A Biblical Rebuke of Femicide

This article is part of a Learning Center course called, Reading the Bible as a Mujerista Evangelica set to release on March 8th. To learn more about WOS online courses, visit learn.worldoutspoken.com.

We have to be better readers. We have to learn how to read. And we must learn how to tell stories. To know when to raise our voice and when to lower it. When to pull the people in with a whisper, and when to increase our volume!

My professor and mentor has told me this before, and now to the countless others he has taught. His love for Charles Dickens and Don Quijote seeps into the way he reads and writes, even in his academics.[1] It makes his writing interesting to read, but only because he knows that a good reader makes a good writer. It’s the reason why I am intentional about my own reading. I regularly rotate fiction and poetry books into my repertoire. I, too, believe that a good writer learns the art by being a good reader. You communicate to others by noticing the ways that best communicate to you.

The biblical authors know this too. The Old Testament narratives have this way of drawing in the reader. These writers quickly shift from artful prose to well-developed poetry, even within the stories of the historical narratives (like Deborah’s victory song in Judges 5). These stories aren’t just dry attempts to narrate without a purpose; no, these stories are meant to convey something deeper about the condition of life and add to what we already know about God. I invite you to look at Judges 19 with me, a story so grotesque that maybe you’ve skipped it over, but a story so carefully crafted that the narrator is undeniably attempting to communicate something to the readers on the other side of the page.

(Trigger warning: Rape, domestic violence, and murder. Please feel free to skip over this article.)

Judges 19[2]

In those days, when there was no king in Israel, a certain Levite, residing in the remote parts of the hill country of Ephraim, took to himself a concubine from Bethlehem in Judah. But his concubine became angry with him, and she went away from him to her father’s house at Bethlehem in Judah, and was there some four months. Then her husband set out after her, to speak tenderly to her and bring her back. He had with him his servant and a couple of donkeys. When he reached her father’s house, the girl’s father saw him and came with joy to meet him. His father-in-law, the girl’s father, made him stay, and he remained with him three days; so they ate and drank, and he stayed there.

“In those days, when there was no king in Israel…” Already the narrator sets the scene for us. Knowing the period of Judges as a time where “everyone did what was right in their own eyes” (Judg 17:6), this statement already stirs up fear for the reader. What will happen in this narrative, during a dark time of chaos and free reign?

We read that a concubine becomes angry at her Levite husband. In her anger, she decides to set out to her father’s house for a long four months. What I find interesting about this story is not what it says, but what it doesn’t say. As a Levite, this man had a higher status and honored place in society.[3] The concubine, who in contrast has a lower status in the ancient Near Eastern world as legal property of her master, does not speak. We have no clue as to why she became angry. We have no clue if her father welcomed her with open arms, but we do know that he opened his arms to his son-in-law. The narrative states the Levite’s intent to “speak tenderly” to his concubine, almost in an attempt to see him in a positive light, but then the reader begins to wonder: Why did it take four months for him to come find her? And the story states that he stayed to eat and drink, but there is no mention of the Levite actually speaking to the concubine—the very reason he came to his father-in-law’s home. In actuality, it stirs up even more uncertainty. Pay attention to how your body feels, to what remains unsaid, and to how your attitude toward the Levite shifts.[4]

On the fourth day they got up early in the morning, and he prepared to go; but the girl’s father said to his son-in-law, “Fortify yourself with a bit of food, and after that you may go.” So the two men sat and ate and drank together; and the girl’s father said to the man, “Why not spend the night and enjoy yourself?” When the man got up to go, his father-in-law kept urging him until he spent the night there again. On the fifth day he got up early in the morning to leave; and the girl’s father said, “Fortify yourself.” So they lingered until the day declined, and the two of them ate and drank. When the man with his concubine and his servant got up to leave, his father-in-law, the girl’s father, said to him, “Look, the day has worn on until it is almost evening. Spend the night. See, the day has drawn to a close. Spend the night here and enjoy yourself. Tomorrow you can get up early in the morning for your journey, and go home.” But the man would not spend the night; he got up and departed, and arrived opposite Jebus (that is, Jerusalem).

He had with him a couple of saddled donkeys, and his concubine was with him. When they were near Jebus, the day was far spent, and the servant said to his master, “Come now, let us turn aside to this city of the Jebusites, and spend the night in it.” But his master said to him, “We will not turn aside into a city of foreigners, who do not belong to the people of Israel; but we will continue on to Gibeah.” Then he said to his servant, “Come, let us try to reach one of these places, and spend the night at Gibeah or at Ramah.” So they passed on and went their way; and the sun went down on them near Gibeah, which belongs to Benjamin. They turned aside there, to go in and spend the night at Gibeah.

Here the narrator drops another hint. We know now that the Levite is traveling not only with his concubine, but with one of his servants. His title has now been changed to “his master,” almost as if the narrator is detaching the Levite from the concubine and shifting focus onto the servant. His servant makes a suggestion: to spend the night in a city of foreigners. The master says, “No thank you!” He refuses to be part of a community that does “not belong to the people of Israel.” We remember too that his association as a Levite meant that in theory, he practiced the law of the LORD. However, the reader wonders if his disdain toward foreigners disregards a law that states to love the foreigner—not tolerate, but love (Lev 19:34). He dismisses his servant’s suggestion and does what is right in his own eyes.

He went in and sat down in the open square of the city, but no one took them in to spend the night. Then at evening there was an old man coming from his work in the field. The man was from the hill country of Ephraim, and he was residing in Gibeah. (The people of the place were Benjaminites.) When the old man looked up and saw the wayfarer in the open square of the city, he said, “Where are you going and where do you come from?” He answered him, “We are passing from Bethlehem in Judah to the remote parts of the hill country of Ephraim, from which I come. I went to Bethlehem in Judah; and I am going to my home. Nobody has offered to take me in. We your servants have straw and fodder for our donkeys, with bread and wine for me and the woman and the young man along with us. We need nothing more.” The old man said, “Peace be to you. I will care for all your wants; only do not spend the night in the square.” So he brought him into his house, and fed the donkeys; they washed their feet, and ate and drank.  

The woman has still been largely absent up to this point. Was she not intended to be the focal point of this entire narrative, the reason the Levite man even went out in the first place, and now the reason they are traveling back? The reader begins to wonder why the narrative feels empty, and it is the lack of focus on the woman that contributes to this emptiness. The Levite even tells this man, “Nobody has offered to take me in” instead of “Nobody has offered to take us in” (italics mine).[5] The narrator continues to drop clues about the Levite man’s character and the blatant disregard for his servant and his concubine.

While they were enjoying themselves, the men of the city, a perverse lot, surrounded the house, and started pounding on the door. They said to the old man, the master of the house, “Bring out the man who came into your house, so that we may have intercourse with him.” And the man, the master of the house, went out to them and said to them, “No, my brothers, do not act so wickedly. Since this man is my guest, do not do this vile thing. Here are my virgin daughter and his concubine; let me bring them out now. Ravish them and do whatever you want to them; but against this man do not do such a vile thing.” But the men would not listen to him. So the man seized his concubine, and put her out to them. They wantonly raped her, and abused her all through the night until the morning. And as the dawn began to break, they let her go.

As morning appeared, the woman came and fell down at the door of the man’s house where her master was, until it was light. In the morning her master got up, opened the doors of the house, and when he went out to go on his way, there was his concubine lying at the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. “Get up,” he said to her, “we are going.” But there was no answer. Then he put her on the donkey; and the man set out for his home.

Still as the story begins to close, the woman does not speak. And now, as the Levite demands her to “get up” because they should be on their way, we as readers do not know if she is alive. It confirms all of our suspicions picked up throughout the narrative—that the Levite’s character is less than exemplary.

When he had entered his house, he took a knife, and grasping his concubine he cut her into twelve pieces, limb by limb, and sent her throughout all the territory of Israel. Then he commanded the men whom he sent, saying, “Thus shall you say to all the Israelites, ‘Has such a thing ever happened since the day that the Israelites came up from the land of Egypt until this day? Consider it, take counsel, and speak out.’”

The story still never tells you if the concubine was alive or not. Her silence lingers until the very end. Instead, the Levite man takes control of the situation by gruesomely dismembering her. And, instead of taking responsibility for his actions and their outcome, he has the audacity to point fingers at the Israelites! As everyone did what was right in their own eyes, he blamed the dark and preventable death of his concubine on the state of society. Maybe if people spoke out, then the men wouldn’t have come to rape them, and then perhaps this “thing” would not have “ever happened.” We know that the Levite man’s complacency in the systemic sin found in the period of Judges contributes to this abomination just as much as the wickedness of the men did.

Being on the other side of the story, even more questions arise. Did the concubine have good reason to leave in the first place, considering the outcome of her story? Would this violence have been averted if the servant’s suggestion was followed, or was this bound to happen due to the Levite’s less-than-holy character? And finally, what is the narrator trying to convey with a story so brutal, one that begins with a woman afforded no agency or words and ends with her rape and death?

When we read stories like this, our minds always shift to ask how something like this could be included in our Old Testament Scriptures. It is important to acknowledge the implications of such a text. First, like many of the Old Testament stories, this story is not meant to be prescriptive but descriptive. After careful analysis, readers see that the narrator’s craftsmanship of the story shows that they were never on the side of the Levite. Thus, a theological, real-life lesson can be extracted. Second, the Old Testament does not shy away from acknowledging the hurts of this world. Although we hate encountering stories like this, we know that our fallen world is scattered with situations that read just like this one. And for those who have experienced these situations, it gives us words that describe something that we may not have even processed ourselves.

