they tell us that our kind of love is dangerous. we say that our kind of love is revolutionary. we are cure to ending stigma and ending the HIV epidemic in our communities.
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.In December of 1995, the FDA approved the release of saquinavir. It would be the first of a new class of drugs called protease inhibitors. This was the biggest AIDS breakthrough because for many, AIDS went from being a death sentence to a manageable disease. Finally, there was some hope. Fast forward 20 years later, we have been presented with another “breakthrough”: HIV stigma and witch hunt is still alive.
No one, regardless of social standing, status or privilege should ever be backed into a corner and forced to disclose their HIV status.
Much has already been written about Charlie Sheen and he will probably dominate the national conversation about HIV. While we welcome the much needed conversation, we must not allow it to over shadow the thousands of Black and Latino gay men and Trans* women who continue to be disproportionately impacted by both the virus and violence of stigma. We must also ensure that their work in our communities does not go noticed and without celebration.
“Caminando, mirando una estrella.Walking, looking at a star
Caminando, oyendo una voz. Walking, listening to a voice
Caminando, siguiendo la huella, Walking, following a footstep
Caminando, que otro camino. Walking the path]that someone else walked
Caminando, buscando a la vida. Walking, searching for life
Caminando, buscando al amor. Walking, looking for love
Caminando, curando la herida, Walking, healing the wound
Caminando, que deja el dolor! Walking, to leave the pain behind”
- Rubén Blades
I still get nervous walking down streets alone. Or when I walk into a
barbershop. Or while I am just fucking walking and minding my business. There
is a part of me that still telling me to hold my breath and brace my spirit for
the sound of the word “faggot.” Sometimes, it doesn’t even have to be spoken. People
can say it with their eyes. This is why I still hold my breath whenever I am
walking.
I saw you and your friends as we crossed the street. My friends and I were coming from the opening rally of the Philly Trans* March. We were feeling inspired. We were also feeling angry that yet another black trans* woman had been murdered, this time in our city. We were walking with that weighing heavy on our minds and hearts.
You and your 4 friends glanced at us; all of you, black and brown, reminding me of my 13 year old son. I could see the curiosity in your eyes. I could see the smirk creeping across your face as you noticed that one of us had on skinny jeans and two of us were holding hands. I could feel the jokes formulating in your minds, sense the giggles about to burst from your lips. I saw it and I looked away hoping you would make a different decision.
As my friends and I chatted about the best way to meet up with the Trans* March, one of you shouted “Ewww you’re gay!” I am not sure whose lips spewed those words but I know exactly where the hell they landed. My first instinct was to go off but instead, I said aloud “Black and Brown lives matter. Right now, even in this moment.”
As we continued walking, we heard a voice shout “Which one of you is the guy?” Implying that one of us was less than a man because of who you assumed we were. We heard you laugh that laugh that communicated “Ha! Faggot!”
We kept walking. We nervously laughed it off. I was burning on the inside. I was trying to manage my anger. I was doing a great a job too – until you approached us, from behind, on your bikes. I was blind with rage and I let ya’ll know, loud and clear:
“I dare y’all to say that shit to my face. I will smack your ass off of that damn bike. I dare you!”
Y’all looked taken aback, as if you were taught that harassing men like us was okay, maybe even the “normal” thing to do. But clearly you missed the lesson on our refusal to stay silent.
You surrounded us on your bikes. I was too enraged to even notice that we stumbled into a wedding party of white folks posing for photos. I approached y’all and shouted “Why would you wanna make someone feel bad on purpose? Why would you want to do that?”
You stood silent as if you were just now realizing that your words actually had power—the power to make grown-ups feels like shit. All of your faces reminded me of my son. All of your faces reminded me I was a father. The space fell silent. I stood still, quietly re-evaluating my approach. I knew then that a bridge was going to be built, however painful, and this bridge was going to get us BOTH across what felt like an endless divide.
“Keep it down. Can’t you see they are trying to take wedding photos? And why are you trying to make them [the teens] feel bad?”
You and your friends heard this uninformed, self-entitled scolding dished out from a passerby as a permission slip. You felt, as the silence broke, suddenly empowered to call us faggots as you got back on your bikes and road away. The white woman kept shouting as she walked away, cheering you and your friends on.
You may not have noticed that an entire wedding party of white people was not only laughing at ALL OF US but also filming and snapchatting the scene as we stood there, utterly horrified and dehumanized. It was clear that the white woman who cheered you on would have rather seen us called faggots than see black and brown people try to heal and build community. You may not have noticed that the entire wedding party of white people literally laugh at our expense – at the expense of a group of black and brown folks. These are the very same white folks who, any other day, would have clutched their purses and phones if y’all had approached them on the street.
I walked away returning to the march feeling a tremendous loss, of not only my temper and composure, but a loss of a piece of my humanity. Truly, a loss of connection, both as an elder and father.
