For Brown Girls with Sharp Edges and Tender Hearts

by Prisca Dorcas Mojica Rodríguez

  Spanglish is the language of my people: a specific kind of immigrant or kid of immigrants who learned two languages fluently but also opted not to prioritize either one, because we are products of two worlds. Also, we opted to recreate ourselves as displaced people, and that shit is resiliency at work.

  From a really young age, I understood that there are only particular instances where your best self feels safe to come out. When we first migrated to this country, my entire family went to Santa’s Enchanted Forest in Miami. This seasonal fair is a staple for locals. This was my first time going on fair rides and rollercoasters. This glorious moment, where I was just tall enough to do the big-kid rides, meant that my brother and I got to stand in line together. I remember us speaking excitedly about the ride and about who was going to sit where for optimum enjoyment, and then I heard something behind us. Two English-speaking kids said: “Speak English. You are in America.” And my entire mood changed, I felt so embarrassed. I remember nothing else from that day but that feeling of getting the air taken out of you.

  From a really young age, I understood that there is a version of me that white people prefer, because it is the version that gets rewarded. This version does not get teased. This version gets to exist, if only on their terms.

  Spanglish is generally seen as a nuisance to white people. I have learned that, while I feel most like myself when I speak Spanglish, it feels threatening to white people.

  And sure, some people might speculate that it was excusable for monolingual folks to require that I switch to English. But it wasn’t just my language. I also had to shift my tone and my expressions. Not only did I have to switch to my “white voice,” but I also had to switch to my “white behavior” for the comfort of the white people around me and, sadly, for my own advancement.

  When I am my happiest and truest self, I am an embodied experience. When I speak Spanglish, I speak with my entire body. When I laugh, I laugh with every muscle and every part of me. How I talk to people is how I engage myself. I do not have curt little English exchanges; I divulge in Spanglish.

  When I embody my Spanglish fully, in public, I get kicked out of restaurants. I have also been silenced in common university spaces for being disruptive. I have been scolded and told to simmer down, when all I was doing was showing up fully as myself.

  White people’s comfort levels seem to be the priority for everyone, especially for themselves. And their discomfort means that we must, in turn, alter ourselves in order to enter their spaces—and they have claimed a lot of spaces. They run the government, armed forces, corporate America, academia, the legal system, you name it. They not only created those spaces but ensured that only the approved version of you is allowed to enter. You will no longer feel like yourself.

  This is today’s racial segregation. The ability to exist in their spaces is restricted at best, forbidden at worst.

  Respectability politics has robbed so many of us of the joy of being ourselves, and so many of us have decided to accept the version of ourselves that white people prefer. When I accepted their preferred version of me, I felt like I was in a constant state of bodily displacement. It was always a show, a performance for them. I felt like a clown.

  [Evelyn] Higginbotham (1993) describes [respectability politics] as a way to counter racist stereotypes and structures, respectability requires condemning behaviors deemed unworthy of respect within one in-group.

  —Mikaela Pitcan, Alice E. Marwick, and danah boyd

  A collective revolt against all these systemic tools of social control is necessary for our liberation.

  I remember the first time I realized that I was being misread as aggressive. I was at a party with my white peers, and someone said something to me and I casually responded. The exchange was so minimal that the exact details escape my memory. But later, in the kitchen, some of my white friends said they were frightened by my response, and they said they were afraid to upset me. I was bewildered. I wasn’t angry in the exchange; I had felt neutral, and the conversation was instantly forgettable.

  You see, where I am from, I am seen as the pastor’s daughter and a “good” girl. For better or for worse, I had bought into that identity and had behaved in ways that enforced that image, but somehow in white spaces that did not translate. I lacked the ability to adjust my presentation to accommodate the white gaze, because I was not raised around white people. So, after immigrating here, I had to learn to not scare white people. Being a woman of color, a Brown Latina, means that when I am around white people, they tend to just default to seeing me as a stereotype: the fiery Latina.

  At that point in my life, I did not understand nor could I wrap my mind around this seemingly innocent misunderstanding—but the thing about misunderstandings with white people is that they can be dangerous for Black and Brown people. Being seen as a stereotype can result in our incarceration and even our death at the hands of police officers. Survival often depends on understanding how we are seen by white people and then adjusting the parts that they misunderstand as scary and aggressive. To that, I call bullshit.

  We know now that cops view Black children as dangerous adults. We know now that white people view Black children as deviant and white children as angelic. We know now that racial biases have informed the entire carceral system in the United States. White people correct deviation from respectability through punishment and incarceration. But “misbehavior” is just code for not acting white.

  White people can behave however they want and are still viewed as having their humanity intact. BIPOC have to act respectably toward the white gaze while in white institutions, otherwise they are silenced, strongly reprimanded, jailed, or even killed. And even when we act as we should, as soon as a campus-wide alert is sent about someone who is dangerous, the color of your skin will determine if you are protected or approached with suspicion. Respectability politics is only required for BIPOC, and the darker you are the more policed your behavior will be, which is why our framework for understanding respectability politics was created by Evelyn Higginbotham, a Black woman.

