Category: 2025 Class Post

Bros Before Mangoes: Queer Misogyny in “You’re the Only Friend I Need”

     In Alejandro Heredia’s “You’re the Only Friend I Need,” queer teens Fabio and Noel struggle to reconcile with their burgeoning identities. At multiple points in the text, this struggle manifests in a battle between femininity and masculinity, especially in the character of Fabio. By shedding light on the misogyny of gay men, Heredia interrogates the appropriation of femininity in the queer community. 

     Initially, Fabio demonstrates a vehement aversion to femininity. When a group of girls makes fun of him for eating a mango, for instance, he declares that he “fucking hate[s] girls” (Heredia 34). In Fabio’s mind, a few bullies come to represent every girl around the world. He judges using overgeneralizations, one of the many tools of the oppressor. Fabio also asserts his masculinity using the oppressive tool of violence. He gets into “a fist fight with one of the popular girls at school” after she calls him a slur (36). Taken symbolically, Fabio seems to spar with his own femininity. He attempts to quell rumors by pummeling the feminine energy inside himself just as he pummels his bully. However, his battle further exposes his queerness, solidifying him as a “girl-fighting maricon” (36). Similarly, when he “flips [the mango girls] a middle finger,” he only incites more laughter (34). With each struggle against femininity, Fabio further implicates himself in sissyhood. His fight is futile. He cannot dismantle patriarchal oppression using the tools of the patriarchy. 

     Fabio’s innate femininity blatantly contradicts his misogyny. When he and Noel start to “refer to each other in feminine pronouns,” the change “feels good” for both of them (36). According to Noel, “Fabio is unapologetic about his femininity” and “will throw it in anyone’s face” (36). Fabio even gets mad at Noel when his drag makeover does not look feminine enough. “You look like a boy. That’s not the point,” he says (39). These remarks and assertions seem discordant with Fabio’s earlier hatred of women. How can a boy who despises girls be “unapologetic about his femininity?” Fabio fails to recognize the hypocrisy of his views. He appropriates femininity and feminine culture, yet he despises women. In turn, Fabio harbors a deep-seated hatred for a fundamental part of himself.

     Though he fights against it, femininity fits Fabio like a glove. When he dresses in his aunt’s clothing, for instance, he looks “as if the blouse was made for his body exactly” (38). This is because it is. He is meant to embrace his feminine side, yet his misogyny prevents him from fully doing so. Even after Ren tells him to respect queer women’s gender identities, he refers to them using masculine pronouns. He refuses to immerse himself in femininity; he is not a girl, just something “adjacent” to one (40). Heredia suggests that Fabio can only achieve true happiness by placing himself in women’s shoes, both literally and figuratively. This is more than a radical form of empathy; it represents radical self-acceptance. Fabio can only settle into his identity when he discards the patriarchy’s rules. Queer self-acceptance hinges upon a new, more feminist way of being.

     Through the character of Fabio, Heredia suggests that gay men cannot comfortably reconcile with their femininity without first confronting their misogyny. By extension, his story implies that the liberation of the queer community cannot be wrought without the liberation of women, too. This intersectional approach to activism acknowledges the multiplicity of our own identities. We contain “multitudes,” and we must strive to accept each part of ourselves, whether masculine, feminine, or something in between (38).

Our Privacy and the Public

Eli Clare in “stones in my pocket, stones in my heart” speaks a lot about complex dynamics between bodies and identity, and how the outer world perceives bodies and identities that are not their own. At one point he says, “I lose the bigger picture, forget that woven through and around the private and intimate is always the public and political” (149). We briefly touched on this statement in class, but I wanted to go back at flesh out some more ideas I had. I do not think that Clare is saying that the two sets of ideas are synonymous. Rather, they coincide and loop around each other. We spoke about how politics often have an impact on our privacy. There are court cases and laws that deem whether two people of the same gender can get married. Additionally, there are laws that used to criminalize homosexuality, and it took a long time to legalize it in every state. These are policies by lawmakers in the past that have an effect on people’s current intimate and private lives. Additionally, there is always public opinion. Growing up in my conservative town, there was a stigma around being queer. Even now, the rhetoric being dispersed from TV shows, movies, political figures, or even just our friends, can influence our private and intimate lives (whether that is through hate or fear or even positive ideas like staying hydrated). People always have an opinion. Often, they can be damaging to our self-perceptions and how we go about our private lives. Especially when people go about imposing their opinions on our lives.

