Mother-Daughter Drag Queens Defy Norms in Cancún

Cancún, Quintana Roo — A mother and daughter have escaped violence in the peripheries of Cancún and reinvented themselves on stage as drag queens. They have found in performance a refuge and an act of radical love. Drag has not only served as a means of mutual support but has also politicized and empowered them.

The daughter prepares the mother. She applies her makeup as she sits on the edge of the bed and passes her the lingerie, the handmade dress, and inexpensive perfume to try on. They rehearse their attire for their upcoming show. The daughter is a young trans woman and a drag queen who works in the nightclubs of Cancún, Quintana Roo, under the stage name Carlota Rostros. She delicately traces exaggerated features on her mother's face, raised eyebrows, and dramatic eyeshadow. The mother surrenders to the process, lifting her head and closing her eyelids with total devotion. She is the most understanding, affectionate, and respectful person regarding her daughter's sexual and gender identity; so much so that this is her way of demonstrating she will always be there to support her. Becoming a drag queen is a radical act of love.

"The acceptance of my daughter has been a very powerful experience for me. It has been a process. However, you have to respect her decisions. And so that she feels secure, not judged, and knows that I admire all the work she does. Wow, so much work, so much love, so much passion. To recognize and value that, I now put on makeup and dance like her," said Rosaura Reyes Zacarías, 42 years old. She made her debut this past February in a queer bar under the name Rose, Rose Rostros. In this house, there is not one, but two drag queens, two beautiful and financially strained women in an ecosystem of queer nightclubs that is becoming less sustainable for drag performers. They face minimal payments or, for some, no payment at all.

This is a story of family acceptance in the periphery of Cancún that is uncommon for a person from the LGBT+ community. A small example suffices. In the early morning of New Year's Day 2024, while everyone was still celebrating, police officers attended to the following report: "A minor user states he is 16 years old. Asks for support. Seeks a place to stay. States he is not wanted at home due to his sexual orientation. Wearing black sneakers, black pants, a wine and white colored t-shirt, located in the park of Superblock 259," reads the report filed by the Specialized Group for Attention to Family and Gender Violence.

There are worse stories, of punishments, mistreatment, and intrafamilial violence. In 2021, a young gay man was beaten, stabbed, and burned after revealing he was HIV positive. Since 2021, nine murders have been registered in Quintana Roo, according to the National Observatory of Hate Crimes Against LGBT+ People. Rose, who often follows the news, is terrified every time her daughter goes out to work. Accompanying her to the drag bars is also a way to protect her, because after the show they can be certain they will return home, together.

The First Night of a Drag Queen on Stage

For her first performance at the legendary Laser Hot Bar, a rugged venue in downtown Cancún and the first to host a transvestite show in the Mexican Caribbean, Rose Rostros chose to perform "Mentira" by Kika Edgar. She wore the wedding dress from her marriage to her now ex-husband and, at the song's climax, she tore it apart. It was a symbol of protest and a cathartic moment for her.

Drag has not only served Rose to support her daughter but has also politicized and empowered her. She explains: "For me, it was about closing the cycle of a life I never dared to accept. Nowadays, many people recognize physical violence, but I have learned and am recognizing that it manifests in many types. And it is difficult for me to see that I lived for 20 years subjected to many types of violence, primarily emotional and economic. So, all of that came to my mind when I was there singing, and I felt good because I said: 'I have learned to see the value I have, that I have many capabilities, that I don't depend on anyone.'"

The National Bank of Data and Information on Cases of Violence against Women (Banavim) registers the most frequent types of violence as physical, psychological, economic, patrimonial, and sexual. The agency has a record of 2.2 million cases since 2008. The state of Quintana Roo ranks third among the entities with the most women subjected to violence in the country in recent years.

Rose is originally from Tabasco. She arrived in Cancún nine years ago and has been separated from her partner, Carlota's father, for eight years. She married because that was the custom and belief of their families. But her mother-in-law would hide her identification papers so she couldn't go out to work and would be a housewife. They thought that only by moving could they save the marriage, but that only precipitated the divorce. Once free, Rose could start working, earn her own money, and choose how to spend it. For example, on Zumba dance classes she has been taking for a year, through which she has gained confidence and learned to love her body more, the same body her husband so criticized.

