Santo, Pero No Libre

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory, forever and ever, Amen.”

I stared at my mother after reciting the prayer, looking for some form of recognition, maybe a flicker of pride. Her cold, cement-like frown did not move. She glanced at the preacher, and glanced back at me, as if to say “are you paying attention?” I nodded, tilting my head down in submission, as I brought my gaze back to the front of the church. It was like this every Sunday.

My mother was a proud woman, and a holy one at that. She never missed church, said prayer before every meal, and read the Bible each night before bed. She would constantly quiz me on Bible verses, asking me to recite them, determine which testament they’re from, and what lesson we are meant to gather from the story. She was a God-fearing woman, as she said, and was determined to do everything she could to honor her Lord and savior, Jesus Christ. Furthermore, she’d ensure that her children would follow the same religious path that she had, whether they wanted to or not. I’ve never been much of a religious person myself, but of course, I couldn’t tell my mother this. I truly think she’d rather die than have a child that didn’t believe in God. My mom loves me, not just because she’s my mother, but because the Lord requires her to live a life of servitude. She couldn’t call herself a Christian if she didn’t look out for her children and community. She volunteers at the homeless shelter, donates to ToysForTots and Goodwill, and cares for me and my siblings as if we were her own flesh and blood (which we are). My mom loves me. But she loves God more, which is why I could never truly be honest with her about who I am.

“Go talk to the Johnsons,” My mom demands, politely gesturing to our neighbors across the pew.

“Whyy?” I whine in response.

“¡Porque lo digo yo!” She snaps, “Because I said so!”

I grunt in response and walk over begrudgingly.

As soon as I walk up to the parents, I’m hit with a wave of heavy perfume, the kind that suffocates your lungs and makes it difficult to breathe.

“Oh my gosh, Sol, how good to see you!” Ms. Johnson beams and embraces me. I force myself to hold back from coughing as her raunchy perfume fills the air.

“Hi, Ms. Johnson,” I reply, wheezing as she squeezes me.

“Oh please,” She laughs, releasing me, “You can call me Deborah!”

“Hey Sol,” says a voice from behind her. I crane my head to see her son, Jackson, in his white button up and blue tie, paired with black dress pants and pointed shoes the color of charcoal (if charcoal was shined and polished every Sunday morning). I inhale sharply at the sight of him, hair sitting perfectly and eyes as blue as el océano, the ocean.

“Oh–um–hi, hey, hi…Jackson. Hey.” I reply, (not so) smoothly, stumbling over my words. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“I’m here every Sunday,” He says flatly, with a hint of amusement.

“Right–yeah–of course.” I laugh nervously. “I just–you never know? Y’know?”

“Right…” He trails off, but smiles, as if my anxiety were something of entertainment to him.

“Well anyways, I should get back to my mom, but it was great seeing you guys!” I smile, looking for an exit from the conversation.

“Of course, of course, tell your mother we say hi!” Deborah waves at me.

I nod in response and slowly find my way back towards my family, the lingering image of Jackson’s smile still fresh in my mind.

“¿y qué?” (“So?”) My mom looks at me harshly, searching for confirmation that I spoke with the neighbors politely and represented us well.

“Deborah says hi,” I respond, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

“Ms. Johnson!” My mom corrects me, pointing her finger in my face, “Ay, mi amor, you know better.”

“Sorry Mamá,” I say sincerely, realizing that I did, in fact, know better.

“Mamá! Mamá!” My little brother bounds over, excitement on his face. “Can we get donuts?”

There were always donuts left for people at the end of the service.

“Ay mijo, you don’t need the sugar!” She replied, resulting in whining from the 8 year old. “Stop it, Marcelo. ¡Si no te portas bien, vas a ver!” “If you don’t behave, you’ll see!”

My brother quickly stopped his whining after that, knowing that my mom does not play around. My mother is fluent in English, but if she speaks Spanish to us, it means she means business. She speaks a lot of Spanish when we are at church, encouraging us to behave properly or face the consequences (and believe me, the last thing we want is to face the consequences). Still, each time she speaks Spanish here she does so in a loud whisper, as if she is afraid of being heard. We attend a primarily white church, and I can’t help but feel that my mom is embarrassed to a certain degree. It’s as if she wants us to be the whitest Latinos we can when we’re in this building, keeping our Spanish and our culture to ourselves. Personally, I don’t think that’s what God would want, but who am I to argue with my mother?

