Bad Hombrés: Distancing and embracing complex identity as a Latinx male.
Until recently, I thought that children were universally banned from wearing red or blue in schools. Apparently, that’s not the case. During the eight years I attended public school, we weren’t allowed to wear red or blue because of their association as gang colors. In retrospect, I don’t know if the ban was due to my schools being in California or their location in the Bay Area or the mere fact that my schools were comprised of mostly Latinx children. But, without a doubt, the ban was a reaction to a fear of gang life.
Latinx identity is precariously linked to gang culture due to media representation. Movies, television, and journalists present a caricature of cholos with a shaved head, long socks, Nike Cortezs, and Dickies in a low rider. This image is then projected to encompass all Latinx males. This characterization isn’t new. If you watch old Western films, “el bandido” is commonly the villain or revolutionary trying to overthrow the government. He is depicted with a sombrero, poncho or serape, thick mustache, and a bandolier of ammunition. Both the cholo and bandito depictions are often rooted in a presentation of Latinx deviancy. These depictions of Latinx gang culture often lacks nuance, empathy, or a desire to unpack the psychology gang culture encompasses.
Inspired by the work of Kevin Johnson, namely his piece Immigration and Latino Identity, I began to reflect on my relationship with Latinx identity and the stereotype of Latinx gang involvement. I grew up during President George W. Bush’s election and administration. I constantly heard the rhetoric espoused about immigrants. In addition to the political rhetoric at the time, I was also being inundated with media representations of Latinx deviancy. I knew that the images of Latinx people were caricatures because the real Latinx people that I was surrounded by didn’t fit the narratives I was hearing. However, I was aware that people in the dominant culture were perceiving me through a socially-constructed lens. Unfortunately, this lens So, I tried to distance myself in a way.
As a child, I felt incredibly lonely. With other Latinx folks, I felt excluded because I didn’t come from a Spanish-speaking family. My name and complexion made me an outsider with White and Black people. In Brazil, I was referred to as the “U.S. American cousin.” But, as a male I also felt isolated. The boys around me were hyper-masculine; a toxic combination of Latino machismo and U.S. American masculinity. They played football, watched professional wrestling, talked about cars, and were amused by a wide-range of bodily functions. They got into trouble. I was blatantly different. I couldn’t hide it. I cried when I got frustrated, played the flute, avoided conflict at all costs, and loved to read. I lived in a liminal space; not fully existing in any group or world. I longed for a group.
At the age of ten, I unexpectedly confronted the disconnect between my personal identity and how other people perceived me. Our fourth grade class took a camping trip to a small pioneer town. Our cabins were differentiated by colored bandanas. My cabin had orange bandanas. I got to kayak and mine for gold . I was incredibly happy. Upon my return, my mom told me that we had to go to the grocery store. I was dirty, tired, my hair was a mess, so I tied my bandana around my head. As my mom searched for the items she needed, I wandered around the store. After some time, I felt two older White women watching me closely. I became uncomfortable as they got closer. Alone, I felt my anxiety rise as these two strangers approached me.
“Are you in a gang?”
Confused, I looked behind me. Surely, they couldn’t be talking to me. Nothing about me would exude the image of gang-involvement. I was wearing a sweatshirt/sweat pant combo that was obviously too small; the elastic of my sweatpants embarrassingly high above my ankles. I wasn’t ignorant to the fact that there was gang activity in my neighborhood. Maybe they were talking to someone else.
“No, you! Are you in a gang? What gang are you in? You’re too young to be in a gang.”
I thought “Me? I’m a nerd. I’m too scared to ride a bike — what makes you think I’d be in a gang?” I didn’t say that. But, I wanted to.
I don’t remember if I responded at all. Or just backed away. All I remember is an intense desire to distance myself as far as possible from being perceived as a gang member. At some point, I heard them whispering about my bandana. My chubby hand creeped up to the top of my head, grabbed the bandana, and moved it slowly to my pocket. A million thoughts ran through my head. Am I going to get in trouble? Are they going to call the police? Will I be taken from my mom? Will my mom be deported? Are they afraid of me? I wanted to tell them that I’m not like the other Latino kids. Ask anyone! Ask my step-brothers, ask my classmates. I was devastated because in this moment I became aware that I would probably live the rest of my life as a cultural straddler; fully embraced among neither Latinos nor non-Latinos, I quickly began to realize that I simply didn’t “belong.”