            Additionally, people with disabilities are also seen a certain way by the public eye as Clare mentioned in both of the chapters we have read. What is going on with a person’s body is private and intimate, yet people who have no idea what is going on often make judgments or think they know what is best for that person. Despite having a different body and not having experienced these things. Then, on the other hand, like Clare said in “the mountain,” there are instances where no one told him he did the right thing when he turned around while hiking. There are people always pushing goals on others without thinking about what the person feels. There is never not a public opinion.

            Further, when I think of Clare talking about the “public and political” being “woven through and around the private and intimate,” I think of a woven basket or blanket (149). And, thinking in those terms, I believe it is fair to say the opposite, that the “private and intimate” also fold over the “public and political” (149). By that, I mean, and what I think Clare is saying, that there is a cyclic cause and effect relationship. Queer people got the right to marriage (public) because queer people exist in private spaces and were willing to go public to argue for equality. Additionally, accessibility is enhanced to infrastructure or curriculums because people who are affected by the lack of accessibility in private, go public and argue for equality. That being said, one should not have to sacrifice their privacy for the sake of the public (it is a personal choice).

            There are often people who try to limit the access of other bodies and identities to be seen and heard. There are often people who want legislative control over other people’s bodies (as we can see now with laws against access to gender-affirming care). Yet, there are also people who speak out against the transphobes and homophobes and ableists. People do this in both public and private. The public only exists because the private exists and vice versa. We only know what one is because we have experienced the other. And, thus, there will always be a push and pull, an under and over, a cause and effect. It is how we align and accept ourselves that we can affect the public to protect our privacy. We learn our limits and how to speak for ourselves in the face of adversity.

Carnivals, Swimming Pools, and Elusive Trans Narratives

“[…] the portrait I had brought home from the carnival. Betsy didn’t know what my mother was talking about. Finally after much confusion, she asked, ‘Didn’t I draw your son?’ I remember the complete joy I felt when my mother came home with this story. I looked again and again at the portrait, thinking, ‘Right here, right now, I am a boy.’ It made me smile secretly for weeks, reach down into my pockets to squeeze a stone tight in each fist. I felt as if I were looking in a mirror and finally seeing myself, rather than some distorted fun-house image” (Clare 146). 

Clare’s writing in “stones in my pockets, stones in my heart” is undeniably full of emotion, but this was a particular spot of resonance, in my reading. His story of being perceived as a young boy has several connections to the rest of the chapter, notably the highlighted childhood question “Am I feminine?” (Clare 144). Clare also writes about his later discovery of the lesbian community, specifically the butch lesbian community. He states, “I knew I could be this kind of woman” and describes finding “a definition of woman large enough” to fit into (Clare 155). All these components build into the idea of being seen. The second part of this passage is principal—in it, Clare sees himself in his true form. The stone companions add to this imagery of growing up and finding safe spaces. Clare found several ways to move through the world as he grew with his gender identity.  

Segueing into a personal note, I felt seen by Clare’s story several times in this chapter. It is curious to me that I had similar experiences during similar developmental times. When I was roughly seven or eight, I went to a pool party which was being hosted by my mother’s associates—nobody’s children knew each other. I, with my choppy, chin-length hair and swim trunks, spent the whole afternoon with a group of boys my age. We played football, because that’s definitely a sport that’s meant to be played in the water. It wasn’t until my mom came to find me and called my then-name that I—and the boys—became wise to the misunderstanding. They’d thought I was a boy the entire time. I was giddy with the keen sense I’d pulled something off, even if it hadn’t been intentional. I immediately thought of this day when I read Clare’s carnival story. 

Then I was nine, eleven, thirteen. I was the class tomboy. I played sports. I did not date. I was ‘not like other girls.’ I, too, found “a definition of woman large enough” to house me until I hit high school, snapped, and came out. This makes me think about the transgender community in a broader sense. No two trans individuals are the same, and there is no universal experience, as emphasized by the other social factors Clare addresses. I advocate for celebrating everyone’s individual “definition of know and feel,” but I wonder if there are more common experiences I have yet to see (Clare 158). Trans narratives have entered the mainstream in the last decade or two, yet I am still taken aback upon feeling recognized. I wonder if trans representation feels tenuous because it is so contested.  

