MI MADRE
My mother was born in 1936 with white skin, light-colored eyes, and red hair. In a world shaped by caste, color, and colonial memory, she learned early that whiteness could function as protection. She clung to her appearance not simply out of vanity, but as an escape hatch, a fragile promise of safety, mobility, and privilege within a society that had long rewarded proximity to Europe and punished Indigenous presence.
But her mother, Silvana, born in 1892, carried another history in her body.
She was a Rarámuri woman from the Sierra of Chihuahua. Yet she, too, learned the dangerous cost of being seen clearly. Rather than claim her Indigenous identity openly, she insisted she was mestiza, mexicana, respectable, aligned with the Church and the world of “las madres.” Her denial was not born in emptiness. It was born in survival. In Mexico, Indigeneity was often treated as something to outgrow, something to dilute, something to hide beneath Catholicism, Spanish surnames, proper dress, or lighter children.
This is how colonization survives across generations. Not only through land theft or violence, but through aspiration. Through the longing to be closer to whiteness and farther from the people our ancestors once were allowed to be openly.
I am compelled but not defined by my ancestors.
Feliz dia de las Madres.
#diadelasmadres
I submitted a Platica at the Chola Conference 2026 in October. This year, it's in Tucson!!! Let's all make plans to attend.
We so need this!!
FOLLOW: @lacholaconference
Even if I don't speak, I will see you there!
Con Safos
