From ages 6 to 9, I lived in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. My parents say I would threaten to walk back to Mexico if I didn’t like it there, but I fortunately did thanks to them, my GameCube, and Noble Elementary school. My class pictures from there consisted of my teachers, my majority BIPOC classmates, and three Caucasian kids: a Russian boy, a Nurse’s son and myself.
One day during class, I argued with one of my classmates. At one point, she looked at me and said: “Shut up, white boy!” I immediately started crying which led to my mom being called in to chat with the teachers about the incident. I apparently was still bawling my eyes out when she arrived. She comforted me and asked me what color her skin was, I said white. Then she asked me to look at my hands and say what color I saw, I said white. Not much else was needed apparently, she says I accepted this realization and went back to my usual self. I don’t think what affected me was to be called out on my skin color but being clocked on how different I was from my peers.
Before I realized I was gay, before becoming aware of myself, even before this incident I recall the time my parents allowed me to sleep late when I was around 3-4 years old, big boy stuff. I played on the Nintendo64 and knocked down plastic soldier figurines using marbles with my dad. The next day, we went to the Hospital to get my brain tested, per my school’s request. I remember falling asleep with electrodes on my head, my toddler brain wasn’t scared but I don’t remember being told what was going on until I was older.
Even at that age, I was picking up signals that I was in some way different. I see now: as different as any one of us can be to each other, but maybe that’s why it hurt so much to be called out by a classmate, because that difference was real, noticeable and rejection worthy. That belief became part of how I viewed my inner world. Today, I still live that reality as an immigrant and as a gay man. I wrote this spoken word poem about how it feels to be between worlds:
I check my baggage. Dimensions and weight,
Count my hands so I can carry it myself.
The wheels spin but one doesn’t twist, great,
I put my name on it, own it, don’t let it get away.
I stress if I won’t be able to identify it amongst the rest,
Or switch with someone else’s, commit a theft.
What would they say about my belongings,
Or I about theirs, if I smelled like what he wears.
I grab a tray to place my valuables,
my clothes, glasses, and shoes.
A tray where I put all my electronics,
social media, selfies and texts I never sent you…
Thinking things through,
I grab a couple of trays for the posts I never send too.
A tray for my tongue, brain and overweight heart
And still get checked for secrets after the CT scan.
Board the airplane, take my seat, and breathe.
Look out the window at the unwavering sky,
Everything else changes except for it and I.
Swap the sandcastles out for days of snow,
The volcanoes for a mountain glow.
Takes me a second and then it hits me,
Harder than the pressure change at 35,000 ft.
How hard is it to breathe,
Through a pandemic that’s shrunken my lung,
Why am I coming back?
And not for the obvious reasons like rent and ID.
Real fucking reasons that tie me down to a city.
I don’t know where home is, the cabin shakes my core.
Turbulence truly is a test of strength.
Riding the highs and dealing with the lows,
Catching your breath while the wind blows.
And punches. And knocks the air out of your pores.
I hear echoes of the flight attendant’s instructions,
I heed their warning and focus on my own,
My lane, my life, my emergency oxygen mask.
Why did I come back?
I look out the window, realize I’m grieving.
Leaving. Blood, memories, parts of me behind.
Replacing them with activities I’ve picked up over time.
I look out the window and think I’m looking through my phone,
I slam both windows down, I don’t want to address,
That I want to impress, move on, force progress.
The flight attendant tells me to open the window, deal with the stress.
As we descend, my brain starts to decompress,
Focusing on the present so i don’t have to guess,
We touch the ground.
I can pin point my baggage before it peaks its head.
I’m at 0 ft from the sea level, my baggage doesn’t look so small.
A wheel doesn’t work, I stumble and somedays can’t seem to drag it on my own at all
But it’s mine, and full of food, colour and cuddles.
Little do I see, but smell what is beyond customs waiting for me:
The wet jackets and cologne manning the doors at the gay bar
The answers and clarity that taste like pasta noodles and corn starch.
An array of textures and sights that are unfamiliar to my immigrant eye.
But I trust in myself, what I feed my soul and the city.
I don’t have to look out the glass
To know that I already love what I see,
My eyes might see like a fractured window.
My heart broken out into different locations,
But it’s a matter of perception, staring down at the city network,
Walking through the cracks as illuminated roadmaps to all my contacts.
It’s alright that I don’t know where my home is,
if I know who the people are that I can call my homies.
I was lucky to travel with the homies to Japan just a few days ago. The amount of people, unfamiliar transport system, general overstimulation from the megacities and zero knowledge of Japanese made the cultural shock very real. The first couple of days I was dependent on my Japanese-speaking friend until I realized I did not have to meet his or Nippon’s expectations of me. I tried my best to be respectful and follow suit in most social courtesies but as a gaijin, or outsider, I remembered what it was like living in the US and what it feels to live in Canada today. Heart to heart conversations with my friends gave me insight into their lives; how being mixed race, and gay on top of that, made their upbringing difficult. Like the meme with a bunch of Spider-mans, our worlds pointed some fingers at each other.
Travelling, getting to know the world first hand, is a privilege. The first few times I left my country I remember this hunger to see everything, buy everything, experience everything in a city because I did not know if I’d ever have the opportunity again. I also wanted to feel changed by it but I’ve felt more transformed from interacting with people different than I, because of our nationalities or simply because our brains work differently. The world isn’t just a geographical location, it is also the existence we each experience. Connecting with other people’s inner lives is also a form of travel and trying to access a community can sometimes feel like visiting a completely new country. Even then, assimilation is a choice and subscribing to new societal pressures can feel very much like hiding my sexuality again, feel very much like ignoring my latinx heritage again, feel very much like masking my behaviour again.
I’d like to share another poem about coming to terms with the life I have built so far when my parents came to visit earlier this year.
I see through the same eyes.
While travelling, I often thought I’d feel different.
As if geography, culture or language would mold
Me, my image, my capacity to not do as I’m told.
I’m fonder…of faces transparent and my parents.
You’ve flown here, like me, to see what I’ve done
With your rent money and hopes I’d pull out of it.
I, unknowingly, immigrated to harder challenges,
Like making a home out of your many absences.
A home where love didn’t persist after we split,
Home came as swiftly as it left and yet I’ve built
Something you could be proud of. For once, I too
Am contempt with my roof and not pleasing you.
And it’s true, even colours mature, like blossoms
In gorgeous shades of pink I love myself as Queer,
Laying to rest my problems without fear. Secure,
Loved enough so when you leave, calm persists.
But you’re here (we at Arrivals hold welcome presents,
Proud smiles, happy tears, screaming “mi gente”,
With presence, flowers, balloons like a Televisa segment)
Wanting to be together and live loving mexicanlly.
Being queer is an immigrant experience, even amongst ourselves we face a gender and neuro diversity that often requires flexibility to foster connection. As with some societal norms, failing to bend and adapt means being excluded. One of the first social groups I joined in Vancouver used drugs to bond, and since I didn’t partake, I was left outside of the tiny PJ bathroom hangout. That led me to pursue friendships at a rugby team where I was welcome as a decent player, but didn’t quite click with the community either, because, well, I’m not a naturally aggressive person and that made me shut down around things related to the sport. I felt more connected with the team when we travelled to Rome for a tournament and saw people struggle with being abroad, I saw them feel different too.
I still find myself feeling like a foreigner most of the time. Tears fill my eyes when I feel myself in need of traveling out of one social group to look for friends. Again, because the belief that my brain is different is still strong yet the desire to connect is stronger now more than ever. I just have to remind myself to look down at my hands and embrace who I am. Enjoy the experience of this world, that is, being Luis.
