POPSUGAR Identity

Becky G on How the World Cup Was a Celebration of Her Culture

Mekita Rivas — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 12:40:03 -0700

Image Source: Getty Images / Gilbert Flores/Variety

Becky G is having a summer to remember.

Fresh off the announcement about her forthcoming album, "Baraja Bendita," releasing Aug. 14, she attended back-to-back World Cup matches, dropped her new single "Patrona," and kept her cool while scarfing down spicy wings on "Hot Ones."

It's all in a day's work for the 29-year-old superstar. In fact, after attending the World Cup opener in Mexico City in June, 24 hours later she landed in Los Angeles to watch the U.S. men's national team take to the field.

"I can't sit down in one place when I'm watching a game," she tells Popsugar. "Especially when it's Mexico - if I can wear a jersey or something that represents, I mean, yeah, I'm going to be repping."

Although Mexico was eventually eliminated from the World Cup, the Mexican-American artist (and longtime fútbol fan) doesn't view the loss as a total defeat.

"I feel like what we've won, as a whole, is so much greater," she says. "All the foreigners that have traveled from so far away are coming to Mexico for the first time and discovering the community, the unity, the celebration, and our ability to be a source of hope even through such loss. That is, I think, one of the most beautiful things about Mexican culture and part of why my heart beats the way that it does. I'm just so proud of us."

Image Source: Getty Images / Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times

Her love for Mexican culture also informed her latest project, a limited-edition tequila bottle she designed for Patrón, with whom she has a longstanding partnership. "Keeping the original essence and our true Patrón green was important," she says. "But also, water [was] the main source of inspiration for what this reimagining could look like."

The collaboration aims to highlight the work of Isla Urbana, a Mexican nonprofit organization that installs rainwater harvesting systems to help households collect and store rainfall for everyday use - like washing, bathing, cleaning, and watering plants. Patrón has funded the installation of 200 rainwater harvesting systems for households across the state of Jalisco, the heart of tequila production and the birthplace of Becky G's four abuelitos.

"Water is essential beyond just tequila making," she says. "The popularity and the demand of tequila has been so amazing throughout the world, but that demand has a direct impact on the people who are essential in that process."

Image Source: Patron

The spirits brand is also partnering with Becky G on her aforementioned record, "Patrona," which speaks to the multidimensionality of being a boss. "Patrona energy is about stepping into your power," she says. "And for me, I'm in a season of really owning who I am and all parts of myself. Being a 'patrona' is about being not just a boss of your dreams, but embracing all sides: being tough and strong and hard, but [showing] the vulnerability and the softer side as well."

She captures both sides in the accompanying music video, moving seamlessly between each one with a change of hair, wardrobe, and attitude. "You see not just the glitz and the glam or pop star version of me, but you see the person who's willing to tie her hair up and put her fighting gloves on and do the hard work, the behind-the-scenes work that not everybody gets to see," she explains. "And [how] every day I make that commitment to continue showing up."

Mekita Rivas (she/her) is a PS contributor. She covers everything fashion, writing up profiles, industry news, and long-lead stories. In addition to fashion, she frequently covers culture, identity, politics, wellness, travel, and more.

Why the "Love Island USA" Conversation About Colorism Is So Needed

Mariah Towles — Wed, 10 Jun 2026 09:30:02 -0700

Image Source: Peacock/Ben Symons

In a recent episode of "Love Island USA," a moment between Kuman Dameon Chandler (K.C.) and Aniya Harvey resonated with many dark-skinned Black women, including myself. While chatting, Chandler says, "I feel darker-skinned women [...] get the shorter end of the stick, and they try to put a negative connotation on you guys."

For a few moments, Chandler empowers and uplifts dark–skinned Black women, sharing how much he values the women in his family and loves melanin. "Embrace it because you're the blueprint," Chandler said as Harvey teared up. I can relate.

The idea that dark-skinned women are less valuable can lead to a lifetime of mistreatment, from bullying as a child, to hiring biases and medical stigmatization as an adult.

It didn't take long for people to add their own colorism stories from adulthood or childhood to the social media discourse. I always knew connotations – whether positive or negative – came with my shade of brown. As a child, I was almost always the darkest one in the room. At dance recitals and school events, my mother would proudly tell me she couldn't miss my presence. "I spotted my little chocolate chip from across the room," she'd say, beaming with pride.

But when you're rarely able to find your foundation shade or hardly ever see women with your complexion cast in starring roles in TV and movies, it sends a message about your value and desirability as a woman with a darker skin tone. The idea that dark-skinned women are less valuable than those with lighter skin tones can lead to a lifetime of mistreatment, from bullying as a child, to hiring biases and medical stigmatization as an adult.

Image Source: Peacock/Ben Symons

Colorism, which is discrimination based on complexion, is like racism's lesser-known brother. Since so few people know there's a word for it and psychology behind it, they might not pinpoint it exactly – let alone identify it as bad. Much of the conversation negatively surrounding dark skin can be subtle. It's deeply embedded in our society and surfaces in insidious ways, like who is chosen for a Hollywood role and who is picked first in a dating show.

While "Love Island" has faced racism controversies in the past, including a third contestant in two years to garner backlash regarding a racial slur, it's also changing the conversation around colorism. And it's amazing to see former "Love Island USA" contestant Olandria Carthen establish a thriving career as a dark-skinned beauty icon, modeling, influencing, and collaborating with brands and pioneering makeup trends.

The more we reframe our thoughts around deeper skin tones, the more it destroys the damaging narrative of dark-skinned Black women being unattractive or less desirable and valuable. For generations to come, children will have some type of awareness of their skin; it's our job to make sure it's a positive one.

Mariah Towles is a New York City–based beauty and culture writer. Her work has appeared in The U.S. Sun, Refinery29, Her Agenda, and more. She holds a master's degree from CUNY Newmark.

Karol G Is the First Latina Coachella Headliner - Here's Why That Matters

Mekita Rivas — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 10:20:01 -0700

Image Source: Getty Images / Kristy Sparrow

In just two days, Karol G will step onto the main stage at Coachella, cementing her place as the first Latina to headline the annual music festival in its 27-year history.

Admittedly, it can be rather jarring to remember that we're still living through an age of firsts - particularly when it comes to women of color. The Colombian singer-songwriter follows in the footsteps of Beyoncé, who became the first Black woman to headline the festival in 2018, and BLACKPINK, the first Asian act to headline in 2023.

What these firsts tell us is yes, we have a long way to go in leveling the playing field so that it's equal for all. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't acknowledge and celebrate the milestones when they do arrive. If anything, the chaos of the current sociopolitical climate ought to encourage us to make them much sweeter and more joyous. Case in point: Bad Bunny's now-legendary Super Bowl halftime show in February, which brought together people from all backgrounds and walks of life, united in their love for his artistry and his precious Puerto Rican homeland.

Image Source: Getty Images / Buda Mendes

Karol G's performance at one of the largest music festivals in the world is yet another indication that Latine culture continues to transcend both literal and figurative borders. Her hit songs like "Si Antes Te Hubiera Conocido" (with 1 billion streams and counting) and "Provenza" resonate with audiences who may not even speak Spanish, but who feel a deep connection with the infectious rhythms and her passionate lyricism.

I, for one, am not able to listen to a Karol G song without intuitively swaying my hips and getting lost in the fervor of the music. And isn't that what connection and community are all about? Maybe you don't understand every single word someone says or relate exactly to their lived experience, but you can still sense their humanity and emotionality. You can still sense that they are showing up with a degree of vulnerability, and that might inspire you to do the same.

Karol G's performance at one of the largest music festivals in the world is yet another indication that Latine culture continues to transcend both literal and figurative borders.

Music is an ideal medium to communicate, and in some cases translate, these sensations because of its ubiquity. Most people are exposed to music on a daily basis, whether it's standing in the crowd at a major festival, driving in the car, or walking through the grocery store aisle. The right song at the right time conjures up feelings we can't put into words and helps us better articulate certain hopes, fears, dreams.

For eons, music has been called a universal language, but the current moment highlights just how true that statement really is. Despite living in a time when inhumanity can seem so loud and inescapable, music continues to offer a much-needed respite from the cruelty and division. Momentous firsts like Karol G's trailblazing Coachella performance remind us that while progress often does move slowly, it is still happening - inch by inch, step by step, one melody at a time.

Bad Bunny Makes Me Feel Seen as a Dominican - and Unites Us All

Johanna Ferreira — Mon, 24 Nov 2025 11:06:07 -0800

"Dominicans and Puerto Ricans have a lot in common. One of those things is that it's summer all year here," Bad Bunny said passionately from the stage at the Félix Sánchez Olympic Stadium in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, on Nov. 21. The concert marked the start of his highly anticipated "Debí Tirar Más Fotos" World Tour, which will take him through Latin America, Europe, and Asia following his historic 31-show residency in Puerto Rico.

As a Dominican American born and raised in NYC, I - and my community - have always felt seen by Bad Bunny. It's one of the many reasons why seeing him perform in my parents' home country has been on my manifestation list, even after catching his show in Puerto Rico in July. I was honored to be among the journalists and content creators invited by Hennessy, the tour's official presenting sponsor, to experience it all firsthand. And as expected, Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio did not disappoint.

The relationship between Dominicans and Puerto Ricans has always been complicated. But as someone who grew up among both communities - especially with my primas hermanas being half Nuyorican - it's always been clear to me that we're essentially the same people. It's why Dominicans and Puerto Ricans who don't have beef affectionately call one another primos.

We share deep historical roots through the Taíno people, something that became even more evident during my recent time in Santo Domingo after visiting the Centro Cultural Taíno Casa del Cordón in the Zona Colonial. Both cultures are shaped by Taíno, African, and Spanish influence, which is why our food, music, slang, and devotion to baseball feel so interconnected.

We are island people - caribeños at heart - whether we were raised on the islands or not. And as Benito recognizes, we carry a similar spirit and vibrancy for life.

But growing up, I also witnessed tension between the two groups in NYC - from economic competition to jokes about our dialectal differences to debates over who makes the best pernil, mofongo, arroz con guandules (or gandules, like Boricuas say), and pasteles. There were also perceived racial differences and political tensions tied to our different immigration realities: Puerto Ricans are US citizens, while Dominicans are not. And while some might insist this is all just "friendly competition," Dominicans living on the island of Puerto Rico have experienced discrimination rooted in racism and xenophobia. That's why seeing Bad Bunny not only show love to Dominicans but consistently highlight our similarities - welcoming us with open arms and doing his part to ease any tension that does exist between the islands - is something I've always taken note of.

During his "No Me Quiero Ir de Aquí" residency in Puerto Rico, Bad Bunny frequently shouted out the Dominican community, often referring to the Dominican Republic as his "second home" and expressing solidarity with Dominicans on the island - especially around the immigration challenges they face in Puerto Rico. In the Dominican Republic, he expressed the same sentiment and just as strongly.

"I've really enjoyed being a tourist here - though I don't know if 'tour' is the right word because when I'm here, I feel at home," he said Thursday night to the crowd. The show opened with a phenomenal performance by Puerto Rican band Chuwi, who is joining Bad Bunny as the opening act for the 27-show world tour across Latin America and Australia. The set list differed slightly from the one he performed during his Puerto Rico residency, blending tracks from "Debí Tirar Más Fotos" with hits beloved by the Dominican community - including "Tití Me Pregunto," the song he dedicated to the DR in 2022 after winning the Latin Grammy for Best Urban Fusion/Performance.

He also performed major Dominican favorites like "La Romana," featuring El Alfa, and "Diles," which includes Dominican artists Ozuna and Arcángel. He closed the night with "DtmF" and "Eo0" from "Debí Tirar Más Fotos."

Notable attendees hosted in Hennessy's VIP section at Friday night's show included Puerto Rican supermodel Joan Smalls; Dominican American actress Dasha Polanco; Dominican MLB All-Star and World Series champion Juan Soto; Dominican MLB All-Star and Gold Glove Award winner Starling Marte; Netflix's "Owning Manhattan" reality TV star and entertainment journalist for Telemundo Genesis Suero; and award-winning DJ, radio host, and Latin music personality Alex Sensation. At Saturday night's show, the King of Bachata, Romeo Santos, even joined Bad Bunny onstage for a surprise bachata version of "BoKete."

Image Source: Hennessy

The Puerto Rican global superstar certainly delivered on his promise to give the audience a truly unique night. "We're going to dance a lot, we're going to have a good time, we're going to laugh, we're going to cry," he said as he opened up the show. On Nov. 24, he even posted a love letter to the Dominican Republic on X - expressing his gratitude for the island and the Dominican community.

Everything about this experience reminded me of the sibling-like relationship that exists between Dominicans and Puerto Ricans - a bond Benito clearly wants to honor. My time in DR began with the Hennessy block party in downtown Santo Domingo, filled with Dominican and Puerto Rican flags and a mix of Latin music, from salsa to bachata. We then had an intimate dinner at Salomé, created by two-Michelin-starred Dominican chef María Marte, with cocktails curated by brand ambassador Jacqueline Sanabia. The entire experience highlighted ingredients and flavors inspired by both Puerto Rican and Dominican culture.

I also got to explore a bit of the capital - the city where both my parents were raised - and saw touches of Puerto Rico everywhere, from the merch vendors to the jíbaro straw hats being sold in honor of Bad Bunny's show.

We're living in a time when Latines coming together across the diaspora is more critical than ever. So seeing a Puerto Rican artist like Bad Bunny - literally the No. 1 global music artist - use his platform to highlight our shared history and cultural connection, while also expressing solidarity, is a big part of why he resonates so deeply not just with fellow Dominicans like myself but with Latines across the globe.

