When Abuelo died, Abuela gathered every single picture in her house, took them outside under the plum sky, tossed all the faces in a metallic tambo, pulled a match from her pocket, and set it all on fire. As Abuela’s body stood in silence, I sat at the doorsteps of her house. My Tias ran outside, put their hands on their hair. ¡Mamá, porque haces esto! Abuela didn’t say anything; she stood there in a trance, watching the breath of the fire rise and fall.
Tia F came with a bucket of water to calm the fire’s thirst. Tia Z kneeled to the ground next to Abuela and hugged her waist. Mamá, mamá, que tienes?
Years later, I would understand the necessity to incinerate history for survival.
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When you have kept a secret most of your life you learn to escape into different realms of possibilities.
When I was 18, I used to drive down Main Street in San Antonio, TX, where all the gay clubs were. It’s called The Strip. The first time I drove by I hoped I’d get a red light at every block so I could take in this world: men holding on to each other, men laughing and kissing under the streetlights, men dancing. I put my hand up against the car window and felt the music sing into my body.
I’d go home, lay in bed, my hands would make their way down my shorts, and I would imagine how thrilling it would be for a man to one day touch me.
On my 21st birthday I went to a gay club for the first time, alone because I hadn’t yet come out. I walked into The Saint, a Ke$ha song playing. I made my way to the bar, passing different bodies of men covered in sweat. I ordered a vodka tonic. From a distance I saw men dancing freely under the disco ball, laser lights outlining their bodies. When the lights flashed I would catch glimpses of their smiles. I didn’t dance with anyone that night; when a man approached me, I lied, saying I was waiting for a friend. Even in a gay club I was afraid to be seen as a gay man. I stayed in a corner, drank my vodka tonic, closed my eyes, and moved to the beat.
When I made it home that night, I put on my headphones, looked through my iPod, and played “Dreaming of You” by Selena. I opened my bedroom window curtains wide open and slow danced in my room with my door closed.
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When Amá arrived in the U.S. in her late teens she came in legally. Since then, she had heard countless stories of family and friends and how some almost didn’t make it through the treacherous crossing of the river along with all the walking without a drip of water in sight. Amá hadn’t dared to return to Mexico all those years because without residency she’d be unable to legally reenter the United States. She vowed once her residency was approved she’d return to her hometown to reclaim family, memories, and the dead. In early December 2016, Amá obtained lawful permeant U.S.A. residency after being undocumented for 26 years.
I was going to school in El Paso when she called to share the news. Her voice cracked, ¿Que crees? We both didn’t say a word and after a few seconds she asked if I would meet her in Mexico after my finals.
Only once before had Amá planned to return to Mexico, in 2002 when Abuelo died. The day Amá received the call from her brother—Papá esta muerto—she walked all over the house packing what seemed like random things: her best cooking pans, three boxes of Maruchan Ramen, every single pair of her shoes, curtains, a VCR.
She said, En Mexico vendo estas cosas para poder regresar.
When the time came to leave, Amá stood at the front of our door, looked at my siblings and me. She looked like a standing river and the current wasn’t in her favor. At the end she couldn’t bring herself to go bury her father. She unloaded my uncle’s truck with her belongings and packed my brother and me in the truck to go in her place. Now I understand she was facing two types of grief: her father’s death and her life in America. She feared she might not come back to the home she had built.
The consequences of not facing the dead were severe on Amá’s emotions and body. Following Abuelo’s death Amá was filled with anger—and every other feeling out there. She’d lash out at my siblings and I if we laughed or listened to music too loudly. On some evenings, while I played outside on my scooter, I’d catch her hidden in the shadows of the trees wiping her eyes. When I approached her to ask if she was okay, Amá would shift from sadness to irritation by my oblivious questioning. Other days, she carried a happiness with her that neither we nor she could believe still lived in her. On those good days she’d get out of bed, shower, get dressed, and we’d sing Juan Gabriel songs loud around the house. In the evenings we’d take the bus to the downtown park to play hide-and-seek and through our laughter she’d remember she had a life worth living.
Then, grief began to manifest in her as depression and anxiety. She started taking Valium, Xanax, Zoloft, Prozac. For years, there were days when she would want to be left alone and days when she’d beg me not to go to school. I watched her become a wildfire and then a stranger in her own body. She eventually endured a stroke, as if from all the mourning and guilt she carried, leaving the left side of her body weaker than the right. Even now, when she walks down stairs she has to be cautious of each step—grief is always alongside her.
After my last final in mid-December, I crossed from El Paso to Cuidad Juárez and I took a flight to meet her in her childhood home of Salitrillos, San Luis Potosí, Mexico—a small town with a population of less than 800 people, unpaved roads, and no running water.