As Phylllis Trible puts it, this story “depicts the horrors of male power, brutality, and triumphalism; of female helplessness, abuse, and annihilation.”[6] The moment the Levite decided to mistreat his concubine, everything went downhill. If you continue on to read Judges 20, you see that things continue to spiral downward as an effect of the woman’s death. The flourishing of women, or lack thereof, is directly correlated to the health of this society. This society is indeed in need of a savior. The mistreatment of the oppressed and marginalized, specifically women here, can only result in a society that perpetuates even more oppression and marginalization.

About Michelle Navarrete

My passions stem from within the Old Testament, focusing on biblical themes and social ethics through an interdisciplinary approach. As a second-generation Latina who lives in between the Mexican and American cultures, my faith inevitably intersects with my culture and experiences. I use storytelling in my academics as a way to engage my audience and cultivate connection. People are part of my passion and I want my work to reflect that. Currently located within the Latino community of West Chicago, I am pursuing my master’s in Old Testament Biblical Exegesis at Wheaton College, and I intend to pursue doctoral studies after my time at Wheaton. During my time at World Outspoken, I hope that my contributions will renew faith perspectives in a way that mobilizes restoring change within communities.

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Footnotes

[1] Dr. M. Daniel Caroll R. intertwines his love for narrative and storytelling, and even contextualizing from the Latina/o perspective, through the prophetic voice in his new book The Lord Roars: Recovering the Prophetic Voice for Today. Shameless plug.

[2] I invite you to read this without the verses marked, like a story. For your reference, this is the NRSV translation, and the entirety of chapter 19 of Judges.

[3] Phyllis Trible, Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives, 66.

[4] For a more comprehensive treatment of the narrator’s possible intentions, see Jacqueline E. Lapsley’s work, “A Gentle Guide: Attending to the Narrator’s Perspective in Judges 19-21.”

[5] Lapsley, 43.

[6] Trible, 65.

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Reading the Bible as a Mujerista Evangélica

Biblical interpretation is a deeply personal task. Not only does a reader attempt to make sense of the world within and behind the biblical text, but their own presuppositions must be confronted when deciding what a passage means and how it will be appropriated[1] for their context. For Christians who regularly dissect Scripture, its interpretation and application are both a challenge and a reward.

As I embarked on my academic journey in theological education, I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I was making certain interpretative choices—it just came naturally. It wasn’t until I began learning about “other” perspectives that I realized all of us—regardless of age, ethnicity, or gender—were making choices that were uniquely a combination of our culture, background, and experiences. I, too, missed things in the text that my sisters and brothers of other ethnicities caught. I was enamored by the way that each of our varied perspectives contributed something to the way a passage of Scripture was understood.

Through my learning of “other” voices, I was able to find the words describing the interpretative choices that came naturally to me. During this time, our hermeneutics class read through Santa Biblia by Justo González. I had already read González’s Mañana on my own and resonated with so much of it. It felt strange, however, to read things that resonated personally within academic spaces. It was a stale attempt to analyze “objectively” when so much of my experience was intertwined with what we were learning. And perhaps it was a burden I placed on myself, attempting to remove myself from the material so I could analyze it the same way my White classmates were analyzing it, but I did not realize at that moment that my detachment was a form of protection.

Then came the day of class. As I was sitting in my seat, I remained silent. Everyone started talking about what they found interesting in their reading of the material. “I understand where this hermeneutical choice comes from, but I personally don’t know how I feel about it,” one classmate said. “It’s not something I would choose to do. I guess I’m still processing it.”

As my classmates continued to discuss, my professor read the uncertainty on my face. He looked at me, well-meaning, and he asked, “Michelle. What do you think?”

What do I think? What do I think? As I listened to my classmates analyze Santa Biblia in a very detached, academic way, my only thought was what came out of my mouth.

“I don’t know what to think when everything González describes—exile, marginality, in-betweenness—has been my experience.”

There was a lingering silence after I spoke. All this talk about the “pros” and “cons” of Latina/o interpretation, and I think my classmates realized they were analyzing the “pros” and “cons” of my very lens. As the only person of color in my class, I didn’t know what to think—I only knew what I felt. I felt exposed, but it was a discussion I had no choice but to engage in.

This is what I mean when I say biblical interpretation is deeply personal. We must be willing to admit that each one of our lenses comes with pros and cons, but we can allow it to grow our understanding of Scripture. Learning about mujerista and Latina evangélica theology allowed me to find words to articulate the interpretative choices I make when studying Scripture.

What is mujerista theology?

Coined by Cuban American and Roman Catholic theologian Ada María Isasi-Díaz, mujerista theology finds its roots in the struggles of Latinas[2] specifically in the United States. Isasi-Díaz felt feminist theologies did not adequately represent the experiences of women of color, nor did feminista theology formed in Latin America adequately encompass the unique experience of Latinas in the United States. Isasi-Díaz makes clear that mujerista theology is not exclusively for Latinas but from Latinas, inviting all to look through the lens in which Latinas theologize.[3] In her book of essays titled Mujerista Theology, Isasi-Díaz includes personal stories and observations about Latinas y sus luchas, their struggles, in life. Latinas in the U.S. often face a number of shared issues such as “bilingualism, multiculturalism, popular religious faith, marginality, poverty, colonization, migration, and cultural alienation.”[4] Mujerista theology seeks justice on these issues for the Latina community at large.

An essential tenet of mujerista theology is the value of lo cotidiano. Lo cotidiano is the shared experiences of everyday life. Isasi-Díaz unpacks the complexity of this term but essentially recognizes it is filled with subjectivity that helps describe the processes of Latina women in their lives.[5] Mujeristas know God cares deeply about every aspect of your life—from the clothes you choose to wear to the food you eat. Part of this stems from the way our madres, abuelitas, comadres, y amigas, who often have no formal theological education, recognize God working in their day-to-day lives. These faith traditions passed down from our Latina matriarchs, often named abuelita theology, work in tangent with mujeristas and how they understand their faith.

Mujerista theology is often criticized for the lack of significance Scripture holds in the lives of Catholic Latinas. The dominant influence of Catholicism from conquistadores resulted in a critical view of the Bible in the lives of Catholic Latinas, and rightly so, as it contributed to their oppression and struggle. However, Isasi-Díaz recognized the growing emergence of Latina evangélicas where the Bible became more central, and therefore, the urgency for mujeristas to articulate a biblical interpretation.[6]

What is Latina evangélica theology?

Latina evangélicas reaffirm many of the values of mujerista theology but acknowledge differences from a Protestant perspective. Loida I. Martell-Ortero, Zaida Maldonado Pérez, and Elizabeth Conde-Fraizer sought to build upon these central values in their book, Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins. They recognize the complexities of varying theologies even within the Latina community. Martell-Ortero is nuanced in her naming of evangélica, stating that it does not necessarily mean the English equivalent “evangelical,” but instead embodies Latinas coming from mixed faith traditions who understand themselves to be people who preach the gospel, el evangelio.[7] This book seeks to honor contributions made by both feminista and mujerista theologies.

Latina evangélica theology distinguishes itself with its emphases on the Holy Spirit, salvation, and Scripture. First, evangélicas see the Holy Spirit as the one who “saves, heals, affirms, calls, empowers, and transforms persons and communities.”[8] Second, evangélica theology seeks to describe salvation in a multifaceted way, stating that salvation is an “incarnational reality encountered within the context of lo cotidiano, rather than solely as a transcendent reality that helps one ‘go to heaven.’”[9] That means that evangélicas care about the “here and now,” the present reality on earth, and it is an outworking of one’s salvation (James 2:14-26). Finally, Scripture is a key tenet for evangélicas. The authors of Latinas Evangélicas weave in Scripture to affirm the testimony of their theological understandings, both by experience and the text itself.

What is a mujerista evangélica?

To name oneself is a powerfully biblical act.[10] I have decided to bridge mujerista and Latina evangélica theology by naming my methodology mujerista evangélica biblical interpretation for a few reasons. One, I want to pay tribute to the way Isasi-Díaz contributed to my theological understandings. Many second-generation Latinas in the United States began their faith journey in Catholicism as I did. My theology is heavily influenced by the beauty of ritual and order. Since much of Mexican culture is interwoven with Catholic religion, this piece is significant in my cultural and theological upbringing.

Two, the power of naming my theology as mujerista reaffirms the necessity to seek justice for women of color who live in marginalization. Justice is an explicit biblical theme, from the laws given to Israel for proper treatment of the foreigner, to Jesus’ advocacy of the marginalized—the poor, widows, and orphans. When I hear mujerista, I hear an empowered word describing the journey to liberation from internalized oppression.[11] It gives a name and voice to the struggles that Latinas experience daily.

Many of the Latinas I know see themselves as bridge builders. Our brown bodies do not fit in the Black and White binary often created in the conversations surrounding racial justice. As Isasi-Díaz says, this theology is not for us but from us. The end goal is to see the beautiful diversity of God’s kingdom from every nation, tribe, and tongue (Revelation 7:9), but that means feeling valued and elevated in our own communities of faith. My methodology embodies “both/and” rather than “either/or,” because it seeks liberation in a way that names Latinas and their contributions, but also in a way that seeks liberation for all those experiencing marginalization.

I include evangélica in my naming because I am Protestant. The Word of God is meaningful in my life, especially as someone who studies Scripture academically. Although Isasi-Díaz insisted upon the lack of biblical authority in the lives of Latinas, she still contributed incredible insight about themes of exile from passages like Psalm 137.[12] Now, voices that are distinctly evangélica are needed to represent our perspective in the field of biblical interpretation. It is a field that is predominantly White, male, and growing increasingly less confessional in Christian faith. Scripture can be a powerful tool for mujerista evangélicas.