My mom immigrated here from Honduras when she was 16 years old. Her father died when she was young, so it was just her, her mother, and her older sister. She and her sister fought like cats and dogs, but ultimately loved each other (though to this day my mom still refers to her as “tía loca Luisa”, “crazy aunt Luisa”). Her mother, my grandma, was a hard-working woman, and she instilled that characteristic in both her daughters. My mom always told me, everything you have, you earn, and nothing comes without hard work. When the women first arrived here, they faced many hardships: immigration issues, language barriers, culture shock, etc. It was more than hard, it was near impossible, but they made it anyway. Still, as hard as it was, my mom always said it made her stronger. Although whenever we complain (about anything), she never fails to remind us of everything she went through and sacrificed just to put a roof over our heads and food in our bellies.

When we got back to the car, my sister, Ana, asked my mom if she could play music on the way home. My mom furrowed her eyebrows in thought, trying to decide whether or not she could withstand hearing Ana’s unique music taste on the drive back. Ultimately, she said no, and put on the Christian radio: 91.9! My sister sighed and put in her earbuds, refusing to listen to the same 10-15 songs play over and over every half hour. I couldn’t help but be annoyed seeing this, as I know my mom would have snapped at me if I dared put any earbuds in while we were driving together. As much as I’ll stand up for my sister no matter what (la familia primero, family first), it can be hard when she acts the way she does.

My little brother stares out the window with a hint of wonder in his eyes. Marcelo is 8 years old, and still has that joy and whimsey of youth that the world takes away from you the longer you’re alive. I’m thankful he still has it. He looks over at me and grins.

“Want to play I-Spy?” He beams.

It’s hard to say no to my brother, and frankly, we have an hour drive ahead of us. (My mom drives an hour out to church because she says this one is the best one, and that we owe it to the Lord to honor him, no matter the time it takes out of our day).

“Sure,” I poke him in the ribs and he giggles, “I-Spy with my little eye, something blue.”

We spend the rest of the car ride playing together, the Christian radio repeating songs in the background.

—

There are three rules I have to survive in a Christian, Latino household with a strict mother.

Rule #1: Don’t give her a reason to worry. My mom always wants to know where I am, what I’m doing, who I’m with, why I’m there, etc. She wants all of the W questions answered (who, what, where, when, why, and also how). It’s better to present her with that information upfront, that way she doesn’t think I’m hiding anything. She might think that anyways, especially depending on her mood, but with this method, she is less likely to assume I’m being secretive from the get-go. By giving my mother constant and consistent communication, it eases her anxiety. This makes it much easier to navigate daily operations, social events, and her ability to trust me.

Rule #2: Be who she wants you to be, not who you are. My mother is a hard woman, and she has very strong opinions on what makes a good person. For example, if you aren’t Christian, you aren’t good. There are certain aspects of who I am that would be more than just distasteful to my mother, they’d be blasphemy. To maintain a positive relationship with her, it’s better to put on a bit of a facade to keep the peace.

Rule #3: Put family first, even if it costs you yourself. If there is one thing I have been taught, it is that family always comes first, no matter what. For me, this means that I have to put my family before me, even at the expense of my own well-being. Any hopes, dreams, or goals I have can’t be achieved if they don’t align with my family’s values or future. In my family, we are taught from a very young age that our parents sacrificed a lot for us, and it is our duty to spend the rest of our lives doing whatever we can to repay them. We must always be appreciative, always be thankful, always be respectful, and always, always, look out for #1: the family. Sometimes looking out for your family means hiding parts of yourself that don’t align with the values you were raised with. This rule is similar to #2, but differs in the sense that it is more than just sacrificing my personality or beliefs; it is sacrificing my entire life for the people who gave it to me.

By following these rules, I am able to live a happy, peaceful life in my home, honoring my mother and taking care of those around me. But when I got home, and went to my room, I checked my phone to find a message that made me question everything.

—

I got an Instagram message request with three simple words: “Are you gay?”

My heartbeat began to rise, as I felt each thump through every muscle in my body. I looked around the room in a panic, as if someone had secretly entered my space and somehow determined that I must be a queer. I didn’t know how to respond. The account was a blank profile picture, with no bio and no followers. The only account they followed was Lady Gaga. I thought about saying no, and insulting them for accusing me of such things, but that would come off too defensive. Then I thought about saying yes, but imagined a screenshot circling all of social media with the confirmation of my supposed sexuality. I felt my chest get tight as the decision weighed on me. Then suddenly the door to my room opened.

“Mi amor–” My mom started, and I threw my phone across the room.

‘Smooth, Sol, smooth’ I thought.

“Sorry mom, you scared me,” I laughed. She glanced at my phone questioningly.

I had already just broken rule #1.

