“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.
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.
Louie: Thank you for coming to Philly to meet with me. I really appreciate it. I had wanted to ask you for a while to interview for the project but was afraid.
Peter: Why? I love the project. I am glad to do this. I have so many stories.
Louie: Let’s start with you. Tell me a little about yourself.
Peter: I’m from New York originally. I grew up partly in Glen Clove, Long Island and Delaware. I went to high school in Delaware. I came out…no I didn’t come out, my mother pulled me “out.” A cousin of mine moved from Puerto Rico to North Philly. He passed away, his name was Alfredo. Alfredo was a big queen. I always knew he was a big queen, ya know just “under cover.” Well honey, he got drunk one night and came home to my cousin’s house and was telling my cousin he met these guys and blah, blah, blah. Well they told my stepdad. So my mom told me and I am laughing because I thought it was funny. Mommy goes, she says to me in Spanish, “Don’t laugh about his situation because you into that sort of lifestyle too.” I was 18 at the time and I said “Oh. Well this is my signal to come out.” So eventually I left high school and I came out. I was like “Fuck It. I am not going to be “straight.” I’m not going to pretend.” Because I was pretending. The whole time, I dated girls and that stuff. I did that more for my stepdad than my mom because of that whole machismo thing. So I came out. I said, “My mother knows so I am cool.” Mommy goes “You don’t think I knew? I knew ever since you were little. I was just waiting for you to tell me.” So I don’t have a traditional “coming out” story. I didn’t tell my mom, she told me.
Louie: So what originally brought you to Philly?
Peter: I met this guy who had the same name as the singer Bobby Brown. He was this black dude who lived in North Philly. We met at Smarts* and we started communicating on the phone, ya know it was 80s. he “supposedly” loved me and I “loved” him so I moved to Philly. I didn’t even give my notice. I up and left, I disappeared. My mother didn’t even know where I was for a whole month ‘cuz I was in love. I was 21 at the time and just started going to the clubs.
Louie: Were there other gay Latinos?
Peter: It was me and miss David. Then I met a few other ones. I met Alexis, Pedro, he had long hair and liked to vogue. I met all those Puerto Ricans. But there was a divide because I hung around a whole bunch of black kids. They (the Latino queens) didn’t like because they thought I was trying to be “black.” I was just being me. I got along with everybody but they were ones trying to throw me shade. It was hard at first because you want to be around other Puerto Ricans that were gay and you want to be included in that community because they are not many of us began of the struggle we have amongst ourselves as Latinos.
Louie: How did you get involved in the Ballroom scene?
Peter: The balls, I was introduced to in 1988. I saw people Voguing and carrying on and I didn’t know what it was. And I was like “I wanna do that!” I started learning it by going to the Nile*. It was interesting and I caught on real quick. My first House was the House of Prestige. I was the only Puerto Rican in that House. My category was hair affair and old way. The ballroom was picking up here in Philly. Later I joined the House of Africa. Tracy Africa’s house opened a chapter here in Philly. I did Butch Queen Up In Drags for their House.
Louie: So you are in Delaware now. Why did you move back there and what is gay life out there?
Peter: talk about the gays in Delaware. Let’s talk about the Latino gays in Delaware. There’s hardly none. And the few there that they have are whack. It’s truthful. Then they have the nerve to give you shade and I’m like “Gurl, we should stick together.” Gay life in Delaware is very limited. Philly gay life is “OK” now but Philly back in the day was fun. There was a golden era up to ’94. They have all these new clubs but they are geared to the white gays. They don’t gear to us. Even New York has changed. Nothing’s the same.
Peter DaVilla-Montes, Delaware
Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
*Smarts & The Nile were gay night clubs in Philadelphia that had a large black following. Both clubs were closed by the mid-90’s.
It is my experience for many reasons to shut trauma out of my life. On June 12th, 49 people were murdered at Pulse Nightclub’s Latin Night, becoming America’s largest mass shooting in history. Many of the victims were Latino and gay. What had been a safe space was invaded and attacked. Many of the victims were Puerto Rican. They looked like me and my friend Vince. Naturally, I became angry and afraid. As I usually do, I subconsciously blocked those feelings and many more out of my mind. Shortly after, my best friend Louie said “let’s take a Gran Varón trip to Orlando.” I was hesitant yet ready.