Benito understands the impact music has on people and how his work has fostered a sense of community, shared experience, and unity - something our broader Latine community has desperately needed. There's power in numbers, and our collective impact is undeniable. Yet we often get in our own way by focusing on our differences rather than our shared strengths. Politics aside, music has the power to bring people from all walks of life together - and if there's one artist who has truly made that happen, it's Benito.

Johanna Ferreira is the content director for PS Juntos. With more than 10 years of experience, Johanna focuses on how intersectional identities are a central part of Latine culture. Previously, she spent close to three years as the deputy editor at HipLatina, and she has freelanced for numerous outlets including Refinery29, Oprah magazine, Allure, InStyle, and Well+Good. She has also moderated and spoken on numerous panels on Latine identity.

Amaya Papaya Made Every "Too Much" Dominican Girlie Feel Seen

Johanna Ferreira — Mon, 17 Nov 2025 06:00:03 -0800

I've never been a big fan of reality television, especially when it comes to dating shows. And I honestly don't mean that in a snooty or self-righteous way - it's just always felt like junk food for my brain. That said, after learning that "Love Island USA" season seven star Amaya "Papaya" Espinal is Popsugar's "Feel-Good Person of the Year," I started to regret not jumping on the "Love Island" bandwagon when everyone else did - especially after finding out that the audience's favorite was none other than a fellow Dominican girl from NYC who had zero qualms about being "too much."

Espinal, a 26-year-old Dominicana from Brooklyn and cardiac nurse, resonates with audiences for a reason. Sure, we all loved her funny one-liners and the way she speaks in metaphors (my favorite was when she said, "Last time I checked, I got 10 toes - not one toe missing. So I'm gonna stand on business on my 10 toes"). In Dominican culture, many of us are raised on refranes and sabias - sayings and proverbs that capture the humor and wisdom of our people - so Espinal having a metaphor or saying for everything felt right. It only added to her relatability.

But the truth is, what really stood out to me about Espinal was how unapologetically herself she was - and remained - throughout the entire season, despite the haters calling her "too much." It took her a while to find her match, as contestants like Ace Green, Austin Shepard, and Zai Srakaew all deemed her "too emotional," "too passionate," or "too affectionate." That's what prompted some of her most iconic one-liners, like "God forbid I'm a sensitive gangsta." As a sensitive gangsta myself, I immediately saw myself in Espinal. Whether she realized it or not, she was representing all the Latinas - especially the Dominican girlies - who grew up being told we were "too much."

A year ago, I launched an editorial package on Juntos called "Soy Demasiado," inspired by my own experience of being told my whole life that I was "too much" - demasiado. I've always been labeled "too loud," "too talkative," "too sensitive," "too passionate," and "too opinionated" - a lot of the same things Espinal was accused of being.

Growing up, so many of the things I was told were "too much" were framed as traits that would push men away because in Dominican culture, men are the prize - men are the goal. They are literally raised like kings, while young girls are raised to revolve their lives around them. So, when I saw Espinal getting shit from men for calling them "babe" or simply being her affectionate, loving self, I felt for her.

Espinal represents the modern Dominican American woman who isn't afraid to take up space and has absolutely no interest in dimming her light for anyone's comfort - especially men.

I saw my younger 26-year-old self in her. When the season started, I remember someone even telling me, "Hey, there's a Dominican girl on 'Love Island' who kind of looks like you and your sister." It's true. We share similar features, coloring, and light hazel-green eyes. She reminds me so much of younger Jo, the one who used to wear her hair sleek, straight, and would rock high heels for every occasion. The difference is, 26-year-old me often felt pressure to hide in my shell - to tone myself down to make others comfortable. Espinal, on the other hand, carries zero guilt about taking up space and showing up as her most authentic self. As a Dominican girl and native New Yorker, that's not always the easiest road to walk - but it's definitely the bravest.

Even the online criticism about the way she speaks - which she's confirmed stems from a speech impediment - hit close to home. For many bilingual Dominican girls from NYC, mispronouncing English words from time to time is common, especially if we grew up hearing our parents mispronounce them (like me). It has nothing to do with intelligence, education, or class. It's cultural. We are, after all, a subculture in NYC. And as someone who grew up in a casita in the Flushing, Queens, suburbs, but adjacent to both the hood and the projects, the way Espinal speaks wouldn't make anyone in my community bat an eye. It's normal. She's normal.

Espinal represents the modern Dominican American woman who isn't afraid to take up space and has absolutely no interest in dimming her light for anyone's comfort - especially men. Watching her on the show, I could see how empowered she felt whenever she'd say things like, "If I'm not your cup of tea, then don't drink it." At no point was she willing to change who she was just to make a connection. In fact, it was her authenticity that not only led to her match with Bryan Arenales (though they eventually broke up) but also made her the star of the show.

Because machismo is so deeply rooted in Dominican culture, Dominican women often develop thick skin out of necessity. Yes, Espinal cried and got emotional at times - she's human. But what stood out is that she never once apologized for her emotions. She claimed her vulnerability as a strength. It's something that, as Dominicans, we're never taught.

It wasn't until my 30s that I finally came out of my shell and learned to confidently claim space by using my voice. In my culture, my community, and even within my own family, speaking up wasn't always seen as a virtue - it was often perceived as a threat to men. A threat to machismo - the very system that allows men to hold power while forcing women to adapt and go into survival mode.

Dominican feminist and doctor Michelle Morales once said, "The most revolutionary thing that we can do is to tell the truth, loud and clear." Espinal was on a reality show trying to find love. She could have played it safe, gone with the flow, the way so many Latinas are taught to be - at work, at home, everywhere. But she didn't. She allowed herself to be heard, to be her truest, quirkiest, and in my opinion, most lovable self, while holding her ground. And in the end, she won because of that.

Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl Announcement Is Proof That Latin Music Is American Music

Johanna Ferreira — Mon, 29 Sep 2025 10:58:27 -0700

In my humble opinion, there are only a handful of pop culture artists who have reached the kind of truly global, era-defining impact that Bad Bunny has. Of course, there was Michael Jackson, Prince, Madonna, Whitney Houston, Lady Gaga, and Beyoncé. But when people think of these icons though, they immediately associate them with American music and American pop culture.

Meanwhile, Bad Bunny - born Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, raised in Vega Baja, Puerto Rico - hasn't just become one of the most recognized Latin music artists in the world; he's woven himself into the very fabric of what we consider American music today. The recent news that he will headline next year's Apple Music Super Bowl LX Halftime Show should come as no surprise to anyone. It's a clear reflection of how deeply Latin music and Latine culture have influenced and become part of American culture.

In just the past few years alone, Bad Bunny has shattered boundaries as a music artist. For starters, all seven of his albums, including his joint album "Oasis" with J Balvin, have peaked at No. 1 on the Billboard Top Latin Albums chart. His album "El Último Tour del Mundo" made history as the first all-Spanish-language album to reach No. 1 on the all-genre Billboard 200. "Un Verano Sin Ti" not only topped the Latin chart for 60 weeks but also spent 13 weeks at No. 1 on the Billboard 200. It became the top album of the year and the first Spanish-language album to be recognized in that top category. His 2025 album "Debí Tirar Más Fotos" also made waves, spending 20 weeks at No. 1 on Billboard's Hot Latin Songs chart. He's been one of the most-streamed artists on platforms like Spotify and Apple Music, even earning the title of Spotify's most-streamed artist worldwide multiple years in a row.

His Puerto Rico residency, "No Me Quiero Ir de Aquí," ran from July to mid-September at the José Miguel Agrelot Coliseum in San Juan with a total of 31 shows. It drew over 600,000 attendees and poured millions into Puerto Rico's local economy. More importantly, the concert series wasn't just a huge success in terms of numbers; it was a celebration of Puerto Rico, its people, and their cultural identity. It also resonated deeply with Latine communities in the States, proving just how central Puerto Rican culture and Latin music are to the larger American narrative. It's a reminder that Latines living in the States, including those from Puerto Rico, are an integral part of American culture.

In many ways, Shakira and Jennifer Lopez headlining the 2020 Super Bowl Halftime Show - in which Bad Bunny actually made a guest performance appearance - paved the way for him to take the stage next year. Not only was it the first time two Latina artists co-headlined a Super Bowl halftime show, but their performance also earned four Primetime Emmy nominations and won one, making it one of the most celebrated women-led halftime shows in history. It underscored the cultural significance of Latin music in the United States and helped open the door for even more representation on one of America's biggest stages.

"What I'm feeling goes beyond myself," Bad Bunny said in a statement released by the NFL about his own Halftime Show. "It's for those who came before me and ran countless yards so I could come in and score a touchdown . . . this is for my people, my culture, and our history. Ve y dile a tu abuela, que seremos el HALFTIME SHOW DEL SUPER BOWL."

When I had the honor of seeing Bad Bunny perform live at one of his July residency shows this summer, I noticed something remarkable: there were abuelas and abuelos dancing in the coliseum with the same energy as the younger fans. Benito's appeal spans generations because of the message he's been conveying - not just through his music, but also through how he utilizes his platform to advocate for social and political issues, especially those affecting Puerto Rico and Latine communities in the United States.

Bad Bunny's upcoming Super Bowl performance - at one of the most quintessentially American broadcast events, led by the NFL, an organization that has long been criticized for its racial equality issues - is further proof that he's successfully brought Latin music and culture to the forefront.

Bad Bunny's upcoming Super Bowl performance - at one of the most quintessentially American broadcast events, led by the NFL, an organization that has long been criticized for its racial equality issues - is further proof that he's successfully brought Latin music and culture to the forefront. The fact that he's always said his music and concerts are for his people, his culture, and their history is a powerful statement. It proves that no matter how hard America might try to overlook the force that is Puerto Rico and the Latine community, we're not going away - we're only getting stronger.

Personally, I'm crossing my fingers that he does the entire performance in non-English, cabrón!

I Thought the American Flag Excluded Me - Then Came Beyoncé

Jessica Andrews — Wed, 28 May 2025 10:30:01 -0700

Image Source: Getty Images / Armando L. Sanchez

One weekend, my friends and I headed to the Catskills in upstate New York to celebrate a bachelorette party. It wasn't long after we settled into our rental home that we saw it hanging on the living room wall: the American flag. The mood shifted immediately. "Do you think the owners are racist?" one friend asked. "Is it safe to be around here?" asked another.

I can't recall the exact moment when our country's symbol began to feel exclusionary to people like me: Black folks or anyone who doesn't fit the white, male, heterosexual, cisgender archetype.

Maybe it always felt that way.

For as long as I've been alive, we've perceived the American flag - waving in the sky, plastered on the wall, or rendered on a piece of clothing - as the symbol of an America that will never belong to us. A sign that we aren't welcome. That we aren't really American.

Yet four years after I spotted that American flag in the Catskills through a haze of confusion and fear, I found myself purchasing Americana fashion to wear to Beyoncé's "Cowboy Carter" tour. There's an American flag bandana that I'll tie around my neck and pair with a denim dress. And a cowboy hat I found with stars adorning the top and stripes covering the base.

On the surface, it fits the dress code for Beyoncé's "Cowboy Carter" era. Styled with power and purpose by Shiona Turini, Beyoncé's been embracing the Americana aesthetic, from her minidresses with a red, white, and blue color palette to her Coperni black bodysuit with American flag printed bell bottoms.

Image Source: Getty Images / Brooke Sutton

Her wardrobe is just as defiant as her reclamation of country music, a genre that originated with Black people but has since become overwhelmingly white. "She's coming" not merely for her rightful throne in the country genre but for her rightful place within the Americana fashion landscape as well.

Beyoncé is an American treasure, but as a Black American woman, she's also uniquely positioned to ask America to do better.

But she's not embracing Americana fashion as propaganda or using it to seek white validation. In the tradition of James Baldwin, who famously said, "I love America more than any other country in the world and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually," Beyoncé is taking a nuanced approach. She's honoring her Black American cultural upbringing while acknowledging the ways American ideology has been exclusionary and problematic. And it's not just her: Kendrick Lamar did the same with his Americana imagery during his Super Bowl performance. Plus, all over our TikTok and Instagram feeds, Black people are incorporating red, white, and blue into their concert outfits for both tours. The shift makes me question my own relationship with the American flag: is there space for me to embrace it and still demand progress?

With the "Cowboy Carter" era, Beyoncé has set a precedent to do just that. At her Christmas halftime show, she sang "Blackbiird" about the pain and hope of Black women during the Civil Rights Movement, wearing a red, white, and blue "Cowboy Carter" sash. Last July, she danced in a USA leotard while belting out "Ya Ya" with the help of our Olympics team - as its lyrics slam pay inequity and abusive insurance practices. The outfits, songs, and events all seem to confirm: Beyoncé is an American treasure, but as a Black American woman, she's also uniquely positioned to ask America to do better.

Image Source: Getty Images / Logan Bowles

That same symbolism took center stage at Kendrick Lamar's Super Bowl performance, where dancers embodied the American flag while flanking the rapper, who was himself dressed in red, white, and blue. With "Uncle Sam" (Samuel L. Jackson) chiding Lamar for being "too loud, too reckless, too ghetto" and the dancers separating to reflect a divided America, he was able to deliver poignant and unflinching commentary on American society during the most-watched Super Bowl broadcast in history.

These Americana looks, and the context behind them, speak to the deeply tormented and complicated relationship Black people have had with the U.S. for centuries.

The shift makes me question my own relationship with the American flag: is there space for me to embrace it and still demand progress?