“I just came to check on you,” She replied cautiously, “what’s going on? Is everything ok?”

“Yes Mamá, everything is fine.” I said, a tight smile on my face. She decided not to push it, and made her way out of my room. I sighed in relief once I heard her down the hallway.

I picked my phone up again and stared at the message. Then, it dawned on me, I didn’t have to answer. There was nothing forcing me to respond to this random person online. I could just ignore them. So that’s exactly what I did. Still, I thought about it all night, and into the next day. The question seemed to physically weigh on me, whispering at me in the silence and yelling at me through the noise: are you gay?

The next few days were torture, I couldn’t stop thinking about the message I received. I wondered what about my profile made me appear gay. Was it my picture? My bio? The people I follow? I wasn’t sure, everything seemed normal to me. Then, suddenly, I received another text from the same person as before.

The message read: “Hey, I’m sorry for asking that out of the blue, I understand if you’re not comfortable answering something like that on here. I’m just looking for some community. If you want to talk more, add my Snapchat: @quinnthequeer123.”

I thought about my rules. Be who she wants you to be, not who you are. I hesitated.

When do I ever get to be who I am?

I downloaded Snapchat. I made a fake profile, and I added them.

They replied immediately. I didn’t say who I was, I didn’t need to. My Snapchat name was Alex, and theirs was Quinn, and we became best friends.

—-

Quinn and I talked every day. We talked about how hard it was being in the closet, the anti-queer laws circulating America, and the pressure from religion to be straight. Quinn was white, but their family was Christian like mine. They knew if they came out that they’d never understand. Quinn was also nonbinary, which added even more to the situation. I wondered what it was like to not have a gender, I’d never really thought about mine before, but I suppose it just felt natural to me. They explained how it felt to be so out of place, and it reminded me of how I felt at home.

One day, Quinn asked me if I had a crush on anyone. I thought about it long and hard, thinking of whether anyone at school or church really caught my eye.

“Well,” I texted, “there is this one person.”

Quinn begged me to tell them, and for the first time, I was able to talk about my crush with someone. It felt so freeing. I came home from school that day with a big, stupid smile on my face, thinking about how I’d truly never been happier. I sat down on the couch and texted Quinn some more about Jackson. My mom came into the living room.

“Hola mi amor,” She said, “how was your day?”

“Good,” I replied, not looking up from my phone.

“What did you do today?” She pried again, trying to get my attention.

“Nothing much.” I responded, still glued to my device.

“Sol, will you please look at me when you talk to me?” She said, no longer smiling.

“What Ma? I’m busy.”

“You’re never too busy for your mother.”

“Can’t we just talk later?”

“No!”

“Maaa–”

“Now!”

She snatched my phone from my hand, the messages with Quinn still open on the screen. My heart sank immediately to my stomach and I impulsively reached for my phone.

“ ¡Ya basta!” She yelled. “Enough already!”

My face went pale and I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes as her eyes looked through the screen.

“ ¡Ay, Dios mio!” She cried out as she read the most recent texts. Tears streamed down my face as she walked away from me, pain, fear, and disgust all combined in the nasty look she gave me. “¡Esto no es como te crié!” “This is not how I raised you!”

I tried to speak but no sound came out, it was as if there was someone standing on my throat, as I began choking on my own spit and tears.

“Mamá–” I tried, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say, “Mamá. Mamá, Mamá, Mamá–” I repeated desperately.

“Do not call me Mamá,” She scowled heavily, lips pursed in nothing short of pure anger, “tú no eres mi hijo.” “You are not my son.”

“Mamá please,” I felt my entire world falling apart, staring at my mother in our living room. A mother that loved God more than she loved me. “I am your son, Mamá, please. I’m sorry. It’s not true Mamá, I’m sorry.” I was sobbing so hard that every word made my body shake.

“Mamá–”

“Here is what we are going to do,” She paused, squinting at me like I was a puzzle she didn’t want to solve, “we are going to go to church tomorrow, and you are going to go to confession. ¡Mira que te digo por tu bien!” “I’m telling you this for your own good!”

“You will tell them of your sin,” She continues, “and they will help you. Ningún hijo mío will be gay. Do you understand?” “No son of mine will be gay.”

I nodded frantically.

“Good. ¡Te voy a mandar a tu cuarto!” “I’m sending you to your room!”

She took my phone. I went to my room, and I cried until I fell asleep.

—

“Homosexual tendencies are common within your generation, but you must know that it’s a sin?” He said, waiting for my response.

I stared at my hands a long time before answering.

“How could love be a sin?”