The Policing of Expression

In Alejandro Heredia’s You’re the Only Friend I Need, two young boys navigate the tension and social pressures surrounding gender expression and fluidity. When they meet Ren, who embraces femininity in their dress, their eyes sparkle with a sense of comfort, as well as a sense of fear. Which includes the very real threat of punishment from authorities who deem their gender expression unnatural and in need of policing. Heredia captures this fear,“Noel does not think it, refuses to turn his feeling into thought for fear that will paralyze him. He feels it. The body responding to danger, to the possibility of meeting the baton of some cop, dressed as they are” (39). The novel also highlights the lingering impact of colonialism, particularly through the reference to Parque Colón, where a statue of Christopher Columbus towers over the square, “At the center, a statue of the colonizer looms over the square…He stands in all of his power. As if to say, ‘If I found you, I can lead you.’ As if he were the center of the whole universe…” (33). This imagery serves as a stark reminder of how Spanish colonization reshaped cultural and social structures, imposing rigid ideals of gender and morality. Within Mestizo circles, I have heard discussions about how, before colonization, Indigenous communities had a more fluid understanding of sex and gender beliefs that the Spanish deemed unholy and sought to suppress through forced conversion and cultural erasure. It’s striking how those colonial ideals continue to shape societal norms today.

This struggle for self definition and acceptance also resonates with Eli Clare’s The Mountain, where people across various identities are forced to climb the brutal slope of “normalcy” and “success.” The mountain demands assimilation, offering no space for difference, no peace for those who refuse to conform. It is a reminder that, even now, systems of power work to constrain identity rather than allow it to flourish.

 

Society Seeping into Safe Spaces

“​​And for many, this is as much intimacy as they’ll be able to find. The closest they can be to their respective islands, the safest they can feel in public holding another man. What is longing and systemic oppression when you have the dance floor?…

‘It’s not Spanish.’ It is a reflex, to correct him. He feels dread rising as soon as he does so but can’t stop himself from talking. ‘It’s Latino if you’re speaking generally; Dominican, Puerto Rican, whatever, if you want to be specific.’”

 

I think in this passage, it is talking about the connection that people feel with each other, the unification of the dance floor. But the author makes sure to remind the reader that just because they come together as one to dance, they are not a ‘they.’ Each person or music has its own traditions and culture behind them. This passage reminds me of the movie, Dirty Dancing. In the movie they use dancing as a metaphor for freedom and its ability to unite people over their social differences. 

Even in this space where they feel safe, there are people who still enter it and act like they are in charge, that they are the ones who run the show. This person is clearly an outsider, perhaps not in regards to sexuality, but in regards to race. Eli Clare talks about how a person is extremely intersectional, how you can not separate your identity because each facet impacts the others. I think this passage is an example of that phenomenon. Sal is both Latin and queer. He is finding identity with others on this dance floor because they share common roots or identities. But there are also subcategories, for lack of a better term, to being Latin.

I connected these two passages because I think it links the systemic oppression that he is talking about in the first quote and portrays it in the form of ignorance. The fact that he notes, “he can’t stop himself from talking” and the “dread rising” signals to me that this is a conversation that he has had to have before. As a result of the systemic oppression, people are ignorant to the other cultures around them. This space that he has deemed safe and a place where people can be themselves, the outside world can still infiltrate even the most sacred spaces for people. It speaks to how pervasive and complete oppression is in everyday life.

Queerness, Mangoes, and Streetlights

“You’re the Only One I Need” by Alejandro Heredia, an exploration of drag, queerness, femininity versus masculinity, gayness, is deeply rooted in its setting and qualities of setting. The physical setting of Santo Domingo is very central to the story, of course; but what I’m getting at is the more physical and visual qualities of the world that the characters interact with, and the importance of them to the story’s queerness. For example, the physicality, and almost bodily description, of eating a mango:

“[Fabio] claws for his [yellow] mango and tears into it with his teeth, makes a small hole in the flesh of the fruit. He massages the pulp into juice and sucks from the fruit every last drop of sun. When they are done, the skin of the mango is taut, wrinkled and saggy. Only the pit remains” (34).

