From The Outside Looking In
By: Brice Kimble
Tags: Arizona, Borders, Gay, Mexico, LGBTQ

From The Outside Looking In

Growing up in Tucson, Arizona, as a half-Latino gay man is an alienating set of circumstances. For my fully Mexican friends, I was too white: my red hair and pale complexion were identifiers that made my younger self anxious: I stuck out. For my white friends, I spent too much time on the south side of town, where the road signs switch from imperial to metric configurations because of the largely Mexican immigrant population. I cherished both of these sides of my identity, yet I felt so estranged whenever it seemed that I could not connect with either half. I existed in a state of in-between, neither one nor the other; but equally both.

When I was a teenager, the Arizona state legislature passed the infamous Senate Bill-1070, which is often considered one of the most aggressive anti-immigration laws in recent memory. The law gave state officers the power to harass anyone about their immigration status if there was ‘reasonable suspicion’ that they were not documented as an American citizen.

The legislation merely authorized a racist and xenophobic culture that I had witnessed from a young age. I frequently sought the advice of my grandmother, whom I called Nana, for her advice. She was a fighter for much of her short life: diagnosed with renal failure, diabetes, and heart disease, she only relented when she lost her legs at age fifty. Despite these challenges, the years that I had with her were some of the greatest of my life because of the wise words she left behind: to never be afraid of who I truly am, nor to let anyone tell me that my identity is inferior to anyone else’s.

Back then, I wished I could share her words with my Mexican friends, who feared trial and persecution from state troopers acting with their ‘reasonable suspicion.’ But I was merely a child and I couldn’t understand what they were experiencing. How could I tell my friends to be proud of their accents or skin color, when I didn’t have the same identifiable traits?

Several years after the passing of SB-1070, anti-Latino hatred remains an American staple: The El Paso shooting left 23 dead (and an additional 23 injured) in 2019. When I heard this news, I felt a tremendous weight on my chest. While the country’s president at the time certainly helped fan the flames of prejudiced citizens, seeing 23 images flash across the screen on the evening news made it clear that some, including El Paso’s shooter, took violent rhetoric to heart.

I was in a similar state of mind during the Pulse Nightclub shooting in 2016. As a gay man in America, I’m forced to trek across dangerous borders. These borders exist within the worlds of healthcare, academia, familial acceptance, even everyday life. As an advocate of gay history, I feel empowered when I examine the struggle that queer individuals endured in the past: They were idols who overcame their struggles and fought for the greater good. I love reading the memoirs of individuals like Larry Kramer, an activist and playwright, who constantly fought for acknowledgment of AIDS-related deaths in spite of widespread, willful ignorance; or Cleve Jones, who created the AIDS memorial quilt, the largest community art project in history. I wish that their work had solved all the modern world’s homophobic prejudice, but as I grew older, I felt the same familiar alienation from my non-queer peers that I did when I was younger, from my Mexican family and friends.

Because my sexual identity was a source of adversity and isolation in my early life, it took years of reflection and growth to become comfortable with my whole self. Perhaps the most difficult memory, for me, was the high school prom. I gleefully created a poster and asked the boy I liked, while he was in an anatomy class, to accompany me. I’d seen countless proposals from my straight friends, each cleverly themed and proudly displayed on their Instagram pages, and I thought mine would be met with the same warmth. But when I walked into his class — bright eyed, the poster over my head — asking for a date, I was met with odd glances and glaring judgment.

The class instructor was a close confidant, and I’d checked with her before interrupting her lesson. She encouraged me, told me it was ‘adorable,’ and smiled as I walked through her classroom door. But when I met the gaze of her students, each focused on my gay declaration, “I want tibia date to prom,” her smile faded, and mine did too. That day forced me to realize that for years, I’d been a relative outsider among peers, always standing on the outside and looking in, blaming myself for their discomfort. We never went to prom together.

I thought that once I began college, things might be different. But in a class taught by the activist Noam Chomsky, I was shocked that my coming out to a classmate led to my subjugation and alienation from him. My invitation for friendship was met with silence, and in later weeks I was actively avoided, as he’d dash across the street if we approached each other from opposite directions on the same sidewalk.

What was wrong with me? For most of my life, I’d seen my straight friends proclaim their affection for their crushes, and nobody batted an eye. But when I asked a boy to prom, and later, privately came out to a classmate, it was as if the universe had caved in on me. I was avoided, glared at, and judged for something I couldn’t change, nor had any control over: Who I truly was.

I wonder if my childhood friends felt the same after SB-1070’s passing. Looking back, I remember that many of them stayed home from school, or didn’t attend our youth team’s soccer games. It is now clear to me: There are some identities that are intentionally blockaded from the American zeitgeist. Not because they’re dangerous and not because there is some essential cultural incompatibility, but because differences are not accepted as neutral. Each person labeled as different is equipped with an individual voice, and in a culture that wishes for homogeneity, such as that of the United States, a different voice can be scary. Recognizing difference is nevertheless an inherent part of creating community.

Today, I find myself frequently navigating the same obstacles as I begin my graduate studies. Of course, my Mexican heritage forces me to answer intriguing questions as I apply to different schools’ programs. Yes, I received Hispanic scholarships during my undergraduate studies, but why is an ethnic qualifier necessary to deem my academic achievements ‘valuable’ to a graduate program? Yes, I’m gay, but why am I even asked about my sexual orientation on those same applications?

I welcome the opportunities for diversity in the realm of scholarship, but the tokenism imposed upon me by academic institutions is humiliating. In essence, these applications force me to dilute my prior experience, and ask questions that actually minimize my identity: Am I Mexican enough to identify as “Mexican” on my application?; or, am I gay enough to check the “homosexual” box?

The problem with this kind of profiling — checking a box — is not inherent to the process itself, for the diversity it begets is valuable and necessary. Rather, the problem is with its implication: in simplifying my identity to insubstantial buzz words, or a box on a page, I’m robbed of the opportunity to share and express the full depth of my identity. Hypothetically, if two people were to have the same Latino indication on their applications, the very principle of a checkbox suggests that the two applicant’s experiences are identical: That being Latino is a universal condition, and that each person connects with their identity in the same way. This thinking creates an environment in which one can feel silenced, where an individual’s experiences aren’t understood as valuable towards a greater cause.

By providing the opportunity for individuals to express the full breadth of their experiences, we can broaden public understanding of the importance of identity, and allow for a more inclusive world: one where diversity is much deeper than on paper alone; one where the borders imposed upon us, both physical and figurative, aren’t so limiting.

Today, I’m proud of being a Mexican, gay man, and that’s a feeling that has taken what seems like forever to develop. With each passing year, each one seems filled with tumult and self-doubt. But I remember what my Nana always knew: that experiences are meant to be embraced, and borders are meant to be crossed.

I want to live in a world where my experiences, in addition to my identifiers, are valued. I’m Mexican, I’m gay, but is that enough to tell who I truly am? Would you know that I’m also a classical pianist?; or, that I love to watch old movies? A checkbox that reads “Mexican” or “homosexual” doesn’t tell you that.

My Nana spent her final days watching old black and white movies with me; teaching me the sounds of Mozart and Chopin, and competing with me to see who could tell the better imaginary story. Now, her picture is the only framed photo in my bedroom. It is perched next to my old-movie collection and classical piano scores, reminding me, as an adult, that there is nothing wrong with who I am.

Brice Kimble is a musician, advocate, and student at the University of Arizona.