Tuesday, February 23, 2010

OP ED

Donde estan los escritores jotos? Where are the queer Chicano writers?

Professors Horacio Roque Ramirez and Ondine Chavoya were the only 2 queer Chicanos out of 25 scholars that presented at the “Sex Y Corazon” symposium on February 12th, 2010 at UCLA, celebrating fifteen years/quinceanera of UCLA’s Cesar E. Chavez Department of Chicana and Chicano Studies. The symposium centered on “Queer and Feminist Theory at the Vanguard of the New Chicana@ Studies.” As a third year at UCSB majoring in Chicana@ Studies, the symposium was mind blowing-to say the least. Feminist and Queer theologians, philosophers, writers, and activist discussed the history of Chicana@ Studies, their lives, their research, and what Chela Sandoval calls “the hermeneutics of love.”

Doctors Antonia Castaneda and Deena Gonzalez presented on their co-editing Chicana Matters Series by University of Texas Press. Chicana Matters Series provides an empowering outlet for Chicana writers to publish their work. As a self-proclaimed novelist, I was excited to hear of a publishing company that seeks to publish works from people of my community. Already well acquainted with horror stories from Chican@ writers whom time after time are rejected from publishing companies because of the racist pedagogy these companies are ran by. How they refuse to legitimize Chican@ work by deeming it as “not important” or “too-raced-based.” It’s fair to say that for once I was glad to know that someone was seeking my soon-to-be work, not the other way around. However, I can’t help but feel hopeless again when I squint my eyes and take a second look, “Chican(A) Matters.” Although Castaneda and Gonzalez never explicitly said that queer Chicanos are forbidden from submitting work to the series, like the series website states, it’s intended for Chicanas; thus, presumably not a primary space for queer Chicanos whom are seeking to publish their work should seek.

Following my realization, I began to ask myself, “Do Jotos Matter?” “Do queer Chicanos matter?” Instantly, I roared “¡Porsupuesto!” “Of course!” Acknowledging the works of queer Chicano writers like: Rigoberto Gonzalez, Horacio Roque Ramirez, and other established folks. The list of established queer Chicano writers, when compared to our sisters, Chicanas, doesn’t measure up. I bring this fact, not to disempower our Chicana sisters whom opened doors, but more so, to re-emphasize that when Cherrie Moraga wrote in This Bridge Called My Back “refugees of a world on fire,” it wasn’t limited to Chicana refugees. We [queer Chicanos] are refugees of a world whose flames have taken the shape of bars. Bars that kill our brown bodies as fast as the bullets that are propelled from a firearm during a drive by. As refugees of a world on fire, our writing needs to become the fire extinguisher that puts out the flames. The keys that liberates us from the prisons and the bulletproof vest that protects us from a bleeding heart.

Our publishing spaces should not be limited to hypersexualized magazines like Adelante, but should expand to scholarly university presses as well. Our bodies, our lives are worth to be published outside the realm of exoticism and into the field of academia. Queer Chicanos symbolize theory in the flesh. From combating homophobia within traditional Latino@ culture that perpetuates hypermasculinity and limited sexual discourse; to negotiating our intersectional identities as either people of color/working-class/queer/immigrant folks in a hegemonic world order- our existence matters. As refugees we need to continue and push extra hard to write our his[queer][chicano]story. Establish our own publishing series that seeks to validate our scholarly work as people living in the margins. I matter. Jotos matter. Queer Chicanos matter.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

A.S Elections

I feel deeply upset. Student government elections are approaching and once again my work becomes silent. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to be part of an association where I lose a piece of myself everytime I walk through the doors. In my current process of rebuilding pieces of myself that the association tarnished the last two years, I have distanced myself from the space. However, like most things in life that you wish would dissolve and leave you alone, it is election season and my phone wont’ stop ringing. From people that want to lobby me, vent to me, manipulate me to support their political aspirations. The eyes of my friends begin to turn a shade redder, a redness that yearns for power. Having lost twice, the political paradigm that supports white/anglo leadership over qualified people of color has pushed me away. Far away enough where I don’t care about elections. The structure, in which Associated Students is built on, prevents me from once again fully participating. I want to read. I want to write. However, in order to read and write at my own free will I must sleep with one eye open. Be conscious of my surroundings and people whose eyes change color at the site of power.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Path to Conocimiento

