Guest blog by Edgar Talavera, clinical therapist at the BRC
Ever since I can remember I knew I was gay. I grew up in a small town in the state of Chihuahua Mexico called Colonia Anchondo. My family on my father’s side were Mormons, and my mother’s family were Catholic. While I was growing up as a queer person, I was attending to church every Sunday. My grandparents even used to pick me up to make sure that I wouldn’t miss church. I remember being bullied by all the other teenagers and even by the priest who was giving the mass.
While my classmates were wearing boots, riding horses, and working with tractors, I was in my room listening to Britney Spears. By the time I was 14 years old, I knew that I had to find the way to leave town. At that time, I was already experiencing trauma from the comments people made about my way of dressing or walking. For example, the priest would say that homosexuality was a sin and anyone who had homosexual thoughts would go straight to hell. Imagine what it was like for a gay teenager to hear that! Whenever there were family gatherings like at Christmas or birthdays, I always