The Main Character, Center-Stage

“Do you think we can pull it off?”

I bite into my quesadilla, waiting for Erick to combat my apprehension with his infectious confidence.

“I mean, what’s stopping us? Don’t our stories matter too?”

How does a casual conversation held in the Silliman buttery about Latine representation in theater turn into a passion project that would become both my heaven and hell in the Fall semester? In The Heights, a musical that pays homage to Latine resilience and community, tells a story that feels like a piece of home.

Santa Ana, California. She raised me in her warm embrace, offering me consejos when I needed them most. She was the first to congratulate me when I got accepted into Yale University. I hugged her one last time before stepping onto the plane to Connecticut. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.” I smiled. “Don’t ever forget where you come from. People over there may not understand your background or your experiences, but you know who you are. Siempre estoy contigo.”

Back in the Silliman buttery, I finish my quesadilla and smile at Erick.

“Let’s f***ing do this shit.” It’s easy to get hyped over theater. I trace my theater kid roots back to the moment my eighth grade history teacher played the Hamilton soundtrack, for some educational-but-cool ambience. Theater back home was not only fun; it was freeing.

Theater is not a historically welcoming space for Latines. Let’s be real, Yale isn’t a space meant for Latines. If we’re lucky, a show will include a feisty Latine best friend to the white protagonist, or perhaps a maid who serves a well-off family that views her as a commodity. Despite all of its flaws, In the Heights is one of the few mainstream shows that creates an opportunity for us to be the main characters for once. We are not just props for a white storyline; we are the storyline. Self-doubt is hard to shake off, especially when people make it known that you occupy a space that isn’t built for you. This doubt only grew as the proposal of the show was met with condescension. Every comment thrown at us doubting our ability to pull this off served as a reminder of why we were doing this in the first place.

I could say the rehearsal process was fun and easy, but that would be a lie— a boring lie at that. The show was draining, anxiety-inducing, and often, it really fucking sucked. But somehow in the end, it surpassed every expectation that I had. During every performance, I would see tears in the audience, mirroring those that fell from my eyes. It was beautiful. It was intimate. It was perfect. Then, our show was interrupted and shut down. All the doubts came flooding back in. Did we miss something? Could we have done something to prevent this? How the fuck am I powerless over this decision? Dramatic irony has never had such good timing: this had to happen during a show that deals with Latine communities being powerless against a society that works against them.

Finishing the performance a cappella became a beautiful form of resistance. I was reminded of the strength we have in unity.

I don’t know the answer to “what’s next?”. Still, the question inspires me. If we tell our stories, people listen.. Latinidad is nuanced and complex, and it deserves to be explored, center-stage. Theater as a space isn’t perfect, and it never will be. But when the final curtain is called, I just hope I can smile and remember that all I ever need is the ganas.

- MONTSERRAT RODRIGUEZ ’25

“Can You Play Bad Bunny?”

I am willing to admit I have spent dozens too many nights on High St. long after I should have gone home, holding out hope that if I just stay for one more song the music might get better, or people might start dancing. But I’m always waiting just one more song for a night that isn’t coming.

Some white guy I barely recognize just spilled his drink on me and didn’t apologize. Everyone is sort of standing around, maybe pumping their fists. My best friends have gone home, and I’m still at the party with music so bad that it sobers me up. I look around, and it feels like I am the only person in the room. I see a girl hold up her phone with a desperate plea to the frat DJ: “CAN YOU PLAY BAD BUNNY?”

I know how that ends—he says no. Not a big fan of music with words. He waves her away, she leaves. I swallow my pride, jump up and down, and pump my fist, trying to internalize the words “fake it ‘til you make it.” I mean, if everyone else is having such a great time, why can’t I?

Some nights, I can. I can get another drink from the bar tended by pledges. I can flirt with someone who doesn’t know my name. I can promise to get a meal every day of the week ahead. I can shut out the question ringing in my ears: why the f**k am I still here?

Then, I can wake up and tell myself it was worth it to stay out until 2 A.M. for a party I wasn’t even convinced I was having fun at. I’m perfectly capable of doing all these things! In fact, I did it twice a weekend for my entire first year. I’m an expert at it. If you ever see me on High St., you’d never guess how loudly “why the f**k am I still here?” is ringing in my ears.

Most of those nights, I was chasing one specific moment. After hours of EDM, or maybe intermittent anthems like Mr. Brightside or You Belong With Me, it would finally happen. The first few beats of a reggaeton anthem would play, and the entire world fell away.

