Colin Atagi

The Desert Sun

Editor's Note: Each Thursday, The Desert Sun gives readers an early online peek at one of our Sunday investigative pieces. This week, Colin Atagi explores what it means to be LGBT in the eastern Coachella Valley.

It wasn't until after Juan Ceballos was killed on July 13 that his mother, Maria Teresa Mendez, learned her son was gay. She couldn't understand why he never came out to her.

"Maybe he just didn't feel comfortable," she told The Desert Sun in Spanish. "But I don't care; he was my son, and God gave him to me like that."

Ceballos was gunned down outside his Mecca home on July 13. On July 28, Thermal resident Miguel Bautista Ramirez was arrested and charged in the killing. Prosecutors believe he killed Ceballos because of a "bias against" gays.

It was a shocking crime by any measure. Ceballos, 20, the son of a migrant worker, came to the Coachella Valley when he was 7 years old. Three years ago he graduated from Desert Mirage High School and, at the time of the shooting, was enrolled at College of the Desert. By all indications, he faced a bright future.

But the killing marked a rare level of aggression toward a member of the local LGBT community in a part of the valley where acceptance of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people has been slower to take root.

"It seems to me one of the worst cases of hate crime against LGBT out here," said George Zander, Equality California's regional field manager. "We don't want people who do this kind of thing to get away with it."

According to numbers provided by the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs, the number of anti-LGBT homicides decreased in 2013, to 19 nationwide. But 90 percent of the victims were "people of color."

The predominantly Latino eastern valley includes the cities of Indio and Coachella and rural, unincorporated communities of Thermal and Mecca. Attempts to make the area more welcoming to LGBT residents have improved over the years, but there's still a disparity with the west end of the valley.

In many cases, the only options are to remain closeted or travel far from home to get support and acceptance.

"It's a different world out there," said Jill Gover, director of mental health services and clinical psychologist at the LGBT Center in Palm Springs. "We have several clients from the east valley. They come quite a distance in order to be in an LGBT affirmative environment."

Her center currently has two east valley residents among its clients. There have been about a dozen in the last four years and Gover said that's only the "tip of the iceberg" for east valley LGBT residents.

According to the Palm Desert-based Health Assessment Resource Center's 2013 survey, 6,950 adults from Indio, Mecca, Thermal and Coachella identified themselves as LGBT. That's up significantly from the 2,400 adults who identified themselves as LGBT in the 2010 survey.

The survey did not include minors. Each east valley high school — Indio, Shadow Hills, Coachella Valley and Desert Mirage — has Gay Straight Alliance Clubs, but membership data wasn't immediately available.

Nonetheless, "There is a sense, perhaps, in the east side that folks are not LGBT," said Assemblyman V. Manuel Perez, a Coachella native who openly supports LGBT equality. "It's something that's not talked about at home. It's taboo, and that's unfortunate."

Out in the East Valley

Jose Diaz grew up in Coachella and was about 12 years old when he knew he was gay. But he said he didn't come out until he was 24 years old and married to a woman. Now 36 and living in Indio Hills, Diaz said returning to Coachella is tough.

"My family respects me, but even now it's still hard, me going there," he said. "Neighbors know, and you get those looks."

Experts point to a combination of cultural and social factors that make it less likely for gays or lesbians to be as open in the east valley.

"Most of it is parents," said Indio resident Sandra Andrade, 33, a Coachella native who came out when she was 18 years old and ultimately had a similar experience to Diaz.

Her parents accepted her as a lesbian, but "75 percent" of their friends distanced themselves.

"It made me sad, because my parents lost friendships because of me," Andrade said.

She and her girlfriend, Rosalva Isidoro of Indio, have been together eight years and won't hold hands in public in the east valley, where Isidoro is sometimes mistaken for a man because she has short hair.

"It shocks them, but it makes me proud of who I am," said Isidoro, 33.

Andrade and Isidoro wish the east valley had more services for the LGBT community.

Palm Springs' LGBT Center and Desert Aids Project, along with several LGBT-friendly bars and restaurants, have made the west valley a draw for the gay community.

The only gay nightclub in the east valley was Indio's El Destino Nightclub, which shut down in 2011.

"Everyone felt like it was a part of them," said owner, J. Anthony Perez. "I brought people together who were normally closeted."

Andrade remembers finding a support group in 2009 — at College of the Desert in Palm Desert.

"I always wanted to know why Coachella never had one," she said. "It was a center I could go to and talk to people."

Diaz also thinks things would have been different growing up if he and his family had more resources to draw on.

"At least you have someone to talk to," he said.

'The only open place'

Father Guy Wilson began inviting LGBT residents to seek counseling at Our Lady of Soledad Church in Coachella this year, and he said several people told him it was the only place for them to discuss their sexual identity.

"They just need a voice to let them know they're welcome," he said. "It's just trying to work with people where they're at and help them understand we're all created in God's image."

