I was born and raised in the Bronx in the 1970s and 1980s. My childhood was, in many ways, a classic Nuyorican postcard snapshot—quenepas, Fania, abuelos, familia—but that comfort and familiarity shifted as I came to accept profound truths about myself in my later adolescence.
In 1988 I left for the West Coast, spending most of that time in Portland, Oregon, and some in Southern California and Rosarito Beach, Baja Norte México. Those experiences fueled my curiosity and creative drive and were inspiring beyond words. They remain with me, and I feel their impact every day.
I came out in Portland in 1992 at the age of 21 to a fellow young man I had feelings for. We began dating and were together for two and a half years. From there I continued to date men and never stopped. It’s who I am and what feels right. Coming out was a spiritual relief more than anything else.
During those same years something difficult happened: I drifted away from my family, from my roots. I felt I couldn’t be openly gay and a good Latino son, grandson, or nephew. Time moved forward, taking my grandparents and others who had been central to my childhood and teen years, before I could share my truths with them.
I was ashamed and fearful of rejection—sensing that they may have already known about me—and I didn’t know what else to do, especially after my father disowned me when I came out to him. This misunderstanding and lack of acceptance of LGBT people, combined with my fear of rejection, led me to distance myself.
So I made underground music and gay culture my homes. Those subcultures (there were still subcultures in pre-9/11 America!) taught me many valuable lessons as a young artist; I met unforgettable people and learned about things that hadn’t been available to me before. I learned about other possibilities, human, spiritual, and artistic expansions.
I felt the LGBT community was more accepting of me as a gay Latino than the Latino community was back then. At first, that was true, so long as I wasn’t perceived as too “Latino” either (I’m light-skinned, so people often forgot). I realized this during a conversation with a Mexican kid in a gay bar in Portland. He spoke no English, and Spanish was our best option.
People I knew came up to me afterward and said, “Speak English.”
When I moved back to New York in 2006, something unexpected happened: I was able to navigate my original culture as an openly gay man with little or no complication. It was a profound relief, since “latinidad” was the first thing I knew. Although I enjoyed learning about many other things during my exploration years, nothing was more sacred to me than my roots.
Post-9/11 gentrified New York City had changed. A class of privileged children from around the United States and the world moved into formerly affordable neighborhoods, raising the standard of living. They also contributed to rent increases that many native residents couldn’t afford, leading to an exodus of longtime New Yorkers who were replaced by young professionals with high credit scores.
Combined with increased surveillance in everyday life and waves of social conservatism including no smoking, no dancing, and limited public enjoyment, the city I grew up in more realistically exists only in memory. This gentrification affected the LGBT scene as well.
After hearing a couple of remarks about Puerto Ricans at a popular Brooklyn gay bar, I started going to a mixed lounge and bar that offered more interesting music including house, reggae, and salsa instead. It’s also very popular with straight Latino men. And I’ve gotten to know a lot of them. They know I’m gay and have better things to worry about. A circle for me was completed.
My intention here isn’t to criticize the gay culture that shaped me as a young artist, writer, and thinker, but to show that LGBT communities reflect the broader societies in which they exist. They inherit everything around them: the good, the bad, the humor, the popular culture, liberalism, and unfortunately sometimes prejudice.
I never thought I’d see a time when it was acceptable to make dismissive remarks about Puerto Ricans and other working-class folks at a hip gay bar, but I did. I never thought I’d see a time when I could comfortably mingle with straight Latino men who had reconsidered the homophobic values they had been taught, but I have. So you can have the typical gay bar hipster music; give me a cold beer and classic New York salsa any day.
I’m home. This is New York.
Charlie Vázquez is the Bronx-born author of the novels Buzz and Israel and Contraband, and the bilingual poetry collection Meditations/Meditaciones: Bronx/Salsa. He has edited and co-edited two anthologies of new Latino literature: The Best of PANIC! and From Macho to Mariposa: New Gay Latino Fiction. He can be contacted at: firekingpress AT yahoo.com
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