The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School

“It’s a fancy-ass Catholic school, but it’s a fresh start, for both of us. And at least now I’ll know to keep my mouth shut about any crushes. This time, I’ll be stealthy gay. Like Kristen Stewart.”

Yami’s ironic use of “stealthy gay” establishes her concealment strategy for survival at Catholic school, setting up the novel’s exploration of Finding Self-Acceptance Despite External Judgment. The reference to actor Kristen Stewart functions as both humor and a recognition of LGBTQ+ representation that exists beyond Yami’s immediate environment. This moment of sardonic self-awareness contrasts with the genuine vulnerability she displays elsewhere, highlighting her defensive coping mechanisms.

“The last time I saw him in person was at a protest. There was this anti-immigration law getting passed that would make racial profiling legal and my dad wasn’t having it. I thought his green card would keep him safe, but I was wrong. He got arrested at the protest, and I haven’t seen him since. After that, I stopped standing for the pledge.”

This passage connects Yami’s personal loss to broader sociopolitical issues of immigration enforcement and civil disobedience. Her father’s deportation forms the background for her own quiet resistance in refusing to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance, illustrating how personal trauma shapes political consciousness. The short, declarative sentence “I was wrong” conveys the harsh reality of immigration enforcement that contradicts American ideals of “liberty and justice for all” mentioned earlier in the chapter.

“‘This group’s topic is’—Mrs. Havens drumroll-slaps her thighs—‘should gay marriage be legal?’ I try not to visibly flinch. This is a topic I refuse to get up in arms over. Not here, where they’ll clock me over it. ‘Are you serious? It’s already legal.’ Bo stands from her desk before I know which side I’m supposed to be arguing.”

This scene dramatizes the contrast between Bo’s bold advocacy and Yami’s protective silence, exemplifying different strategies for navigating hostile environments. Yami’s internal narration (“I try not to visibly flinch”) reveals her self-surveillance and fear of exposure, while Bo’s immediate protest demonstrates her comparative privilege and security in her identity. The teacher’s cavalier presentation of a deeply personal issue as debate fodder—complete with the inappropriate drumroll—underscores the institutional callousness that treats human rights as theoretical discussion points.

“‘Papi, I’m so tired of having to take care of everyone.’ I wipe my eyes. He’s quiet for a while, and I almost start to think he’ll be disappointed in me. ‘Oh, mija…’ He closes his eyes. ‘That’s supposed to be my job. I hate that I can’t be there for you.’”

This exchange exposes Yami’s emotional exhaustion and her fear of disappointing others even when expressing vulnerability. Her father’s response acknowledges the unfair burden placed on Yami while reinforcing their connection despite physical separation. Their conversation, conducted through FaceTime rather than in person, symbolizes the fractured but resilient family bonds created by immigration policies, reinforcing the novel’s exploration of connection across physical and emotional distances.

“‘I’m…I’m g—’ I start again, but the words are trying to claw their way back into my throat. I can only push them out through a whisper. ‘I’m gay.’”

This pivotal moment captures Yami’s physical struggle to verbalize her identity to her brother. The metaphor of words “trying to claw their way back” into her throat conveys the visceral difficulty of coming out, even to someone she trusts. Reyes uses Yami’s hesitation to dramatize how self-disclosure requires overcoming internalized shame and fear of rejection. The whispered confession marks a crucial turning point in Yami’s journey toward self-acceptance and initiates shared vulnerability with Cesar.

“‘In lak’ech, baby!’ I spit out a laugh-cry, and Cesar starts Fortnite dancing. He’s chanting between moves. ‘In…la…keeeeeech!’ He’s twerking now, and how could I not join in? I jump on his bed and floss dance while he attempts to wall twerk. We laugh and sing and twerk. It’s so gay.”

This sibling celebration blends their shared Indigenous philosophy with contemporary youth culture through Fortnite dancing. The juxtaposition of Mayan spiritual connection (with “In lak’ech” meaning “You are my other me”) with modern dance embodies how Yami and Cesar navigate their intersecting cultural and sexual identities. The final sentence, “It’s so gay,” reclaims and transforms their identities into something joyful rather than shameful, inverting the usual connotation of the phrase. The scene’s exuberant physicality contrasts with their earlier emotional restraint, showing how acceptance creates freedom of expression.

