La Quinceanera

La Quinceanera, the event in the Latino community to celebrate a young girl's entrance into womanhood, seems to occur all over the city each weekend. I usually noticed the ornately dressed young girls, their hair done up in curls, posing for pictures at the fountain on Riverside Drive, each Saturday as I headed over to Costco. Our Tia had taught us the importance this celebration is to her family, but community in general. During her time with us, we have attended two Quinceanera's for her various nieces. And each time we attend these parties, I marvel at how each culture figures out ways to overspend money, they don't usually have, to mark these milestones. The Latino community is not alone in parents going out of their way in satisfying some unspoken expectation of community, family, and friends. The Quinceanera rivals the outlandishness of Sweet Sixteens (the event that became the celebration for me), Cotillions, Debutante Coming out Balls, and the Bar/Bat Mitzvahs. The Jewish community is the only one where the event is really centered on a young boy, although girls do get their opportunity with the Bat Mitzvahs.

The Quinceanera, this past weekend, was significant for us because our son was the young boy, escorting the young girl down the church aisle, in a white Tuxedo. So, there we were at a church on south Normandie, not far from the infamous scenes of mayhem that ensued during the LA Riots. The church's exteriors were worn, the majesty of its former glory barely visible under the sun, and row upon row of dilapidated houses. I knew this church and neighborhood was, without question, much more menacing once darkness arrived, bringing out the true character of the car-lined streets.

As we walked up, I noticed the stretch limo and the girls, including my son, piling out and up the steps of the church. Let me explain that the young girl's father works in construction, is steadily employed, but not flush enough for such extravagances. But I knew some cousin, not blood related, had paid for this ridiculous transport for his daughter and her court of young girls. I knew that each family member had chipped in for the day, including us since we offered to pay for the cake.

The ceremony is akin to a wedding in its elaborate rituals. The young girl walks down the aisle of the church escorted by a young male, also dressed in a white tuxedo. Our son and the little girl served a similar function as the flower girl and ring bearer, but without the rose petals and ring. Instead of the traditional white, the young girl worn a pink gown, the skirt dotted with clusters of sparkly stones. Her hair was done up in a swoop of curls and a fake rhinestone tiara was perched on top. Her court, the other younger girls, were dressed in ivory dresses, less ornate. Each of their dark hair was curled, the tiara the center piece. They each held a small bouquet of roses, pinks and reds.

The Mass, which is what the ceremony is, was performed in Spanish by the Irish priest. There was a guitar player and two other singers for the music. All of it was beautiful, as most Catholic ceremonies are, but a bit disturbing. From an anthropological standpoint, I felt like this young maiden was being sacrificed for a life to serve others: her parents, her husband, her children, her community, her church. And more disconcerting is how similar to a wedding this ceremony is in its incarnation, although I'm certain the ceremonial aspects haven't changed much since the days of the Mayans. My son was, of course, bored, pissed to be dressed in this, 'ridiculous--his word' outfit, and just plain cranky. But who could blame him? He kept insisting he had a sore throat all morning, hoping I'd fall for it and let him miss out on the big event. He is, if nothing else, resourceful.

After the ceremony, all of us lingered as the girl and her parents posed for photos with various family members. I knew they were expecting over a 100 people for the reception, so I was a bit surprised how many empty pews there had been inside the church. But like most Catholics, our nanny and her family are the twice a year Catholics-- Christmas and Easter.

The reception, which we didn't attend, but which I imagined was lively and celebratory was capped off with everyone dancing to Reggaetone. And for the young girl, her Quinceanera will be reduced to snapshots of her posed with family members--the significance of what this day marks for her not yet setting in. That, I imagine, will come once her days are dictated by tasks, most of them tedious, that keeps her shackled to responsibilities that seemed so far away on the day of her La Quinceanera.