¡Ni que Emo ni que nada!
Growing up alternative in a traditional, immigrant household.
American subcultures in the Valley
The teen “Rebellious phase”
Religious Trauma
Iconic Emo Curled up on A Pink Bed
At first, I was going to write a comprehensive guide to the growing alternative scene here in the valley. But the more I thought about it, the less it made sense. This blog is not meant to bring clarity to confused, traditional parents. It’s for all the Malcriadas scattered across the RGV. Though usually I’d happily explain to them why their children dress in chains, dark clothes and listen to rowdy music…I’m tired. I’m the eldest daughter of a dysfunctional family. Which means I’ve been trying to teach my parents how to parent for as long as I can remember. I’m not doing that today. Not today. So, I tried to think back to the years I try so desperately to forget. When I had a terrifying perspective on my body. When I littered my mind with self-loathing. And when I thought the only thing that could save me was religion.
After living through the Tumblr era, I’m not a big fan of labeling myself or my style. I’d like my words and actions to define me. But as a teenager, there's nothing more I yearned for than to belong to something, anything. I was an outcast in my family. For no reason, really. My ego says it's their envy. My heart says it’s their own trauma, forgive them. But I know the truth. It’s because I just happened to be there. A forged witness, an observer, an audience to the unseen. I promise you, Hollywood holds no candle to the chest-pounding dramas and violent tragedies I’ve seen in my own living room. And there were so many living rooms like mine.
For once, I was not the only one. I befriended other black sheeps of their own families. We dressed similarly, listened to the same music, and carried the same shame. I knew their friendship before I knew the subcultures we tried to emulate: punk, emo, the alternative to the traditional. Now looking back, I can see how we were just trauma bonding. Not necessarily fertilizing the grounds for healthy friendships. But you take what you can get. Soon, faux prince charmings absorbed most of our attention. As young girls, we are thrown into a battle royale amongst each other. Who is the thinnest? Who is the nicest? Who is the prettiest? Only one will survive! The prize was “a happily ever after." And I don’t blame any of them for aspiring to it. What troubled young girl wouldn't yearn for that? I just wished we all knew that those didn't exist. Myths created to keep our bodies weak and our minds submissive. Eventually, I focused more on the political aspect being these subcultures than the aesthetic itself.
I see the time in my childhood where I felt the dread of the world, as well as a longing for a better one. And the limited ways I could express it: heavy eyeliner and loud music. Of course, my parents thought my change in appearance and behavior was straying away from the godly path. My father looked me up and down with a scrunched, pitying face. “You scare me…” he’d utter with a nasty sneer as I blasted my little rock bands at full volume in his truck. Only later to reveal to me he’d dress the same de chamaco.
My mother, on the other hand, more so hated the fact that I questioned her faith. I no longer obeyed her spiritual demands mindlessly. As a result, she no longer had an obedient subject to make her feel like a queen. “Without God, you have no mother,” she’d fiercely delivered her line. Her audience? Her holy father in the sky. I wonder if she ever thought she’d be rewarded for telling her child those words. Anyways, eventually she stopped being a Jehovah’s Witness and snapped out of it. Spiritual Psychosis is dangerous. No child should compete with God for their parent’s attention and love.
As you can tell from my brand, I could never identify with the holy after that. At least its mainstream connotation. As a daughter with a mind of her own…I was labeled as rebellious. Only obedient beings can be pure, innocent, worthy. And I was never that. I asked questions. I challenged my family’s hierarchy. Always disregarded. Yet always expected to be the voice of reason once their reign faltered. I don’t know why to my parents I was a prophet one day and the antichrist the next. That divine polarity haunted me. Stretched me back and forth, wore me out.
I understand now this world is one that terrorizes girls for sport. Our mothers stuff us with their unfulfilled dreams. Our fathers wish we were born sons. I still carry crumbs of shame scattered at the bottom of my bag. But I’ve tossed out the heaviest parts, so they won’t weigh me down on my journey. There’s important work to be done.
To all the daughters of the valley, whose emotions were demonized, I hope you find within yourselves the divinity you’ve been searching for all your lives.
If you have any questions, comments, or compliments, make sure to send me a message on Message Malcriada.
See you on the other side.
All love,
Zadria Knives