We arrived on July 27th (day after my
birthday). Over a period of three days we met up with several Varones that are
part of the Orlando community. When asking questions for our interviews, I was
present yet emotionally detached. Their stories of bravery, resiliency, and recovery
were inspiring. Each story weighed heavily on me and yet I still couldn’t connect.
Anthony interviewing Angel
That changed on our fourth day of the trip. The morning of July 30th we traveled to Kissimmee, Florida to meet up with Jorge. Louie had met Jorge online and shared with him that we were in the area capturing and archiving stories of Latino Gay men so that our narratives (as told by us) can be shared forever. Jorge, who had been disconnected from the world, said that he indeed had a story and was ready to open up. We picked him up and what was originally supposed to be lunch turned into 24 hours. Because of our interview schedule we had to quickly leave Kissimmee after lunch and travel to Orlando to do a few interviews. We always meet people where there are at and on their time. We keep to it. Jorge was down to tag along.
Anthony interview Miguel
Jorge watched as
we met up with two different Varones and gathered their interviews. He kept
silent but you could tell he was processing the stories being told. After our
second interview that day, I invited him to come back to our place for dinner.
Again, he was down. We traveled the 30 minutes it took to get to a supermarket
near the place we were staying. In that time, Louie separated with another to chat with another Varón in his car and I was with Jorge and Sean in our rental. We laughed from the heart
as we told jokes, we shared the music that gets us through our roughest times
(Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me”), and told each other stories of our
families. I felt a developing connection with him, one that wasn’t connected to
tragedy.
Anthony interviewing Chris
After dinner, it was time to interview Jorge. He shared details of his background and of how he came to accept his identity. I then asked why he agreed to give up a Saturday and tag along with strangers trekking across Central Florida. That’s when he shared that he was with us because the universe kept him from going to his friend’s birthday party at Pulse that night. One of his friends, Rodolfo, did go to the party. Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33, was one of the 49 victims of the Pulse Nightclub shooting. In that moment, I knew the story that would follow and I felt myself detaching. Jorge wouldn’t allow me to do that. He shared a joke to make me laugh and continued to share his friend’s story with courage I’ve never seen.
Anthony interviewing Franqui
I was trying to hold space for him to share his story and instead he was holding space for me. His courage, his kindness, and his smile kept me present and in touch. Because of Jorge and the others we met in Florida, I was able to begin wrapping myself around the pain I’ve felt these last few months. The news won’t report on the strength of the survivors and those impacted. But all throughout the Orlando area, we met brave people that were pushing forward.
It tears at my mind and my heart that Jorge and I almost didn’t meet. The world tries every day to pin Latino Gay and Queer men from each other when it is through our love that we grow and thrive.
I am forever grateful for meeting Jorge and the
other Varones.
- Anthony Leon
Anthony & Jorge taking a selfie when they should have been eating
Anthony: So you spent the day with us as we interviewed a few varones so you know that we start with your name and a little about your self.
Jorge: My name is Jorge Andujar. My family is originally from Puerto Rico but I was born and raised in Buffalo New York and I currently live in Kissimmee, Florida. It’s south of Orlando and I have lived here for almost 2 years.
I came out when I was 19. At the time I was working in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii and I was working for a Norwegian cruise line. I was seeing someone at the time. I was in love. It was, as you can say, my first relationship and I wanted to stay and didn’t want to come back home. I think drinking, being in that state of mind, being young and so in love made me get the courage to let my family know that I was gay. But they always knew. They accepted it. They were just waiting for me to come forward. The baggage was unnecessary for me to carry but I carried because I was afraid of being rejected. That’s why I took the job on the cruise line. I went far away as possible so I wouldn’t feel rejected. But that wasn’t the case because I wasn’t rejected. They welcomed me with open arms.
I feel not everyone can say that. I have heard stories of people whose families have not been open with them. One of my good friends who was killed in the Pulse attack, his family was not very welcoming at all. So I can see how so many people feel alone when it comes to coming out. I have to say that I have been very blessed in that aspect. I am not afraid anymore.
Anthony: Tell us about Pulse.
