Growing up poor and Mexican in Southern California meant that illness
would be cured by the local curandero (i.e., medicine person) or within our fam-
ily, using a remedies passed down from previous generations. At times, these
Mexican home remedies worked, and they returned balance to the body. More
often than not, however, these concoctions tasted awful, and I was skeptical of
their effects, if any. I am reminded of the time my mother boiled lime leaves into
a tea for me to drink to cure my first hangover. To this day, I am not sure if it was
a real remedy or a Mexican mother’s gentle way of demonstrating her disap-
proval of my first experimentation with drinking alcohol—the tea was awful! It
had quite an impact on my taste buds and my stomach. Needless to say, it took
a few years before I ever touched an alcoholic beverage again.
My Mexican identity argues that these remedies are relatively effective. How-
ever, my mainstream U.S. identity argues that many of these remedies are not
sufficient to treat the multiplicity of illnesses that plague ethnic, low-income
communities. Thus, at an early age, my experience as an impoverished Mexican
American served as an inspiration to help my community heal.
My early trajectory was not pointed toward college. The school system I
attended was underfunded, which meant that the scant resources available were
allocated to students considered to be the most promising.
I was placed on a vocational career track. I will never forget the day, as a fresh-
man in high school, when I was handed a booklet and told to pick my vocational
career. At 13, I was to make a decision that would influence the rest of my life.
As I flipped through the pages, nothing seemed appealing to me until I stumbled
upon a page with bolded words that read “Health Careers Choices.” As I kept read-
ing, I was promised the possibility of becoming a medical assistant. I reasoned that
this track would satisfy my mother’s desire to see me making a living without que-
brandome la espalda (“breaking my back”). Perhaps most importantly, as I read about
the possibility of becoming a medical assistant, I was reminded of the poor health in
which many members of my community, including my immediate family, found
themselves. On the periphery of my mind, I envisioned becoming a medical assis-
tant as my opportunity to help my community heal.
I devoted afternoons throughout my junior and senior years in high school to
taking the courses necessary to become a medical assistant. In addition, I opted
to take additional courses; I was told that doing so would allow me to become
licensed, which would translate into a higher hourly wage.
These additional courses changed my trajectory. I would be blessed with the
opportunity to train under Mrs. Helen Fey, a registered nurse turned health edu-
cator. Mrs. Fey, a warm Filipina woman, was small in stature, but she exuded
endless strength. As a required assignment, she asked that we write a paper on
an illness of choice.
During this period, I was in the initial stages of exploring my sexual identity as
a gay man. This was a time when gay men who frequented gay venues were
8 LGBT Psychology and Mental Health
