La Mujer Hispana

Isabel Bravo-Contreras

Behind every strong man, we are there. Behind every kitchen counter, every unruly child, every ungrateful husband. We are there. Born into a machista society that has it out for us before we are even exposed to the blinding light of the hospital rooms, our life is one of struggle and perseverance. The role of a Hispanic woman is one predestined to her—and it’s one very hard to escape. Sitting all day in the kitchen, she cuts, peels, boils, and bakes till her once soft and innocent hands have turned rough and calloused. While the sky is still painted a dreamlike black, she wakes to care for the wailing baby because being a Hispanic woman is Responsibility. It is sweeping the floor and diligently organizing the placemats and cutlery while out of the corner of my eye, I longingly watch my cousins playing on their Nintendos. At family gatherings, it means I am the one in charge of all the children—before nature had even given me the ability to have my own—to give the tired mothers a break, even if it is just for a couple of hours. Today, people will come up to me to praise me about how good I am with children, not realizing it’s because I had to be. Being a Hispanic woman means maturing long before your time. Being a Hispanic woman is Silence. The words calladita te ves más bonita were engraved in my brain from a young age before I was even old enough to put my anger or defiance into words. It is having to sit patiently at the side of the table while the men in my family debate politics or economics or any other topic they deem so important that it cannot wait till after the meal to talk about. Too important, of course, to ever include the women in these riveting discussions.

Being a Hispanic woman is Fear. Perpetual Fear. Generational Fear. Fear of walking the streets alone at night. Of being alone in a room with a man because of what could happen, or even worse, what other people might think happened. It is being questioned every time I go out my front door by my mother. Not because of her distrust of me but because of her distrust of the unfair world I am about to step into.

Being a Hispanic woman is Community. It is long talks in the very kitchen we had been banished away to—our prison now transformed into a sanctuary. For so long, I looked at our ‘gossip culture’ as a weakness. A harmful stereotype to be ashamed of playing into. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood the metamorphoses that happen in the confines of our wooden cabinets. For the first time, I can hear the cackles of my aunt as she describes what you might classify as a rather uneventful trip to the supermarket. My cousin’s raised voice as she complains about the merciless biology teacher she had her freshman year of college with a passion I have never before witnessed. The smile on my grandmother’s face as she eagerly recounts the recent surgery her friend Ramon had last spring, not caring that nobody else in the room knows who he is. Under the intoxicating smells of chili and onion, we find our voices. More than anything, being a Hispanic woman is Strength. Like Atlas, a Hispanic woman holds the world on her shoulder yet never crumbles. She is both Protector and Caregiver. Cook and Chauffeur. Educator and Wife. She is what she has to be. And she does it all with a smile.