Jorge: I have been to Pulse many times. People weren’t afraid to go to Pulse. Pulse was not known as a dangerous place at all. Pulse was very inviting, had different environments. You didn’t have to watch the drag show if you didn’t want to even though their drag shows were very entertaining. There was an “urban” room as some would call it where they would play Hip-Hop & R&B type of music. You would have the Latino side and the English and then there was patio where there was another bar. It was just a variety. People went there to be themselves. People didn’t go there to start “stuff.” This was a place where a lot of people went to seek comfort. It was the only place besides the other gay bars where people went to be themselves without worrying about who’s watching and who you’re hiding from. Right now, people are going through not being accepted by their loved ones or by the community so this was a place to be yourself and dance all night. This is what brought people together every Saturday night, every Latin night.
Anthony: You mentioned your friend. Who was he?
Jorge: His name was Rodolfo and he was 33 years old. He was there celebrating a birthday that night and he was killed along with other friends. He was transferred to Puerto Rico. He was laid to rest in San Germán. He didn’t have family here. His friends here were his family. His family at home weren’t very accepting. Going back to the funeral – it’s kinda ironic because – most of the people were very old school and everyone was wearing t-shirts with his photo and a big rainbow going across. They didn’t realize that it was symbol of gay pride. They were talking about what happened and not being very accepting but yet they were wearing a rainbow on their shirt. It was a wake-up call like “people still don’t get it.”
Anthony: How are you holding up?
Jorge: I am at the point now where I am starting to open up to people, talk to people, start over and get to know people. I see people trying to come together as one and put their differences aside. Because this isn’t about who likes who, who doesn’t like who – this is about coming together as one. This is not about team white, team Black or team Latino – this is about team humanity.
Jorge Andujar, Orlando
Interviewed by: Anthony Leon
Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
Backstory: We met Jorge online and he invited us out for lunch. The connection was instant and he wound up tagging along as we drove around Orlando interviewing and meeting up with folks. He shared his story with us during the long ride and agreed to being interviewed on camera after witnessing the process for an entire day.
Louie: Thanks for meeting with me
Efrain: No thank you! I think it’s really cool that you’re allowing me to be a part of this project. I am glad that Felix connected us.
Louie: So am I. Actually, Felix’s interview is one of the interviews that still moves me till this day and that was almost 2 years ago. So no pressure as I am about to interview you.
Efrain: None at all. [LoL]
Louie: So tell me, what did you grow up?
Efrain: I grew up in Chester, right outside of Philadelphia – by the airport. It was cool. All of my family lives out there and we were all pretty close. My father is Puerto Rican and moved to the states when he was 12. A s a kid, I loved being around that side of my family. I loved being surrounded by the culture and watching my aunt listen and dance to music while she cooked in the kitchen. It just felt like home. As far as my sexuality, I kept that to myself. I hid it – not out of shame because I was never ashamed of myself but I have a very nosy family.
Louie: Who doesn’t? [LoL]
Efrain: Right. In my family, if you were male and didn’t say anything or make any noise when a pretty woman walked by, people had questions about you. If you didn’t like sports, people had questions about you. I didn’t like girls “that way” or sports, so questions were always there about me.. One day my cousin, being nosy as always, pulled me to the side and was like and asked me if I was gay. I answered honestly but she then started to tell other family members. So before it the information spread like wild fire, I told my parents. I felt I owed it to them to hear it from me and not anyone else.
Louie: When did you discover Philly’s Gayborhood?
Efrain: It had be like 1994. I was 16 – 17. I remember sneaking to Woody’s on young adult night. I would wait until my parents fell asleep before I left and I would leave my sneakers by the basement door and leave the door unlocked. I would return in time right before my father got up to go to work.
Louie: So what was that like for at age 16?
Efrain: It was good thing to see that guys were attracted to other guys. At that age, I knew that there were gay people out there but I didn’t know any at that time. It also felt good to be in a space where you could go up to a guy and talk to him without feeling like you were going to get into a fight.
Louie: Do you remember your first Latin night at a gay club?
