Rojas 1 
Joseph Rojas 
Ajay Skaria 
GLOS3550V 
1 May 2018 
El joto y la mestiza: Bridging a Divide in Chicano Tribe 
Introduction 
 Thus far, the experiences of Chicano gay men have been sparsely discussed in 
comparison to those of Chicana lesbians in both academia and activism. I began noticing that 
there was a certain divide between Chicano gay men and Chicana lesbians while reading Gloria 
Anzaldúa’s emblematic work, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, in which she writes 
that “Lumping the males who deviate from the general norm with the man, the oppressor, is a 
gross injustice” (Anzaldúa 106). She goes on to say that she and other queer Chicanas have 
remained in the dark pit where the world keeps lesbians, and that as feminists and lesbians, they 
have closed off their hearts to men, including their queer brethren, disinherited and marginalized 
as they are (Anzaldúa 106). Not only did I notice the existence of this divide, but Anzaldúa 
helped me realize the power of queerness and of queer people of all stripes uniting together. She 
describes homosexuals as “Being the supreme crossers of cultures, […] [having] strong bonds 
with the queer [of many races] and with the queer in […] the rest of the planet. [Coming] from 
all colors, all classes, all races, all time periods” (Anzaldúa 106). She calls on Chicanos to 
acknowledge the contributions of these supreme crossers of cultures, “to listen to [their] jotería 
[Chicano term for queer folks],” who have been “at the forefront […] of all liberation struggles 
in this country” (Anzaldúa 107). Other queer Chicana academics and writers such as Cherríe 
Moraga have also commented on the scarcity of engagement and cultural production coming 
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from Chicano gay men and the potential to bridge the divide described by Anzaldúa. Exploring 
differences and commonalities between the experiences of Chicano gay men and lesbians and 
their respective positionalities in the Chicano social-cultural hierarchy can elucidate the unique 
roles these men could play in a future coalition-building process and activism. 
Queer Chicanos have a unique experience in which they must navigate their queerness 
not only in the Anglo-American society in which they live, but also within the sociocultural 
context of their Mexican-American family. For this reason, it will be important to elucidate the 
myriad cultural differences between the United States and Mexico that come together to affect 
these queer folks simultaneously. Beyond coming out of the closet and sharing their experiences, 
Chicana women have already done a lot of work regarding how biculturalism affects their 
intersection of identities, as well as the development of their own lengua y sitio (language and 
space), and the impact of movement and borders. Chicana lesbians in particular have contributed 
much in the way of activism and literature surrounding their queerness in both Chicano-Latino 
Studies as a discipline and in the Chicano Movement. On the other hand, there is relatively little 
coming from Chicano gay men. These men—especially traditionally masculine (i.e. straight-
passing) Chicano gay men and activos (penetrative partners in a homosexual encounter)—
represent a unique opportunity for queer Chicanos and Chicana women due to their location in 
the Chicano social-cultural hierarchy. Despite a lack of quantity, there are a few studies that have 
been conducted specifically about Chicano gay men, as well as the abundant contributions of 
Chicana lesbian academics, activists, and writers that provide some insight as to how these men 
could contribute to any future coalition-building and activism.  
Methodology 
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 Prior to delving into relevant theoretical work and the subsequent findings, it is important 
to address my own positionality with regard to this research. I have an outsider’s perspective on 
the Chicano experience. My interest in the subject matter stems at least in part from an interest in 
exploring my own identity. I grew up understanding that I had a Puerto Rican last name and 
Puerto Rican heritage, and that most people saw my whiteness, English monolingualism, and 
lack of knowledge about and experience of the Puerto Rican culture as incongruent with any of 
the myriad standard manifestations of Puerto Rican-ness. Throughout my childhood and 
adolescence, I grew increasingly interested in understanding and reconnecting with this aspect of 
my identity. It was this inner desire that led me to specialize in Global Studies focusing on 
Cultural Analysis in Latin America and Spanish-Portuguese Studies as an undergraduate student. 
Coming out of the closet prior to college and the subsequent yearning to better understand 
myself and other queer narratives led me to focus more specifically on gender and sexuality. 
Thus, the prospect of studying queer experiences in a Latin American context piqued my interest. 
In short, although I am a gay man who has in adulthood grown to care a great deal about my 
Puerto Rican heritage and Spanish-English bilingualism, my experience is that of a white, 
Western male who was born in Saint Paul, Minnesota. I do not share in the experiences of racism 
and xenophobia, a connection to indigeneity broadly, biculturalism, or inhabiting U.S.-Mexico 
borderlands and navigating the border culture that developed therein.   
 Acknowledging my white, Western positionality with regard to this research is merely a 
first step in deconstructing how my own perspective may be impeding my own understanding. 
An explicit goal of mine for this paper is that it does not constitute a Western critique of a 
Mexican-Latin American sexual culture or family structure that is somehow inherently more 
macho or heterosexist. I strive to write a thoughtful analysis of existing theoretical, ethnographic, 
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and empirical studies in Chicano-Latino studies as a discipline. In her essay, Speaking from the 
Margin: Uninvited Discourse on Sexuality and Power, Emma Pérez addresses this particular 
issue by addressing her own background as a historian trained in the Western European tradition. 
Pérez refers to the work of Luce Irigaray, a prominent French feminist, throughout the essay and 
explicitly describes that she is only interested in the French school’s resistance to and 
dismemberment of the male symbolic order for the purposes of her argument. Pérez not only 
questions white male ideology, but also asserts that: 
 “Studies in the social sciences on the Chicana/o family that ignore nontraditional family 
arrangements perpetuate Anglo perceptions about our community—that is, that Latino 
family tradition is anchored in machismo. Anglo feminist accusations lead to problematic 
Chicana discourse within feminist constructs. (Pérez 68) 
This exact premise is the reasoning behind my intentional use of as many Chicano—and 
Mexican where appropriate—voices as possible. Machismo as an oppressive patriarchal system 
will be discussed in various sections of the paper, particularly where it relates to performance of 
masculinity or femininity, but overall, I seek to amplify Chicano discussions about their own 
experiences and to include analyses of race, class, and gender alongside sexuality. 
 In the context of this particular research, language is of great importance for several 
reasons. As I mentioned above, I did not grow up as a Spanish-English bilingual nor in a 
bicultural home and achieved bilingualism and a semblance of cultural understanding in 
adolescence and adulthood. Many of the sources that will be cited are in Spanish, and more still 
in a uniquely Chicano form of expression that involves using Spanglish and various Chicano 
dialects. For the sake of clarity, I am a fluent speaker of Spanish and according to testing 
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conducted by the American Council on the Teaching of Foreign Languages my reading 
proficiency is Superior. ACTFL defines a Superior-level reader as being able to: 
[…] understand lengthy texts of a professional, academic or literary nature. In addition, 
readers […] are generally aware of the aesthetic properties of language and of its literary 
styles, but may not fully understand texts in which cultural references and 
assumptions are deeply embedded.” [emphasis added] (American Council on the 
Teaching of Foreign Languages) 
As a Superior-level reader, the only higher proficiency that could be attained would be 
Distinguished, a level many native speakers would struggle to achieve. Regardless, as explained 
in the definition itself, it can still be difficult for me to understand deeply embedded cultural 
references and assumptions, which is especially important with regard to this particular research. 
Although simply not being Chicano could make engaging with a text that employs various 
Chicano dialects difficult for native speakers of other dialects (whose respective cultures are 
Latin American but not Chicano), it is important that I acknowledge that this may have an effect 
on my interpretation of these texts. Additionally, the temporality of these texts could have an 
effect on their relevance or validity in the contemporary moment. With the exception of Tomás 
Almaguer’s ethnographic study, published in 1995, a majority of the texts cited were published 
post-2010, with a few theoretical texts being published in the 90s or 2000s. 
 Considering the unique usage of Spanglish and Chicano dialects employed in many of the 
texts, I am forced to contend with whether or not to translate from Spanish to English in many 
cases (all translation that occurs will be my own). Initially, based on a desire to amplify Chicano 
voices, I strove to hearken back to the bilingual nature of past Chicana writing, deliberately 
leaving words untranslated unless I thought a term was crucial to understanding the argument. 
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The bilingual nature of past Chicana writing lent itself to the creation of a text that in a sense had 
a (not-yet existing) “ideal” reader, or varying degrees of ideal readership with the fully bilingual-
bicultural Chicano reader having a distinct advantage. I personally appreciate this choice as a 
means of challenging the white male ideology of the society in which they are writing and an 
exemplification of the writers’ intersection of identities through the use of code-switching, but 
upon further examination have decided that this may not be as appropriate (or practical) in a 
research paper, especially one written by a white male in academia.  