A Final Word

I hope to be transparent in my treatment of mujeristas and Latina evangélicas. There is so much more nuance and complexity, as well as beautiful descriptions of the Latina faith, found within these two books. It is too much to describe in one article, but it is worth the work that Latinas see themselves in the world of academia. It affirms, slowly but surely, work is being done and our voices are being heard. And, frankly, much more is out there, on the ground, in the grassroots of faith communities. The goal has always been for these theologies to enable a praxiological component for Latinas. Interpretation does not stop there, and its appropriation should result in constructive change.[13] Mujerista evangélicas have a dedication to completing this work en conjunto, together, on the ground.

Just as Cuban theologians like Ada María Isasi-Díaz, Justo González, and other Latina theologians from varying Hispanic heritages present distinctive viewpoints that affect their interpretative choices, my Mexican heritage also affects the way I interpret. Many second-generation children born and raised in the U.S. share similar understandings.[14] I relate to experiences of exile, but not in the way some Latinas experience by actual displacement of migration. I learned how to travel between the spaces of Mexican and American culture, between school and home, between English and Spanish. I speak Spanglish and often use Mexican idioms that my other Mexican friends also grew up saying. I went to quinceañeras y fiestas con mi familia, and I cleaned on Saturday mornings con mi mama to Cómo Te Voy a Olvidar by Los Ángeles Azules. I took Spanish in high school as an easy “A” and quickly discovered the Spanish taught to us was not the Spanish I learned in my Mexican household. Second-generation Mexican American children bond over these experiences and much more. My mujerista evangélica lens hopes to add a voice to the dearth of work, specifically in Old Testament interpretation from a second-generation Mexican daughter. I hope my lens contributes a refreshment of the Scriptures, one that makes you fall in love with Jesus over and over again.

about MICHELLE NAVARRETE

My passions stem from within the Old Testament, focusing on biblical themes and social ethics through an interdisciplinary approach. As a second-generation Latina who lives in between the Mexican and American cultures, my faith inevitably intersects with my culture and experiences. I use storytelling in my academics as a way to engage my audience and cultivate connection. People are part of my passion and I want my work to reflect that. Currently located within the Latino community of West Chicago, I am pursuing my master’s in Old Testament Biblical Exegesis at Wheaton College, and I intend to pursue doctoral studies after my time at Wheaton. During my time at World Outspoken, I hope that my contributions will renew faith perspectives in a way that mobilizes restoring change within communities.

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Footnotes

[1] When using the word “appropriation,” I mean to convey that a passage may be appropriated time and time again depending on the particular scope and context. When using the word “application,” I mean to convey the act of applying the appropriated text for the reader’s specific singular context. For more on this language of “distantiation,” “contextualization,” and “appropriation,” see Bungishabaku Katho, “African American Biblical Interpretation” in Scripture and its Interpretation: A Global, Ecumenical Introduction to the Bible.

[2] For more on the nuances between “Hispanic,” “Latina/o,” and “Chicana/o,” see the discussion in Robert Chao Romero’s Brown Church.

[3] Ada María Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology (New York: Orbis Books, 1996), 1-2.

[4] Loida I. Martell-Otero, Zaida Maldonado Pérez, and Elizabeth Conde-Frazier, Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2013), 4.

[5] Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology, 67.

[6] Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology, 149.

[7] Martell-Otero, Maldonado Pérez, and Conde-Frazier, Latina Evangélicas, 8.

[8] Latina Evangélicas, 9.

[9] Latina Evangélicas, 10.

[10] “To name oneself is one of the most powerful acts a person can do,” Mujerista Theology, 60; “Scriptural texts attest to the power of naming,” Latina Evangélicas, 3.

[11] Mujerista Theology, 60-61.

[12] Ada María Isasi-Díaz, “By the Rivers of Babylon” in Mujerista Theology, 35-56.

[13] M. Daniel Carroll R., “Latino/Latina Biblical Interpretation” in Scripture and its Interpretation: A Global, Ecumenical Introduction to the Bible (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2017), 315.

[14] I have the privilege of working with second-generation Mexican American high school students that convey extremely similar upbringings and familiarities.

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We Speak Spanglish ¿Y qué?

My parents are from Mexico but they have lived in the U.S. for over 35 years. I was born and raised in Los Angeles and have lived most of my life in a predominantly Latino community. I am also a Spanish professor. This is the lens from which I am writing.[1]

My dearest Spanglish, 

They despise you. They think you’re an abomination, a creature birthed from insufficiency and miseducation. They punish you in Spanish class and beat you in English class. Dicen que eres un bastardo, un malparido.  

“¡Habla bien! ¿Por qué hablas mocho? No se dice aplicación, se dice solicitud. No se llama librería, se llama biblioteca. Deja de decir esas barbaridades – jangear, mapiar, lonchar, marketa – Dios mío, le vas a provocar un paro cardiaco a la grandísima, estimadísima y respetuosísima Real Academia Española. ¿Qué diría tu abuela? Mira como se ríen de ti tus tías en México. Tu existencia es un insulto, una vergüenza. No maltrates a nuestra hermosa lengua con tus medias palabras. El idioma se respeta y tú, mentado Spanglish, eres un irrespetuoso”. 

That’s what they say, querido Spanglish. But I… I love you. You’re the language of my people, birthed from love and sacrifice. Tu existencia brotó in our communities como las estrellas brotan en el cielo. And when I hear you, I recognize myself and when I utter your words, I know I’m at home, en esa casa that my parents built con tanto sacrificio en una tierra desconocida.  

They insist, querido Spanglish, que no existes, but languages are not formed in the cradle de las academias reales. You are not held hostage by official institutions; you are held in the arms of your people and rest on the lips de tu gente.  

Tu descendiente, 

La Chicana.

Ask ten people in the U.S. Latina/o community what they think of Spanglish and you might obtain ten different answers, but their responses will never be dull. The use of Spanglish provokes emotionally-charged reactions that elicit everything from joyful expressions to furious replies. Renowned Mexican author Octavio Paz once said that Spanglish was, “neither good nor bad, but abominable” (Ni es bueno, ni es malo, sino abominable). Carlos Varo, a Spanish-Puerto Rican author called Spanglish a chronic illness, and Eduardo Seda Bonilla claimed that it was a colonial crutch, a linguistic form that is “characteristic of colonial situations where there is an attempt to eradicate and lower the language and culture of a subjugated nation”[2]. Still today, for many people, Spanglish represents just another form in which colonial English is encroaching into our space. Spanglish, perceived in this vein, is a contaminated form of Spanish that is no longer recognizable, one that bears the violence of colonial traces.

Nevertheless, there are those who vehemently support the use of Spanglish and claim that it enhances their linguistic repertoires. When the question, “Why do some people speak Spanglish” was posed on Quora, a person responded, “Because it’s fun! I enjoy saying that my daughter is malcriada, she had a huge berrinche this morning’ rather than ‘my daughter is badly behaved, she had a huge tantrum this morning’ Spanglish is more fun than either language by itself.”[3]

So, what is Spanglish? Well, linguistically, Spanglish has different manifestations. Perhaps the one most distinguishable is code-switching, when the speaker alternates between English and Spanish in a single conversation. Calques and loan words are also common in Spanglish phraseology.

1. Code-switching: Fíjate que ayer I went to the store y me compré muchas cremas that were on sale

2. Calques are literal translations, such as te llamo pa’tras (I’ll call you back; te llamo después), tener buen tiempo (to have a good time; pasarla bien), hacer decisiones (make decisions; tomar decisiones)

3. Loan words: lonchar (to have lunch; almorzar), el mol (the mall; el centro comercial), friser (freezer; congelador) mapear (to mop; trapear), checar (to check; revisar), breik (break; descanso), brecas (car brakes; frenos)

Regardless of whether you personally love or hate Spanglish, it is important to acknowledge that Spanglish, similar to all languages, is rule-governed, guided by grammatical and social principles. Speakers of Spanglish abide by certain rules, albeit unconsciously, just as native speakers of Spanish and English construct sentences with ease without being cognizant of the grammatical rules that guide their speech. Read the following examples:

1. Fernanda wants el ice cream from the casa de my madre.

2. José se enojó and he gritó.

3. Lorena me va dar un raite once she’s done with work.

4. Estoy jugando soccer with Blanca.   

I surveyed twenty Spanglish speakers, asking them to identify the ones that sounded “wrong” to them and their answers revealed a high degree of consensus, as was expected. Although the four examples given above are all written using hybrid speech, not all sound right. Numbers one and two are not natural Spanglish expressions, while three and four represent normal incidences of code-switching. Interestingly, two people responded that all sentences were problematic because they were written in Spanglish, perhaps echoing what they’ve heard their whole lives – that Spanglish is incorrect.

In reality, Spanglish isn’t wrong or right, it just is, and perhaps that’s the beauty of it. Spanglish is patterned but these patterns can change over time and are extremely malleable. People can’t correct you in your Spanglish, the way they would with Spanish or English, for example. Spanglish is not a made-up language either. We didn’t make up Spanglish – Spanglish is a natural expression of who we are as bilingual and bicultural individuals living in liminal spaces. I can’t tell you how I learned Spanglish. I can tell you that I learned Spanish at home and English at school and that my life was not as linguistically compartmentalized as some might think because my friends spoke English, but also Spanish and my family spoke Spanish, but also English and I embraced that through Spanglish.

Spanglish, similar to formally recognized languages, has distinct varieties, or dialects. Ilan Stavans, who wrote an adaptation of Don Quixote in Spanglish and authored Spanglish: the Making of a New American Language (2004), explains,

“There is no one Spanglish, but a variety of Spanglishes that are alive and well in this country and that are defined by geographical location and country of origin. The Spanglish spoken by Mexican Americans in, say L.A., is different from the Spanglish spoken by Cuban Americans in Miami or the Spanglish spoken by Puerto Ricans in New York. Each of these Spanglishes has its own patterns, its own idiosyncrasies.”[4] 

Moreover, Stavans indicates that generational and geographical differences also impact the type of Spanglish that is spoken by each group. Similar to English and Spanish, Spanglish has many dialects that are influenced by a myriad of factors, including communities of contact, age, and social status.