Efrain: It was also at Woody’s of course. It was cool because I would hear the same music that my aunt played in the kitchen. All my friends were black and weren’t interested in going. So I jumped at the first opportunity to go. I wanted to check it out. It was cool to see other Latino gay guys too. But the interesting part that experience was how I was made to feel like I didn’t belong. Like I wasn’t “Latino” enough by the other Latino gay guys. I am not sure if it was because I didn’t look “Latino” enough or if it was because I didn’t grow up in their neighborhoods or whatever. I felt really uncomfortable and I thought it would be like home and it wasn’t. I would watch them greet each other like family and I felt excluded.
Louie: We Black Boricuas get that a lot.
Efrain: Yes, I would get asked “Oh you’re Puerto Rican, do you speak Spanish?” And when I would say no they would say “How are you Puerto Rican then if you cannot speak Spanish?” This still happened till this day. It is mainly why I stopped going to Latin night. I got tired of feeling out of place or feeling like I had to prove that that I was “Latino” enough. I love the music and I love dancing salsa but feeling out of place is not worth it – sometimes.
Louie: Do you think that could change after Pulse? How we all interact? How people make room for Black Puerto Ricans?
Efrain: I think so. I hope so. I have become friends with Ricky Melendez. He was one of the first people you interviewed. I saw his video. He understood me and he knows what it is like and has embraced me and been really welcoming. I see people like yourself, this project and organizations like Galaei and I want to be more involved. I have fears that I will not be accepted but I want to be more involved.
Louie: Well listen, I am in Philly soon. When I am there, let’s take a visit to Galaei. You down?
Efrain: Yeah, I’m down.
Louie: So where’d ya grow up?
Emmanuel: I grew up in Jersey, I moved to Philly when I was 21. I think
I was really attracted to Philly because I was looking for peers like
myself, young people who were “out”, and they wanted to find other
places to hang out. I was looking for comradely or a brotherhood type of
thing.
Louie: You found in it in Philly?
Emmanuel: Yes. I love Philly.
Louie: Philly is amazing. I may have to move soon and I am so afraid.
One thing that is interesting is that in Philly the word “Queer” means
different things to different people. How do you feel about the word
“Queer?”
Emmanuel: I like the word queer. I don’t have an issue
with it. I think that its encompassing of a lot of things, I think for
me its like a celebratory kind of word. It speaks to a sense of
community. And I love being Puerto Rican and Queer. Our culture is
multifaceted and there is such a diaspora of colors, experiences and
love.
Louie: When did you start feeling confident about yourself and identity?
Emmanuel: I came out when I was 14, my freshmen year in high school and
I was going through a lot. My father had just passed away, he passed
away because of HIV, and it was a very hard time for me in my life.
Being young and being closeted, going into my freshmen year in high
school, I felt so much pressure to like conform to the “norm” of people
might expect. I didn’t want to deal with any of that pressure, I didn’t
want to hide myself or try to be something that I wasn’t. I wanted to
live in my truth and have the freedom to be who I am and not necessarily
letting being gay define me because it is only one element of who I am.
Emmanuel Claudio, Philadelphia
Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
because in 45 seconds, Wilmer Sanchez will moves you and makes you laugh. because varones are amazing story tellers.
Carlos: My name is Carlos Mejias and I am from Easton Pennsylvania, about 45 minutes to an hour outside of Philly; a small city, pretty diverse town. Growing up it wasn’t so diverse. I was the minority but it’s gotten a lot better.
Rafael: So I know that’s pretty close to Allentown and Bethlehem. So was that your first exposure to the gay scene?
Carlos: I’d say yes but not really realizing it as a kid. It was family’s friends that had children that were in their 20’s and 30’s that were[gay]. I kinda knew they were different but didn’t know exactly what it was.
Rafael: So what was it like for you growing up? What was your personally journey like?
Carlos: Growing up, I always knew I was different. But not just because of my sexuality, I also grew up with a lot of medical issues. So I always knew that I was the “oddball.” And I was cool with that. It wasn’t until I hit my teenage years. Everyone goes through their awkward stages; different types of clothing, different social groups. I was the person that hung out with everyone. I had good friends that stood up for me. I’m now 33 and I don’t think I became completely comfortable with everything until I was about 25. On my 25th birthday, my mother made one of those posters things that show me from baby until now. And looking it, I just lost it and started crying because it was one of those things, like “you are your own worse enemy” and you put yourself down so bad and I did that because of my medical issues and everything in life. It that moment, like an enlightening period, I was like “are you kidding me?” There’s nothing wrong. Looking at my photos, I didn’t look ugly but I felt it growing up. From 25 to 30, every year I work on something to make myself feel better. Get into hobbies that I like, keep busy, work with community. Once I hit 30, it was like “I’m still here, keep pushing at it.”