 Lastly, it is important to define terms that will be occurring repeatedly throughout this 
analysis. I am aware that in recent years among Chicanos, the use of the term Chicanx has 
become steadily more prevalent as people seek to be more gender-inclusive and deconstruct the 
gender binary by deconstructing the binary nature of Spanish grammar. I am electing to not use 
this term myself because as a non-Chicano individual, I do not feel that it is my place to not only 
take a stance, but also impose a neologism on potential Spanish-speaking readers who do not use 
this term themselves. Additionally, I believe that it would be a mistake to conflate gender with 
sexuality, the subject of this paper being gay men and lesbians and not gender non-conforming 
individuals, and as such the need for the gender inclusive ‘x’ is somewhat diminished and could 
potentially impede clarity. Note that in both my introduction and methodology sections I have 
used the words Chicano and Chicana for specific purposes, Chicano serving to describe the (gay) 
men whose experiences are being studied as well as to describe broader concepts (i.e. Chicano 
culture, the Chicano Movement, etc.), whereas Chicana has served to describe women. Similarly, 
although some do not think that “queer” should be an umbrella term, in both my own writing and 
the writing of the queer Chicana women being cited, “queer” will be considered re-appropriated 
and used as such. The term has been used as a slur against LGBTQ individuals in the past but has 
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since been reclaimed by some swaths of the larger LGBTQ community. I and my wider extended 
LGBTQ social circle have largely reclaimed this term for ourselves and use it proudly as a 
descriptor of our myriad sexual identities. Furthermore, usage of a term that unites queer people 
of different sexual identities will be both practical and symbolic in a paper about coalition-
building between gay men and lesbians. 
Theory 
I. Movement and Borders 
 In Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (henceforth referred to simply as 
Borderlands), Gloria Anzaldúa, a Chicana lesbian academic, activist, and writer, describes the 
U.S.-Mexico border as “una herida abierta [an open wound] where the Third World grates 
against the first and bleeds” (Anzaldúa 25). The U.S.-Mexico borderlands bleed because they are 
a site of conflicts based on political, economic, and ethnic differences, and preexisting power 
relations in the world foster unequal circumstances in which life is easier for people on one side 
of the border than the other. Each year, American and European tourists spend their warm, 
summer vacations in regions of the Global South like Mexico while it is difficult or even 
dangerous for Mexicans and other “Global Southerners” to immigrate to wealthy Western 
countries—“trespassers will be raped, maimed, strangled, gassed, shot” (Anzaldúa 25). Still, 
there is incentive enough for migrants to attempt to cross the border. Perhaps there are economic 
opportunities and crossing the border is a search for employment and a better life—“For many 
[…] the choice is to stay in Mexico and starve or move north and live”—or for a new culture in 
which identity is (supposedly) not formed by virtue of sameness, rather by accepting mixtures, 
ambiguities, and contradictions (Anzaldúa 32). This is not untrue for queer folks, whether inter 
or intra-country, who often experience the “necessity of looking to new horizons that allow them 
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to be free and avoid being victims of violence” (Careaga-Pérez 7-8). Beyond the potential 
meanings of borders, either as a space of possibilities or restrictions, Anzaldúa describes how the 
journey can be the result of a “free” individual choice—as in the situation of the American and 
European tourists—or something that one must do because of circumstances out of one’s 
control—such as those of immigrants and refugees to the United States or to Europe that are 
often fleeing unsafe conditions in their home countries. 
These unequal circumstances demonstrate how borderlands are related to power. They 
are a site where national governments exercise their power, where one realizes that not everyone 
has the freedom to travel, and that the ease or difficulty of movement is based in large part on 
citizenship (i.e. nation-states). In Between Inclusion and Exclusion: On the Topology of Global 
Space and Borders, Sandro Mezzadra and Brett Neilson expound upon these ideas in several 
ways. They demonstrate the ‘necropolitical’ nature of borders, citing at least 5000 deaths along 
the U.S.-Mexico border in the 13 years prior to 2010 and the deaths of at least 17,738 people 
between the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and an independent assessment in 2011 (Mezzadra, 
Neilson 63). For many, this is likely reminiscent of current headlines about the deaths of Central 
American and Syrian refugees attempting to enter the United States or the European Union. One 
of the goals set forth by Mezzadra and Neilson is the establishment of a “theoretical framework 
capable of coming to terms with […] the myriad systems of differential inclusion that [one sees] 
taking shape in various borderscapes across the globe” (Mezzadra, Neilson 67). They point out 
that this is not only applicable to the U.S.-Mexico Border or “Fortress Europe,” but also beyond 
North-South contexts (such as the hukou system in contemporary China, complex internal 
divisions within the Indian labor market, South-South migration, or Australia’s ‘Pacific 
Solution’) (Mezzadra, Neilson 68). Suddenly, the study of a minority group within one set of 
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border-dwellers (Chicanos) takes on greater importance as one realizes information gleaned from 
their experiences could potentially be extrapolated to the situations of myriad border populations 
around the world. That is not to say that there is a singular conception of a border (culture), 
rather they are characterized by their distinctiveness, each one the product of a particular history. 
The U.S.-Mexico borderlands are just one manifestation of the development of a border (culture) 
and are not identical to others. 
 Borders have many tangible effects on the lives of border-dwellers (the population which 
inhabits the trans-border zones of migration and exchange). A consequence of movement across 
existing political borders “where two worlds merging” is often the production of “a third 
country—a border culture” due to the circulation not only of goods and people but of ideas and 
cultural influences (Anzaldúa 25). Those who live in a space where such a border culture has 
developed have experiences and stories distinct from those of the cultures on either side of the 
border. This constitutes the formation of new identities and ways of belonging that cannot be 
confined to the boundaries of nation-states. The concept of belonging is important for border-
dwellers because “Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish 
us from them” and being the us makes one safer and brings one closer to the nexus of power 
(Anzaldúa 25). In their article, Mezzadra and Neilson describe what they call ‘an excess of 
inclusion over belonging,’ or “the proliferation of subject positions that are neither fully included 
nor fully excluded from the space of citizenship and from labour markets, […] that are neither 
fully insiders nor fully outsiders” (Mezzadra, Neilson 62). This definition is applicable especially 
to migrants without legal status who are estranged from the benefits of citizenship and the right 
to work, or to queer migrants in cities for whom “the possibility of dignified and free life is 
practically impossible while being constantly subjected to ridicule and public scorn by family 
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members and friends, as much as strangers, unless they deny or hide their [identity]” (Careaga-
Pérez 42).  
For Chicanos who are born in the U.S., whether their family has lived in the Southwest 
for generations or it is to first-generation immigrants, the ‘excess of inclusion over belonging’ 
affects them differently. Although U.S.-born Chicanos have the benefits of legal status, “Porous 
boundaries and multiple identities […] undermine ideas of cultural belonging as a necessary 
accompaniment to political membership” (Mezzadra, Neilson 67). Thus, they are also estranged 
from the full benefits of citizenship due to the racism and xenophobia of the Anglo-American 
society in which they live, and they still do not ‘belong.’ This is especially true for Chicano gay 
men and Chicana lesbians who may also be estranged from the social and financial support of 
their immigrant family due to heterosexism. For this reason, border-dwellers are often unable or 
unwilling to identify themselves with a specific “national” culture or language. This can be seen 
in the experience of Chicana lesbian activist, academic, and writer Cherríe Moraga, who writes 
that “Coming to terms with […] [her] woman-centered desire [meant being] against anything 
that stood in its way, including [her] Church, [her] family, and [her] ‘country’” (Moraga 146). 
The quotations Moraga puts around the word country would suggest that she does not believe the 
U.S. to actually be hers, that she does not truly ‘belong.’ Furthermore, this demonstrates how her 
womanhood, and especially her lesbianism, meant she would experience a certain level of 
estrangement from the support of not only her family but her community as well. 
 Anzaldúa describes borders as having a dual nature in which they serve to both connect 
and divide. In accordance with Anzaldúa, Mezzadra and Neilson summarize the perspective of 
French scholar Étienne Balibar that “Borders […] could be said to work as topological functions, 
which at once connect and divide, cross and cut political space, include and exclude” (Mezzadra, 
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Neilson 63). Not only do they mark national territories which are maintained through the use and 
threat of force, they also produce mixtures (the aforementioned ‘border cultures’) and 
juxtapositions (simultaneously being sites of constraint and possibility), often being where 
political, economic, and ethnic difference is most sharply asserted. Differences in wealth, power, 
mobility, and who ‘belongs’ create incentives to cross (i.e. economic necessity or leisure), but as 
shown in the example above comparing American and European tourists to Mexican immigrants, 
the level of permeability depends on which side of the border you start on, and not only that, but 
which side of the border one starts on (migrants without legal status) and the identities one 
carries (U.S.-born Chicanos) may still impede access to the potential benefits of a given side. 