It was 1995 when my parents divorced and I was six years old. My father raped me when I was eight years old. He was taking care of my two older brothers and oldest sister and me while my mother went to Mexico because her sister died. He raped me four times in my mother’s bed. Living in silence for the next four years was like traveling to a different world. A world where my mother’s bed was just a bed and not the platform that sustained my body while the love for my father diminished. For most of my eight-year-old life, I was in what Gloria Anzaldua calls the “arrebato space,” where the rape from my father had shaken me. I was desperate for answers. Stumbling over the most delicate pebbles on the ground, I lost the capacity to stand on my own. I continued to fall until finally I fell into the second stage, the “neplanta space.” From the ages of nine to ten-years-old, I was a neplantlero. Living in a space where it was not about ‘he [father] touched me’ or ‘he didn’t touch me’ but where his touched manifested into consciousness. A consciousness that broke away from the binary of ‘good chicano’ or ‘bad chicano’ to a ‘surviving chicano.’ I was exploring new modes of being. Negotiating between what was love and what was not. Exploring the purpose of my body, as it not only invited love, through hugs and kisses, but also, as it lured in pedophiles. I was in a third space. A space of learning how to survive. Overwhelmed by my eldest brother’s sudden death, right before I turned eleven-years-old I descended to the third stage, “Coatlicue.” I was in despair, anguish, and hopelessness. Drowning in chaos, I found the will to swim to the surface and escape the demon waters by writing on my Harry Potter hardcover journal. The fourth space, “the call,” I validated my existence and experiences by writing them down. Writing soon shifted into the fifth stage, “Coyolxauhqui,” I was writing to put my life together. To give voice to my abused body, sorrow for my dead brother, and queer identity. To speak of my reality in a world that sewed my lips together and never called on me even though I kept raising my hand. Growing tired of being the only one witnessing my own experience, when I turned twelve years-old I cut the thread that was binding my lips shut and rather than waiting for someone to call on me I stood up and yelled! I told my mother that my father raped me. I told the world that I was gay. But most importantly, I told myself that I existed. This was my “blow up” phase, the sixth stage. What followed was what Anzaldua calls the final stage of Conocimiento, “spiritual activism” the seventh and final stage. I became a warrior, who was determined to speak out and transform my abused body into a strong, beautiful one. I was determined to make my writing known. Determined to make the words on paper onto the ears of people because living in silence was detrimental to my soul, my existence.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Teacher Dreams

My brother, Jose, you were my significant teacher. Although your life was cut short, Hermano, you taught me the beauty of waking up. Opening my eyes and witness the traumas of our past and face the demons of my present. Gracias.

Your death caused me so much pain. My heart was lost; kidnapped by the spirits of the afterlife whom held it hostage until I stopped chasing after them. I was exhausted. My shins were bruised. My mind stopped processing and my soul was detached, left behind a mile ago with the other souls of my family.

I was detached.
In the space between questions and answers.

I was no longer capable of movement. My spirit was still held prisoner and my physical being was crippled to the point where my hands could not write. My eyes kept closing, replaying the scenes of my father’s knife penetrating me in and out. My throat was full. Full of years of silence. Words that only made it on to paper but never onto the ears of others.

Hermano,
Teacher,
Voice,
Your loss was the truth. The truth of my despair. The same despair that I was able to hide from until your public death crushed our family, but more so, it killed me. All the nightmares of my childhood came to life and as much as I tried to keep them as nightmares you forced my eyes to stay open. It took two years of your lessons to finally learn how to clear out my throat. Release the words from my bleeding mouth. Words that I never knew were my own. Words of the spirit tongue. Words of Trust.

You taught me to stop chasing after the spirits of the afterlife. Stop crippling my body and be open to outcome. Open to liberation. Liberation of my abused body. Liberation of your detachment from my physical world. Liberation of clarity. Where the only thing that mattered was my present self and not “what” I thought my future self would be if I were exposed. I was detached from outcome but open to new modes of being.

Gracias Hermano. You taught me to write with my body. Make the words on paper, also onto the ears of the world.