Colonize This!: Young Women of Color on Today's Feminism by Daisy Hernández, Bushra Rehman
Authors: Daisy Hernández, Bushra Rehman
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replaces the mariachis and top-shelf liquor takes the place of Night Train. An old flame, Ron is trying to convince me to marry him. I’m thinking I haven’t seen this guy in years, but I thank him for his compliment. And then I see a short man, a few inches over five feet and wearing dirty gray pants and a button-down shirt. His eyes are glazed over and he is barely able to stand. He is singing a song and I recognize the accent, from Juarez or Tijuana. He mumbles something profane in Spanish and appears to be confused by the sea of white faces (and me!).
He searches the room for his compadres, and it becomes evident that this place he had once known so well is now as foreign as it is to me. He blinks his eyes a few times and tries to shake himself from this drunken haze but soon realizes that what he is seeing is no illusion. He stares at the blond woman with the multiple tattoos and pierced lip and wonders where his friends might be. He has never seen white people in this bar and as he looks at her, I stare at him and relate to his longing for days gone by. And then he turns from her and looks at me as if to say “What are you, una negrita, doing here?”
We lock eyes and I allow him to see my shame while I share his sadness. I too am lost in a place I knew so well. Like the old man looking for a drink, I am saddened, disillusioned and disgusted by the changes. Like him, I also feel powerless. He glances around a bit more, struggles to his feet, curses a few words in Español, throws down his tequila, closes his eyes and stumbles out of the door.
HIV and Me
The Chicana Version
Stella Luna
When I was a little girl, I dreamed of being an actress. I enjoyed making up silly dances and putting on shows for my friends and family. Being the youngest of five children and arriving six years after my sister, I had the privilege of being the center of attention throughout my childhood. Our family lived in a suburb of Los Angeles that was generally classified as Mexican middle class. My father was a second-generation Mexican American who believed in strong family values and a religious foundation. As in many Mexican-American households, our family always came first. My mother wasn’t allowed to work because my father believed her place was in the home taking care of our family. I never saw my mom question this arrangement, but I noticed actions that discreetly displayed her desire. For example, my sister and I weren’t allowed to do any of the household chores or cooking. She would say, “One day you are going to be forced to do this stuff to keep your husband happy, so I’m not going to force you to do it now.” I happily obliged, but in the back of my mind, I began to visualize marriage as the beginning of a lifelong service to others.
As I grew into my teens, it became quite apparent that dating was a privilege and not a right. Under the watchful eyes of my father and my three brothers, I was given strict rules to obey. I didn’t mind these rules, but what bothered me was my mother’s constant fear of my getting pregnant. I found this confusing because my parents never had a sex talk with me and it hurt to think they had such little trust in me. Years later, my mom would brag to her friends how her girls “didn’t have to get married because they were pregnant.” She considered this a personal achievement.
After high-school graduation I began working full-time as a secretary, and I loved having my own paycheck. I began dating one of my coworkers, an Anglo man, and my family was furious. Brett wasn’t like the machista guys I had grown up with. Instead, he encouraged me to explore my own ideas and become more independent. My dad disliked him and didn’t appreciate that “this white guy” was placing all kinds of crazy ideas in my head. My dad’s anger heightened when I decided to start spending the weekends over at Brett’s house. My mom accused me of “ruining myself.” I grew
He searches the room for his compadres, and it becomes evident that this place he had once known so well is now as foreign as it is to me. He blinks his eyes a few times and tries to shake himself from this drunken haze but soon realizes that what he is seeing is no illusion. He stares at the blond woman with the multiple tattoos and pierced lip and wonders where his friends might be. He has never seen white people in this bar and as he looks at her, I stare at him and relate to his longing for days gone by. And then he turns from her and looks at me as if to say “What are you, una negrita, doing here?”
We lock eyes and I allow him to see my shame while I share his sadness. I too am lost in a place I knew so well. Like the old man looking for a drink, I am saddened, disillusioned and disgusted by the changes. Like him, I also feel powerless. He glances around a bit more, struggles to his feet, curses a few words in Español, throws down his tequila, closes his eyes and stumbles out of the door.
HIV and Me
The Chicana Version
Stella Luna
When I was a little girl, I dreamed of being an actress. I enjoyed making up silly dances and putting on shows for my friends and family. Being the youngest of five children and arriving six years after my sister, I had the privilege of being the center of attention throughout my childhood. Our family lived in a suburb of Los Angeles that was generally classified as Mexican middle class. My father was a second-generation Mexican American who believed in strong family values and a religious foundation. As in many Mexican-American households, our family always came first. My mother wasn’t allowed to work because my father believed her place was in the home taking care of our family. I never saw my mom question this arrangement, but I noticed actions that discreetly displayed her desire. For example, my sister and I weren’t allowed to do any of the household chores or cooking. She would say, “One day you are going to be forced to do this stuff to keep your husband happy, so I’m not going to force you to do it now.” I happily obliged, but in the back of my mind, I began to visualize marriage as the beginning of a lifelong service to others.
As I grew into my teens, it became quite apparent that dating was a privilege and not a right. Under the watchful eyes of my father and my three brothers, I was given strict rules to obey. I didn’t mind these rules, but what bothered me was my mother’s constant fear of my getting pregnant. I found this confusing because my parents never had a sex talk with me and it hurt to think they had such little trust in me. Years later, my mom would brag to her friends how her girls “didn’t have to get married because they were pregnant.” She considered this a personal achievement.
After high-school graduation I began working full-time as a secretary, and I loved having my own paycheck. I began dating one of my coworkers, an Anglo man, and my family was furious. Brett wasn’t like the machista guys I had grown up with. Instead, he encouraged me to explore my own ideas and become more independent. My dad disliked him and didn’t appreciate that “this white guy” was placing all kinds of crazy ideas in my head. My dad’s anger heightened when I decided to start spending the weekends over at Brett’s house. My mom accused me of “ruining myself.” I grew
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