Mosquita y Mari (2012)

directed by Aurora Guerrero

Zaira Gomez

Autostraddle recently released their list of the 100 Best Lesbian Movies of All Time and Mosquita y Mari made it in at number 26. I scrolled the full 100 waiting for the movie to pop up and knew that it would inevitably land somewhere. Released in 2012, Mosquita y Mari lives in the canon of prominent queer films for Latina women. Mosquita y Mari is a film that symbolizes hope and understanding of what it means to straddle educational expectations, poverty, and youth queerness.

Mosquita y Mari follows the lives of two teenage queer Latinas in Huntington Park,  California. Yolanda, nicknamed Mosquita, is the overachiever of the two. She has two hard working parents who provide her with financial stability, and she provides them with her academic success. On the other hand, you have Mari. Mari moves into the neighborhood with her siblings and single mom. Mari, who is undocumented, is partially responsible for the household. The two bond over an experience at school and become inseparable. The director, Aurora Guerrero, allows the girls to have their queer experiences while straddling the pressures and confines of a first generation student in the United States.

I first watched this film when I was 19 and recently reflected how I would begin to straddle my queerness with the expectations of a child of immigrant parents. I knew at the age of six that I was gay. I watched WWE wrestling religiously and trust me, it was not for the men. However, I didn’t consciously know I was gay until maybe around 14 or 15 years old. I was obsessed with fashion magazines, specifically Teen Vogue. The issues were my monthly bible. I would glance through the pages and promptly repeat to myself, “I am not gay, I am not gay” and after that moment I would never think about my sexuality again until I was 19, watching Mosquita y Mari.

I was a first generation college student with expectations to graduate and become that success story that parents dream of, much like Mosquita. Mosquita has straight A’s and is known as the smart child. Her parents consistently check on her to make sure that she is doing well in school and Mosquita is simply vying for their approval and attention. She understands her end of the bargain and delivers on her end. I knew the expectation as well. Once I entered high school, I knew that college was an expectation, not a choice. My mother would regularly have conversations that would make it clear that if I didn’t pursue higher education, I would be stuck working laborious jobs.

I was in every after-school curricular activity you could think of. National Honor Society, Spanish National Honor Society, Music National Honor Society, Student Council, Class Secretary, AP classes, college classes—and I waitressed on top of it all. I succeeded in that role until I didn’t.

My whole identity had been wrapped up in overachieving that when I didn’t, I lost purpose. There’s a scene where Mosquita’s parents are called into school because her grades have been slipping. Her math teacher explains that she would make the perfect candidate to apply to college. On the ride home, the camera pans to the unhoused in her area and a lecture many children are acquainted with begins: “No necesitamos ir a Mexico para que sabemos la pobreza.” That line nearly took me out for the day.

I was very familiar with the unwritten rules and obligations that aren’t necessarily spelled out, but they become clear as you gain your footing in this world. The real arguments begin when you fumble like any child or teenager does, and instead of guidance and grace, you find a battleground with tension and resentment on both sides. Arguments that stem from economic and emotional sacrifices that are rooted in generational survival and trauma result in shame, perfectionism, and/ or rebellion. Take your pick.

Mosquita chooses perfectionism and Mari chooses rebellion. Mari allows Mosquita into her house and offers cereal to her because there isn’t much else in their kitchen. Her mother reprimands her for serving cereal to a guest and Mari rapidly responds with an attitude that alludes to them not being in the best economic situation. Her mom is struggling as a single mother and Mari feels that pressure by taking on an after school job. Not only does she worry about making rent, she isn’t doing well in school. She finds herself on the verge of being kicked out of school due to an altercation with drugs and the administration doesn’t see her accomplishing much. Mosquita provides encouragement and offers to help her with her studies. Mari doesn’t see much of a point since she implies she is undocumented.

Mari is not unique in her experience, as there are many undocumented children and teenagers who are brought to the United States for reasons of safety, opportunity, and policy. A decision that impacts children who are expected to navigate systems but are not given the proper tools to succeed. Public policy and laws are then decided by governmental officials that may not have a clue of their everyday lives, as demonstrated in Mari’s character and storyline.

Aurora Guerrero also explores the difficult situations that teenagers like Mari could come into contact with while navigating poverty. Mari finds herself having to come up with enough rent money and is confronted with a sexual proposition by a male stranger. At first she declines, but her desperation rises. Mosquita is elated to show Mari her exam grade, but instead of celebration, Mosquita finds Mari completing her end of the agreement.

Mosquita and Mari straddle these expectations and challenges while exploring their romantic interest with each other. Mosquita witnesses Mari in her bra and relentlessly stares at her in awe. Both start to exchange glances during classes and after school. Mosquita and Mari begin to blur the lines of their friendship. They find a secret spot to hang out and study, and while it may seem as if they’re just friends, the silence between the two, the intimate moments they have with each other, the jealousy they prompt and don’t know how to communicate with each other, all display a coming of age you would traditionally see in white, heteronormative characters—but Guerrero gives us a Queer Latina edition. Many of the scenes are drawn out with montages of Huntington Park, sunsets, and mirrors. Moments of pause and reflection that prompt the viewer to witness the aspirations and difficulties that transpire as these characters navigate the parallels and demands of culture and queerness.

I finally allowed myself to explore my queer firsts shortly after watching Mosquita y Mari. I remember the glances, the one-too-many stares, the brief touches, the intimate moments where your thoughts and actions never really coincide with each other. The film provided me liberty to be and fumble into a queer sphere I wasn’t acclimated into yet. I began to dive into queer identity, style, queer framework, and unlearning what shame I had been carrying in my adolescence. I, of course, was doing this secretly because I had all the feels and didn’t know how to verbally express what I had flipped away in those Teen Vogue magazines.

I could point out on my two hands how much representation I saw of myself growing up. I clung onto America Ferrera and her stellar performance in Real Women Have Curves and Miranda Sanchez in Lizzie McGuire and yes, I was shocked as well to find out years later that Lalaine Vergara-Paras wasn’t actually Latina.

These felt like pivotal moments, as I was an avid TV and movie watcher. When we talk about representation, it seems as if the band-aid solution is to simply cast someone to check a diversity quota, but what many fail to realize is that much of what we receive and allow ourselves to be is initiated by our media consumption. I had never seen the intersectionality of my identity displayed in a film that was accessible. I had begun studying queer scholarship in college but I had never witnessed practice and theory coincide in such intimate and raw ways. One could say it was groundbreaking, but for me it nearly saved my life.

I’m now 30 years old and while I have experienced a lot in these 11 years, I can’t help but think about my 19-year-old self when I watch this movie. The self that was wavering between piles of expectations and shame, on the edge of suicidal ideation and feeling like there was no end in sight. Mosquita y Mari felt like a call to action of sorts, the universe saying, “Hey, it’s you. You’re allowed to exist,” and for that, Mosquita y Mari will always come in at number one on my list.

Zaira is an emerging writer from Pennsylvania. As a queer Mexican Femme, her works explore themes of adolescence, femininity, sexuality and post trauma healing. Her work is published in The Sonora Review, Querencia Press, and Entre Magazine. She is working on her first chapbook, entitled Sentidos de Mi Mismo. You can find her at @zairamex on IG.