“So when Bo holds my hand without apologizing, I feel like it’s a slap right in Bianca’s big mouth. Because Bo doesn’t give a shit about Bianca’s unspoken rules, at least with me and Amber. Gay friends can hold hands, too.”

This reflection reveals how Bianca’s betrayal has constrained Yami’s ability to experience normal physical affection in friendships. The metaphor of a slap expresses Yami’s lingering anger while showing how Bo’s casual acceptance challenges anti-LGBTQ+ norms. Reyes contrasts two models of friendship—one where being gay is seen as predatory and one where it’s unremarkable—illustrating how social acceptance affects Yami’s self-perception. The final declarative statement, “Gay friends can hold hands, too,” asserts Yami’s right to equal treatment, showing her growing confidence in claiming space.

“Everything is so different over here. I don’t even try to stop the tears from dripping down my face. Cesar sits back down with me. I don’t have to say anything. I know he gets it. […] Junior’s mom got deported, even though she didn’t know about the party. And here they just asked us to turn the music down. No one is getting arrested or deported. No kid is getting their head bashed into the floor. The party is still fucking happening.”

This passage starkly contrasts police responses in different neighborhoods, revealing systemic inequality through Yami’s lived experience. The trauma of witnessing violence against Junior is juxtaposed with the lenient treatment of more privileged teens at Hunter’s party, exposing how race and class determine safety. Reyes uses parallel structure (“No one is getting arrested […] No kid is getting their head bashed”) to emphasize the injustice, while the final sentence’s emphasis on “still fucking happening” conveys Yami’s incredulity and anger. The siblings’ silent understanding highlights their shared knowledge of injustice that their wealthy peers remain oblivious to, reinforcing their outsider status even as they navigate this privileged space.

“‘We can’t stop you from doing what you’re going to do, but we hope you’re doing it safely.’ ‘She’s fine, Dad,’ Bo interrupts, trying again to save me from the lecture, but her mom continues. ‘Make sure you’re always with someone you trust. […] If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need help, and you don’t feel comfortable calling your own parents, give me a call. You won’t get in trouble, but I’d rather an adult be the one to come get you.’”

Bo’s mother’s approach represents an alternative parenting model focused on harm reduction rather than prohibition and punishment. The offer of unconditional support contrasts with Yami’s fear of her own mother’s reaction, highlighting different approaches to teenage independence. Reyes uses this interaction to expand Yami’s understanding of what family support can look like. The passage illustrates the novel’s theme of finding acceptance outside traditional structures as Yami begins to recognize that she deserves care without judgment.

“Cesar runs back and pushes me into the fence hard enough so the truck is heading for him instead of me. Just when my brother is about to be roadkill, the truck pulls back on the road and drives off. The laughter is almost as loud as the blasting music. I yank off one of my chanclas and take a running start. I let out a strangled war screech and throw it at the truck. It hits the back window, but it doesn’t give me the satisfaction I want.”

This tense scene reveals the complex sibling dynamics between Yami and Cesar as he risks his life to protect her from anti-LGBTQ+ violence. Reyes juxtaposes the serious threat with Yami’s defiant but futile response of throwing her chancla (sandal), a culturally significant gesture that highlights her Mexican American identity. The imagery of her ineffective retaliation symbolizes her feeling of powerlessness against prejudice, while Cesar’s selfless act demonstrates their deep familial bond despite their ongoing conflicts.

“‘Because the Bible has written it so.’

‘Where? Don’t cite the Old Testament at me, since our uniforms are made from mixed fabrics. Another sin, according to the Old Testament.’

‘Romans 1: 26 and 1: 27. “For this reason God gave them—”’

‘“Up to vile passions,” blah blah. I know the passage.’ Someone gasps when Bo interrupts. ‘It’s about adultery, not homosexuality in the context of committed partners. You can’t put us through a year of scripture class and expect us to learn only the convenient parts.’”

Bo’s confrontation with the priest represents a direct challenge to religious authority that has traditionally marginalized LGBTQ+ individuals. Her sophisticated theological argument demonstrates intellectual agency against institutional power, using the same religious texts often weaponized against her community. The gasps from classmates and Bo’s confident interruption of the priest illustrate the social risk she takes in this public setting, serving as a catalyst for Yami’s evolving relationship with religion and sexuality.