I remember my cousins in Mexico exclaiming, ¿cómo pueden hablar así? when my cousins from the U.S. and I visited Mexico and spoke to each other in our comfort tongue. It wasn’t a question that denoted disgust, but admiration. They thought it was fascinating that we could switch between languages in the same sentence with such ease and they asked us to teach them, the same way they had taught us to speak “el idioma de la F”[5] but we couldn’t teach our Spanglish because we had acquired it organically as part of our identity as U.S. Latina/os.

I know many people in Mexico that speak English as a second language and Spanish as their native tongue, but they cannot produce Spanglish. Similarly, many native English speakers who learned Spanish as a second language are unable to speak Spanglish. Simply knowing both languages does not guarantee Spanglish proficiency. So, what is the breeding ground of Spanglish? Spanglish was born in the United States. It is in this country, in Latino communities, where it flourishes.

Dr. Almeida Jacqueline Toribio, a professor at UT Austin who has been studying bilingualism for decades claims that, “CS [code-switching] remains a stigmatized bilingual behavior, viewed as a failure on the part of the speakers to ‘control’ their languages […] Some see it as a lack of competence or even poor manners”.[6] Often times, the assumption is that speakers of Spanglish are lazy, deficient or ashamed of the Spanish language.

There’s a constant safeguarding of dual spaces and we are asked to split ourselves and to not “cross-contaminate.” This is an impossible request and one that should not be made. “To survive the Borderlands, you must live sin fronteras,” affirmed Gloria Anzaldúa. English says, “Spanish is prohibited in my land” and Spanish replies, “Este es mi territorio, fuera el inglés” and Spanglish thrives, sin fronteras. Spanglish does not attempt to usurp either language; it is its own mode of expression. Do you criticize burritos for not being taco enough?

I told you earlier that I’m a Spanish professor pero yo no respeto el español because languages are not meant to be respected – people are. When you tell people that Spanglish es una forma incorrecta de hablar, you’re really telling them that who they are is a “wrong” version of themselves, one that should be rejected. I know it can be difficult for a lot of immigrant parents to accept that their children are culturally and linguistically different from them and, to a certain extent, I understand why so many first-generation Latina/os are resentful of Spanglish. However, we can’t forget the fact that there are millions of individuals who identify as Latina/o but were born and raised in the U.S. We were not raised in our family’s countries as monolinguals. We do not have the same culture as our parents, but mainstream U.S. culture does not represent us either. We’ve created our own spaces and have formed new cultural expressions that should not be viewed as tainted versions but as unique creations. Hablamos espanglish because it’s who we are.

“Until I am free to write bilingually and to switch codes without having always to translate, while I still have to speak English or Spanish when I would rather speak Spanglish, and as long as I have to accommodate the English speakers rather than having them accommodate me, my tongue will be illegitimate.
”

— Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera (1987)

ABOUT DRA. ITZEL meduri soto

As an academic from el barrio, Dra. Meduri Soto strives to engage in scholarly work that honors and gives visibility to her community. Her faith drives her passion for justice as she seeks to reveal the ways in which certain language ideologies are constructed to operate unjustly against our communities. Her work acknowledges language as a powerful tool and promotes linguistic diversity in its different manifestations. Bicultural and bilingual identities are at the center of Dra. Meduri Soto’s work. She is a Spanish professor at Biola University where she teaches second language and heritage language learners. To learn more about her work, follow her on Instagram: @la.dra.itzel

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Footnotes

[1] Poem titled, “Querido Spanglish” by Itzel Reyes (2021)

[2] “Réquiem por una cultura: Ensayos sobre la socialización del puertorriqueño en su cultura y en ámbito del poder neocolonial” (1970).

[3] https://www.quora.com/Why-do-some-people-talk-spanglish

[4] As quoted here: https://people.howstuffworks.com/spanglish.htm 

[5]  “El idioma de la F” is not an actual language. It is a playful way in which children could speak “in code” by adding the letter F to every vowel. For example, “te amo” would be “tefe afamofo”. I learned how to speak this “language” in Mexico and it was mainly used when we didn’t want the adults to understand our dialogue.

[6] As quoted on, “Love it or hate it, Spanglish is here to stay and it’s good exercise for your brain”  (2018).

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Believe Me When I Say it Hurts

I saw her smile slowly disappear. She pressed in hard, frantically gliding the ultrasound, searching for a heartbeat that would never again beat. “Keep trying!” I screamed at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “there’s no heartbeat.”

“Keep trying,” I sobbed.

The well-intentioned doctor offered me several explanations that were intended to extinguish my sorrow. She explained that this was a normal occurrence, that it happens to nearly 1 in 4 women, that I was young, and that I would surely become pregnant again soon. She said that miscarriage was a protective mechanism that the body uses when disposing of unhealthy organisms and what I heard was, “You should be grateful that your body is so smart.” She tried to bury my pain in scientific reasoning and normalcy. Normal, normal, normal. Normal, as in trivial, as in my life should not be altered and my heart should not ache. Her words felt cold, the type of cold that burns.

I was convinced that my doctor was not Christian, or she would understand the meaning of sanctity of life and surely know why I was in so much pain.

“She’s desensitized,” I thought. “She’s had to deal with so many miscarriages that she has convinced herself that these are not human lives but a conglomeration of cells with little to no human value.” I believed that her lack of faith had caused her insensitivity so I instinctively sought refuge in my community of faith. To my dismay, Christians also minimized my pain. They wanted to subdue my pain and transform it into something nicer, like hope or gratitude, as if hope and gratitude were the only sentiments allowed to be felt by a Christian woman who had just experienced great loss. “At least you are already a mother,” “You’re young, you can have more kids,” “At least you were not further along,” were some of the comments that pierced me open.

The legitimacy of my pain came into question and I was led to believe that I was foolish for carrying this pain. I only carried my child for nine weeks, yet I carried this pain everywhere I went. I carried it to my bedroom, to my office, and to my car. I carried it in my dreams and in my prayers. The pain accompanied me everywhere and filled spaces that my child could no longer fill. It’s true that your heart physically aches when the pain is too overwhelming, but the heart is not the only part of your body that suddenly feels too heavy. Walking, even the shortest distance, absorbed all of my energy, and eating became a laborious task. It’s odd how the heaviness can be accompanied by an emptiness. The pain becomes so unbearable that your body turns numb, but it’s not the type of numb where you feel nothing; it’s the kind of numb where you feel everything.

My pain was slowly being coupled with something even more isolating – shame. The general perception was that my pain was rather unreasonable or exaggerated. I could hear it in their tone; nine weeks wasn’t enough for me to feel this sorrow. My loss was being compared to the suffering of a woman who lost her baby girl to SIDS[1] and of another whose daughter was stillborn.[2] I think people assumed that this would give me “perspective” and alleviate my pain. I’m sure they weren’t trying to hurt me – they thought these stories would help me heal, but shame is no antidote to pain. 

“I should feel better because someone else’s tragedy is worst” was the message being conveyed by people who truly thought were helping me.

Toxic positivity is defined by therapists Samara Quintero and Jamie Long as, “the overgeneralization of a happy, optimistic state that results in the denial, minimization and invalidation of the authentic human emotional experience.[3]” This seemingly helpful mindset, actually produces more harm and trauma because it encourages silencing and transforms pain into a “dirty secret.” In Christian circles, toxic positivity disguises itself as faith and hope and can make individuals feel inadequate in their faith.  

One in four women have suffered a miscarriage.[4] “Because it’s so common, medical professionals tend to dismiss pregnancy loss, and friends and family members often fail to register its impact,” explains Dr. Janet Jaffe, director of the Center for Reproductive Psychology. However, the fact that so many women experience miscarriages does not mitigate the suffering. A recent study found that 29% of women who had experienced a miscarriage before 12 weeks, suffered post-traumatic stress disorder. The study also showed that 24% of these women had moderate to severe anxiety and 11% had moderate to severe depression.[5] I soon discovered that several of my own family members had suffered miscarriages. They quietly shared small pieces of their stories with me, almost hesitantly and I wondered if shame had silenced them too. I suspected that the lack of empathy that their stories had been met with transformed their accounts into a hasty narrative. They recounted their experiences in a way that seemed rather frivolous, though their glistening eyes revealed a different truth. “This is what pain looked like under submission,” I thought.  

Our sufferings are often placed on a hierarchy constructed by cultural understandings that determine which events should hurt more. Certain tragedies are automatically considered more sorrowful than others. Some griefs are “top-rated,” while other losses are rendered unimportant or are even stigmatized – the pain caused by a son being incarcerated or the death of a loved one due to drug overdose, for example. Society invalidates certain pains at the expense of the sufferer, and we don’t tend to pains that we think do not or should not exist.

Neglecting pain based on prejudices is a phenomenon that is also present in the medical industry. Pain bias negatively impacts women as their pain is often dismissed or minimized.[6] Gender bias in medicine leads to a dismissive attitude that often times, causes misdiagnosis. Christin Veasly, director at the “Chronic Pain Research Alliance,” explains that, “women have been more often referred to psychologists or psychiatrists, whereas men are given tests to rule out actual organic conditions.” A study revealed that women are 50% more likely than men to be misdiagnosed following a heart attack.[7] Maya Dusenbery, author of Doing Harm: The Truth About How Bad Medicine and Lazy Science Leave Women Dismissed, Misdiagnosed and Sick (2019), identified two principal reasons for which women experience significatively higher levels of misdiagnosis than men: 1) there’s a long-standing legacy of women being underrepresented or completely excluded from medical research, which means that medical professionals do not know as much about the female body as they do the male body and 2) women’s accounts about their pain are often met with distrust.

