I stand there, staring at her. She paws through my belongings, I can do nothing to stop her. Something is wrong. This is why she pulled me aside just now, asked me if she could go though my personal belongings. Her authority is total.

She pauses, maybe an eyebrow arches, maybe my anxious brain is making that up. “Traveling alone?” she asks as she holds up a bottle, peers closer at the ounce capacity. “Yeah, it’s my first trip to Europe!” I start in on my oft-told story: “You see, I couldn’t fly for quite awhile…” I trail off, my face goes red. The bottle the TSA agent is holding up is the lube I brought in my shaving kit.

There I am, cowboy hat on, dusty plaid shirt, the sun is low on the horizon in front of me as I ride towards the sunset. My nosehairs are caked with dirt but hey that’s their job. I swipe at my eyes with my bandana for a second…neckerchiefs are having a moment, let me tell you…and then clearly see it up ahead, its furry body running as fast as possible, trundling with its shorter-than-normal tail flopping behind him.

In my mind’s eye the camera zooms out slowly, slowly, revealing me on my trusty steed: a miniature pony. We’re at a full gallop, his tiny hooves furiously clopping along the hardpacked desert so fast you can hardly see them move. A team of other miniature horses surround us, we are noble and brave and heroic, we are also chasing my cat Ned, he is scaled up to horse size. As we approach the cliff’s edge, I paw at my lasso hanging at my hip. Ned suddenly brakes and turns, his green-yellow eyes flashing with anger. Some mini ponies rear up on their hindhooves, squeal in surprise, some deftly circle Ned instead. My mini pony trots to a casual stop.

Ned opens his mouth. I think it is to roar, but instead he says, in an older woman’s voice: “Are you up?” I tilt my head, open my mouth to respond. Instead he interrupts me, “Are you alive up there? Michael?”

I open my eyes, stare at the ceiling, and the ceiling fan. My mom’s voice carries up the stairs, “Good morning?” I take a deep breath, “YEAH MOM I’M UP.” I know she doesn’t hear me so I pick up my phone and text her. It’s now a competition between her and my dad whose hearing is going the fastest. He was in the lead the past decade or two but she’s making a comeback from the rear of the pack.

I pad downstairs in the Texas morning light and say hi in person. She’s still in bed and smiles wide when she sees me, it’s been a year since my last visit. I go into the kitchen to make breakfast and coffee. She can only drink about a cup a day now. I make my usual, unimpressive breakfast: an omelette with spinach, mushrooms, cheese and sometimes tomatoes. I only make it for two for my mom, and for lovers who spend the night with whom I want to spend more nights. I have not made it for two in a while.

I hear her get out of bed, dress, get her walking cane, and come in to the kitchen just as I’m plating the eggs. Before I carry them in to the dining room I check her fridge. Of course there are tortillas. I heat up the comal on the stove and flip a few tortillas on it, turning them over with my hands until they’re piping hot. She sees this and laughs, “You are a Chavez.”

Am I though? I tell my mom about a fight I got into on social media a few months earlier. How I defended my credibility by bringing up the Mexican side of my heritage, how I was humiliated when someone replied by screenshotting my dating profile, where I had clearly indicated I identified as white.

“I don’t know why I put that, mom. I don’t even remember putting my race. I’m not ashamed of my Mexican side.”

“I know that, Michael.” She calls me Michael, only. She will not call me Mike. I did not name you Mike, so why would I call you that? she reminds me whenever I bring it up. Then she shows me her stretch marks.

“But that happens every time I’m forced to choose. I stare at the choices, like what am I supposed to choose if I can only choose one? When I was a kid, I identified as “Hispanic” on those multiple choice dots, even through college.”

“I remember, you wanted to change your name to be Ignacio Chavez .”

“That was…not an elegant name.”

“Why don’t you change your last name now?”

My eyes grow wide. What I want to say is “yikes”, but instead: “I think it’s a little…too late for that, mom. It would be a little…pandering.”

We eat in silence for a minute. What it comes down to, really, is that I don’t feel like I have a right to it. I’m proud of my culture and of the (scant) Spanish I can speak, but I grew up in white culture. And I pass for white, or maybe it’s that I don’t look like what some Americans think Mexicans look like. My last name is Schneider, not Chavez or Padilla…and I live in Portland, Oregon, a city that isn’t exactly known for its diversity. It’s not that I’ve rejected my Mexican side, far from it. The real question is, how could I honor my Mexican side and live both sides authentically, while living in a city that historically favors whiteness and devalues Latinx expression?

How does privilege affect my queerness? I rarely think about it since I’ve identified as gay or queer a lot longer in my life than I haven’t, but I walk through the world and the world assumes I’m straight and 100% white. In many ways, passing as straight is a defense mechanism learned early, as a form of self protection, as a form of not getting my ass kicked in high school. As much as I’m proud to invoke my Mexican background, I feel like I haven’t “earned” the right: I don’t live the culture, I’m not Latinx-presenting to most of this country. I remember a story my mom would tell (much to my dad’s embarrassment) about a time she went to his family reunion in Wisconsin. Everyone complimented her tan; everyone wanted to know the secret to her olive complexion.

The next day we’re walking around Target. Well, I’m walking and she’s tooling around in the store’s Hoveround scooter. It’s always a challenge to find the charged-up ones. I’m sure we made about 6 trips to Target during my five days in San Antonio. Maria isn’t great at steering the vehicle so she’s careening into fixtures and people; a wake of debris and bruised bodies trails behind her. Her impact! Literally. 

Later that night we go to a drag show at a bar called Luther’s. The host recognizes her: she’s been there before! “Hi Gracie, where’s Frankie?” our host teases her to the laughter of the crowd. “Living your best Lily Tomlin life!” Reader, we howled. We drink a little too much tequila that night, Cazadores is her favorite. One time, I made the mistake of giving her a margarita kit for her birthday. Never will I make that mistake again. My mom passed to me her disdain of sweet drinks, in additional to our bizarre toes.

The host banters with the crowd more; there are a surprising amount of straight people at that bar that night. They ask if I’m straight: “Oh no way!” I exclaim, but I think later about this, about “passing” as straight. What are the ways, as proud queers, that we can unlearn these defense mechanisms like “passing” once we are old enough to defend ourselves? Does one armor give way to another when we embrace our true selves and stop performative masculinity? Can we unlearn to “pass?” Being soft is a strength; being soft is its own armor. I don’t get into arguments with “masc4masc” gay men on the apps anymore. I used to be them. I just view them as men who still have yet to shed something like a snake molting its skin, or how baby teeth fall out someday.

It occurs to me on the plane, after our sad goodbyes, that I spend so much of my time traveling to people I love. I am so lucky to have so many people in my life who complete me, so many pieces of my heart scattered across the country, across the earth. Of course I am my mother’s son.

I got her heart, too.

Like this post? What is wrong with you. Seriously. Anyway, here’s a post about my first threesome, and here is a post about a journey of a few dates with a dood. Let’s be horrible people together.