How My Family Radicalized Me

Words by Mariana Cid de León Ovalle
Art By Maribelle Ovalle

A Brush with Mortality

When I was in my early 20s, my father’s truck was fishtailed in the middle of the highway. He flipped three times sideways and another three longways. The truck was so mangled they had to use the jaws of life to get him out. He should have died, but he miraculously only suffered a broken collarbone and several broken ribs.

Only. What a silly word. As if it wasn’t one of the most agonizing situations I've witnessed him endure.

I still remember the soft whoosh of air that came with every breath my dad pushed through the little handheld machine the doctors gave him to strengthen his lungs. Yet with every rise, fall, and click, all that little device did was taunt me, reminding me that my dad was very mortal and not invincible. 

Care Over Capital

I remember being angry and wanting to find the person who’d nearly killed my father. I even created an image in my mind of this woman and gave her a backstory. This imaginary version of the at-fault driver was ravenous for Black Friday sales. Too wrapped up in her excitement to drive with caution on a busy highway. 

“She was probably texting someone at the store while driving, asking them to grab her a TV before they ran out,” I thought. (I had no idea whether she was texting while driving). 

My relationship with my dad was strained leading up to this moment. We were too similar and headstrong — we both had much growing up to do. That all dissolved when I saw him lying on the hospital bed. It did not escape me that out of the swirl of emotions that I felt from nearly losing him to a reckless driver, one feeling continued to float to the top: rage.

That’s when the lawyers got involved. They made it clear that my dad held all the power, encouraging him to pursue his lawsuit against the at-fault driver. They were confident he could win. I was convinced he would. But all my parents heard was that the woman would lose her home if they pushed forward with the lawsuit. They saw no option that centered on restorative justice. It was all or nothing. They refused. 

“¿Para qué dejarla sin hogar? Eso no está bien.” It wasn’t a moment of hesitation or internal debate. My dad said it simply as if no other option existed. And my mother agreed. Of course, she did. It never sat well with them that the only way to hold this woman accountable was to take her for everything she had. 

“Eso no se hace,” my mother said in a tone that left no room for debate. 

I’ve spent years turning that moment over in my head. I believe in accountability, in justice that repairs rather than just forgives. But my parents—who have survived things most people wouldn’t—showed me something different that day.

They showed me what revolutionary communities should look like.

Because real justice doesn’t leave people with nothing. It doesn’t confuse retribution with repair. It doesn’t look at someone who has done harm and say, “Suffer”. It asks, “What does it take to ensure this never happens again?” It asks, “What does accountability look like when punishment is not the goal?”

Justice vs. Retribution

That moment—stark as it was—is just one of many examples of how my parents moved through the world—offering, giving, and opening their homes to loved ones who needed it, no matter how little we had. They never framed this generosity as something to be proud of. It was just the way things were. We didn’t talk about it outside the family. To do so would have been in poor taste. Vulnerability was not a commodity to be paraded around.

My parents raised me and my siblings with socialist hearts, though they never called it that. They believed in justice, equity, and mutual aid. Money was never supposed to taint relationships. If the family needed help, you helped. If a stranger needed help, you helped. It was that simple.

The Weight of Care

My parents discouraged us from seeking jobs in high school, wanting us to focus on sports and school. To the outside world, it may have looked like they were spoiling us. And sure, if you see life through a glass-half-empty lens, that’s an easy argument to make. But for those like me, who see the glass as half-full, I see parents who built a reality rooted in care. They spent their childhoods working—my dad at six, my mom at thirteen—and they were determined that we wouldn’t have to sacrifice our youth the same way. They wanted us to understand that as long as we looked out for each other and nurtured our relationships, we wouldn’t just survive—we’d thrive.

It’s easy to believe that the interdependence my parents taught us—their belief in care and mutual aid—could never slip into something darker. That kind of love feels like the very foundation of a family. But as I got older, I realized how easily those same values could evolve into enmeshment, where my sense of responsibility blurred into a weight I was never meant to carry. I had always put people over politics, and care over capital, just as they’d shown me. But when I became a mother, those lessons were tested in ways I hadn’t anticipated. In trying to balance everything for everyone, I lost myself.