My family goes back generations in this country with roots in Georgia and North Carolina. My grandparents on both sides were deeply immersed in Black Southern culture, and passed those traditions down to all of us. My grandfather loved country gospel music and played it often. Standing by my grandmother's side, I learned how to make my two favorite soul-food dishes: macaroni and cheese, and shrimp and grits. I have many childhood memories of my father's gospel jazz band practicing in the basement, filling the house with music. And we always celebrated Juneteenth (which happens to land on my sister's birthday) and Kwanzaa, my parents taking great care to explain the meaning behind these culturally significant traditions.

They instilled pride within me for my culture at an early age. Our people - Black Americans - built this country over four hundred years of slavery, then fought for equality within it, changing the course of history and culture and daily life for every person that sets foot on this land and breathes its air.

Today, I look around, and our music, vernacular, dance, food is interwoven into the very fabric of American culture - and revered and re-created around the world.

So, why does it feel uncomfortable for me to wear America on my sleeve? As I stood in front of my mirror trying on my "Cowboy Carter" outfits (yes, multiple outfits for multiple shows), any confusion and fear was replaced with a quiet confidence. This flag shouldn't be an exclusionary symbol; America belongs to us all.

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Not everyone gets to that place with America, or Americana fashion, and that's a stance I deeply understand and respect. But this week, as I step out for "Cowboy Carter" concerts, I will push past any discomfort. I will affix my flag bandana, I will put on my stars-and-stripes cowboy hat, I will embrace Americana fashion, I will sing country music, and I will exist boldly, freely, unapologetically in the country my ancestors built.

Jessica C. Andrews (she/her) is an award-winning editor and writer who works as the senior content director of PS Shopping. With more than 15 years of experience, her areas of expertise include fashion, shopping, and travel. Prior to joining PS, Jessica held senior roles at Teen Vogue, Refinery29, and Bustle and contributed to The New York Times, Elle, Vanity Fair, and Essence. She's appeared on "Good Morning America," NBC, and Fox 5 New York and spoken on various panels about fashion, hair, and Black culture.

I'm a DEI Consultant - Here's How to Find Hope and Take Action Right Now

Virginia A. Cumberbatch — Mon, 28 Apr 2025 11:50:02 -0700

Since Inauguration Day, we've endured an onslaught of legislative, rhetorical, and cultural shifts undermining the practice of diversity, equity, and inclusion. Federal employees have been fired, policies have been dissolved, national programs have been suspended, schools have been defunded, and companies have been threatened. From the removal of books from our schools to the stripping of historic Black figures from our national park websites, all of this has left many of us with whiplash. But most of all, it's left most of us wondering, "What can I do?"

Even as a DEI strategist and racial justice practitioner who's been invited to work with global brands from Lululemon and Burton to The University of Texas and the World Economic Forum, I have found myself overwhelmed, exhausted, and discombobulated. Have the thousands of programs we've built, articles we've written, and protests we've marched in been in vain? How do we respond to such an affront on our humanity, dignity, and civil liberties? How do we navigate this moment with hope and meaningful action?

Well, in the words of Sen. Cory Booker, 18 hours into his historic 25-hour no-bathroom break filibuster, "These are not normal times in our nation. And they should not be treated as such. . . . The threats to the American people and American democracy are grave and urgent, and we all must do more to stand against them." Sen. Booker's words offer us a bold invitation, noting that "moments like this require us to be more creative or more imaginative, or just more persistent and dogged and determined."

We all have agency in being the architects of a new reality.

But what does that mean for people working in corporate spaces with little agency, for those of us struggling to purchase the week's groceries, and for many of our communities enduring the ramifications of harmful legislation? What does "standing against" look like tangibly and practically, when it may be difficult or dangerous to do so? I want to be careful not to offer empty platitudes or pretend to have any certain solutions, but I hope I can create space for renewed intentions and imagination.

The call to actively dismantle systemic racism and oppression is not merely a response to how long a hashtag remains in our Instagram or TikTok feed, nor complete after our participation in a protest march (like the well-intentioned but perhaps underwhelming "Hands Off" protest) in April). No, business leaders and consumers are being called to move beyond the intellectualization or performance of DEI to actively disrupt oppressive systems, and this will require moving your investment from merely a company-wide book club or the updating of language on your website to intentional decision-making that alters our individual and collective practices, processes, and paradigms.

Each of us must hold ourselves, the organizations we influence, and the spaces we belong to accountable. Let us remember that we all have agency in being the architects of a new reality and the storytellers of a new story. So, let's consider the following practices in whatever space you occupy.

Corporate Money

Money talks. Where you shop and what you choose to buy matters. In fact, it's one of your most powerful tools of resistance. In a country predicated on capitalism, how we choose to invest our money is a direct reflection of our willingness to support, protect, and amplify marginalized voices. It may take more time and thoughtfulness when you purchase your next pair of jeans, go grocery shopping, or are on the hunt for that morning cup of coffee (as a reminder, it shouldn't be from Starbucks), but it is an everyday practice that can shift attitudes and spur action. Here some practices to consider:

Boycott brands that have rolled back or dissolved their DEI efforts and do your research around brands that have been silent. This includes subscriptions, streaming services, and healthcare products.
Show love for brands that have doubled down on their commitment to equity and inclusion. Not just with your dollars, but by amplifying them in your social circles and on social media.
Be a conscious consumer. Political power is fed by consumerism and capitalism; if we slow down our spending, we disrupt the cycle. Ask yourself, do you really need it? And if you do, can you thrift it, purchase locally, or support a BIPOC-owned brand?

Cultural Memory

One of the most impactful tactics of systemic oppression is cultural erasure and the manipulation of collective memory. And with an administration aiming to erase the stories of heroes like Harriet Tubman, Jackie Robinson, the Tuskegee Airmen, and more from government websites and institutions, "we the people" are the last line of defense. How can we individually protect the integrity of our collective stories?

Explore how you can encourage your workplaces, institutions of learning, and communities of faith to share stories of marginalized identities beyond inflection points, holidays, campaigns, and annual reports.
Share the microphone! Ask yourself, who is telling the stories in your sphere of influence? Sometimes the most meaningful action we can take is elevating other voices. From weekly staff meetings and board rooms to the event speaker or brand ambassador who gets to tell the story, figure out how you can empower a new story in the intimate and public spaces you occupy.

Collective Movement

We must remember that dismantling oppressive systems - racism, capitalism, patriarchy, and colonialism - isn't just about policy change and political power; it's also about changing our social paradigms, cultural practices, and individual postures of action. What are we willing to cede: comfort, convenience, conditioning? What are we willing to leverage: power, position, privilege?

While echo chambers can be comforting and reassuring in a time of chaos and hateful noise, it can also undermine the work of equity. We can take simple but intentional steps to expand our understanding and deepen our posture of empathy to inform our resistance. Diversify the voices that inform your TikTok FYP. Expand the news sources that you reference for legislation or pop culture updates - whether that's online outlets or Instagram accounts. We must build empathy as a practice of equity.
I wholeheartedly believe in the power of social media as space for connection, disruption, and elevation. But social media is not the work; it's a tool to serve our individual action and collective movement. So the challenge before us is to each move our engagement beyond the digital space and build on the ground. As the weather gets warmer, I urge you to explore the art of hosting, neighboring, and gathering. Host folks at your apartment for dinner to share ideas, imagine, and instigate change together. Celebrate Juneteenth beyond a picnic and parade; instead, invest in community action, perhaps by volunteering to register folks to vote.

Despite the continued suppression and oppression that is so intrinsic to the soil of this country, we demonstrate in each century that we won't settle for despair. We must continue to ask ourselves: How can we be purveyors of "all men are created equal"?

And can I let y'all in on a little secret? I am not scared that the letters of DEI are being villainized or eradicated. Because that is how propaganda works - it distorts truth, disguises meaning, and instills fear. No matter the terminology (DEI, CRT, or racial reconciliation), the value, the work, the impact and necessity of equity remains. The truth is, we never asked for labels (DEI), we asked for liberation. We never asked for programs, we asked for people power. We never asked for new words, we asked for a reimagined world, where all voices are honored, all stories matter, and justice prevails.

No matter what those sitting in the White House or in the halls of Congress choose to call it today, tomorrow, or five years from now, the need for community care persists, and so does the call for each of us to uniquely take up space to resist.

Virginia A. Cumberbatch is a racial justice educator, writer, and creative activist and the CEO and cofounder of Rosa Rebellion, a production company for creative activism by and for women of color. She's a graduate of Williams College and the University of Texas at Austin's Lyndon B. Johnson School of Public Affairs and is the author of "As We Saw It: The Story of Integration at the University of Texas at Austin."

Introducing De la Editora, the Latine Newsletter That Brings Our Community Together

Johanna Ferreira — Wed, 09 Apr 2025 06:00:03 -0700

Lately, I've been reflecting a lot on the power of community - within Latine spaces, especially. In the face of so much happening in our country - politically, socially, economically - it's clear that, as always, our community continues to show up with heart, strength, and orgullo. That's why I created De la Editora, a monthly newsletter where you'll hear directly from me and get the latest on PS Juntos, our digital destination celebrating Latine culture, pride, and intersectional identities.

I wanted to create something that not only highlights the incredible work happening across our community but also provides a space where we can feel seen, heard, and celebrated. Despite the obstacles we're facing, we are resilient people. Like our ancestors, Latines always manage to find ways to lean into joy and celebration. Maybe it's blasting Bad Bunny's "Debí Tirar Más Fotos" on loop or gathering with loved ones over a traditional meal (like when I recently made Dominican spaghetti with tostones for my family). It could be finally brushing up on your salsa moves like you've been saying you would for years, or creating more art in a time when the world really needs it. Maybe it's simply checking in on your gente and finding small ways to build community in your own hoods and barrios.

This newsletter - featuring voices across the Juntos network and our favorite Latine celebs - is a space where our stories, struggles, and triumphs are front and center. I hope De la Editora inspires you to lean into our collective strength, embrace our heritage, and find moments of joy. Let's celebrate our resilience and remind ourselves that we matter - always.

Con Amor,

What It's like to Live in Fear of Being Deported as a Mexican DACA Recipient

Valeria Herrera — Fri, 04 Apr 2025 09:00:02 -0700

During his first term, President Trump attempted to end Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA). Established in 2012, the program provides deportation relief and work authorization for individuals brought to the US illegally as children. As the Trump administration continues to put its focus on mass deportations, many immigrants - including those currently protected under DACA - are fearful that he will put an end to the program once and for all.

As a result, Valeria Herrera, a 27-year-old Mexican nurse in Austin, TX, and a DACA recipient, has taken to TikTok to express her fear, frustration, and anger over the program's uncertain future. She spoke with PS about her concerns, why DACA matters, and why she's trying to bring more awareness to the issue on her social media platforms. Read her thoughts, in her own words, below.

I was barely 2 years old when my parents and I migrated from Chihuahua, Mexico, to Austin, Texas. Twenty-five years later, America is the only place I've ever called home. Like most immigrant families, my parents came here seeking opportunities and always with the mindset to work hard and earn their money. And yet, I live in a country where so many people don't recognize that because of my citizenship status.

Since Trump took office this year, many DACA recipients like myself have been concerned about our futures. I've had DACA for 10 years now. I'm 27 years old, and I was a junior in high school when I finally entered the program. Before my mother passed away, she really pushed for me to apply and helped send in my initial DACA application. I was looking into college applications at the time and quickly learned that because I wasn't a citizen, I couldn't apply for federal financial aid. That's when the reality of my citizenship status really began to hit me.

Since Trump took office this year, many DACA recipients like myself have been concerned about our futures.

I always understood that we had initially come here illegally because my mother wasn't able to work. When my mom was still around, my parents were very private. We don't have much family here in the US, so we always kept close and tightly-knit circles, and my folks would only share our immigration status with people they really trusted. And because of it, for a while, I was almost ashamed of being Mexican. When I was younger, I tried to stray away from my Mexican culture, embracing everything American because I felt so different from a lot of my friends.

Things got harder after we lost my mom when I was 17. My two younger brothers, who were both born here, were only in elementary school at the time. And my dad was adjusting to being a single parent. As the eldest daughter, I immediately had to step in and take on a more parental role with my brothers, all while navigating my own struggles when it came to figuring out a path toward citizenship. I really struggled during my senior year, but thankfully, I had a career counselor at school named Ms. Simmons who literally held my hand through everything. But it wasn't easy.

My mom's dream was for me to go to the University of Texas at Austin. I always wanted to go there for their nursing program, but figuring out all the logistics and paperwork of what my dad made financially became so difficult to provide that even after being accepted, I had to turn it down because I couldn't figure out how to pay the tuition. Thankfully, I wound up getting a merit-based scholarship to Concordia University, where I eventually became the first person in my family to graduate from college. But what people don't understand is that I often had to bust my ass working two to three jobs to pay the rest of my tuition and living costs that my scholarship didn't cover. It's because of DACA that I'm able to work today as a pediatric nurse at a hospital because DACA provides me with a worker's permit. Every two years, I have to provide my job with my work permit and my social security. As long as I'm able to renew my DACA, I can live a semi-normal life in the States.

Last year, I decided to start sharing posts on my TikTok about being a DACA recipient because with Trump winning the election, there was a lot of fear that he'd end the program. I've been posting even more since he was inaugurated this year. In Texas, you can feel the panic in the Mexican community because your life could change in a matter of seconds. You just don't know when he's going to change something else or when he's going to just decide that's enough of DACA, and if he does, I would not be able to work, and there's also always the chance of deportation.

