Culture, Community, and Coming Out: What Growing Up Chamoru Taught Me About Leadership
Trigger warning: graphic story told of war injuries.
Dear nonprofits & professionals,
In Queer leadership, authenticity isn’t just a buzzword–it’s a blueprint. And for Jamie Leon-Guerrero, that blueprint is shaped by the deep-rooted values of her Chamoru heritage, her lived experience as a Queer woman, and her unwavering commitment to justice and community.
Jamie is a fundraising strategist, and advocate whose work spans sponsorship development, victim rights, and social equity. But beyond the accolades, she brings something far more transformative to the table: a leadership style grounded in culture, connection, and courage.
In this edition of “Sincerely, Queers”, we sit down with Jamie to explore how her identity as a Chamoru woman has informed her Queer journey, and how both have shaped the way she leads, builds trust, and uplifts those around her. Her insights remind us that being rooted in culture isn’t a limitation–it’s a powerful lens through which we create more inclusive, visionary leadership for everyone.
Your Chamoru heritage is rooted in deep community, resilience, and respect. How have these cultural values influenced the way you lead, especially in Queer spaces or community-centered organizations?
As a daughter of Chamoru parents from Guam, growing up in the East San Francisco Bay Area, born and raised in Hayward, and spending part of my middle and high school years in Alameda, my parents did an incredible job of keeping my sisters and me connected to our roots. We weren’t just told about our culture; we lived it. We were active in Bay Area Chamorro Kids, keeping our traditions alive through food, dance, and song. Growing up in the Bay, I was surrounded by diverse cultures, but the strong, ever-present Chamoru community was always there, too. Our house was filled with chosen family: sisters, cousins, aunties, uncles - not by blood, but by bond.
When I moved to Guam for a few short years later in life, I was already set up to flourish there. Heck, I knew some traditions, bits of language, the stories behind certain food names, and even legends that folks who were born and raised on the island hadn’t heard or never learned. That deep cultural grounding wasn’t just something I carried, it was something that carried me.
Our culture is matriarchal, and watching my mom lead with strength and grace profoundly shaped how I show up today. I mean, my mom was literally a survivor of the War in the Pacific on Guam. She once told me how, as a little girl, she got shot while hiding in the jungle from the Japanese. My grandmother, in full survival mode, poured rubbing alcohol on the wound and dug the bullet out with her fingers while telling my mom to stay silent so they wouldn’t be caught. I teased her and said she got shot in the butt once, and when I saw her cry, I never joked about it again. That moment stuck with me. Talk about strength. Talk about respect.
So yes, I lead the way I do because of the women I come from are resilient, powerful, loving. I also had some great male role models along the way, but really, it’s the aunties and matriarchs who taught me how to lead with heart. In my culture, you respect your elders. You care for your community. And you never forget where you came from. All of that shows up in how I lead, especially in Queer spaces and community work. I’m not here to be the loudest or most visible. I’m here to make sure others feel seen and safe too. My Chamoru identity is not a backdrop, it’s the foundation.
Visibility can be powerful, but also vulnerable. How has your journey of coming out shaped your approach to leadership, especially when advocating for Queer communities within systems that weren’t built with us in mind?
Ooof. This one hits deep because my coming out story wasn’t soft, pretty, or wrapped in a rainbow bow. My first love was my best friend in high school, and when my mom found out, everything changed overnight. Within days, she pulled me out of school and sent me to live with my uncle, whom I love dearly, but at 15, I barely knew him. I didn’t get to say goodbye. No phones, no social media, just heartbreak across an ocean. The message was clear: hide who you are. Dang, I teared up writing that. Whew.
It took me years, into my 30s and 40s, to unlearn that shame and start loving myself out loud. And honestly, that slow, messy journey taught me a lot about leadership. I lead now, knowing what it feels like to shrink yourself for survival. I know what it feels like to scan the room before speaking, to wonder if this space is safe for someone like me.
That’s why I take up space with intention now. Sometimes the act of simply being in the room as a Queer woman of color, as an APIDA leader, is the advocacy. Sometimes that’s enough. But trust, I’ve also found my voice, and I know how and when to use it. And one of the hardest, most powerful lessons I’ve learned? How people receive me or what I say is not mine to carry.
So I lead with authenticity. With empathy. With a whole lot of courage. Not to be fearless but to be real. And to keep creating the kind of spaces I once needed.
What a powerful experience! In your journey as a fundraiser and advocate, how do you draw from both your cultural and Queer identities to build authentic relationships—with donors, partners, and the broader community?
