Segura de Mí
Leer en español.
The weekends of my childhood were filled with trips on the 7 train.
My family lived on Junction Blvd, a mere three short blocks away from the train station, which made catching a ride on one of the famous “red birds” heading to either Manhattan or Flushing super easy. I would run up the stairs, duck under the silver turnstile as my mother paid her fare with a token, before making our way to the platform to wait for the next train to take us to “the city.” Once the train arrived I would run and claim a seat by the window so I could watch as the train cut through each Queens neighborhood.
We were always selective in choosing one of the train coaches closest to the front so as to line up to where Great Aunt Vita would be standing to meet us at her Jackson Heights station. The fraternal twin to my maternal grandmother, Vita was the only other blood relative we had in the ‘States, and she tended to bask in the fact that she was able to navigate her life as white-presenting. She had light brown hair, gray eyes and skin pale enough for people to think she was a New Yorker who came from old money. (Not that she would ever correct them.) And with her personal style—from her clothes, and make up, to her hair, being within the same vein of Grace Kelly—it wasn’t hard to see why.
Vita always used to say, “Siempre que vayamos a la ciudad tenemos que ir vestidos lo mejor posible.” And she truly made the effort. For those trips down to Madison Avenue, she would don one of her fur coats, accessorizing with leather gloves that matched her boots and handbag in the winter. In the summer she would wear designer sun dresses, most of which were second-hand though she would never admit it, with different style sun hats and premium leather sandals or pumps. Her face was always flawless, with carefully applied makeup she would put on in the morning—she couldn’t be seen without it. I didn’t see the point of this as some of it was hidden behind large tortoise-shell frame sunglasses that she always wore whenever she stepped outside. She claimed that it was to keep the city dust and grime from her face, yet in reality it greatly added to the mystique of who she was and, more often than not, just having them on was enough to get the attention and respect of the sales associates at each store she would visit.
When it came to these weekend train rides, I was instructed to wear my best shoes, and dresses, many of them handmade by my mother. My dark brown curly hair styled carefully in two strand twists so as to make sure that not one hair stood out of place. Being the daughter of Panamanian immigrants who met on U.S. soil, one Afro-Indigenous and the other bi-racial (Black & White), I inherited their light mocha skin tone and dark brown eyes that greatly clashed with Vita’s overall aesthetic. It often left me needing to stay at her side at all times in order to avoid any racist confrontations with anyone should I stray away from her side too long at any of the stores we entered.
As soon as our train descended into the tunnel to cross the East River, I would spin from my kneeled position at the window to sit properly in my seat, quickly smoothing out the hem of my dress and facing front with my hands neatly folded on my lap. The chatter in Spanish, at least amongst my small family, would cease. On these trips, Vita encouraged things to be English-only until we returned home.
The idea was that by doing so, combined with our outward appearances, we would shatter public expectations along with perceptions of “people like us,” which was necessary if we hoped to climb the social ladder to a better place. My mother echoed this sentiment in her own way and so they both trained me in the art of this performance, one that I have since framed within the old adage of “mejorando la raza.” However, it extended beyond marrying into whiteness, much like Vita did with her Irish-born husband, but also taking an identity that was more rooted in whiteness or what is considered to be proper “American.” I went along with it because I wanted to be part of this shining, bright world that I only caught glimpses of in those trips to the city. Those train rides were my first training grounds for mastering this act and master it, I did. As I got older the two strand twists were replaced by roller sets and sessions with an InStyler rotating straightener, with pencil skirts, blazers, and button down blouses replacing my old handmade dresses.
“Siempre que vayamos a la ciudad tenemos que ir vestidos lo mejor posible.”
—
I would be the only one in my small friend group to attend graduate school straight out of college. Whenever asked about my decision, my argument was that in 2012 a bachelor’s degree was no longer enough to get a well paying job or get a true start in a career. This was a lie. Granted, this wasn't a complete lie. There were literally tens and hundreds of articles circulating at the time about how the value of a college education had decreased in the last couple of decades. However, the reality that I could only ever admit to my best friend was that the very idea of joining the workforce scared me and I wanted to delay it for as long as I could.
You would only need to take a glance at my grades to know that I was far from lazy. I put in work in everything I do. I just wasn’t too sure how I fare in a very competitive space outside of a classroom. College wasn’t the easiest for me, and not for the reasons you would think. The classwork and exams were fine. We won’t talk about those math and sciences classes, ok? Let’s face it, there was a reason why I double majored in Cultural Anthropology and Art History, but the college environment was one I wasn’t ready for.
Do you have a nickname? Your name is a bit…much.
Excuse me, I think you’re in the wrong room. This is Late Medieval Art, not Art History 101.
The argument you presented in your paper was so well articulated.
