what myths and distortions have we internalized about HIV, gay men, and ourselves? How do these myths and misinformation impact how we treat each other? In what ways does the Latino/Latina/Latinx community perpetuate both violence towards gay men and cultivates a toxic environment detrimental to our mental and sexual health? I’m not going to just ask these questions and let you sit with them; I thought I might do something different today and share a bit with you all. Please be gentle with me.
When I think about HIV stigma and its association with shame in my life, I think about the first conversation I had about being gay with my mother seven years ago. If I’m a Gran Varòn, then my mother is La Gran Señora—the head of our household, the provider and nurturer, and the person from whom I’ve learned most about community, honoring family, and surviving the unthinkable. She has become my biggest ally. And yet I will never forget the first two questions that followed my nervous gay disclosure: “who molested you?” she asked, “and are you healthy?” One communicated that my gayness was a product of a violent and traumatic event, and the other that as a “closeted” gay person I probably was HIV positive. These two questions verbalized all of the coded yet consistent messages about LGBTQ people I had heard growing up—about our diseases, our dirty sex, our victimhood, and our perpetual tragedy.
But the truth was that my mother needed not ask me those questions for me to know that in her mind, and in my community, gay men are seen as laughable, perverted, and diseased. I had learned this before I even identified as gay. I learned it from hearing my family talk about the gay participants on El Show de Cristina, whose trauma and disease the audience consumed with a twisted mix of pity and vindication. I learned it from my preschool teacher Ms. Delgado who sent a letter home to my mother recommending therapy after noticing I played mostly with girls. I learned it from the whooping I got that day from both my mother and father. I learned it from my tíos who stroked their fragile masculinities by disparaging men they viewed as “jotos” like Juan Gabriel, Ricky Martin, and Walter Mercado. Their ideas of them became my ideas of me. These teachers and family members were and are my people. And so for me, as I suspect for many other gay men, “out of the closet” also meant into the darkness. All of these ideas experiences and messages impacted and continue to impact how I live my life as a gay man and my relationship with HIV in general.
As is the story for many other queer men of color, this shame, which persisted after the allegedly liberating act of “coming out,” led me to dark places, nonconsensual situations, and self-destructive behavior. Meeting strangers in pursuit of love and affection and leaving without knowing what happened and how; hiding in dark places to explore the boundaries of pleasure and pain only conceivable after a drink or a blunt; agreeing to disagreeable acts for the sake of companionship, for the sake of feeling something, anything. These experiences fueled by shame, and a desire to be seen and touched left scars that are still traceable. Most of these experiences, either by choice or coercion, placed me at great risk for harm and infection. But I had learned what to during such shameful circumstances. In line with family tradition, I didn’t expose my dirty laundry. I wrapped it all into one entangled web of garments and hid it in my new closet of sex secrets. In my state of repression and internalized stigma, every Latino gay man appeared to be wearing a garment from this closet. This is how stigma reproduces itself.
I share a piece of my experience not because I believe it to be astonishing nor exceptional but instead because I’ve been privileged to listen to the stories of so many other gay Latino men who have experienced shame, stigma, violence, struggle, and have marvelously survived. During my five years of facilitating support groups for queer people of color I’ve shared and listen to stories of abuse, survival or intentional sex work, harassment and violence, loneliness and isolation, addiction and homelessness. And now as a person who works in HIV prevention and education, I know how critical these experiences and narratives are to fighting stigma and taking care of ourselves and each other. I know some may say that there is more to social justice work, more to HIV prevention and care, than sharing stories and talking about our feelings and traumas. Yes, this is true. But I have been out on the field, in the clinic and on the streets. I know that I cannot approach a sex worker at her place of work to discuss getting tested and expect her to listen when I know that I’m interrupting her ability to get the next meal or pay for a night’s motel stay. This is to say that when discussing HIV prevention and combating stigma, I believe we need to move beyond percentages and look into the faces of the people we claim to care about. We have to have our basic needs met before we are able to plan for the future. We need to move beyond a state of survival to begin strategizing for safety—and that health begins with healing.