Gender bias contributes to the idea that women are hysterical, making it easy to dismiss their pain, and racial bias insists that certain bodies can withstand more pain. A 2016 study revealed that, “a substantial number of white laypeople and medical students and residents hold false beliefs about biological differences between blacks and whites and demonstrates that these beliefs predict racial bias in pain perception and treatment recommendation accuracy.[8]” These beliefs date back to the 19th century when Thomas Hamilton, a plantation owner and physician obsessed with medically justifying the enslavement of Black people, conducted torturous experiments on John Brown, an enslaved Black man. Hamilton claimed that Black people had thicker skin and less sensitive nerve endings. This myth, plagued with racist conjectures, seems to persist in today’s medical community. According to a 2019 study, Black and Hispanic patients are significantly less likely to receive pain medication, compared to White patients[9]. In short, medical practitioners are less likely to believe us when we say it hurts if we happen to be women or people of color.   

The lack of empathy expressed by people changes the manner in which you are able to tell your story. Truth and transparency become marred and you are left with remnants, carefully curated words that vaguely resemble what you feel. The way we listen to people’s stories can help them heal or it can cause more trauma. L.J. Isham describes listening as, “an attitude of the heart, a genuine desire to be with another which both attracts and heals.” To exercise sympathy and compassion and to adopt the type of listening described by Isham, it is not a requirement to have experienced every single type of pain imaginable to the human condition. We don’t even have to agree with the pain, its cause, duration or intensity. Our holy responsibility is not to rate each other’s pain, but to listen lovingly and to believe one another when we say it hurts. 

The way we listen to those in pain can have life-altering consequences. Pain is a real, intense sentiment that is often difficult to characterize using words, and culture can also influence the modes of expression adopted by each individual. This is why, it is important to listen with an open heart. I felt that my pain was delegitimized to such an extent that, even as I write this now, I have the lingering impulse to justify my pain to you. I am tempted to convince you that my pain was real. I want to explain what this pregnancy meant to me and detail the agonizing moments with such rawness that you would not be able to sanitize my pain. However, I will not do that. That is too much of a burden for a suffering person. I wrote this piece, not with the intention of putting my pain on display, allowing readers to dissect it and examine it thoroughly until they can recognize its validity, but to address the fact that we should believe people when they say it hurts. We can stand with people in their pain without understanding it. We can come alongside suffering people without having had to experience that specific pain ourselves. We can accompany people in their sorrow and console them without any “words of advice” or proposed “solutions.” We can pray for these individuals without even knowing the full story. The Bible tells us that when one member suffers, we all suffer (1 Corinthians 12:26). It is pain that unites us, and that propels us to love one another as we understand our interconnectedness in God.

We have a tendency to run away from pain and in reality, it is all too easy, especially if it is not our own pain. We look away and cover our ears and hearts with much ease. Indeed, it is much more difficult to stand with someone who is in pain. However, pain is not alien to the human condition, nor is it unfamiliar to Jesus. Our Savior experienced immense pain. In fact, it was the shortest verse[10] in the Bible that brought me the greatest consolation in my moments of sorrow; “Jesus wept” (John 11:35).  I was reminded that He didn’t weep because he was overwhelmed by joy and gratitude; He didn’t shed happy tears. He wept in suffering. He wept in loss. Profound pain caused those precious tears, and it was His pain that ultimately brought salvation to the world. Pain, generated by His everlasting love, is central to the gospel message, yet we often try to disguise it or swiftly move past it in our understanding of Him. In fact, “in early Christian times, the belief that Jesus Christ suffered pain was usually not accepted […] freedom from emotion was something to strive for at that time. Only after the acceptance of Christianity as the state religion of the Roman Empire in 380 AD did the pain of Christ again stand in the centre of the Christian doctrine of salvation.[11]” When all trace of pain is removed from the gospel, we are left with an anemic version, one that represents God as just a happy character, incapable of being in the midst of our grief and our suffering. When we attempt to alienate our pain from God, we are inadvertently supporting a theological vision that believes that God is incapable of understanding our pain. When we try to hide our pain away from our Creator, we undervalue His love and grace for us. In The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis wrote, “Pain insists on being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pain.” The Bible does not say that God ignores our pain and pretends it does not exist; Psalm 147:3 reminds us that, “God heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (NIV). Our pain does not condemn us or separate us from God; on the contrary, it draws us closer to our Maker and to each other. 

About Dra. Itzel meduri soto

As an academic from el barrio, Dra. Meduri Soto strives to engage in scholarly work that honors and gives visibility to her community. Her faith drives her passion for justice as she seeks to reveal the ways in which certain language ideologies are constructed to operate unjustly against our communities. Her work acknowledges language as a powerful tool and promotes linguistic diversity in its different manifestations. Bicultural and bilingual identities are at the center of Dra. Meduri Soto’s work. She is a Spanish professor at Biola University where she teaches second language and heritage language learners. To learn more about her work, follow her on Instagram: @la.dra.itzel

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Footnotes

[1] Sudden Infant Death Syndrome

[2] “A still birth is the birth of a baby who has died any time from 20 weeks into the pregnancy through to the due date of birth. The baby may have died during the pregnancy or, less commonly, during the birth” (Pregnancy Birth & Baby).

[3] https://thepsychologygroup.com/toxic-positivity/

[4] American Society for Reproductive Medicine.

[5] “Posttraumatic stress, anxiety and depression following miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy: a multicenter, prospective, cohort study” American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology (2019).

[6] “‘Brave Men’ and ‘Emotional Women:’ A Theory Guided Literature Review on Gender Bias in Health Care and Gendered Norms Towards Patients with Chronic Pain” Pain Research and Management (2018).

[7] “Impact of Initial Hospital Diagnosis on Mortality for Acute Myocardial Infarction: A National Cohort Study” European Heart Journal – Acute Cardiovascular Care (2018).

[8] “Racial Bias in Pain Assessment and Treatment Recommendations, and False Beliefs about Biological Differences Between Whites and Blacks” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America.

[9] “Racial and Ethnic Disparities in the Management of Acute Pain in US Emergency Departments: Meta-Analysis and Systematic Review” The American Journal of Emergency Medicine.

[10] It is the shortest verse in many translated versions. 

[11] Markschies C. Der Schmerz und das Christentum. Symbol für Schmerzbewältigung? [Pain and Christianity. A symbol for overcoming pain?] (2007). 

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On 'Bad Mothering'

His words infuriated me. I reacted instantaneously and clearly agitated, I replied, “I decide how to spend my time.” He had unknowingly struck a nerve – a deep wound inflicted by the tendencies of machismo[1]. It was a reflex response; the words slipped out of my mouth without pause or hesitation. He apologized and I hurriedly hung up the phone.

“I’ll let you go now so you can go be with your son,” had been his exact words. He was a romantic interest and I identified the cause of my anger almost immediately. I became a mother at nineteen. My eight-month pregnant-self waddled across the stage of my community college graduation. I had a plan. My son would be born in July and in late August, I would begin state college. And I did just that (a 19-year-old healthy body could perform such miracles). I had a whole village that supported me, and thanks to them, I eventually completed my doctoral studies. My son was nine years old when I became a doctora. 

As a single, Latina mom and first-generation college student from a low-income community, the obstacles were many. There were real challenges placed before me. My body was constantly exhausted from attending school full-time, working part-time, and raising a child. My mind attempted to juggle numerous tasks simultaneously and every second of the 24-hour period was carefully planned. My workload was unimaginable but, with the help of the abuela/os and tías, achievable. The unbearable burden was not the physical labor itself but the constant criticisms and accusations dressed as innocuous questions: “¿y cómo dejas a tu hijo tantas horas? Yo no podría” and frequent, “Y tu hijo, ¿con quién lo dejas?” paired with, “pobrecito, ¿y no lo extrañas?” I wish that at that moment I would have immediately identified them as fallacious statements upheld by the violence of patriarchy. But I didn’t.

Instead, I wept. I wept in the shower – in the place where your tears merge with the shower droplets, in the place where the noise can muffle your cries, in the place where solitude accompanies you. There were times when my tears would refuse to respect this sacred place and would instead travel to my bedroom or my car. “I am not a good mom,” I told myself. I despised myself for loving school, for loving my job. I ritualistically apologized to my son quietly as he slept every night and obsessively reminded him of how much I loved him during his waking hours. In reality, I was not trying to comfort him; I was trying to soothe myself. I was atoning for my bad mothering.

Society promotes absurd and unrealistic mothering scripts that are unsustainable. A good mother cannot have hobbies, should not enjoy a night out with friends, cannot spend money on eyelash extensions, oh, and God forbid she dates. It is ironic and almost comical that single mothers are antagonized for being single but are simultaneously forbidden from dating. If you are a Latina mother, you are also expected to ser buena cocinera, maestra, enfermera, chofer, costurera, y mucho más. La madre latina is, in reality, a mythical figure that is half human, half goddess. She is one that morphs into many things and does so willingly, effortlessly and enthusiastically. If you are a Christian Latina mother, these beliefs tend to be exacerbated by erroneous and domesticated interpretations of biblical womanhood put forth by male-dominated narratives[2]. Our love for our children seems to only be acceptable when it is self-consuming. The Latina mother is idealized, but women pay a high price for this veneration. There is nothing glorious about withstanding abuse and being disempowered, but marianismo[3] appears in the Latina/o culture masked as love and admiration. Marianismo is, in reality, a toxic ideology that stems from machismo and demands that mothers sacrifice their selfhood in service of patriarchal ideals. All those who deviate in any way from these prescriptive mothering norms are immediately deemed bad mothers.     

“75% of mothers with children are employed full time.”

