Another challenge to the Single Story: La Latina Grosera
Impatient and no longer entertained by the construction of playground turf buildings, I felt the need to do something. No, to perform. “Party Rock Anthem”, THE song of 2012, felt like the natural selection. My audience? A small crowd was outside the gym bathrooms. The concert went smoothly, only experiencing a brief halt as I consciously changed the lyric to “I’m Lexy and I know it” (a shout-out to my classmate Lexi). Playground talk had taught me “sexy” was a bad word. I was being asked to pull my precious clip from purple to green.
I had been told on, and worst, my teacher thought I said a bad word.
When I was a kid, my grandparents, family friends, and my dad would berate my mom for being grosera. Her colorful curses were expelled out of delight and anger–over the phone, at home, and in public as creative mutters. When we became too curious for our own good, I was asked to teach everyone at the lunch table how to swear in Spanish. Arising first out of fear of yet another punishment or being described as grosera, I made myself the haughty promise to swear off swearing. I am reminded even today when, freshman year, I asked not to say “ass” during read-aloud. Clinging onto the words of those older, presumably wiser, and very different from me, I fought anxiously against the confining image of my single story: the vulgar Latina. La Latina Grosera.
Peru, 2023:
On the other side of the taxi, a child’s drawing comes to life. Chalky neons yell their saludos from atop adobe bricks, morphing together to distinguish neighborhoods. Drivers on dirt roads acknowledge each other’s impatience to reach a destination; cars gracefully graze each other; stop lights and signs are mere suggestions. I finally got to the house I was shown around on WhatsApp. People I don’t remember meeting in person before, people who had nestled me in their laps in the 8 months before my parents struck the Visa lottery, lovingly take me in and shorten my name to my two favorite syllables: A-le.
Peruvians have the remarkable ability to manipulate language. Their best is displayed in classic Peruvian slang. A friend can be an avocado, a dog’s paw; Roast is what we eat on Sunday evenings, but also what your mom may be when she finds out you haven’t washed the dishes. Even better than their inventive maneuvering of the Spanish language, however, is the ease with which curses cascade, like a steady stream down and over our jutted lips.
The four days spent at thousands of feet in the Andes elevation felt sacred. And loud. Each day, sandwiched by prayer and expressions of gratitude, was filled with non-stop festivity: dancing, eating, fireworks, and lots of swearing. Away from cosmetic claims of tolerance and acceptance in my white community, I learned the beauty of complexity. Similar to how a tuba march can sound comical when isolated by our band director but brassy and beautiful when heard underneath the melody, or how Jess from Gilmore Girls can be both the biggest jerk and the sweetest softie, a bad touch at soccer practice an unanticipated assist, my mom’s Causa de Pollo spicy yet refreshing, it is beautiful to be perplexing. I find swear words to be similarly complex, a tool used to enthusiastically encourage, a weapon to tear someone down. While swearing may never come naturally to me, I no longer see it as solely ugly. In a way, it’s a part of who I am.
Discovering more about myself with respect to who and where I come from, it’s become increasingly difficult to assign myself a particular identity. And even more difficult to allow others to do the same.
