As a kid, Saturday mornings meant cleaning
the entire house — from hand-washing dishes in the sink, to scrubbing the toilets, to mopping the floor with the classic lavender-scented Fabuloso. Without fail, the sound of Maná’s Revolución de Amor
blasted from the house speaker we used for parties and weekend cleaning. My immigrant
mom, who woke up at 7 a.m. and already made breakfast and scrubbed the kitchen, would intermittently holler at my siblings and me to get up, giving us a few chances to finally roll out of bed. By the time “Mariposa Traicionera” blared through the sound system and the competing whirr of the vacuum became all-consuming, we knew it was now or never: We had to get up or we’d never hear the end of it. It didn't matter that it was the weekend.