— U.S. Department of Labor (2016)

The image of the traditional housewife whose primary and sole responsibility is to take care of the home and children while the father “brings home the bacon” seems to have been irreparably imprinted in the minds of many individuals. However, the reality is that 71% of U.S. mothers are formally employed[4] (Pew Research 2014). Sound judgement would lead one to conclude that since the majority of modern mothers do, in fact, work outside the home, gender expectations regarding tending the home have shifted. Regrettably, this is not the case. Women, particularly women of color, have long endured the “double shift,” working full-time as paid employees and spending considerably more time than men in unpaid labor in the form of childcare and housework. According to the U.S. Department of Labor (2019), men work an average of 7 hours and 54 minutes in paid work per day, while women labor a total of 7 hours and 20 minutes. The number of paid hours worked amounts to a 34-minute difference. In the household, however, women work an average of 120 minutes more than men and Latina women work more than men as compared to women of other ethnicities. These statistics reflect normal circumstances: that is, pre-COVID 19. The pandemic exacerbated these conditions, leading to what is now known as the “double double shift.”

During the coronavirus lockdown, women with full-time employment, a partner and children worked 20 hours a week more than men in domestic labor. The consequences of the unequal division of home duties are manifold and produce a domino effect that affects nearly every aspect of a woman’s life. Carrying a larger workload means less sleep, no time for a jog, or coffee with friends. Enjoying a TV show, attending a Bible study or reading daily devotionals might seem impossible. Leisure and spiritual activities promote mental wellbeing by providing a balanced life that can help reduce stress, anxiety and depression. In a poll conducted by the Kaiser Family Foundation in the midst of the pandemic, 53% of women reported feeling worried or stressed, versus 37% of men. The gender gap is even more pronounced among parents of children under the age of eighteen: 57% of mothers versus 32% of fathers reported that their mental health has deteriorated due to the pandemic.

“Women will have achieved true equality when men share with them the responsibility of bringing up the next generation.””

— Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Moreover, increased household obligations impact women’s economic growth. The economic disadvantage that women have historically suffered has worsened since the pandemic. In September alone, approximately 865,000 women left the U.S. workforce, compared to 200,000 men (UN Women 2020). These figures are not coincidental; they reflect the heavy burden placed upon women’s shoulders who are forced to renounce paid employment in order to devote themselves to unrewarded and underappreciated unpaid care work. Women’s monumental efforts and hard work are not only undervalued, they are overtly punished. Formally employed mothers suffer monetarily in the form of reduced wages through what is known as the “motherhood penalty.” Women of color, who are disproportionately at the bottom of the pay scale, are punished the most. Conversely, fathers are rewarded with a “fatherhood bonus.” “Fatherhood is a valued characteristic of employers, signaling perhaps greater work commitment, stability and deservingness,” explains Dr. Michelle J. Budig. Professor Budig’s research shows, “That is the opposite of how parenthood by women is interpreted by employers. The conventional story is they work less and they’re more distractible when on the job.” In short, fatherhood is seen as an asset whereas motherhood is considered a liability.

“In 40% of all households with children, women are the breadwinners.”

— Pew Research Center (2013)

We analyze the statistics and they are disconcerting. We hear women’s first-hand experiences and we are disturbed. We live out these injustices in our own flesh and yet we continue to do the bidding of an oppressive system that pollutes our soul. I want to be transparent, but it pains me to write this: my most fervent accusers were not men – they were women. Machismo tactically utilizes us, women, as weapons against ourselves and each other. We become machismo’s most faithful little soldiers. We point the gun at each other and shoot relentlessly, not realizing that those bullets are ricocheting and piercing our own bodies. We surveil each other, we play the comparative game, destroy each other in hopes that machismo will honor us as la más santa – mejor que fulanita o zutanita. I, too, have internalized sexist mothering notions, not only by allowing guilt to completely consume me but also by being highly critical of other mothers. I attempted to liberate myself from the shame and guilt that suffocated me by condemning other mothers, as if obstructing their airways would help me breath. I sought liberation, not by destroying my shackles, but by placing them on someone else. This is perverse. “Being female doesn’t stop us from being sexist, we’ve had to choose early or late at 7, 14, 27, 56 to think different […] act different […] to change other women’s minds, to change our own minds, to change our feelings, ours, yours and mine […] The basis of our unity is that in the most important way we are all in the same boat, all subjected to the violent, pernicious ideas we have learned to hate, that we must all struggle against them.[5]” Sexism is the norm; it is how we are socialized. However, God did not create us to be oppressors of each other; our prosperity as God’s children is not based on how much suffering and punishment we inflict on one another. On the contrary, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it” (1 Corinthians 12:26, NRSV). We must labor daily against our own social conditioning that incites us to endorse and perpetuate sexist ideals.

In order to overcome our conditioning, we (men and women) need to become aware and be intentional. We should, for example, examine the ways in which our daily expressions unconsciously sustain sexist assumptions. Mi esposa me ayuda con los niños (My wife helps me with the kids) is a phrase that I have never heard in my life. Mi esposo me ayuda con los niños (My husband helps me with the kids) is one that I hear often. The message that we transmit is that fathers “help” mothers while mothers simply fulfill their “motherly” duties. In the church, women are overrepresented in children’s ministry and vacation bible school and underrepresented as preachers and teachers. This rigid division of labor based on gender disadvantages everyone by restricting individuals from utilizing the fullness of their spiritual gifts.

Perfect mothering does not exist and “good mothers” come in many different shapes and sizes. The same can be said about fathers. Humans have an innate desire to be socially accepted but this approval should not cost us our livelihoods. One of my father’s parenting strengths was that he himself rebelled against cultural scripts that commanded him to place his two daughters in a gendered box. He refused to “play his part” and by doing so, allowed us to flourish and taught us a valuable lesson: to question and vigorously resist toxic gender scripts. About two years ago, I was in the car with my dad on our way to our favorite restaurant and I don’t recall the full context of our conversation but I vividly remember him saying something that no one had ever said to me explicitly, “Itzel, you’re a great mom.” A tear rolled down my cheek and I believed him.

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About Dra. Itzel meduri soto

As an academic from el barrio, Dra. Meduri Soto strives to engage in scholarly work that honors and gives visibility to her community. Her faith drives her passion for justice as she seeks to reveal the ways in which certain language ideologies are constructed to operate unjustly against our communities. Her work acknowledges language as a powerful tool and promotes linguistic diversity in its different manifestations. Bicultural and bilingual identities are at the center of Dra. Meduri Soto’s work. She is a Spanish professor at Biola University where she teaches second language and heritage language learners. To learn more about her work, follow her on Instagram: @la.dra.itzel

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Footnotes

[1] The Mexican National Commission to Prevent and Eradicate Violence Against Women (Comisión Nacional para Prevenir y Erradicar la Violencia Contra las Mujeres) defines machismo as, “certain behaviors and beliefs that promote, reproduce and reinforce various forms of discrimination against women. It is constructed through the polarization of gender roles and stereotypes that [strictly] define masculinity and femininity. Its main characteristic is the degradation of the feminine; its major form of expression, violence in any of its types and forms against women” (2016).  

[2] In Vindicating the Vixens: Revisiting Sexualized, Vilified and Marginalized Women of the Bible, Sandra Glahn states, “In addition to maligning some Bible women, we have marginalized others wrongly downplaying or even ignoring their contributions” (15).

[3] “In many Latin American or Hispanic cultures, an idealized traditional feminine gender role characterized by submissiveness, selflessness, chastity, hyperfemininity, and acceptance of machismo in males” (APA Dictionary of Psychology).

[4] I use “formally employed” as opposed to “working mothers” because the latter term erroneously implies that mothers who take care of the home are not, in fact, “working.”

[5] Rosario Morales, We’re All in the Same Boat (1981).

El Español in the US: Memoria and Resistance

Me inculcaste el odio hacia mi idioma. El español lo rechazaste, como peste lo valoraste. El inglés lo alabaste, como lengua suprema lo elevaste. I don’t need Spanish, I told my mother and it pierced her heart. I’m American, le repetí, American, le grité. Mr. Smith’s words echoed in me: “English only, Juan. Spanish will deform your lips and rot your tongue.” Petrified, el inglés abracé y solo a él, me aferré. Now, I’m in Spanish class undoing the trauma and writing en español.[1]  

“Speak English, we’re in America!” he told my aunt in a demanding tone. He was a passerby and her Spanish words were not being directed at him. “Y usted, ¿qué le dijo?” I asked my aunt incredulously. “Nada, mija. Hay muchos como él,” she replied. She was right. English-only discourses have been disseminated for centuries in the U.S. In the early 1900s, President Theodore Roosevelt stated, “We only have room for one language in this country, and it is English.” In 1998, California passed the infamous Proposition 227 that would eliminate bilingual education. Despite the fact that California has one of the most abundant populations of non-native English speakers in the country, it took almost twenty years for Proposition 227 to be repealed. In 2015, Donald Trump criticized former Florida Governor Jeb Bush for speaking in Spanish: “He’s a nice man. But he should really set the example by speaking English while in the United States.” The direct implication of President Trump’s assertion was that monolingual English speakers are nice and Spanish speakers are, well, not nice. The ease to which people can record everything on their smartphones has exposed numerous incidents across the country of individuals berating others on the basis of language use and the demand that only English be spoken. In 2019, a substitute teacher in Texas was caught on camera as she told a student, “Speak English. We’re in America. Give me your phone.” In West Virginia, a customer told the manager of a Mexican Restaurant to “get the f*** out of her country” and demanded for him to speak English while in America. In Wisconsin, a woman verbally attacked a Puerto Rican family for listening to Spanish music while barbequing at a park. In New York City, where 48% of the population speaks a language other than English at home[2], a lawyer threatened to call immigration after he heard two women speak Spanish at a restaurant. These incidents are not uncommon occurrences caused by deranged individuals – they are the fruit of our nation’s racist history against brown people.

