It’s technically still Hispanic/Latine Heritage month right? Though for those of us who identify as Latine, we don’t cease the celebration and experience of being in our very own bodies once the clock strikes midnight on October 16. No, we live in the fullness of what it means to be Latine everyday. For the Latina born in the U.S. out of migrant parents from vibrant homelands, we sure as hell don’t stop being Latina, hija, amiga, hermana, mujer and the many other labels placed on us. Some labels are adorned on us like a majestic crown and others, pinned forcefully in attempts to constrain our personhood, our revolutionary thoughts, and swayed movement as we dance to the beat of our own drum. Nevertheless, we move forward relentlessly in our celebration and heartache. Mujeres y gente luchona from a long lineage of intergenerational and ancestral power that keeps us going.
Our roots are our power and our inheritance, sacred stories of resiliency passed down from our mothers and fathers, and those who went before them.
This week, I was able to watch DC’s 2023 comic film release, Blue Beetle. It was the first time I had seen a U.S. superhero movie feature a full Latine main cast, the Reyes familia. Without spoiling much for you (actually, there will be spoiling sorry!), you can imagine how much this film shared a tender spot for Latines in representation. We could see our sisters, abuelas, and fathers on screen, and most of all, we could feel a connection to the struggles the Reyes family faced in light of racism, classism, gentrification, and immigration issues within the DC universe. Along with these systemic barriers, I unexpectedly found myself relating to a complex emotion the film depicted: a sustained grief.
In the film, we see the Reyes family endure a sudden and major loss of a loved one while fighting during a battle scene. Following this death, the family is in ruins. At this point Nana, the abuela matriarch, gathers everyone together not to grieve, but to survive. She urges them to move forward with a rescue plan for their son, Jaime Reyes. Though the family was left distraught without resources, a home, and now family member, per Nana’s words, this was not the time to cry but to be “strong” and persevere. The Reyes family had to resolve a villainous plot in the DC storyline that was pressing before their emotional needs.
Sound familiar?
This collective survival mechanism is not too far from our own realities as Latine people in the U.S..
Though our obstacles may not be found in a DC storyline, they are present in a U.S. landscape rooted in dehumanizing systems preventing our families the time and space for healing, especially in life and loss.
How our families confront pain, can be a result of whether or not we have privilege and access to resources, spaces, and finances fostering our wellness in this country. And when there are no spaces carved out for our wellbeing, we find ourselves disconnected to our bodies and unable to be present with our losses. In other words, some of us endure a sustained grief, because we have to. We compartmentalize because capitalism and life does not stop, demanding our attention and labor despite whatever state we are in. We work harder, we hold out to survive brutal realities in high cost of living, inflation, and a difficult economy. On top of this, our families navigate a difficult U.S. terrain filled with harsh individualism telling us we are at fault of our failures for not pulling these bootstraps higher. With ganas and grit, we keep moving in these conditions, with our grief behind us.
photo credit: DC/Warner Bros.
By the end of the film, we see the Reyes family reunite with Jaime in a group hug. Here in this scene, Nana in all her tender glory spoke four words that shook me.
“Ahora sí podemos llorar”
Nana, Blue Beetle (2023)
Words I know too well and have told myself many times, “ahora sí puedo llorar”. I almost cried in this scene as if this was my moment of relief with the Reyes family as well. It was an impactful thing to see a Latine family give themselves permission to cry and grieve after enduring dehumanization in many levels throughout the film. This is why I loved this scene so much, because the film demonstrated us taking back our power through our self permission to be. Here, I saw us humanize ourselves and preserve our tenderness in the process of surviving, and what extraordinary miracle this is. Four simple words, with so much weight, autonomy, and meaning for the tired and exhausted heart. “Ahora sí puedes llorar,” an invitation to be our full and authentic selves in a safe space among our kin.
As Latine people, our badge of honor is not found in holding out pain, but in our humanity.
The horrors of this life and U.S. systems may try to make super-humans out of us, but enduring them is not what makes us powerful. What makes us heroes is our humanity. What grants us superpowers are the stories of our ancestors and how they preserved themselves in the process of surviving. These sacred stories give witness for us to be our authentic selves, for if they fought and cried, so can we. If they danced and sang, so will we. This ancestral resiliency is our heirloom. This self preservation and humanity we pass on throughout generations are the superpowers that will keep us going.