We are the Daughters of the Women with a Unibrow that Could Not be Plucked

by Mariah Hernandez

My Mexican-American Horror Story (Sandra Cisneros Edition) happened about last-week ish.

As any person who is a fan of another, your fave’s name trending on Twitter can only mean one of two things: they did something great (Yippee!), or they did something that makes you want to reprimand them in the way that your mom might’ve when you were being a little shit: through gritted teeth—“Callate, ya.”

Las calladitas son más bonitas. And sometimes, I gotta hand it to the machistas, they have a point. Or maybe they don’t really, but when my ‘family of little feet’ “The House on Mango Street” pioneer who wrote the only novel by a Latinx widely read amongst Gen-Z K-12 students, my “nobody’s wife and nobody’s mother” quote giver that almost made it under my high school senior yearbook picture, my Chicana icon who I have revered in past college essays, says something in The New Yorker that sets people off for valid reasons, I… I’ll let Sandra speak for herself:

design by Katelynn Perez

“It made me really sad, because I saw my own people acting worse than the Trumpers with one another and with other writers. I said, ‘No, this can’t be my community. This can’t be the people who are asking for human rights for immigrants and yet are cruel to another writer.’” “I was so sad. I had to go to the Oaxaca coast and just walk and think about it. It was so painful. It still pains me. I’m still angry, and I think that’s why I’ve hesitated talking about it, because we shouldn’t speak when we’re angry.”

going to put down the foam finger for a while. Though, I’m not able to go to the Oaxaca coast and reflect. I actually think that’s quite odd to mention, the whole walk on the Oaxacan coast. It doesn’t have the intended effect of conjuring images of this mystical motherland where one goes to heal and reconnect with their cultural values. It feels like a cheap attempt to forge a connection to Indigeneity and evade criticism following such a non-nuanced statement about our community.

But that’s not very “Latinas Supporting Latinas” of me, right? At least, not in the traditional sense of “La Raza,” where we continually defend anything a Latinx does. And truly, I do get why we may have an impulse to evade accountability: because we don’t want the world, a world that already does not accept us, to see our division and in-fighting. Because when one of our own, a real Chicanx or Latinx claws their way to the top of a platform that white people simply float to, we’ll do anything to ensure they can stay up there. After all, they’ve fought the fight. They’re there showing that we too exist for a purpose besides Cinco de Drinko and sombreros and tacos, and shouldn't we be grateful we’re even up there?

But defending Latinxs solely because of their identity, using it as a universal repellent to controversies and privilege, is a slippery slope, especially when Latinxs themselves are incredibly diverse. “La Raza,” the (singular) race, is as much of a fairytale as Atlantis or Shrek, because we are not all half Indigenous and half Spaniard mestizos. White Latinos claim Aztec blood and say we are all one unified race, but will mock their darker-skinned and Indigenous-featured friends and family because of white supremacist sentiments — another unwashable blood stain from Spanish colonialism.

I’m disappointed in Sandra, yes, because her statement plays into this “La Raza” ideology where we all experience racism and oppression in the same way. Latinidad, with its “La Raza”-fication, tries to dismiss the distinctions of our unique experiences and varying identities. You’re not Indigenous or Black or white or in between, an immigrant or American since the Alamo, conservative or leftist, rich or poor, you’re Latino.

So, maybe, let’s try not equating well-intentioned Latinxs who seek to hold other Latinxs accountable to a literal white supremacist group. Let’s listen to our brothers and sisters because they aren’t throwing our children in cages or building a wall. They challenge us to do and be better. They offer important reminders that no one can speak for “La Raza” in its entirety, and that we too can have blindspots with our privilege. So why do we act as though their critical observations will be our demise? But why do we need our icons to be perfect? Why do we have to shield icons from criticisms, or on the complete opposite end, erase them from our histories? After all, Sandra Cisneros did pave a path for other Latinas to tell their stories in a way that challenged what was considered complex, interesting, and layered literature.

I hesitate to say this because I recognize the sentiments surrounding her nowadays, but even Frida Kahlo has influenced my work.

Growing up in predominantly white schools, I was mocked for my culture and ashamed of my thick eyebrows. So when I found out Frida Kahlo existed, this unapologetically hairy-queer-communist-badass–feminist-Mexicana artist, it felt like she had resurrected from the dead to perform a seance for my cultural pride. I thought that pride had perished in the crossfire between the “El Chapo is your uncle!” and “You’ll only get into college because you’re Mexican!” hits from my peers. Submerged in the sea of white artists and people and culture that I felt no true connection to, learning about Frida in my classes guided me out. I didn’t even read “The House on Mango Street” until my 3rd year of college, so Frida was one of (if not, the only) Mexican women I learned about in school. Her

art looked like home, spoke to the parts of myself hurt by gringolandia, and demonstrated the strength and confidence of a woman I didn’t know was possible by Mexicanas.

Yet, even I can put it plainly: Frida Kahlo profited off of Indigenous clothing styles, clothes that are unfortunately more commonly associated with Kahlo herself rather than those who created them in Tehuantepec. While Indigenous people face ridicule for dressing in the unique styles they created and were forced to assimilate to dominant European culture, this half-German woman plays dress up and about a century later has her face plastered all over Olvera street like a saint. And there is no defending that. I don’t want to defend her. Rather, I want her, Sandra Cisneros, and every other Latina icon to be remembered in all facets.

I know I’m not perfect, and I strongly believe that my writing, even the parts that I wish I could change, are markers of my progress as a human. My hope is to facilitate important discussions that aren’t addressed enough, so we can all reflect on our actions and participate in dialogue to strive for a world that recognizes and validates all people. And no, I’m not naive. I don’t think that will happen overnight. We’re not going to have one hour-long conversation and then unite hand in hand as we sing “Kumbaya” (or “Tragos Amargos”) around a fire. But we need to approach all subjects, whether that be people, events, movements, etc. as continually advancing.

If I realize my dream and become half the artist Cisneros and Kahlo are, I hope that my audience does not take my word as the word of a goddess and defends me when I’m wrong. If a Latina decades into the future reads my work, I hope she finds flaws in my thinking and forges new ideologies that build upon my work, not replicate it.

Nobody is going to get it right 100% of the time. Instead of throwing a fit and melodramatically dying on the most idiotic hills, I call upon “La Raza” to wipe off the self-pitying tears and stand up. As people that pride themselves on being strong chingonxs, we should all be able to survive someone calling us out. Imagine how far we could get if we began to own our mistakes just as much as we own our accomplishments — how we could actually grow into the united community we pretend to be.

So, I don’t believe in placing people on pedestals and creating a fictitious, perfect icon who remains timeless. And on the same coin, I don’t think we should have that expectation of people either. But that’s not to say that we throw our hands up and give everyone a free pass to do whatever they want. I’m saying that we pick up the golden shovel of criticism and unearth the best versions of our own individual selves and our collective communities. It’s dirty work, but I refuse to wait until I find the perfect words. I’ll die before I ever am fully certain of a single thing I say or write to a world where my words exist in a cloud forever. But the sooner I cycle through my mistakes and bad ideas, the sooner I can make way for new and improved ones.

Plus, does the white guy in your discussion section wait until he has fully developed a thought before verbalizing it with full confidence?

So to the young 21-year old Latina studying Chicanx and feminist studies who may or may not be reading this in the future or in the present, do your worst.