How “Antes Muerta Que Sencilla” Almost Killed the Women in My Family

In 2007, after I graduated middle school, my mother relocated my brothers and me from New York City to Dallas, Texas, where she bought her first home. I still remember the joy and freedom she embodied; they were the most beautiful additions to her face I had ever seen. With plenty of room to dance in her new two-story house, Mami turned up the radio as we unpacked loads of boxes all over the house. The Spanish radio station introduced a song they were calling a hit, “Antes Muerta Que Sencilla” by Los Horóscopos de Durango. My mother, who fancied herself a very confident woman, listened to the lyrics and then began singing along with the other women: “Antes muerta que sencilla. Ay, que sencilla; ay, que sencilla. Antes muerta que sencilla. Ay, que sencilla; ay, que sencilla.” 

Oftentimes, when I am feeling unkept or vibrating low, I think of this song, head for the mirror, and dazzle myself up with a little makeup, a fancier hairstyle, or put on my cowgirl boots for an edgy fashion moment. But lately these lyrics have me questioning if by rejecting sencillez I am actually giving into the pressures put on women to always be put together and look fly, no matter the occasion or what's going on in our personal lives. What does it do to our bodies when we feel like we always have to strive for fabulousness? If our bodies could talk about what we are constantly putting them through to be beautiful, what would they say? Lately, I can’t help but wonder: Is my anxiety just my body’s way of telling me it does not care to be perceived if it means constantly performing the dance of beauty?

Although I like to think of myself as someone who rebels against the notions of traditional beauty standards, lately I have been doubting my own ideologies. For most women in a society that judges every facet of our existence, beauty is inherently political. And for Black women, beauty is especially an act of survival. But as we mold ourselves to endure in society, we end up hurting, or worse, killing ourselves with dangerous beauty practices. If your hair is expected to always be silky-straight, then you will need something to chemically keep it that way. Never mind that these products, like hair relaxers, are harmful, painful, and costly. Similarly, when the curvy beauty standards extols thin women who are shapely in all the so-called right places, like the breasts and hips, then women adopt dangerous diets, over-exercise, wear confining fajas, or go under the knife to achieve this ideal. 

When I was a teenager, I saw my mother struggle with depression and body image issues. Then a woman in her 40s, she did not feel beautiful in her ever-changing body. So she turned to plastic surgery to feel pretty again. Many of the women in my family have undergone cosmetic surgeries to alter parts of themselves they felt needed fixing — and many of them have also had to listen to their bodies when it told them, “never again.” 

During my cousin’s Brazilian butt lift and tummy tuck, she had to receive a blood transfusion due to loss of blood. Afterwards, she experienced a major allergic reaction to one of the medications she was given for the procedures, leaving her face swollen for days. Another family member went under the knife to reduce the size of her nose and has since had to have multiple operations to fix issues that developed from the initial surgery. Similarly, my mother had a very concerning infection after surgery that caused her blood pressure to increase to dangerous levels. She spent weeks healing in an intensive care unit. Now she frequently warns me, no matter how hard it gets, putting your life at risk for a perfect body isn’t the answer. 

In her caution, she is helping me and the other women in our family unlearn the refrain that has had such a hold on our community: antes muerta que sencilla. This insistence on a more sculpted and slim version of ourselves is haunting. It leaves us out of breath and gasping to feel the acceptance that comes from a society that tells us in every way possible that we may never be enough. But in those moments is when we most need to look in the mirror and tell ourselves that we are worthy and believe it. And because beauty is a verb just as much as it is a noun, we must actively participate in feeding ourselves affirmations, safety, and love to remind ourselves and our bodies that to exist beautifully, we must live authentically. Sometimes it is hard to sift through the mud of our harsh society and prioritize what feels most beautiful and whole to us.  

As my baby Rio is on his way to two years old, I reflect on my own journey postpartum. I look at how much my body has changed and how much has stayed the same. On my shaky days, I think about how hard I have been on my body to lose the baby weight. On my stronger days, I am so grateful for all that this body has been able to keep doing for me and now my family. I remember how gentle and firm it has been in making sure we have been functioning and pouring into the baby we birthed and how we survived all that we thought might kill us. I’m grateful this body has allowed me to enjoy all the beauty of life and motherhood.

As I soon enter my 30s, I am being clear on the things I want and don’t want for me and my body. I want us to feel complete; I want us to feel whole. I want us to be at peace with growing, aging, and making a home out of this shamed body. In my collection of poems, Plantains & Our Becoming, I write about the things that strip us of our humanity. Beauty standards deplete us of our self-worth and drive us to punish our bodies for the promise of more access, more acceptance, more love. In the poem, Hecha Completa, I write:  

I write to my body often asking for forgiveness, patience, and deliverance. Deep down inside, I know we are not to blame for internalizing the beauty ideals that society shoves down our throats on a daily basis. Instead of being uncomfortable in my skin, I want to be uneasy with the conditioning that has taught me to starve my body, to punish my hair, and to be ashamed of my skin. I want to be uncomfortable with a society that tells me pain is the cost of beauty. 

This violence is an inheritance. But there are many other things like love that we have also inherited. So as I unpack internalized anti-Blackness and rebuke sexism and impossible beauty standards, I tell myself one thing that I know to be true: I am my purest love story, and I want to continue learning to work with what I have. I deserve to adore all the parts of me, even the parts that are not accepted by society. 

I want to do the unthinkable. I want to take the outlandish route and love myself in my fullness. I want to be brave and climb that mountain that is me and my body, naked and flawed just like the earth it came from. And I don’t want to wait anymore. To fit into the clothes from when I was thinner. To only love my hair texture when it behaves. To only think my skin is beautiful when it goes unblemished. I want to stand in the sun with my body and all my insecurities and welcome us home by saying, “Thank you, beautiful. Thank you for keeping us here and whole. Without you, we are not complete.”