My screaming and shouting will never be the motivation you and your friends need to make a different decision. My shouting will only teach you all not to get caught teasing people. That was not the lesson I wanted to share that day. I wanted to say “You hurt me. You embarrassed me. Your words hold all the weight in the world because you are the world.” I wanted to remind you that all those who were laughing at us will laugh at you soon. That really, we are not so different, and that we are united in a greater struggle. That this petty hatred will tear us apart. That it is in these very moments, when toxic messages of socialized hate show up within our own “families”, we must remember love.
I wanted to take back every word. I wanted to replace every “I would smack the hell out of you” to “I will love you harder because that is what we MUST all do.” I wanted to tell you that my heart was broken and you had the power and opportunity to provide healing. But white supremacy and homophobia prevented that.
I want you to know that you and I tried. I know you did because y’all stopped riding your bikes and gave me the floor to speak. I wish our few moments together were different. But we don’t always get second chances. We don’t get to undo trauma. We simply get to process and move on – if we are lucky.
Yesterday, as my son and I walked around in the super market, I told him this story. His immediate response was “I wish I were there because…” I stopped him and said “Baby, you were. Those kids were young teens, just like you. They were beautiful just like you. They were all coming into an understanding of their power just like you.” He looked puzzled for a few moments and then said, “Maybe no one told them that teasing people is wrong. Maybe they forgot that ALL black lives matter, even you and your friends.” Then, he took my hand in his, and we walked.
only when we show up for ourselves can we show up for each other.
Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca
on this world AIDS day, we lift up and pay homage to the gran varones who have passed and we stand in loving solidarity with all the gran varones who continue to live & thrive.
check out a clip of ricardo’s story. he is one of the gran varones featured in the full length documentary. here he reminds us and the community that the truth can sting at first but then it heals.
FOR PEDRO.
In 1994, a friend of mine (who we will call Lionel) asked me to accompany him to a clinic in West Philadelphia to get the results of his HIV test. Back then, HIV tests were not rapid – it took an entire week to get your results; a week of assessing and reevaluating every decision you had made until that point. Looking back, I don’t know how he made it through the week without telling me. The HIV prevention messages were not kind to us queer* folks, so I can only imagine what thoughts ran through his mind. I remember feeling privileged that he had trusted me enough to ask me to go with him. It never occurred to me that Lionel would test positive. We were young teens already fighting daily battles to survive. My thought – my wish – was that we would be sparred.
The visit didn’t last long. Honestly, I don’t remember much, besides being given condoms by the nurse. We put them in our pockets and walked out. We made small talk on our way back to the car when we ran into another friend. We joked and decided that we would get lunch: a fish platter. As we were waiting for our food order, Lionel whispered “We are dying.” I paused and replied, “Here you go! What the hell do you mean?” He stated again, “We are all dying. Every day.” The realization that my friend was HIV positive immediately hit me. I remember telling myself “Don’t break. Keep a straight face.” Thank God I listened to my instincts because my other friend broke into tears and damn near fainted as Lionel disclosed that he was HIV positive. My immediate response was “We will beat this. I promise you.” That’s what I said, but I knew (at the time) that I was lying. I knew that our conversations about the future would be no longer.
Later that night, I tuned into MTV’s “The Real World.” This was long before reality TV was a “thing.” The Real World, while already into its third season was still groundbreaking to me. I was immediately mesmerized by cast member Pedro Zamora, a 22 year old Latino Gay Man who was HIV positive. I was in awe that there was a Latino gay man on TV! I picked up the phone and called Lionel and told him to turn to MTV immediately. We watched that episode while on the phone. We watched every episode while on the phone. There was something about the will, courage and love that Pedro possessed that supported me in supporting Lionel. Pedro inspired us to have conversations about HIV with friends. Pedro shattered the myth that only white gay old men were impacted. Pedro reminded us that life does go on.
While watching the last episode, it was announced that Pedro had succumbed to the disease. My stomach sank and I could hear Lionel crying. I knew that he was not crying just for Pedro but for what would eventually happen to him. I knew there was nothing I could say. I no longer believed what I had initially said months earlier “We will beat this. I promise you.”
We managed these feelings and fears without adult support. We navigated shame without support groups. We continued to be teens doing teen things with a heavy secret; a secret that we shared only with Pedro. Now Pedro, our single hope of inspiration was gone.
I was working at GALAEI when the news began to spread like wildfire. There had been a breakthrough in the treatment of HIV. Suddenly there was hope. The promise I had made to Lionel two years earlier now seemed possible. Suddenly, the conversations about the future returned.
Looking back, I know for a fact that we would have not survived those two years without the inspiration Pedro Zamora provided us. He sustained us so that Lionel could make it to 2014. Pedro – in his indirect way – served as both mentor, and big brother. So on this 20th anniversary of his death, we raise him up. We thank him for the love and light he provided then and the light he continues to provide us.
Thank you Pedro, we are Gran Varones because of you.
gay, bisexual, trans* and queer* latino men are seldom the priority in the politics and decisions that shape our reality. we change this making our existence known by voting and/or having conversations about voting. even if you don’t vote, you can make your voice heard by sharing their thoughts, hopes and ideas with other gran varones. our liberation will not be given to us - it can only be provided by us for us.
