For me, growing up as a Puerto Rican woman in Chicago has been bittersweet. In the typical Chicago Latino neighborhood of Humboldt Park, I was definitely odd for a number of reasons. I was not Latina enough because I wasn't born in Puerto Rico, my Casper-like skin tone wasn't dark enough, and I didn't attend my neighborhood school with everyone else.
In the gay community I wasn't gay enough because of my bisexual status. Among my old school Latino family, I was an uncomfortable, crazy and embarrassing topic.
I'm the oldest of 13 grandchildren. I got the message it's all right to be gay, but if it's in your family it's a different story.
My family grew up in neighborhoods where the racial tension between whites and Blacks was violent. There are times when my sister, brother and I sat and listened to my family talk about 1968 and how rough it was to live in what Chicagoans now call Lincoln Park, a gentrified neighborhood.
It shocked me growing up that even though my family faced discrimination, they found it hard to accept my bisexuality. Like no one Latino is gayha!
My mother had the hardest time accepting my bisexuality.
"I didn't raise you to be no fucking pata ( derogatory for lesbian ) ! Is that what I send you to an all girl school for?" my mom yelled frequently.
Whenever she said the word "pata," I felt a hole in my soul. I knew she meant it was something dirty, and it was something she was highly embarrassed about. Whenever she was upset with me she always had to throw in the fact that she thought I was weird and of course unacceptable.
She was taught being gay was wrong in God's eyes from a very young age. Did she walk through the Puerto Rican Festival with her eyes closed in Humboldt Park? As the years went on it seemed to become a pre-game party before the annual Chicago Annual Pride Parade. How could she think I was an outcast?
I have the most respect for my abuela ( grandmother ) . I went to my grandmother with my confusion and pain growing up, hoping for some gentle guidance. I asked her what God might think of me and if she still loved me because I was bisexual. I knew abuela was old school, and no matter how she answered, I would respect whatever she said. It was more important for me to tell her myself, to be brave enough to expose my real self. I wanted her to know all about a person who is gay without the stereotypical garbage. I'm her first grandchild, the brave one.
"I don't know what to tell you to do mi'ja. I don't have the answer for you. I think God put man and woman on earth to be together, not two women or two men. All I can tell you is to ask God and pray about what you should do. I love you no matter what," she said.
Over the years, I've expressed to my family how much hypocrisy there is in teaching us to accept other people's cultural differences and that God loves us all. How can they not accept our sexual differences?
Over time their attitudes slowly changed.
My dad said, "You know Dad loves you no matter who you love, right, Ely? You know I'd be there if you decided to marry a woman, right? I want you to know I love you and no matter what, nothing will change that."
I've struggled a great deal over the years being myself with my family. It was extremely hard. However, I've also begun a dialogue so that our cultural and sexual differences can walk together across a bridge that leads to unified acceptance and understanding. Differences are what keep this world going.
As a Latina I have a responsibility to speak up for others who can't, especially if they're gay or bisexual. My ancestors have taught me to be strong and lead. Who would I be if I forgot all the parts that make up my pride?
Elizabeth Rodriguez is a marketing student at Columbia College Chicago.