II. Language, Space, and Consciousness 
 Similar to the dual nature of borders themselves, Anzaldúa focuses a great deal on the 
inherent hybridity of the Chicana identity (and other borderland identities). One can see this in 
how the construction of Borderlands attempts to embody rather than simply describe mixture 
and hybridity. This posits a not-yet existing ‘ideal’ reader through the juxtaposition of languages 
(obliging readers to abandon their monolingual comfort-zone), different discursive registers 
(cultural history, autobiography, theoretical reflection), and the intermittent use of both poetry 
and prose. Another aspect of identity that Anzaldúa uses to demonstrate this hybridity is 
language. In the chapter titled, “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” Anzaldúa states that there is not 
merely one language that Chicanos speak. Her ‘wild tongue’ is able to switch between Standard 
English, working class and slang English, Standard Spanish, Standard Mexican Spanish, North 
Mexican Spanish dialect, Chicano Spanish (Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California have 
regional variations), Tex-Mex, and Pachuco (called caló) (Anzaldúa 77). Chicano Spanish in 
particular has a rather unique status. The retention of archaisms and pronunciations from early 
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modern peninsular Spanish, incorporation of English loanwords, and code-switching are seen as 
‘impurities’ and disparaged by both speakers of English and Standard Mexican Spanish. 
Additionally, when Chicanos (and Latinos) who have different levels of bilingualism and use 
varying amounts of code-switching end up speaking Spanglish, it is viewed as a failure or 
educational disadvantage (La Fountain-Stokes 143). 
Explaining that code-switching is often the most natural form of communication for her 
and other Chicanos, Anzaldúa describes Chicano Spanish as expressive of the hybrid and impure 
character of border cultures (and the challenges they pose to the concept of a nation-state). She 
advocates for finding value in a language that has been historically disparaged as ‘impure’ 
precisely because of its hybridity, linking the demand for the acceptance of Chicano Spanish to a 
demand for the acceptance of multiplicity and heterogeneity. In La política queer del espanglish 
(The queer politics of Spanglish), Lawrence La Fountain-Stokes expounds upon what Anzaldúa 
wrote about Chicano Spanish, focusing on its connection to queerness in accordance with 
Anzaldúa’s views of border cultures as ‘queer’ spaces where “The prohibited and forbidden are 
its inhabitants […] the perverse, the queer, the troublesome” (Anzaldúa 25). To Anzaldúa, not 
only are borderlands ‘queer’ (i.e. transgressive) spaces, but “Gringos in the U.S. Southwest 
consider the inhabitants of the borderlands transgressors, aliens” (Anzaldúa 25). La Fountain-
Stokes goes further, contending that a commonality exists between Spanglish and queerness in 
their transgressive nature. Both are connected to dichotomous notions of purity and impurity in 
which the civilized and accepted are juxtaposed to what is considered taboo, savage, barbaric, 
inferior, or degraded (La Fountain-Stokes 143). 
La Fountain-Stokes refers to the work of several other academics that describe Spanglish 
as transgression: Mexican literary critic, university professor, and writer Ilan Stavans describes 
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the use of Spanglish as a linguistic game or condition of his “subaltern” students; Nuyorican poet 
and journalist Ed Morales sees it as a family social practice of resistance that (as Anzaldúa 
argues in Borderlands) is intimately connected to Latin American mestizaje (miscegenation, 
particularly between Europeans and indigenous populations; henceforth mestizo will refer to a 
man of mixed race and mestiza will refer to a woman of mixed race); and anthropolitical 
linguists Ana Celia Zentella (Mexican/Puerto Rican, born and raised in the United States) and 
Bonnie Urciuoli (American) articulate the linguistic elements of the racism experienced by 
Latinos in the United States and defend their bilingual practices (La Fountain-Stokes 142-3). 
Although these academics all comment on the profound queer (i.e. transgressive) nature of 
Spanglish, Anzaldúa is the only one to analyze the intersection of language and queer sexuality. 
There is nothing intrinsically pure or impure about sexuality or language beyond how 
each is defined socio-culturally in a given historical moment. For Chicanos, the context for these 
notions of purity and impurity are rooted in conquest. The origin story of mestizaje in the 
Chicano consciousness is inextricably connected to Malintzin, also referred to as La Malinche (a 
nickname that implies betrayal) or La Chingada (the ‘fucked’ one). Malintzin was an indigenous 
interpreter/translator that helped the Spaniards conquer the Aztecs and a mistress to conquistador 
Hernán Cortés with whom she had a son (Martín). Aiding and consorting with Cortés made her 
into a traitor and symbol of violent sexualization, an exploited victim, and the object of guilt and 
abjection, whereas bearing his child made her the mother of the first mestizo and the symbolic 
mother of the Mexican people (La Fountain-Stokes 143-4). Her story and what she has come to 
symbolize demonstrate how gender and sexuality are connected to multilingualism in the 
Chicano consciousness. Malintzin’s narrative connects woman to language, politicizes the 
feminine body (a site of both pleasure and reproduction), and makes her the violated 
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(conquered), impure mother of the nation and its language (La Fountain-Stokes 144). 
Furthermore, her place in the Chicano consciousness has made reclaiming Chicano Spanish and 
valorizing it for its hybridity—Chicanas establishing their own lengua y sitio (language and 
space)—an important aspect of Chicana activism for this reason—“if  you want to really hurt 
[Chicanas], talk badly about [their] language. Ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity—
[they are their] language” (Anzaldúa 81). 
La Virgen de Guadalupe (The Virgin of Guadalupe), “the virgin mother who has not 
abandoned [Chicanos]” constitutes the other half of a dichotomy that exists between her and 
Malintzin, “la Chingada (Malinche), the raped mother whom [Chicanos] have abandoned” 
(Anzaldúa 52). Anzaldúa describes how this is harmful to Chicanas when she writes that “the 
true identity of [these two figures] has been subverted—Guadalupe to make [Chicanas] docile 
and enduring, la Chingada to make us ashamed of our Indian side […] [encouraging] the 
virgen/puta (whore) dichotomy” (Anzaldúa 53). Throughout the 20th century, prominent 
(predominantly male) academics largely focused on this harmful dichotomy and emphasized the 
image of Malintzin as a symbol of violent sexualization. Later, Chicana and Mexican feminists 
such as Gloria Anzaldúa began to reconstruct her image viewing her instead as a symbol of 
resistance and negotiation. A negotiator of multiple cultures as they are, Malintzin has become a 
symbol of their own oppression and a representation of their indigenous roots and the historical 
legacy of Spanish colonization, as well as their more recent subjugation and struggle against 
Anglo-Americans (La Fountain-Stokes 144). Guadalupe viewed in this light highlights the power 
of indigeneity for Chicanos and provides a model for cultural mediation, the importance of 
which in reference to Chicano gay men will be discussed further in Analysis and Findings.  
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Chicana historian Emma Pérez writes about the long-term psychological consequences of 
conquest and colonization (with Malintzin as its symbolic center) in her essay Speaking from the 
Margin: Uninvited Discourse on Sexuality and Power. Pérez theorizes Hernán Cortés, Malintzin, 
and la Virgen de Guadalupe as an “Oedipal-conquest triangle” that starts an “addictive cycle of 
dependence between the powerful and the powerless” (Pérez 64). She demonstrates dependence 
between the powerful and the powerless through several examples: the colonized population’s 
necessity of learning the colonizer’s language to access power and privilege (albeit controlled 
and qualified); Chicano men who embody the white colonizer’s ways and impose them on their 
Chicana sisters, repudiating them for fear of being a weak, ‘castrated’ betrayer of their people; 
and the differing possibilities of getting closer to the nexus of power (the hegemonic status of the 
white male colonizer) for Chicanos and Chicanas who marry white people—their light-skinned 
children (perhaps) with white last names holding levels of power and privilege not attainable to 
their non-white parents (Pérez 60, 62-3). With this Oedipal-conquest triangle in their collective 
memories, “Both women and men are addicted to that which destroys them—the patriarchy 
within capitalist constructs in the late twentieth century. The social-sexual-racial relations 
between men and women condoned by the patriarchy are inherently unhealthy and destructive,” 
especially for queer Chicanos. According to Pérez, achieving successful revolution in the face of 
the strength and persistence of the patriarchy lies in rejecting this addictive cycle. Anzaldúa 
emphasizes how this cycle perpetuates male dominance and often results in Chicano men (one 
will see that this is not exclusive to straight men and applies to gay men as well)—who are 
unable to attain the hegemonic dominance of white men—asserting this dominance in the form 
of violence against women.  