Which of your parents is white?
You’re working this hard because you need that C+ average to keep your financial aid, huh?
Unbeknownst to me, it would only be worse in grad school, as this was a place you couldn’t hide even if you tried. Classes with more than five people in a room were rare, with the largest attendance numbering closer to fifteen in total.
One such rare case was our Proseminar class, which was basically a course meant to be an introduction for the incoming cohort on how to conduct and present graduate level research. I particularly found it fascinating as the first couple of classes were so focused on getting everything we’ve learned in the past out of our mind, particularly replacing MLA Style, which was hammered into me throughout middle school, high school and college, for Chicago Manual Style. It made the last 10 or so years of education seem a bit pointless, but who was I to judge?
The course was taught by a tenured faculty member who specialized in 19th and 20th century design. He was in his early 40s and wore what I think would be expected of an Ivy League English professor: button down shirt, no tie, khakis, and loafers. His pale blue eyes would practically shine with passion whenever you got him talking about his speciality, yet when it came to this (mandatory) class, he took a very bland approach as he was far less interested in how to research than conducting research himself.
My favorite part of the class was our final project in which we were given a chance to pick a piece from the Cooper Hewitt Museum collections to research. It was the first time I got to handle such works in person, albeit with a professional watching and guiding me the entire time. Among a selection of classic pieces such as silverwork, jewelry and textiles, I came upon a watercolor print of a furnished two-level circular salon interior with a Baroque glass dome ceiling from 1890. Beside it was a post-it note labeling it as a possible rendering of the Gran Hall de Honor of the Palacio Paz in Argentina by French architect Louis Henri Mari Sotrais. I was stunned by the level of detail this piece had and I knew then that I wanted it to be my first research project.
One of the associate curators who had been leading us through the museum materials that afternoon walked over to me and glanced down at my choice. After a brief pause she said, “I wouldn’t recommend choosing that one unless you can read or speak Spanish. Not much research material is available in English. We’ve had this in the collection for a while now but never had someone on staff who could get much information about it other than how it got to the museum.”
I simply smiled and said, “Really? Well, that’s interesting.” On the inside I said to myself, “Challenge accepted.”
I took great care conducting my research, and worked diligently on my notes, gathering images and creating timelines. I even went as far as to get into contact with an Argentinian historian to ask questions about the similarities and differences between the salon that was designed and presented in the print versus the one that ended up being built in real life. Needless to say that I had some solid research put together by the time the semester came to an end.
The day came, and as I waited for my turn at the podium, I was practically bouncing in my seat with excitement over sharing my research findings, which was a welcome change from the usual nerves I got whenever it came to public speaking. I went through my flowery intro and background info before I went into what I found to be the most interesting part of my presentation. I smiled as I noted the interlocking “L’s” at the upper right of the print as a reference to Louis XIV, though the furniture featured in the print was actually in the style of Louis XV and Louis XVI, suggesting that the overall decor of the interior was a fusion of styles. As a result, it was clearly taking part in the eclectic tradition that was popular under the Beaux Arts style of 19th century Paris that spread to Argentina in the 1830s. I held my smile a moment longer as I paused to glance up at my small yet intimidating audience, fully expecting a sign of excitement that matched my own, only to be met with nothing but bemused expressions.
The nerves that I hadn’t felt earlier creeped over me and a slow burn brought color to my cheeks with a violent blush. My professor looked down at his watch, and that simple act snapped me back to reality as I only had a few minutes left. I took a breath before launching into the next part of my presentation, telling myself that the class must have been tired or just bored with my topic. That was the simple explanation for why they didn’t react the way I thought they would. Right?
The professor thanked me as the class clapped with zero enthusiasm, just as they had done for everyone thus far. I collected my notes to return to my seat at the back after he provided some brief feedback for me to consider as I worked on my final paper. Returning to my seat in the back by the emergency exit, one of my classmates turned and rolled her eyes as I passed by, which left me confused as I hadn’t known what I had done to warrant such a reaction.
My confusion was lifted once the class was over. The professor retired to his office downstairs, leaving us to go about our days. I had another class in the same room in about an hour so I crossed the hall to the small student lounge that was also housed on that floor to drop my bag and heat up some lunch I had brought with me in the lounge microwave. I took a few bites of my reheated arroz con gandules before I remembered that I had to print out a paper for my next class. Unlike my classmates, I didn’t own a laptop or had access to a printer at home at the time so most times I had to hand write most of my papers before typing them up at my local public library and printing them out at the computer lab next door to the program classroom.
I was fumbling with my USB flash drive on my keychain by the door to the lab when I heard some voices speaking in hushed tones.
"She's only here because of the program diversity requirement,” the first said.
