We asked for guest posts today about the Super Bowl half-time performance last night, and we were simply inundated with responses. We haven’t traditionally done this — asked for timely responses (some would describe them derisively as “hot takes”) about major cultural events. For me, this time felt different. I had no idea what I was feeling, and I wanted to know why. So I reached out and asked what others wanted to say.

I know it’s an oversimplification to have one “pro” piece and one “anti” piece, but that’s basically how the responses broke down. In truth, there were many variations of pieces from women who felt supportive of the half-time show and just as many variations of reasons for why others felt ambivalent (at best) and horrified (at the most extreme).

To read a perspective different from this guest post writer, read this post “I Didn’t Feel Empowered by J. Lo’s and Shakira’s Half-Time Show. Here’s Why.”

Here’s a guest post by one Latina HerStories community member:

Before last night, I knew that the gorgeous Latina duo had been chosen to take the stage last month, and they delivered exactly what I would have expected. Their performance was not the least bit surprising to this Latina woman. It was, as expected, a sensual, colorful frenzy of Latin rhythmic expression, choreography, and electric passion that virtually exploded on cue and brought the audience to their feet.   

Also, as predicted, the armchair commentators had really outdone themselves; leaving seething vitriol all over the web with statements citing the sizzling performance as: “piggish,” “shameful” and “definitely lacking in class.” One faction of the world wide web, mainly mothers, seemed to be particularly bent out of shape decrying the entertainment as “dangerous” to their children’s young, impressionable minds. Some of these “Brenda’s” were so vocal about their disdain, one might think that little “Timmy’s” eye sockets combusted in real time, as Shakira shook her hips and gyrated on a megawatt flashing stage, surrounded by electric backup dancers in red-hot spandex. And let’s not even get started on J. Lo’s pole, ‘mkay? Because I’m not. 

Unfortunately, as much as our nation strives to be progressive and diverse, we still can’t find a way to get comfortable with the idea that performative dance is a glorious, celebratory expression of one’s body, and all of its incredible power.

J. Lo and Shakira happen to be two, sexy Latina women wrangling that glorious celebration of physical power — and joyfully shaking it in front of the world, while wearing sparkly outfits.

Yet, in a sad, ironic twist, many people who decry this epically-charged, ethnically-embracing, female-driven performance; and who were put off by its message of Latina women empowerment and sexuality, are the same folks who excitedly prepared chicken wings and nachos in order to cheer on at least three Superbowl players who have a dark history of domestic violence against women. Weird, right? 

A dangerous, double-standard is being played out in front of the world, and nobody seems to notice that nearly as much as J. Lo’s sequined booty shake. As a stadium full of sports enthusiasts stand and cheer for Tyrek Hill, the player recently accused of choking his pregnant girlfriend, thousands more stand in harsh judgement and disgust at two, strong Latina women who refuse to tone-down their sexuality, cultural prowess and power in order to satisfy those who aren’t quite “comfortable” with it. 

Lookee here, “Brenda.” Do us all a favor and take your hands away from in front of Timmy’s face and let him watch J. Lo shake her money maker.

Then, have a conversation about how he views her performance. Go deeper and ask him how he views her as a woman, and then loudly correct any statement he may make about her being “less than” just because she tosses her head back and shakes her hips. Then go even deeper that that and let him know that a woman who dances on a pole deserves more respect than any man who lacks self-control and humility. Perhaps that is a conversation Tyrek Hill’s mother should have had with him at some point. 

Keep on shakin, J. Lo!

JL Nance is a Michigan-based freelancer and essayist. 

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By Tanya Estes

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the closest thing my mother could find to a doll that culturally represented her Mexican-American daughter was the Juan Epstein character from Welcome Back Kotter. Until Cabbage Patch Kids released a tan doll around 1983, he would shoulder the primary burden of the cultural void in my toy box. Despite this obstacle, my mother worked hard to instill cultural pride, to expose me to strong women and raise me without prejudice. Finding multicultural toys was one way she tried to achieve that. Finding diversity in books, however, became her white whale.

“I just want you to be proud of who you are,” she would tell me after another trip to the bookstore.

“I’m fine, mom. I don’t see why it’s so important. I like my books.” Often she said nothing. Reading was a cherished value in our household and she didn’t want to ruin it for me. We kept reading “Charlotte’s Web” and “Little House on the Prairie” together and I never felt out of place in those fictional worlds.

Over time, however, the absence of Latinos in both my education and popular culture evolved into the sort of self-loathing my mother feared without my ever noticing. Like plaque, it was the slow accumulation of an invisible thing.

Lack of cultural representation became compounded by a lack of female authors in school required reading, which were the books I thought mattered above all others.