I recently had to have a conversation with my boyfriend because, obviously, everyone's first response has been, "Why don't you just get married?" My boyfriend, who is also Latino, is an American citizen. But I told him, realistically, that marriage is not even an immediate solution because that process is lengthy and costly. I provide for myself, and I live on my own, so I told him, "God forbid I can't work in this country; even if I weren't immediately deported, I would have to leave."

Because I was so little when I immigrated here and because I don't have much contact with my family in Mexico, I only have one aunt who I keep in contact with and would allow me to stay with her. It would completely change my life. My career is here. My friends are here. My boyfriend is here. My dogs are here.

Texas has had a lawsuit against the US for DACA. They are very adamant that DACA was an illegal action by Obama and that the program shouldn't be continued. A US appeals court basically ruled that Texas has legal standing to challenge DACA, but it's been put on hold for now. So far, nothing has changed, but it could. They claim that we cause a financial burden to the state of Texas. This is a major misconception that Americans have about DACA recipients and other immigrants who aren't citizens.

I'm already seeing other people in my community who are scared or have already been impacted by this new administration. At the hospital where I work, just in my unit, there are three DACA recipients, so in my unit alone, we would be losing three people - god forbid. I have already had family who have been deported. I have friends who have had relatives deported. It just really hits home because I always tell people that could have been my dad at some point, and I feel for them. Fortunately, my dad went through the process and is now a permanent resident.

Whenever Trump is in office, the racism gets louder. Austin is a pretty liberal city overall, but there have been certain instances, like when I'm at work, where I'm talking to a co-worker in Spanish. Someone will make a point to tell us to stop speaking in Spanish because they don't understand what we're saying. I've gotten the "Go back to your country" comment on social media a million times. So many people have told me, "Just go back home. You don't deserve to be here. We don't owe you anything."

My goal is to bring awareness. I'm encouraging people who are US citizens to show up, show support, and share resources. I also want to bring awareness to why people find themselves having to immigrate here illegally in the first place.

I recently shared a story about the mom of a little girl I was recently treating at the hospital. She was telling me how they fled Colombia immediately after a drug cartel group showed up at her house. She has two daughters, a 2-year-old and a 13-year-old, and the cartel told her to have her 13-year-old ready for them in the coming weeks. She just packed her stuff, left with her daughters, and came here. I was asking someone, "Would you have just sat there and waited months to get approval for asylum when you know that tomorrow could be the day they come and pick up your child?"

At the end of the day, I hope that as I share my story and more information about DACA and what it means to not yet be a citizen in this country, that it inspires people to get educated so that they understand how much of an impact we have in the community. I hope that people who are citizens will advocate for people like me so that America can be a better place.

- As told to Johanna Ferreira

Adria Arjona on What the Latine Community Needs Right Now: "We Always Seem to Find Joy"

Johanna Ferreira — Thu, 03 Apr 2025 14:00:01 -0700

Adria Arjona believes in the power of the Latine community. "In the most horrible situations, we know where to find joy," she says. That's particularly true for her latest role in the Spanish-language film "Los Frikis," a coming-of-age story created by Tyler Nilson and Michael Schwartz, the directors of "The Peanut Butter Falcon." The rising star, known for her roles in 2022's "Father of the Bride" remake and 2023's "Hit Man," says that in a time when the fight for accurate Latine representation continues, "Los Frikis" is exactly the kind of storytelling we need more of.

The film, which was released on Apple TV on March 28, is inspired by the true story of a defiant Cuban punk rock subculture during the 1990s, referred to as Los Frikis (the freaks), who purposefully injected themselves with HIV-infected blood during the island's AIDS epidemic. It was a desperate attempt to be sent to government-funded sanatoriums, where they were guaranteed a warm bed, enough food to eat during Cuba's devastating famine and economic crisis, and a place where they could freely listen and play their music - which was otherwise banned by the Cuban dictator Fidel Castro.

The film highlights a heartbreaking period in Cuba's history that is never taught in schools and rarely, if ever, discussed beyond Cuban American communities. In the early 1990s, Cuba was experiencing dire economic hardships after the fall of the Soviet Union. The "Special Period" during Fidel Castro's reign not only pushed thousands of Cubans to migrate to the United States, risking their lives at sea, but it also forced Cubans who weren't able to escape to take desperate measures to survive. But as dark as this part of Cuba's history may be, the film also beautifully touches on the Cuban people's inherent resilience and attempt to find joy during a time that felt like literal hell on earth.

"That's what the movie is all about, and that's exactly what the filmmakers showcased of us," Arjona says. "Instead of showing our community as violent or showing our community as problematic, they showed our community for what we are, in that we have been in some really tough situations, and we always seem to find joy."

The film follows 18-year-old Gustavo (Eros De La Fuente), who idolizes his older brother Paco (Hector Medina), a punk rocker who is part of Los Frikis and self-injects himself with HIV-blood along with his buddies as a way to survive the island's strict dictatorship and devastating famine. Gustavo never injects himself but gets a doctor to forge his medical paperwork so that he can be sent to the sanatorium to join his brother and friends. Together, they create their own utopia where they spend their days playing baseball, playing rock music, and working together as a community.

With the exception of Arjona, every actor in the film was born and raised in Cuba and had never left the island before filming the movie in the Dominican Republic's capital of Santo Domingo.

"They really brought life to this film and brought life to these characters, and I'll just say it because I have no filter, but I'm not supposed to be in this movie," she adds. "I'm the finance element of the movie. If I hadn't brought the finance, Maria would've been another actress from Cuba. But that's not how this industry works."

Arjona, who is half Guatemalan and half Puerto Rican, was a deliberate choice by the directors and Cuban American producer Phil Lord. Arjona plays Maria, a young divorcee who runs the sanatorium operation and is grieving the loss of her brother to AIDS.

"I think our stories should be told, and I think our history should be shared," she says. "Especially a movie like this, giving voice to artists like Hector Medina and Eros De La Puente, and Pedrito [Pedro Martínez] y Manuel [Manuel Alejandro Rodriguez], artists that would never have a voice or would probably never be able to be in a Hollywood movie because they live in a communist country, unable to leave."

In a time where Hollywood still has a way to go when it comes to accurate and positive representation and DEI initiatives are being threatened by our current administration, "Los Frikis" highlights the importance of not just bringing Cuba's history to the surface but proves why more Latine narratives need to be told. In a country where many remain unaware of Latin American history, we need more films based on true events. We can't truly understand or empathize with a community's struggles without knowing what led them to where they are today.

In "Los Frikis," the theme that resonates most is the power of community - how it sustains our spirit and helps us hold onto hope, even in the darkest moments.

Another powerful aspect of the film is that it's entirely in Spanish - not only does this add authenticity, but it also makes the story more accessible to Spanish-speaking audiences.

"We're the biggest movie goers, right? It's important to tell our stories in our language, and language is such a big part of storytelling that it makes it more authentic," Arjona says, referencing the Latine community. "I don't get a lot of opportunities to act in my own language and when I do, it's really exciting because I'm so used to acting in English, it almost feels like I'm learning how to do it all over again because Spanish is such a romantic language . . . it's really liberating to speak my own language."

As a Latina actress in Hollywood, Arjona not only wants to see more films centering Latine stories, but she always wants to be able to see more Latine actors being able to take on a range of roles across genres that don't just center their identities.

"I think we've seen it a little bit more throughout the years," Arjona says regarding accurate, positive, and non-stereotypical representation of Latines in film. "But being able to hop within genres and also being able to hop within cultures . . . It's not questioned when a white male or female actor who is American plays a British character. It's okay. And I would like to see that happen a little bit more [with us]. I would love to be in a period piece. I want to see more Latin Americans in period pieces. We existed."

J Balvin's Tour Proves Music Creates the Latine Unity We Need Right Now

Johanna Ferreira — Mon, 31 Mar 2025 12:32:38 -0700

I've been thinking a lot about community lately - how essential it is, especially this year, for marginalized folks living in the US. With mass deportations and the dismantling of DEI initiatives, it's clear that this administration has been targeting Latine communities in its first months of power. However, one of the ways I've been holding onto hope and joy is by turning to Latin music, and I felt that message even more strongly at J Balvin's "Back to Rayo" concert on Sunday, March 30, at Barclays Center in Brooklyn. It was a celebration of Latine power and solidarity.

I've said it before: Bad Bunny's "Debí Tirar Más Fotos" and Jessie Reyez's "Paid in Memories," albums that both dropped this year, have felt like musical gifts the community needs right now. They're more than feel-good tracks - they're reminders of our worth and resiliency, and Balvin's performance very much embodied that sentiment, too.

Balvin's North American tour kicked off in Atlanta just last week, and it marks his first tour in years. Three years after his 2022 "José" tour was postponed because of pandemic-related challenges, he's back- and delivered a vibrant, high-energy show featuring some of his global hits like "Reggaetón," "Con Altura," "I Like It," "La Cancion," and the Latine crowd favorite "Mi Gente."

The concert felt like a tribute to Latine culture and its many branches. At one point, Balvin paused to shout out the diversity in the crowd: "I see people from Venezuela. I see people from Ecuador. I see people from Peru. I see people from Chile," he said in Spanish. "From Bolivia. From Argentina. Paraguay. Uraguay. Brazil. Panama. Puerto Rico. Dominican Republic. Cuba. Mexico. Honduras. Salvador. Nicaragua. Guatemala. Costa Rica." He spoke with pride about being Latino and even acknowledged those without citizenship - clearly referencing the current wave of mass deportations.

Balvin shouted out fellow Colombian icons like Shakira, Karol G, and Maluma, and made sure to include non-Latine fans in his tribute too. "Even if you don't understand Spanish, but you vibe with what we're doing - you're part of the Latino gang." While "Latino Gang" isn't an official collective, artists like Balvin, Bad Bunny, and Tainy have used the term to describe a new wave of reggatón and música urbana talent that's taken the global stage - all without compromising their roots or switching to English. These artists have reshaped pop music in the US, proving that Latine culture is American culture, through and through.

When we talk about Latine resilience in the US, music is one of the strongest forces that bind us across countries and generations. And if there's one thing this tour proves, it's the power of music to connect, uplift, and preserve our culture in even the most uncertain times.

A Latina Snow White Is Actually Exactly What We Need Right Now

Akaylah Ellison — Mon, 24 Mar 2025 11:45:02 -0700

When Disney cast Rachel Zegler, a half-Colombian, half-white actress, as Snow White for their latest live-action remake, people were up in arms. Zegler - who is known for her breakout role in "West Side Story," for which she had to continuously prove that she was Latina enough - is again under fire. But this time, the opposite has happened: She's getting pushback for portraying a princess who got her name for having "skin white as snow." This poses an interesting quandary, mirroring the one in "Snow White" itself: Who is the fairest of them all?

When I was a little girl, I always wanted my happily ever after. I would forget that the world was real, and I would melt into fairytales. These tales prepared me for the adult world; they taught me to be kind, to be princess-ly. However, I found myself nowhere to be seen, especially not as a princess, in the fairytales I loved so much. But recently, Disney has course-corrected and remade those classics so that a younger generation can see themselves as heroes or heroines.

In the real world, the real America, a Latina Snow White gets backlash. Right now, possibilities are limited for so many people like my family. I hold my breath to see if my tía will have her new green card revoked. My grandfather prays that he will get to stay here. I read the news and see not only mass deportations but also the possibilities that America once promised slip away each day under this new administration.

So while it may seem insignificant amid these other issues, a movie like "Snow White" (despite other controversies around the film) gives me a little hope that we can rise above oppressive forces. When those opposing the oppressors are the highest-profile celebrities of the day, that message can spread faster than any article I can write.

Disney itself has a mixed record on DEI initiatives within the company since President Trump took office, but "Snow White" proves that the brand has continued championing inclusive stories. With the magic of Disney stories, a frog can turn into a prince or a rat into a chef, but God forbid a person of color turns into a princess. In this live-action version, Snow gets her name after being born in a snowstorm and aims to rise above an oppressive force that rules the land. Although some Americans are groaning about the exact shade the lead is, we need a Latina Snow White more than ever.

Zegler's representation of purity and kindness is what matters most about Snow White. She embodies a princess who teaches kids to share, to care, and not to discriminate. If people want white Americans to be the ideal image of that message, then let me just say this: White Americans don't need a princess to do that. They just need to act better. However, when the representation of Latines in the media has always been that of drug dealers and criminals, we desperately need a vision like Zegler as Snow White.

So many Americans are looking in that magic mirror right now and asking who they need to get rid of to feel like they are the most special in all of the land. But it's time to realize that if you must exterminate something for you to be considered the best, you might not be all that special to begin with. Disney makes one princess Latina and all of a sudden there are not enough white ones? America needs to look in the real mirror and ask itself, how did we become the Evil Queen, wanting everything for just ourselves, for just one dominant group?

"Once upon a time" used to inspire us to imagine the scariest evil overcome by the purest happily ever after. Fairytales teach children that villains exist and a stranger's love can heal us. America has ripened its apples full of hatred and refuses to see the poison that we are all feeding on. Zegler is just a woman who loves to act and sing - who Disney decided is talented enough to play one of the most iconic roles in their arsenal. If we can't see that this is a portal into the world of Disney's magic, then we may have missed the point of the original Snow White - which was never about being white, but always about being good and being fair.

Akaylah Ellison is a screenwriter whose storytelling blends the poetic and long-form narratives. Believing that empathy is a writer's greatest asset, Akaylah creates characters who voice fringe realities and encourages people from different walks of life to connect with them emotionally. Akaylah wants to create content that reflects her real world, which is a blend of people from all backgrounds who coexist without explaining who they are and who never apologize for it.

