help! i can’t put on my nahuas :(
I’m in something like a trance, ultimately confused, starring at myself in the bathroom mirror attempting to figure out how to get myself dressed. Three layers of fabric (un fondo, la nahua, y el delantar.) and no zipper or button in sight, IYKYK. I’m thinking to myself, “why does this nahua gotta be so complicated to tie on? So beautiful, yet complicated como su dueña.” Nahuas are our regalia, our skirts we save for special occasions and celebrations. They are so beautiful, so delicate, each unique and made with love. I’m quickly taken out of the self induced trance by my mother busting the door wide open and coming at me with full force. Just like any other p’urhepecha woman would, she grabs everything out of my hands and starts pulling and tugging. after the first knot secures my fondo, everything starts feeling like it’s being put together, the way it’s meant to. “Vistete bien! deja que te arregle bien esta nahua.” She pulls and tugs on my nahuas, until they’re sitting at the perfect height, ensuring the ruffles in the back matched up just the way they’re supposed to. I was struggling to do this myself the entire afternoon and my mother effortlessly corrected me. Thinking, “why does it take 2-3 people to put these things on and keep them on?” Standing still, with my hands up in the air as my mother wraps the delantar around me, pulling out just enough of my blusa for the outfit to really pop. Finally, having the entire fit complete, I am reminded of my days I played with dolls. Now I’m here, being the muñeca for everyone to dress up and stare at. My eyes rolling with attitude after every continued tug, a big sigh of frustration comes out as I see her start pulling out the bag filled with dozens of hair ribbons, straight from michoacan nonetheless to place perfectly in my hair. The outfit already feeling like it was 50 pounds. As my mother starts braiding my hair, delicately intertwining every ribbon with my hair, forgetting where my hair and ribbons meet, they are now one. Before I know it, I hear myself mumble, “why do I gotta be the only one wearing this?” As I see my brother walk past me laughing, still in his regular clothing. Before I can even flip him off or come up with something mean to say back, my mother interrupts both of us, shoos him away and tells me, “Vestirse es una gran cosa que se respeta y se hace para nuestra virgen de Guadalupe. Un ofrecimiento…” I stop listening there because I can’t stand to hear another story of how la virgen de Guadalupe chose to appear to man who was brown, shorter, uneducated and indio, concluding that because we are similar in appearance and experience within the Mexican community, this was just another thing we did, “por que haci se hacen las cosas,” a phrase I heard time and time again. I start listening again at the part where she tells me about how dressing in our traditional clothing is a blessing that not everyone has. My clothing represents who I am without having to say a thing. “si estuviéramos en Michoacán, con nomas de verte, todos pudieran saber de dónde eres. Tu pelo, tu trenza, tu falda, tu blusa representa tu pueblo.” Continuing to remind me that many of my older aunts and grandmother still wear their nahuas and delantar, regardless of the current fashion trends.
As my mother is starting to get to the ends of my braids and the final dozen of her ribbons, I start to slowly admire myself in the mirror, this is what my initial trance was prepping me for. The transformation. My initial annoyance of the whole ordeal starts to soften as the outfit is coming together. My facial features are now popping, the color tones bringing out my dark brown eyes and caramel colored skin highlighting the beautiful colors on my shirt and skirt. The love for myself in my nahuas and empowerment was beginning to fill my heart. I begin thinking about the way my grandmother chaya handmade the huanengo I’m wearing. Once a dress, and now refitted and resized to fit me as a blusa, providing me with abundance and versatility. “Como toda una princesa tarasca,” says my mother as she’s stepping back in awe and admiring every piece of clothing and making sure every hair strand is perfectly in place. Continuing to stare into the mirror, I wonder why we stopped dressing like this, why do we only dress like this on special occasions, what determines a special occasion anyway?