In fundraising and advocacy, I believe it's not really about the money, it's about the relationship. For me, building relationships begins with being fully present as myself. That means bringing both my Chamoru and Queer identities into the room, unapologetically. Storytelling is one of the most powerful tools I have, and luckily, it's also one of my CliftonStrengths–I'm a communicator! I don't lead with a pitch, I lead with a story, with joy, and with lived experience.
When I speak with donors or community partners, I often begin by sharing what it was like to be a participant in the very programs I now help lead and sustain. I want people to feel the impact, not just hear about it. And trust me, sometimes that gets messy, with tears and laughs, all the feelings, but I've told myself that the day sharing my story doesn't move me anymore is the day I need to step back.
And then there's the Activator in me. If you've got a project, a cause, a calling, I'm probably saying "yes" before you even finish the sentence. That instinct to jump in and do has helped me build real momentum in this work. People can feel when you're all in, and they're more likely to say yes to the work when they know you're doing it with heart, not just strategy.
So yeah, people give to people. And what I've found is that when you lead with presence, consistency, and cultural humility, folks don't just want to support your mission. They want to build it with you.
You’ve been recognized for your courage and advocacy work. How do you navigate moments when your intersecting identities—Chamoru, Queer, femme—are challenged or misunderstood in leadership spaces?
Man, this one’s tricky because, honestly, I’ve just never operated like I was “less than.” Growing up as a latchkey kid—parents working, coming home when the streetlights came on, that whole “It’s 10 PM, do you know where your kids are?” kind of vibe, I think I just built a sort of armor early. I learned how to figure things out, how to keep going, and how to read a room without needing a lot of explanation. I didn’t internalize being excluded or questioned; I just kept showing up and continue to do so today.
I mean, real talk, I genuinely believe most people are good at heart. So when I walk into a leadership space and someone looks confused about why I’m there, I’m like… what’s the confusion? I’m here. You’re here. Let’s get to work. I don’t lead with a chip on my shoulder. I lead with, “What can we build together?” That mindset has served me well, especially when folks don’t know what to make of someone who’s Chamoru, Queer, and femme all in one package.
And yeah, there are days when it’s exhausting being the only one who looks like me or loves like me in the room, but I’ve learned not to let those moments define me. I treat them like data, not direction. I check in with my people, take a hike, dance it out, or video call with my daughter and grandkids and soak in their joy. Those are my grounding moments, and they remind me why I lead the way I do–and with no apologies.
For other Queer leaders of color navigating philanthropy or community work, what practices or mindsets have helped you stay grounded, visionary, and true to who you are?
First, real rest. And I don’t just mean a nap (though, yes to naps when you can get one). I’m talking about rest from performing, from people-pleasing, from constantly translating yourself to make others comfortable. That’s the kind of rest that brings me back to center. That’s where I get clarity.
And here’s the thing, I’m not here to replicate tired systems. I’m here to hopefully reimagine them. I want to be part of shaping something that makes space for us, for all of us, in full color, not grayscale. That means leading in a way that feels aligned, not performative.
Also, can we normalize leaning into what we’re good at? If you haven’t already taken the CliftonStrengths assessment, do it. It changed the game for me. I’m super lucky to work at a nonprofit where all of our programs are strengths-based, and let me tell you, it’s a whole different kind of leadership when you’re working from the balcony of your strengths, not the basement and knowing when I’ve slipped into that basement and pulling myself back up? That’s the real self-work.
My advice? Have fun. Be honest. Communicate clearly. Show up as your whole, weird, brilliant self as often as you can. That’s all any of us can really do. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. For you, for your people, and the future we’re building together. And if anyone ever makes you feel like your culture or queerness is a liability? Just remember - that’s YOUR lens. That’s YOUR SUPERPOWER!
Now, let’s get it!
Sincerely,
Queers
About the Guest Writer
Jamie is a fundraising and marketing professional at Greater Tucson Leadership, where she’s led innovative strategies to boost support and sponsorships. A graduate of Lead Tucson and the Civic and Political Leadership Academy, she brings a strong background in social services, communications, and advocacy for victims’ rights. Jamie was honored with the “Voice of Courage” Award in 2016 and continues to lead with purpose as a board member, presenter, and community advocate. She recently completed AFP’s Leadership Institute and is pursuing her CFRE certification. Outside of work, she enjoys hiking, dancing, and time with her two dogs, daughter, and grandchildren in Guam.
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