Then I found therapy, which helped me see how the care I gave others sometimes meant neglecting the care I needed for myself. Through that, I learned how to hold space for my growth while continuing to honor my family's values—without sacrificing my well-being. Therapy showed me how to draw a line between interdependence and codependency, with compassion—for both myself and the people I love.

Faith and Fluidity

Even in their faith, my parents embodied the push-and-pull between structure and fluidity, tradition and evolution. My dad, a devout Catholic (now also a devoted Universalist), and my mother, whose faith has been more fluid, have both found their paths at different ends of the spectrum (despite both starting as casual Catholics). Since embracing a more structured faith, my mom’s beliefs have skewed toward a moral framework even more rigid than Catholicism, while my dad’s remains far more open. Their approach to spirituality couldn’t be more different, and their road to finding common ground has been far from smooth. Many times, I wondered why they even stayed married—it was that tense. (It reminds me of that scene in Nacho Libre where Nacho says his parents tried to convert each other but ended up marrying instead. Ironically, Nacho Libre is a classic in our house—my mom loves it.) Yet, now in their late 60s, I see them more committed than ever to understanding each other.

My parents trust that God will provide, and so do I. But people are needed for that provision to happen. Like them, my faith rests in divine order rooted in showing up for one another. They raised me to see them as undeniably linked.

Like my dad, I lean into Universalist ideology. I thrive in the unknown and believe the idea that we deserve to know everything is rooted in arrogance. We’re not meant to understand it all, much less know it all. Maybe it's the Indigenous blood I carry, but I’ve always held firm to this belief—even when I lost myself in Evangelical Christianity, defending their God as the one true God. Deep down, I still didn’t agree with the notion that any one group could claim to have spirituality figured out. In this way, I’m different from my mom, who seeks safety and security in her faith. That desire is understandable, but where we differ is in how we wield that spirituality. For me, it’s deeply personal—no one can dictate it for others. I don’t believe in a rulebook for spirituality, beyond the simple truth that it should never cause harm. Faith should enhance your life, not define it. My "religion" is more fluid than my mom’s, but in that way, I’m 100% my mother’s daughter. No one taught me to question authority quite like she did.

I feel God in music, art, community—anything that fosters love, acceptance, and mutual responsibility. I guess you could say my “religion” is the revolution itself. It’s in learning to meet my mom where she is and accepting that our ideologies may never align. It’s in learning how to speak up, in teaching my kids—just as my parents taught me—not to harm senselessly, but to speak with intention.

To put people over politics. To center children, always, because they are the ones who inherit the world we build.

Love Beyond Dogma

Ironically, despite my mother’s rigid moral framework, she is the reason I revere my queer elders and peers. She raised me to see their essence without discrimination. Over the years, her faith has sharpened her edges and made her more wary, but I still recall the way we bonded over our shared love of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. The fact that this movie captivated her despite her infamous dislike of musicals is, in retrospect, far more telling than I realized at the time. It’s as if she embodied love, in those moments,  more than any moral doctrine ever could. Then there were the days that our home was filled with the sounds of Earth, Wind, and Fire, Chaka Khan, and The S.O.S. Band as she shared stories of the disco days in her hometown of Monterrey, Nuevo León. She talked about the environment being lively, inviting, electrifying, and liberating. In those moments she showed me that love, when left to its own devices, does not obey dogma. 