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Gloria Anzaldúa provides a model of the violent, addictive cycle described by Pérez, 
which she describes as “a duel of oppressor and oppressed; locked in mortal combat, like the cop 
and the criminal, both are reduced to a common denominator of violence” (Anzaldúa 100). In the 
final chapter of Borderlands, “La conciencia de la mestiza: Towards a New Consciousness,” 
Anzaldúa redefines machismo for the Anglo reader. She prefaces this definition explaining that 
machismo as it is currently understood is actually an Anglo invention. For her father, being 
“macho” meant something else, “being strong enough to protect and support [her] mother and 
[she and her siblings], yet being able to show love” (Anzaldúa 105). What is different now, she 
writes, is that the “macho” Chicano man is threatened by hierarchized male dominance—their 
inability to access the hegemonic male dominance of the white man—that makes him feel 
shame, guilt, a lost sense of dignity, the discomfort of language inadequacy, racial amnesia, and 
self-deprecation and “leads him to put down women and even to brutalize them” (Anzaldúa 105).  
In the same chapter, Anzaldúa also provides a model for deconstructing this violent, 
addictive cycle through the formation of “a new mestiza consciousness, una conciencia de mujer 
[a woman consciousness] […] a consciousness of the Borderlands” (Anzaldúa 99). She believes 
that those who are marginalized, “who do not feel psychologically or physically safe in the 
world,” have what she refers to as la facultad (the faculty) (Anzaldúa 60). She defines it as “the 
capacity to see in surface phenomena the meaning of deeper realities, to see the deep structure 
below the surface […] an instant ‘sensing,’ a quick perception arrived at without conscious 
reasoning” (Anzaldúa 60). This means that someone who carries a marginalized identity, and 
especially those who carry multiple, are better able to understand the world around them, to see 
“beyond,” and to see hierarchies and power relations that exist and the reality of their effects. 
This does not only apply to Chicanas either, rather “Those who are pounced on the most have it 
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the strongest—the females, the homosexuals of all races, the dark-skinned, the outcast, the 
persecuted, […] the foreign” (Anzaldúa 60). She suggests that la facultad in conjunction with the 
experience of constantly transitioning between languages and cultures that border-dwellers are 
accustomed to could be the basis of more expansive solidarities that could be useful with regard 
to various social justice movements (including queer liberation).  
Just as she advocates for the acceptance of heterogeneity, multiplicity, and hybridity with 
regard to language, Anzaldúa also advocates for tolerance of ambiguity and contradictions with 
regard to cultural identity. Chicanas are already forced to “[learn] to be an Indian in Mexican 
culture, to be Mexican from an Anglo point of view […] to juggle cultures,” but according to 
her, must also learn to harness la facultad to think divergently and “move toward […] a more 
whole perspective […] that includes rather than excludes” (Anzaldúa 101). A perspective based 
on inclusion starts internally with Chicanas learning to view themselves as “greater than the sum 
of [their] severed parts [i.e. cultures or identities]” (Anzaldúa 102). In her eyes, Chicanas altering 
their perception of themselves, their reality, and their behavior is the first step in the formation of 
a new mestiza consciousness that breaks down individually and collectively held dualistic 
paradigms (white/non-white, male/female, virgin/whore, subject/object). Uprooting these 
dualistic paradigms is “the beginning of a long struggle” that “in our best hopes, [brings] us to 
the end of rape, of violence, of war” (Anzaldúa 102). 
If altering their perception of themselves is the first step, the second is to take inventory 
of the various forms of oppression they experience, differentiating what was inherited, acquired, 
and imposed (Anzaldúa 104). She does this herself by constructing her identity as a Chicana 
lesbian and feminist in universalist terms. She has no country having been cast out of her 
homeland, no race having been disclaimed by her people for her lesbianism, and is cultureless as 
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a feminist that challenges many collective beliefs. At once all countries are hers as every 
woman’s sister or potential lover, she belongs to all races because queerness transcends race, and 
she is cultured in the sense that she is a producer of new culture (Anzaldúa 102). Note the 
paradoxical nature of these ideas, yet another example where she embodies the duality of her 
identity in her writing. Taking inventory in this way “is a conscious rupture with all oppressive 
traditions” that allows for the adoption of “new perspectives toward the dark-skinned, women 
and queers […] strengthens her tolerance (and intolerance) for ambiguity […] [and makes her] 
vulnerable to foreign ways of seeing and thinking” (Anzaldúa 104).  
The burden of this struggle is not solely on Chicana shoulders and shouldn’t be. The goal 
behind the construction of this new mestiza consciousness is for it to serve as the basis of more 
expansive solidarities that will not only include but empower other marginalized groups for the 
betterment of all. She believes there is a shared inner struggle among marginalized populations 
whether “Chicano, indio, American Indian, mojado, mexicano, immigrant Latino, […] working 
class Anglo, Black, [or] Asian” and that in order for Chicanos to come together with these other 
groups “each of [them] must know [their] Indian lineage, [their] afro-mestizaje, [their] history of 
resistance” (Anzaldúa 108-9). Furthermore, although she validates the opinion of other people of 
color that it is the duty of white people to rid themselves of their own internalized fear and 
hatred, she admits to allowing herself to expend some of her energy to serve as a mediator. She 
feels that Chicanos should allow white people to be their allies and to collectively speak to white 
society, demanding among other things “the admission/acknowledgement/disclosure/testimony 
that they wound [Chicanos], violate [them], are afraid of [them] and of [their] power” (Anzaldúa 
106).  
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It is not solely due to her own identity that she places such importance on the mestiza, 
rather the oppression of all is tied to her own for “As long as woman is put down, the Indian and 
the Black in all of us is put down,” as well as the queer in those men who deviate from the norm 
(Anzaldúa 106). Later, referring to men’s strict bondage to gender roles, she writes:  
“Only gay men have had the courage to expose themselves […] and to challenge the 
current masculinity. I’ve encountered a few scattered and isolated gentle straight men, the 
beginnings of a new breed, but they are confused, and entangled with sexist behaviors 
they have not been able to eradicate. We need a new masculinity and the new man needs 
a movement” (Anzaldúa 106). 
This research, as one will soon see, will demonstrate that there has been little participation and 
scarce contributions from Chicano gay men in both the Chicano Movement and in Chicano-
Latino Studies as a discipline. It is not only straight Chicano men that are “entangled with sexist 
behaviors,” gay Chicano men, both femme and not, are also caught up in the same violent, 
addictive cycle. However, until now, gay Chicano men whose gender presentation is in 
accordance with traditional notions of masculinity and those who play the active role in a 
homosexual encounter (i.e. the penetrative partner) have been able to hold onto many of the 
same privileges as their straight counterparts. This differential treatment of queer men is based 
largely on whether their gender presentation is viewed as masculine. Maintaining these 
privileges has led traditionally masculine gay Chicano men to contribute not only to the 
oppression of their Chicana sisters but also that of their femme gay brothers encumbered as they 
are by the visibility of their queerness. 
Since the publication of Borderlands, there have already been changes that could 
constitute progression towards the development of the “new consciousness” Anzaldúa describes. 
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One such example is in the ongoing reconstruction of the word Chicano itself. I have personally 
witnessed various changes that have occurred during my undergraduate career. Some of which 
have been preferential usage of the feminine Chicana, creative orthographies such as Chicana/o 
or Chican@ to include both the feminine and masculine adjective endings, and more recently the 
use of Chicanx has become more prevalent in an effort to acknowledge and be inclusive of 
gender non-conforming individuals. Though perhaps less common, some use Xicano in an effort 
to acknowledge the important role of indigeneity in Chicano history because the letter ‘x’ was 
historically a ‘ch’ sound in indigenous languages. If there continues to be a progression towards 
the centering of the queer, indigenous Chicana in the Chicano Movement and Chicano-Latino 
Studies as a discipline, one could conceivably imagine the construction of yet another word, such 
as “Xicanx,” that would serve to acknowledge both indigeneity in ‘X’ and gender non-
conforming individuals in ‘x.’ These developments are merely examples that I have personally 
witnessed, but they are not the only examples and one will see in the next section that Anzaldúa 
is not the only queer Chicana feminist to suggest that there must be a construction of a new 
consciousness. 
