LATINX IS

something between Latino and Latina, reclaiming how we are defined
hombres sitting in front of lit mirrors with a table full of cosmetics & mujeres
with skin fades and ACE-bandaged-down breasts. Something like drag queens

at La Escuelita and butches at Café con Leche, like your cool tio that teaches 
you how to death drop and titi with a mustache. Something like your primo
that mysteriously disappeared from the family and is never spoken about. 

Somewhere between “When did you come into this country?” & brown babies
in hospital delivery rooms. Growing up in a country where we are told to go back 
to wherever we came from. Somewhere between being oppressed by white-washed 

politicians that come from families that look like us & our bodies outlined with white 
chalk on sidewalks when we are killed. Checked boxes without nuance. Something 
between J-Lo & Jenny from the block, Rita Hayworth & Rita Moreno, migrating across 

rivers & spending all your money on airfare. Something between VapoRub & brujeria. 
Appreciating art by Goya & Trump-loving Goya products from Spain. Taco Tuesdays & 
the waitstaff and cooks at Italian restaurants, children in cages & kids bussed to schools 

where they are called “Spics!” Teens turning to gangs for brotherhood/sisterhood & in 
the hood, maricones getting gay-bashed. Alcoholism & Corona, tequila, margaritas, mezcal. 
Somewhere between a quinceañera and a Sweet Sixteen. Celebrating Cinco de Mayo & 

clutching your purse as brown boys walk by. Fetishizing Latin lovers & sex-trafficking girls 
who speak Spanish. Getting displaced by gentrification & “They’re taking over our 
neighborhoods!” Somewhere between desirable & Undesirable. Being unwanted no matter 

what letter closes us out—an o, an a, an x, an e.

Somewhere between Vanna White and “Wanna buy a vowel?” Somewhere between
“Your English is so good!” and speaking Spanglish. Somewhere between the right to live the 
American dream & being a “welfare queen!” Somewhere between “Gracias to the Academy!” 

& filling up our prisons. Somewhere between “¡El pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido!” and 
“We’re Here! We’re Queer! Get used to it!” Somewhere between Dia de los Muertos & painting 
your face white to symbolize death. Somewhere between “You have the right to remain silent!”

and “Silence equals death.” Somewhere between telenovelas and the new One Day at a Time. 
Somewhere between Richie Valens & Cardi B. Gender fluid like Walter Mercado and Demi Lovato. Somewhere between Lady Bunny’s favorite snacks & Bad Bunny. Something like we

were here on this land first and x marks the damn spot!

VIRGEN DE LAS MERCEDES

I used to hate the way men catcalled my mother
every time we would pass one of them on the way

to Knickerbocker Avenue. They’d follow us
with “Mira mami! Que culo mas rico tu tienes!”

They didn’t care that I walked beside her as a child.
I could spot them a mile away, waiting for us to go by.

I blamed her for being sexy and wearing tight clothing.
Why couldn’t she be like my friend’s moms?

Respectable. Decent. Conservative. Ugly.
I was going through my own shit being brown

at an all-white elementary school. I stood out as a sissy
in a world where it was not okay to act like a girl

but it was totally fine to harass women and perv on them.
The amount of abuse Mami dealt with was disgusting.

It was easy to blame the “Mamita!” I hated for other 
reasons—beating me, forcing me to call her abusive

boyfriend “Papi,” even though he always reminded me that 
he wasn’t. He blamed her too and often called her a “puta sucia.”

It wasn’t until we took the train one day into the city,
both of us standing on what might as well have been

a stripper pole, that I noticed a man about her age staring
at me the way men habitually drooled over her. He probably 

licked his lips and grabbed his crotch while blatantly looking
at my developing, jailbait ass. I was about thirteen and quickly

inheriting Mami’s curves. I was most definitely wearing 
booty-hugging jeans, the ones that looked like chicle had just 

burst around your thighs. I enjoyed the attention in a way
I shouldn’t have. I maybe even popped my nalgas out a little.

I was just going through puberty but already knew all about sex.
There was the time she picked me up from the day care center

and I flaunted the new action figure some unknown man had
given me. I was above and beyond taking candy from strangers.

It would be only a few years later, at sixteen, that I would wear 
biker shorts sans underwear and crop tops to ride the subway.

Madonna ruled and I wanted to be catcalled and sexualized.
It was either “Maricon!” or “Que culo mas rico tu tienes!”

depending on where I was. I would just smile flirtatiously
like a virgin, thinking I too would someday conquer the world.

Influenced by the homophobic hip hop of the time, in the early ‘90s, there were few openly gay poets in the spoken word scene. Enter a former homeless hustler from the Paris is Burning ball/House community, Emanuel Xavier helped open the doors for queer poets of color to take centerstage and speak their truths. Without so much as passion and perseverance, he became an LGBTQ+ Icon, as proclaimed by The Equality Forum. Long before diversity, equity, and inclusion were buzz words, he gave voice to his unique experiences and tackled politics, sexuality, and religion with poetry books like Pier Queen, Americano, If Jesus Were Gay, Nefarious and Radiance. Following up on his Kirkus Best Indie Poetry Collections of 2021 book, Selected Poems of Emanuel Xavier, he will return to his exploration of Latinx and LGBTQ+ culture, community, and identity with Love(ly) Child (Rebel Satori Press, Fall 2023).