When I arrived at the ranch and saw Abuela’s house, I remembered the last time I had been here, the day Abuela had turned every picture in her house into burning fireflies scattering across her silhouette.
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I was born on a Wednesday. At 5:30 PM I let out my first cry, and by 5:45 PM Amá had already assimilated my name and dropped the accent. I went from Saúl to Saul. I never understood why she felt the need to change me. Maybe it was her way of ensuring I’d make it in this country with a name sounding duller than azul.
In school, I never corrected a teacher when they addressed me; I let them call me what they wanted. My therapist says this is part of why I am the way I am now with men who call me Sir, Daddy, or Papi. I tell him I don’t take it too personal. But maybe he’s right about names having dominance over our identity. Like the guys on Grindr who don’t have names.
Once I invited a man over. I sent the man my location, left the door unlocked for him, and asked him to join me in the shower when he arrived. Through the shower curtain I could see his silhouette, I heard his hand unbutton every button off his dress shirt. The clacking sound of his belt came undone, he groaned taking off his tapper pants, and I giggled, Hurry up!
As soon as he entered the shower we began making out, I turned him around, pressed his body on the white shower tile with my body.
He said, Go slow.
I whispered into his ear, Like this?
And he moaned, Yes sir.
After we finished and dried up, we laid in my bed.
I asked him: What are you thinking of?
Do you think God was watching us?
I let out a laugh.
The thing about acceptance is that it lingers like the smell of smoke inside unchanged walls. You don’t always see it but you’re fighting it constantly. I still find myself adapting to my surroundings as if I’m ashamed of living. And, like my name, maybe I’m still negotiating how I want to be seen.
That night I held that man in my arms the way I imagine a fire would want to be held—without fear for what it can touch.
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When Selena Quintanilla died, I was 6 years old. I was hiding behind the couch. As a child I felt safe and comfort in small places, eyeing every single word coming out of the news anchor. My parents sat on the couch. We didn’t know yet we were witnessing a life come undone. The news anchor was live in Corpus Christi, TX and in the background Yolanda Saldivar in her car. No se quiere bajar del auto y la policía está intentando de que no se quite la vida. Aun tiene la pistola con ella y en estos momentes se la está apuntando a ella misma. Ahorita volvemos.
While the camera moves from the car scene to one of the maids, Norma Martinez, from the Days Inn who witnessed Selena ask for help, this feeling of panic took over my body.
Before I knew the meaning of death, before I knew a life is only lived once, I knew Selena and I knew I too was different like her. As a child of immigrants, I had yet to learn English, Selena couldn’t speak Spanish and I didn’t understand English at all, but we had something special, we understood each other. My favorite song of hers when I was a kid was “Amor Prohibido.” The music video aired on Univision and she’d belt notes that landed in every crevice of my ear. In the music video she’d sing in the middle of the desert with multiple wooden frames behind her. At the end she’d leave her hurt in the desert and run away with a man through an open door.
I knew back then I wanted a different type of love. But in terms of my surroundings, I couldn’t be who I wanted to be if I wanted to survive to see an older me live.
That night as I laid on the floor I squeezed my hands against each other. I rarely prayed sincerely to God. But I gathered all my strength and I vowed to change, to like girls only. The thing about a prayer is that although you make a promise and plead they have to have authenticity to them. And, God knew I could never love a woman that way.
The news anchor said: Acambos de recibir noticias que Selena Quintanilla, 23 años, a muerto en el hospital. She was the first woman I admired. Yolanda gave herself up that night and regretted it.
The first time I danced with the man I used to love, we walked into the club, it was Selena Night, and “Amor Prohibido” started playing. At the time I knew right there and then it was game over. I held him close to me, I let his hand touch my ass, we laughed, and kissed in front of everyone.
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In December of 2016 in Mexico, I saw the wildfire inside Amá begin to settle. She walked all over Salitrillos as if she was a child again. She’d stop at different places on our walks, point, and say things like, Mira aqui me juntaba con mis amigas.
We spent the whole first week revisiting memories through callejones, tacos, la plaza, el mercado, Abuelo’s hacienda, and la milpa. People would stop her sometimes and hug her while repeating her name over and over again. Amá would say, Ya volvi. And they would squeeze tighter. At night we would gather at my Tio’s house and Abuela would make tortillas from scratch while everyone told their favorite stories about the past.
The last day we spent in Mexico, Amá woke me up at six in the morning. She sat on the corner of the bed, turned to me, and said, Ya estoy lista para ir a ver a mi papá.
I knew she would wait until the last day to visit the cemetery. After we got dressed, my three Tios pulled up to Abuela’s house. It’s like they knew too that Amá was waiting for this day to go. We filled five gallons of water to clean Abuelo’s placa and packed some fruit for the thirty minute car ride. On the way to the cemetery we stopped by a puesto on the side of the road that was selling flowers. We bought some roses, gladiolus, and some greenery.