Aida Rodriguez: Why Latines Must Prioritize Community and Unity Now More Than Ever

Aida Rodriguez — Thu, 20 Mar 2025 10:00:01 -0700

Since the election, there has been a lot of conversation surrounding Latine communities. With Trump securing the Latino vote, a notable increase from previous elections, our communities were highlighted at every turn, and rightfully so. I don't take issue with some of the valid criticisms of my community; I understand the betrayal and pain that many felt as a result. The single-voter reality that we were faced with as Americans made us confront some of the ugly truths about how the media can wrongfully inform us. The attack on education is manifesting itself in a problematic America, and Immigration and its endless alleged threat to the well-being of White Americans superseded the rising prices that are actually currently hurting all working-class people. I do not doubt that many of these issues have been part of a greater plan to cause so much division that kidnapping our democracy could actually become a reality.

Being who I am as an entertainer, a comedian, and a social/political commentator, I have often come under fire for holding my community accountable, speaking to the colorism, anti-Blackness, anti-Indigenous sentiment, and downright self-hate that is so prevalent and toxic among Latin Americans living in the states. So much so that my Latina card has been revoked as my invitation to the Parranda or the Asada, and many of the so-called Latine "solidarity" events have been rescinded. I am considered "divisive" and "problematic" because, of course, I am not willing to sweep it under the rug.

After my appearance on "Hell of a Week," a Latina called me a 'traitor to my people" on social media, stating that I shouldn't be criticizing my own publicly. In speaking out against anti-Blackness in our community, I have hit a nerve with certain people. In another setting, while discussing relationships with friends, a Latina actress boldly asked, "Why do you love Black men and Black people so much?" It was a sad reality that she didn't understand that Blackness is a part of the Latine spectrum. It is often a problem in our community to discriminate against Black and Indigenous people or downright erase them.

Latines try to assimilate for the same reasons that everyone else does - it's a form of survival. As those who have been oppressed by colonization and white supremacy, it is encoded in our DNA to figure out the way through. We are a group that has every racial component as a part of it. As a result, we have our own white people, too. Unfortunately, that whiteness is weaponized against the non-whites in our group. That's what white supremacy does; it infects us with the belief that white is better, and many people suffer from the illness.

Latines try to assimilate for the same reasons that everyone else does - it's a form of survival.

Within our own community, we have had many ongoing debates about Hispanic vs. Latino identity. The continuous argument about speaking Spanish being a requirement to identify with the group is nonstop. We, as a group, are still far from the solidarity that we love to purport. These challenges are no secret to others and, at times, weaponized to keep us unseen and devalued in the face of those who benefit from our presence and dollars.

We have fallen in love with being "picked." You see it in politics, Hollywood, corporate America, and even at home. During the election, Nicky Jam, a popular Puerto Rican/Dominican singer, endorsed Trump and was introduced by the former president as a woman - he didn't even know who Nicky Jam was. We are constantly poked and pimped through misinformation and fear. After all, we are the biggest minority group in America, and we make a difference in this country with our dollars and our votes.

Because education catches up with us, no matter how much we run from it, we are seeing a reckoning. Younger generations that have pushed back from the problematic table are no longer eating what we have been fed. They are claiming their identities and championing the Indigenous and African ancestors of the past over the worship of the brutal colonizers that raped and pillaged our people. They have no desire to be "picked" by the very people who hurt us.

I am not here to advocate for a political ideology, party, or platform. True liberation entails marginalized people having access to everything the ruling class enjoys. I simply want to remind us that despite the propaganda, we are a great people. We have much to offer in everything from the arts to science, to agriculture, and everything in between. We contribute greatly to society in all roles, and our dollars make a great difference.

I simply want to remind us that despite the propaganda, we are a great people.

I often speak of a solidarity that others perceive as unrealistic and naive, almost like a fantasy that will never be our reality, because I believe that our victory is possible. In the recent past, we have seen the uneducated, hateful masses driven by rhetoric that feeds their bigotry without a basic understanding of us. We have heard the terms Affirmative Action, CRT, and now DEI used to justify the dismantling of programs to create some sort of equity for an already unbalanced system that comforts white mediocrity. This is by design; after all, we are all being exploited. But if you don't know better, you can't do better. It is much easier to scapegoat the most vulnerable of us than to face the reality of what has and continues to happen. This country values corporations and billionaires over the people who make them.

The reality is that we know our customs, religions, food, languages, etc. … because these things were handed down to us from our ancestors, not through their history books. In fact, many of the books we are given to read in school have never really painted us favorably or in our fullness. Many of the systems in this country, from the education system to the healthcare system, are also not meant to work in our favor. We are still reaching for our ancestral cures and medicine; our food and customs have been handed down through our own pipeline, not the mainstream. We have always been everything we needed to survive, after all, we are still here and thriving despite it all.

America has always been a haven of violence, but the most damaging and feared revolt that it understands is an economic one. Our dollars should be rerouted to our communities instead of the very institutions that neglect and ignore us and our needs. Our resistance is in building community, highlighting the erased, and forging paths forward despite the obstacles. Our true leaders and activists don't spend hours on social media; they are on the ground, securing and enforcing movements in our best interest. They need our support in all forms. Why should we feel pressured to figure it all out expeditiously if Rome wasn't built in a day? With as much that has been thrown our way to deter us, we continue to plow forward. We can't forget that no movement has ever been successful without the cliche sweat, blood, and tears, but our true liberation has and will always be damn well worth it.

Aida Rodriguez is a comedian, writer, actor, and author - a favorite of critics and fans alike. Rodriguez is the host of the podcast "Say What You Mean" and the author of "Legitimate Kid," published by HarperCollins, and her comedy special "Fighting Words" is streaming on Max. She's a guest writer for BuzzFeed and Oprah Daily, as well as a regular commentator on "The Young Turks."

Hell Yes, Natasha Rothwell, Black Women Have Always Deserved Luxury Travel

Shelli Nicole — Wed, 19 Mar 2025 13:30:02 -0700

I grew up in Detroit, went to school in New York, and eventually settled in Chicago - three major cities, yet my travels never needed anything more than a state ID. I'd always dreamed of going to far-flung places, and wanted to experience all those that I saw in the movies. But in adulthood, money was a barrier, and time off work later became another. And recently, I've been reflecting on another insidious hurdle: the lack of representation - specifically in film and TV - when it came to traveling the world as a Black woman.

In the pop culture I loved, Black women rarely got to experience luxury travel. There was a surplus of "Under the Tuscan Sun"s and "Eat, Pray, Love"s with white women exploring the world, but aside from "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" and "Last Holiday," there are so few stories that I can think of that reflected us in that way.

Recently, Natasha Rothwell has portrayed not one but two characters (in "The White Lotus" and "How to Die Alone") who share that same craving - not just for travel, but for the kind of global, luxurious experiences that long felt out of reach for me. Her character Belinda in "The White Lotus" really drove it home for me, especially in a quiet moment in season 3. Belinda spots another Black woman in the same luxury wellness hotel in Thailand, and they share an unspoken nod - one of those moments that says everything without a single word.

"I'm obsessed sort of with Black travel," Rothwell said in an interview with NPR, discussing the latest season of "The White Lotus." "I remember traveling when I was real, real broke and seeing a Black person sitting in first class when I was on my way to coach. And it subconsciously let me know that I should be able to do that, that I could do that, that I belonged in that space."

We deserve to see ourselves luxuriating, exploring, indulging.

Indeed, it's so rare to see Black women in these spaces, in both pop culture and in real life. In fiction, it's always white women who escape into luxury, self-care, and wellness. Their stories frame travel as a necessary retreat from the demands of their lives, the deep need for me time after hardship. But in reality, if anyone needs true rest, deep restoration, and the kind of escape that comes wrapped in five-star service and ocean views, it's Black women.

We move through a world that constantly tries to take from us - our labor, our creativity, our joy - while asking us to be everything for everyone. We're expected to push through exhaustion, to endure harm, to heal ourselves, and then to turn around and heal others. We are deserving of an escape that requires absolutely nothing in return.

I'm proud to say that my younger self's dreams did come true. I've traveled and begun seeing the world, and when I do, I'm writing the story I wish I had seen more of on screen. I've found myself lost in the deep Dutch countryside, surrounded by goats and lush greenery while waiting for a 10-passenger bus to take me into the city. I could have been annoyed or filled with anxiety, but instead, I walked down the road and stumbled onto a castle as kind Dutch folks went by me on their bikes and the sun let out the perfect amount of shine.

It was incredible. I felt like I was 45 minutes into the movie where the girl stops and realizes that she is the master of her own fate, right before the montage of her eating all the desserts at all the cute places. It may seem corny to have imagined that, but the truth is, we belong in these stories. We deserve to see ourselves luxuriating, exploring, indulging - fully embracing all that the world has to offer without hesitation or apology.

A while ago, parents started posting on TikTok how they were showing their daughters the world so they wouldn't be easily impressed by men doing the same in the future. I understood the snarky sentiment. But underlying that trend was something deeper: it was Black parents showing their children - especially their daughters - that without question, they deserve to experience the fullness of the world.

I want Black folks - especially Black women - to let the world see us living our dreams. Post that picture of you in a beret eating a croissant in Paris. Caption that shot of you in the UK phone booth with, "London called, I answered." Share that 20-photo carousel of you and your honey in Thailand, soaking up every inch of the experience. Be the pop culture you want to see - and know Belinda would absolutely be proud.

Shelli Nicole is a contributing writer for Architectural Digest and Vogue and the creator of the pop culture newsletter Hi Shelli. Her pieces are often about pop culture, art, and travel and infused with personal narratives from her Black and queer identity. Shelli was born in Detroit and resides in Chicago, where she is watching "Rye Lane" on repeat.

What Gigi Hadid's "Hairspray" Video Says About the Sad State of Body Inclusivity

CeCe Olisa — Mon, 17 Mar 2025 12:40:02 -0700

The latest rendition of "Hairspray" is as tragic as a Target DEI rollback.

Vogue's latest stunt, featuring the oh-so-thin Gigi Hadid in a "Hairspray"-inspired video for the magazine's April cover story, is like serving a triple-shot of gaslighting with a side of cultural insensitivity for dinner. Any theater nerd will tell you that when the casting call is for "Hairspray," it means it's time for the often-overlooked big girls, Black divas, and drag queens to finally take center stage. The Broadway classic is a raucous, heartfelt celebration of plus-size empowerment and the fight against segregation. And now, here we are, watching Vogue seemingly de-center the very message that made the musical iconic.

Let's be real: "Hairspray" was built on the idea that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. Yet Vogue's casting choice feels like a cosmic mix-up . . . a blatant oversight that leaves us scratching our heads. I can hear the eye rolls behind the screens as TikTokers commented, "What's the purpose of a Hairspray-inspired shoot without a plus-size model?" and, "Yes, Hairspray! The musical famously about a thin woman!" Indeed, their sarcasm captures the issue at hand here: the original production is not about thinness at all. It's about challenging the norms and making room for those who defy society's unrealistic standards.

"Hairspray" was built on the idea that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. Yet Vogue's casting choice feels like a cosmic mix-up.

Vogue's version of "You Can't Stop the Beat" is clearly offbeat, more like a misfired drum solo than a catchy bop. By sidelining plus-size representation, Vogue isn't just missing the mark - it's rewriting the playbook on body positivity (as if they haven't already had enough practice in washing out diversity) while riding the latest cultural wave that thin is back in, thanks to weight-loss drugs like Ozempic.

That our country's definitive fashion magazine made a decision to skinny-wash "Hairspray" is a reflection of a broader cultural shift we are all navigating. We're in an era when the quest for thinness is so glorified that even a musical known for its message of inclusion gets twisted into a platform for a narrow, almost toxic ideal. The disconnect is palpable - a show meant to be a defiant celebration of body diversity now feels like a watered-down, homogenized tribute to a predictable, outdated aesthetic.

Vogue's decision goes beyond a simple miscasting; it speaks volumes about the renewed wave of media increasingly fixated on slimness at the expense of diversity. With every glossy shoot and high-budget production, we're reminded that in this cultural moment, thinness isn't just preferred - it's expected. And if that means sidelining plus-size representation in a tribute to one of the most inclusive musicals ever created, then the media is sending a message louder than any choreographed number: diversity is optional.

By choosing to cast a slender icon in a narrative that should have been a full-throated celebration of curves and character, Vogue not only betrays the spirit of "Hairspray" but also reinforces a cultural narrative where thinness is the default and any deviation is simply, well, out of vogue. It's as if the industry forgot that true rhythm comes from embracing all voices, all bodies, and all stories - even those that don't fit into the narrow confines of an idealized, thin silhouette.

Yes, this is happening, but we can't afford to fall asleep at the wheel. We must keep our eyes wide open, keep calling out these misfires, and demand that our cultural icons - especially those as beloved as "Hairspray" - stay true to their roots of celebrating every fabulous, diverse body that graces the stage. One can only hope that in the future, media and fashion will step up and embrace true inclusivity rather than settling for an unseasoned, offbeat remix of a beloved classic.

CeCe Olisa is a trailblazing voice in inclusive health and beauty, dedicated to inspiring plus-size and Black women to embrace self-care with confidence. As the founder of Cocoa by CeCe and the creator of the Curve Method, CeCe blends personal experience with expert insights to make wellness accessible, joyful, and empowering for all.

