Post-Borderlandia: Chicana Literature and Gender Variant Critique

Post-Borderlandia

Latinidad

Transnational Cultures in the United States

This series publishes books that deepen and expand our understanding of Latina/o populations, especially in the context of their transnational relationships within the Americas. Focusing on borders and boundary crossings, broadly conceived, the series is committed to publishing scholarship in history, film and media, literary and cultural studies, public policy, economics, sociology, and anthropology. Inspired by interdisciplinary approaches, methods, and theories developed out of the study of transborder lives, cultures, and experiences, titles enrich our understanding of transnational dynamics.

Matt Garcia, Series Editor, Professor of Latin American, Latino & Caribbean Studies, and History, Dartmouth College

For a list of titles in the series, see the last page of the book.

Post-Borderlandia

Chicana Literature and Gender Variant Critique

T. Jackie Cuevas

Rutgers University Press

New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey, and London

978-0-8135-9453-8

978-0-8135-9452-1

978-0-8135-9454-5

Cataloging-in-Publication data is available from the Library of Congress.

A British Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Copyright © 2018 by T. Jackie Cuevas

All rights reserved

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www.rutgersuniversitypress.org

Manufactured in the United States of America

For the antepasadas:

Minnie

Ana

And for the next generation:

Avital

Contents

Preface and Acknowledgments

Introduction: Gender Variance and the Post-Borderlands

1. Chicana Masculinities

2. Ambiguous Chicanx Bodies

3. Transing Chicanidad

4. Brokeback Rancho

Conclusion: From a Long Line of Marimachas

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Preface and Acknowledgments

The seedlings for this project emerged as poems the year Gloria E. Anzaldúa died and morphed into the scholarly version of my hopeful effort to do what she called work that matters. Many pages of this book were written or revised while I stared out at the waves from my cherished spot on the Gulf of Mexico amid the laughing gulls, brown pelicans, roseate spoonbills, and Ridley sea turtles of Padre Island. The Gulf has always been there for me, through several degrees, through unexpected upheavals as well as joys.

During the making of this book, my altar grew increasingly crowded after the death of several dear friends, including several writer friends who had urged me to write more. Ana Sisnett, Raúl Salinas, Camile Pahwa, Chinwe Odeluga, Amy Young, Devin Zimmerman, Laura Padilla, and Maggie Jochild left indelible marks. And my colleagues Cynthia Hawkins and Catherine Kasper will be missed. Ana Sisnett, in particular, would have relished holding this book in her hands and telling me why it matters.

Ana would have keenly understood how it was not merely my engagement with literature and queer theory but also my own engagement with gender variance that certainly informs this work. Like my own gender journey, this book has had many iterations and transformations. Perhaps this book grew from being a curious tomboy to a studious girly teen to a well-meaning young butch to a genderqueer butch Xicanx academic with an extensive collection of guayaberas and wingtips.

During the course of writing this book, shifting terms and times have made it challenging to attend to the many nuances and neologisms of LGBTQ+ vernacular. Some of the terms used in this book did not exist or were not in wide circulation when I first began the initial research. Indeed, innovative new terms, concepts, and movements may emerge before the ink dries, and that is part of the excitement of this work.

Throughout this process I have been particularly thankful for the activist and community spaces I have been able to call home deep in the heart of Texas, especially allgo, a statewide queer people of color organization. All the folks at the queer bailes, protests, vigils, committee meetings, workshops, fund-raisers, and tamaladas over the years have taught me what it means to make space for and to fight for vibrant queer and transgender people of color lives. It was through allgo that I have met many cherished mentors and long-term members of my queer familia. In particular, Sharon Bridgforth’s insightful guidance and loving friendship have shaped my commitment to writing and working in community.

I am deeply grateful to the amazing writers and artists whose work I discuss in this book. Many of them generously shared their time and wisdom, including Adelina Anthony, Helena María Viramontes, and Deb Esquenazi. Helena graciously visited my Latina feminist theories class at Syracuse University, and Deb invited me to participate in a screening and talkback to discuss her film at her San Antonio premiere of Southwest of Salem.

Along the way, I have been able to share this work as it has developed in various venues, including conferences and journals. A version of chapter 2 first appeared in Latino Studies 12.1 (2014). A portion of chapter 3 was previously published in Revue LISA 21.2 (2013) in a special issue titled Latinotopia, edited by Francisco Lomelí and Karen Ikas.

My sincere gratitude must be expressed to dear colleagues and friends who have provided intellectual companionship, feminist collaboration, and tireless support—in particular, Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Alison Kafer, Sonia Saldívar-Hull, and Norma Cantú. A special thanks goes to my dissertation committee, including Domino Renee Perez, Ann Cvetkovich, Deborah Paredez, Jose Limón, Matt Richardson, and Lisa Lynne Moore. Ricky T. Rodríguez must be thanked for his helpful feedback on this project; his suggestions were on point, and his work continues to inspire my own.

