Lydia Otero was born in Tucson in 1955 and grew up and went to school there, where they faced discrimination. Otero, who uses they/them pronouns, also says they knew they were queer since they had consciousness. In 1978, Otero decided to leave Arizona, and move west to Los Angeles.
Otero came back to Tucson in the '90s, after living in LA for two decades, mainly as an electrician. They’re a writer and historian; their most recent book is called "LA Interchanges: A Brown and Queer Archival Memoir." Otero joined The Show to talk about what it was like going from Tucson to LA, and what it was like when they first got to California and started figuring out their place there.
Full conversation
LYDIA OTERO: Well, it's very a unique story but maybe it's not because a lot of people in Tucson have relatives in Los Angeles and I had relatives in Los Angeles. So I used to spend my summers there. So growing up, I knew that Los Angeles was different.
Like I used to see queers on the bus and I used to see queers out in, in the streets more than I did in Tucson. They were more out, they were more identifiable to me. So I always grew up knowing that LA was more friendly to, to queers. And that LA was a place where you could be queer. Whereas in Tucson, I didn't see that as much.
MARK BRODIE: Well, so what was it like, sort of dividing your time between your activism and I guess for lack of a better word, your day job, as an electrician?
OTERO: Yeah. Well, you know, it was a … 9 to 5 job, although it really was a 6 to 3 job and then, I'd go home and wash up and then be free to, I engage in activism from in the evenings and it worked really well. And also if, you know, the construction trades a little bit, you know, that jobs come to an end and sometimes you have weeks in between. And so my book “LA Interchanges” is about that time.
So I tried really hard based on your question to write a book where it seems like I had a very disjointed life, right? Activist, electrician. The challenge for me was to make it seem more holistic and to connect those narratives to make it seem like it wasn't a disjointed life because actually for me and how I remember it it flowed pretty harmoniously.
BRODIE: I'm wondering how much of that connection came down to the fact that you were doing a job that then, and perhaps even still now was very male dominated.
OTERO: Right. Yeah, I wonder, too, because, I got to express, you know, I'm, I'm, I'm a more masculine leaning, non-binary individual now. So I got to play out those, those tendencies of building and making, of wearing a tool belt, carrying heavy things. And then seeing your, the your labor as a building, as a structure. I don't think that too many female bodied people back then or women got to see the fruits of their labor in that way, the way that males did. So it was very empowering to do that.
And it was, even in the early ‘80s, the, the guys on the job site knew that I was queer, but I was in a union and I think that changed things because the electricians around me were very invested in ensuring that I was safe in terms of safe, not just because of queerness, not that, but I was safe working with electricity that we always took care of ourselves and that we always looked after each other. So I didn't encounter any homophobic comments or actions from the electricians.
Now, the other trades, the laborers, the steel workers, the carpenters, I did, they did try to harass me or they did harass me. Not just try. But I always felt very much like I fit in to our local and to our union and I felt very comfortable with them.
BRODIE: It's interesting what you say about seeing the fruits of your labors because it seems like there's a juxtaposition there between, you know, being an electrician where, you know, at the end of every day or at least at the end of every job you can tangibly like stand back and look at what you have done and see it and appreciate it. Whereas as an activist, it can be a little more nebulous, it seems like it might take a little bit longer or the, the progress might not be quite as obvious.
OTERO: Right. Right. And the point of me writing this book is that if you look at the history of queer activism in Los Angeles, you really see the more important figures, right? The, the, the gay men who are friends with President Clinton, those that started these national institutions or those that rallied and were friends with the governor who, who had political connections.
So my intent in writing this book as a brown queer and organizing with other brown queers is to bring that type of activity out, to make sure to document that kind of activity so that it's remembered.
BRODIE: Well, so what was it like for you? I guess what went into your decision then to ultimately move back to Tucson because as you say, you had been there, you went to LA, where you were able to really express yourself and you know, explore who you were and be who you were. So what led you to go back to Tucson?
OTERO: Well, the 1984 earthquake, the Northridge earthquake, I was working on a job as an electrician at the Coliseum. And that's where USC played their football games. And at that time, the Raiders were also playing there, using the field, and we were working on a job that it had to be ready for football season. So we were working long hours, we were working seven days and I suffered a severe job injury.
And so at that point, and this was in 1994. At that point, I had to do something where I didn't have to use my body. And I had gone back to school, I had gotten a bachelor's degree. I was in the middle of getting a master's degree in history. So it just seemed to fit that I just got a master's degree in history.
And at that point, my mother was getting sick in, in Tucson, she was developing a form of dementia. And so I applied to the Ph.D. program in history in Tucson and was accepted and I was, I was thinking, what job can I get in Tucson? I can't be an electrician there. And I don't really know how to do anything else.
And luckily I got accepted into the program and once I got my Ph.D., my research specialty is on urban renewal here in Tucson. And I got an offer for a position as a tenured professor here in 2003. So, of course, I'm going to, everything seemed to fall into place in a way, but it kind of went in a zigzag kind of way.
I mean, if you look back at my life, it seemed like everything had this, like magical sequence to it, but then it didn't. So I just consider myself fortunate and embrace what I can and just like, you know, it's, it's, I've had a fruitful life. And that's why I write memoirs.