III. Queer Aztlán 
In Borderlands, Anzaldúa provides a brief history of Aztlán—the name of the Chicano 
homeland. She describes its indigenous influences beginning with the Cochise migrants who 
were the ancestors of the Aztecs and the land’s earliest settlers arriving around 35,000 BCE, then 
the birth of a mestizo population when the 16th century sees the Spanish conquest. Later still, the 
traumas of a U.S.-Mexican War from 1846 to 1848 and the subsequent acquisition of present-day 
Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and California by the United States with the signing of 
the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (Anzaldúa 26, 29). In Queer Aztlán: the Re-formation of 
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Chicano Tribe (henceforth referred to simply as Queer Aztlán), Cherríe Moraga, another Chicana 
lesbian academic, activist, and writer describes her complex set of identities and maps out the 
exclusionary history of various social movements to preface her desire for the construction of a 
new Aztlán—in other words, a new Chicano consciousness. Moraga demonstrates the 
homeland’s almost spiritual importance in the Chicano consciousness in a description of her 
discovery of the word Aztlán in her essay: 
Aztlán. I don’t remember when I first heard the word, but I remember it took my 
heart by surprise to learn of that place—that “sacred landscape” wholly evident en las 
playas, los llanos, y en las montañas of the North American Southwest. A terrain that I 
did not completely comprehend at first, but that I continue to try, in my own small way, 
to fully inhabit and make habitable for its Chicano citizens. 
Aztlán gave language to a nameless anhelo [desire] inside me. To me, it was never 
a masculine notion. It had nothing to do with the Aztecs and everything to do with 
Mexican birds, Mexican beaches, and Mexican babies right here in Califas. I remember 
once driving through Anza Borrego desert, just east of San Diego, […] 
That day I claimed that land […] as I wrapped around a rubber-burning curve, I 
saw it: “A-Z-T-L-A-N,” in granite-sized letters etched into the face of the mountainside. 
Of course, I hadn’t been the first. Some other Chicano came this way, too, saw what I 
saw, felt what I felt. Enough to put a name to it. Aztlán. Tierra Sagrada [Sacred Ground]. 
A term Náhuatl in root, Aztlán was that historical/mythical land where one set of 
Indian forebears, the Aztecs, were said to have resided 1,000 years ago. Located in the 
U.S. Southwest, Aztlán fueled a nationalist struggle twenty years ago, which 
encompassed much of the pueblo Chicano from Chicago to the borders of Chihuahua. In 
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the late sixties and early seventies, Chicano nationalism meant the right to control our 
own resources, language, and cultural traditions, rights guaranteed us by the Treaty of 
Guadalupe Hidalgo signed in 1848 when the Southwest was "annexed" to the United 
States at the end of the Mexican-American War. (Moraga 151-2) 
However, Cherríe Moraga goes beyond the history of Aztlán. In her essay, she reflects on her 
coming of age in the late 60s and learning to navigate her own unique intersection of identities as 
“a closeted, light-skinned, mixed-blood Mexican-American, disguised in [her] father’s English 
last name,” and her politicization through the “bold recognition of her lesbianism” (Moraga 146-
7).  
Coming out propelled Moraga into the various social movements of her era, but she 
experienced many forms of exclusion throughout her twenty years of activism, “the racism of the 
Women’s Movement, the elitism of the Gay and Lesbian Movement, the homophobia and 
sexism of the Chicano Movement, and the benign cultural imperialism of the Latin American 
Solidarity Movement” (Moraga 146). Later, she writes about a conversation she had with poet 
Ricardo Bracho about the limitations of the 90s LGBT activist organization Queer Nation—a 
rather white, Anglo nation for many queer people of color. Bracho jokingly says that what they 
need is a Queer Aztlán—“A Chicano homeland that could embrace all its people, including its 
jotería [queer folk]” (Moraga 147). Understanding its importance in the Chicano consciousness 
allows one to understand why she and Bracho frame their desire for a reinvigorated and 
revolutionized Chicano Movement on the “more metaphysical than physical territory” that is 
Aztlán (Moraga 153). Moraga, like other Chicanos, cannot necessarily envision a world in which 
the physical territory of Aztlán is returned to them, but she does envision a world in which 
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Chicanos have reclaimed the metaphysical territory of Aztlán in their colonized minds, bodies, 
and souls. 
Earlier in the Chicano Movement, “El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán” (The Spiritual Plan of 
Aztlán) was written, but “lesbians and gay men were not envisioned as members of the ‘house’” 
and were excluded from the plan “[forfeiting] the participation and vision of some very 
significant female and gay leaders and never [achieving] the kind of harmonious Chicano 
‘familia’ they ostensibly sought” (Moraga 158-9). In this section, Moraga discusses the shared 
experiences of queer men and women, writing “we do share the fact that our ‘homosexuality’—
our feelings about sex, sexual power and domination, femininity and masculinity, family, 
loyalty, and morality—has been shaped by heterosexist culture and society” (Moraga 160). Like 
Anzaldúa, she believes in the importance of queer folks to the Chicano Movement—“[queers] 
have plenty to tell heterosexuals about themselves. […] I suspect heterosexual Chicanos will 
have the world to learn from their gay brothers about their shared masculinity, but they have the 
most to learn from the ‘queens,’ the ‘maricones’ [faggots]” (Moraga 160). In a future where 
Chicano gay men assume this responsibility, Moraga writes that they must: 1) “give up their 
subscription to male superiority,” 2) realize “that their freedom is intricately connected to the 
freedom of women,” and 3) “openly [confront] Chicano sexuality and sexism” in order to 
“unravel how both men and women have been formed and deformed by racist Amerika and 
[their] misogynist/catholic/colonized mechicanidad,” (Moraga 163). 
Moraga also discusses the differential participation and contribution of Chicano gay men 
and Chicana lesbians thus far. The latter have been at the forefront of “some of the most 
impassioned activism” while “the majority of gay men still cling to what privileges they can” 
(Moraga 159, 161). Despite “[having] often been severely disappointed and hurt by the 
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misogyny of gay Chicanos,” Moraga is still able to see the potential that exists for coalition-
building and believes that gay male participation is of particular importance to the movement 
because of their understanding of “the macho’s desire to dominate the feminine, but even more 
intimately because they both desire men and share manhood with their oppressor” (Moraga 161). 
Domination by the heterosexual or masculine Chicano man is another commonality between 
queer men and women that Moraga points out. Queer men, especially femme gay men, often 
share in the experiences of rape, sexual abuse, and domestic violence at the hands of their 
(macho) brethren that Chicana women are too accustomed to. The corporal nature of the 
domination experienced leads Moraga to an analysis of land and indigeneity in the metaphysical 
plane of Aztlán. In the vein of Pérez’s conception of Malintzin as the symbolic territorialization 
of the Chicana woman, Moraga writes “Land remains the common ground for all radical action. 
But land is more than the rocks and trees, the animal and plant life that make up the territory of 
Aztlán […] For women, lesbians, and gay men, land is that physical mass called our bodies” 
(Moraga 173).  
Citing the importance of sovereignty and land rights to international indigenous 
movements and Chicanos’ connection to indigeneity broadly (most are unable to identify which 
specific tribes their ancestors belonged to), Moraga advocates centering the indigenous aspect of 
their identity and looking to indigenous models going into the future for three reasons. First, their 
indigenous ancestors inhabited the Chicano homeland long before the Spanish conquest and the 
subsequent Anglo colonization—“our Indian blood and history of resistance […] made us 
rightful inheritors of Aztlán. […] a Chicana […] becomes a citizen of this country, not by virtue 
of a green card, but by virtue of the collective voice she assumes in staking her claim to this land 
and its resources” (Moraga 154, 156). Second, although she acknowledges that not all Native 
 Rojas 25 
American tribes held the same beliefs, Moraga refers to gay men and lesbians traditionally 
having been respected for being “two-spirited” (i.e. at once demonstrating both masculine and 
feminine traits) as “historical validation for what Chicana lesbians and gay men have always 
recognized—[they] play a significant spiritual, cultural, and political role within the Chicano 
community” (Moraga 165). Lastly, in the face of a capitalist, heterosexist, and racist society that 
largely fails to sustain Chicanos physically, emotionally, or spiritually “[Chicanos] have formed 
circles of support and survival, often drawing from the more egalitarian models of indigenous 
communities […] the tribal model is a form of community-building that can accommodate 
socialism, feminism, and environmental protection” (Moraga 164-5). In conclusion, Moraga 
believes that the future of the Chicano Movement is returning to the indigenous and female roots 
of their homeland and placing the decolonization of the queer, brown, and female body at its 
center. However, in order for this to take place her queer brethren must stand beside her. 
