Juan Gabriel, My Mother and Me

In the thick of the pandemic I moved back to El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, where I’d been raised, for what I thought would be a temporary stay. But then the desert whispered. After years away, my body hungered for the quiet wisdom of this land.

I’d changed since I’d left. In New York and Boston, I had lived openly as a queer woman. I found myself being more discreet around my family in El Paso and Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, where I was born. There are plenty of queer people living full, open lives here. But none of them are in my family.

As soon as Covid restrictions eased, I began crossing the border into Ciudad Juárez by foot to sing karaoke with my queer friends whenever I needed release. My favorite songs to sing were those by the iconic Mexican showman Juan Gabriel. I loved reveling in my queerness and my culture all at once. I longed for that liberation around my family.

Music has the power to help us understand ourselves. Juan Gabriel’s tender femininity was a radical quality in a Mexico entrenched in machismo and homophobia. He managed to embody his Mexican roots while also exuding queerness — two ideas that were for so long at odds in our culture.

I inherited my love for Juanga, as he was affectionately called, from my mother. He was her first crush and her ultimate hometown hero. On those nights in Juárez when I’d belt out his songs the question would surface: If my Mexican mother could accept him as he was, could she accept me, too?

When I explain Juan Gabriel to American friends, I tell them to imagine an artist as revolutionary, innovative and singular as Prince and as peacockish, prolific (he composed more than 1,800 songs!) and canonized as Elton John. Someone once told me no one has made Latin Americans cry, laugh and dance more.