“I think about telling him I’m gay. It’s the first thing I always confess when I do this. Priests are among the few people I’ve ever uttered my secret to, since they’re sworn to secrecy. But something in me tells me not to this time. I tell him about hurting Bo’s feelings, and getting drunk. I confess all the things I feel guilty about. But liking girls? I feel like I can be okay with that part of myself, or at least try to, even if others can’t. There’s no point in hating myself over it.”

This pivotal moment marks Yami’s shift from self-loathing to self-acceptance as she redefines her relationship with her sexuality within the Catholic context. The confessional setting creates irony: A space designed for admitting sins becomes the site where Yami refuses to categorize her identity as sinful. Reyes employs stream-of-consciousness narration to trace Yami’s internal reasoning process, documenting her emerging conviction that her sexuality doesn’t require absolution.

“Bianca: I miss you…

[…]

Bianca: *as a friend

I could give myself a migraine from rolling my eyes so hard. Why the fuck would she feel the need to add that? It’s like throwing in my face that she’s uncomfortable with the fact that I’m gay. […]

Yami: Kindly, kiss my ass.

Yami: *as a friend

I block her number before she can respond.”

Yami’s exchange with Bianca marks a crucial moment of self-assertion and boundary setting in her emotional development. Reyes conveys Yami’s visceral reaction through physical sensations to emphasize the emotional significance of this confrontation. The mirroring of Bianca’s “as a friend” in Yami’s final text demonstrates her reclamation of power through linguistic appropriation, while the immediate blocking action serves as both literal and metaphorical closure to this toxic relationship.

“Seeing his face makes me want to cry, I miss him so much. ‘Hola, Peke! I gotta show you something.’ My dad is the only one Cesar lets call him ‘Peke,’ short for pequeño, because Cesar has always been short for his age, and skipping a grade makes him seem even smaller. […] ‘Do you remember Canela? Doesn’t she look just like her? I thought you might like that.’ He keeps laughing, and the video ends. My throat contracts. Dad used to take Cesar and me to the park to feed the ducks when we were little. […] I was there with them, but Dad only wanted to tell Cesar.”

This scene reveals the painful reality of parental rejection through the lens of childhood memory. The nickname “Peke” and the shared memory of Canela the duck create emotional impact through specific details that highlight what Yami has lost. Reyes employs the physical reaction of Yami’s throat contracting to convey her speechless hurt, while the contrast between past inclusion and present exclusion emphasizes the theme of finding self-acceptance despite external judgment that permeates the novel.

“Rick is a good cook. He’s a great cook. But his burritos don’t taste like the ones I’m used to. Don’t get me wrong: they’re amazing. They might even be up there with my mom’s when it comes to the cooking itself. But I didn’t just want a good chorizo burrito. I wanted my mom’s cooking. I wanted my mom.”

This passage uses food as a powerful symbol of cultural connection and family bonds. The repetition of sentences beginning with “but” creates a syntactical pattern emphasizing Yami’s conflicted feelings. This quiet moment illuminates the irreplaceable nature of family connections through the metaphor of missing flavors, even when substitute care is objectively “amazing.”

“I shake my head. ‘Bo, any way you engage with your own culture is authentic, because it’s yours.’ And damn, I kind of feel like I needed to hear that myself.”

This moment of insight represents a breakthrough in Yami’s understanding of cultural identity. Her advice to Bo is ironic, as Yami immediately recognizes that she’s articulating wisdom that she herself needs. The second-person phrasing “it’s yours” emphasizes ownership and agency in cultural identity, countering the external validation that both teens have been seeking. This dialogue reveals how Bo and Yami mirror each other’s struggles with authenticity despite their different backgrounds, a central element of their deepening connection.

“I know I can come back anytime I want, but I’m sad to leave Bo’s place the next day. Time to go back to surviving.”

This brief statement juxtaposes the privilege of Bo’s world against Yami’s reality through diction, as Yami’s use of the word “surviving” conveys the constant stress she experiences at home, in contrast to the easy acceptance she finds in Bo’s house. This single word creates a tonal shift that emphasizes the ongoing nature of Yami’s struggle and highlights the economic disparities that shape her worldview and decisions.