My sophomore year of high school, I tried “Pride and Prejudice” for fun and enjoyed the first few chapters, but it was about love and not the sort of thing I was “supposed” to read. I quit reading it to move on to “serious” novels. Despite my mother’s efforts to get me to read “Jane Eyre,” I chose “Oliver Twist” instead. After two hundred years, Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters were still fighting for literary legitimacy and losing in my teenage mind because of a stigma defined by high school reading lists.

I knew girls that read raunchy romance novels with salacious covers, but Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter” taught me what happened to those sorts of girls. I also knew teens were as vicious as Hawthorne’s puritans when it came to a girl’s reputation. Some girls read “Dune” and “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” to appeal to skateboarders and guys in garage bands who liked edgier books. I liked those boys too but I was too busy trying, and failing, to decipher “The Sound and the Fury.” I had no time for fun things by Douglas Adams. I felt jealous that boys could read what they liked and their little harlots could too.

By the end of high school, understanding my place in the world as a woman was discouraging enough. As far as I knew, Latinas had no place at all.

Hispanics occupied fifty percent of my south Texas town. One would think such demographics offered no room for cultural shame, yet many in my class utilized my same coping mechanism. We ignored our ethnicity. Latino artists, politicians and writers were never discussed at school, on television, or in books, so as far as we knew, our ancestors were simply the “bad guys” at the Alamo who offered nothing else to the world.

After I graduated, I started to see an accumulation of books by Isabelle Allende and Alice Walker in my parents’ house. My mother’s favorite books in her growing library, however, were by Sandra Cisneros, a small Latina whose stories took place in south Texas towns, places we knew and passed through several times. She wrote about family, childhood and life in a Latina voice that my mother identified with, one that had the respect of other writers. Cisneros had established herself among the literary elite with a Fulbright scholarship and as a distinctive graduate from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. She won awards and Oprah loved her. This was the literary voice my mother longed for and wanted to share with me, but I wasn’t interested. Like Austen and the Brontë sisters, Cisneros was still fighting against Melville and Faulkner in my mind.

One day Sandra Cisneros came to town for a reading and book signing. I didn’t go but mother had a ticket. When it came time for the signing, my mother abandoned all decorum and hurdled across the rows of seats so fast that the momentum helped her leap onto the stage and land the first spot in line. The idea that literature inspired a dignified woman to rush the stage made me question everything. I wanted that sense of liberation and identity that I just didn’t feel with “Moby Dick.”

For the first time in my life, I needed to see myself in something other than a mirror.

I began my first semester at the University of Texas a few weeks later. I had never been away from home so, despite years of trying to overcome my hermit tendencies, my first reaction to a dorm full of new people was to hide in a bookstore. I came across a copy of “Like Water for Chocolate,” by Laura Esquivel. Though I knew nothing of the plot, I knew that the popular new film version had the winning combination of subtitles and beautiful people. I bought the book and spent the next two days lost in the taste and romance of Mexico.

The next few years felt as though the world shared my cultural awakening. Mexican art became the hottest thing on the market, a fresh voice that felt alive in every medium. Books by or about Latino writers, artists and historical figures no longer lived on a single “Latino Studies” shelf in books stores, but actually stood alongside all the others in fiction, poetry, history and even children’s books. Sandra Cisneros quickly found her way into my library after I read Esquivel, as did Cristina Garcia and Julia Alvarez. “Latina Magazine” burst onto the scene and I read it cover to cover every month.

As I evolved in my self-discovery, I diversified my reading taste to include other cultures and historical periods. I had the confidence to read books I chose rather than what I thought I was supposed to read. My mother’s objective with my toy box and library became clear. For both our gender and our heritage, understanding our contributions to society was critical to our individual success. When we see ourselves reflected in our world, we understand the value of our own voice. We are also more inclined to use it.

Tanya Estes is a writer from Austin, Texas. While most of her career was spent as a bookseller and librarian, she now pokes around old graveyards and archives discovering unknown bits of Texas history for her upcoming podcast, Tales from the Moontower.

**New call for submissions**

The founders and editors of The HerStories Project — a writing community for Gen-X women and publisher of four previous anthologies for women — are seeking submissions for a new essay collection.

A Fury of Her Own: Midlife Women on Embracing Anger and Changing the World will examine the reasons for women’s anger at this current moment and celebrate the ways (big and small) they are using their rage to create lasting change.

See full submission details and guidelines here.

**JOIN OUR COMMUNITY FOR MIDLIFE WOMEN WRITERS**

Our new writing community, HerStories Writers, features ongoing mini-courses, live chats and co-writing sessions, weekly writing prompts, and more! Come interact and find support, learn about topics that interest you (personal essay writing, building a platform, balancing writing and life), and get feedback on your work in a community outside of Facebook! Learn more here.

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