The insistence that Spanish should not be spoken in the U.S. is driven by anti-immigrant and racist beliefs that are historically inaccurate. Anti-Spanish language policies, discourses, and behaviors cannot be examined in isolation from white supremacy. The fact that English is the most commonly spoken language in the U.S. is indisputable, but the U.S. does not have an official language at the federal level. Anti-Spanish-language views are prompted, in part, by incorrect assumptions that Spanish is the language of foreign invaders. Spanish is not a foreign language, and in many parts of the U.S., it has a longer history than English.[3] In 1848, the Treaty of Guadalupe ended the Mexican-American War and the U.S. took over 55% of Mexico’s territory, which included present-day California, Arizona, New Mexico, parts of Nevada, Utah, and Colorado. In 1898, the Treaty of Paris ended the Spanish-Cuban-American War, making Puerto Rico a U.S. territory, and in 1917, the U.S. granted Puerto Ricans U.S. citizenship through the Jones Act. Spanish is a U.S. language. There are currently close to 53 million Spanish speakers in the U.S. There are more Spanish-speakers in the U.S. than in any other nation in the world, except for Mexico.[4] “Speak English, we’re in America” is, at its best, an ignorant declaration and at its worst, a hateful attempt to deny our existence.

You told me that if I spoke a little less Spanish you would love me, that if I looked a little more white, you would hug me. I masked my brownness, buried my language and still, you despise me. Jesus is light, Jesus is white! You color-coded my existence. Now, I’m in a dark place, a brave space.[5]  

“With your head facing the wall, you would bend down and he [the teacher] would get a paddle and hit you in your bottom and it was hard enough that your head bounced against the wall,” recalls Irene Tovar, Executive Director of the Latin American Civic Association and alumna of Pacoima Elementary School in Los Angeles. The violation? Speaking Spanish, whether it be in the classroom or on the playground. This was not an isolated case in the 1960s-70s or one that created public outrage or civil suits. It was a common and accepted form of punishment for teachers to wash the mouths of their Spanish-speaking students with soap, hit them and verbally abuse them for uttering words in their home language. Latina/o children were explicitly taught through violent measures that Spanish was dirty, undesirable, unworthy and transgressive. The message communicated to them was that the language that their parents spoke was inferior and should be forgotten. The U.S. public education system taught Latina/o students to be ashamed of the Spanish language, literally beating it out of them. Traumatized by the abuse they had endured, when those students became parents, many of them made the conscientious decision to not pass on the language.    

Despite the staggering amount of evidence that supports bilingualism, many well-intended teachers and administrators promote English monolingualism and discourage parents from speaking to their children in other languages. Fearing that their child will be confused, develop a stutter or language disorders, some families opt to not teach their children their home language, and by doing so, unknowingly, disadvantage them. Some of these myths were initially propagated by seemingly reputable studies that were deeply flawed. These studies compared the performance of monolingual students from privileged backgrounds to bilingual students from disadvantaged groups. Researchers concluded that the use of multiple languages was harmful and ignored socioeconomic vulnerabilities as a factor; they saw bilingualism, and not poverty, as the problem. Though these studies have long been debunked, they have persisted as truths, largely, because they support anti-immigrant and racist ideologies that believe brown bodies, and their languages, to be inferior.   

“I don’t want my kids to speak with an accent,” was commonly said by Latina/o parents who did not teach their children Spanish. This statement was usually followed by, “because I don’t want them to be discriminated against.” In reality, we all have accents. Linguists define accent as a particular way of speaking distinctive of a specific nation, location, or individual. Therefore, it is impossible to speak without an accent. To Californians, individuals from New York, Texas and Chicago have accents, and vice versa. Irish and Australians might note the American accent of tourists and city folk will allude to the accent of rural people. Non-standard or undesirable accents in any given group are contextually determined. Jesus himself had a non-standard accent[6]. Despite the fact that everyone has an accent, not all accents are perceived to be equally acceptable. In the U.S., British and French accents are usually thought of as being sexy or sophisticated whereas Indian or Nigerian accents are discredited. The concern that children will be discriminated against for speaking with a non-accepted accent is valid and well-grounded. However, Latina/o children will also be discriminated against for looking brown, having a Spanish last name, or living in a certain neighborhood. We stopped teaching Spanish to our children as a protective strategy, as a survival mechanism disguised as choice. We sacrificed our descendants’ ability to speak with their own family in service of racist ideologies. We forcefully traded our ability to communicate with our familias in exchange for a little bit of acceptance from a system that does not recognize us as image-carriers. Acceptance that is based on negating parts of our identity, that asks us to hate ourselves and that demands us to sever ties with our communities is not acceptance, it is oppression.  

Assimilation is a frail lifeline created by a racist system that confuses uniformity with unity. Assimilation demands us to inflict pain on ourselves as a rite of passage. Assimilation defies God’s creativeness and rejects the heavens described in Revelation: “After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands” (7:9, NRSV). We are united by one true God, integrated into God’s kin-dom[7], but our differences are not erased, they are God-made, welcomed and celebrated.    

Quería decirte sana, sana, colita de rana pero para protegerte te murmuré, everything will be ok. Quería darte un apapacho but instead, I gave you a hug. Quería que supieras que a Dios le hablamos de tú, que ‘extended family’ es inexistente y que el ‘si Dios lo permite’ y ‘con el favor de Dios’ forman parte de nuestro andar. Quería que el español no fuera background noise to you, como un eco atrapado en el olvido. They held a gun to our head and said, “give us your children’s Spanish or we will kill them.” Mijito, I couldn’t see you die. I gave them what they wanted. Quería que entendieras las palabras en este poema, quería que no te sintieras como foráneo en tu propia familia, quería que el abuelo te contara sus historias, pero también quería, quería que sobrevivieras…[8]   

Visualize the following scenario: A Spanish speaker is walking to the store. She buys milk, hurriedly walks back to the house and answers a phone call. Who did you imagine? More specifically, what was the ethnic background of the person that you envisioned? It is highly likely that your visual reference was that of a Latina/o person. If you are Latina/o, you might’ve even pictured yourself or a family member. Languages are intrinsically associated to people groups and Spanish in the U.S. is immediately linked to Latin-American immigrants. The notion that a country has of a people group will directly impact their perception of the language spoken by that group of people.

“When white people speak Spanish, it’s a global skill. When Latinx people speak Spanish, it’s a threat to the country”

— Dr. José Medina

It is estimated that 50-70% of the world population is bilingual or multilingual.[9] In many parts of the world, including Asia, Latin America and Europe, multilingual education is the norm and the importance of languages is highly stressed. Many wealthy families even pay private language tutors and yet, in the U.S., where we are blessed to have the opportunity to be in community and learn from individuals of diverse linguistic backgrounds, we discourage bilingualism. However, bilingualism is not discouraged equally amongst all ethnic groups. People of color, specifically, are punished for their linguistic skills while white people are praised for their abilities. “Kylie La Gringa King” recently became a TikTok sensation for making videos in which she appears speaking Spanish, specifically a Mexican colloquial variety, while performing daily tasks. Her efforts are publicly applauded, and her Spanish is admired. Learning a new language is an arduous task and a profound undertaking. It takes dedication, humility, and courage to learn a new language and Kylie should be praised for her efforts but so should Alejandra, Natalia, José, and Ernesto. Instead, Latina/o people are discriminated against for speaking Spanish but also vilified by their own communities for not speaking it.  

I was riding the bus with my best friend one afternoon when I asked a girl, who clearly looked Latina, a question in Spanish. “I don’t speak Spanish,” she responded, with a tone of exhaustion in her voice. My friend and I laughed at her and murmured, “esta quien se cree, si tiene el nopal en la frente.”[10] I vividly remember feeling annoyed and offended that another Latina girl would dare to pretend she didn’t know Spanish. Years later, as I sat in a college class unearthing my history, I felt the desperate impulse to find that girl on the bus and ask for her forgiveness.

Shame has persistently burdened the Latina/o community in the U.S. We have been put to shame for speaking Spanish and have also shamed each other for not speaking it or not speaking it as well as others think we should by virtue of the brownness of our faces. Humiliation is a terrible pedagogical strategy. If you are a Spanish speaker who desires to encourage other Latina/os to learn the language, do not humiliate them. Twenty-seven percent of the U.S.-Latina/o population does not speak Spanish at home (Pew Research Center 2015). Poet Melissa Lozada-Oliva, describes her relationship with Spanish as an “itchy phantom limb” that “is reaching for words and only finding air.”[11] Many heritage learners[12] are working tirelessly in Spanish classes and elsewhere to reconnect with the language. For U.S.-Latina/os, Spanish is not simply a global skill or a resume booster – it is the opportunity to reconnect with their loved ones in a deeper way; it is the possibility to understand the stories that shaped their families. Black U.S.-Mexican poet Ariana Brown expresses the emotional turmoil felt by Latina/o learners in Spanish class in a powerful poem titled, Dear White Girls in my Spanish Class: “What is it like to be a tourist in the halls of my shame? To not be expected to speak better than you do? How does it feel to take a foreign language for fun? To owe your history nothing?”[13]       

El español es resistencia en este país. Learning or speaking Spanish while Latina/o is an act of resistance. Proving one’s Latinidad should not be the motivating factor behind learning Spanish. Teaching Spanish to future generations cannot be tied to issues of cultural authenticity or legitimacy and “linguistic ability should not be held against the diaspora’s children.”[14] However, speaking Spanish allows us to form deeper bonds with our communities; it enables us to explore parts of our heritage that can be illuminated more clearly under the light of the Spanish language and makes it possible for us to learn from our abuelitas’ theologies.        

