ABSTRACT
Mejor muerte que sencilla, or better dead than plain, is the anthem that Latinas are raised to stand up to, a manicured hand pressed against chest, and a bowed solemn head of blown-out hair. Alnce pledged to words that insist no fate is worse than being plain, as if to be your natural self is the equivalent of ugly. The breakup with myself and my worth began early. Antes muerta que sencilla echoed in my mind, traveled through the curves of my soul. Decades later, I have come to understand that I can be more than one thing. Sexy and fly, a bookworm, woke artist, filled with swag, that I can stroll into a yoga class with my Biggie t-shirt, blast Cardi B on my way to work or just as easily listen to Dan Harris’ podcast on mindfulness. I know all the lyrics of La Cura, by Frankie Ruiz, but in the next breath can quote you the first line of Cien Anos de Soledad and tell you why Gabriel Garcia Marquez bends time with that sentence. Acceptance of the all the adjacent parts of myself did not come easy; I write to find myself, my greatest act of rebellion.
