Personal: Fragmented Identities

For a few years now a core part of my personal practice has been working with Queer Ancestors. This takes many forms: queer history research and lectures, maintaining a private shrine, and personal rituals throughout the year. The synthesis of my queerness with my magical practice, however, is a relatively recent development and is just part of a larger pattern of coming into the “wholeness” of who I am.

I first realized I was probably gay, at least in a way that I more fully understood what that meant for me, in high school. This would have been around 2000 or 2001, well before things like the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and DOMA and under a newly inaugurated GOP White House fully committed to the culture war. Over the next several years I denied, bargained with, and loathed that part of myself. At one point of near-acceptance I told myself I would wait until my parents and grandparents were dead and buried before coming out. I told myself it was to spare them the shame of having a gay son or grandson, but it was also because I was terrified of being kicked out of my house.

I finally came out when I went to college. Well, it would be more accurate to say I was outed in college. While there was every indication on the outside that I had fully embraced that identity that was far from the case. I was adamant that I would not be one of “those gays” because I didn’t care about fashion, I liked video games and heavy metal, and I would rather have a beer than a cocktail. What I refused to admit, even to myself, is that I was very much about fashion and I loved ABBA and electronic club hits and I really wondered what some of those cocktails were about. I kept my gayness clearly defined and at arms length. As far as I was concerned I was gay in bed and in the dating scene but in every other aspect I was just like “any other guy.”

The same can be said about my magical and spiritual path, too. I was introduced to “alternative spirituality” like most folks growing up in the 90’s and 00’s - through bookstores, Scott Cunningham, and Wicca. My parents moved us out of Miami after elementary school and into the swamps. We were maybe the fourth house on our dirt road, on an acre and a half, with no lights and the nearest grocery store almost an hour away. Although I went to middle school with the kids in my general area it was hard to meet up without someone driving you over. For high school I was bused out to a magnet school and most of my friends lived in other parts of the county. The only nearby friend I had was a girl about my age who lived a street over. She provided not just someone to hang out with but also a convenient cover for someone desperately trying to remain in the closet, but more importantly she introduced me to Wicca.

In high school my magic was confined to the empty lots no one had yet built on and the orange groves we would drive deep enough into to be reasonably sure we wouldn’t be disturbed. We cast circles and called the quarters and talked about dreams we were sure had hidden meanings. Then we would pack it back up and I would head home to once again play the role of closeted lapsed Catholic. In college I almost attended exactly one meeting of the Pagan Student Union. This was in the early days of the internet and I came across them on a college forum. They met late on Friday in the student union, near the Wendy’s. There was no sign, just five or so kids sitting across a couple tables. I walked by a handful of times trying to catch a glimpse of a pentacle necklace or a deck of tarot cards. I never worked up the courage to sit down.

My magical practice would come and go throughout my 20’s, mostly coming to the fore as a means of last resort. For a long time my spirituality was one born of desperation - of heartache and heartbreak, of anxiety and hopelessness, and of seeing no way forward. Just like my sexuality I was so concerned about what other people would think that I kept my magic locked away unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then it was practiced in private. Through LARPing I came across a number of out and proud pagans, witches, queers, kinks, etc. I was entranced by these people, I wanted to be close to them and I wanted to be like them, but at the same time the sheer audacity and volume of their authenticity was terrifying. They were Galadriel with the One Ring.

It took moving nearly a thousand miles away for me to finally stop and ask the question, “Who am I?” I was suddenly in a brand new place around brand new people. I never thought I would leave Florida, at no point growing up was that possibility ever on the table, so I was intoxicated on this twist of fate. Incrementally I became louder, fiercer, more bold. I began stepping into spaces populated by vibrant figures who I wanted to be like and, unlike previous attempts, I reached out. I saw the things about myself I wanted to love reflected in other people and I celebrated it, and over time I found how to celebrate those things in me, too. I threw myself into the history and culture of the queer community. I spent so long telling myself I didn’t want to be like “those gays” when, at my core, I desperately wanted to be like them. I wanted to be brave and unapologetic like them. I wanted to paint my nails and adorn myself in jewelry and kiki after a drag show but I spent so long denying that part of myself that the thought of opening that door was terrifying.

Now that I look back it makes a certain amount of sense that a sustained exploration of counter-culture would bring me back to “alternative spirituality” but at the time it was a call I strongly resisted. While I may have found a sense of pride in my gay identity I was still deeply in the “broom closet.” With each queer biography I read, however, I felt the call getting stronger and stronger. I cautiously began dipping my toe back in the witchy waters, picking up a book here and there, but the floodgates opened when my husband bought me a custom deck of tarot cards. The nagging sensation I had been ignoring for years became a distinct pull, one which I finally allowed to bring me back to it’s source: La Santa Muerte.

At first I was hesitant about this call but I remembered the decade I’d already lost to hesitancy and began learning as much as I could about her. When I learned she was considered a patron saint by Latinx/Hispanic LGBTQ+ populations all of the pieces began to fit together. It felt like my field of vision pulled back, and instead of looking at each gear up close I finally had a view of the whole mechanism.

My spiritual path is ultimately one of celebration. I celebrate my queer community, those who are alive and those who have passed. I celebrate life by working with death. Most importantly, I celebrate myself. I celebrate how absolutely gay I am. I celebrate that I am a witch and a magical, spiritual being. I celebrate that I will continue to grow in ways that will surprise and delight me. And when all is said and done, I celebrate that I will cross to the other side having learned to be whole.