4 Queerness and Sex Work in Latin America and the Caribbean: Multi-Layered Oppression

Ilma Turcios

Professor Esther Hernandez-Medina

Queer Feminist Theories

Queerness and Sex Work in Latin America and the Caribbean: Multi-Layered Oppression

INTRODUCTION:

Vicky Hernandez

In mid-2009, shortly after the coup d’etat that ousted Manuel Zelaya from presidential power in Honduras, the country was under strict military control. Having steered the country’s policy towards the left during his time in power, Zelaya was forced into exile when his politics became too extreme for those who feared socialism was on the rise. Left immensely destabilized by its fourth coup, Honduras was governed by Roberto Micheletti as de facto president.[1]

Under Micheletti and the military’s control of Honduras, mass protests against the illegal ousting of Zelaya broke out throughout the country. Despite Zelaya’s lack of popularity amongst the elites of Honduran society, during his time as president, the nation was much more stable when compared to the months and years after the coup. With the prevalence of harsh military control, came an increase of violence and suppression, especially for marginalized groups. Unjustified police and military brutality became commonplace; it was normal to see “stories on the news about people that had been brutally tortured, whose bodies would turn up at different spots in the capital. There was an atmosphere of strong repression.”[2]

On June 29th 2009, hours after Zelaya’s coup, Vicky Hernandez—a transgender woman, activist, and sex worker—was found brutally murdered in the streets of San Pedro Sula. The night before, authorities across the country instated nation-wide curfews as the coup was underway. Vicky Hernandez, who was walking the streets with several of her friends, was stopped by police who tried to make an arrest for violating the curfew. The group ran away from the officers, and the next day, Hernandez’s body was found.[3]

In the immediate aftermath of the murder, no arrests were made and an investigation into the crime was not opened. In 2012, three years after the murder, Cattrachas Lesbian Network—a Honduran LGBTQ+ human rights collective—called for legal action against the state of Honduras for its role in Hernandez’s murder. Through a petition with the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, the institution presented the case to the Inter-American Court of Human Rights.[4]

Twelve years after the murder, in 2021, the court issued a ruling the shook the country, and arguably, the Latin American region. It found Honduras guilty of Hernandez’s murder, specifically noting that her “right to life” had been violated as a result of the harassment she faced on the streets the night of her murder, and the fact that her murder was never properly investigated. As part of the ruling, the state publicly admitted responsibility to the murder, recognized its inadequacy in serving justice after the criminal acts, and pledged to take actionable states to uphold the rights of queer-idenitfying individuals.[5]

Hernandez’s story is one of the many instances of violence that resemble one another all too well. Unlike Hernandez, however, many queer individuals’ stories do not make it to the headlines.

Colonized Queerness in Latin America and the Caribbean

Queerness in Latin America has historically been used as an incentive of oppression in post-colonial Latin America. Prior to European colonialism, queerness—for the purpose of this paper, queerness will be defined as expressions of gender, sexuality, and other relevant aspects of identity that exist(ed) beyond the binary[6]—was a relatively fluid concept, and its manifestations were not limited to the heteronormative definitions we witness today. However, in post-colonial America—Latin America, in specific—queerness is redefined to be a motive for oppression and violence; any manifestations of gender and sexuality that do not encompass the hegemonic, European colonial ideal, are stifled and positioned in such a way that social mobility is virtually impossible for queer individuals.

The connection between sex work and queerness in Latin America is shaped by a wide array of factors deeply ingrained into the way these societies function. At an institutional level, discrimination is at the root of the structures that have highly significant effects on the personal lives and experiences of queer individuals. With anti-queerness closely intertwined with coloniality, discrimination at a social, economic, and political level is pervasive in the lives of queer individuals.

Queer bodies are conceptualized as “less-than” having little to no value to the ruling ideals, which often have a strong foundation in white supremacy and heteronormativity. The self—or more specifically, the queer self—exists only as a vehicle to receive violence and repression both institutionally and personally—physically and figuratively.  As a result, queer people face criminalization—not always necessarily in a literal sense—that bars them from many of the luxuries and needs afforded to cis-gendered, heterosexual individuals. Beyond discrimination based on queerness however, criminalization is multi-faceted in that not all queer individuals face it in the same way, and to the same extent. Those belonging to racial, class, ethnic, gender, and other minority groups are at an even higher risk, and arguably, at a higher disposition to fall into the cycles of sex work and violence many in Latin America and the Caribbean do today.

