I made an impromptu trip to my parent’s home last week. It was under pressing circumstances but as trite as it might sound it was a blessing in disguise. Especially with the ever-evolving dynamics between my parents and I.
It was the interaction that I saw Hollywood dramas in which a protagonist was thrown into a harsh reality but received words of wisdom from their parents that forever changes their view of them. I finally saw my parents as just regular people who spend their lives just trying to do the best they can.
It’s interesting because growing up I never imagined there would be a moment I would be sitting with my father in his shed while he spoke to his faraway friend on his CB radio. All this while smoking cigarettes and sharing tequila. Or that I would be having earnest conversations with my mother about the difficulties of womanhood, marriage, and my broken faith.
The conversations didn’t end there. I felt safe enough to share with them about my sexuality, my experience with sexual assault and how I smoke pot on the daily. I was sure they would have to be in the grave in order for me to live openly as a bi woman with socialist leanings who has elected to have a childless marriage. I do recognize how fortunate I am to have this type of understanding with my immigrant parents because so many other first-generation American LGBTQ individuals do not possess the same fate. But to be honest, I waited many years to be this forthcoming because it doesn’t mean this would’ve gone the same way in my teenage years.
My mother approached me as I was packing up for my return drive home. She said she wanted to ask me something. I said, “sure, what is it?” She asked me if when I first had sex with my husband if I had bled. I told her my husband was not the first sexual partner I had. My mother said that she figured he wasn’t the first because she used to find my belts and bras in the back seat of her car when I would visit from college. I laughed because it has been nearly 15 years since this occurrence and she still believed I had sex with my college boyfriend in her plymouth breeze. So romantic. It was one of those perfect storm situations.
I had come home for the winter holidays and I went to a Christmas party with my old high school classmates and I had picked up my boyfriend. South Texas is typically still warm and muggy most months which causes a lot of condensation mixed with dirt on windshields. I asked if he could bring out something to wipe it down with and it ended up being an undershirt. I decided that my belt clashed with my outfit once we arrived at the party so I chucked that into the backseat.
The next morning my mother burst into the guest room( yes I no longer had my childhood room) asking how could I have been having sex in her car. She also asked why I had a syringe in the bathroom for. I laid there in astonishment. Not only did she assume I was having sex but accused me of doing intravenous drugs. I laughed because she still had her own understanding of the events years later. I simply explained how I hated wearing bras so I would pull them off on the drive home and all the other items were simply a fluke. Also, I’ve done many things in my life but I had yet to shoot up.
Back to the bleeding. I was a few months shy of 30 when I met my husband so virginity was an unrealistic expectation to anyone at that point. She asked me why I wore a white wedding dress. I told her that was the only color available when I ordered it from Amazon. And that I felt some of those traditions were highly dangerous towards women. That simply the color of a wedding dress made it clear to everyone what was my sexual status. That I would be designated a “santa o’ puta.” I refused to fall in line.
I did tell her that I was highly uninformed when I did begin to have sex and my source of information was the internet and whatever pamphlet came my way on campus. I asked her why didn’t she have a formal sex talk with me. That my brothers were provided with condoms but my sister and I were told to remain abstinent. She said that was just what she was taught growing up. I said but you forget that your sons were having sex with someone else’s daughter or sister.
My mother told me how she wished she could’ve talked to me this way when I was younger but she didn’t know how. That even her own mother didn’t discuss with her what would happen during puberty and sex was even more of a taboo topic. I never really was resentful about this because my teenage self would’ve died of sheer humiliation back then. We both weren’t ready.
I am sure there are many other 30 something-year-old women having these talks for the first time. Please don’t be resentful. Yes, it might be late but it’s never too little to be brave. Ni putas, ni santas mis hermanas. 
Big Edie's musings 