The action of eating a mango is always very intimate in that way. It’s just that kind of fruit: the ripeness of it and the juice and the skin. But this description is long and detailed, every word deliberate, with so much language of touch and fleshiness. “He massages the pulp into juice and sucks from the fruit every last drop of sun” — massaging, very specific touch; pulp, the flesh of the fruit (34). They are eating the mango in a way that men perhaps are not “supposed” to do it. There is too much intimacy and enjoyment in it, too much touch and sweetness. This assumption is proved when “the girls laugh” (34), watching the boys eat this fruit in this perhaps “girly” or “gay” way. The mango is thus a symbol of their perceived femininity.

Once again I want to return to this sentence: “He massages the pulp into juice and sucks from the fruit every last drop of sun” (34), but now looking at the ending of it, “every last drop of sun.” If the mango is seen as a symbol for the perception of queerness or femininity to the outside world, then the light, the sun, that they are extracting from the mango can be read as a space and a moment of time when they can have a safe space for their queerness. That is, before the girls look at them and laugh.

Heredia plays with darkness and light, shadows and color all throughout the piece. When Ren and the two boys change into drag, they “turn to a dark alleyway, away from the light” — this is their private space, where they can be with themselves and their bodies. However, Ren then “continues the rest of his transformation before them, in the soft orange streetlight” (37). The description of light reminds me somehow of the mango: soft, orange or yellow, again light. The darkness may be their private space — but yellow, orange, soft flesh of the mango, the sun and the streetlight is the safe space for their queerness. Heredia’s work is thus thinking about queer spaces within a world where queerness is perhaps laughed at or hidden.

Ren(ata), “the maze”, and machismo

Rather than comment on a singular passage, I would like to expand on a character. Renata/Ren, who is introduced in “You’re the Only Friend I Need” and reappears in Loca, encapsulates how race, gender, sexuality, and more compound to form a singular human identity, as explained by Eli Clare:

“Gender reaches into disability; disability wraps around class; class strains against abuse; abuse snarls into sexuality; sexuality folds on top of race…everything finally piling into a single human body. To write about any aspect of identity, any aspect of the body, means writing about this entire maze.” (Eli Clare)

Alejandro Heredia’s work delves into this quotation, presenting a range of characters that display this “maze” of identity, attempting to discern what exactly makes them who they are. Most importantly, they want to concretely know who they are to –and in– themselves.

In the case of Ren, there are seemingly two people within one body: the majority of the time, Ren outwardly presents as a man, only “transforming” into a woman in certain spaces. It is even said that she “is a different person” at the night parties, demonstrating the coexistence of two dual identities (Loca). This also highlights how, as we’ve discussed, not all aspects of one’s identity are expressed at a given moment. Under the cloak of night, Ren is free to be Renata, a privilege that is otherwise inaccessible –because it is physically unsafe– in the machismo culture of the DR (which has an entire section of vocabulary intended to alienate, mock, and project hatred onto queer identities). This racial aspect, coupled with the political climate of the world at large in the 90’s (and prior), greatly impacts Ren/Renata’s ability to authentically express their gender identity and sexuality, a dilemma that also impacts Yadiel (who is a development of Fabio in Loca). Without revealing the plot, these two characters confront and navigate the threat of their identities in an effort to authentically live their whole identities: race, gender, sexuality, and more combined in one body, living their truth.

In Loca, Heredia does not just write about these bodies and the complexity of the identities that inhabit them, he writes about what it means to navigate these identity facets within ourselves, the struggle it can be to reconcile all of the aspects into a clear picture, and the uncertainty that can plague much of the journey of self-discovery (to avoid spoilers, there is a specific quotation in Loca that I will tag after we read it for class).

Don’t you love when your secret lover compares you to a Sea Creature?

