My cold hand lands on Laura’s leg while the woman behind us holds her husband’s hands tight, whispering cariñitos to him. We’re here to prove we love each other. To prove this is a true white-picket-fence-two-point-five-children-Christmas-card kind of love, even if it’s homo love. Promises of a better future after this horrid appointment fly in the air in Spanish, Arabic, Russian. Inside the Soviet-looking immigration building Laura and I are literally moscas en leche. Perro en misa. Gallina en corral ajeno, etc. All the couples here are straight. Some even brought their kids, dressed in their Sunday’s best. The children are instructed to shut the fuck up and smile. Arturito, saluda al oficial mi rey. They’re here as evidence. The mamis with their hairs done, nails done, high heels and glossy lipstick. Men with gelled black hair, black button-down shirts with a few open buttons revealing gold crosses, chest hair. Legs crossed impossibly tight, smiling at every and any immigration officer walking through. Good afternoon, Mr. Officer. Nobody speaks loudly, we all hush and whisper and hold tight to our brown folders, our photo albums.
Porque mamita, you never know.
Lady Liberty and Sarah Palin are lit by the same torch —Michele Bachmann
And what a bizarre time we’re in, when a judge will say to little children that you can’t say the pledge of allegiance, but you must learn that homosexuality is normal and you should try it —Michele Bachmann
Before we get started, let’s all say ‘Happy Birthday’ to Elvis Presley today —Michele Bachmann
The rumors are true. Pero por fa, do not unfriend me yet. Do you know how hard it is to accept this in public after I ranted on Facebook about the idiocy of the gay movement’s focus on marriage? Am I throwing myself over the gay cliff right now? Maybe. Pero reinita, hear me out: Republicans are stubborn people! And I didn’t even see it coming. It was all so quick. Bam bam bam and before you could say ay juepuchica Michele Bachmann is sitting next to my mother picking some pork residue from her teeth, bonding with her over the apocalypse. How was I supposed to say “no” to the hottest bae over 50 in the Midwest? I have a soft spot for right-wing women, tu sabe. Also I don’t think we’ve given Michele proper credit on her party abilities, she’s raised like 30 foster kids plus Marcus in one house (we don’t know the exact number because she won’t fill the census!), she’s held so many racists/homophobic fundraisers we can’t even keep count (talk about a white Christian party monster, am I right?)! AND, girlfriend really wanted to blow up our party balloons (she’s so good!). Plus, she will tell me later, I heard immigrants are really good at the macarena. Dios mío. We are! All of us. Continue reading
Illustration by Laura Cerón Melo
With arepa in one hand and cell phone in the other my prima whispers in my ear: Congratulations on ese matrimonio. I look around, maybe she’s confused? But everyone in this family reunion is busied with alcohol, selfies, and Andres’ new baby boy who is just ay qué cosita más lindaaa.
No, de verdad, she says, biting on the arepa, Congratulations on your wedding. Her right hand lands on my shoulder and I’m searching for the homophobic punchline that would come after that, I’m searching for the, You are banned from Jesús’ family hang-out crew forever. Por lesbiana. Tortillera. Marimacha. I wait for her eyes to lose their glimmer, for her to snap into the conservative Jesús-loving woman I know her to be, but the only thing she says is: Ay nena, you know Ellen Degeneres? I love Ellen Degeneres. I watch her show all the time. Continue reading