More generally, discrimination in the modern age, manifests itself in harsh limitations of queer people’s—especially queer people of color’s—rights and particularly, their right to opportunity. Immovable barriers on access to resources like education, healthcare, sexual care, the workforce, amongst others, set these individuals at an extreme disadvantage. This paper will focus on how the inherent criminalization of queerness in post-colonial Latin America, has created a gateway to sexwork as a form of survival for queer people.

THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK:

Tools for De-Colonial Understandings of Queerness and Sex

To understand modern conceptions of queerness in postcolonial Latin America, it is crucial to account for the important historical contexts that explains many social norms present today.  For instance, we must note the significance of colonialism, which can be defined as the physical acts and practices that resulted in dominant regimes taking control—in the political, social, economic sense—over others, enabling submission from the colonized. The structures, sentiments, and attitudes that have prevailed since the era of colonialism, encompass coloniality; it is ever-present and has implications in almost every aspect of Latin American societies today. Anibal Quijano’s idea of coloniality offers a necessary framework for how I will analyze modern understandings of queerness in the Latin American and Caribbean region today.[7]

The analysis of queerness, hegemonic ideals and practices, and sexwork in Latin America and the Caribbean, must be done through a transnational lens. I argue that this is crucial in affording the necessary nuance and acknowledgment of important contexts when thinking about these issues. Evren Savci asserts that “a transnational approach to gender and sexuality can be understood as a demand to take the transnational connections that produce global asymmetries into account as we grapple to make sense of one of the core questions of the field—that of identity and difference.”[8] The idea of transnational feminism is especially important when analyzing and critiquing contentious topics, like sex work. One may argue that sex work has the same meaning in the Global North as it does in the Global South. This is challenged when viewing the issue in Latin America and the Caribbean, through an American perspective. Subsequently,  sex work practices have incredibly negative connotations and are characterized as immoral acts one should not engage in. However, transnationalism allows us to understand that sex work, for many, is a tool for survival and a necessary response to severe limitations on the livelihood of many in Latin America and the Caribbean.

Given the nature of sex work, understanding power dynamics regarding sex and intimacy is crucial to drawing important conclusions. The relationship between sex work and eroticism is complicated; we must often grapple with whether or not sex in exchange for compensation—of any sort—can be considered true intimacy. As Audre Lorde describes it, “the erotic functions…in several ways, and the first is providing the power which comes from sharing deeply any pursuit with another person.” Similarly, it “is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply…spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpected or unrecognized feelings.” Nonetheless, in the context of sex work, we must analyze whether this type of eroticism is truly possible or if it simply, “emphasizes sensation without feeling.”[9]

Any examination of power, social, and economic structures with regard to how they affect individuals of different demographics must account for the varying characteristics that encapsulate one’s identity. Queerness, although an important umbrella term, does not necessarily mean that all those who fall under it, have the same lived experiences. For this reason, it is important to account for the different intersections between queer individuals’ identity, as Kimberly Crenshaw mapped out.[10] This means understanding violence on the basis of intersecting identities. In the case of Vicky Hernandez, for example,  she was a woman, but also queer, a woman of color, and at a socioeconomic disadvantage. These elements all encompassed who she was and how she experienced life. To try and separate her various identities would be impossible as they all had lasting and impactful effects on who she was and how she was perceived and treated by her society and environment. In this regard, Crenshaw’s theory is crucial in allowing us to effectively analyze the manners in which violence is experienced by different individuals of the similar communities.

THE CASE:

​​The Current Reality of Queer People in Latin America and the Caribbean

In today’s context, queerness has steadily become much less stigmatized than it was in the past. However, in places like Latin America and the Caribbean where male chauvinism, sexism, and toxic masculinity are the norm—and are even highly encouraged—stigmatization is much more prevalent.  Yet, quite strikingly, perceptions of queerness in several Latin American and Caribbean countries—even those that have historically been less tolerant—have improved. In 2016, for example, data collected by the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, and Intersex Association (ILGA) showed that most individuals did not believe homosexuality—more broadly, queerness—should be criminalized (see Figure 1). Of the 14 countries surveyed, an average of around 49 percent strongly disagreed with the question of whether or not homosexuality should be criminalized. Interestingly, an average of 26 percent answered that they neither agree nor disagree, begging the question of what exactly might be responsible for this sense of apathy.

Figure 1. Perception of Criminalization for being LGBTI in Latin America (2016)

Source: The International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, and Intersex Association (2016)

Considering historical violence and intolerance towards queerness, these numbers suggest significant positive change in the way it is perceived in the region. Nevertheless, when comparing these numbers to other statistics, a notable contrast is revealed. A report by Transgender Europe (TGEU), outlines the number of reported murders of transgender and gender non-conforming individuals in Latin America and the Caribbean from 2008 to 2023 (see Figure 2).