Chappell Roan Allowed Me to Embrace My Inner Stan

Emma Glassman-Hughes — Thu, 13 Mar 2025 16:35:01 -0700

My partner and I once played a game where we tried to pinpoint the exact lyric from "The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess" that cemented our Chappell Roan obsessions. For him, the answer was obvious. He can never resist the cockeyed refrain in "Naked in Manhattan" when Roan implores a friend to "touch me, touch me, touch me, TOUCH ME!!" But I have a harder time narrowing it down. "Long hair, no bra, that's my type" is an all-timer. I feel "Call me hot, not pretty" on a cellular level, like "girl math" but for flirting.

Maybe what hooked me wasn't even a lyric, but the motorcycle rev in the first track, "Femininomenon" - a ridiculous, growly non-sequitur that's a little boastful and obnoxious and totally out of the blue. It sets up an album that's dripping with surprises, and one that's been on constant repeat in my head ever since.

I'm clearly not the only bisexual who feels this way. The ruby-haired pop artist originally from Missouri has the world's queers in a (consensual) choke hold, drawing record numbers to her festival shows all summer long in 2024, from Boston Calling to Outside Lands. "Midwest Princess," her debut studio album, sold its millionth copy at the end of August last year. In November, she teased her latest single, sapphic country bop "The Giver," on "Saturday Night Live," which already has its own do-si-do choreography for fans to learn. But perhaps what's most impressive is that Roan spent weeks trailing Taylor Swift at number two on the Billboard 200 chart last year - all the more stunning after the 2023 Eras-mania that whipped the world into a blonde frenzy.

Roan throws her shoulder pads back, her cleavage high. I am perverted, she proclaims. I am kinky. I am feral. And aren't I majestic?

While everyone was shelling out their life savings for a chance to see the Eras Tour last summer, I was doing somersaults in my brain trying to figure out why I couldn't relate. As much as I wanted to be swept up in the cultural moment, I didn't feel anything.

It wasn't that I didn't know a good chunk of her discography - Swift has been making commercially successful music since I was in sixth grade. I loved "Fearless" and "Teardrops on My Guitar" as much as the next romantically confused minor. But as Swift and I grew up, we grew in different directions. What I would learn about my body, my desires, and my politics made me feel I didn't belong in a fan club that looked more like a Big Ten sorority than a women's lib conference, at least from the outside.

If I wanted to be a superfan like the other girls, I would need a pop star who could bridge those worlds and others - someone to lace romance with rebellion, raunch, and raucousness. If I was ever going to feel anything close to Swiftie-level devotion, it would be for someone who's tender and yearning but knows what she wants. Someone who shows the world how playful, how powerful, how multifaceted sapphic love is. Who wears her heart on her sleeve and blood-red lipstick smeared all over her teeth.

Chappell Roan - in lots of tulle and drag makeup, in her miniskirts and go-go boots - has made me a stan for the first time in my life.

I discovered her album in late summer 2023, as I was nearing the end of a relationship with a woman who ultimately decided she couldn't split her focus between me and her PhD in robotics. Obviously the robots won. Several months earlier, I had ended a relationship with a big-hearted boy who, despite his best efforts, would never really understand my queerness. I had just moved into a new apartment with a friend I loosely had a crush on, my work life was unstable, and I was about to be love-bombed and ghosted by a parade of confused Tinder men.

The walls of my metaphorical house were held together with masking tape. It was then that this tornado of a Midwest princess swept through, shattered the windows, leveled the ceilings, and broke something open in me that I'd been intermittently trying to access and snuff out since middle school and the dawn of the T-Swift empire: my desire.

For queers, the "sin" of our pervertedness is deeply ingrained. Messaging from all sides - media, lawmakers, neighbors with homophobic lawn signs - tells us we have dirty minds. That we want what's unholy, unnatural, and unspeakable. Like so many young, queer people, I was bent in the shape of that shame. Roan throws her shoulder pads back, her cleavage high. I am perverted, she proclaims. I am kinky. I am feral. And aren't I majestic?

Not only is Roan charting a new path for queer self-expression, she's rewriting the rules of celebrity, asserting that her fame doesn't make her public property. Months before an explosive acceptance speech at the Grammys, in which she demanded better wages and health insurance for artists, her social media post firmly insisting that her fans give her space, treat her like a human being, and respect her privacy sparked massive controversy over how celebrities, especially women, should act. "Women don't owe you shit," she wrote in her statement.

Core to being a Chappell stan - a Chaperone? A Pony? A Popstar? - are some of the most precious tenets of queerness: setting and respecting boundaries, protecting and uplifting ourselves and our communities, and being unapologetic about who we are and what we need.

In my current romantic relationship, a mutual Roan stanhood was one of our earliest points of compatibility. But once, on a date with someone else, I played Roan's "Tiny Desk" performance on YouTube. She was good, the date said, "but it's just 'girl music.'"

Yes, I said. Exactly.

Emma Glassman-Hughes (she/her) is the associate editor at PS Balance. In her seven years as a reporter, her beats have spanned the lifestyle spectrum; she's covered arts and culture for The Boston Globe, sex and relationships for Cosmopolitan, and food, climate, and farming for Ambrook Research.

Americans Forgot How to Party - Well, Except the Gays

Emma Glassman-Hughes — Thu, 13 Mar 2025 06:00:01 -0700

I spent Inauguration Day at a protest near Boston's City Hall, arms linked with my friends for warmth. It was too cold to march for very long, so we peeled off and took the train a few stops to Dani's, Boston's only sapphic bar. We sat in the back, faces lit up by neon, and ordered a disco ball full of sangria and a couple plates of chicken wings and laughed to keep from crying as the sun went down.

Two months earlier, Nix Corporan had been DJing at the same spot. It was the weekend after the election, and the experience was "extremely humbling," they tell PS. The 32-year-old New Yorker performs as MANGUMAMI and has had a residency at the bar since it opened last summer. "Everybody was nervous, like what's going to happen to our future," they remember of the crowd that weekend. "Even in liberal cities like Boston, they're still getting attacked with anti-gay rhetoric." Still, waves of people showed up ready to dance.

Under a second Trump administration, some fear the demise of party culture. Parties have already been on a downward spiral for years, and in 2023, Americans apparently partied 35 percent less than they did in 2004, according to The Atlantic. Those numbers don't seem to be changing anytime soon: Whether it's the squeeze of the economy, soaring interest in sobriety, a painful isolation epidemic, or a general post-election funk, the vibes are off and morale is low. But depending on who you ask, the party never stopped. "Those are straight people stats," actor-writer Franchesca Ramsey said, referencing that Atlantic essay on a recent episode of "The Sam Sanders Show." Fellow guest Brandon Kyle Goodman put it another way: "The gays are partying."

They all giggled, but any queer person knows they weren't totally joking. Queer party culture is the stuff of legends. While public displays of homoeroticism have been punished by Western societies since the fall of Rome, it's widely known that the gays have never stopped partying - from Weimar Republic Berlin to Studio 54, drag balls, Fire Island, every Pride month since Stonewall, and all the house parties, circuit parties, sex parties, and afters in between.

Experts Featured in This Article

Kemi Adeyemi, PhD, is an associate professor of Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Washington. She is the author of "Feels Right: Black Queer Women & the Politics of Partying in Chicago" (Duke University Press, 2022) and co-editor of "Queer Nightlife" (University of Michigan Press, 2021).

That same Atlantic essay makes the case that America needs its parties to maintain "intimacy and togetherness," and the author challenges every American to throw two parties a year. And while some people are looking to the history of places like the Soviet Union for inspiration on how to embrace escapism under authoritarianism, no one has had as much practice partying through hardship - or made it look so sexy - as the world's queers.

Having worked in queer nightlife for decades, Moe Girton knows this all too well. "During the AIDS epidemic, it was bury your friends in the morning, riot all afternoon, and dance all night," the founder and owner of San Diego's Gossip Grill tells PS. "Dance revitalizes you and gets you ready to do the fight the next day."

But to save the American party, it will take a lot more than simply borrowing queer aesthetics. It's not enough to slap a rainbow flag on a Hooters menu or fire off a glitter cannon at the cul-de-sac cookout.

University of Washington gender studies professor Kemi Adeyemi says queer nightlife is as much defined by its outrageous style as it is by its role in shaping solidarity. "Partying is as important to queer people as it is important to the straights," she says. "I think the difference is that the [queer] party has often been attached to specific political agendas." There's often a community need that queer social gatherings attempt to serve, whether it's fundraising for gender-affirming healthcare or legal assistance, raising awareness about issues like STI prevention or mental health, or organizing around specific policies or politicians.

"In the various histories of LGBTQ life and community, we've seen the party as a space that is explicitly tied to bettering people's lives after the party ends," Adeyemi says.

It's this reason that sapphic and gay bars across the country - though far outnumbered by "straight" bars - have become essential community pillars at a disproportionate rate. Gossip Grill is one of California's only lesbian bars, and one of only 34 lesbian bars left in the country. With so few peer establishments, Gossip shoulders a heavy burden, having to not only serve up revelry every night of the week but also anticipate the growing needs of its community that regularly extend far beyond the offerings of your average neighborhood bar. Though wildly popular, Gossip has always had a hard time paying the bills and is constantly having to reinvent, according to Girton.

If there's something to learn from queer history, it's not how to preserve joy, it's about how to organize social movements.

During the pandemic, for example, Gossip employees mobilized food deliveries to neighbors in need. Amid the flood of anti-LGBTQ+, anti-women, and anti-immigrant executive orders since January, they've opened up their space for use by community organizers and LGBTQ+-aligned nonprofits for events and fundraising. Girton, too, is hyper-aware of the presence of ICE agents in her San Diego neighborhood, and is focused on protecting employees who could be vulnerable to detention or deportation.

"Everyone is overwhelmed. My trans employees are scared for their life," Girton says. Her nightclub lighting designer, a trans woman from Mexico, is "petrified right now that she's gonna get picked up." The staff is getting "bombarded, from all angles, we're all kind of spinning trying to figure out where do we start fighting this."

This Trump administration is another in a long line of tests that queer nightlife has withstood throughout its history. Yes, the gays stay partying, but queer nightlife is under perpetual threat. As Adeyemi explains, these are spaces that have "historically been unduly targeted by police and political violence." And while joy is important, Adeyemi forcefully rejects the idea that queer nightlife exists just to facilitate it.

"We may go party to let off steam, have fun, disassociate, or whatever - and that's a great thing - but there has to be more," she says. "If there's something to learn from queer history, it's not how to preserve joy, it's about how to organize social movements."

Oppression, and reacting against it, are defining elements of queer party culture. What looks like unadulterated joy on the outside often conceals the anxiety, vigilance, and willingness to resist that vibrates underneath. Queer nightlife is armored by its several layers of community care - and the consent guidelines, fundraisers, skill shares, and mutual aid so common in queer party spaces are all forms of showing up for one another when nobody else will.

But that doesn't mean these spaces should always be idealized. "We like to think of queer nightlife as inclusive, as a space where anyone can go and be free," Adeyemi says. But queer nightlife "is and has always been very segmented, especially regarding race and class. . . . The struggles surrounding queer nightlife teach us that 'inclusion' is a complex and challenging practice that requires intention, dedication, and lots of mistakes."

Still, queer social circles are well equipped to carry on through hard times because of how they build networks of trust. Queer nightlife is a form of organizing, and that's why it never stops: communities need to organize if they're going to survive. As more and more people inside and outside the LGBTQ+ community are denied access to traditional seats of power under this antidemocratic administration, there will be an increasing need for alternative avenues for organizing - and parties are a fan-favorite way to do just that.

True to form, queer people are continuing to gather through these strange times, with new parties and hospitality offerings popping up in major cities. Alphabet Soup Events is centering BIPOC representation in Washington, DC, while wine bar Rebel Rebel is running weekly events in Somerville, MA, to provide community mutual aid. And in New York, Corporan recently hosted the first installment of a new party series called Thique, designed specifically for fat sapphics.

The hype was almost as good as the party itself, Corporan says. For weeks, the DJ's DMs were full of people asking for tips on what to wear, eager to put their "FUPA on somebody's face." The actual event, at Brooklyn dyke bar The Bush, didn't disappoint. The night featured sets from multiple fat, queer DJs, with Corporan kicking things off. They wore a grape-colored velvet dress with matching gloves and purple sneakers.

"Just looking at the crowd and seeing the different kinds of bodies there, all of that buzz made me happy," they say. "I heard from a lot of people after like, 'We had a really good time, the music was vibing, the beats were bumping, this was a party we needed.'"

Corporan hopes to take Thique on the road this year, focusing on red states that are going to "need fat, queer, trans, gay-ass representation."

Ultimately, Corporan thinks there are lessons to be learned on a queer dance floor. "We don't really give a fuck who's to the left or right of us, we're gonna have a good time," they say. "It's not who's the flashiest, or who's buying bottles to show off to a girl. At the end of the day, we all have a common ground. We just wanna shake some ass. We just wanna go home at the end of the night in peace."

Stacey Abrams, Meena Harris, and Other Activists on How to Fight For Women

Lena Felton — Fri, 07 Mar 2025 05:00:02 -0800

Every year around Women's History Month and International Women's Day, I think about my late friend and mentor Neema Roshania Patel. Neema was my manager at The Washington Post, where I helped her run a team of women in our 20s and 30s covering issues of gender and identity. Every year, we joked about the influx of emails we'd get on March 1, imploring us to cover Women's History Month. We found it ridiculous to suggest that these stories should be relegated to just one month a year or focused around one holiday - we were advocating for their importance year-round.

I was so proud to work closely with Neema, someone who spent her whole career fighting for a better world for women on a global scale, as well as on a personal level. She was always advocating for me and other women in the workplace, helping us negotiate our salaries and championing our accomplishments. So much of my life has been inspired by how she led her own.

