By: Fernando Cerezo III, Queer Latinx Writer
The first time I saw Bobbie was on the dance floor at a New York nightclub, a nightlife watering hole for creatives and it people. I watched the sea of bodies darting their eyes, waiting for their liquid courage to kick in. Among them I saw a figure outfitted in black and pink latex, manicured nails with fingerless matching gloves and a long black ponytail held up with a headband of the same material. Her face was made up, highlighting her round Twiggy-esque eyes with hues of pink around her cheeks and temples. She was holding no drink, and her friends looked like they were trying to match her energy but didn’t yet have it in them. So, I watched her with curious enthusiasm as she grew more and more activated by the music, witnessing what I could only describe as her spirit.
One weeknight over dinner with a handful of friends at Blue Ribbon Fried Chicken, East Village I heard “Fernando!”, called from behind me. Wearing an oversized leather jacket Bobbie embraces me warmly. She asks how I’m doing, her big eyes meeting mine from across the table as if we were the only people there. I introduce her to my bewildered friends, to whom she gives a friendly hello and a courtesy before bringing her eyes back to me. Recognizing her affinity for connection I insist we meet sometime one on one. That summer, in the Lower East Side, the two of us were dressed in all black despite the sweltering heat and walked over to the East River. Bobbie’s black wavy Joan Jett mullet encircles her fresh face. She reminds me of Brittany Murphy; skittish and eager but beaming with life. I look for a piece of myself in her to make sense of our unspoken kinship. We talked nightlife, our love of dancing, swapped dating misadventures, and realized we were born the same year. After sharing a few laughs and exchanging notes on managing adulthood, Bobbie starts to open up to me about her past. In late August, we got a chance to speak on the phone and with her permission I share it with you.
They say we’re all products of our environment, the triumphs and struggles of the children we were dictating the adults we soon become. In 2006, during a Bush era America, we find Bobbie as a curious 12-year-old in El Paso, Texas. She joined the all-girl cheerleading team and wore skirts to school against everyone’s wishes, dancing over the boundaries of the status quo. Born into a Mexican American community she was met with disapproving glares from adults, peers whispering about her in the halls, and evasion from strangers altogether. “It was unsafe to be queer, let alone be open about it [but] I wasn’t shameful. I didn’t subscribe to other people’s projections. I was going to live my life, wear what I wanted to wear, feel how I wanted to feel. Nobody was going to stop me.” Bobbie found solace at local gay bars, if not sneaking in, then peeking through the windows to catch drag performances and studying those she considered to be her people laughing, dancing and drinking, envisioning herself alongside them someday.
At 14, Bobbie earned her way into a summer dance program at Pacific Northwest Ballet School in Seattle, Washington. After days of vigorous training, Bobbie would sneak out to gay bars at night, where unlike El Paso she had an easier time getting in, despite being so young. “I didn’t know that I was being fetishized as this effeminate being and how that attracted certain characters into my orbit. I didn’t understand what a ‘tweaker’ looked like and I didn’t know what a ‘chicken hawk’ was.” It was 2009 and gay marriage hadn’t yet been legalized in most states, so homophobia permeated popular culture. These chicken hawks were men shrouded in secrecy who preyed on the young and impressionable. These were clergymen, CEOs and public defenders who had everything to lose, so in exchange for Bobbie’s discretion they offered her an affection she hadn’t felt before. One chicken hawk in his 50s, posing as a 9/11 firefighter, took Bobbie under his wing that summer, driving her around, filling her with alcohol and escorting her to “dad parties” where other men of the same breed would parade themselves with underage dates. But on their last meeting, Bobbie was lured to a bathhouse where the “firefighter” introduced her to meth. The next thing she remembered was waking up to a dozen of these tweakers abusing her 14-year-old body.
The following summer, Bobbie was back in Seattle but noticed a steep decline in her stamina during ballet class. She found herself in a doctor’s office, waiting pensively for the result of an HIV test. She can hear her mother’s warning echoing in her ears, that her behavior would only attract HIV and despair. The doctor came back with her result: positive. As the world drew silent Bobbie’s body had cemented. She looked blankly at the doctor, thanked them and solemnly walked back to class. Her fellow ballerinas detected something wrong, so Bobbie confided in them, “I have something called HIV.” After sympathizing with her, their word spread to their parents, who informed school administration and the state of Washington. It was rare for a child under 18 to be diagnosed with HIV and Bobbie didn’t get a chance to process what it all meant, the ignorance, fear and stigma. She made meaning out of the reactions from adults around her, showing concern for Bobbie with looks of terror and discomfort smeared on their faces. Amidst the dizzying chaos, Bobbie’s ballet director, Peter Boal, shared his experience of living in New York during the AIDS pandemic. “He could see me before I could see myself.” He assured her there was no better place to find access to proper care, maybe finding herself in the process.
