The Don’t Ask Don’t Tell Politics of a Cuban-American Household

By March 2011, the hit TV-show Glee was at its peak. There had never been such a diverse, fun, and inclusive show on television. And to a very impressionable 15-year old me I didn’t think there was anything better. It mixed in my love for musical theater, show tunes, and school choir.

In an episode titled “Sexy,” there was a by-the-lockers scene where Santana explains to Brittany that she is angry. Angry and scared of what others would say if they knew she was in love with Brittany.

I realized that I felt that anger too.

The next morning during my first-period class I pass a note to a close friend of mine: “I think I may like girls too.”

She nodded, said “okay” and that was that.

Of course, it took some months of therapy to then eventually come out to my mom and the rest of my family.

It was all very dramatic, of course. And it was never brought up again.

Every time I come home for the holidays the inevitable “y el novio?” questions arise. I laugh or stay silent. I’m never asked about a novia.

It seems irrelevant and easy to dismiss. But it’s so hard to deal with when your mom and stepdad are pseudo-setting you up with the drive-thru guy.

And it goes beyond just my relationship status. It applies to hiding my pride stickers, getting subliminally coded bi pride t-shirts, my admiration of a good looking woman when I see one.

It applies to hiding my joy while watching the taping of marriage equality being passed in the state of New York.

It applies to hiding my absolute and overwhelming sense of happiness when marriage equality became the law of the land.

It causes me to miss Pride marches and parades.

It applies to hiding my mourning of lives lost in a senseless tragedy.

On June 12, I found out about the Orlando shooting the minute I woke up.

I get up.

The family was coming over for brunch. The first thing my uncle asks when he gets here is if we had seen the news about Orlando. There was no mention of the fact that it was an attack on the LGBT community.

I don’t speak up.

Throughout the meal. And through the afternoon the TV stays on, blasting the news.

My cousins wanted to watch.

I wanted to yell, cry, do something.

But I sat there, feeling numb. Pretending to be engaged in conversation.

I wanted to walk away. Text my friends, ask how they were. Be with a supportive community, who understood the magnitude of this pain.

During the day, I say one wrong thing.

Not wrong so much as confrontational.

Saying this still found me in a private conversation telling me that my opinion to like women was tolerated. Not liked, but tolerated and that because it was, I had to tolerate that person’s rather violent opinion.

I wasn’t allowed to mourn those lives that were cut short because that would mean associating myself with the LGBT community.

I wish I could express more openly who I am and that whoever I end up loving is simply a reflection of love and nothing else.

My cousins say that it is about letting people “learn” to accept me (and my brother) because this is the first time it has happened in the family.

I don’t need to wait for people to “learn” that.

Accepting who I am shouldn’t have to be a lesson

It can be hard, though when not even the language offers some explanation that one can see at least cling to.

English carries a privilege that Spanish does not. English was able to offer me a label, which while constricting, it helped in the first few months of self-identity and reflection.

Spanish is very Us vs. Them, Him vs. Her, Gay vs. Straight.

Spanish did not, and still does not provide an explanation of the term “bisexual” because that just means that I have not “decided” yet which side pulls to me most.

We live in a very strict binary. If you are not one, then you are the Other. And if you happen to be the Other, it’s best not to mention it because shame and destruction are what you will call down from God.

Being 15 and trying to explain to your Spanish-speaking Cuban mother the complexities of sexuality in another language, when you’ve only just dipped your toe in it is daunting.

And to this day, I don’t think she quite gets it.

My mom still holds out hope for me. So she never asks if I’ve found someone. And when she does it is always in the masculine form.

My aunts probably don’t remember.

My cousins only deal with it when I explicitly bring it up.

And I doubt my stepdad was ever told.

My Abuela remains ignorant of the fact.

It is the Most Well-Known Secret in my family.

And sometimes that can keep me safe. But it also leaves me frustrated. Because while I am not defined by my sexuality it is a big part of who I am and shapes how I see the world. It erases a part of who I am.

It frustrates me because this not-so-secret secret was kept from my younger brother. And when he came out, he felt alone and couldn’t turn to someone who understood when he most needed to.

It is not spoken about because it is not conducive to conversations and because it is shameful.

If you are not asked about it, then you are not allowed to tell it.

I can’t live openly in my family’s home.

I know the privilege I have not to have been kicked out, or beaten, or worse. And I am thankful for that every day.

But being erased has made me feel small…doubtful…at times depressed and suicidal.

I walk on thin ice.

Every time I see the pride flag or women holding hands, laughing and loving, but I’m with my family — I look the other way.

When I live in their space, I am only just partly myself.

And so, after the day’s food was put away, everyone was in bed, and the Tonys had been watched — I open up my computer, read the names of the fallen and cry.

I cry until my head hurts and the room is spinning.

I cry for them and the beautiful lives they were leading and could have lead.

I cry for their families and the pain they must be feeling.

I cry because of the fear that is now felt through among the community, especially among young queer kids.

I cry because there is nothing else for me to do.

And when I grieve, I grieve alone.