Numerous librarians and archivists were quite helpful in locating materials. Christian Kelleher, Carla Alvarez, and several others helped me at the Benson Latin American Collection at the University of Texas Libraries. A special thanks goes out to AnaLouise Keating of the Gloria E. Anzaldúa Literary Trust for helping me with materials from the Anzaldúa archive. Tom Kreneck and other folks were quite welcoming at the Mary and Jeff Bell Library Special Collections and Archives at Texas A&M University at Corpus Christi.

I developed some of the ideas for this project during my time as a faculty member at Syracuse University. At Syracuse, I had the good fortune to be surrounded and supported by amazing colleagues in women’s and gender studies, including Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Minnie Bruce Pratt, Himika Bhattacharya, Dana Olwan, Gwen Pough, Vivian May, Robin Riley, Carolina Vargas, Bekki Orr, Soumitree Gupta, Kwame Otu, and Gohar Siddiqui. The Democratizing Knowledge collective, including Linda Carty, Paula Johnson, Silvio Torres-Saillant, Jackie Orr, Hayley Cavino, Sari Biklen, and others, made my time at Syracuse particularly engaging by providing a much-needed space for collaborating with local community partners and working toward democratizing the academy. Fabulous Syracuse neighbors welcomed my family and me into the university neighborhood. I am deeply grateful for the lovely Shabbat dinners hosted by Julie Gozan and Tom Keck and their family. Gladys McCormick connected me with colleagues and helped me find Mexican food. Sheru and Michael showed me how to use a roof rake to fight off the interminable snow.

I am grateful as well to my colleagues at the University of Texas at San Antonio who have supported my work along the way. Professor Sonja Lanehart, Brackenridge Endowed Chair of Literature and the Humanities, generously sponsored my participation in the National Center for Faculty Development and Diversity (NCFDD) program, which was instrumental in my finishing this book. My NCFDD small group members, Jessica, Danielle, Rima, and our coach Ray, provided pivotal support and encouragement.

The jota editorial crew—Anel Flores, Rita Urquijo-Ruiz, and Candace Lopez—kept me engaged in invigorating creative endeavors during this scholarly project. As a member of Macondo, I continue to be grateful to the fabulous Macondo network, including Sandra Cisneros, Ire’ne Lara Silva, Alex Espinoza, John Phillip Santos, and many others. For help with tracking down details for the bibliography and notes, I am indebted to graduate research assistants Megan Nieto, Stephanie Schoellman, and Calvin Hoovestol. I am grateful to all of the students over the years who have made teaching a dynamic adventure where we can think together and challenge each other. I want to give a special shout-out to Risa Cantu, Mary Gonzalez, and Richie Giddens.

I cherish the memories of camaraderie shared at many late-night writing binges at Clementine and other Austin coffee shops with Olga Herrera, Cristina Salinas, Virginia Raymond, María Cruz, and others. Erin Hurt and Hala Herby made our dissertation writing group a pleasure. Elvira Prieto, Crystal Kurzen, and Verónica Martínez-Matsuda modeled a generosity of spirit for which I am appreciative.

I could not have survived without my comadre Brenda Sendejo. Brenda, fellow Tejana scholar and Athena extraordinaire, met me for countless writing sessions, walks, and coffee check-ins; she definitely helped me follow our Windsor Park Elementary school motto use my time and intelligence wisely. Much love also goes out to Priscilla Hale, Rose Pulliam, Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano, Orlando Ramirez, Virginia Raymond, Tom Kolker, Ocelotl Mora (aka Jr.), Sheree Ross, Miramar Dichoso, Ixchel Rosal, Lisa Byrd, and the rest of the extensive comadrazgo, queer kin, and loved ones who have helped me see this through. Lilia Rosas of Resistencia and Susan Post of Bookwoman deserve a special mention for continuing to keep the community-based bookstores alive and for hosting events where I could engage with some of the writers I write about in this book.

I do not take for granted my family’s love and support. My three uncles—Sammy, Steve, and Mike—have always cheered me on and cheered me up. Their families have lovingly welcomed me and my own little familia. My in-laws, Roey and Jeff, have always been wonderfully understanding. I am thankful as well to Austin and the Medina cousins near and far.

I could never say enough to thank my mom, Cristina, whose grace under pressure, creativity, and humor are my guiding lights. Mama, I cherish your recent gift of the Star Wars bow tie, but I am especially grateful for your gift of telling me You look handsome, mija. Thank you for unconditionally loving me in all my queer-gender variant ways.

The incomparable Jen Margulies, my spouse and coconspirator, surely knows, but I will tell her anyway, that she continues to amaze me with her stunning brilliance and capacious compassion that keep me keepin’ on. Ever since that slow dance at the old-school dyke bar Port in the Storm in Baltimore, Jen continues to be my anchor. Avital literally cheered me on and set an example by writing five books in one week.

Because of all the aforementioned folks and all others who have lent their support, I have been able to complete this project. This book is an offering and a humble invitation to dialogue. I am grateful to all of the people who talked with me about my ideas along the way, and I look forward to the conversations to come.

