Photo credit: Saint Francis of Assisi Catholic Church
I try very hard to make it to the 8:30 a.m. gospel mass at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church on Fourth and Brown streets in Milwaukee, and I do so for many reasons: It’s one of the most diverse congregations I’ve ever been to, the choir and their selections often bring me to tears and closer to God, and the message I get every time I do attend is that I, right where I’m at, am welcomed.
That feeling of being welcomed as a person from the LGBTQ community was even more pronounced when our pastor, Father Mike, announced after his sermon (it went a little like this): “I’ve been getting more requests from the LGBTQ community about making St. Francis a welcoming church, and I let them know we are a church that recognizes and welcomes everyone, including the LGBTQ community.” It wasn’t the first time I felt welcomed in a church for being exactly who I am; in fact, it was St. Stephens Catholic Church in Minneapolis where, back in the ’80s, the leaders and servers were openly gay, and in Manhattan’s St. Xavier Catholic Church where, during Pride events, the rainbow flag of glory, safety and freedom was exquisitely carried in a procession.
Why am I Catholic? I am deeply rooted culturally and spiritually and different than many people might think of when they hear Catholic. You see, I was raised at a time in the late ’60s and ’70s when we sat in church, and the priest would talk at us, not to us, and people wondered why children were so fidgety. God was someone I was supposed to fear—only, as a little Mexican American girl growing up on Milwaukee’s South Side, I had a different relationship with God and with Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Patron of the Americas. We had a connection! It was a connection so strong that I decided at 7 years old that they would be the first people I’d come out to without even knowing the expression “coming out” or ever hearing the terms “lesbian” or “tortillera.”
‘This is Who I Am’
The first time I came out to anyone was a fierce admission of “this is who I am,” because, for so long (OK, seven years), I’d noticed so much more than I wanted. I just wanted to play. I didn’t want what most every LGBTQ child has: tremendous insight. There is a weight to knowing—knowing that I was a girl, and there are special rules and regulations about where my place was, what and when I could say what was on my mind, down to how I played, behaved and dressed. Girls and women were second-class citizens. Then, there was being Mexican American in a society that only had enough space for one half of me: the American side. The Mexican side, I noticed, had its place, and we weren’t always welcome outside of it.
Finally, I was a girl who liked girls. How did I know this? I felt “funny,” a tingle, an excitement, a love, a crush, a need to want to be near other girls I was attracted to—just like now as an adult, but much weightier. I was an artist, too, only I recognized early on that I wouldn’t get into a fight for being called an “artist;” a girl, a Mexican, a girl who liked girls, yes, but not for being called an artist. Being an artist was a compliment, and, although I was proud of who I was because of the way my parents and other relatives were showing me to be proud of crucial parts of my being, carrying all this inside my lanky little body was simply too much for this child, until that fateful day.
I was playing outside on the cement grounds, and, all of a sudden, I just stopped. Just like that, I stopped playing and walked up to St. Anthony’s Catholic Church in my uncomfortable school uniform (plaid skirt, white blouse), and I went up to the very first pew, where I could be as close to God and to Our Lady of Guadalupe as possible, because I wanted to make certain they could hear me. I told them about these three things that made up who I was—the way I was created in the womb and my need for their guidance, their unconditional love, their companionship.
In the end, I whispered to them to “just please protect me” for the rest of my life, and they were the special ones chosen for this great feat, because I felt they watched over the universe, so why not add me to the mix? I blessed myself and walked back out to the playground, picked up the ball and felt relief that I, in fact, was special, and I would be protected for the rest of my life. Being protected and close to God and Our Lady of Guadalupe has been my saving grace all these years. It has not always been easy, and there were times I even felt alone and abandoned. But I have learned to love myself and life as I was born into all these years.
If you want to hear my first coming out story, visit wuwm.com/post/excerpt-latina-lives-milwaukee. Until next time, let’s keep movin’ and groovin’ TOGETHER. After all, I Like It Like That!
Love, Carmen