I used to feel torn about my comfort with the fluidity of my sexuality. My first situationship was with a girl, and my mother saw that, choosing to tell herself a different story—one where I was simply naive, too curious for my own good. It was the same story she told herself anytime she caught me looking at girls. Sexuality has always been a topic of tension in our relationship, and it took me years to see that this conflict wasn’t just personal—it was systemic. From a young age, my mother, like many others, was taught that there are only two choices for gender and sexuality. These ideas are embedded in the way society talks about marriage, family, and even religion. Growing up in a Catholic household, where the church’s teachings dictate the boundaries of what is “moral” and “right,” it’s no surprise that the fluidity of my own sexuality felt like a direct challenge to the framework she was raised with. The dichotomy between her rigid, dogmatic beliefs and my evolving sense of self, created a push and pull that couldn’t easily be reconciled.

But it wasn’t just a matter of misunderstanding—it was also a matter of not having the tools to understand what was happening inside me. I remember that situationship and how confusing it was. I was experiencing something that didn’t fit into the narrow boxes my mom had taught me to believe in. And while she couldn’t make sense of it, I didn’t have the words or the understanding to explain it to her. Her reflex was to dismiss it as something fleeting or wrong, but what I didn’t realize at the time was that I was simply coming into a deeper understanding of myself. It took me years to recognize that her lack of understanding was shaped by the very same systems that had shaped me. It wasn’t just her—it was our entire culture, our history, and the Catholic teachings that influenced both our worldviews.

The process of discovering my identity as a fluid woman wasn’t just about figuring out who I was—it was about the education and experiences that provided the tools to make sense of it all. My mom pushed me to go to college, something she hadn’t had the chance to do herself. In that space, I met a diverse group of people who lived and felt differently, and those interactions gave me the language and perspective I needed to understand my own fluidity. It became clear to me how limiting the world my mother had tried to create for me really was—and how it had confined both her and me.

I saw this starkly when, after becoming a teen mom, my parents encouraged me to still go to college, and my mother took care of my child while I was exposed to essential knowledge. The same woman who had introduced me to queer culture in my youth, only to sharpen her edges with conservative ideologies in my teen years, had also empowered me to take that film class where we watched Paris is Burning—a seminal, raw documentary about New York’s ballroom culture in the 1980’s. In supporting me this way, my mother unknowingly laid the foundation for me to discover myself in a way she never could.

I now understand that this struggle between us wasn’t just about my individual choices—it was about generations of deeply ingrained beliefs, reinforced by both religion and culture, that made it almost impossible for her to see beyond a very narrow lens of what was acceptable. The very system that shaped her worldview didn’t allow for the kind of fluidity and openness I was beginning to embrace. It’s ironic, really. Because I know for certain that queer people have always existed. I know of some in her family as well. Yet she fails to see that the environment she molded for her children is the very reason I felt safe enough to even arrive at this understanding of sexual fluidity. 

It took me time to realize that this divide between us wasn’t a personal failing, but a reflection of the deeply entrenched norms we both grew up with. And over time, I came to understand that while we may never fully align on everything, there’s a kind of beauty in the imperfection of it all. As I’ve grown older, I’ve resonated more with Juan Gabriel’s take on sexuality: “Lo que se ve, no se pregunta.” But I’m also aware that I’m in a straight-passing marriage, which gives me the luxury of keeping my sexuality private while navigating a relationship with a mother who sees sexuality and gender through a colonial lens—shaped by historical norms of rigid roles, control, and the values imposed on us through our Mexican Catholic upbringing. Her lens, rooted in colonial ideologies, sees sexuality and gender in narrow, predetermined ways, while my sense of identity is fluid, evolving, and open to possibility.

That makes it easier for me to accept that my mother is only human, just like me. She will never be the mom I need her to be—not because of anything I did, but because of the constraints placed upon her by the same systems that have shaped both our lives. And that in and of itself is the beauty and pain of life. I had to learn to find the validation within myself so I could better pick and choose who I “let in.” No one will ever take the place of my mom, but she is not my only source of motherly love (though she will always be my favorite source—she gives the best hugs and cariños, has a beautiful laugh, and always smells like home). And that makes it easier to hold space for her.