Paso muchas noches pensándote…

Una noche más, y copas de más…

Se acostó temprano, mañana hay que estudiar…

Tití me preguntó, tengo muchas novias…

Suddenly, the fact that everyone at this party is standing around couldn’t matter less. A few drinks in, it feels like the best moment of my life. And trust, every Latino at this party is now my best friend—we’ve found each other in the center of the room before the lyrics even start. God, wouldn’t life be so much better if every party felt like this?

Yes, it would. Throwing parties has become a life-saving outlet. From suite parties until five in the morning, to finding any reason to turn a Ballet Folklórico event into a God Quad after-party, to the Saybrook 12-Pack, to Sabrosura x BF formal—every party is an art. The preparation, the playlist, the drinks, the invites, the hype, and finally watching a hundred people try to find room to dance bachata in a room that really only fits fifty in the first place.

On February 18th, I looked around at over 200 people screaming the words to Atrévete-Te-Te at a formal I had been working on for weeks and laughed at the idea of explaining this to the Isa who arrived at Yale in Fall 2021 and prayed for nights like this.

Creating Latin party spaces is so much bigger than any single event. It is celebrating Latinidad loudly and unabashedly somewhere that can be as stifling as Yale. It is creating community and love until we are all familiar faces. I have no shame in saying that some of my closest friends were made on the dance floor, or that I’ve embraced people walking into a party I helped organize before I knew their names.

I’ve come to appreciate my less frequent nights on High St., knowing that there is a world beyond where I feel seen and celebrated. I don’t stay on the dance floor until the last song because I’m chasing a feeling that may or may not come, I stay because I want to stand in that joy for as long as I can. (And because I probably have to clean up).

I rest easy at night knowing that in the rest of my time here, I won’t need to beg anybody to play Bad Bunny.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’d rather be on aux.

La Misión

Helen struts the block in her black pantsuit and red-bottom Louboutins, leaving behind traces of her Baccarat Rouge-scented aroma. When she crosses the street, her hands firmly clutch her clutch, and she buries her head deep into her chest as she anticipates walking past the group of compadres standing outside the corner laundromat.

Helen finally arrives at her favorite coffee shop, a recently-established open-air market whose staff consists of the hippie white man and the blonde with arm tattoos. As she orders her vanilla iced latte with 2 pumps of caramel, 1 pump of pumpkin spice, and light ice, she is approached by Pedro, the Mission’s local unhoused man who spends his time collecting empty soda cans and finding refuge on park benches. Helen unbuckles her clutch with her perfectly-manicured nails and reaches for a $5 bill.

Helen leaves the coffee shop, latte in hand, and continues walking. She approaches La Mexicana and opens its doors, the scent of freshly-baked bread engulfing her every sense of being. Staring at the plastic display in confusion, she asks, “What should I get? Which bread tastes the best?” She goes for a vanilla concha.

In her final strut, Helen enters her modern apartment complex, which sits on stolen land that once served as the foundation for family-owned businesses and nourished the development of brown kin. Helen’s realtor neglected to tell her this during the open house, but he didn’t have to— she already knew and signed the lease anyways, cementing her presence within the fabric of my home.

Mornings in the Ayala household are glimpses of heaven on earth. As my mom drops me off at Mama Acha’s house en la madrugada, I click the numbers on the dial box, wait for Mama Acha or Papa Ayo to let me through the gate, and ascend las escaleras in soft pasitos. Right outside the door of Apartment 10, I am greeted with besos y abrazos before I go to my room y me acuesto una vez más. Después de cuántas horas, Mama Acha entra al cuarto y me dice que vamos a lavar.

We gather all our clothes and the suavitel into the laundry basket and carefully descend the stairs. As Mama Acha and I walk towards the corner, we encounter familiar brown faces along the street and saludos cordiales are exchanged. Cruzamos la calle y entramos a la lavandería que reconoce nuestros pasos al ver chanclas rosadas. Routine is routine: Washer. Dryer. Folding our clothes on the long, gray, metal table. Ya hemos terminado nuestro quehacer.

On the walk back home, Mama Acha and I see Pedro cruzando the street, and I bury my head deep into my chest, knowing that I have no money to give. As we approach home, Mama Acha y yo estamos cansadas. Papa Ayo nos abre la puerta y lleva la canasta de ropa arriba. Mama Acha firmly clutches the rails as she follows closely behind. I sit on the steps and wait for Papa Ayo’s return.

As we walk to La Mexicana, Papa Ayo and I gaze in awe of our surroundings. The murals that tell the history of our people. Las taquerías that feed us cada vez que no queremos cocinar. Música mexicana that engulfs our every sense of being and manipulates our vocal chords to let out a fine tune, a grito of sorts. The rhythmic pulsations of our barrio’s breeze. La Mexicana is packed today, but I already know where the best bread resides. Everytime I come here, I get gusanos de canela—with the yellow filling of course. The best bread in the City.