While distancing myself from the perception of gang involvement and Latinx criminality, I still longed to be included. Though I wasn’t a part of a gang, there were gang-involved people, or people that embraced elements of the “gang aesthetic,” around me. Latinos around me were finding companionship and camaraderie with other Latinos; creating communities of their own. Obviously, I wouldn’t have survived in a gang and I was aware that the idea of Latinx gang involvement was an extremely harmful stereotype, but my awareness didn’t overcome my desire. I just wanted to be close to other Latinos.
In her piece, Mascara y Trenzas, Margaret Montoya confronts how she negotiated her identity as a Latina within academia. Throughout my education I’ve been in predominantly White spaces and, in turn, I’ve had to consciously and unconsciously present my Latinx identity in various ways. In some situations, my identity has been an asset, while at other times it has been a hindrance; sometimes i’ve centered my identity, while at other times I’ve hidden it. It’s exhausting to have to engage in such conscious code-switching. For example, when sending out job applications during my first year law school I thought about whether I should go by my name or a shortened, Anglo version of it. Having to consider that was emotionally draining. It took me a long time to comfortably acknowledge the nuances of my identity as the son of an immigrant, Brazilian, non-Spanish speaking Latinx. But, once I was able to comprehend all the parts of myself, I was able to center my identity and allow that to propel my work.
Latinx identity, as I perceive it, is interesting because of the mere fact that people in Latin America don’t refer to themselves as Latinx (or Latinos or Latinas, for that matter). People in Latin America refer to themselves based on nationality or country of origin. Thus, by its very nature, identifying as “Latinx” automatically creates a distance between a person and their supposed motherland(s). But, Latinx is rooted in a longing for connection. Latinx identity is pan-Latin; a melding of Latin American cultures, while celebrating the uniqueness of those composite cultures. For example, I’m Brazilian, but my favorite musician is Colombian and I now speak better Spanish than Portuguese. Latinx identity is rooted in a longing for connection, in a place where people so often feel isolated.
There is something powerful about learning the histories of other Latin American countries and their relationship with the country I call home. Through learning these histories, I am able to challenge and better understand myself. One of those parts of history that was particularly enlightening was the discussion of the Latinx repatriation of the 1930s. In Kevin Johnson’s article, The Forgotten Repatriation of Persons of Mexican Ancestry and Lessons for the War on Terror, he recounts how during and following the Great Depression the United States government sent one to two million people to Mexico. These people were sent away from the country because they were seen as a burden and, ultimately, expendable.
It was hard for me to divorce that history concerning Latinx relationship to the United States from the realities of today. In many ways, Latinx people are still seen as burdensome and expendable. The 2016 United States election exemplified how much contempt people have for Latinx people. Rhetoric, similar to the rhetoric used to justify repatriation, about Latinx people depleting resources and behaving deviantly was espoused. Latinx people were depicted as one-dimensional, either only as criminals or expendable workers. I don’t know if the election rhetoric heightened fear toward Latinx people or merely exposed it. I’ve witnessed the impact of the criminalization of Black and Brown people.
As I approach my graduation from law school, I’ve tried to be reflective about where I’m going and where I’ve been. One client I worked with through a clinical program was an immigrant arrested for a gang related crime. Working on that case, forced me to confront my relationship with gang culture and its associated stereotypes. I had to confront the the reality that the privilege I’ve been allowed to access often came at the expense of other Latinx people who were gang-involved or perceived to be gang-involved. While, my lack of entry into that world frustrated me as a child, my ability to distance myself granted me immeasurable privileges. I have to own that. Ultimately, I hope to advocate for criminalized youth and people of color. To be an effective advocate I have to acknowledge my relationship, including the distancing and embracing of perceived Latinx criminality.
One of my biggest takeaways from law school was my reconciling the fact that pursuing legal education & becoming a lawyer meant I had to legitimize the very systems I purport to work against. The law is designed to protect power & wealth thus, causing harm to the communities I care about. In a way, I’m complicit in that harm now. That was a tough pill to swallow. Also, as a cash poor person of color, I’ve always had to prove my credibility to people in academia or the legal profession. Now, I have to prove my humanity, my empathy to my own community.