Once we arrived at the cemetery, my Tio parked his truck, and we got off to unload the water and flowers. Amá walked in front of us with the flowers in her hand. When we made it to the door we realized the gate was closed. One of my Tios ran back to his truck and came back with a key. He had picked it up from his friend in the morning. As he was about to insert the key in the lock Amá stopped him, Yo lo puedo hacer. She grabbed the key from my Tio’s hand and she unlocked the gate, took off the lock, set it on one side of the door, and pushed open the doors.
The cemetery was small inside. Being a community cemetery for a small town I expected to see long rows of linage, but to my surprise the cemetery was almost abandoned. Only about half of it was filled with forgotten tombstones. The grass around was dry, in some patches somehow flowers had started to grow around. If you looked beyond the graveyard you can see mountains beyond mountains.
I watched Amá touch tombstones with names she whispered. I imagine these people rising from their grave telling her ¡Ya regresaste! And she would squeeze each tombstone a bit harder until she came to Abuelo’s tombstone.
She kneeled on the dirt floor, wrapped her arms against the tombstone, and with all the strength in her throat she gathered the only language that could come out of her, ¡Aqui estoy papá!
Sometimes my dreams wake me up in the middle of the night. In them Amá is walking through the cemetery again, the sun is hitting her face, like that day, except I can’t see her because I’m blinded by the rays. There is a soft wind that wraps around us and when I find her at Abuelo’s tombstone I call to her. When she turns to look at me all that comes out her are those words, ¡Aqui estoy papá!
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Before coming out at 21, I negotiated what I had and what I could lose. Coming from conservative Mexican parents, I didn’t know how my future could unfold.
I was dating someone at the time and I kept thinking back to Selena Quintanilla’s song “Amor Prohibido.” I wanted everyone to know I didn’t want to keep this man hidden from everyone, yet I kept thinking, at what cost. I had heard stories of friends of friends who came out and their parents disowned them—left them out on the streets like drifting plastic bags.
To imagine losing everything, even your family name, can be a good enough reason to want to stay hidden.
The week before I came out, I began putting things inside an Adidas duffle bag—some family pictures from the beach, a pair of light blue and black jeans from American Eagle, my favorite Levi’s denim jacket, a pair of Converse, three shirts, my signed copy of The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, and my journal. Everything else in my room could be replaced.
At the time, my best friend’s parents had told me: Mijo, whatever happens you have a home here with us.
I told my brother first, then my sister. They both accepted me, no questions asked. My older brother said he would talk to our parents to lean them into my coming out. When I got home from work everyone was already waiting for me to ask me: Is it true? Are you gay?
The thing about coming out to my parents, even though they accepted me, is that I still catch them mourning who they thought I was and who I could have been.
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The first time I opened my mouth to a man I was 19; he was probably in his 50s. I had found his AD on Craigslist. His post said: Hung Dad Visiting San Antonio. After we exchanged some emails and pictures, he sent me his room number. When I arrived at the Marriott Downtown, I found myself trembling.
I could feel my heartbeat wanting to come out. As I took the elevator to the 22nd floor, I said to myself: There’s no turning back.
Outside his door, I could hear his footsteps inside pacing. When I knocked, I heard him pause for a couple of seconds. When he opened the door I was surprised to find him more attractive than his pictures. You’re handsome, I said. He smirked. He signaled me with his hand to come in.
He sat on the bed and studied me as I stood next to the window.
He said, Please sit down.
I sat on the chair by the window.
He laughed, I meant come sit next to me.
I smiled. Got up and went to sit next to him.
Now we were both studying each other. He moved his left hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I leaned my head on his chest and I could hear his heart beating loudly, too. I slowly picked up my head, his five-o’clock shadow scratching my face. I thought this is what love must feel like.
Then it happened as naturally as a shoe laces coming undone. Our mouths gravitated towards each other. That night, I knew I wanted to feel this way over and over again. I didn’t want it to end.
In morning, the light sneaked in from the cracks of the curtain, highlighting his hips on the bed. I watched his chest rise and go down like the fire Abuela began back all those years ago.
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Grief will make you want to begin again. When Abuela burned all of the pictures in her house, it was for her own survival, her own way of moving forward. Just like how Amá became a wildfire after Abuelo died, because grief will make you feel out of control. I didn’t know back then what our minds and bodies are capable of doing when we don’t want to accept reality. To know truth is to know pain.
And for me, no one told me how much grief would come from my own freedom of coming out. I catch myself lost in the mouths of men. I still don’t know what I’m searching for when I kiss a man. Maybe I’m waiting for the perfect Selena song to play in the background when we kiss. All I know is I don’t feel so alone when fingers dig into my back pulling me closer to their bodies.
To be held like that for eternity, it would be like catching fire—
