Blazing forever

The child

It was a hot Sunday in Brazil when the blood cascaded from a tiny cut on my left arm like a volcano erupting bright red lava. It was the result of an unsuccessful attempt to shave the gross body hair off my skin. I could not control the little moan that escaped from my mouth and echoed all over the ordinary – but at the same time suffocating – bathroom at the end of the hallway. “Querida, what happened?” my mother yelled, knocking on the door. The words invaded my mind while I thought of a quick answer, but how could I admit to the person who taught me the meaning of being a woman that I could not even handle a razor correctly? “Don’t worry mama”.

Nobody ever told me I needed to shave my arms, not even the stunning woman I called mother. I can’t even explain where this insecurity arose from. I guess it was always there, as a gene that may or may not act in an individual based on his interactions with the environment. And, in a country where the beauty standards are nothing less than perfection, this gene surely would be active. 

In this ecosystem called society, I used to feel like a prey, being attacked with the unstoppable stares around my body, that seemed to analyze even the veins below my skin. However, the feeling of always being the last was the most painful. Never the pretty one, but the funny one, the cute one. What was wrong with me?

Standing in front of the mirror became my obsession. But, like any obsession, it was harmful. With each stare, I started to hate myself more and more and pray even harder to, one day, be the chosen one. I searched for the defects as Sherlock Holmes investigated Moriarty, and I finally found them. I was dirty, as if the tiny brunette lines in my arms could gather and choke my neck, as if the razor could end all the pain of feeling grotesque.

But I was merely a girl.

The teenager

In the heart of a tiny living room, where my mother used to knit, there was a television. I loved the idea of traveling around the world using that magical – but at the same time incredibly small - device. From films to TV programs, I met some of my most confident friends, those whom I just needed to press a button to meet again. However, I always felt that, in Hollywood, I was not welcome. 

That woman like me, in the movies. with tanned skin and curls – even though it just appeared when she was messy – was always beautiful and sexy, but also stupid and fragile. I used to feel even embarrassed watching the exaggerated accent and the extremely vulgar clothes.

But, at some point during high school, I eventually understood the real meaning of the scenes crossing my eyes: Latin women were never expected to be brave and intelligent. Instead, they were the idealized girlfriend of the protagonist, always on the side, always in the dark. And, what surprised me the most, they were happy with this position, because how could they even reach something better than a good marriage? It was like their path was already mapped out, not by them, but by society.

“What about boyfriends?”, I always heard in family gatherings. It was never about the projects or achievements, but about the only thing they thought I was capable of: being beautiful enough to attract a man. “Still searching for the right one” was always the answer, because it was more logical for them that a fifteen-year-old girl was single because had not found a boyfriend yet than the fact that not all women want to be like their grandmothers.

Yet, I never felt pretty enough to be the woman they wanted me to be, and the contrast between my hair and my skin was not as admirable as the actresses I saw on TV. So, what was left for me?

The woman

I did not want to be just a heap of loveliness outlined by the beautiful – and wanted – feminine curves, I desired to be different, to be strong. But leading as a woman will never be that easy, especially in a male-dominated society. The different treatments in the working space were in the looks, in the invitations, in the responsibilities, and, mainly, in the intimacy, strangely stronger with the women. But, with me, they were never obvious and direct, till that day.

I can remember even the minimal details, I guess I will never forget. It was the end of the shift, nearly everyone had already gone home, and I was putting the last documents in the office’s deposit. It was a small room that the security cameras barely reached. I heard some strong footsteps in the hallway, but I ignored it. Seconds later, the steps were near me, and I felt someone touching my hips. “You look like a porn star”, I recall him saying. For him, I was just a toy.

When everything happened, while the tears dropped from my eyes, I started to wonder if I really deserved the position I was occupying. Was my career about my capacity to work or my capacity to be deceived?

I used to think that it was not difficult to resist, to scream, to escape, but it was. I could not even move. I felt as powerless as those women I saw in the movies. Maybe they were right, maybe I would never be capable of being the protagonist of my own story. Maybe the first thing people will ever think when I tell them that I am from Brazil is how I look naked. Maybe I would be forever seen as nothing more than a dumb, but hot, Latina.

The new woman

The process hurt, but I finally realized being a woman in Latin America is synonymous with being strong, strong enough to carry the burden of feeling dirty because the media hates the body hair in your arms and the curls in your head. More than that, it means questioning your own capacity every moment, because the simple fact of being successful is challenging what society expects you to do. However, being a woman in Latin America is also synonymous with carrying the history of a race that fought to have the liberty to express themselves. It is ancient beauty, strength that turns into passion.

The tan in my skin remains covered by some tiny brunette lines, even though I do not hate them anymore. Now, they are associated with the story of those who came before me. Denying my origins is to deny the love that brought me to the world, a deep emotion that was not raised from following standards, but from being unique.

The curly hair that made me look messy a lot of times now is cut in the same voluminous hairstyle my mother used to have. From her – although it took a while - I learned something important: always open the door for those who want to help and love you. I guess this journey would have been easier if I had opened the door of that bathroom.

Resilience may break your heart. But, as the Phoenix, that blazes forever, you need to rise from the ashes, and bright, bright for your culture and your race. And, when everything feels meaningless, the little scar on my left arm reminds me how powerful I can be. That is the story I am writing, that is who I am.

“The Latina in me is an ember that blazes forever.” – Sonia Sotomayor