Over the past decade, the gender-neutral term “Latinx” has come to be a tool of division. White Christian conservatives have sown discord over it, warning that “non-Hispanic” socialist intellectuals in the U.S. had invented the term — which, they argued, colonizes the Spanish language in an ironic act of cultural appropriation— to undercut the traditional values of the “Hispanic” community and promote a progressive “leftist” ideology. 

Now, as the Trump administration openly persecutes trans folks and cuts off funding to projects using the words “Latinx” and “Latine,” some may wonder if this inclusive language is even worth defending when it is both poorly understood and tainted by preexisting bias. 

Chicana writer Felecia Catón-García notes that when she is asked about her use of Latinx/e, “nine times out of ten, it’s just an excuse for someone to be transphobic.”

“Latinx” was born among queer folks of Latin American descent across the Americas as a collective attempt to move beyond both the masculine-centric “Latino” and the gender-inclusive, but binary “Latino/a” or “Latin@,” disrupting the traditional gender division encoded in Spanish grammar while recognizing the wide spectrum of gender and sexual identities. Through the term and the broader nonbinary language it promotes, LGBTQ+ folks can assert their existence and allies can help dismantle linguistic systems of oppression. 

The truth, however, is irrelevant to the culture war tactics used by the far right to erode support for liberal and progressive ideals. 

“I grew up calling myself Hispanic. Now I say Latino a lot,” Rep. Joaquin Castro, D-Texas, told The Emancipator in an email. “I respect whatever people want to call themselves. These guys [MAGA extremists] want us busy fighting over what to call ourselves so we ignore the damage they’re doing to our communities.” 

Conservatives of Latin American descent in the U.S. who have aligned themselves with the right use the specter of leftist dictatorships to inspire reactionary fear among immigrant groups and pull them into rank with White Christian nationalism. Of course, the other objection to “Latinx” came from Latin America itself, where reactionary voices (typically straight and cisgender) complained about the wanton contamination of the mother tongue by diaspora folks in the U.S. who do not represent the culture in its unadulterated form. 

Breaking free of linguistic constraints is vital to the work of speaking a better and more beautiful future into existence, one “articulated from other places of enunciation” than what the culture of power may permit.

Weaponizing “Latinx” widens existing cracks in our communities, which have grappled with homophobia and queermisia for centuries. Ironically, the lack of visibility of LGBTQ+ folks made it easier to believe that the term — which seemed to materialize out of nowhere — was an elitist or unnecessary invention. 

As researchers Cristobal Salinas Jr. and Adele Lozano review in their chapter “The History and Evolution of the Term Latinx” in the “Handbook of Latinos and Education,” the term “Latinx” actually emerged from the intersections of radical feminism, queer identity, diaspora, and linguistic inclusivity. It was born not from academic imposition, but from grassroots activism, primarily among queer Latin American communities seeking a linguistic alternative to the gendered structure of the Spanish language. 

In the late 1960s, the letter “x” began to be used in the U.S. to alter the syllable “men” in women. Like the later iteration, “womyn,” this formulation of “womxn” sought to undercut the masculine default in society. By 1971, “womxn” was employed at the University of California, Davis, in conjunction with efforts to include trans women and women of color. Throughout Latin America, a similar practice was emerging, so that on protest signs, the generic masculine plural (historically used to encompass people of all sexes or genders) was rejected: ciudadanos (citizens, grammatically male) became ciudadanxs (usually written with the “o” crossed out by the “x”). 

These inclusive linguistic practices continued to percolate within radical, marginalized spaces, in-person and eventually online. By 2004, according to data from Google Trends, “Latinx” was used widely enough to be perceptible. When I came out as pansexual in 2012, I encountered it regularly on bulletin boards and blogs. 

Parallel to these developments in the U.S., Latin Americans have been using Latinx (pronounced and increasingly spelled “Latine”) for decades, with some folks using the -e ending (instead of -o or -a) whenever specific gender isn’t clear or multiple genders are included. In Mexico, where I live part of the year, nearly every writer I am friends with uses the -x or -e to some extent in their writing: Libia Brenda Castro, Gabriela Damián Miravete, Alberto Chimal, Jumko Ogata, to name a few. 

Neologistic labels are not simply cosmetic; they allow LGBTQ+ individuals to challenge the rigid confines of traditional Latin American cultural norms shaped by colonialism, patriarchy, and heteronormativity. 

For the rest of the world, embracing terms like “Latinx” and “Latine” acknowledges the diverse and complex experiences of people of Latin American descent, evincing a willingness to stand united under one umbrella that has room enough for everyone and excludes no one.  

“The basic possibilities offered by the languages that we just happen to speak provide us with our initial metaphors for speaking of the future,” linguist and activist Yásnaya Aguilar informs us, drawing on her Indigenous heritage as an Ayuujk (Mixe) woman in Mexico. Breaking free of linguistic constraints is vital to the work of speaking a better and more beautiful future into existence, one “articulated from other places of enunciation” than what the culture of power may permit.

Languages are alive, and their continuous evolution is crucial in imagining and creating a more just world in shaping reality itself. Science has clearly established the link between language and perception. The adoption of Japanese “umami” and Korean “oppa” by English speakers, for example, allows our brains to perceive the fifth taste and the complex relationships between women and older men more clearly. 

Linguists know that Spanish will evolve into something different; futurists imagine that the difference could be better, more equitable. And just as language always evolves, so do all institutions. When we reshape the way we speak so that it is less hurtful and more inclusive, we assert our belief that institutions that stifle and suppress can also change for the better.

When language expands, so too does our ability to articulate new forms of existence, belonging, and resistance. In resisting the erasure of “Latinx,” we affirm the power of self-identification and the ongoing struggle for a future that embraces all identities, free from the constraints of oppressive linguistic and cultural traditions.

As a writer of science fiction, I take that power seriously. In stories like “The First Day of Us” and “This Mortal Coil,” as well as in my series “The Path,” I depict the descendants of Latines using a future variety of Spanish that has become entirely nonbinary and inclusive, imagining through the tools of evolutionary linguistics and futurism a world where queerness is not othered, but accepted and celebrated. Though speculative, such fiction isn’t simple fantasy and isn’t wishful or magical thinking. Linguists know that Spanish will evolve into something different; futurists imagine that the difference could be better, more equitable. And just as language always evolves, so do all institutions. When we reshape the way we speak so that it is less hurtful and more inclusive, we assert our belief that institutions that stifle and suppress can also change for the better.

Editor’s Note: This story has updated for timeliness and republished.

Creative Commons License

Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.

David Bowles is a Mexican American author and translator from South Texas, where he teaches at the University of Texas Río Grande Valley. Among his award-winning titles are 'They Call Me Güero' and 'My Two Border Towns.' His work has appeared in venues such as the 'New YORK TIMES' and 'School Library Journal.' In 2019, he co-founded the hashtag and activist movement #DignidadLiteraria, which negotiated greater Latinx representation in publishing. David is the president of the Texas Institute of...