So while I sometimes still cringe at the many blast emails drawing attention to women's rights during this month, I also know how important it is to bring attention to these issues, no matter the reason. In a world in which abortion restrictions continue to impact millions of women, trans folks' rights are being stripped away, and DEI initiatives are being erased, there's never been a more urgent need to use our voices to advocate for the equal rights of everyone.

That's why, for International Women's Day, we asked leaders we admire about what they're doing to fight for women's rights in this moment. Below, hear empowering words from Stacey Abrams, the well-known author, politician, and voting-rights activist; Meena Harris, founder of Phenomenal Media; Amanda Nguyen, an astronaut and civil-rights activist who founded Rise; and Alexis McGill Johnson, president and CEO of Planned Parenthood Federation of America and Planned Parenthood Action Fund.

We hope their words inspire you to extend the spirit of International Women's Day into your everyday - all of our rights depend on it.

Beauty Brands, Please Stop Exploiting Black Anger For Clout

Natasha Marsh — Wed, 05 Mar 2025 09:30:02 -0800

In case you missed it, there's a twisted concept happening in the beauty industry right now. As detailed in a recent TikTok by creator Jackie Asamoah, it seems that some makeup brands are sending products to Black content creators that do not work for their complexion - with the expectation that the influencer will publicly call them out so that they can swoop in, ask for their expertise, and later, create a product that offers the brand redemption and proves they are one of the good guys.

The issue with this scheme is that leaning on Black content creators to help fix products - instead of doing that work from the outset - simultaneously erases and exploits Black culture. "We've just come way too far for beauty brands to still be acting like they don't know how to include dark skin people in their products," a frustrated Asamoah says in her TikTok. "We've already earned our spot in beauty; why does it seem like the industry reset and started all over again?"

"It's literally the white savior complex of beauty, and I'm sick of it."

Of course, this complete dismissal of our seat at the table is not new. Unfortunately, beauty brands have long ignored dark skin tones, often releasing new collections that don't have shades darker than "tan." And even when our undertones are somewhat taken into consideration, the naming conventions are bleak at best. (Just think of the horrendous "Yikes" and "Typo" shade names produced by a huge cosmetics brand years back.) The fact is, there are valid critiques of every aspect of the beauty industry when it comes to representation of Black people. But in 2025, why is this still an issue? Why are brands still engaging in performative inclusion?

These tired, antiquated methods to obtain clout - the idea that any press, even if it's bad, is good press - is played out. It feels lazy, but, more than that, it shows that systems weren't created with us in mind. Sticking to this afterthought mentality only furthers that painful narrative.

Could this tactic be a way of manipulating our emotions and psyche to receive positive recognition and profit from our pain? "Let's create a problem, let them point it out, and then we'll fix it and we'll be the good guys," Asamoah shares. "It's literally the white savior complex of beauty, and I'm sick of it."

Engaging in this performative act is not only hindering a brand's image but is hugely insulting to the Black community, especially creatives. "You're teaching a whole generation of people that they are still an afterthought, no matter how much work we put in earning our space in beauty," Asamoah tells her followers. "We're still going to have to earn, beg, yearn, and make noise, just to be seen."

Having to call out brands for offenses to our culture, identity, and complexions is mentally and emotionally draining. But we do it anyway in hopes that the awareness will prevent it from happening again. For Black people, our unwavering resilience is the byproduct of this constant adversity. Although I too take pride in this character trait, I'm eager for the day where showing up as a consumer in the beauty industry doesn't force us to show our resilience.

And I'm not saying I don't want brands to seek assistance from Black people - I do - but I want those people to be valued members of the team that were hired based on their talent and strengths. Brands can't just lean on Black influencers to point out and fix the problem. At the end of the day, we are just people, looking to see ourselves in your products.

Natasha Marsh is a freelance writer who writes about fashion, beauty, and lifestyle. Prior to freelancing, she held styling staff positions at The Wall Street Journal, Burberry, Cosmopolitan, British GQ, and Harper's Bazaar.

Hollywood Learned a Lesson: "Emilia Pérez" Is Terrible Representation For Latines

Johanna Ferreira — Sun, 02 Mar 2025 21:25:02 -0800

When the movie "Emilia Pérez" was first released on Netflix in November, I wanted to be excited about it. As a Latina who has dedicated my entire livelihood to telling stories that accurately depict and celebrate my community, I really wanted to root for this film.

If you look at its awards nominations, it has broken barriers and achieved greatness. At the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, it won the Jury Prize and the first best actress award for an ensemble. It received 10 Golden Globes nominations - taking home four wins. It also led the Oscar nominations, including for best picture and best actress for Karla Sofía Gascón, which made her the first openly trans actress to be nominated for an Oscar.

Then, the film was hit with controversy around Gascón's past offensive social media posts, and the film didn't ultimately take home the Oscar for best picture (though Zoe Saldaña won for best supporting actress). And from the beginning, I couldn't give "Emilia Peréz" my support. Ultimately, the film - directed by Jacques Audiard, a French white man - perpetuates stereotypical depictions of the Latine community. It's simply not the representation we've been fighting decades for; instead of breaking new ground, the film reinforces tired and regressive tropes under the guise of being progressive.

It's simply not the representation we've been fighting decades for; instead of breaking new ground, the film reinforces tired and regressive tropes under the guise of being progressive.

The film follows an attorney (Saldaña) who's helping drug lord client Manitas (Gascón) retire and transition. But there are so many aspects of "Emilia Pérez" that feel disingenuous, inauthentic, and frankly offensive. Instead of being a triumph for diversity, the film plays out like an overblown caricature, perpetuating harmful stereotypes of Mexicans, transgender folks, and even the broader Latine community. Instead of feeling proud, I found myself cringing at numerous scenes throughout the film.

To be honest, this wasn't a surprise to me. The fight for representation in Hollywood has been a long and exhausting journey for Latine folks. For decades, we've been sidelined, stereotyped, and reduced to one-dimensional roles like criminals, maids, and hypersexualized side characters. That fits into Hollywood's long history of rewarding stereotypical portrayals of marginalized groups. The "Emilia Pérez" nominations actually feel very reminiscent of when Denzel Washington won an Oscar for best supporting actor in "Training Day," where he played a corrupt cop, and when Halle Berry won for "Monster's Ball," which included a controversial nude scene. Those wins, too, felt like Hollywood only acknowledging Black actors when they performed roles rooted in crime or hypersexuality. That makes sense, given that 81 percent of the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences identified as white in 2022, according to Statista.

But back to my qualms with the film. It is set in Mexico, and there are grim moments throughout that negatively depict Mexicans and trans people while once again centering Mexico's drug war. Combined with the poorly written and sung musical numbers, the portrayal feels icky - as if the director wanted to use marginalized identities as props for a spectacle instead of telling a story with real depth. Critics at Vox, The Cut, and other publications have echoed these concerns. GLAAD even called out the film for its harmful trans representation.

Combined with the poorly written and sung musical numbers, the portrayal feels icky - as if the director wanted to use marginalized identities as props for a spectacle instead of telling a story with real depth.

Of course, I always support elevating Latine actors. But the casting missed, too. Selena Gomez plays Manita's wife, a native Mexican and supposedly fluent in Spanish - despite the fact that Gomez is a third-generation Mexican American actress whose Spanish is clearly Americanized. As a Latina with broken Spanish myself, this is by no means to throw shade at Gomez. But her accent is painfully noticeable, and she reportedly had to learn Spanish for the role. Why not use this opportunity to uplift Mexican-born actors who rarely get a chance to shine in major Hollywood films?

Meanwhile, Saldaña, a Dominican and Puerto Rican actress who has broken boundaries in Hollywood, had incredible performances in blockbuster films like "Avatar" and "Guardians of the Galaxy." As a fan of her work, it's almost insulting that this is the film that gets her recognized by Hollywood elites.

What's especially frustrating is that there are so many Latine-led projects that have done an incredible job of authentically representing our communities but haven't received the recognition they deserve. Shows like "Gentefied" and "Gordita Chronicles" and "With Love" have portrayed Latine families and characters with so much nuance, humor, and care. Yet, these projects rarely receive accolades.

Latine folks deserve better. Our stories deserve to be told and depicted with depth, accuracy, and respect. The truth is the success of "Emilia Pérez" at awards shows isn't a win for us as a community. It isn't even a win for representation. It's a sad reminder of how much work still needs to be done when it comes to diversity and representation in Hollywood.

But this isn't to say we should wallow; we need to encourage others to demand more from Hollywood. We need to be selective about what we support, and we should only be celebrating films that reflect the full humanity of Latine people and our experiences, not films that reduce us to caricatures. It's time for Hollywood to stop rewarding regressive portrayals and start uplifting authentic and nuanced stories. Because if "Emilia Pérez" is what "progress" looks like, I want no part of it.

I'm Celebrating Zoe Saldaña's Historic Oscar Win - Not "Emilia Pérez"

Johanna Ferreira — Sun, 02 Mar 2025 18:34:47 -0800

I've been a fan of Zoe Saldaña for as long as I can remember. From her first ever movie role in the 2000 film "Center Stage" to starring in big blockbuster franchises like Star Trek, Avatar, and the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Saldaña has been nothing short of an inspiration to Latinas like me. As an Afro-Latina actress of both Dominican and Puerto Rican descent, she is one of the few actresses to look like her and make it that far up the Hollywood ladder. So, of course, I teared up in the middle of her acceptance speech when she won her first Oscar for best supporting actress in "Emilia Pérez." As I proudly watched Saldaña, who made history as the first Dominican American to win an Oscar, cry out for her mother in the audience, thank her grandmother, and shout out her Dominican heritage, I realized how this achievement was a win not just for her but for her fans like me who have watched her break barriers in Hollywood. And yet, my excitement has been met with frustration over the poor Latine representation found in "Emilia Pérez."

I remember growing up and watching Saldaña in early roles and feeling proud to see an Afro-Latina from Queens, like me, gracing the screen. Whether it was "Center Stage," "Crossroads," "Drumline," "Guess Who," or bigger films like 2009's "Star Trek," Saldaña always brought depth to whatever character she played. Every time I watched her in a film, it made me feel seen - another Dominicana, morenita, y flaquita como yo.

Here's the thing: my issue isn't with Saldaña or even her taking on the role in "Emilia Pérez." I actually think she did a terrific job and is absolutely deserving of that Oscar. Over the years, Saldaña has proven her versatility - she's been an action hero in "Guardians of the Galaxy" and a Na'vi warrior in "Avatar," and through all these performances, she carried the hopes for broader representation on her shoulders.

Saldaña is no nepo baby. She's a kid from Queens who had to move to the Dominican Republic with her mom and her sisters when she was only 9 after her dad passed away in a car accident. It was ballet and dance that helped her find her footing in this world and eventually led her to theater and acting. But from day one, she had to create her own path to success. And incredibly, she carved out a space for herself in science fiction and superhero films - genres that historically have sidelined women of color. Saldaña has literally become a household name by not playing maids, cartel women, the "sexy Latina," or other tired stereotypes.

You can argue that, in many ways, Saldaña has expanded what it means to be a Latina actress in Hollywood, which is why this Oscar recognition feels especially significant. It's a long-awaited validation of her talent. However, the film associated with that recognition reveals just how problematic Hollywood's idea of representation can be. It took a film that represents Latine communities in all the worst ways for Saldaña to finally get recognized for her talents despite landing so many previous roles in major pictures.

For those who aren't familiar, "Emilia Pérez" is supposed to be an "avant garde" musical about a Mexican drug cartel leader named Manitas (played by Karla Sofía Gascón) who fakes his death to undergo gender-affirming surgery to become a woman. Saldaña plays Rita, the lawyer who works to help him pull it all off.

After years of writing and advocating for better representation of Latines in film, TV, and media, "Emilia Pérez" feels like a big slap in the face. It literally falls into every stereotype. The film, directed by Jacques Audiard, a French white man, perpetuates the harmful stereotypical depictions of the Latine community we've been fighting against for years. It stereotypes Latines - in this case, Mexicans. It harmfully portrays the transgender community. And once again, it centers Mexico's drug war. I mean, how many more drug trafficking films do we need before Latines finally get to graduate from having to play these kinds of roles? And as if this wasn't problematic enough, then we learn that Gascón has a bunch of old racist and Islamophobic tweets that recently resurfaced on the internet.

My mixed feelings about Saldaña's Oscar win highlight a bigger issue in Hollywood: actors of color are only seriously recognized by the establishment when they take on roles that play into long-standing stereotypes or racialized trauma. Saldaña's performances from major blockbuster sci-fi franchises have never landed her a nomination, but playing a supporting role in a cartel drama where she mostly speaks in Spanish did. Once again, this isn't a knock on her performance by any means - I'm genuinely happy for her. It's a knock on the industry's narrow view of what kinds of stories (and which aspects of an actor's identity) are deemed "award-worthy."

As a longtime fan, I am relieved that Saldaña's Oscar win wasn't tainted by a film that doesn't represent the community well at all. I think as controversial as the film is, we can all recognize that the weight and the controversy surrounding the film - including Gascón's problematic tweets - are a weight she shouldn't have to carry. At the end of the day, it's the Hollywood gatekeepers who are essentially responsible for the narratives that we continue to see. They are the ones who continue to greenlight and celebrate the same narco dramas and the same stereotypical roles instead of actually investing in original stories that celebrate Latine culture. So, while I absolutely plan on celebrating Saldaña tonight, with a delicious mocktail and a yummy meal, I also reserve the right to be disappointed that it not only took this long but also that it had to happen because of "Emilia Pérez."