“Uh huh. You know because of affirmative action they at least need one if they hope to keep the program open," the next one responded in agreement.
“I bet she hasn’t even traveled out of the country,” the last said with a slight giggle.
I slowly walked back to the lounge as they started to erupt in full laughter. At that moment, I knew that what was new information to me was old for them hence their lack of response during my presentation. And of course it was! These were people who traveled to places I've only seen in books and dreamed of visiting, like the Palace of Versailles or Monet’s garden at Giverny. They had connections to fellowships, internships, and mentorships that I constantly wished I had access to. Of course they had known.
As the only person of color attending a graduate program at a private university, such things didn’t come as a total surprise though they did hurt to overhear. And I would hear it over and over again for the rest of my time there.
Our classes were housed in one of the Smithsonian Institutions on the Upper East Side, which meant that I had to put an even greater effort on my appearance. If I even dared to attempt to leave the house with one slightly noticeable wrinkle or a graphic tee instead of a blouse, I would immediately get the passive aggressive, “¿Y adónde vas vestida así?” from my mother.
“¿Cómo esperas que te tomen en serio si sales así?” she would ask in frustration.
I would suppress groans and dutifully respond, “No te preocupes, me voy a cambiar.”
And so my performance entered its final level, as I did my best to mirror what my classmates wore and did in order to fit in. Well, as much as I could given the fact that many of them wore designer pieces exclusively with price tags that would make my mother faint. Skinny jeans, a cardigan layered over a cami with a scarf looped around my neck, became my uniform of choice on most days when I headed into the city for class. Sometimes I’d swap the cardigan for a blazer, though I did so sparingly since my small blazer collection consisted of bright colors, bold patterns and in one case, even bolder silhouettes which were prone to draw a lot of attention and not always positive. Looking back now, those specific blazer choices were my subtle way of expressing myself in spite of my daily forced performance.
It was a variation of this uniform that I wore when I met with my thesis advisor at the cafe near the museum. The Heavenly Rest Stop was a cafe housed in the Church of Heavenly Rest’s chapel. The vaulted space complete with Gothic stone arches truly fit the tone for academic connection yet it often left me feeling uncomfortable for having patronized it. I should note that while I’m not a Catholic, I am a practicing Protestant Christian, and so the few times I found myself there I couldn’t help but wonder if reworking a once sacred space into a place of business wasn’t a weird form of modern blasphemy. Not that I ever voiced this to anyone at the time, considering there weren’t many public spaces within walking distance to choose from to have such informal meetings.
Lorraine, who hated whenever I would refer to her as “Dr.” even if it was out of respect, was a short brunette woman with piercing hazel eyes. She had shoulder length hair and always wore straight legged jeans or khakis, a button down top with an anorak jacket and a printed scarf if it was cold out. One thing I found interesting was how she always stuck to earthly colors no matter what. An expert in Renaissance tapestry and Baroque decorative arts who had curated many exhibitions at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, she quickly became my favorite professor and my obvious choice for a thesis advisor. As I entered my final semester in 2014, we would meet once every other week or so to go over my progress with my Master’s Exam.
I walked into the cafe and Lorraine waved from her seat under one of the side arches. She had ordered herself a coffee and a hot chocolate for me, topped with whipped cream and dark chocolate shavings. I smiled as I slid the red metal folding chair out to sit, noting with silent glee how she had remembered that I don’t drink coffee.
“So I know I’ve been dragging my feet on this but Director Brody is set to schedule my Italian language test sometime next week.He says he needs to double check that the Italian Language examiner is available.”
Lorraine made a quick note on the notepad she had next to her before she took a small sip of her coffee. Even from where she sat across from me it was hard to gauge her thoughts.
“I know you’ve already settled on your thesis outline but have you put any thought into including a discussion on Spanish Baroque Interiors? That case study of Latin American Baroque design that you presented last year could prove to be a great jumping off point.”
“But my focus is on French and Italian design.” I said before I blew on my hot chocolate to take a sip.
“Yes, but I’m concerned that your Italian may not be strong enough to pass and your French won’t work for a timed test like this one. It may work in your favor to just take the test in your native tongue.”
I felt a flood of warmth slowly creep to my cheeks as I blushed in embarrassment. I set down my hot chocolate and tugged on the fringe of the light blue, pink floral print scarf I had paired with my navy blue cardigan set. “I…I found my old college textbook and have been doing my best to put in at least an hour everyday to brush up.”
Lorraine smiled. “I commend you for putting in that work but I must remind you that the point of this part of your MA exams is to prove that you can conduct research in another language, not just that you can read it. And we both know that research at times can mean needing to communicate with researchers from around the world including verbally.”
