The Adventures of Rachel and Ellie- The Quinceañera

My closest friend in Mexico is one of my housemates, Ellie, a British gal doing a year in Mexico working with street children. We cook, talk, eat, dance, and explore Mexico together. She keeps me sane most of the time when things get rough, and cracks me up constantly. She says it is only because of her accent, whereas I vehemently deny such simplicities and insist it is her wit. Regardless, we tend to get ourselves in all kinds of trouble, and have a whole list of other adventures that we're committed to doing. Our list includes the innocent to the ridiculous, almost all being comical attempts to partake, and yes, sometimes even mock, Mexican culture. Our first adventure was living out a 15th birthday that we never had the chance to exploit appropriately. The Quinceañera.

I'm a white girl. I grew up in San Antonio and while most of my Mexican-American girlfriends were dressing up like Cinderella for their 15th birthday, mine passed with hardly a sequins in sight. Yes, we WASPs have our Sweet Sixteen, and girls not raised by Yankee parents (which is my case) sometimes receive ddebutante balls, but by the time that age rolls around your too busy trying to figure out who you want to make out with during spin the bottle and which Stop 'N Go you're going to buy your Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine. My Sweet Sixteen was 80's themed (before it was cool, mind you) and my girlfriends and I snuck up to my closet to chug back peppermint sschnappswhile my dubbed copy of "I Ran" by the Flock of Seagulls blared in the background. Now I'm not saying that I was ccherubimand innocent only a year before, but life gets more complex the deeper into your teens you go. A Quinceañera is a ball. A Sweet Sixteen is a underground booze fest.

Quinceañera. I yanked this straight from Wikipedia… This celebration marks the transition from the childhood to womanhood of a Quinceañera. It serves as a way to acknowledge that a young woman has reached maturity. Most parties have the girl wear a pink dress (as she is still a girl, never white which equals bride but now other cultures are letting the girl pick a color) and a tiara because she is a princess in God's eyes that night. She holds a court with 14 girls (damas) and 15 boys (chambelanes) which including herself would equal 30 people, or, 15 couples (to represent each year). At the party the court does a waltz and a surprise dance. The girl also dances with her father but first changes from flats to heels to represent the first time she can wear them ( the same with makeup). She could also get a doll with the exact same dress she has on to signify that this will be the last doll she ever will receive. In the past the party would show the girl is ready to be married, but now in today's culture it is so the girl can date. In the Mexican tradition, if the quinceañera is Roman Catholic, the festivities begin with a Thanksgiving Mass (Misa de Acción de Gracias), at which the quinceañera arrives in formal dress (usually of color representing childhood) accompanied by her parents, godparents, a number of maids of honor and chambelanes ranging in number anywhere from seven to 15 couples. After the Mass, the younger sisters, female cousins and friends of the quinceañera pass out party favors and the quinceañera leaves her bouquet in an altar to the to the Virgin Mary. The Mass is followed by a party either at the quinceañera's home or in a banquet hall leased for the occasion. At the party, the quinceañera dances the traditional first waltz with her father and male relatives. Then her boyfriend, or male friend (also called a chambelan), dances the remaining part of the dance with the birthday girl.

The Queen. For every Quinceañera there is the main star- the birthday girl. She has a legion of maiden type figures- her closest friends- who are instructed to dress in similarly ridiculously expensive dresses, but are required to not outshine the Queen. She is dolled up, paraded around, and escorted by some horny boy. I have to admit, I think it is pretty ridiculous. As most of you know, I am constantly trying to open my mind to gender neutrality issues and understanding the power dynamic of male/female relationships. Wearing a huge, fluffy, pink dress is not my idea of revolutionary feminism. Call me a ba-humbug, but I'm thinking, "Screw the dress and party, how about instill some real self-confidence and self-worth in women!" I don't think many agree with me. Gloria Steinhem, Inga Muscio and I will just have our own party, I suppose. Hmm...

Tiendas. All along the main thoroughfare of Insurgentes in Mexico City, there are boutiques displaying the wildest dresses. My walks up this street usually left me wondering about the inner workings of these stores. One day, I finally thought, how can I get in there? I decided the only way to do so is to go shopping. I returned home and proposed the idea to Ellie. Always up for spontaneity and adventure, she agreed. We planned for it that Saturday afternoon and headed out that early afternoon, guts in check and cameras in hand. We had to select our store carefully. Often the stores double as bridal shops and we did not want to be wearing a bride’s dress. We walked slowly by a few and sized up the ridiculousness of the dresses. Too conservative. We continued walking. Too busy. We didn’t want to wait, nor did we want to steal the time from customers that truly needed the attention. Finally, we found one that would work. A good mix of bright colored dresses and enough attendants that appeared free.

Naked. Now, I am no prude. I feel moderately comfortable with my body. I can definitely laugh at myself, and often have to because otherwise I’d cry. But I am a conservative dresser. I rarely show cleavage (partly because there isn’t much to show) and never wear heels. I like J.Crew catalogs for their simple and classic oxfords and khakis. If God wants to reward me, I will have a closet full of the preppiest fashions in this life. If she wants to punish me, send me to spend all of eternity in Bebe or Guess. Similarly, I don’t often strip in front of people. I will change in front of a good friend, but I take comfort in the fact that I know they aren’t really looking at me. So, after selecting our dresses, Ellie and I were guided up to a huge dressing room surrounded by mirrors, I was horrified when I was told to undress right there. “Huh?” I asked. Ellie and I looked at each other surprised. We both sheepishly stripped down to our bras and panties, still sexily wearing our socks. Mirrors surrounded me and I was reminded of the size of my posterior and how the back of my thighs aren’t what they were when I was 15. Good grief. I turned away. The two ladies were ready with big, poofy, white underneath things (pardon my lack of ball gown vocab) that would make the dress bah-iiigg! This was even more distressing to see in the floor to ceiling mirrors. The dresses came next- Ellie’s blue, mine pink. Over the head and on. I sucked in as ordered, while the women pulled tight the lace-up part in the back. My ribs hurt.

Beautiful. The color was horrendous. I didn’t have any make up on and my hair was swept up into a ponytail. But somehow, this dress was gorgeous. There is something magical about a big poofy dress. How it transforms the ordinary into something extraordinary. I pranced around shyly and even practiced dancing in it, lifting it up slightly to walk and setting it back down, fluffing it out into place. It isn’t radical feminism, and I didn’t even like it that much, but I kind of longed for my Texas Lassos days of formals and tuxes. Sometimes the most ridiculous and uncomfortable things can make you feel the most beautiful.