This week’s blog post is different from all my others because I didn’t write it. Virginia Gutierrez did. She is my sister Sherrie's wife of 7+ years. I met her the day I married David, almost 20 years ago.
Below is an excerpt of Virginia’s memoir, which is included
in a collection of pieces curated by artist and activist Susan
DiPronio, titled “Out Loud.”
In all the years I’ve known and adored Virginia – she is a
very warm, compassionate, fun and loving presence – the stories shared here
were heard by my siblings and me for the first time this past weekend.
Malflora Cowgirl
I had issues with gender as a kid. I had a lot of
conflicting moments because my mother would buy me dolls and dresses, but I did
not like them. I would insist that she buy me cowboy gear, boots and pants.
When I played with the boys and the girls in the
neighborhood, I wanted to be the cowboy and wear the guns. When we would play “House”
with everyone, I wanted to be the dad or the doctor, but the girls were
assigned mother and nurse. Finally, I said “No, we should take turns being the
dad. I want to be the dad and the husband.” They told me “No, because you are a
girl,” but I told them, “This is our story, and I can be.”
They started rotating me as the husband, which meant I
would kiss the wife. I got to kiss my neighbor Jeanette, when I was 6 years old...my first little kiss. It was so cool that I got to switch my gender
role. I had so many thoughts: This feels so good; This is what I want.
This is who I am; I am not the little frilly girl with the frilly dress, and I
do not play with little dolls and bake cookies and pretend that we have babies
and feed the little babies. No, I do not want to do that. I liked the boys
as friends, and I wanted to play sports with them and ride bikes and stuff like
that, but I did not want a boy to hold my hand or to kiss me. No, I wanted to
hold the hand of a little girl.
When I was 15, I had my first girlfriend, Sally. From
1965-1970, the two of us went to El Paso High School. Sally was the pitcher of
my softball team, the star of the team. I felt good because I loved the star,
and the star loved me. I played shortstop and third base. We also played
basketball, volleyball, and track. We were both in the band; she played the
French horn, and I played the clarinet. We were always together. I loved this
time of my life.
Some of my classmates didn’t like Sally and me together.
They would say, “Oh, you are one of those!” or “You’re a sports person
and you don’t like boys, do you?” I would say, “I like them for friends, but I
do not want to have a boyfriend.” I knew I was different; I knew that they knew
and that some didn’t like it, but I didn’t care.
I can recall the first time I heard the word “lesbian.” I
was 19 years old. I heard it in Spanish from my Aunt Mary. Looking back, it’s
crazy that my family didn’t figure out I was a lesbian till then. That’s when Aunt
Mary, my cousin Barbara, my sister Alicia and my mother all went to my boss, Dr.
Disch, at the El Paso Health Department Dental Clinic, where I was working. I
had just finished high school. Sally didn’t want to go to college, and she
didn’t want me to go either. She had decided we’d go to a 6-week vocational
program to be dental assistants. We then worked together, planned to get an
apartment and hoped we would live happily ever after.
On this one particular day, I went into work and was
shocked to see my mother, aunt, cousin and sister in my boss’ office at the
clinic. Dr. Disch said to me, “Virginia, your family wants me to help them
because they say you’ve come under the influence of some undesirable women, and
they don’t want you to follow that path; they don’t want you to be like that. They
want me to help get you away from these people.”
He said he was going to give me a medical leave of absence
and I’d go to a psychiatric hospital where I would get treated and get this “gay”
thing – they didn’t call it “gayness” or say the word homosexual either – out
of me so that I wouldn’t have these feelings or desires anymore.
I stood up and said, “No, I am not going to a psychiatric
hospital.” I told him he could fire me if he wanted to, but I wasn’t going. My
mother was crying and didn’t say a word. Both my aunt and my sister insisted
that I go, but I stood my ground. That night, home with my family, my sister told
me that they didn’t want me hanging out with these women again and that I had to go to the hospital and be cured. Again, I said “No.” I called my friend Edith
and she drove over and picked me up. I went to stay at her house for a few
weeks.
When I came back home, I started packing my clothes in a
suitcase. “You have to do what we say,” Aunt Mary said to me and, once again, I said "No." I’ll never forget what happened next. My sister, aunt, and cousin
tried to grab me and cut my hair. I had long hair down to my waist. Aunt Mary
said to me, “En nuestra cultural las lesbianas tienen cabello como los
hombres.” Translated into English, that means: “In our culture, the only ones who
have short hair like men are lesbians.” She said if I wanted to be a malflora,
then I have to have short hair. That was the first time I had heard the words
“lesbiana” and “malflora.” In Spanish,
“malflora” means lesbian, slang for “a bad flower.”
I remember freaking out, breaking away and walking out the
door with whatever suitcase I had, and I went back to Edith’s house. It was
1973. I moved into an apartment building on Main Street in El Paso for lesbians
and shared an apartment with four others. My life had changed so suddenly. I
went from living with my family to being forced out and then living with others
like me. While it was great to live with lesbians, it was a very traumatic time
for me, as I felt betrayed by my family. I didn’t speak to them for years.
After 40 years, my sister Alicia asked me to forgive her. I never resolved
things with Aunt Mary, who is dead now. I should have, but never went to
therapy.
Many years ago, I referred to myself as a “Dyke”; I called
myself a sports dyke when I was young, because I played sports. The use of “femme”
and “butch” were used within our community. The femmes dressed more feminine,
and the dykes were butchy, dressing like men. I was always in-between; I liked
dressing in different ways and didn’t fit into either category. I remember
people wanting to date me and would ask, “Are you a femme or are you a butch?”
I replied “I don’t know. I’m neither. I’m both.”
In the ‘90s and through the 2000s, I used "Gay" to refer to
myself; before that, it was used for male homosexuals. Since then, I’ve
identified as “Queer,” which was once a derogatory term, even in our own
community. Now it is considered a perfect term for the spectrum of sexuality.
Today it is fine for someone to find out on their own where
they fall on the spectrum, and it’s ok that it changes. It is up to the
individual to dictate whatever they want to be, and it’s fluid. It’s not like
it was when I was young, when you had to fall into certain categories and be labeled.
Virginia L. Gutierrez, Esquire