I understand that the process of undoing stigma and shame is laborious and exhausting. In a period of mass police shooting, of record HIV infections in Latino and black communities, and mass deportations, sometimes we need time to take a breather and escape. But I believe this is where community is most important. There are people reading this that are actively in pain, being abused, mourning, grieving, or perhaps numb. As a community we have an opportunity to step in and hug, love up on, and carry each other. This is a revolutionary act. This will not be part of a national campaign but it does promote prevention and health.
The slogan for this year’s National Latinx AIDS Awareness Day, launched by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, is “We’ll Defeat AIDS con Ganas”–with real effort. This slogan might be better stated as “Con Ganas y con Manos Abiertas”—with real effort and with open arms. This involves undoing the stigma we have inherited and looking into the faces of our community members and embracing all of the beauty, trauma, and shame they carry with them. This also includes taking a hard look at ourselves and asking how our own internalized stigma impacts how we deal and interact with those we claim to care about and for whom we advocate. Part of National Latinx AIDS Awareness Day’s efforts, I believe, must involve amplifying the voices of the communities affected, marrying HIV prevention efforts with mental health resources that provide spaces for empowerment and healing that facilitate a transition between survival and safety planning.
I believe prevention and addressing stigma starts with seeing and acknowledging members of our community. Honestly, sometimes prevention really just starts with the little things. Before writing this post, Louie, the founder of Gran Varones, messaged me to check in on the status of my writing. Stressed and apologetic, I responded to him, “Louie, I am so sorry I’m heartbroken over this boy and have been quite depressed. I know I said I would send you something by today but I’m just so…” “Slow down,” Louie said “Chile. Don’t worry about that. How can I help right now?” “Do you mind if I call you right now, I just need to talk?” I said. “Girl, call me right now. I know about a book you should read” he said.
Since thoughts of unhealthy decisions were lurking in mind at that point, this is what prevention and healing looked like for me today.
Miguel Garcia, Boston
angelito yvonne cruz shares his coming out story. check it out. it will make you smile. :)
today. every damn day.
it’s national coming out day and i wanna talk about something that has been on my mind for months now. this is mostly directed at cis queers, who in my experience do this WAY more than cis straight people do. it’s also something I’ve had multiple conversations about with other trans people who have the same thing happen to them all the time as well.
cis people - please stop outing other trans people to me. i don’t know why this compulsion to tell me about all the other trans people in your life is but it needs to stop. for one thing, that almost guarantees that when you speak about me to people who don’t know me, you out me. and in the four years since I’ve transitioned only two people have ever asked me if it was okay for them to tell someone I don’t know I’m trans. I get the logic on some levels, you think it might be similar to saying “my friend Javier who’s latino” but it’s not. or you think it’s okay because of how out I am in most spaces. but here is a short, not exhaustive list of reasons why:
1. every time you out me or other trans people without our permission you fuck with our safety. trust me when I say that as a cis person you do not know if the person you are outing us to is a safe person to say it to, it doesn’t matter if they’re queer too!!
2. you are taking away my choice to disclose my trans status to people as I see fit. it doesn’t matter how out we are (unless it’s like completely public knowledge like a celebrity who is also trans) you don’t get to decide who knows we are trans
3. being trans is not the first thing most of us want want to be known as, and by outing us immediately you automatically make that connection for that person forever 4. when you say “so and so, my friend who’s trans” you invalidate our gender. you would never say “Mary, my friend who’s cis” or “Mary my friend who’s a woman.”
5. being trans 99% of the time has nothing to do with whatever the fuck you are talking about so it’s not relevant.
cis queers especially, I know you mean well but honestly when you do
this it’s like you list the trans people in your life to show how down
you are and it is lowkey fetishizing. we are not collectible items, we
are people who are disproportionately at risk for multiple types of
violence. please stop doing it.
xoxo.
