The National Puerto Rican Day parade was on Sunday. I didn’t get to go this year because of another commitment I had made awhile ago, but I was there in spirit. I checked up on it through hashtags on Facebook, Twitter and a few minutes on TV before heading out the door with my son. As I’m writing this, I’m blasting my salsa music on Pandora radio; mainly Puerto Rican/Nuyorican artists, like Willie Colón , Frankie Ruiz, Eddie Santiago, Hector Lavoe, the Fania all stars, Tito Puente, but of course some Cuban and Colombian artists como Celia Cruz y Joe Arroyo and it makes for good fuel for me to write about my brush with past parades.
The first Puerto Rican Day parade I attended was in ‘93 and I had just turned sixteen. I went by myself which wasn't uncommon, the way I often went to the movies alone (masturdating before it became a word). My hair was worn back and up somehow and I probably wore a big pair of shiny, gold hoop earrings and some 90’s style denim like a sleeveless button shirt or denim skirt.
I remember us the spectators more than the actual floats. But I do recall a performance artist in the parade marching or staggering in a “drunken stupor”, bottle in one hand, life-sized street light (prop) in the other, clothes disheveled, tilted fedora. A display I thought was so clever and disrespectful at the same time. More towards the Upper East Side a little white girl in a limo popped out from the sunroof, inspecting her surroundings.
“Boooooo! Spoiled brat!” some teenage boys yelled out to her. I was embarrassed at how they so blatantly attacked a little girl’s lot, so obviously and painfully jealous they had to have been.
“Boooooo! Spoiled brat!” some teenage boys yelled out to her. I was embarrassed at how they so blatantly attacked a little girl’s lot, so obviously and painfully jealous they had to have been.
I also remember seeing so many beautiful people, happy to be there. One young woman in particular looked to me like a glamorous fashionista but simplified, à la Audrey Hepburn. A stylish bob, maybe bangs, clean, fresh looking makeup. I remember her laughing, so full of joy and it looked so carefree. I remember thinking how gorgeous she was and that wow, she’s Puerto Rican like me, that we share some kind of history, some kind of culture, which in turn just made me feel better about myself.
As a pre-teen I saw my dark hair and olive skin as drab. My boring, brown eyes? Dull. Eric, the boy of Ukraine background who I had a crush on, had captivating eyes that switched from blue to green depending on his mood, his shirts, and the lighting. Most of my friends from school shared the same kind of sparkling sea blue/green eyes, strawberry blonde highlights in their soft hair, their fair skin, coupled with the relative ease in which they carried themselves. They were well understood by their elders, didn’t struggle with a second language when communicating with family from what I could gather. I could be completely off on this assessment though.
Michelle, my close childhood friend of Irish, Polish, and German descent, wrote to me one summer while I was in the Dominican Republic. She wrote that her mom showed her where DR was on the map and that she colored it blue. This made me feel very special and “visible”, if you can understand my meaning here. I found my friends’ European background diversity so interesting- Greek, Russian-Jewish, Italian, Irish, German, Polish, Ukraine… why didn’t I feel the same way about my own home countries of PR and DR? Sociologists and activists can probably explain it more accurately, throwing theories of imperialism, and white supremacy in the mix and I wouldn’t argue that but I think there’s also a gender driven insecurity at work here...I dunno. I’m still exploring this.
For the most part, the white girls at my junior high school seemed to look down on or get weirded out by girls who wore “too much make up” or put “too much” gel in their hair, or who wore bamboo earrings, or the triangle (more like trapezoid) ones which made me think of Egypt. I told Salina, a very friendly, stylish, Colombian-American, how beautiful I thought hers were and she smiled and said, “thanks!”. Those earrings were fabulous but looked too grown up and out of place on me. The same thing with bright, red lipstick. I loved that look but in no way could I decently pull it off. I also thought it was cute when the “Spanish” girls kissed each other hello and it left a little mark on the other girls’ cheeks, and kind of romantic when it was to their boyfriends, like a branding that both parties seemed pleased to exhibit. I kissed my hellos and goodbyes with family but not friends, and I didn’t have a boyfriend yet. Eric teased Salina about it saying, “What’s with all the kissing and lipstick stains? What, are you a lesbian?” Whereas she would laugh and reply, “shut up!” with no apparent hurt feelings, just a laughing kind of, haha yeah whatever, dick!