Introduction

Gender Variance and the Post-Borderlands

In 1997 Elizabeth Ramirez, a Latina lesbian from San Antonio, Texas, went to prison for a crime she did not commit. Ramirez and four of her friends, all Latina lesbians, had been accused of gang raping two young girls—Ramirez’s nieces—while Ramirez babysat them. During the trials of Ramirez and her peers, the prosecution brought forth a physician, Dr. Nancy Kellogg, as an expert witness. Upon examining the allegedly abused girls, Kellogg claimed to have noticed a supposedly abnormal mark on one of the children’s genitalia, remarking in exam notes that this could be satanic-related. Although the women’s conflicting work schedules would have made it unlikely that they were even in the same place at the same time to perform the alleged ritualistic abuse, all four women were found guilty. Anna Vasquez, Kristie Mayhugh, Cassandra Rivera, and Elizabeth Ramirez received sentences ranging from fifteen to thirty-seven years (Barajas n.p.).

In 2010 the eldest of the accusers voluntarily recanted the accusation, explaining that her father had cajoled her and her sister into claiming that Ramirez and her friends had sexually abused them. Kellogg also recanted her expert testimony, admitting that it was based on outdated science. With the help of lawyers and volunteers from the Innocence Project of Texas and the Advocacy Project, the four women—dubbed the San Antonio Four—were released from prison in 2013 without being exonerated.

At a screening of Southwest of Salem, Deborah S. Esquenazi’s documentary about their struggle, the San Antonio Four answered questions from the San Antonio public about their tabloid-worthy ordeal. Ramirez explained that she had rebuffed sexual advances from the young girls’ father and that he may have orchestrated the accusations as retaliation against her. Although she had explained this to her attorney at the time, this evidence apparently was not taken seriously. She also mentioned that one of the jurors was a preacher who publicly claimed during their trial that homosexuality is a sin, yet he was allowed to remain on the jury. An audience member asked whether the women thought they were treated so harshly by the criminal justice system because they are lesbians or because they are Latina. Anna Vasquez immediately responded Both.

Vasquez’s response echoes the claim put forth by Chicana lesbian writer Carla Trujillo. In the chapter Chicana Lesbians: Fear and Loathing in the Chicano Community in Chicana Lesbians: The Girls Our Mothers Warned Us About, Trujillo contends that [t]he vast majority of Chicano heterosexuals perceive Chicana lesbians as a threat to the community. She attributes this heterosexist response to homophobia and goes on to say that Chicana lesbians are perceived as a greater threat to the Chicano community because their existence disrupts the established order of male dominance, and raises the consciousness of many Chicana women regarding their own independence and control (186). The San Antonio Four’s experience stands as a stark example of the collision between racism and homophobia that targets Chicana lesbians and queer people of color for multiple transgressions of the social hierarchies that undergird U.S. culture.

While Trujillo’s observation speaks to racialized sexuality as well as gender, Trujillo makes the connection between sexuality and gender specifically in regard to lesbian Chicanas as women. We can build on her formulation to account for a more expansive view of gender, particularly gender nonconformity. Certainly, gender nonconformity—especially in conjunction with sexual nonconformity—reveals the fissures in a seemingly coherent gender system that has been naturalized over time. In the case of the San Antonio Four, we can only imagine what their gender liminality or nonconformity may have contributed to how Ramirez and her counterparts were treated by agents of the justice system. According to Vasquez, their lawyers told them to wear dresses to appear more feminine—and presumably heterosexual and nonthreatening—to the jury. The prosecuting attorney asked Ramirez on the stand whether she had a gay relationship with her friends, to which she replied that they were all just friends (Chammah n.p.). The litigators certainly understood that regardless of whether the accused identified as nonheterosexual and whether they had engaged in nonnormative sexual practices, their visuality as intelligible women could potentially hold sway over an audience looking for deviance as a supposed clue to morality. As Elvia Mendoza points out, prosecutors attempted to construct another type of gender (77) that would come to render them culpable in the eyes of the selected biased jurors. Undoubtedly, historical examples abound of stereotypes of the mannish lesbian being used to target nonnormatively gendered women as perverse threats to communal well-being. Fear of queer sexuality can bring out the homophobic sexuality police, but gender nonconformity can disrupt the social order by bringing one’s ontological status as a categorizable human being into question.

Gender ambiguity can render a person illegible to community and loved ones—a that whom others attempt to assign to one side or the other of the dominant binary. For example, Felicia Luna Lemus’s novel Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties illustrates the disruptive effect that gender nonconformity can have. When the chicana dyke (5) protagonist Leti dons men’s clothing, her grandmother reacts in shock at her appearance by exclaiming, Dear Mother of God. Is that a boy or a girl? (167). Here, Leti’s gender ambiguity renders her illegible to the grandmother, who refers to Leti as that and demands to know on which side of the dominant girl/boy binary Leti should be placed. In narratives such as Lemus’s, it is not necessarily queer sexualities but rather queer genders that threaten a Chicanx¹ cultural or familial sense of unity.²

Figure 1. Still image from the film Southwest of Salem by Deborah S. Esquenazi.

In the case of the San Antonio Four, gender nonconformity haunted the whole ordeal but seems to have remained