On page 73, a moment of physical and emotional closeness intertwines metaphors of water and nature, reflecting the narrator’s deep connection with Jacqueline. The recurring imagery of water, with its associations of fluidity, transformation, and desire, evokes a sense of immersion in this relationship. Jacqueline is described as ‘refilled each day with fresh tides of longing,’ suggesting the constant, overwhelming nature of the narrator’s desire. This metaphor not only represents desire’s intensity but also casts Jacqueline as familiar territory of the scent of “rock pools” the narrator explored as a child. Thus, symbolizing a space of comfort and desire for the narrator. The metaphor of Jacqueline being ‘refilled each day with fresh tides of longing’ illustrates the cyclical nature of desire, which is both ever-present and transformative. This continual replenishment suggests that the narrator’s feelings for Jacqueline are not static but evolve daily, amplifying the sense of constant yearning and emotional fluidity. The metaphor of tides also implies that this desire is something beyond the narrator’s full control, as tides can often sweep up people and things. In the tides, the narrator discovers Jacqueline’s “starfish” and “salt”. This sense of discovery and immersion highlights the narrator’s psychological state of being consumed by desire. Just like a deep sea diver takes time in exploring the ocean and its habitants, the narrator gives their lover the same level of exploration. Just as the ocean can both embrace and overwhelm, the narrator’s longing for Jacqueline creates an emotional pull that is as irresistible as it is unsettling because the sea contains a plethora, suggesting an internal conflict between yearning for closeness and the fear of losing control. The two began with the music “smooth as a tube lubricating” them across the floor but, they eventually slip deeply into the affair, like being plunged into the sea. Ultimately, the water metaphor serves not only to convey the depth of the narrator’s desire but also to underscore the natural, yet uncontrollable forces of intimacy. It reveals the tension between the allure of emotional connection and the inherent instability and unpredictability of love, which, much like water, is fluid and ever-changing.

Map of Belonging

Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body is saturated with longing. On page 135, the narrator calculates how long it would take the sound waves of their screams to reach Louise; of course, it would be futile. They simply cannot scream loud enough, it is impossible. This metaphor is so human– that urge to scream out in times of great loss, even if you will not be heard. The rest of page 135 speaks to the novel’s broader contemplation of belonging and estrangement. The following paragraph describes the zoo at night—animals crying out, “species separated from one another, knowing instinctively the map of belonging.” This ties into the novel’s queerness, where the narrator’s love for Louise defies rigid categorization. The “map of belonging” is dictated not by conventional social norms, but by love, or at least connection. Just as the animals in the zoo are unable to access their natural habitat, the narrator finds themselves cut off from the one place they belong: with Louise. “I keen in the fields to the moon. Animals will call back,” demonstrates the narrator’s desperation, their attempts to reach out even when no response will come. This passage builds on earlier moments in the novel where the narrator struggles with love as something ineffable. The passage’s closing image—the animals, ears pricked, listening for “the noises of kill” but only hearing human sounds—further deepens the novel’s sense of displacement. If Louise is the animal, she is one separated from her natural environment, removed from the one she loves (at least from the narrators POV). If the narrator is the animal, then they are imprisoned by their own yearning. In this way, this passage encapsulates the novel’s central paradox: love is both the most natural and the most unnatural thing, something instinctive yet impossible to hold onto. The page ends with, “I wish I could hear your voice again.” So gut-wrenching. 

Love & Possession

Winterson writes, “Louise, your nakedness was too complete for me, who had not learned the extent of your fingers. How could I cover this land? Did Columbus feel like this on sighting the Americas? I had no dreams to possess you, but I wanted you to possess me” (52).

I found it interesting how often Louise’s body and the protagonist’s romance were framed through possession and exploration. This isn’t surprising, given that in our culture, claiming a partner, or being claimed, is often equated with love. It also made me think about love as an act of reclamation, or at least what it’s supposed to be. In Mexican culture, love is deeply tied to the idea of belonging to one another, which in turn reminds me of the not so distant echoes of colonization. The Spanish imposed their God on Indigenous peoples, declaring conversion or death; they imposed marriage, declaring anything outside of it sinful. Love then becomes a cycle of possession.

Love it isn’t about control, certainty, or ownership. It has no place for angst or insecure attachment; those are illusions that only distort our perception of what love truly is. Love also isn’t about making decisions for your partner as if they were a child, assuming you know what’s best for them without giving them the chance to express their own desires. That isn’t love, it’s fear disguised as protection. As Gail says, “She wasn’t a child, you didn’t give her the chance to say what she wanted. You left” (Winterson 159).

I recently took a course on critical utopias and the human instinct to search beyond borders for a better land, a better reality. In many ways, love can feel utopian, an escape from one’s own limitations. But for Louise’s lover, no matter where they went, despair followed. There was no “elsewhere” where they could be different or where they could be free from their own cycles of longing and  suffering. Did they truly want happiness, or were they more comfortable in longing? At times, it seems as if the protagonist convinces themself that their despair is okay, that the pain of love is its proof. If love is possession, then maybe loss is the ultimate confirmation of love’s existence. Which leads up back to how Winterson begins this novel, “Why is the measure of love loss” (Winterson 9).