Figure 2. Number of Reported Murders of Trans and Gender-Diverse People and LATAM and the Caribbean (2008-2023)

Source: Transgender Europe (2008-2023)

As the graph demonstrates, violence remains relatively constant, with the number of reported murders for most years reaching over 200. It is also important to note that these numbers account for only what is reported. As is the case with many instances of violence against those who do not fall into white, heteronormative ideals of valued bodies, a significant number of murders go unreported, and much less prosecuted.

The difference between apparent relatively positive perceptions of queerness and reported instances of violence (murders), suggests that despite queerness becoming more accepted at a surface level, it is still highly criminalized—both directly and indirectly. This lack of acceptance changes the positionality of queer-identifying individuals drastically. Since they do not fit the standard—which is highly rooted in white supremacy—they are almost substandard. This not only enables their society to be indifferent towards them, but to also actively keep them stifled and unable to seek more.

The Current State of Queer Sex Workers in the Region

“Latin America continues to be one of the many places that is dangerous for LGBTQ+ communities,” says the International Rescue Committee.[11] It is especially dangerous for individuals who, for lack of opportunities must turn to options that make them even more vulnerable. Sex work, in particular, is an extremely risky practice, even for those not directly involved. For example, in 2023, “a [disabled] active volunteer at Asociación Colectivo Violeta, an…organization dedicated to advocacy and promoting human rights for the LGBTQ+ community in Honduras,” survived an attempted murder simply for researching the risks queer sex workers face in the country.[12]

Additionally, in 2014, Marco Noé López Castillo, a transgender sex worker was murdered in San Pedro Sula, Honduras—one of the most dangerous cities in the world. That same year, 9 other sex workers were murdered in the city alone.[13] For a city—and broadly speaking, a country—of this size, this is extremely striking. As noted before, it is also relevant to consider that these statistics account only for the murders that were reported; many never make it to the authorities.

Similarly, Amnesty International stated that “while sex workers make up a small portion of women and LGBT individuals, they are more likely to be targeted with violence and less likely to receive protection.”[14] Violence against queer individuals, especially those involved with sex work in any capacity, is met with essentially complete impunity.

In the case of the activist who was attacked simply for researching the issue, his various intersecting identities inherently put him at an extreme disadvantage.[15] This, paired with his involvement in a practice that—to western ideals—warrants prejudice, made him subject to violence, and the inaction with which he was met further enables a continuous cycle of brutalization that is ever-present in the region.

ANALYSIS:

Bridging the Gap Between Scholarly Perspectives and Lived Realities

Sex work redefines sex and intimacy. It transforms a usually deeply personal act, into something transactional, but not necessarily “not” intimate and erotic. Presumably, it redefines both “sex” and “work.” These cases show that it is ever-present but extremely dangerous. Considering this reality, and comparing it to Lorde’s use of eroticism, provides some significant insights and points of analysis. Lorde holds that patriarchal, anti-feminist values suppress and denigrate true eroticism. To her, the erotic is a profoundly spiritual experience and a source of power one can tap into as a means of resistance.[16]

Lorde’s applications of eroticism, intimacy, and sexuality are incredibly nuanced in that they allow us to reframe how we reckon with issues that are typically incredibly controversial, or simply not touched on. Her work encourages one to think of eroticism as a source of empowerment. But cases like the ones above—some of many—only emphasize that frameworks are not all-encompassing. Despite how widespread the practice is in the region, it is not accepted, and is in fact persecuted. Therefore, the erotic, for queer sex workers, is conducive to violence and ultimately, victimization.

Arguably, this is intertwined with the pervasive nature of colonial ideals. As Quijano asserts, “Europe’s hegemony over the new model of global power concentrated all forms of the control of subjectivity, culture, and especially knowledge and the production of knowledge under its hegemony.”[17] This signifies that colonialism’s widespread nature had the power to shape different realities in Latin America and the Caribbean. Much of how the region functions, and what those within it know and understand, is stemmed from colonialism and its resulting coloniality. As such, it can serve as a means to explain why the erotic is not perceived the way Lorde intends it, and is instead, an instrument of subjugation. It also highlights some of the underlying sentiments behind the targeted brutality noted in the cases above.

Individuals—with coloniality as the basis—are taught that all that falls outside of the hegemon, must not be valued. As a result, queer individuals and their bodies exist at the disposal of their society, as can be noted by the earlier examples and data. By being both queer and sex workers, to colonial ideals, these individuals are situated in a station where they are almost less-than-human. Their identities all dictate how they experience violence and the degree to which it occurs, and this is incredibly important to note, “because the violence that many experience is often shaped by other dimensions of their identities, such as race, class, [and sexuality].”[18]

Violence against queer individuals in Latin America and the Caribbean is pervasive and unchanging. Such an immense lack of access to resources and opportunities leaves queer individuals almost displaced. As the unmoving structures present in the region have shown us, queer individuals must turn to dangerous practices to survive. However, in attempts to survive, they often fall prey to further brutality.

