Photo: via Centro Cultural Fotográfico

GLBT families seem not to exist in Mexico. The queer community is still conceived as a social group with no children, nor the ability to have a family of its own.  A year ago, Mexican  photographer Óscar Sánchez Gómez proved this idea wrong with an exhibition in the Centro Médico subway station. His work is a series of portraits of GLBT families in Mexico that show a sweet intimacy of their lives. Fortunately, Sánchez Gómez work is part of the Segunda Cultural Lésbica Gay this year, and will be on exhibition at the Centro Cultural José Martí.

What inspired you to make this project? The idea came after seeing that most of the references to the gay and lesbian population in media are negative, stigmatizing, devalueing, and denigrating. My goal was to show a positive way of exercising the sexuality, of understanding love and creating families. I thought it was important to show that this family structures are far away from hetero-sexist and patriarchal structures. There is a popular saying that states “what can’t be seen, doesn’t exist”, and that’s exaclty why I wanted to do with this photographic essay, to shed light to something that does exist, and that is another aspect of the human being.

What was your goal when you decided to make this series of photographs? To show new family structures that were and still are invisible, to give them a presence in our society with the portraits I make of them.

Who are these families, how did you get in contact with them? They are families that live in Mexico City. As soon as I found a couple on the street I immediately asked them if I could  include them in my project. There were many rejections, but at the beginning I approached especially to those who participated with the homosexual liberation movement, or those who were activists of other groups, because they had already come out of the closet. They knew beforehand that the photographs were going to be published.

How long did it take you to make this series? When did you decide that they were enough and why? I’ve been documenting this kind of family for about 12 years. I have documented about 60 different famillies, and I still feel that there are some photos to be taken, I still don’t close the production of this work.

A year ago, this exhibition was held in a very crowded subway station, how can you describe that experience? Everything was fine in that exhibition, there were no protests or anything. Sometimes I went to take a peek to the passers-by reaction. It was very satisfactory to see how people stopped to see the photos with attention. I even saw mothers with their little children looking at the exhibition.

Is it common to see this kind of families in Mexico? What problems do you think they have to face, specifically in the Mexican context? It is more common to see them. Actually, there is a group of families, about 20, who hang out together. The objective is visibility.

Was there any obstacle that you had to tackle during the process? It’s been more about time and resources. Otherwise, ther have been no other.

What did you enjoy more of doing this work? To share space and time with the families.

How would you describe these Mexican families? They are families that, with no doubt, are built around love.

After having this experience, how would you define the family? As something diverse, that every one constructs in a different way.

Familias Mexicanas, Centro Cultural José Martí, Avenida Hidalgo at Doctor Mora, Hidalgo subway station. From June 5th to June 28th. If you want to contact Óscar Sánchez, please write to sagoscar@gmail.com.

Here at Macha Mexico, we’ve been busy interviewing some amazing queers and feminists working on interesting projects in Mexico City. By translating and publishing this series of conversations, our hope is to introduce their voices and ideas to new audiences. It is with great pleasure, then, that we inaugurate this series with Mexican/Argentine tropical-punk band the Kumbia Queers.

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After meeting at the Belladona festival in Buenos Aires in late 2006, five Argentine girls and one Mexican got together to experiment playing cumbia, and the Kumbia Queers were born. Although they’ve been playing live shows for a little over a year, all are veteran musicians; bassist Patricia “Kumbiadaver”, guitarrist Pila “Zombie” Jackson, and drummer “Inspector” also play in the Argentine queercore band the She Devils. Strumming the charango is accoustic punk musician Juana Chang, and lead singer Ali “Guaguanco” is a successful DJ and front-woman for Mexican dyke punk band the Ultrasonicas. In the past year, the Kumbia Queers have toured in both North and South America, and the 2007 video of their cover hit “La Isla con Chicas” was considered “Revelation of the Year” on YouTube and currently has over fifty thousand hits.

We sat down with the Kumbia Queers in Ali’s apartment in Colonia Doctores a few days after their packed show at the Centro Cultural España. Over a bottle of tequila we discussed their opinions about the difference between punk and cumbia, women in the music industry, and the meaning of the word queer.

MM: So, why “queers”?

Juana Chang: Why not?

MM: The name “Kumbia Queers” is very political, but is also very bilingual. It’s almost like you have to have all these English and Spanish references to really “get” the title [with its reference to established male cumbia bands like the Kumbia Kings as well as to the word "queer"].

Patricia Kumbiacadaver: For some people, it’s the word “kumbia” that gets their attention.

Pila “Zombie” Jackson: For me, it’s really great. For me, it’s political and at the same there is no need to explain anything. Those that understand, understand and those that don’t—maybe say, “What is queer?” And I tell them it’s everything that isn’t normal, that isn’t what they impose as “normal.” I think it’s something that is impossible to define, and, for that, I love it. It’s so many things.

Ali Guaguancó: First came the name, and then came the band.