Since she didn’t seemed to be offended, I didn’t step in and speak out. I let him make fun of Latino customs and implications of being gay. It seems as though any chutzpah I might’ve had growing up as a somewhat spunky little kid greatly dissipated in my ‘tween years. Some of the Chinese girls in our school also had their own style, which were bold, stark, black and white colors and patterns, sharply cut jackets and chunky, purple/blue/red streaks to complement their silky black hair. So sophisticated and cool as they listened to their Depeche Mode... but I never came to their defense when the white girls would tease them behind their backs. In my head I was all like, “and you guys think you’re so much better? With your corny pastels, lanyards (but I had lanyards too and loved them, who are we kidding), teased hair, crispy bangs, and acid wash jeans? I don’t think so!” How I wish I were able to get those thoughts from the inside to the out but again, I didn’t speak up.
At around 14, my eyes started to take on the almond shape of my mother’s, which had a more bewitching appeal. Around that time too, I started appreciating the more “Latina” kind of beauty, even though in reality, Latina encompasses pretty much every skin tone, complexion, hair texture, eye color, etc. I guess I mean more my own olive skin, dark hair kind of beauty. And it’s “funny” because I often pass for white, so even little white passing ol’ me wasn’t immune from white beauty standards and felt insecure about anything “less than” that. But diversity seemed to become more popular and represented in the media as we grew into our adolescence.
The next time I went to the parade was either in ‘94 or ‘95, this time with two friends I met in church who both lived in the Chelsea projects (Chelsea-Elliott houses). We had so much fun and kept yelling back, “Hooooo!” to anyone who sang out, “A-Puerto Rico!” over and over again. An aunt on my Dominican side found my budding Nuyorican pride annoying. “Ay, porque Tennille is like, very proud of being Puerto Rican!”, she once explained to someone, saying the word “proud” as if it were a defect of some kind. I would never refer to it as a defect myself, but I can see how my pride can be perceived as a little ‘off’, or something curious. For starters, I’ve never been to PR, and if I did, it was only due to airplane delays en route to DR, my Spanish ain’t exactly what you’d call on point (it is my second language but if I were to do this blog in Spanish for example, it would take me a lot longer to complete!), and whenever I answered someone’s question concerning my ethnic background, I would get surprised looks and responses like, “you don’t look it!”. I probably still do and will continue to. That’s fine though. People are entitled to their opinions and impressions. It still doesn’t define me nor my identity. Not anymore.
Two more scenarios pop up as I’m writing here. In Santiago, DR on my grandmother’s front porch (not an elevated porch, just the area in front of the house where rocking chairs rest. Patio?), we were dancing to the radio one night for fun, being silly. She laughed and said that I move my hips like a Puerto Rican when doing the merengue. Xiomara, my Dominican mother-in-law (I’m not married, but she’s practically my mother-in-law at this point) says that I add milk to my coffee like a Puerto Rican. I didn’t know that was something exclusive to Boricuas pero, okayyy!
In ‘97 or ‘98, I went to the parade with my Titi Janis and her girlfriend at the time, who was documenting the event with her video camera. On my way to meet up with them, I remember some guys trying to touch a girl and she was not having it. The incident came and went, we all moved along the metal barriers and kept walking. It was nothing like the misogynist, violating incidents of harassments in 2000 that I read about and saw on the news. I haven’t gone to the parade since. But that’s more an unintentional doing than something deliberate on my part. Something else always seems to come up on the same day, like it did this year. And I actually think I did go again in ‘04. Either way, my sister and I plan to go next year. We’re not letting the fear of getting harassed take over our enjoyment and pride. There are so many other reasons why we want make it out there, and to the Dominican one as well in August. Beauty, appreciation, pride, family, a sense of a common history, representation. Being at the parade really helped bring out a lot of those things to light for me, and it is something that no one can take away.
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As I was writing and rewriting this entry this week, the NY Daily News decided it would be a good idea to represent the parade in this way.
These women were NOT:
- in the parade
- photographed the same day of the parade
- Puerto Rican
So basically, they have blatantly lied. There was a protest today concerning this, something again, I tried to make but couldn’t because of various commitments. So I do the next best thing/s. Checking updates, sharing relevant articles and links, and phoning the Daily News to let them know how much they messed up on this. Here is some more info and insight on this issue. Peace.
http://www.nprdpinc.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/Letter-to-Daily-News-.pdf
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