De repente, my self admiration is interrupted by my brother walking past me and chuckling, “parese la India Maria.” And I can feel my light being dimmed and suddenly I’m reminded of names I get called, without even having the outfit on. My mother tells me to ignore them as she starts to place her aertes de media luna on my ears, reminding me how they once belonged to her and to be extra careful with them. The final touch, followed by one last long look in the mirror. Is that really me? Is this what my ancestors looked like on the daily? Thinking of how we got here and all the why’s. I snap out of it and start making my way down the stairs. Grabbing the sides of my skit extra carefully and looking down at the ground after every step. All my jewelry clinking together and making all the noises, my music to remind myself who I am and trying my best to focus on the sounds of bracelets over the fear of stepping on my skirt and falling down the stairs. Porque como le voy hacer de princesa tarasaca while being too clumsy to walk down these 14 steps of stairs.
After making it safely and completa to the car, we drive to our church. Off we went to Santo Tomas in Tukwila. My bootleg ipod from swapmeet blasting some PXNDX from my headphones to let everyone in the car know I wasn’t in the mood, my personal way of raging and disassociating.
We pull up to the church and I can feel my stomach turning in excitement, I feel beautiful, and I know I have a gang of my friends waiting for me inside. The anxiety turning into empowerment, and I couldn’t tell you why. The church parking lot is dark, cold, and foggy. Distant sounds of the freeway overshadowing the music coming from the church. I can tell they’re practicing because they’re relentlessly trying to perfect the sounds our pirekuas bring, something I was very familiar with, but knew it was not familiar to the “normal” Mexicans playing the part, for tonight only. It’s almost as if for this night only, it is okay to be indigenous and suddenly everyone is highly knowledgeable in our indigenous music, customs, and attire.
Walking into the church, I’m hit with the sudden slap in the face of incense burning all over. Blessing the ofrendas as people arrive and flowers are carefully placed at the feet of the altar they created for la virgin. A big picture frame of la virgen de Guadalupe front and center completely covered by flowers, I can’t even tell where the floor and steps start or end. As I’m making my way down the aisle to go give my thanks and leave a prayer to our mother, the same way I have done for years, I elegantly hold the sides of my nahuas as I walk. silence fills my head, it’s only me and this current journey down the aisle. People smiling at me, taking pictures, and mouthing that I look beautiful, almost as if they knew that something sacred was happening and no one was worthy of interrupting. I now understood and could feel what my mother told me every time, it is a privilege to dress in the ways my antepasados have. As “normal” Mexicans called this “dressing up” for la virgen, I knew this wasn’t only for her, it was also an opportunity for us to show out and freely represent our indigenous customs. A night where mestizos and ‘normal’ Mexicans seemed slightly similar to me. I step up to the altar steps, navigating between steps and bouquets of flowers. I touch the picture of the virgin de Guadalupe, right where her hands are placed and proceed con la bendicion. I get down on my knees and let out a little prayer, giving her thanks for watching over me, over us. I tell her quietly about my struggles to put on the nahuas and apologize for all the attitude and shame I was feeling. I ask her to continue watching over me and begin to stand up to make my way back down the altar. Flor de Canela playing in the back, I walk to the beat and come back down feeling as if all the women in my family were right there behind me. I come back down from the altar knowing that I am beautiful.
Returning to earth, I mean the current church event… everyone is telling me how much they love my costume. Each comment bothering me more than the one before it. Even when I try explaining it isn’t a costume, no one wants to listen and at least call it un vestido. To everyone I was playing a role in festivities, but for me I knew there was a current loving exchange between la virgen and me, which also gave another exchange of love, the one between myself and my culture. the night continues and I’m sitting in the back of the church with my friends. i’m reflecting and admiring my clothing and how for this night only, everyone makes space for our regalia. I sing and dance, making sure that my skirt is shown off at any chance I get. I’m standing strong with the love and empowerment my nahuas bring me, and happy I get to know where and who I come from. When my mother comes over to me with a bag of extra clothing she secretly packed, I pull up my nahuas, fixing them to make sure they’re sitting perfectly as I tell her, “no thanks.” when she asks me if I want to change into regular clothes. typically I would have jumped at the opportunity and ran to the bathroom to change. But not this time, instead i continue living in the moment and taking it all in. I have so much in common with my nahuas, beautiful, unique, complicated, but ultimately, made with so much love by my ancestors.