CONCLUSION:

Queerness is a highly disputed topic in many parts of the world. I hold the privilege to explore my queerness freely and openly, but that is not the case for many. For instance, the Latin American and Caribbean region has historically been hostile towards queer identity and queer existence. For example, The Trans Murder Monitoring report found that in 2023, 320 transgender individuals were murdered, with 73 percent of the killings taking place in Latin America and the Caribbean.[19] These numbers are astounding when analyzing the relationship between queerness and violence in the region; they suggest a concentration of acts of brutality, paired with idle responses—as can be seen by the rise in numbers. This is not coincidental, however.

Many of the norms and cultural customs present there today are tied back to settler colonialism. Although having occurred hundreds of years ago, its everlasting effects are felt to this day. This can be attributed to almost every sector of life, as it all has a root in the acts carried out years ago. These effects have manifested themselves in the ways Latin America and the Caribbean think about gender, sexuality, sex, tradition, and one’s very reality. Coloniality—particularly, its sense of permanency—serves as an explanation for why these societies function in the ways they do, and how queerness is understood, expressed, and persecuted, as noted in the above sections.

Not conforming to hegemonic norms, queerness is set aside to reside in a position of society that deems it unacceptable, making those who identify with it, subject to punishment, both outwardly and allusively. These more implicit forms of punishment come in the form of no means by which to make social mobility and therefore, maintain an adequate livelihood. Thus, many turn to dangerous practice in an attempt to survive. Sex work is perhaps the most unsafe of these. Queer bodies become vehicles of oppression, violence, and survival. This brings into question how these issues could be addressed and mediated. The reality is that sex work—although present—is almost unspoken. It lurks beneath the issues that most individuals deem worthy of being examined and analyzed. True change cannot occur until queerness and sex work move to the front of feminist conversations in and out of Latin America and the Caribbean.

Sources

 Amnesty International USA. “The Most Dangerous City in the World, Especially for Sex Workers,” (https://www.amnestyusa.org/updates/the-most-dangerous-city-in-the-world-especially-for-sex-workers/.

Amnesty International. “Honduras: Sex workers targeted and killed in Honduras,” (2014). https://www.amnesty.org/en/documents/amr37/001/2014/en/. Accessed December 3, 2023.

Annie Murphy, “Who Rules In Honduras? A Coup’s Lasting Impact,” NPR, (2012), https://www.npr.org/2012/02/12/146758628/who-rules-in-honduras-a-coups-lasting-impact.

Chandan Reddy, “Queer,” in Keywords for Gender and Sexuality Studies, eds. the Keywords Feminist Editorial Collective, Kyla Wazana Tompkins, et al. (New York: NYU Press, 2021), 172-177, https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctv2tr51hm.54.

Crenshaw, Kimberle. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review 43, no. 6 (1991): 1241–99. https://doi.org/10.2307/1229039.

 International Rescue Committee. “Being LGBTQ in Latin America: Four Stories of Bravery and Resilience.”, 2023, https://www.rescue.org/article/being-lgbtq-latin-america-four-stories-bravery-and-resilience.

Jamie Wareham, “Beaten, Stabbed And Shot: 320 Trans People Murdered In 2023,” Forbes, (2023), https://www.forbes.com/sites/jamiewareham/2023/11/13/beaten-stabbed-and-shot-320-trans-people-murdered-in-2023/?sh=13646ffd1646.

Lorde, Audre. “The Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power.” In Sexualities and Communication in Everyday Life: A Reader, edited by Karen E. Lovaas and Mercilee M. Jenkins, 87-91. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 2006.

Michael K. Lavers, “Honduras Government Admits Responsibility for Transgender Woman’s Murder,” Washington Blade, (2022), https://www.washingtonblade.com/2022/05/10/honduras-government-admits-responsibility-for-transgender-womans-murder/.

Quijano, Anibal, and Michael Ennis. “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America.” Nepantla: Views from South 1, no. 3 (2000): 533-580. muse.jhu.edu/article/23906.

Savci, Evren. “Transnational.” In Keywords for the Study of Gender and Sexuality, edited by Christine L. Williams, Jasbir K. Puar, Paul C. Johnson, and Jennifer Brier, 241-245. New York: New York University Press, 2022.