  Respectability politics function as social control. It is dangerous to go outside those parameters. While white people defined those parameters, too often even BIPOC enforce them within their own communities. White supremacy is designed so treacherously that we can stand in our own way.

  Coded, racialized words used against our communities are often used by BIPOC to distance themselves from stereotypes: reffy, illegal, ratchet, ghetto. Too often, some BIPOC will accept these definitions as real, internalize these racist ideas, and turn them against other BIPOC. By accepting those words as negative adjectives and distancing themselves from them, misguided BIPOC are supporting the stereotypes. By uplifting the white-approved versions of themselves, by distinguishing themselves as professional, classy, well-spoken, elevated, misguided BIPOC are supporting white supremacy. In trying to gain safety for themselves by saying they are one of the “good” BIPOC, and thus claiming proximity to whiteness, misguided BIPOC just reinforce white supremacists’ beliefs that most BIPOC are “bad.”

  Respectability politics is a circular trap.

  To panic about being identified within perversity can too easily lead us to strive toward self-restricting normalcy.

  —Celine Parreñas Shimizu

  Growing up as a working-class Brown Latina impacted how I moved through respectability politics. Whatever I choose to wear, however I choose to act, the white gaze redefined my choices as those that either confirmed or refuted prescribed stereotypes.

  So, let me introduce you to chongas. In some ways, chongas are similar to cholas. These are regional terms, so your familiarity may depend on where you live. Cholas are a West Coast Mexican American Latina subculture. Chongas are a primarily Florida Cuban Latina subculture. Aesthetically there are similarities, but overall I would argue there are notable differences. One big difference is that chola scholars have reclaimed that subculture from the clutches of respectability politics in ways that
chongas have not. I can name several chola scholars, but I can only name one chonga scholar: Dr. Jillian Hernandez.

  I grew up aspiring to be as beautiful as the chongas I saw around me, but the media turned it into a taboo identity that no one wanted to claim, even those who were still emulating it.

  Being a chonga was the goal, for me, until it was not. Personally, I blame the Chonga Girls—a comedy duo of millennial, white-passing Latinas who assumed the roles of chongas as a costume to mock them—but I also know that this turn against the culture was bigger than their act. Back when I was in school, the Chonga Girls made a parody music video mocking chongas for their cheap aesthetics, accented English, and assumed sluttiness. In truth, these two women were rejecting chongas by further stereotyping them as other—in contrast to the performers, who aligned themselves as different and therefore respectable by ridiculing this particular subculture. Through their ridiculing of chongas, they normalized the communal rejection of immigrant, loud, and poor Latinas. And Miami Latinxs ate it up, and doubled down. The Chonga Girls used their bodies to signal to all of us that we should stop trying to emulate this Latina subculture. At the time, I was an impressionable young Latina only beginning my journey of simmering down for whiteness.

  The hyperbolic, stereotypical representations of Latinas often found in visual culture are measured against an imagined (white/middle class) construct of U.S. citizenship.

  —Jillian Hernandez

  Today, according to most Latinxs in Miami, chongas:

  are nasty

  have bad attitudes

  are cheap

  are too sexy

  speak with accented English

  speak “improper” Spanish

  wear too much makeup

  or, as my US-born Latina sister-in-law once said, are just “too Hispanic.”

  Chongas proudly claim their migration in a way that is contrary to white culture, which demands that immigrants feel shame for their differences and immediately assimilate into the dominant white American culture.

  What does a chonga look like? A chonga is a Latina, usually an immigrant herself, from a working-class or working-poor context, who has adapted a tough exterior with an aesthetic to match. It is important to note that many chongas don’t regularly refer to themselves as such, because the term has become an insult.

  I have a decolonized perspective on chongas, which means that I reclaim this racialized and classist slur into what it really is when we take the layers of self-hatred and oppression away from the subculture.

  Chongas are beautiful, strong, assertive badasses who will love as passionately as they will hate anyone who tries to harm them or their loved ones. Chongas are bold, resilient. They use their bodies and assert themselves to resist assimilation and whitewashing.

  Chongas have the agility to maneuver around violent situations. They are raised in working-class neighborhoods and barrios, and they have learned that the police are quick to show up to their neighborhoods to arrest people but slow to come and protect them. They learn that their families and close communities are the only people who have their best interests in mind.

  It is because they have seen corruption in their motherlands, and erasure in the land of the free, that they have come to know that everyone around them is trying to take advantage of their poverty.

  When they get the torn-up or nonexistent textbooks in schools, when they live in food deserts and dangerously unregulated housing, they learn that the system is not meant to protect them, so they protect themselves.

  Chongas have sharp tongues. When the Teach for America teachers and the counselors tell them to stop dreaming because someone like them could never get into college, they learn to stick up for themselves.