The Revolution of Chosen Family

It wasn’t until I moved out to San Diego that I truly explored myself without fear of judgment. For the first time, I had the freedom to just be, to spend time with people who didn’t impose expectations on me but instead encouraged me to discover who I was outside of any constraints. And in that freedom, I found that I felt most comfortable with myself when I was in Hillcrest, San Diego's gayborhood. Most specifically, at Gossip Grill, a lesbian bar that felt like a sanctuary. The space was electric, filled with acceptance and love. It was there I realized that my relationship with my sexuality was so much more fluid than I had ever understood. What I didn’t expect was that the friendships I formed would be the catalyst for my transformation. Meeting people like Lizzie, Miranda, James, and Michael, who all became like a surrogate family for me—spending time with them opened up a world that felt expansive and liberating. They allowed me to see life and love through a different lens, one where fluidity wasn’t just accepted, but celebrated. James and Michael were not the first queer friends I ever had, but they entered my life during a transformative period and helped me see myself for the first time in a new light simply by being their genuine selves and welcoming me into their family. It was this circle of people that helped me shed the shame and confusion I had carried for so long and embrace who I am without apology. I spent every moment I could surrounded by them, and I thank the universe for that special time in my life.

Lizzie, in particular, played an unexpected but crucial role in my personal revolution. She wasn’t a member of the queer community, but she was an atheist with a sharp mind who helped me unpack so much of the religious conditioning that had been harmful to me. We met under unlikely circumstances—both of us Navy wives, navigating a world that often feels isolating and misunderstood. When Lizzie and her husband Tim needed a place to stay while they searched for housing, Josh and I opened our home to them, just as my parents taught me to do without realizing it through their own acts of kindness. 

Then there was Miranda, whose free-spirited energy was magnetic and the reason I felt so drawn to her. As the daughter of Christian missionaries, she and I bonded over our shared beliefs and the ways our relationships with faith were evolving. Unlike the godly women I was raised to emulate—who were taught to be cautious and reserved—Miranda embraced adventure and curiosity as if they were sacred, the very foundation of her belief system. 

It was through the times I spent with both women that we grew close. They made me question, challenge, and ultimately shed so many limiting beliefs that I had internalized from my upbringing. Their perspectives helped me break free from the constraints of religion and embrace a version of myself that was more authentic, more true to who I had always been inside but hadn’t known how to express. 

In many ways, San Diego and the people I met there became a reflection of the revolution I was living through—the one that began when I learned to embrace my own fluidity, sparked by the sense of belonging that allowed me to feel comfortable, unapologetic, and fully myself.

The Two-Way Street of (Chosen) Family

Through their relationship, my parents taught me that a successful relationship requires two people, but I’ve often wondered—if I had learned to face conflict differently within my own family, would I be so quick to cut people off? Maybe distance wouldn’t always feel like the only solution. Maybe I’d have held on longer. But some distances weren’t mine to create. I’ve come to realize that family—whether chosen or assigned—is a two-way street. No matter how much I cared, I couldn’t always make others show up the way I needed, and sometimes I couldn’t show up for them the way they needed. When caring wasn’t enough, I had to choose distance for my well-being.

There was my cousin, who I idolized as the older sister I never had, but always kept me at arm’s length emotionally, no matter how hard I tried. Then there was the older half-sister I didn’t know I had until I was 19. I emailed her once but never reached out again. Another cousin took my family’s kindness and exploited it for his own darkness. Then there’s my older half-brother, whom I constantly longed to spend my time with, only for me to later realize his passive-aggressive nature used me as a chess piece instead of a sister. These people still matter to me—they all have their stories, traumas, and strengths. But the way we, including myself, navigated our relationships showed me that a one-sided relationship can never last.

I am my parents’ child, carrying their contradictions, lessons, and blind spots. Yet, through them, I’ve learned to build something new—to take what’s good, soften what was hard, and make sure that in my own home, love always has room to grow.

They raised me for the fight, though they didn’t mean to. And that fight—against colonialism, injustice, and for something better—doesn’t end, even in death. It gets passed down to future generations with hope, improvements, and the empowerment to create a better world.