![]() ![]() Not the open-aired rooms of the houses of the ranchos and wild cactus from which we’d been both freed and captured in the Gringolandia my grandparents tried to mash themselves into like wet masa into dried corn husks. They pronounced their name with straightlaced A’s, as if from the South and not El Sur: Casas, like lasses, like molasses, like a girl stuck. My Mexican mother grew up trying to fit into her white, suburban neighborhood in Southern California. But my parents couldn’t afford throwing me one, or the coming-of-age ceremony wasn’t important enough for them to save up for it. I wanted a quinceañera almost more than anything. ![]() This life story was originally published on Salon on March 30, 2019. ![]()
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