Me inculcaste el amor hacia mi idioma. El español abrazaste, como agua lo valoraste. El inglés lo aprendiste, como lengua adicional lo quisiste. I love learning Spanish, I told my mother and it warmed her heart. I’m a child of God, I said. Un hijo de Dios, I smiled. Yahweh’s words echoed in me: “All languages are beautiful, Juan. Spanish will give you wings and help you fly.” Excited, el español usé y el Spanglish también lo adopté. Now, I’m in my home, tomando café con pan y leyendo la historia de Rut con mis nietos.[15]  

About Dra. Itzel meduri soto

As an academic from el barrio, Dra. Meduri Soto strives to engage in scholarly work that honors and gives visibility to her community. Her faith drives her passion for justice as she seeks to reveal the ways in which certain language ideologies are constructed to operate unjustly against our communities. Her work acknowledges language as a powerful tool and promotes linguistic diversity in its different manifestations. Bicultural and bilingual identities are at the center of Dra. Meduri Soto’s work. She is a Spanish professor at Biola University where she teaches second language and heritage language learners. To learn more about her work, follow her on Instagram: @la.dra.itzel

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Footnotes

[1] “El español crucificado” (2020) by Itzel Reyes.

[2] Census Bureau’s American Community Survey (2019).

[3] See Dr. Rosina Lozano’s book titled, “An American Language: The History of Spanish in the United States” (2018).

[4] Instituto Cervantes (2015). For full article, click here.

[5] “Burying my Language” (2020) by Itzel Reyes.  

[6] Galileans were peasant farmers who were bilingual in Aramaic and Greek, as explained by Dr. Robert Chao Romero in Brown Church: Five Centuries of Latina/o Social Justice, Theology and Identity (2020).

[7] A term used by mujerista theologian Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz.

[8] “Our Spanish is Hostage” (2020) by Itzel Reyes.

[9] Grosjean, Francois. Bilingualism’s Best Kept Secret (2010).

[10] Translation: Who does she think she is, she’s obviously of Mexican descent. Con el nopal en la frente is a derogatory Mexican expression that literally translates as, with a cactus on your forehead.

[11] My Spanish (2015).  

[12] A person who has a cultural connection to the language they are learning.

[13] Dear White Girls in my Spanish Class (2017).

[14] Emanuel Padilla. Too Much or Not Enough (2020)

[15] “El español resucitado” (2020) by Itzel Reyes.

Soy Tu Madre. I See You.

“Because I’m your Mom, it counts the most, because I know you the most.””

— Isabel in Wonder

I remember the first time I felt seen by my mom. It was a random Saturday when I was seven or eight. “A girls’ day,” she called it. I don’t remember all the details of that day. I know we had lunch out, and likely went shopping, possibly buying some new clothes for me. It is the feeling that stayed with me—the feeling that I mattered. Being a middle child of six, and the only girl, my Mama knew I needed to be known, she knew I needed to feel seen.

In the 2017 film Wonder, America’s beloved Julia Roberts plays Isabel, an ordinary Manhattan mom who gives up completing a master’s thesis to homeschool her special needs son, Auggie. Wonder begins as Auggie starts a new and terrifying journey—middle school. For the first time Auggie and his family learn to navigate friendships with children who often cannot see past Auggie’s physical differences. Being seen and known by his family gives Auggie the courage to go to school each day, but being unseen (ignored) and unknown leaves his older sister, Via, swimming in isolation as she starts high school. In the film, Isabel’s growth as a mother is not about rediscovering her life or finishing her education, as one would expect. It is putting to practice what she already does so well with her son—learning to see and know her teenage daughter.

In a post-modern, justice and truth driven Christianity it can be easy to overlook a hidden task force for God’s kingdom that quietly, and often thanklessly, works each day shaping and changing culture. This task force? Mothers and grandmothers—the women who birth and raise children to know and love God.  Mothers as culture-makers is not a new concept, but an ancient, biblical one, reflected in the abuelita theology of the Latinx church.

Abuelita theology elevates the influence of women in the passing on of faith. Dr. Miguel A. De La Torre defines abuelita or “kitchen theology” as an understanding of the role mothers and grandmothers take in the “transmission” of beliefs and practices in the Latinx community.[1] This informal education happens in the most ordinary place—en casa. Latina scholars Loida I. Martell-Otero, Zaida Maldonado Perez, and Elizabeth Conde-Fraizer highlight the importance of this home environment, in their book, Latina Evangélicas. Latina theology is deeply rooted in the “’womb’ of daily life.”[2] More than a set of correct beliefs or practices, abuelita theology is an approach to faith formed within the community of a marginalized people, and is consequently rooted in “lo cotidiano,” the struggles of the day to day life historically faced by US minorities. Abuelita theology cannot help but be practical, as the effects of poverty and discrimination necessitate a livable faith.

In his new book, Brown Church, Robert Chao Romero suggests the Exodus story reflects the strength and influence of matriarchs.[3] The beginning chapters of Exodus reveal God’s people in a precarious place. Enslaved in Egypt, the Israelites population growth and potential power was concerning to Pharaoh. He commanded the Hebrew midwives to kill male infants as they assisted in deliveries. Fearing God, these women continued to help Hebrew mothers successfully birth their sons. As the Israelites grew in numbers, Pharaoh declared to all people that male Hebrew infants should be thrown in the Nile. Exodus 2 introduces us to Jochebed, a Hebrew mother: “The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw that he was beautiful, she hid him for three months.” Jochebed allowed her son to live. Three months later she submitted him to God’s sovereignty by placing him in a basket in the river, and dispatching her daughter to watch and wait. Moses was found, given favor, and raised in the house of Pharaoh. Later in his life, he would become the deliverer God had ordained for His people.

We are left to wonder what Jochebed saw in her son. The word translated “good,” or also “beautiful” in Exodus 2:2, does not give us a clear understanding of her thinking. In Stephen’s speech to the Sanhedrin in Acts 7 we learn that Moses was “lovely to God.”[4] Did Jochebed have an inkling of her son’s future purpose? Did God reveal his set-apartness to her? Or did she simply see and know her child, and that was enough. In both the darkest adversity, and the daily struggle as a member of a marginalized people, Jochebed influenced the world through her motherhood. The future of God’s people was secured by the faithful obedience of many women—and one mother who saw her son.

Joechebed’s story introduces the power of “lo cotidiano.” It is in the struggle of life that Jochebed’s choices as a mother take shape. Romero explains how this daily struggle is typified in Latinas: “Though many may look down upon our mothers, tías, and abuelas for their daily commutes on the bus, travails in domestic and factory work, exhausting familial responsibilities, and faithful church participation…it is precisely in the daily rhythm and grind of lo cotidiano that unique theological and epistemological understandings flow.”[5] This daily grind, lived out by every mother, is amplified in the life of the stay-at-home mom. The home becomes that “womb of daily life” that allows the child and mother to experience a reciprocal relationship of seeing and being seen.

Mothers and abuelas en casa create environments where the lives of children matter. In daily conversations, responses, sacrifices, and challenges, mom becomes a disciple maker and the children the disciples; the home is a safe space of shared experiences. Through this day in-day out proximity, stay-at-home moms create with their children a unique opportunity to both shape and be shaped. A mother sees her child each day in present circumstances, but as Jochebed and Isabel, also with a heart full of future hopes. Out of love, knowledge, and hope mothers speak into the lives of their children with the intent to shape whole and holy people. This relationship is reciprocal, as children also see their mothers up close. This allows space for immediate questions and conversation, as a child watches mom deal with “lo cotidiano.” This vulnerable relationship, when embraced, also sharpens the mother’s conviction and character. In the most mundane moments—over diaper changes, tearful shoe tying, math homework, fights over music choices, marital disagreements, and requests for forgiveness—mothers model godliness and shape the next generation of the Church, while also experiencing growth themselves.

In abuelita theology, the Latino community gifts the global church with theological language—words and imagery to honor the critical role of mothers and grandmothers in the propagation of the Christian faith and the strengthening of the Church. Possibly, like me, you expect women to cultivate an identity outside of being a mom. The progression of time and culture have shown us that women can successfully raise a family and pursue education or a career. I have this conversation with friends often: how we are eager to bring truth to our cultures, build the church, and share the gospel with our communities, but we also want to have strong families. As culture-makers who are working from the ground up to bring the beauty, justice, and wonder of the Cross to the world, we can lose sight of our strongest ministry partners—mothers.

In a concluding scene of Wonder, Julia Robert’s character Isabel attends her daughter Via’s play. Forgetting her glasses, Isabel strained to see Via enter the stage. Determined not to miss this special moment, Isabel took her husband’s glasses and watched the entirety of the play leaning forward to see her daughter perform. Shocked by the talent and beauty of her own child, the glasses did more than allow Isabel to see Via act, they helped Isabel realize she had not been truly seeing her daughter. It was finally being seen by her mom that gave Via the confidence she needed to face the world outside her home. Isabel and Via were changed and so was the world around them through their strengthened relationship.  

Today we stop to honor motherhood—the women, mothers and grandmothers, who have birthed and shaped our lives. Theirs is a faith defined by labor and sacrifice, and a love that chooses to see and know as God sees and knows. While many of us labor as pastors, teachers, writers, artists, advocates, thinkers, and activists, trying to make new the world in which we live—these women labor alongside us, creating and nurturing life that is new, young, and vulnerable. Today we stop to honor the women who see.

About Emily C. Alexander

A first generation college graduate of a rural working class family, Emily C. Alexander recently completed her undergraduate degree in Ministry to Women at the Moody Bible Institute. Emily lives in Chicago where she enjoys long walks admiring architecture and pondering theological and sociological issues. Her hope is to impact the lives of women and the flourishing of the church through thoughtful theological engagement.

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Footnotes

[1] Hispanic American Religious Cultures, De La Torre, 347.

[2] Latina Evangélicas, Martell-Ortero, et. all, pg. 6.

[3] Romero, 211

[4] Acts 7:20

[5] Romero, 317