Words to a Stranger’s Daughter: On Quinceañeras, Womanhood, and, You Know, Girl Stuff
The term womanhood was never really explained to me, and if I’m being completely straight with you here, I’m still trying to figure it out. A simple online search brings up cheesy pictures of mothers and daughters exchanging significant glances, Jane Austen quotes, and pink. Lots and lots of pink. So that’s Google’s version of womanhood, I guess. I can think back to driving in the car with my sister, busting out to Aretha’s “Respect”, or proudly taking the role of Ginger Spice when I sang “Wannabe” with my friends. After Moulin Rouge came out a few girls and I made up a dance routine to “Lady Marmalade” and we’d make a whole show of it at parties. I was Lil’ Kim, of course. We were twelve. I’m thinking that, at the time, all these songs must have given me some sense of girl power, or maybe I thought that’s what it was to be a woman: demanding respect or givin’ it a go with Joe, wearing giant platform shoes and choosing friends before dudes; or maybe a combination of them all. But let’s face it, we had no idea what we were singing. It was just… a feeling. Some sort of rare, ample confidence. And it felt good.
My first period came the day after my 13th birthday, right before lunch time, and it was nothing like the G-rated sex-ed video my school made us watch. My Days of the Week underwear were stained a gross shade of brown instead of the bright red I’d always imagined, and when my mother knocked on the bathroom door I explained I would be down in a minute — ”¡Ya me bajó!” I yelled through the door, instantly yanked out of Neverland and plopped into a world of potential baby-making. When I walked downstairs and into the kitchen, my mom had told my dad what happened. My dad, as usual, had a joke ready. Both before and after he left home, my parents’ basic dynamic was my dad thinking he was funny and my mom reminding him he was not. I don’t remember exactly what he said — something in the realm of, “You’re a woman now, welcome to The Nag Club” — but I’m pretty sure that was the first time I was identified as a woman, and the first of many that being one meant being the butt of a joke. So, if we’re going the period route, I guess I became a woman at 13. A little late, some might think. But if I’ve learned anything in the 13 years since, “being a woman” is pretty fucking hard to define.
Now, as a Mexican woman living in Texas, there’s a few things people tend to ask me:
- Is it safe there?
- Ugh, Donald Trump, amirite? And,
- Did you have a quinceañera party?
In Austin it’s not uncommon to see young girls in big ole shiny gowns, posing for quinceañera photos in the middle of a bluebonnet field or the steps of the Capitol. To me, they look like girls playing dress-up, their makeup always thick, like a slab of Skippy peanut butter at risk of death by Texas sun. And it’s weird thinking this is some sort of rite of passage, like a debutante ball, saying: Look out world, I’m a woman now. Marry me off to the highest bidder!
Just kidding.
I mean, I get it. It’s a big deal. The closest thing here I’m guessing is a Sweet 16 party, and if Molly Ringwald taught me anything, girls expect to wake up at 16 somehow reformed, improved, maybe with a little more self-confidence and a killer bust (and a black Trans Am in the driveway). I don’t believe turning 15 was as big a deal for me; I don’t remember having those expectations. I think I’ve learned more of the quinceañera tradition over the last few years than I did when I was a quinceañera — meaning, a 15-year-old girl. Because no, I did not have a quinceañera party; any close friends reading this would probably guffaw at the thought.
So here’s the thing. There were quinceañera parties in San Pedro, where I grew up. We called them quinces and if you were at all popular, you probably started going to those when you were 13, as some pimply 14-year-old’s date. We would dress up, go to some fancy venue, and sweat to the great hits of ’04, like Usher’s “Yeah!”, OutKast’s “Hey Ya!” and some song in Spanish about getting on a dude’s boat. (Quiero montarme en tu velero/Ponerte yo el sombrero/Y hacernos eso ay, ay, ay, ay)
It was a good time to dance with friends and flirt with boys, those last great parties when our mothers still picked us up right at midnight; before high school, before alcohol, and usually, in the Catholic community I grew up, before sex. But we were on our way.
My sister’s five years older than me. When she turned 15, she took a trip to New York with our Tía Marcela. I don’t really know the negotiations behind it and I don’t know if I ever asked my sister why she didn’t want a party, but when it was my turn, I understood. Quinces weren’t really… for us. After attending three or four quinces, I learned that a quinceañera was usually a certain type of girl, and my sister and I weren’t it. So, I copied my sister, like most siblings do at that age, and took a trip to New York with our Tía Marcela.
I don’t know how to explain this “certain type of girl” business. I feel like people who know, will get it. The best way I can explain it is, I’ve never been the type of girl who doesn’t spill, doesn’t trip, and is okay with slow-dancing to “My Girl” with her father in front of 200 of his closest friends. So, a quince ended up on my list of Shit San Petrinos Do That I Never Did, along with having an 800-guest wedding at the country club; months-long trips to Thailand; and partaking in a father-daughter dance at any general social function, which I’m pretty sure my dad’s okay with.
So, yeah. No quinceañera for me.
More than a ritual of girl becoming woman, I think quinces welcomed me into Girl World. Quinces came after those first few awkward boy-girl parties, when we would all stand at opposite sides of the room and dread making the first move. Quinces came at the time when girls started to realize we had all the power, and at least, in my experience, the first time your grupito — your squad, if you will — stood as a representation of yourself. This was the first time when we’d all gather at a girlfriend’s house and get ready together, sharing Lancome Juicy Tubes and Victoria’s Secret body splash. After the party we’d sleep over at a friend’s house and talk for hours, I mean hours, until we drifted off to sleep thinking of next Friday’s quince. This was when I learned about removing your makeup before bed and the magic of nipple pasties, the start of that time in your life when your girls come before everything else. When friends take the place of your family. When you start thinking, “Maybe this is what being a grown-up is,” and wouldn’t that be great?
That was a perfect time.
But back to womanhood. That’s how this whole thing started, right?
There’s several things I associate with being a woman. We covered “Respect”, Spice Girls, and Lil’ Kim. We covered the importance of friendship and washing your face before bed. We can talk about masturbation if you want, or about finally coming to terms with being a full A-cup — sometimes, if you gain some weight, a very small B. We can talk about the pains of getting cat-called, the gender gap, negative body image, or the social pressures of motherhood. You just gotta remember everything is more than one thing. As for me, as much as I loved being a girl, I think I started to “feel like a woman” (*cringe*) when I stopped relying on others to feel good. When I was OK with always being the one who felt too deeply, spoke too loudly, and learned to take praise. I don’t know, there was a moment when I realized I was kinda cool, I was kinda smart, and I had my shit together. And I realized I didn’t exactly need anybody, but I could choose to want to need somebody. Does that make sense? I don’t know, man. It’s just a feeling. Some sort of rare, ample confidence. And it feels good.
How’s that for your after school special?
This is part of a collection of stories about quinceañeras. Read more here: