Sandra Cisneros, Pixar's Coco, and Latinx representation
Let’s talk about representation, but first, navigation. As in, I have only ever navigated and existed in this world as a women of color (WoC), more specifically, as a Latina. And everything within this identity that I have come to view as a blessing was once its own set of wounds, inherited or otherwise. When I say “inherited wounds”, I mean that women of color either know or come to know that this world was not built for us to thrive in (see racism, sexism, and all of it’s intersections) . And this knowledge is passed down or born into us. It is inherited. And then becomes a truth you cannot separate us from. You cannot separate me from my struggle without erasing a vital part of who I am. But that is understood by those I allow into my life. Now, if you do not know me too well, then here are the basics:
I am a Latina WoC. I am an artist. I have big dreams. Many goals. No blueprint. And very little representation in the fields I wish to break into. All of these smaller truths have molded my bigger, more personal one which is that -
I have had to carve out and fight for the space I occupy. I have had to dig deep and coach my now booming voice out of its body. I have had to seek out my own mentors, role-models, and inspirations who looked like me and navigated the world in a similar way. And mostly, I have grown up impatient and starving for representation.
One way I actively heal and seek out representation is by consciously consuming and surrounding myself with art, films, media, literature, podcasts, and all content produced by women, PoC, and mostly Latinxs. This month it has looked like this:
I’m not sure why Sandra Cisneros didn’t come into my life sooner being that she is one of the most prominent Latinx writers of our time, but I’m glad I was able to sit down with her words. There is an indescribably comforting feeling that comes with knowing that someone who shares the same name as your mother, has a father with a voice like yours, shares part of your history, can love in the same two languages you can, can easily pass for one of your tia’s, and dreams the way you do, has already accomplished so much. And it’s not that you ever need permission to be great, but reading her books felt like a silent permission.
These books provided a mirror and a temporary home for me. An excerpt from A House of My Own illustrates why perfectly. Cisneros writes, "We find ourselves at home, or homing, in books that allow us to become more ourselves. Home 'is not just the place where you were born,' as the traveler Pico Iyer once noted. 'It's the place where you become yourself.'"
part 2 in this month’s healing looked like this:
Before going to see Pixar’s newest box-office hit “Coco”, I was warned not to wear my signature winged eye-liner to the theater. Two on-screen duets and several wet tissues later, I was glad I had adhered to that advice.
If after my previous spiel about representation and navigating the world as a Latina/WoC you are still wondering what warranted such a teary-eyed response (besides the fact that Pixar endlessly loves to pluck at the heart strings of their audience) I want you to picture this:
A young Latina woman with the goal of one day becoming a successful actress goes to the cinema and for the first time in her twenty-two years of living is watching an animated film in which the characters look like her uncles, and cousins, and aunts. For the first time she can point to the screen and say, “that is me”, “that is us”. And in this way, watching “Coco” felt like coming home; like walking into a room full of the people I love and belong to, but who are rarely ever celebrated - especially in such a public way.
I went to see this movie with my boyfriend and nine-year-old sister. Being able to take her to see this film was another victory in itself (on par with being able to take her to see Wonder Woman). I had to wait twenty-two years to see this kind of representation in film; one that is both authentic and empowering. But my sister is still in the midst of her childhood; still being molded and shaped into the person she will become later in life, and I hope that holding these mirrors up to her this early on in her development will prevent her from inheriting the wounds I have had to fight daily to heal myself from.
And so, in the midst of all the tears, the melancholic sounds of guitar strings strong enough to conjure my grandfather’s face, and holding the hands of my younger sister- a silent way of saying, “can you believe it, Sofie? He (the protagonist) has our last name?” a part of my younger, more broken self was healed and for that I am endlessly grateful.