Analysis and Findings 
I. Homosexual Identity and Behavior Among Chicano Men 
“Unlike the ‘queens’ who have always been open about their sexuality, ‘passing’ gay men have 
learned in a visceral way that being in ‘the closet’ and preserving their ‘manly’ image will not 
protect them, it will only make their dying more secret.” – Cherríe Moraga 
 
In Hombres chicanos: una cartografía de la identidad y del comportamiento homosexual 
(Chicano men: Cartography of Homosexual Identity and Behavior), Tomás Almaguer, a Chicano 
sociologist out of the University of California – Berkeley and Professor and Dean of the College 
of Ethnic Studies at San Francisco State University, seeks to explore the differences in the sexual 
cultures of the United States and Mexico. He analyzes how the influence of both of these 
cultures (i.e. biculturalism) affect the ways in which Chicano men address homosexual identity 
and behavior. Almaguer refers to two sexual systems, making a distinction between a European-
 Rojas 26 
North American system and a Mexican-Latin American one, each with their own sexual codes 
(Almaguer 46). In the former, sexuality is structured based on the desired sexual object—
meaning the preferred sex or gender of sexual partners—resulting in the formation of categories 
that define a person’s sexual preference (i.e. bi/hetero/homosexual). A consequence of this 
system is the condemnation of homosexual behavior—viewed historically in Europe and North 
America as sinful, destructive to the body, or as a mental illness—and that desire alone is 
stigmatized and marginalizes queer men from masculine power (Almaguer 49).  
In the latter, sexuality is structured based on the sexual purpose of one’s sexual 
practices—with sex and gender as a secondary factor—resulting in the formation of categories 
that define the role a person plays in a sexual encounter (i.e. activos y pasivos [tops and 
bottoms], the penetrative and receptive partners respectively). A consequence of this system is 
that not all queer men are affected the same. Pasivos experience significantly more 
stigmatization because their role is viewed as subordinate and feminine, whereas activos are 
essentially free of this stigmatization because the perception of their role as dominant and 
masculine affords them the privilege of being viewed as (normal) men (Almaguer 50). Cherríe 
Moraga, whose work Almaguer later references in his essay, recognizes this fact as well in 
Queer Aztlán—“Because  they are deemed ‘inferior’ for not fulfilling the traditional role of men, 
[femme gay men] are more marginalized from mainstream heterosexual society than other gay 
men and are especially vulnerable to male violence” (Moraga 161).  
In order to better explain these differences, Almaguer describes how ‘anal passivity’ is 
stigmatized and given subordinate status in Latin culture—“‘Giving’ is being masculine, 
‘receiving’ is being feminine” (Almaguer 51). In Mexico, male-female relations have developed 
to fit the stereotype of the dominant, aggressive man (whose male sex organ is viewed as 
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‘active’) and the selfless, resigned, passive woman (whose female sex organ [along with the male 
anus] is viewed as ‘passive’) (Almaguer 51-2). He believes that it is because of the stigmatized 
nature of penetration and who is being penetrated that: 
“the masculine gender and heterosexual identity of a Mexican are not seen as threatened 
by a homosexual act, as long as the man plays the penetrative role. Only the man in the 
passive sexual role and with feminine gender characteristics is considered truly 
homosexual, and as a result is stigmatized […] it is primordially the effeminate, passive 
homosexual that is the object of ridicule and social scorn in Mexico” (Almaguer 54) 
These concepts are reified in everyday language as well. Pejorative terms for gay men such as 
‘maricón’ or ‘joto’ are nearly exclusively used for effeminate, passive gay men. The word ‘puto’ 
is noteworthy in that the feminine equivalent ‘puta’ refers to a female prostitute while the 
masculine refers to a passive, gay man. Almaguer likens these terms to the usage of the word 
“cocksucker” in the U.S. (where oral sex is stigmatized more than in Mexico) (Almaguer 55). 
 Due to the emphasis on behavior and sexual practices, “bourgeois” identity-based sexual 
categories such as “gay” and “lesbian” that have only recently been imported from the United 
States have not historically been pertinent to the conferring of gender or sexual meaning in 
Mexican society (Almaguer 58). However, Mexican men that do define their sexual identity as 
“gay” have largely adopted North American models—“the most recent incarnation of the 
‘modern Mexican homosexual’ is based on North American sexual codes and the ‘foreign’ 
nature of such sexual practices has made the men who have adopted them known as 
international” (Almaguer 58). Many of the conclusions Almaguer comes to are in line with work 
already done by Chicana lesbians, to whom he pays respectful homage, refers to often, and from 
whom he believes Chicano gay men have much to learn (Almaguer 64, 71). First, he develops a 
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preliminary typology to describe the ways in which Chicano gay men navigate the duality of the 
Chicano experience described by Anzaldúa. He discerns five principal ways in which Chicano 
gay men have come to integrate elements of both sexual systems in their sexual conduct:  
“1) working-class Latinos that embody an effeminate persona and that generally play the 
passive role in homosexual encounters […] 2) Latinos that consider themselves hetero or 
bisexual, but that furtively have sex with other men. […] They tend to conserve a strong 
Chicano ethnic identity and structure their sexuality in accordance with the Mexican 
sexual system […] 3) Latino men that openly consider themselves gay and participate in 
the nascent gay subculture […] 4) Latino men that consider themselves gay without 
participating in the Latino gay subculture, and that prefer to maintain a basic identity as 
Latinos and only secondarily as gay; and […] 5) Latino men that totally integrate into the 
white masculine gay community” (Almaguer 63) 
Second, as noted by both Anzaldúa and Moraga, Almaguer stresses the competing interests and 
differential levels of privilege based on the masculinity or femininity of gay men. The emergence 
of these (predominantly masculine) international gay men that identify themselves as “gay” and 
“come out of the closet” could be beneficial in that their gender conformity could legitimate to a 
certain degree a “gay lifestyle,” but at the same time they further stigmatize femme gay men—
whose visibility never allowed them to attempt to ‘play straight’ and thus experienced less 
turmoil and fewer problems accepting their identity and coming out—who are also seeking 
acceptance (Almaguer 59).  
 In the last section of the essay, “The last frontier: Unmasking the Chicano gay man,” 
Almaguer contends that one has “yet to explore in depth the ways in which Chicano gay men 
experience the complex process of integrating, reconciling and questioning diverse aspects of the 
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Anglo-Saxon cultural life as much as of the Chicano one” (Almaguer 71). However, in this early 
exploration of homosexual identity and behavior among Chicano men (supplemented heavily by 
the work of Chicana lesbians), Almaguer has gleaned that Chicano gay men still harbor the same 
implicit disdain towards women and femininity in general that straight men do—“Despite having 
accepted a ‘modern’ sexual identity, they are not immune to the generic and hierarchical system 
of sexual meanings” (Almaguer 72). In conclusion, Almaguer challenges Chicano gay men to 
abandon ‘the closet’ they’ve been relegated to and take on the task of reinterpreting and 
redefining what it is means to be at once gay and Chicano in cultural mediums that have 
historically considered these categories contradictory (Almaguer 72). 
II. Feminization of the (Young) Male Body 
“As a Chicana lesbian, I know that the struggle I share with all Chicano and Indigenous peoples 
is truly one of sovereignty, the sovereign right to wholly inhabit oneself (cuerpo y alma) and 
one’s territory (pan y tierra)” – Cherríe Moraga 
 
 In Biografías sexuales en varones con prácticas homoeróticas, el caso de la ciudad de 
México (Sexual biographies in men with homoerotic practices, the case of Mexico City), Gabriel 
Gallego Montes conducts a study of 250 men with the goal of better understanding the socio-
sexual events and transitions that take place over the course of their lives. Montes focuses on 
three socio-sexual events: 1) the homoerotic sexual debut, 2) the first relationship or partnership 
between men, and 3) the first co-resident relationship or union. For the purposes of this section, 
the first of these socio-sexual events will be most pertinent. Montes largely (implicitly) agrees 
with Tomás Almaguer’s depiction of Mexican-Latin American sexual culture, writing that there 
is a (heteronormative) sexual hierarchy in which penetration is the central act—and is associated 
with the “activity” of men and “passivity” of women—and vaginal sex is at the top while 
homoerotic practices between men such as anal penetration and oral sex have an inferior status 
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(Montes 59-60). The portion of the study that focuses on the men’s homoerotic sexual debut 
revealed intra-gender power relations that appear to be connected to “legitimate” ways of being a 
man and exercising one’s masculinity. The median age of respondents at the time of the first 
experience was 15.5, an age—corroborated by Almaguer—that would explain the domestic 
nature of the occurrence, which usually took place in the home and with someone in their social 
networks (Almaguer 57, Montes 61-2). Furthermore, Montes discerned three categories of 
experience among these men: 1) when the partner was 2 or more years older, the interviewee was 
the receptive partner and performed oral sex on the older man [2/3 of respondents], 2) when the 
interviewee was the older man it tended to be the contrary [just 7.2% of respondents], and 3) 
when the interviewee and their first sexual partner were less than two years apart in age it was a 
“democratic” experience in which there were reciprocal penetrations, oral sex, mutual 
masturbation, caresses, and orgasms [28% of respondents] (Montes 64).  