  I identified as a chonga for years, and after facing ridicule I decided to go for a more muted aesthetic. In my midtwenties, I sought to reclaim my identity. But it took me years to get to that place.

  Chongas inherently reject white culture and the white gaze. Chongas learn to not let people tell them who they are. Chongas demand that they are seen as they are.

  And if anyone doubts us, if anyone thinks they can make us feel inferior for having accents, we will show them otherwise. We know how to tear them up, piece by piece, with our quick words and sharp responses. We had to learn to have sharp edges; we have been chiseled into a weapon of self-defense.

  As a chonga, I realized quickly that I was seen as deviant and dangerous. I remember being asked by a cashier in a casual exchange at Whole Foods (a mecca of whiteness) if I had ever shot anyone. I understood that my Brownness was scripted as dangerous.

  Chongas adorn themselves in their chosen armor. We dress like goddesses. We see our femininity as a tool for our survival, as femininity was used by our mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers. And in this land of the free, we intend on using those tools to maneuver spaces that seem uninviting to us.

  When I wing my eyeliner, outline my lips, put on my miniskirt and crop top, I am adorning myself with my war paint and armor. Because to you, I am not human. But it’s okay, because to me and to those who understand: I am a goddess.

  Chongas oscillate between Spanish and English with an ease that can only be described as brilliant. We are primarily immigrants, and success here usually means assimilating into a white upper-middle-class embodiment and comportment, and accents in those spaces are viewed as a nuisance. When we ignore the insistent requests to get rid of any signs of our migration, we are pushed aside. But you see, this entire side of the world belonged to our ancestors before yours even arrived, so although we can speak your forced languages, we will speak them however we please. You’re on stolen land anyway.

  We may accent it, spit it out, speak it quickly, and speak it loudly—it is our resistance to your uninvited presence and your extended stay.

  Chongas are everywhere. When a chonga is around, you know it; we will make ourselves known. We are hyper-visible so you will remember our names, what we wore, what we said, and how we said it. And in a land that tries to ignore our existence and push us into living as the least of these, our visibility is power. Because you cannot erase what you have no control over, and you cannot control those who have never bowed down to your notions of a hegemonic America.

  We are loud, we are proud, and we do not back down.

  Ask anyone who has gone up against a chonga about their experience, and they will teach you to see us as we are: divinas. And to any chongas who may be in a highly inaccessible space: you matter, and you do not have to shed your toughness to exist in any space. Spaces are only elevated by your existence.

  Re-embracing a subculture I knew to be deviant within normative society meant that I put myself at risk. I am always looking out for myself. I park near lights when I go shopping, I park close to entrances at all costs, I look behind me often to ensure I am not being followed, I never have headphones on in public so I can stay aware, I always have my keys in my hand when returning to my car, I smile at service workers to create allies as often as possible, I wear Vanderbilt gear or dress up when seeing doctors, dentists, and anybody who can harm me because they do not like my Brown body in their white space.

  I do not smile at white people. I do not let them think I am welcoming to anything, well-intentioned or otherwise. Too often, my humanity is a matter they believe is up to their judgment, and I have learned to not get affirmed by them. I affirm myself.

  I do not try to make new friends with white people; I have all the white people I need. Instead, I am constantly on the lookout for people who are like me, people who know what it is like to live a life of moderation for our own safety. Also, a group of us together is stronger than one of us alone, so those are the people I rely on to disrupt white spaces.

  And if you have never thought about those things when you’re in public, then you feel safe in your context and that is a wonderful gift that I envy. We are not the same. I have learned to survive whiteness, and living without all the weight of seeking their
approval.

  CHAPTER 6

  TOXIC MASCULINITY

  Before jumping into this chapter, I want to acknowledge that toxic masculinity affects women’s lives every single day. Yes, I understand that men also are affected by the toxicity of their masculinity, but this chapter is not about centering how men feel and how men heal from it. This chapter is specifically about father and sibling abuse, but it also goes beyond that. Because, at the end of the day, we are all affected by toxic masculinity, even when the behavior you are seeing does not seem explicitly toxic.

  This chapter intends to give you language for what you have already seen to be true. I have chosen to heal from male toxicity, and my methods may be helpful to you. But my healing isn’t tidy; it’s not neatly wrapped up with a cute bow.

  I start this chapter addressing the monster under my bed: toxic masculinity.

  You take up space. You take up so much space that people are left without room to breathe. You, mi papi.

  Mi mami lost herself in this energy, and as a kid I saw her struggling to find herself. I saw her struggling to figure out how this happened to her, struggling to blame herself because you always blame her. I saw her struggling to protect you when your daughters began to see through the charade.

  You hurt others around you. You care about your looks entirely too much. You wear all the right clothes, all the right jewelry, hair always done, shoes always polished. You make people feel lucky to be around you, to be associated with you. But it is all an illusion; inside you hold darkness and anger, covered up by pristine, ironed clothing and nice watches. You create the illusion to distract people from what is within you. You are a master of disguise.