Maricón, Marico, Mariconsón
"Only those who can be, are Marica; not just those who want to be," said Paco Vidarte in his book Marica Ethics. At 17 I was not a Marica, I was a teenager whom a close relative called Maricón. Then I grew up and I still couldn't be a Marica. I was a Marico, Pargo, Pato, Bitch and again Maricón.
Years went by and I was a Pasiva, Sleepless Diva, Drama Queen, Mariconsón and Maricón again, but I still couldn't be a Marica. Over the years I have been all that and more, but the most painful insult came from a loved one, and that was Maricon.
I kept growing. I drew, sewed, embroidered and painted triangles, words, insults, flags, rainbows, Malhembras, drag queens, drag kings, transsexuals, Pajaritas, Tigras Mariposas and the odd Maricón. And I read and traveled and discovered Lemebel, Arenas and Felix Gonzalez Torres. I moved and saw, with my own eyes, that In New York the Maricas kiss in the street.
I decided to stay, not to return, to continue with my paintings and my flags. One day, on Grindr, a man named Felix wrote to me and I found a new form of love. Some time later we got married surrounded by friends, affection, my mother (who taught me to sew), and people dear to us – but not by the one who called me Maricón. Although almost twenty years have passed, the word, the insult, resonates every day with greater intensity, with a capital M of Maricón.
When I was an art student, a dear teacher and now friend asked me if I wanted to be an LGBTI rights activist. I didn't know what to answer because fear paralyzes and also cuts my voice, it doesn't let you scream: I'm Maricón! Today I live in a country where I can and I want to be a Marica, Maricón, Marico, or Mariconsón.
I am going to be the queerest queer in the world I read once in a poem. And I went back to New York and, in front of Stonewall, we kissed and I saw other Maricas kissing, celebrating Marsha and Silvia and it didn't hurt so much when they called me Maricón.
I do not think I am an activist nor do I know if my work contributes or will contribute something to this wonderful community full of Oddities. I only wish that no child be singled out or get called out for his possible or future sexual orientation, much less be called Maricón. That is why my insistence on the six stripes of Gilbert Baker, in the pink triangle mutated in Pajaritas, in the power of the word.
Let Tamara be Tamara and not Tomás, let no more Zamudios die! Long live the feathers, the glitter, the sequins and the goldleaf! I will continue painting, embroidering, drawing and speaking for my difference. Screaming to the world: I am Maricón, Marico and Mariconsón!
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