"At first, I was embarrassed. I wore very long t-shirts because my body is full-figured. I said, 'I'm chubby and I don't feel comfortable, tight clothes don't look good on me.' And the teacher always told us that every person has a different metabolism; every person is different in their body, in their mind. That we don't exercise to look like a Barbie, but to feel good physically and emotionally. And right now, I love my body as it is," said the mother.

That confidence, knowing she has control over her hips, and the love for her daughter, is what convinced her to get on stage for a drag show.

A Queer Family in a Discriminatory Country for the LGBT+ Community

Once, Carlota left everything. She felt misunderstood by society. People judged her on the street. She would go to ask for work and they would ask her if she took a lot or a little hormones, if she always dressed as a woman, or they would simply tell her she wasn't a good candidate because it might be shocking for customers to see someone "like that." She also didn't feel comfortable with her family. They had never spoken openly at home about her identity. She felt a sudden need to flee and embark on a journey of self-discovery. One day she decided not to sleep at home anymore and left her mother a bundle of nerves. Carlota often does her mother's makeup, not just for shows.

"It was early 2022, I was 22 years old. I moved in with two friends and that's when I cut off all contact with my family for a while. I needed to connect with the woman in me," said Carlota. Months of absence passed. Until one day she crossed the door, announcing more than ever with tight clothing and outrageous makeup, her dissidence. That's when she realized she had underestimated her family.

"I left because I felt I wouldn't fit in. I had never openly told them I was trans, but when I returned, they accepted me as I am." Rose interjects and says it gave her great peace to see her return, to know she was alive.

"You hear so many things in the news. There are so many intolerant people out there," she says, and she is not wrong. So far in 2025, 27 trans women have been killed in Mexico, adding to the more than 50 murders in 2024, according to the count by the National Assembly of Trans and Non-Binary People.

It is not only a lethal country, but a discriminatory one. According to censuses from the National Institute of Statistics and Geography (Inegi), as of 2021 there were 5 million people who self-identify as part of the LGBT+ population. And according to the Alliance for Diversity and Labor Inclusion, 50 percent of them face unemployment; 40 percent earn less than ten thousand pesos a month, and trans people have the worst opportunities for employment.

Carlota knows this firsthand. She has spent years unemployed or in low-paying jobs. Sometimes in telephone customer service, in clothing stores, or in informal commerce. And in drag, there is no good news either. Carlota always liked makeup the most. In front of her bedroom mirror, she has spent who knows how many hours practicing with foundations, eyeshadows, and lipsticks; and also the burlesque choreographies, her favorite style, which mixes humor and sensuality, where she exaggerates and satirizes social themes through dance. Her first performances were at parties in front of friends, and only a couple of years ago was she able to do her first formal show at Laser Hot Bar. At these events, she likes to wear long dresses with slits to show lingerie; use cool-toned makeup; she loves dramatic, furrowed eyebrows, like Tongolele, and to wear her hair as simply as possible, so it doesn't steal attention from her face. For each presentation, she invests about 2,500 pesos, between makeup and wardrobe. In exchange, she is paid 500 pesos per performance, which she uses to return home by taxi in the early morning, to where there are now not one, but two drag queens, facing an ecosystem of nightclubs that is increasingly less sustainable for these artists. Even so, Carlota is fortunate to be paid, as there are drag performers who do it for a bucket of beers. Although this was not always the case.

Drag Discos in the Paradise of Cancún

To learn the history of the queer bars in Cancún and the first transvestite artists on the scene, they recommended speaking with Karol de Liz. They told me three things about her: that she is the pioneering drag queen, that she was still alive, and that she is a walking encyclopedia, with facts only she remembers. One of the first things she told me was that she has outfits worth 25,000 pesos, something no drag performer invests in today, let alone Carlota or her mother.

"If before you couldn't recoup the money invested, now even less so. The show will never provide a living. We do it for the love of art. Today there are people who perform for a few beers or for very little money. The situation is very complicated and that has led to the show losing quality," she says, acknowledging that she is giving an opinion as someone from the old guard.

Today there are three major queer discos just on Avenida Tulum, the main avenue in Cancún, where dozens of aspiring drag performers compete to perform for one night. One of them is Laser Hot Bar, the only one that has managed to survive since its birth, around the eighties, not without difficulties.

"The first gay bar in Cancún was Black Ship, which was on Avenida Tulum. Then there were Embarcaderos; Cocodrilos was in the Parque de las Palapas; Glow was also there. But all of those were just bars for the community, none offered transvestite shows. You just went and sat down to have a beer," recites Karol de Liz, the senior figure who forbids me from revealing her age.

