69 pages • 2-hour read
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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of antigay bias and suicidal ideation.
Sonora Reyes writes from lived experience as a queer, Mexican American alum of a private Catholic high school, and that vantage point is central to the novel. Reyes’s experience as one of few students of color at their school re-emerges when Yami notes that Slayton’s courtyard contains “like a dozen kids” of color among hundreds of white students (30). Reyes also participated in their school’s obligatory confession services and remembers being told, as Yami is, that gay relationships violated doctrine. By fictionalizing those moments, Reyes turns personal history into a broader commentary on how theology can be weaponized against LGBTQ+ youth. Their creation of #QPOCChat on Twitter echoes the novel’s interest in The Importance of Supportive Communities. The result is a protagonist who is not a stand-in but a conduit; Reyes distills a decade of personal growth and online activism into the single fraught semester that changes Yami’s life. Understanding that autobiographical throughline clarifies why the novel privileges interiority over plot twists and why it insists, by the final chapter, that being seen is as urgent as being safe. Reyes’s life and labor make that insistence credible.
Set in present-day Phoenix, Arizona, the novel maps Yami’s Mexican heritage onto actual neighborhoods with demographics that reveal stark cultural borders: the working-class, predominantly Latinx South Phoenix neighborhood where she and Cesar live contrasts with north Scottsdale’s affluent, heavily white suburbs, where Slayton Catholic is located. Census data show that South Phoenix is over 60% Latino (“Advancing Economic Development in Persistent-Poverty Communities.” Economic Innovation Group), while North Scottsdale is under 10% (“QuickFacts: Scottsdale City, Arizona.” US Census Bureau), a split that the novel embodies through Yami’s 40-minute commute and her joke about “selling sunscreen between classes” (4). The light-rail ride that Yami takes from South Phoenix parallels real-world students who commute from districts like Roosevelt to reach private institutions beyond their zip codes. Catholic schooling itself intensifies class tension. The Diocese of Phoenix has closed multiple parish schools in low-income areas since 2010, while elite academies thrive through donor networks. Slayton’s fundraising gala, mentioned in passing, alludes to the fact that donor culture keeps tuitions high and families like the Floreses on perpetual probation.
Within the geography of Phoenix, Reyes threads Indigenous lineage that is often erased in pan-Mexican narratives. Cesar’s jaguar pendant and his bathroom mantra, “In Lak’ech Ala K’in” (25), reference Mayan cosmology that frames self-love as communal duty: “You are my other me” (26). The siblings’ father once taught them that greeting; today, it fuels Yami’s final stand against administrative bigotry, proving that ancestral philosophies can outlast both colonial Catholicism and modern antigay bias.
The beadwork that Maria sells blends Mexican color palettes with Indigenous craftsmanship common to markets in Sonora and southern Arizona. Real Phoenix swap meets like the Mercado de los Cielos host similar hybrid wares, rooting the novel’s fictional Etsy business in real local practices. Even food anchors heritage: The chorizo burritos that Rick cooks echo the regional preference for Sonoran-style flour tortillas, distinguishing Yami’s household from Slayton’s cafeteria quesadillas made with processed cheese. Recognizing these cultural coordinates shows that the book’s conflicts are not abstract identity crises; they are daily negotiations among neighborhood lines, economic survival, and pre-Columbian wisdom that persist despite them.
Upon publication in 2022, The Lesbiana’s Guide to Catholic School garnered a National Book Award finalist slot, a Pura Belpré Award, and starred reviews from Kirkus Reviews, Publishers Weekly, and School Library Journal. Critics praised its humor and emotional impact, along with its balance of romantic comedy with mental-health gravity, noting that Reyes does not sanitize topics like suicidal ideation. The book’s acclaim aligns with a broader surge of LGBTQ+ young adult fiction that began gaining mainstream traction in the late 2010s; Kacen Callender’s Felix Ever After (2020) and Aiden Thomas’s Cemetery Boys (2020) also reached bestseller lists while centering LGBTQ+ people of color as protagonists.
Industry observers credit social media visibility—for example, on #BookTok and #QPOCChat, which Reyes founded—for amplifying teen demand for narratives that reflect layered identities. Within that wave, Reyes’s novel distinguishes itself by foregrounding faith as both an obstacle and a potential ally. Educators have adopted the text in both Catholic- and public-school diversity curricula, citing its frank author’s note and resource list. Yet the book faces ongoing challenges in districts following 2022 state-level bans on “sexually explicit” content in Arizona public schools; PEN America counts it among titles removed in multiple Arizona libraries. The polarized reception underscores why Reyes’s blend of humor and advocacy resonates with many readers: It aims to equip young readers to navigate celebration and censorship alike, advancing the trajectory of LGBTQ+ Latinx representation beyond tokenism and toward sustained literary legitimacy.



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