Papa Ayo and I make our way back to Mama Acha and once home, I help her put our clothes away.

Though we walk the same streets, Helen and I live in different worlds.

- KASSIE NAVARRETE ’25

Iam Brazilian, but I never felt or was regarded as Latina—until I came to Yale. I don’t mean I don’t identify with being Latina, but growing up in Brazil, there was never a development of Latina identity and pride. I don’t speak Spanish, I don’t dance salsa, I don’t opt for quesadillas or fajitas (and I’ve never tried them until coming to Yale). So what makes me Latina?

This identity crisis only began when I was distant from my home country. People would group me with others who grew up in different cultures and speak different languages.

One year into being called Latina, I forced a culture on myself. I convince myself that I love spicy food- not a typical Brazilian diet. I listen to Bad Bunny. I speak loudly and run late because I am Latina. This identity reflection is a part of a larger question: What elements connect Latin America? If it is not through race, language, or even common history, what exactly makes us “us”? Is the definition fair? Or does it overlook their country’s uniqueness? I underwent an identity investigation to find out if Latin America was “real,” or another Western imposition — here is what I found.

A Brazilian Perspective

The division and term of “Latin America” was first created by a French geographer in the 19th century—Michel Chevalier—to divide the people of the Americas into Anglo-Saxon and Latin people. This definition is incredibly problematic, however, because it doesn’t take into account the multiple indigenous languages of the continent. Additionally, it imposes a classification solely based on colonialism, rather than honoring the region’s native origins. In other words, most countries of Latin America speak Spanish today, even though this language was enforced upon them by colonizers. Thus, taking this factor as the defining characteristic of Latin America is following the premise that what all the countries have in common is a shared exploitive past.

Politically, it is sad how even the creation of the term Latin America was imposed through a Western perspective on us rather than a self-identified and proclaimed division. Despite recognizing how the foundation of this identity was a continuity of colonialism, the only way to revert this situation is by embracing the Latin American identity wholly and pridefully

Brasil is a vast country divided by 5 very distinctive regions. I am from Nordeste and proudly recognize how my culture is different from someone that lives in the South. However, my pride in my Nordeste Brazilian culture does not conflict with my general Brazilian identity. This is what I aim for with Latin America as a region as well. While the uniqueness of each country should be embraced, this celebration of individuality should also be balanced by acknowledging their historical commonalities.

Soup

I'm in the kitchen with my sleeves rolled up chopping vegetables. my tía leans towards me and whispers in my ear, y tu novio?

and my boyfriend?

tía, if what you were trying to ask me was do you derive your value as a woman from the sexual desire of college boys? the short answer is, sometimes. the long answer is, when Saturday sunsets slither by and I am in my suite tempted to sleep away the soiree my options look like I can either a.) search for love on a sticky-slicked frat floor as I third-wheel at the heel of a slurred friend's fling b.) ring up my old high school friends only to find out that they just got a different kind of ring or c.) give myself bangs.

I choose d, none of the above, instead write-in a free-response answer: schoolwork on a weekend night and the fright of wasting my youth.

"you have to find love in college!" is an eternal lie and an ephemeral truth, muted in the music of a muffled moment. that said, it might be nice to be someone's favorite person. but loneliness is not the same as being unloved. the vegetables move from the cutting board to the boiling pot. or tía, if you were trying to ask me have you ever been loved by a man? the answer is,

I have since the day I was born.

I have two dogs who sleep at the foot of my bed

I have a coworker who prepares fruit for me I have a roommate who tells people to shut up while I’m asleep I have a dad who lets me sit on his shoulders, swings me from tree branches, swears I soar through the sky, calls me chango, changuito, calls me “my little monkey.” tía, a wedding will not wish away your worries. love is not just the person who fathers your childrenlove is in the peeled naranjas and the peaceful naptimes and the peculiar nicknames. so I stand at the stove stirring the simmering soup. tía, if you were trying to ask me do you truly believe you are worthy of being loved? the answer is, I am worthy of this love that is passed down through generations, I am worthy of this love that my creator molded me out of, I am worthy of this love that tethers me to the great timescales of the universe. peer into the mirror and the proof of love grows clearerthis is my face, given up for you, the face, ageless, the object of attraction for an enamored ancestor. this is my hair, given up for you, the hair that my mother ties tenderly in trensas. these are my bones and my joints and my muscles, given up for you, that carry me through the cosmos. this is my body, which I share with those who came before me, this is my body, proof that love defeats death, this is my body, given up for you, so love yourself in memory of me. tía, the soup is done, and because I love you, I pour you a bowl.