“Kissing Bo is like being in a sensory deprivation tank. The world around us disappears, and the soft sensation of her lips on mine is the only thing tethering me to this plane of existence, keeping me from floating away to the clouds. I hold my breath as if doing so could stop time, keeping us right here in this moment.”

The extended metaphor and sensory language capture the intensity of Yami’s first authentic romantic experience. The comparison to a sensory deprivation tank paradoxically highlights heightened sensation rather than its absence, conveying Yami’s single-minded focus. The imagery of being “tethered” to reality while simultaneously wanting to “float away” creates tension reflecting Yami’s conflicting desires for escape and connection. The metaphor of holding her breath to “stop time” represents both Yami’s desire to savor the moment and her subconscious awareness that reality—and consequences—awaits when she must eventually breathe.

“‘In lak’ech…’ is all I can manage to say about it. ‘Don’t.’ His fists clench and his eyes shoot through me. ‘Drop it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.’”

This exchange encapsulates the fracturing of Yami and Cesar’s once-inseparable bond through their contrasting relationships to the Mayan poem they once shared. Yami’s fragmentary utterance of “In lak’ech” (meaning “You are my other me”) becomes sadly ironic as Cesar explicitly rejects this connection. The physical description of clenched fists and eyes that “shoot through” creates violent imagery that counters the poem’s emphasis on unity. Cesar’s imperative “Drop it” serves double duty, rejecting both the conversation and the philosophical framework that once structured their relationship, highlighting how mental health crises can disrupt even the deepest bonds.

“The cracked mirror in my room mocks me. It zooms in on my runny nose and wet eyelashes. I slam my fist on the desk but don’t feel it. All I feel is dizzy and mad. I grip the edges of the vanity for balance. I want to blame someone. I can’t stop thinking about that doctor threatening Cesar. Or my parents being homophobic. Or Cesar wanting to…The edges of my vision go black, and all I can see is my fractured reflection staring back at me. My mom’s voice echoes in my head. You should have been there! I want to take back punching the mirror the first time, just so I can do it now. You should have been there! I punch it again anyway. And again. And again.”

This passage employs the broken mirror as a powerful symbol of Yami’s fractured emotional state following Cesar’s suicidal crisis. The repetition of “You should have been there!” creates an escalating rhythm that mirrors Yami’s mounting guilt, with the physical violence against her reflection representing externalized self-blame. The first-person narration captures Yami’s dissociation (“I don’t feel it”) while revealing how guilt manifests as rage when one feels powerless in a crisis.

“‘Mami, I’m lesbian.’ I think it’s the first time I ever used that word to describe myself, and I like how it feels.”

This brief but pivotal moment marks Yami’s verbal claiming of her identity to her mother. The simple phrase “and I like how it feels” conveys Yami’s newfound comfort with self-naming. This statement represents a crucial step in Yami’s journey toward finding self-acceptance despite external judgment, demonstrating her growing courage to vocalize her authentic self despite fear of rejection.

“‘Mija, I love you. That’s never going to change.’ ‘I love you too, Mami.’ I scoot so I’m sitting next to her and slide my arms around her, letting all my muscles go weak. She’s okay with it. She still loves me.”

This exchange upends Yami’s expectations, as her mother responds with unconditional acceptance rather than the religious condemnation that Yami feared. The physical description of Yami “letting all [her] muscles go weak” viscerally conveys the relief she feels as she lets go of prolonged tension. The short, declarative sentences “She’s okay with it. She still loves me” emphasize Yami’s disbelief and gratitude, highlighting how acceptance from family becomes a cornerstone for self-acceptance.

“‘I’m not scared to come out, it’s just…I don’t know how to explain it.’ ‘You’re ashamed…?’ ‘I don’t know!’ he shouts. ‘I mean, I’m not ashamed of you. Or Jamal, or Bo, or anyone else. It’s personal. But I can’t be with Jamal without making him feel it too, you know? It’s a hard feeling to break away from. I’m trying, though. Really hard.’”

Through this dialogue, the author explores Cesar’s complex relationship with internalized anti-LGBTQ+ bias. Cesar’s struggle with articulating his feelings conveys the often-wordless nature of shame, while his assertion that he’s “trying” shows the active psychological work required to overcome it. This exchange challenges simplistic narratives about LGBTQ+ journeys, demonstrating how even within the same family, experiences of LGBTQ+ identity differ significantly based on individual psychology.