MM: Has the ambiguous nature of your name allowed you to get gigs in places where you wouldn’t otherwise? Has the word “queer” in your title kept you out of traditional cumbia venues?

AG: No, because in Mexico or in Argentina it’s not likely that someone would know what “queer” is. For someone putting on a show, the least important thing is the name of the band. What’s important is whether they will draw a crowd or not.

JC: To me it doesn’t seem that important.

MM: We noticed that at your shows you say stuff like, “Are you ready, chicas?” even though the crowd often has more men in it than women. It’s as if you were only addressing a specific part of the crowd…

PZJ: The men enjoy themselves too. Chicas, chicos… it doesn’t matter to them. To me, what’s cool is that everyone is included, which doesn’t always happen. It’s like a party for everyone.

MM: So, for you guys, can the word queer include straight people?

I: Yeah, absolutely. Maybe there are some straight people that don’t fit anywhere. Queer means so many different things, and no one has to feel uncomfortable.

AG: [Queer] is an urban tribe made up of the people that don’t want to belong to any tribe.

MM: We heard a paper by Canadian academic Jasmine Rault in which she discusses your music as an alternative to the melancholy and apathy that seems to characterize a lot of American queer discourses (music, culture, activism…). What do you think?

PK: [Seeing our show,] she was struck by what she saw and processed it in a way that brought in everything she’s studied about that. But playing with the band, actually being there, everything feels more spontaneous.

JC: We know that there is a political thing here, but we didn’t conceive it as something political.

MM: So how did you go from making punk and rock music to playing cumbia?

PK: I have no idea… The day they began to play, it was a very hot day, I was depressed… I went over and everything came naturally. It just seem very natural to me…

PZJ: We all have our punk bands. I think it happened sort of the same way. For me it’s amazing to grab the guitar and sing a song with all your anger and your sadness, sing about how ugly things are out there. For me, that’s great. And then, to play a song just for fun and debauchery is a trip. I love being able to do both things. If I had to do just one… that would be cruel. If I had to only do the fun part, I’d feel like the protest was missing. Doing both things is fucking awesome.

AG: It’s a response to euphoria…

PZJ: Darkness comes along with all that fear and sadness. So, the more diverse the better.

JC: [by doing cumbia] I discovered that I like things that I would never imagined.

MM: What’s it like being an all-girl cumbia band in a “man’s world”?

I: I’v never had a problem.

PZJ: I think it has to do with your attitude. Every member of the band is very grounded on stage.

PK: In Argentina, some time ago, it was more difficult for girls to go up on a stage. I remember, when I was playing with another girl, the audience threw unimaginable things at us, including stones… This was during the dictatorship.

AG: I think now [sexism in music] is much more pronounced here in Mexico.

JC: You realize it when you see the husbands here doing all the sound tech stuff. I’ve always had to plug everything in by myself!

AG: You see that no one helps us carry our equipment. That’s a luxury we don’t give ourselves.

PZJ: Joan Jett said in an interview, “No one asks me what kind of pedal I use”, but that is also part of what’s on your mind [as a musician].

PK: And we do talk about that stuff in everyday life…

MM: So, there seems to be this double standard for women in rock, that you have to be beautiful, but if you’re too beautiful, then no one takes you seriously. What’s so cool about the Kumbia Queers is how you guys seem to play with being beautiful and being ugly, like how when you play “Kumbia Zombie” you tease the audience by taking off your shirts and revealing Ali’s red lacy bra, but then put on these ripped up zombie outfits.

PZJ: But we are gorgeous! (laugh). From my perspective, I am a woman, in my own way, like Ali, like Patricia… Patricia is the “femme” of the band, but with those huge hands she has, she can slap you on the face and kill you, you know?

MM: You guys get laid in your shows?

PZJ: No, we are very professional. (laugh)

MM: What do you think about the lesbian scene in Mexico?

PZK: I don’t know it.

I: I don’t know what “lesbian scene” means, neither here nor in Argentina. I am not interested in it at all.

AG: The lesbian scene is very boring. It doesn’t catch my attention, or my curiosity, I just don’t feel identified with it.

PK: Like any other groups or urban tribes, or however you want to call them, there are people who have to turn to different ways of identification in order to come out of their shell, to feel safe, to feel more comfortable.

AG: [The lesbian scene] is too formal, too serious.

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JC: They should lower their guard.

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PZJ: I mean, I do think there is homophobia, but I don’t see as a good response to close yourself and create a circle with rules…. That doesn’t motivate me. Back when my sexuality was first exploding, I explored a bunch of places [in Argentina's lesbian scene] but I ran away from them. I didn’t want to be a part of that.

AG: It’s like, for gay men… If they don’t like [gay icon] Paulina Rubio, what can they do…?

PK: That’s why we are a group that loves many different kinds of people….

The Kumbia Queers have said goodbye to Mexico City for the summer, but are currently on tour in the United States, with shows coming up this week in Chicago, Bloomington, and New York City. We highly recommend their music and seeing them live is unforgettable. Check out the Kumbia Queers’ myspace for tour dates.