Can Hilaria Baldwin Please Stop Defending Her Fake Spanish Accent?

Akaylah Ellison — Wed, 26 Feb 2025 14:04:27 -0800

Many of us thought the controversy around Hilaria Baldwin's "Spanish" roots was over. But she returned to the spotlight this week when her reality show, "The Baldwins," with husband Alec Baldwin, premiered on TLC. In it, Baldwin addresses criticisms of her Spanish accent - she says the controversy put her in "very dark" places.

However, there have been very few consequences for Baldwin, a white, American-raised woman who was known as "Hillary" until 2009, according to The New York Times. She, like my mother, was born in Boston, MA, a city known for its deep patriotism because of the part it played during the American Revolution. But Baldwin's phenotype has positioned her in a space entirely different from my mother, who was born much darker. While my Puerto Rican and Dominican mom learned to hide her culture (learning when and where to speak Spanish), Baldwin has capitalized on her proximity to Spanish culture.

Since the conversation resurfaced, I've been reflecting on how America seems comfortable with immigrants - just so long as they're wealthy and white. As Latines, our identities are often policed by people outside of our communities. Baldwin, meanwhile, is cosplaying the immigrant experience while many fight tooth and nail to defend their right to exist here during mass deportations. She pretends to forget how to say the word cucumber (feigning that her English isn't strong) to stand out among the crowd of whiteness. Even in 2025, we still find ourselves having to fight off extremely harmful stereotypes by people who have the privilege (and audacity) to move in and out of spaces freely and with impunity. Lest we forget, this woman claims to be whatever she wants, whenever she wants. She gets to be perceived as "unique" among other white people.

So many people today have strong opinions about immigrants' rights, and ironically, the loudest voices often come from Americans whose ancestry traces back to the original pilgrims. It's astonishing how easily Baldwin has been dismissed as someone "who didn't know better" or someone who just told a "white lie." But as immigration policies take center stage in US politics, it's clear: America is only uncomfortable with immigration when it involves Black, Brown, impoverished, and truly vulnerable people.

In 2018, the Baldwins were on the cover of Hola! USA!, and her CAA speaker's biography still incorrectly stated that she was born in Mallorca, Spain. (She says that she was raised in both Boston and Spain.) Meanwhile, my mother has struggled to make those kinds of waves in her career as an entertainer precisely because she's a Latina in the comedy space - an industry, much like America, very much dominated by white men. For Baldwin to say that she didn't even read the articles that she was featured in is a slap in the face to those Black and Brown Latines who work tirelessly to be recognized by the press. This, to me, points to her level of privilege, which is only doubled by the fact that she pretends to be Spanish, which is not to be confused with Latine. Quick history lesson: The Spanish are Europeans, who wreaked havoc on the communities now known as being part of the Latine diaspora.

Baldwin's privilege doesn't stop there; she says she's teaching her kids Spanish at home. Meanwhile, for years, Spanish-speaking immigrants have feared teaching their kids their native tongue to avoid discrimination. When we show that we know more than one language, we are told to speak English or to go back to our country. I'm Puerto Rican, and while Baldwin feels emboldened to show pride in Spain, laws were passed banning us from having pride in the places we came from. Ultimately, Baldwin exemplifies something that has been happening my whole life - white people want to have proximity and ownership over the cultures that they claim to despise. They continuously fight to have the right to "culture" that isn't their own, whether that's Black culture, Latine culture, Asian culture, Indigenous culture, or any othered culture.

My relationship to Blackness and being more than Black is something else entirely - it's shrouded in shame and anti-Blackness. When white people say that they are more than just white, it has always come off to me that they are comfortable embracing aspects of our cultures - our food, our music, our style, our celebrities, and in some cases, even our beauty trends and features, because it does not carry the same consequences for them as it does for us.

Now, Baldwin was not claiming to be more than Spanish (even if she has taken that back), which, to reiterate, is European. But in today's political climate that has rolled back DEI programs (which have historically helped white women the most, by the way), as much as I would like to laugh off what she's doing, we all need to be looking at these issues more deeply. While US citizens in states like Texas have to carry around their birth certificates to prove their right to exist here and Trump says that he wants to make every one of us prove our citizenship to vote, Hilaria's weird impersonation of an immigrant matters. The president wants to remove birthright citizenship from those who are American-born. This is a dangerous time for Baldwin to be dancing around with a fake accent and a pretend lineage so that she can claim to be "multicultural."

Let's call what's happening in the US what is: racial profiling. It makes me call upon a lyric in Disney's Pocahontas when she sings to John Smith, "You think the only people who are people are the people who think and look like you." I don't think we can put aside the fact that her name is Hillary, and she has decided to go by Hilaria - evoking the English word hilarious. But this isn't a laughing matter. While Baldwin can sidestep the issue of immigration, so many Black and Brown people are facing the reality that a lot of white Americans want to see them deported.

Akaylah Ellison is a screenwriter whose storytelling blends the poetic and long-form narratives. Believing that empathy is a writer's greatest asset, Akaylah creates characters who voice fringe realities and encourage people from different walks of life to connect with them emotionally. Akaylah wants to create content that reflects her real world, which is a blend of people from all backgrounds who coexist without explaining who they are and who never apologize for it.

How I'm Celebrating Ramadan Differently After Battling OCD

Wed, 26 Feb 2025 06:05:02 -0800

I started fasting when I was in the sixth grade. My stomach was in knots, yet I was exhilarated because it was a responsibility of utmost importance. Not only was I honoring one of the largest pillars of Islam, but I also was fostering a stronger sense of discipline, empathy, and purpose that would be foundational to my existence as a Muslim. I understood Ramadan as an opportunity for spiritual renewal and a rekindling of the heart, mind, and soul. So, always being one for dramatics, I told myself it was something I could not risk messing up; otherwise, I'd be eternally doomed in this life and the next.

The following year, I was determined to make the most out of Ramadan: I would complete my month of fasting and be steadfast with prayer. But that was the same year I started having intrusive thoughts - one of the first symptoms of my obsessive compulsive disorder. Sudden images of harming myself, or others around me, began to flash in my mind without warning. And instead of brushing them off as stray thoughts that anyone could have, I was deeply unsettled by them and paralyzed with anxiety as I tried to make sense of why they had taken root in my mind. I didn't understand what was happening at the time, or that I even had OCD, so I spiraled into panic.

In Islam, we learn at a young age that God is all forgiving, all merciful, and that through repentance, you will be absolved of your sins. With my OCD practically spilling out of my ears, I began thinking that surely I was the exception - that my disorder tainted me and nullified my efforts to be a decent Muslim. In a traditional household that didn't believe in mental illness, I was left feeling trapped inside my own head, consumed with guilt and resentment, both toward myself and my religion.

During prayer, my brain would question me: Do you really believe prayer is doing anything? That you, of all people, will be saved from hellfire? I thought I was being punished for something I had done. My mother told me to recite chapters of the Quran and whatever demonic entity was whispering in my ear would surely be exorcised, but I was terrified. I began missing prayers intentionally, fearing my mind would inevitably stray into the depths of darkness.

My symptoms were at their peak when I wasn't occupied with school, so I began linking Ramadan and the hideous cacophony of my thoughts. The excitement I once felt toward fasting became anticipatory dread in the years that followed. And when my thoughts overwhelmed my senses, my fear mutated into anger - and I directed my fury above because it made sense. If God were real, why wasn't he protecting me? During the holiest month, I felt like eternal damnation had sunken its teeth into my skin.

For a long time, I was fixated on being the "perfect believer," but I've since learned that no such thing exists.

Looking back now, I was too hard on myself. I let my youth slip through my fingers as I made myself miserable over what I couldn't control, when all I truly desired was benevolence. At some point, I recognized that I didn't have to suffer in silence anymore. I sought out treatment for the thoughts I was having and began therapy. That's when I was finally able to understand that my thoughts were not a reflection of my character or true intentions - that they did not govern my life. I felt relief at the knowledge that I no longer had to blame myself or shake my fist at the heavens for placing an illusory curse on me.

For a long time, I was fixated on being the "perfect believer," but I've since learned that no such thing exists. Often so, followers of a religion think they must be undefiled at all costs or they will be irrevocably stained in the eyes of God, but this isn't true. It is of human essence to just be, and to invite the good and bad as it comes. I'm not unsalvageable because of my sins or what I deem as shortcomings. What has haunted me does not supersede God's mercy, nor does it keep me from participating in my duties as a Muslim.

As winter gently fades, its departing kiss against my skin signals the season of Ramadan preparing its return. This year, I plan on going about my fast with a bit more grace and less wallowing over my regrets. There is a true virtue in being fully present, and it is a gift I feel I owe to my younger self, who still resides in me. I won't fixate on having the perfect Ramadan, because I know that I won't. But what I do know is that trying my best is enough; that is what liberates me from the past and allows me to embrace a future.

Hooters Gave Me Gay Panic. Now It's Going Bankrupt.

Emma Glassman-Hughes — Mon, 24 Feb 2025 16:30:02 -0800

I would see it from the backseat driving south, glowing orange on the shoulder. It was just a blip there, on my way home from the mall, a softball game, or the orthodontist, freshly tightened braces rearranging the new adult teeth in my head. Still, the bulging eyes seemed to follow me the whole way home - as if I were the one with the buzzing neon sign above, blinking "GAY!" in big block letters. But it was just a Hooters billboard on the 15 freeway, a towering orange and white altar to my confusion and isolation as a budding queer girl in the early 2000s.

Though I've still never been inside one, I knew what Hooters stood for, even back then. I couldn't escape the Hooters shticks on TV and in movies, which, in that era, were about as common as casual fatphobia and nods to Chuck Norris. From Adam Sandler to the writers of "The Office," it seemed no one could resist a crack at the "breastaurant" chain.

By the time I got my first period, Hooters was at its most powerful, with over 400 locations around the world. But today, as Hooters of America, LLC, is set to file bankruptcy after closing dozens of locations - including the one off the 15 freeway - I'm reminded of all that the Hooters logo has come to represent, not only to my younger queer self, but to women everywhere.

Queer women are often caught between worlds as both the objectified and the objectifier.

The story of Hooters is exactly as slapstick as one might guess: A group of white dudes from Clearwater, FL, opened the flagship as a glorified bit in 1983, naming it after a line in a Steve Martin stand-up set. The Hooters Six, as they liked to be known, would wind up accidentally pioneering one of the most successful restaurant chains in world history, eventually piloting a Hooters brand credit card, Hooters casino and hotel, and, in 2003, a Hooters airline.

But the heyday wouldn't last. Today, the company is more than $300 million in debt after a downward spiral that began in 2011, when the casino and hotel went bankrupt. The chain was dealt another blow in 2017, when Hooters PR had to contend with a damning study from the University of Tennessee, which analyzed the psychological impact of working in a "sexually objectifying restaurant environment" like Hooters. Hooters Girls, the official title of the waitstaff, and women working in similar food service roles reported high levels of anxiety and disordered eating.

This dark history behind Hooters comes as no surprise considering the empire was built on the commodification of women's bodies and helmed by a series of men who look like thumbs with mustaches. Still, the infamous Hooters Handbook - dictating how Hooters Girls can dress, act, and even eat - is a stunning monument to misogyny.

The document details strict uniform requirements that make the Army seem lax. Servers are required to wear makeup and come to work "photo-shoot-ready." Throughout the chain's history, the handbook has stipulated everything from the amount of jewelry servers are allowed to wear, to the kind of pantyhose they have to squeeze into, to how slouched they have to wear their white socks so their legs look leanest.

Technically, Hooters Girls aren't "servers" at all. Instead, they're classified as entertainers, a distinction that allows hiring managers to discriminate under the guise that a certain look is fundamental to the success of the business. Similarly, it's been widely reported that Hooters Girls have to sign an agreement acknowledging that the Hooters concept is based on female sex appeal and therefore the work environment will frequently feature jokes and innuendo at their expense.

While Hooters corporate has always feigned a blushing innocence, it's a given that at the restaurants, boobs are as much on the menu as buffalo wings and cheeseburgers. Women's chests are seen as commodities, yes, but also costumes, even gags. And while the future of the chain is uncertain, the mark it made on my developing psyche is forever. Those tight, white tank tops and tiny, orange booty shorts (which have recently only gotten shorter) were once the perfect kindling for my flaming gay panic.

The real shame belongs to those who profit off the exploitation of boobs, not the people of infinite genders who want to stick their faces in them.

It's a strange feeling, to be deeply insulted by a business and also know there's a part of you - even if it's buried deep - that wants exactly what they're selling. Driving past the Hooters on the 15 elicited a frantic moral scramble within me. To be surrounded by beautiful women in low-cut tops? Yeah, that sounds like heaven. But queer women are often caught between worlds as both the objectified and the objectifier. Hooters wasn't built for me - it's a bachelor party in restaurant form, a playground for men who think women's bodies are hilarious. If I also wanted boobs in my face, was I just as bad as them? Was I something worse?

Of course women and queer people today have a lot more to worry about than the Hooters Six and the flimsy outfits they dreamed up. As depressing as it is to admit, a part of me yearns for the days when a woman's body was more punchline than battleground.

But as we contend with the possibility of a Hooters-less world, I'm sending some care and soothing to the little gal in the backseat on the 15, face aglow with shame in the light emitted from that logo and its penetrating eyes. It's clear to me now that the real shame belongs to those who profit off the exploitation of boobs, not the people of infinite genders who want to stick their faces in them. It also belongs to anyone in 2025 who still forces their employees to wear pantyhose. Embrace the cellulite, you cowards.