Color Coded Queers May 2015 | Page 11

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My mother fits the stereotype of an immigrant who came to this country clutching her religion and her language while the world tried to tear her apart. Part of the territory of being a vigilant Catholic woman is the uneasy nature around anything deemed “queer”. My pride bursts out at the seems, so it shows itself through tangents at the dinner table and eye-rolls while Fox News plays in the background. My mother has probably had suspicions since I was in seventh grade, but she never voiced them until a colleague of hers told her that I had been spotted by her daughter at a GSA meeting.

As much as I’d like to be, I’m not ready to come out yet. It’s like I’m in first grade again, and the words “I’m gay” have to be ripped off my tongue like Spanish. Mi madre ya no entiende que no soy valiente. Mi madre ya no entiende que tengo miedo. As much as I’d like to believe that my mother will understand, the same reasons that held me back before held me back now. Coming out, for me, is as slow a process is as relearning Spanish. Pero ahora… nunca más voy a ocultar mi cultura.