In 1990, my teacher warned my best friend’s mom not to let her daughter, Daniella, hang out with me, because I was rarito – a Spanish word that directly translates to “queer.” Like its English counterpart, rarito means “a little strange,” or “a little peculiar.” In Mexico, it specifically refers to men who appear to be gay.
It probably wasn’t hard to see that I was gay: I never enjoyed playing rough games or sports with the other boys, opting instead to play house with the girls at my school. My teacher knew I was gay before I realized it myself. And, rather than choosing to provide support or guidance, she tried to isolate me—an already painfully shy and very socially awkward little boy— by separating me from the one person that I connected with fully at the time. As if a rarito, a queer, didn’t deserve acceptance.
I was seven-years-old.
As the years progressed, so did the insults. If I thought rarito was bad… I had it coming. When I moved to another state at the age of 10, I spent one year in an all-boys school. The insults there became more pointed – maricon, marica, joto, puto (all words for fag — we seem to have a lot of them in Mexico). I then moved to Canada at the age of 14, and was introduced to the English variants of these insults.
When I look at photos of my childhood, I see a naive little queer boy who smiled widely, unaware of the way others perceived me — when teachers called me queer behind my back, but not to my face. But in photos from my teenage years, I see sadness. Not the typical teenage angst, but something deeper. The sorrow of someone who sometimes wondered if life would ever get better.
At 42, I can look back at these snippets of my life with clearer eyes. To my teenage self, I can truthfully say (as cliché as it sounds): it does get better. But it also gets difficult in new ways, because self-acceptance, and pride, and queerdom, isn’t always linear:
In 1992, I had my first crush. His name was Mathias, a German classmate with golden hair… which is odd, because I’m not typically attracted to blonde men.
In 1996, I had a platonic bromance with my friend Jorge. I moved away the next year, and he came out as gay in our 20s. We kept in contact, but never saw each other again, and he died of Covid. I sometimes wonder if I hadn’t moved away, if he might have been my first kiss.
In 2000, I had a crush on a girl from high school. But at the same time, I was deeply attracted to so many of my male classmates. It was a very confusing time. I was repressing my sexuality so much, that when one of the guys I was crushing on slapped my ass during PE class — not sure if he was flirting or bullying me — I responded by slamming a hockey stick to his stomach. Hard.
A week later, he returned the favour, slamming a hockey stick against my shins, which fucked up my legs for years to come.
In 2002, at the ripe age of 19, I went on my first date… with a girl from university. Sarah was also my first kiss, which I didn’t enjoy at all. That same year, I went on my first date with a guy. His name was Danny. My name was “Nick…” yes, I used a fake name, because I was still terrified that someone I knew would find out I was gay! Danny was my second “first kiss,” which was more like it. He went on to become my first of many, (many… many) boyfriends
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When I came out to my friends at 19, their response was mostly positive, but I did lose some friendships over it. When I told my friend Nelda, she responded by asking me: “So what, you like it from behind?,” as if that is the only thing that makes a man gay. I was a virgin at the time… but to answer your question, Nelda – Yes, I do like it from behind.
A year later, in 2003, I came out to my brothers and then my parents. My middle brother had softened the blow by coming out the year before, which simultaneously made things better and worse. I didn’t know at the time that having multiple queer children in one household is actually very common.
In 2009, while holding hands with my boyfriend at the time, someone inside a passing car yelled “faggots,” and threw a jawbreaker at the back of my head. This was on Davie Street. During Pride weekend.
In 2014, I met Eamonn, and we got engaged five years later. When I got engaged, a woman who had worked in the same office as me for four years asked, after seeing my engagement ring, “Where did you propose to her?” I thought it was funny at the time. Then I realized how much of my life I still kept private from non-queer people I saw every day. It seems I’m allegedly “straight-passing” in some circles and find the constant “coming out” exhausting.
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My relationship with Pride has also had its ups and downs.
In 2004, I went to my first Vancouver Pride, and over the following two decades, I’ve been to many prides and queer-centric events throughout the world. London, Cape Town, Reykjavik, Buenos Aires, Guadalajara… even exotic Winnipeg — searching for queer joy in every time zone.
In 2022, I marched in a Pride parade for the first time, with the Vancouver Queer Irish group, and then again the following year. Yet, since last year, I’ve fallen out of love with Pride parades. With sponsor pullbacks, corporate and government support of an ongoing genocide, and the rights of trans and non-binary folks under attack, I’m feeling disconnected. I know we need visibility… but I keep wondering if we need to change the method. “The first Pride was a Riot,” they say… maybe it’s time we go back to marching on the streets, rather than parading on them.
In 2063, when I’m 80 years old, I’ll hopefully look back at today, and realize how good we had it. But I also hope that things will get much better for queer people over that time, because this, still isn’t it.
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In 1990, when I was 7-years old, my teacher called me Queer as an insult for the first time… behind my back, of course… Cabrona.
In 1998, someone wrote ‘faggot’ on the back of my sweatshirt in high school… and I wore it that way all day, because I didn’t notice until I got home.
In 2002, I came out as gay to my friends. A year later, I came out to my family.
In 2016, I began using the word Queer as an umbrella term to refer to myself, my friends, and other 2SLGBTQ+ people, in a positive light.
In 2022, I married Eamonn in two wonderful celebrations of the most immense queer joy, surrounded by so many of our friends and family.
Today, in 2026, I stand here, in a room full of queer people, telling our stories. And I finally realize: being a little strange, a little peculiar… a little rarito, if you will, is actually something to be proud of.
vancouverqueerstories.com 