Growing Up Latina in the 90s: Curly Hair, Culture Shock & Finding My Voice
We’re keeping with the previous post - Mixtapes, Delusions, & Death By Cooter Consumption.
Basking in the red-light special, Clearasil covered hellscape were your middle school bleeds right into high school years.
The era where your social status depended on whether or not you own a pair of Steve Madden platform slides.
Your budding nips popping out like two uninvited guests at a sleepover. And at the first sight of those tight pinky mounds, your mind wanders as to what your future breast will look like—high, tight, fuck-worthy??
However, reality sets in real fuckin’ quick when you have your first child at sixteen-years-old and never experienced having magical perky tits.
Tragic, really.
You were emotionally Feral.
A constant rotating cast of characters built from stolen Delia’s catalogs. To which I only dreamed about purchasing clothes from. My parents weren’t Delia’s-income-worthy.
We stayed shopping with the blue light K-mart and Bradlee Specials.
The fact that CHAMPION is a THING now?!?!
Back in the day it was embarrassing to wear Champion. The bottom of the barrel K-mart knock-off NIKE apparel.
The glow-up is on point, Champion. Kudos.
The social currency of middle school? A pair of black Steve Madden platform slides. And yes — they’re back.
Sexually confused… Still are?
You can’t imagine your life without the over-sprayed musky scent of Drakkar entering the room before your crush. Or the thought of never experiencing the feeling of an unsheathed penis sliding into your pleasure box ever again is unimaginable.
Yet, you have questionable obsession with lesbian porn??
Welcome to girlhood in the nineties: over-grown bushes, thin eyebrows, and plenty of middle-school dance drama.
This was the time when you were secretly sneaking into AOL chat rooms named things like "H0rNy_TeeNz_xx", pretending to be of age while wrapped in your brand new, and way cooler N’Sync comforter.
Sipping a quarter drink, and having absolutely no idea what BBC stood for—but typing things like “haha u 2 :)” anyway. Constantly checking over your shoulder, hoping your little brother wouldn’t catch you and narc.
Clarissa Explains It All was a weekly obsession and Dawson’s Creek recaps were discussed Wednesday mornings after a new episode aired the night before.
Your hair? Crunchier than a stale Dorito.
Your eyebrows were thinner than the tip of your No.2 pencil.
And your main coping mechanism was writing your crush’s last name next to your first, with scribbled hearts and “I love you” all over your notebooks – hoping that Jonathan Taylor Thomas look-alike mother fucker will be yours one day soon, despite never speaking actual words to him.
Fingers crossed.
Embrace curly hair after years of straightening
I remember feeling as if I was an anomaly, being the only naturally tanned skinned friend amongst the sea of different shades of caucasians.
I hated that I had a different shade of skin. That the palms of my hands were lighter than the opposite sides.
All I wanted to do was fit in with everyone else.
The fact that I have natural spiral curls drove me insane– I am learning to embrace them now– however, I prayed to God daily to keep my hair straight after every wash. I would give anything to be able to air dry my hair the way my friends did- without a brush and it coming out looking like perfection.
Unfortunately my hair would resemble the offspring of a chia pet and troll doll in heat if I attempted that.
Ghastly.
Straight hair to me meant safety. It meant blending in, disappearing.
It meant maybe – just maybe– I wouldn’t be seen as too much.
Too brown. Too loud. Too… whatever made them stare.
But now? Now I look back at that girl – the one with the RAVE- slicked ponytail, praying for God to make her “look like everyone else” – I want to grab her chubby cheeks, look her dead in the eyes and say:
You frizzy haired mess, you weren’t born to blend in. You were born to burn wild and stand out.
The curls weren’t a curse. They are a crown.
Your tan wasn’t something to hide – it was proof you came from a light so bright it enhanced your beautifully toned skin.
Your home didn’t smell “weird”. It smelled like FLAVOR!
Like culture.
Like abuela was about to bless your soul through a pot of simmering chicken soup and the most delicious london broil you will ever taste.
When I was younger I was a serious picky eater, and I remember my mom reluctantly allowing me to go to one of my friends for dinner.
Let’s all remember I’m a sheltered, shy Puerto Rican girl now living in the epitome of WHITE SUBURBIA.
Our dinners at home included rice with every meal: white rice, arroz con gandules, arroz con habichuelas, arroz con pollo… the list goes on.
So please make no fucking judgements on my naiveté to what was placed before me: a brown logged-shaped meat smeared in a red sauce which I later found out was ketchup.
Not what I was expecting. I don’t know what the fuck I was expecting, but it sure as shit wasn’t that.
That was also the first night I tried the Knorr Sides dishes- Buttered Noodles. Those processed, bioengineered fuckers became a staple in our home from there on out – and throughout my children’s lives as well.
Culture shock isn’t the word I can use to describe the feeling I had when moving from NYC to a small town on the Jersey shore.
It was something different daily. And although I had friends and I wasn’t outcasted by kids, I always felt different.
At one point, in the vestibule of a good ol’ Friendly’s restaurant, I remember waiting for a ride with a group of friends. One of the girls turned to me and asked, “What are you?”
The confusion regarding her question must’ve been evident on my face, because with a quick follow-up she added, “Like, you know, are you black or something??”
I was taken aback. Not because she thought I was African American. But because the color of my skin tone didn’t match the norm of what was clearly the majority of the population in the town. And for her to naively associate my race as a color felt pretty fucking insulting.
Puerto Ricans are a mix of all different skin shades– and we wear them proudly and fervently.
It made me think, how dare this bitch?? But again–I never used my voice. And granted we were all naive pubescent teens at one point or another, however a bit of culture would’ve done well with some of the people I grew up with.
I politely told her, “no I’m Puerto Rican.” Not exactly sure how it was missed –
Mom blaring Suavemente on Saturday mornings – which I now recognize as hyper-aware Sativa induced deep-cleaning sessions.
Or the very real Puerto Rican decor with our country’s flag displayed loud and proud in red, white, and blue. How about the deliciously seasoned and flavorful scents that wafted from the kitchen??
Literally making its way outdoors and into the streets.
Needless to say, as I grew I truly felt as if I needed to conform to what the other girls looked like and how they acted. They all had pin straight hair – my cousin therefore had me lay down on the floor and use a very real clothing iron to straighten the already dehydrated tresses into an uneven broken-end… but STRAIGHT – hair glory.
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We were all little warriors with lip gloss and plenty of secrets.
And the truth is? We still are.
So now I write for her.
For the girl who didn’t dare speak the words she thought.
Who thought her culture had to be softened, straightened, and silenced to be accepted.
Now I write with no fucking apologies.
I write loud.
I write brown.
I write curly-haired, sass-dripping, emotionally evolved Latina rage and joy and love all over these damn pages.
If that makes anyone uncomfortable??
Good.
Maybe your discomfort is the reflection of a truth you’ve been avoiding.
Maybe it’s time you sat with it.
Because I’m done softening myself for the comfort of others.
Done straightening my voice to fit into spaces that were never meant for me.
Done hiding the stories that shaped me just because they don’t fit into someone else’s version of “normal.”
THIS IS MINE. ALL OF IT.
And if you’re reading this and nodding along. If your curls have been scorched, your skin questioned, your flavor called “too much”... then this is yours too.
Own it. Write it. Wear it.
"Mi gente, mi cultura, mi orgullo.” ←– **There is not an ounce of me that knew this.
“My people, my culture, my pride.”
Google may have assisted, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
Until next time…
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Care instructions: Hand wash only
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