After getting pulled out of her program early, Bobbie was back in El Paso, sitting in waiting rooms after waiting rooms of medical professionals. Bobbie had contracted anal cancer from undiagnosed HPV and knew her body’s ability to dance was now in jeopardy. But in 2009, insurance companies and pediatricians could legally discriminate against children living with HIV/AIDS. She had faced rejection from doctors of all kinds before landing in the office of one Dr. Rhonda Flemming. Dr. Flemming, an infectious disease doctor wasn’t trained in HIV care but after hearing Bobbie’s struggles she expressed compassion. So, Dr. Flemming trained herself in order to counsel and care for her. But HIV research was still severely lacking, which resulted in Bobbie’s new costly prescription of 12 intrusive, daily pills thought to suppress the effects of the virus.
Bobbie returned to face her family and the changing dynamic of the house. Bobbie’s father, a local judge, took necessary measures to protect his child (and reputation) by enforcing the use of the HIPAA privacy act, restricting third parties from disclosing Bobbie’s medical records without consent. He was the most involved in seeking treatment, but he was emotionally blocked, dismissing her when she confided in him. Her mother acclimated no better. “I could be getting purses. But we have to spend money on your medication. So shut up, you don’t get to be upset,” Bobbie remembers hearing. She grew estranged from her three older siblings who only thought up ways to cure her queerness. Certain bathrooms became off limits. If Bobbie would join her family pool parties everyone would scurry out. She became a shut in to avoid facing her own flesh and blood recoiling from her. To this day, Bobbie struggles with her family’s unwillingness to talk about HIV. “I want them to say something so that I can move forward. We can grow together to get back to a time before AIDS was introduced to our lives because it does affect everyone around you.” The once curious, high spirited child had hardened and became a recluse.
The opening weekend of Twilight: New Moon, Bobbie snuck her mother’s car out for a drive. She passed the theater, flooded by her peers, drove past her high school and the gay bars she once frequented. Everything was different now. ‘We know what you have. You’re just going to be a tr*nny with AIDS,” students said to her. “Don’t talk to that person, they have the gift,” they whispered at the bars. There was nowhere to seek refuge, so to supplement her sorrow she started taking ecstasy every night. “I was driving, thinking ‘Am I going to face another year of fighting kids or am I just going to end it all now?’” So that night Bobbie made an attempt to do just that right off the nearest cliff. With the car severely damaged and her mental health slipping, her frustrated parents committed Bobbie into a mental institution without her knowing. Here she was not only encouraged but conditioned to make lying a habitual practice, to lie about her status to any and everyone she meets.
Bobbie survived the public shaming, spiraling drug use and her dance with death and was convinced she was meant for more. “No one would rise to save me until I finally decided--not to quote Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand but I’m going to--‘Enough is enough.’” She took to the then two year old website, YouTube seeking any sliver of queer history, immersed herself in gay texts like City of Night and Dancer in the Dark and, though information was sparse, she took to outlets such as “Susan’s Place” to better understand her trans femme identity. A summer film series spearheaded by queer TV channel Logo had broadcast such films as But I’m a Cheerleader, Mambo Italiano and a lifetime staple of Bobbie’s, Wigstock. The 1995 documentary highlights the irreverent talents of the New York drag festival featuring high spirited queer performers such as Joey Arias, Lipsynka and of course the Lady Bunny, and touched upon the AIDS pandemic. “That’s where I first saw these insanely vibrant personalities and their struggles as LGBTQ+ people,” she tells me passionately. While her environment was failing her, she found hope in Dr Flemming, Peter Boal and her newfound Wigstock idols. There was only one solution. Goodbye, El Paso. Hello, New York City.
-> Click here to read, "Spotlight on Bobbie Hondo: Trans Femme Dancer & HIV/AIDS Advocate (PART TWO)"