I silently nodded. “Of course. I just…”
“You know there is nothing wrong with leaning on a skill you already have. It doesn’t take away from your academic accomplishments.”
I took another longer sip before glancing up. She was giving me her full attention and the eye contact was unnerving but I made myself reciprocate it in kind. When I asked Lorraine to be my advisor I promised myself to not make things “difficult” and take all her recommendations due to her expertise. This was the first time that I really wanted to argue with her. Sure, she wasn’t wrong that being a native Spanish speaker gave me a slight advantage for the test, however, the fact that the test would probably be given according the Real Academia Española and not anything remotely close to what I grew up speaking was something I didn’t even want to bother getting into with her as it was clear that to her Spanish was the same no matter what part of the world you were from.
Not that it surprised me much. After all, she was the reason why I wrote that case study the year before on Latin American Baroque design. She started a class by stating that 17th and 18th century Baroque was considered “the first true international style” and I asked if that meant that examples from Latin America would also be covered in her course. Without hesitation she said, “We don’t study that.” “We” meant the university, but the part that stuck out most was the “don’t” instead of “won’t.” For me, “won’t” would have meant that it could potentially be added to the syllabus, while “don’t” was more definitive, as though there was no reason to get into it at all.
Regardless of this fact, I knew that if I went with Spanish I would still need to do some serious studying to get it right.
Lorraine’s pen hovered over her notepad, “So Spanish?”
I took a deep breath,“Yes, Spanish it is.”
“Great. I’ll send a note to Brody myself so don’t worry about that.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled as I pulled out my folder from my tote containing my latest thesis draft, my stomach turning over a bit with the knowledge that I would be starting from scratch, again, following this meeting.
“Now then let’s get into what we had planned to discuss today.”
—
I sped down the subway stairs at Grand Central, pushing my way past the mass of fellow straphangers that walked around shoulder-to-shoulder to a legion of visiting tourists, most of whom were clearly lost in trying to find their way to Times Square. I was desperate to make my transfer from the downtown 6 train to the Flushing bound 7 train before rush hour reached its peak. I mentally kicked myself for not having better time management to leave the library with enough time to avoid all of this madness. I turned at the landing and practically jumped the last set of stairs once the train began to pull into the station.
The platform was packed as densely as the train that had just arrived, but I simply had to get on this train. I booked it down the platform to get close to the front cars of the train, just making it in time for the doors to close right behind me. My heart pounded a mile a minute from all of the short distance running.
I didn't even realize that I was breathing a bit heavily until I looked up at the white woman, dressed in head-to-toe Micheal Kors gear hogging the center pole, glaring my way. I squared my shoulders and shot her a glare back before leaning against the doors (something you definitely shouldn’t do while on a moving train, mind you) to catch my breath once she finally turned her attention elsewhere. Surprisingly, a number of people actually got off at Vernon Blvd/Jackson Ave, including the glaring woman, so I was able to grab a seat by the doors. I neatly placed my tote filled to the brim with notebooks and flashcards onto my lap.
The train lurched forward as it made its ascent out of the dark underground city tunnels to the above-ground tracks of Long Island City. The last bit of the sun’s rays mutely shone through the windows as my train car finally made it out. I loosened my scarf, and let myself get comfortable. I was back in familiar territory - home. Amongst people with similar backgrounds as me, no longer needing to continue playing the role.
That morning I had set out on my commute to the Frick Collection Reference Library for another round of thesis research the day before my Spanish test. I took in my reflection after I brushed my teeth. My hair, pin straight after my another weekly session with my InStyler, was perfectly parted to the right with a few fly aways standing tall in defiance. I twirled a few strands in my hand only to watch it fall back like a stiff curtain. It was at that moment that it finally hit me how my curls had lost their spirals and natural bounce due to the sheer amount of heat styling my mother and Vita had encouraged me to do every fall into early spring since my sophomore year in college. I sighed, exhausted with the act I had to pull every time I left my apartment.
I took out my phone and scrolled to check what the weather is going to be like over the coming week. I smiled as I mentally prepared myself for the process I’d go through in order to revive my hair to its natural state in time for the oral portion of my MA exam. I also made a mental note that it has been a while since I wore my black and white striped peplum blazer.
I would pass with flying colors, as myself.
Marlena Matute is the daughter of immigrant parents. An art and design historian by education, she currently works as a marketing and communications professional. Her work has been published in several digital platforms including The Artifice, Refinery29, I Am Enough (blog) and “P.S. The Blog'' by Dia&Co. She also writes about NYC life, affordability and plus size fashion on her blog, “Big City, Curvy Girl, Thin Wallet.” When she isn’t apartment hunting for an affordable apartment in Queens, she’s either window shopping for new outfits to feature on her blog or attempting to make a dent to her TBR shelf.