Carlos Mejias, Easton PA
Interviewed by: Rafael E. Alvarez-Febo
Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
julio mangual aka lady labelle is one of philadelphia’s most beloved afro-boricua drag queens. he has one of the first queens to organize drag shows in the heart of north philly - a world away from philly’s gayborhood - in the early 1990s. lady labelle continues to break down barriers by performing in bars and clubs that my uncle, my bother and aunts go to.
watch our latest gran varones profile video as julio aka lady label shares their story.
“Yes, this tragedy has impacted our entire queer community. And yes, in these critical times we must find every bridge that connects all of our oppressions, but we must do this without reinforcing erasure of Puerto Ricans, a community that continues to be colonized by the U.S. Puerto Ricans continue to be migrants in their own country, and while many of us are not fleeing the island because of violent dictatorship, some come to the mainland seeking solace and refuge from an island that has been and continues to be pillaged by white supremacy.” - Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca, Creator of Gran Varones
Louie: Finally chyle! Took you forever to do this?
Jonathan: I know. I have been so busy.
Louie: Yes, I know. I see you doing thangs. I am so, so proud of you.
Jonathan: Thank you.
Louie: So let’s get started. Where did you grow up?
Jonathan: I was born in NYC and when my mom split with my dad, we moved here with my step-father. I grew up in North Philly. It was challenging knowing at a young age that you were gay. I knew when I was 5. So i I used to get picked on about my weight, the way I talked, the way I walked, any little thing. All the way from elementary school to high school, were challenging years. I faced a lot of different things.
Louie: How did you know at age 5 you were gay?
Jonathan: I just had a feeling inside. I used to always hang out with the girls. I never had a connection with the boys. I used to try and force myself to play sports and try to be “macho” but I knew deep down inside, that wasn’t me. And when I was acting like somebody else, I didn’t feel like myself. It’s challenging at age 5 to think that about yourself when you don’t even know yourself. Ya know, growing up in this crazy world, we are “supposed” to act a certain way and your parents are telling you, “Stand up straight.” “Walk right!” “Stop sayin’ it like that.” You get structured to be this alpha male and you know deep down inside that’s not who you are. I had those moments when I used to battle myself about who i am and who i wanted to be.
Louie: Have you found an answer?
Jonathan: My junior year of high school. I developed a circle of friends that were very tight-knit and they introduced me to the gay scene was I was 18. Before that it was foreign. I didn’t know what it was like, what a gay club was like. At first, it was very uncomfortable seeing guys dance together or touch each other in certain ways. I never knew what that felt. I had visions in my head but I never saw it live in the flesh. So I said (to myself), “Let me develop more comfortability around this because this is the kind of environment i want to be in.”
Louie: How is Jonathan today different from that young Jonathan?
Jonathan: Wow, great questions. Jonathan now is a lot more mature and really starting to come into his own. Back then, I was lost and very insecure. I had a lot of issues around trying to define who I was really was, what kind of man I wanted to be. How do I fit into this world? What do I bring to the table? I still struggle with certain aspects of that currently but it is not as heavy as before. I was so scared because coming out as gay, I didn’t know who to turn to. I had so many questions like how do I moved forward in life as a gay man? Now, i am so comfortable with it, I am so open with it. I am very proud to be gay.
Jonathan, Philadelphia
Interviewed and Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
My mother began smoking crack in the summer of 1986. At that time, it was widely known as “crack rock.” I was 9 years old and I already had mastered the art of secrecy. I didn’t call it art or survival; it was just life under the “rock.” I learned many things that summer that would forever change me.
I learned to check the spoons for burn residue before using them. I taught my brothers to do the same. I learned to hide my single speaker radio before going to school. I taught my brothers to do the same. I learned to play in the dark when the electricity was cut off. I learned that people were more than comfortable calling my mother “crack head” in front of our young eyes and ears. I learned to grow numb and I taught my brothers to do the same.