In 1986, a businessman named Juan Verduzco opened Karamba, which would be the first LGBT+ disco, right in front of the Cancún City Hall, above a Chinese restaurant. It was a large hall that filled with about 500 people. At the back of the bar were the dressing rooms on one side, tables on the other, and the square dance floor. Not just anyone went there; the "fresa" gays went, the "nice" people of Cancún, says Karol. And soon after, its antithesis and fiercest competitor opened: Picante Hot Bar, in Plaza Galerías, founded by businessmen Gilberto González León, Jorge Carrillo, and a certain Tom, whose last name Karol doesn't remember but knows he was a foreigner. Initially conceived as another American-style gay bar, with a bar and televisions. Until one day Karol proposed to Gilberto that they do a transvestite show.

"I told him: 'I want to do a show in your bar.' Of course, he says, but there's nothing. 'It doesn't matter,' I said. And I started alone, like a crazy person." Karol de Liz performed as Amanda Miguel with a dress she made herself. "And people started to like it," she says. So she performed every Saturday and the place had to be remodeled to become a disco and compete with Karamba. The memorable thing about Picante was the dance floor and the mirrors surrounding it. If you stood in front of them and paid attention, you could clearly see the divided groups: the repressed military men, the "chacales," the "obvias," the "activos," and way in the back, at the rear bar, the cruising and sex workers in full service.

"Picante was the arrabal (slum). And I like the arrabalero. I mean, I like the vulgar, in the good sense of the word, you understand? Many people criticized it, said you got assaulted and robbed there and because only 'nacos' (low-class people) went there," laughs Karol.

The success at Picante was such that Karamba replicated the offer of transvestite shows. And during the nineties, the first drag queens, now references of the LGBT+ community in Cancún, were born in these two spaces: Mercedes Carreño, Manuela Cancún, Juliana, Marcos Echeverría, Felipito El Tainy, Pepe Delfín, la Keta, Madame Chanel, and la Tuyita. Both Picante and Karamba closed and reopened on several occasions. Sometimes due to economic difficulties, others due to closures by the City Hall resulting from pressure from conservative groups, and once due to extortion payments. Karamba closed definitively around 2014. And Picante moved to downtown Cancún. It continues operating today, only now under the name Laser Hot Bar. The arrabalero atmosphere remains, but with shows lacking the quality of before, opines Karol.

Mother and Daughter on Stage

The years of practicing dance in the street, alongside other women, helped Rose gain the confidence to get on stage. She started with Zumba, and that helped her feel comfortable with her own body and with enough self-esteem to know she could try new things, regardless of age. Then she ventured into Latin rhythms, which improved her coordination. And recently, she enrolled in heels dance. Her daughter sometimes accompanies her to her classes, to spend time with her and to help her with the choreography she will perform at Laser Hot Bar. Rose Rostros decided to make her own costume for the show. And Carlota would be in charge of her makeup. Everything seemed ready for that night this past February, except for one surprise that awaited her.

"The day we went, I didn't know, but it was a lip sync contest. Nobody told me anything until I heard them asking who was going to compete, if it was Carlota's mom. And I said yes. Many didn't believe it. And well, I did my performance. I was nervous. Because for me it was the first time and everyone who dances there already has experience. I just said, 'Oh, I'm going to relax and dance as if I were in a rehearsal.' I tried to do the best I could, I felt comfortable."

That day the bar was full and Rose was frenetic, feeling free, single, and sensual, and because she saw Carlota in the audience, happy. "How did you experience it?" she asked her daughter.

"It's a joy for me to be able to share the stage. It's beautiful. I never imagined we could share something so special and participate in it together, you know? Going to dance classes together, performing. Or if she doesn't perform, going to the bar to sit down, buy her a beer, and watch the show; have fun and remember that, in the end, it's already too violent to exist in this present," says her daughter.

That is the magic of drag, says Carlota one August afternoon. They plan to repeat the duo from now on.

"It is a privilege that I would love for the following generations to experience. I know there are many trans people who are still going through stigmatization."

That night, Rose Rostros triumphed: she won 500 pesos on a night adorned with garments, accessories, and makeup that cost, at a minimum, five times that amount. Today she believes that perhaps the prize was another: seeing the whole family gathered and moved, and in the audience, her daughter Carlota, her other two children, and a daughter-in-law, submerged in unstoppable tears.