Cognizance of these manifestations of homoeroticism sheds light on some of their more 
problematic aspects. First, knowing that approximately two-thirds of respondents had their first 
experience before they were of age and with someone at least two years their senior contributes 
to the classic vision of an older, more experienced man “initiating” a younger one. Second, there 
is a well-established power relation based on age difference that translates into the feminization 
of the younger man’s body (Montes 64). This feminization comes in three forms: 1) Mexico 
being a partial inheritor of the Mediterranean cultural context of their Spanish colonizers—a 
limited explanation provided by Montes—it appears the young male body is the object of desire, 
and in a homoerotic context viewed as penetrable, 2) there is a more or less defined “true” 
masculinity based on the negation of the feminine and the homosexual (understood through a 
sexual hierarchy), and 3) the capacity for negotiation and mutual satisfaction is significantly 
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diminished for a man that is under age or is his partner’s junior (Montes 65). According to 
Montes, this demonstrates clear heteronormative constructions of eroticism between men, 
conceptions of the body, and internalization of sexual norms in which various parallel 
dichotomies (feminine/masculine = younger/older = penetrated/penetrator) define the fields of 
possibility, sexual negotiation, and resistance (Montes 66-7). This constitutes a feminization (i.e. 
territorialization) of the (young, femme, queer) male body—just as “Chicanos are an occupied 
nation within a nation, and women and women’s sexuality are occupied within Chicano nation 
[…] women’s bodies and those of men and women who transgress their gender roles have been 
historically regarded as territories to be conquered” (Moraga 150). 
In accordance with Tomás Almaguer, Montes explains that sexual identity goes beyond 
the object of desire, masculinity dominating the seemingly prescribed, heteronormative sexual 
roles mapped out in Mexican-Latin American culture (Montes 68). However, Montes goes even 
further, contending that to start singularly from the sexual object would constitute an acritical 
and reductionist foreign vision of the complex field of sexualities in Mexico (Montes 78). In 
Mexico, the category “heterosexual” only exists in academia and select social sectors highly 
influenced by foreign (Western) discourses to refer to certain sexual practices, whereas in the 
general population the category “man” constitutes the marker of masculinity based on behavior, 
which neither denies nor rejects eroticism with men—thus, for most of these men, their 
homoerotic experiences remain without a name much less an attachment to a sexual identity 
(Montes 79). There is power in gay men naming their experiences, talking about them, writing 
about them, ‘unmasking’ themselves as Almaguer argued. The international gay men discussed 
by Almaguer are a prime example of the power of a name—in this case using the label “gay”— 
having seemingly helped foster a greater level of acceptance through their visibility (albeit 
 Rojas 32 
further stigmatizing feminine gay men in the process). This visibility as a starting point could 
pave the way for the open confrontation of male superiority Anzaldúa, Moraga, and Pérez have 
called for among Chicano men. However, as one shall see, for Chicanos and Latinos in the 
United States these experiences can be even more nuanced and complicated. 
III. Gender Performance: Deconstructing Masculinity 
"To speak of my desire, to find voice in my brown flesh, I needed to confront my male mirror." – 
Ricardo Bracho 
 
 In Making masculinity: Negotiations of gender presentation among Latino gay men, 
Anthony C. Ocampo, facing a lack of studies about gay men of color, seeks to analyze how U.S.-
born Latino gay men ‘do’ masculinity through a 7-month ethnographic study of 15 gay men in 
Los Angeles. Ocampo hypothesizes that masculinity serves as a form of cultural capital—based 
on Bourdieu’s theory that dominant groups utilize culture to prevent subordinate groups from 
accessing power and resources—and that their conceptions of masculinity are both racialized and 
gendered (Ocampo 449). The results of the study are prefaced by explaining that “gender is 
performed and accomplished, and it serves to naturalize and essentialize differences (that are 
neither natural nor essential) between men and women,” and that men and women are socialized 
to act in “masculine” and “feminine” ways (Ocampo 451). Where Ocampo’s interest lies is in 
exactly how these Latino gay men have been socialized to perform their various masculinities 
which “are simultaneously shaped by their social position as racial and sexual minorities,” here 
acknowledging the intersection of identities that marginalizes them from hegemonic masculinity. 
Note that like queer Chicanas, with the exception of not being women, these men must navigate 
being racial minorities in the U.S. context and sexual minorities within their immigrant family 
(the source of la facultad).  
 Rojas 33 
 Prior to discussing the results of his ethnographic study, Ocampo also takes care to dispel 
the stereotype of Latin American cultures being especially macho and homophobic. He critiques 
this idea first by arguing that it implies the existence of a culturally-defined, monolithic “Latino 
masculinity,” when in fact various factors such as race, class, nativity, generational status, legal 
status, or region have fostered various “masculinities” and do a much better job of explaining the 
oppression, isolation, and high-risk behaviors associated with Latino gay men. For example, 
“in both U.S. and Latin America, Latino gay men who are breadwinners or are financially 
independent feel the freedom to disclose their sexuality and bring partners to family 
functions. In contrast, Latino gay men who lack economic resources may feel the need to 
keep their sexuality hidden or ‘tacit’ (understood, but not discussed) because they do not 
want to compromise the social and financial support that they receive from family 
members” (Ocampo 453) 
Thus, in accordance with both Tomás Almaguer and Gabriel Gallego Montes, Ocampo believes 
such (Western) stereotypes of Latin American cultures to be reductionist and acritical. Finally, 
this leads to the results of his purposive ethnographic study. He followed the lives of 15 U.S.-
born Latino gay men (9 Mexican [i.e. Chicano], 3 Salvadoran, 2 Puerto Rican, and 1 Cuban), 
who in spite of potential differences in the aforementioned factors, shared certain commonalities, 
including that they “perform masculinity through presentation of self, social distancing from 
femininity and the desiring of a masculine partner, however masculinity may be constructed” 
(Ocampo 454). Taking into account respondents’ need to situate their intersecting identities in 
multiple gender value systems, Ocampo concludes that “Latino gay men constructed a nuanced 
form of masculinity within these fields that allowed them to mitigate the contradictions they 
encountered” (Ocampo 468). 
 Rojas 34 
 The subsequent sections detail the four other key findings of the study. First, each of 
these men paid careful attention to their presentation of self in the way that they dressed and 
spoke, even which social scenes they frequented, all with the goal of maintaining a gender 
presentation comparable to the “urban” masculinity of other working-class men of color in their 
neighborhoods (Ocampo 456-7). Second, he discerned a social distancing characterized by a 
vision of Latino masculinity as non-white and non-“gay.” All respondents agreed that West 
Hollywood was the center of gay life in Los Angeles while simultaneously describing the area as 
more “white,” “feminine,” and “bougie,” demonstrating an implicit understanding of the 
racialized, gendered, and class-based aspects of public space and a belief that Latino and white 
gay men have distinct presentations of gender (Ocampo 457). Not only were they aware of these 
aspects of public space, but they also felt that West Hollywood was an “unwelcoming, even 
hostile environment for non-White gay men—a space demarcated as a site of social acceptance 
for the gay community” (Ocampo 458). This social distancing and awareness of the differential 
treatment they experience in public spaces had an interesting result. In contrast with the open 
assertion of their ethnic or racial identities in everyday conversations, many respondents were 
uncomfortable using “gay” as a self-descriptor, which they associate with (mainstream) femme, 
white gay men, preferring to use euphemisms such as “I date men” or “I sleep with guys” 
(Ocampo 458-9). Although respondents grew more comfortable using “gay” as a self-descriptor, 
they still disassociated themselves from white, femme gay cultural markers and preferred gay 
spaces frequented predominantly by other people of color (Ocampo 459).  