- javier nunez cespedes
@bodegaprincess
resurrections are real.
to all of the varones who once lied on hospital beds with a sinking t-cell count counting the minutes until you could hold down down your food.
to all of the varones who avoided looking into mirrors because the sunken face reflection did not reflect the beauty you behold.
to all of the varones who pieced themselves back together piece by piece after the violence of stigma left them broken and beat. to all the varones who survive life by surviving one night at a muthafuggin’ time.
we salute you.
we praise you.
because even AIDS, stigma, homophobia, racism, white supremacy, and oppression can’t keep us from rising. and when we become ancestors, we will continue rise in the voices of those who speak our names without shame.
so keep rising varones because resurrections are real.
“When I think of my mom, I think of her big smile. I was adopted by my aunt but i know I have my mother’s spirit with me. She passed when I was about 8 years old from HIV/AIDS. I took it really hard. I don’t know, it’s like when they first tell you, I really didn’t comprehend it until about a couple of hours later and my brain just snapped. And I felt like everything was just done. Being 8 years old and only knowing your mother and not your father, only knowing certain people in your family and the only thing you’re left with is people that you’re not really that close to.
I think my mother would actually be proud of the fact that I can be who i am by myself. Like, I didn’t need anyone there by my side. I have always been there for myself. So I think she would be really proud that I can do this on my own. I don’t need anybody on my shoulder telling me "you can do this.” because she is there telling me every day that I walk, “You can take the next step.” Ya know, I was born myself and I don’t need anybody to be there to help me.
I just wish she could be here. It’s hard. It’s hard just being here without her. But it makes me smile to know she would be proud of me and proud that I did it.“
Giovanni Martinez-Cruz, Philadelphia
Interviewed by Anthony Leon & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
Geraldo: When I was 16, I identified myself as bisexual. I remember one time, my mother went to go use our Windows 95 laptop and I was sitting on the bed shaking. I was shivering. I wasn’t sure how she would take it. So I said “What would you say if I told you that I was bisexual?” What I got wasn’t the typical answer, it was “We’ll talk it about.” She left the room and we never spoke about it. But we didn’t need to because every time people came over, (my mom would be like) “Oh my god, this is my son Geraldo, he’s gay and I love him.” I kinda always knew that it was going to be okay because I have two gay uncles. Growing up, I never knew that being “straight” was how how you were “supposed” to grow up. Being gay was normal to me. It was never “wrong” in my family; it was always accepted.
Louie: How about in school? Were you teased there or made to feel different?
Geraldo: I was teased for being overweight. I was belittled. I was teased for being gay. I was teased in elementary school until high school. I was called the “F” word, I was called “fairy boy.” The whole nine yards, you name it – I was called it.
Louie: Did you tell teachers?
Geraldo: I never really told teachers. I felt like every time something was brought up to a teacher, they would never really handle it so, I just kept it myself and I didn’t really share it with anybody else.
Louie: How about your mother? Did you ever tell her?
Geraldo: I didn’t because I didn’t want her to worry about me. I knew I was really strong and I knew I could handle it by myself. I made a game plan for myself. I was always the happy one. It was always “Talk to Gerlado, he’ll give you the support.” Having people come to me for support was leverage for me. I didn’t have to tell anyone because I was always dealing with other people’s issues and stuff. So that was like my break.
Louie: Did school ever get better?
Geraldo: It did. After 9th grade, I guess everyone just realized that I was “normal” guy who just liked guys. Everyone saw me as Geraldo for once and not just the “gay guy.”
Louie: What is the greatest lesson you have learned that guides your life right now?
Geraldo: I think
the greatest lesson that I have ever learned is to live life but not in the
moment. In life, we always live in the moment, we never see what is around us.
I always tell people – come out your box. It’s so easy, just lift the top up
and you really look at what life has to offer you. You look at the past, you
look at the present and you also look at the future. Inside our box, we are so
enclosed in our surroundings, we can’t see what’s beyond and what’s before us
and we cannot add those perspectives. Gain knowledge from the pass and use that
for the future. Be open minded and not bitter. Living life is an
experience.
Geraldo Oyola, Philadelphia
Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
