Empowering untold stories, insightful articles, and thought-provoking discussions celebrating Latina heritage, resilience, and influence in today's world.
130 posts
“Siri, how do I get home?” “You need a loan?” “No. Home.” “Cones? There are no cones within the area, Pay-o-la” “HOME.” “Sorry, I do not understand.” “Forget it.” “Love you too, Pay-o-la” Aside from the fact that Siri can only understand ’Murican, she (or whatever pronoun Siri identifies with)
I do not live near my mami. We live a few thousand miles apart, physically, and also billions miles apart politically. I love mi mami though, and I am always thinking about her. Today I have been thinking about her hands… Las manos de mi mami brings so many memories.
It was at the age of eight when I realized who was to be my greatest adversary in life: mi mamá. Má. Amá. Madre. Jefa. Those were your names – aloud, anyway. Never Mamá. Ever. Surrendering to the term when in your presence was a synonym of defeat, of weakness: a
I think the most important thing that I have learned from graduate school, was that I learned to name those things that had been used against me my entire life. The ability to name ones oppression is powerful for our individual liberations because for years I thought I was being
Brown girls tend to not notice themselves and what they are capable of. We become almost invisible because of the lack of representation. Sometimes, we need to remind ourselves of our ancestors’ power of resilience, become storytellers, and recreate history. When I was younger, I thought I couldn’t be
I come from places where enduring inequalities is the norm. I’ve seen my mother come home exhausted after a long day of work struggling to keep her body from collapsing. I’ve seen her massage her arthritis affected hands describing the way her supervisors screamed “faster! faster!” to her
For some, this is just a piece of paper. For us, this is more than that and we are all so proud of you. This is a dedication to my hard-core Latina kicking ass women. Dear Fuerte First-Generation Brown Mujer, Throughout these college years, you became stronger, your voice got
Caucacity: The audacity of white people’s belief that they’re right even against contrary evidence. If I had a dollar for every time a White Liberal tried to convince me that Trump’s win was not rooted in this kind of “White Supremacy’s last stand” racist mentality, I’
I was never THAT kid who was encouraged to go to college. I was never that kid that was smarter than everyone else, that kid that shined, that kid that professors believed in. I just wasn’t. By the time I was almost 9 years old, I knew I was
I’ve walked the walk of shame. I’ve carried my high heels thrown over my shoulder, in the same dress from the night before. I’ve strolled home with my thong tucked away in my pocket after a wild night of sex. I’ve been annotated into the club,
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