So far, Wilson says he's spoken to six people who knew they were gay or lesbian and several others who were confused about their sexual identity. Six adult couples sought counseling because they believed one of the spouses might be gay or lesbian, he said.

Wilson received permission to contact some parents of young gay parishioners, and he said they didn't know how to react because "they haven't had a chance to get any guidance on it."

"It's a terrible cycle and when you have someone murdered because of that cycle, we have to bring this out in the open even more," Wilson said. "What the challenge now is, is to train leaders who speak Spanish to bring this into the community."

According to Perez, tolerance and awareness are better than they were about 20 years ago. But, he says, a disconnect between both ends of the valley makes it harder to improve the situation.

"Social economics play a role," Perez said. "There are people on the east side that have never gone to Palm Springs and there are people with money in Palm Springs who've never been to Indio or Coachella."

Experts point to a lack of resources as a major hurdle for establishing programs. But they also say there could be a general lack of interest since LGBT issues aren't as emphasized as they are in Palm Springs and eastern valley residents have other burdens on their shoulders.

Attempts to establish more support and resources for the east valley LGBT community have a hard time taking root, said Jocelyn Vargas, community programs director for Raices Cultura, a Coachella-based non-profit organization that encourages social change and empowerment among residents.

"There's a lack of space to talk about those issues, and so maybe there's ignorance," she said. "We don't necessarily see those conversations happen."

Furthermore, she said "There's definitely a backlash, even when there are students who come out to defend or show solidarity or be allies to LGBT ... their sexuality is put into question. Now they themselves have to defend themselves."

Meet Juan Ceballos

Three weeks after Juan Ceballos was buried, his gravestone still hadn't been installed.

His mother and brother arrived at Coachella Valley Cemetery and following a brief search, found his burial site, noted by a temporary marker. They left a fresh pot of flowers in his memory.

Ceballos was the oldest of five children, but his siblings didn't see him as a brother; with Juan's dad long gone, he was their father figure.

"He guided me to what I had to do," said brother Sergio Ceballos, 17. "He took charge. He was pretty much the head of the house."

He was studying administration of justice and nursing at College of the Desert. He had earned a scholarship and played in the school's marching band. Meanwhile, he worked at Pizza Hut and at the Travel Centers of America truck stop at Dillon Road and Interstate 10. He used his money to buy a burgundy Honda Civic, which his family now drives.

According to Sergio Ceballos, his brother was in high school when he came out as gay and nearly everyone knew. Juan, he said, was occasionally mocked for his sexuality, but he was never discouraged from being himself.

"He was pretty much living his life," Sergio Ceballos said. "He didn't take time for granted."

His brother spent his free time doing what most 20-year-olds do: Watching movies, eating out, bowling and hanging out with friends. But at home, he had his siblings under his watchful eye.

"He called his siblings 'my children,'" mother Maria Teresa Mendez said. "What can I say? He was a good son. He was like my right hand. Now that he's dead, I feel like my world is gone.

July 13

The family is finally ready to discuss what happened. But when they speak, it is with a sense of sadness, anger and resentment.

"When I heard that was the reason (he died), I just thought that is the stupidest reason to take someone's life," said his brother, Sergio Ceballos, 17. "It's just ignorance, from someone who doesn't like certain people."

Ceballos and Ramirez worked together at an Indio Pizza Hut. Others who worked with them told Sergio Ceballos that some of the tension between his brother and Ramirez revolved, ironically enough, around a girl.

Ramirez was possessive over the girl, they said, and he didn't like her playfully flirting with Ceballos, even though "everyone knew he was gay."

Ramirez and Ceballos both worked on July 13, said his brother, and Ramirez' shift ended an hour earlier.

The day Ceballos was killed, his brother was inside the family home and heard two gunshots.

Neighbors said a truck, which they believe was driven by Ramirez, was outside the Mecca apartment complex for an hour before Ceballos was shot. The truck sped off and a Riverside County sheriff's deputy arrived just minutes later. But family members said it didn't matter; Ceballos was already dead.

"Hopefully he rots in jail," Ceballos' mom, Maria Teresa Mendez, said of Ramirez.

Lying in wait and committing a hate crime each make Ramirez eligible for life in prison without parole, said Riverside County Supervising Deputy District Attorney Tricia Fransdal.

Ramirez, who is due in court for a preliminary hearing on Friday, Sept. 5, pleaded not guilty to the charges.

His attorney, Tom Eckhardt, believes Ramirez was home at the time of the shooting and on Aug. 12 told The Desert Sun, "the little bit we have had (shows) no one ever identified my client in being involved in this thing."

"He has no heart. He killed my son in cold blood, and he didn't even have anything to defend himself," said Mendez.

Mendez said she's never seen any signs or discussion about LGBT awareness or intolerance in her community.

But even if someone's gay or lesbian, "they have a right to be happy," she said.