Third, social distancing from whiteness and femininity had an effect on respondents’ 
dating preferences. In conversation, respondents often sanctioned each other if someone was not 
following masculine gender norms, which is explained as socialization from their immigrant 
 Rojas 35 
families in which older men punished them “for acting feminine or spending too much (platonic) 
time with women” (Ocampo 460). Respondents even engaged in “fag discourse” at times, 
labelling each other as “gay” or other femme-associated epithets such as “that dude’s a girl,” 
“he’s a total bottom,” “Dude, he’s a fag,” or “that guy’s such a queen” to sanction their peers, 
ensure they would be perceived as masculine, and indicate that they can properly identify 
masculinity in others—behaviors “consistent with those of heterosexual men” that “[reify] the 
patriarchal and heteronormative ideology that masculinity is superior to femininity” (Ocampo 
460-1). These various forms of public sanctioning between fellow gay men extended to 
commentary on each other’s choice of sexual and romantic partners. Most respondents sought 
out the same “urban” masculinity they employ to present themselves and sanctioned those who 
dated men who transgress from masculine norms (Ocampo 461). Choosing a masculine partner 
seemed to take on such importance because “having a masculine partner helped them salvage 
their masculinity among family members who might be put off by their sexual orientation” 
(Ocampo 465). Anzaldúa, Moraga, and Almaguer each describe the “central role that the 
Mexican family plays in the structuration of homosexual conduct” and that the family unit has 
historically been the primary means of resistance for Chicanos/Latinos, making the (mainstream) 
white gay ideal of “coming out” significantly more consequential and difficult for 
Chicanos/Latinos (Almaguer 55). 
The final section has the most ramifications for the Chicano Movement. Although 
respondents largely held onto strict notions of masculinity, Ocampo noticed that some had at 
least partially deconstructed them towards the end of the 7-month study. One respondent in 
particular, Javier, began spending time with a group of Latino men that split their time between 
the “white,” “feminine,” and “bougie” mainstream gay spaces of West Hollywood and the 
 Rojas 36 
predominantly Latino scenes most respondents frequented. Javier began identifying as “gay” 
with as much fervor as with his ethnicity, and: 
“these men provided a space for Javier to acclimate to mainstream gay social settings and 
even experiment with feminine gender play he once considered taboo. He felt that he was 
able to do so because among these men his sense of masculinity would not be questioned 
or compromised” (Ocampo 466) 
Ocampo identified the source of these changes in certain “gay men of color who were ‘veteran’ 
patrons of mainstream gay social scenes” who “served as ‘cultural brokers’ who helped [him] 
learn to culturally navigate both […] social worlds” (Ocampo 465). This demonstrates the power 
of la facultad, those men who spend more time transitioning between languages and cultures are 
also better at navigating them and—like Gloria Anzaldúa—are better able to serve as mediators. 
The results of Montes’ study of Biografías sexuales en varones con prácticas homoeróticas, el 
caso de la ciudad de México (Sexual biographies in men with homoerotic practices, the case of 
Mexico City) suggest that being more experienced would indeed have the effect of making one 
more able to ‘deconstruct’ the world around them. The study showed that respondents grew 
steadily more polyamorous and less sexually exclusive with age and more sexual partners and 
partnerships, even using sexual openness as a strategy to maintain long-term relationships. This 
could be said to constitute a refutation of the heteronormative norms and discourses in Mexican 
society in the form of increased flexibility with regard to sexual morality (Montes 75-8).  
Another interesting occurrence that developed among some of the respondents was the 
concept of “manning up” to being gay. In essence, once respondents grew more comfortable with 
their own sexual identity it became another form a masculinity-based cultural capital and those 
who remained ambivalent were publicly sanctioned just as those who transgressed gender norms 
 Rojas 37 
were. Ocampo identifies this phenomenon as an instance in which the competing cultural value 
systems respondents are forced to navigate actually align (Ocampo 467). Ocampo believes that 
together these phenomena (cultural mediation and “manning up”) could constitute an “important 
template for bridging social divisions within the gay community, a space in which gay people of 
color continue to feel excluded based on their race and class background” (Ocampo 468). 
Although the concept of “manning up” to being gay could potentially be beneficial in the short 
term in the sense that Chicano gay men would have a framework for encouraging one another to 
acknowledge and accept their sexual identity, in the long term it remains problematic. As a 
potential solution for ‘deconstructing’ learned norms of masculinity, “manning up” poses the 
problem of reifying certain masculine norms and masculinity as a form of cultural capital at the 
same time as encouraging acknowledgment and acceptance of homosexual identity and behavior. 
On the other hand, the concept of a cultural ‘broker’ or ‘mediator’ is quite similar to Gloria 
Anzaldúa’s concept of cultural mediation and presents a subject that would be beneficial to study 
further going forward. Who makes for an effective cultural ‘broker’ or ‘mediator’? Are there 
other models of mediation besides the one provided in this ethnography? 
Conclusion 
Chicano gay men are faced with a unique situation that differs from those of Chicana 
women, gay or straight, in which their homosexual desire or homoerotic practices can be 
tolerated as long as they are peripheral and they still prescribe to the traditional masculine norms 
and roles that are expected of them. Thus, straight-passing Chicano gay men (those who 
prescribe to said norms) have historically had an easy choice in front of them. They could choose 
to remain ‘men’ in the socially and culturally constructed sense and be Chicano men before 
being queer, holding onto and hiding behind male privilege instead of using it to tackle the 
 Rojas 38 
heterosexism that oppresses Chicano gay men and women alike. For many, this begs the question 
of “how many lives are lost each time we cling to privileges that make other people more 
vulnerable to violence?” (Moraga 164-5). In this case, straight-passing Chicano gay men are 
making their femme gay brethren and Chicana sisters—who have historically been excluded 
from the movement and been forced to make a choice to fight for the liberation of just one of 
their marginalized identities, often at the expense of another—more vulnerable. In the face of 
this dilemma, a divide between Chicana lesbians and Chicano gay men arose, but a handful of 
Chicano activists, academics, and writers have provided valuable models for coalition-building 
between these two groups.  
Until now, Chicana women have continued to be viewed negatively due to an attachment 
to the cultural figure of Malintzin (la Malinche/la Chingada), “making us believe the Indian 
woman in [them] is the betrayer” (Anzaldúa 44). Like Malintzin consorting with Hernán Cortés, 
they end up viewed as traitors when they utilize the North American sexual cultural system to 
gain autonomy. Gloria Anzaldúa is an example of this herself, her fierce affirmation of her 
lesbianism, feminism, and multilingualism questioning the traditional conception of women as 
quiet and submissive, as subjugated and subordinate victims, or as obedient wives and mothers 
(La Fountain-Stokes 145). This creates dissonance between Chicanas (especially lesbians) and 
the family unit, the primary means of resisting North American racism and capitalist 
exploitation. However, coalition-building with Chicano gay men (especially straight-passing 
ones) represents a unique opportunity to further dismantle the heterosexism within the cultures 
they must navigate. Chicano gay men can choose to use their privileged place in the Chicano 
social-cultural hierarchy to step outside of the historical pattern that places class over race over 
 Rojas 39 
sex over sexuality and place the struggles of the Chicana mestiza and the joto at the forefront, or 
at least on equal footing with those of class and race. 
 There are many opportunities for gay men to better ally themselves with women and 
Chicanas who have paved the way for them by utilizing the Borderlands and the intermingling of 
cultures to their advantage, creating languages and spaces of their own in the North American 
context in order to gain autonomy and circumvent racism and heterosexism. Chicano gay men 
could do the same. Queer Chicanos have seemingly only just begun to develop languages and 
spaces of their own. Like Chicana lesbians before them, they can un-tame their tamed tongues 
and let them be wild, form their own queer spaces, and write and talk about their experiences to 
form community and culture and to protect themselves from the threats of violence and 
discrimination. Furthermore, if Chicanos were to reconnect with their indigeneity, central to the 
construction of Anzaldúa’s mestiza consciousness and Moraga’s Queer Aztlán, it would only be 
natural to appreciate queer folks more. Exploring societies built by (some of) their indigenous 
ancestors in which queer individuals were considered to be of high stature and women were on 
(more) equal footing with men, it would only be natural for Chicanos to identify more often as 
queer and to stand beside their Chicana sisters. Lastly, allying with Native American rights 
groups and fighting for land, self-determination, recognition, and the rediscovery of lost cultures, 
languages, and identities in the midst of a xenophobic United States could provide the Chicano 
Movement a means of moving away from the family unit as the primary means of resistance, 
instead opting to participate in and contribute to more expansive solidarities.  
 
 
 
 
 Rojas 40 
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