The greatest lesson I learned was not to be ashamed of my mother. Trust me when I say that this was no easy task during a time when life was polarized by dichotomies of “clean” or “dirty,” “crack head” or human.
These lessons sustained our sanity. These lessons fortified me, along with millions of black and brown families in the 1980s and ‘90s, tried to survive life under the “rock.”
Being the oldest child, I was charged with ensuring that my brothers were fed and taken care of. While I resented the responsibility, it provided me a kind of access to my mother that my brothers didn’t have. After coming down from her high, she would wake me from my sleep to play board games with her at 2 a.m. She would tell me about how AIDS had stolen her friends and how bad she missed them. She would tell me that I was the “good” one and it was my responsibility to keep my younger brother Nicholas out of trouble. We talked about pretty much everything – except life under the “rock.”
It was difficult for anyone in my neighborhood to call someone else’s mother a “crack head” without quickly being reminded that their mother too was a “crack head.” So, the insults had to be more specific; hairs had to be split: “Well at least my mother didn’t sell the TV.” “Well at least we have food in the house.”
My brothers and I were lucky in this sense. Our mother had done neither and so we found solace in that. I believe that this alone helped us to survive with whatever dignity we had left as I watched the will to live disappear from the eyes of other kids living in and being surrounded by crack addiction.
As noted by the U.S. Sentencing Commission, more than one thousand stories about crack appeared in the press in 1986, with NBC reporting over 400 reports on the crack “epidemic” alone. The media coverage was instrumental in shaping the nation’s perception of those who struggled with and/or were directly impacted by crack addiction. This perception has since been inherited by a new generation of HIV advocates and activists, who only associate the Presidency of Ronald Reagan with his failed response to AIDS. But those who survived the Reagan years also associate that time with the government’s swift and violent response to crack that stole the lives and promise of many, deliberately destroying black and brown families.
Thirty years later, the conversation about addiction has shifted dramatically. The same government that demonized, dehumanized and then criminalized people like my mother now urges us all to remember that people struggling with addiction have a disease and require love, patience and treatment. This reminder comes just as the face of addiction is now that of white affluent youth struggling with heroin addiction. This compassion, while critical and necessary, was not made available to black and brown communities that struggled with the presence of crack. I will venture to say that this approach is still NOT available to individuals who still struggle in the shadows of a crack addiction.
Yes, it is important that we evolve as a society and it is equally important that we make amends with ourselves for allowing this to happen on our watch. Even more importantly, we cannot validate our evolution without a true account of what happened, who it happened to and why it happened in the first place.
I have come a long way from the small room I shared with my mother and brothers. I no longer have to check spoons for burn residue but I no longer have family to bear witness to the atrocities we survived.
My mother struggled with addiction until her death last June. My brother Nicholas was murdered in 2001. I sometimes struggle with survivor’s guilt. This is not uncommon for those who have survived war. Every day, I am learning to reconcile my survival with the sacrifices my mother and brother made for me to live life out from under the “rock.”
Atonement is often the last act of any complete apology. As a nation, how do we atone for the heinous behavior of the government during the Reagan years? It’s simple: We don’t ignore the heroes of my generation. Instead, we honor the legacies of my mother and every mother who provided light in darkest days of the war raged on our families. We memorialize them like we would the heroes who were lost in battle.
Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca is an Afro-Boricua artist born and raised in Philadelphia. Louie understands firsthand the impact of intersecting oppressions of racism, homophobia, poverty, and AIDS-phobia. These experiences inspire his commitment to document the lives and oral history of Latino gay and queer men through his project, “The Gran Varones.” Louie is also the 2015 winner of the Hispanic Choice Awards Creative Artist of the Year.
Copyright © 2016 Remedy Health Media, LLC. All rights reserved.
Louie: Finally! We got to meet. Why did you choose this area?
Joemar:
Because I grew up around here. This is my hood! They know me. I used to
sit on those steps and chill. Everyone knows me and knows that I chill.
Louie: Do you miss it?
