As perfectly curated decorations hung in the basement of my grandmother’s house, my entire family anticipated the gender of the next grandchild. Anticipation grew as more and more people began to realize it had been approximately twelve years since a new addition had been born on our side of the family.
It would be my first cousin on my mother’s side. How could I not be excited?
But the difference between my family and I was that I couldn’t have cared less about the gender of my new baby cousin. In fact, it was the least of my worries. Yet the room buzzed with speculation as everyone waited.
Then the balloons pooped and confetti spilled everywhere. Baby pink quickly filled the basement with color. What followed were looks of disappointment. And if I recall correctly, multiple statements of “good luck.”
From both men and women.
To recognize the strength of the women in my family took a lot of reflection, especially when I realized how society standards had warped my own thinking. At one point, I too believed that I was somehow less because I was a woman.
And as hispanic women specifically, that realization carries another layer. Society often comes with the hyper sexualization of us from a young age. It shows up in the warnings we hear growing up, the limitations placed on what we wear, and the constant reminders of “por que uno nunca sabe.” Because you never know.
The frustration of being a woman does not come from insecurity, or from the occasional moment of feeling unattractive. It comes from the realization that society often moves through the world with quiet resentment towards women.
Even women themselves sometimes carry those beliefs.
Just look at my own family. Every single one of us was brought into this world by a woman, yet the idea of welcoming another girl into the family was met with disappointment.
The women in my culture provide for their families in ways that extend far beyond income. They take care of everyone in the household. They make sure the bills are paid. They remember doctor’s appointments. They hold the entire structure of the family together.
But to be appreciated for that work is rare. Even now, as my family has begun to move away from some traditional expectations, the difference is still visible. I am the only person in my family, coming from a long line of men, to attend college, to work, pay my own bills and juggle responsibilities every day.
But my male cousins? They will receive endless praise in the family group chat for learning how to wash a single dish. “Mira a mi rey,” the messages will say. Look at my king.
This frustration is not something I try to lead my life with, because in reality there is not much to gain from carrying that kind of resentment. But what I have realized is that I can acknowledge the mistreatment of women when I see it. I can recognize the silent pressures that women carry and the expectations placed upon them from such a young age.
And more importantly, I can recognize the strength that comes from enduring it. And perhaps the pink confetti that filled my grandmother’s basement that day meant something entirely different than what everyone thought.
While others saw it as a warning, I now see it as something else entirely, the beginning of another girl who will grow into the same quiet strength I have seen in women before her.
Now, as I have held my baby cousin Leanna in my arms, I thought about that moment. About the disappointment that had once filled the room where the pink balloons burst. I think to myself, that she too will be great. Not because the world will make it easy for her.
But because she comes from a long line of women who have never needed the world’s permission to be strong.