Texas camp for queer, trans youth draws from region with no queer youth organizations

Camp relies on donated supplies, volunteer network to operate

Texas enacted seven bills affecting transgender people last year, including a bathroom restriction in government buildings, prohibitions on amending gender identity in certain records, and the expansion of a 2023 ban on medical transition care for minors. Many attendees at Color Splash Out come from the Rio Grande Valley, a majority Latino region that is one of the poorest areas in the US. In the valley, there are no queer youth organizations.

“There are not a lot of safe spaces,” said Nix Pasivan, 13, of their Santa Rosa hometown in the valley region. Pasivan, who identifies as nonbinary, said their public school required them to cut their hair short — a traumatic experience they said they sobbed through. At camp, they said, “I’m so excited to be here, I just keep saying that, and I’m gonna keep saying it until mosquitoes start attacking me.”

Color Splash Out is led by Yadi Martínez-Reyna, a nonbinary minister who evolved the camp from their inclusive religious practice into a secular, non-denominational space. “I wanted them to come and be themselves and have fun like you would at a regular summer camp, without the barriers of misgendering or feeling embarrassed or ashamed,” Martínez-Reyna said. “It’s about creating this space for self-esteem, self-reliance and self-empowerment, things they can take with them.”

Since federal funding cuts for non-profits, the camp has come to operate even more like a mutual aid project. Supplies were recycled from schools and personal use — this year, kids constructed group projects out of Frito-Lays boxes. Along the windowsills of the dining hall sat rows of banned young adult books, in genres such as queer romance and social justice, donated by local school librarians who, The Guardian reported, had to comply with conservative policies. The kayaks were lent by a returning camper’s mother, who also volunteered as the camp’s nurse. Campers pay what they can, which means many pay nothing, and the venue location changes every year due to safety concerns and a shoestring budget.

“It’s very grassroots, how we do things,” Martínez-Reyna said. “I call it the little unicorn that could.” Martínez-Reyna calls around each year for funding from a network of religious leaders and regional connections; three progressive reverends supported the camp this year, and friends covered the rest of the costs.

Cabins at the camp, referred to as “houses” — inspired by ballroom culture and drag balls — are named each summer by campers. This year’s houses included the Glitter Gorgons and the Rainbow Legends. At the beginning of camp, house leaders ask kids to share the names and pronouns they would like to go by while there.

Velvet, 11, who is nonbinary and not out to most members of their heavily Catholic family, said: “This is the first time I’ve ever heard someone say my name in public.” Velvet’s parent, Ari Garza, who volunteered at the camp as a house leader for the House of Glitter Gorgons, worries about how Velvet will acclimate to starting middle school in the fall. A school-assigned therapist once told them to expect to be bullied.

Garza was one of several adults at camp who described the experience as meaningful, not just for the kids, but for them, too. “It’s like you’re healing your own inner child by making this happen for kids in this generation,” Garza said. After ending a 20-year marriage with Velvet’s father, Garza came out as a lesbian, citing the need to set an example of bravery and break cycles of silence for Velvet and their older sister, who also identifies as a lesbian. “If I’m not brave enough, how are they going to feel safe?” they said.

Research has shown that LGBTQ+ youth who have at least one LGBTQ-affirming space report lower rates of attempting suicide. Camp director Adora Ysaguirre said she was doxxed and lost a teaching job in Boerne, Texas, for being trans, and that she has faced harassment and multiple physical assaults; she eventually took up sumo wrestling “to be able to take hits,” she said. Kids often tell her she is the oldest trans woman they have ever seen, and that they did not know it was possible to make it that far.

“I remember being intimidated by the confidence these kids had,” Ysaguirre said of her first time at camp post-transition. “[Their confidence] is something I still pull from.” She added: “I have had a lot of heavy experiences … yet I’m still here … if somebody is struggling, I can sit with them and I can carry their weight with them, and it’s something I’m privileged to do.”

Color Splash Out invites former campers to become “fellows” once they turn 18, helping plan camps, fundraise and serve as mentors to younger kids. House leader Cel Blanco said they understand the importance of staying connected and supported — it is why they keep returning to volunteer. They said that after aging out of their Dallas queer youth group and losing that community, they fell into an abusive relationship. “I know I’m not the only one,” they said. “It took so much to find me again.”

For 17-year-old Alastair Mendoza, it was the first time he did not think twice about jumping in the water. He kayaked through tangles of reeds and splashed around with friends he had made only days prior. “I actually felt comfortable” swimming in public, Mendoza said. “There was less fear of judgment and anxiety knowing that you were safe around these people,” he said. Mendoza said he plans to become a Color Splash Out fellow next year. “Everyone made an effort to include people,” he said. “I didn’t really have that when I was first coming out … Everybody should have something like that.”

After a last breakfast of migas, a Tex-Mex staple, Mendoza, Pasivan and Velvet took a van home eight hours south to the Rio Grande Valley. “When I came back,” Pasivan said the following week, “what I have to deal with felt a lot lighter, because now I understand more about it.”