Joemar:
Yeah. I miss my hood and I miss all my friends. I have seen some of my
friends on Gran Varones. I’m in love with your work.
Louie: Wow. Thank you.That means a lot to me.
Joemar:
Yeah, You know a lot of peoples that I do. I was like “Look at Gio! He
is my heart.” I just called him because I know he is back from Florida.
Louie: Yeah. He is my cousin.
Joemar: For real? He is my heart. I also saw people from my Travesuda days.
Louie: I only went to that club once. I loved that it was for Latinos.
Joemar:
It was poppin’! I had my birthday party there with all of my angels.
Too bad it came to an end. Anyway, I can’t wait to see my picture. Gran
Varones!
Joemar Cruz, Philadelphia
Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
“Yo no nací en Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico nació en mi.”
“I wasn’t born in Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico was born in me.”
- Mariposa
dear tío rubèn blades:
what up homie? so i read your interview on variety latino. your comments about the role latinos play in the current political landscape were both insightful (i am always learning from you) and hella fucked up (i learned something new about what you think about boricuas born and raised on the mainland.)
here is an except of the interview:
Variety: What role do Latinos have in what is currently happening in politics?
Ruben: Look, I am not an American citizen, I am a legal resident and residents do not allow us to vote. Yes, they want my taxes, but I can not vote. That’s the difference between a Latin American like me who resides in the United States, and people who are sons and daughters of immigrants in the United States.
this response speaks so much truth and highlights the complexities of latino identity in america. pero tío, i gotta say that you should have just stopped there but you didn’t. you went on to say:
“When Jennifer Lopez says that she is Latina, I say, ‘No, she’s from New York’, she’s as American as Trump. …You do not walk around saying that [Robert] De Niro’s Italian … Marc Anthony also, he was born in New York. There is a difference.”
SERIOUSLY!!! surely, you could have continued to make your point about the complexities of latino identity without minimizing and chipping away at the identity of boricuas, specifically a boricua woman. THAT SHIT MAKES YOU LOOK HELLA SEXIST HOMIE. to be fair, you did the same minimizing of marc anthony (who is also boricua) but you didn’t compare his identity to trump. I DON’T EVEN HAVE THE PATIENCE TO UNWRAP THE TRUMP COMPARISON because it’s friday and i am just tryna chill and drink until i blackout. but really tío? it’s like that homie? man, if you had compared the late and great selena, who was also born and raised in america and spoke limited spanish, you would have had to delete your twitter account by 8am this morning because baby, you would have read for filth!
now let me tell you why your points are hella offensive - to me at least, as a boricua. i have been in more than enough spaces with non-boricua/non-carrieban latinos, who came at my neck about because i wasn’t “latino” enough because boricuas have it “easier” than other latinos. I KNOW THAT YOU KNOW THAT THIS IS NOT TRUE but again, it’s friday and blah, blah, blah. i have also had non-carrieban latinos make fun of not just my ability to speak spanish but how all boricuas speak spanish. i imagine that this is not a surprise to you. i know that it doesn’t. you were just trippin’ yesterday.
because i love, honor and respect you and your legacy, i am gonna chalk this up to those moments when we all have when we speak faster than our brains can formulate, process and check our biases. we all have those moments and it is vital that friends, comrades and familia hold us with live while holding us accountable. this letter is just exactly that. but tío, let me also remind you and the other non-carribean latinos who stay minimizing the identity of boricuas…being boricua runs through my veins, it is in my heart and shows up in my warrior spirit so don’t come for us.
in solidarity,
louie a. ortiz-fonseca
Louie: So we have known each other for at for over 20 years.
Angel: Yeah, we are old! LOL
Louie: Almost lol What was it like for you in the 90s?
Angel: We were coming out with respect being ourselves. We had a club called “El Bravo” and we had so much fun. Everything at that time was on the down low; very different than how it is now. We had drag shows and the locas were everywhere but no one fucked with us.
Louie: What is it like now?
Angel: But now we are who we are opening! Atrevido con respect. You know what I mean? We are out and we don’t care what people say. That’s good, right? LOL
Louie: But of course loca!
Angel: Gran Varon, I love you.
Louie: I love you too, loca!
Angel Santiago, Philadelphia
Interviewed & Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
