In The Community
First things first: I’m a “mande” girlie. That’s just how my mama raised me, even though I won’t say it’s right.
Having had the experience of interacting with people from different cultures in the classroom, there’s this one thing that always gets a strong reaction from me: when a professor addresses a student and the student responds with: “WHAT?” Or “WHAT’S THAT?”
I’m telling you, the reaction from me is instant. My eyes dart back to the professor, my fight or flight kicks in, and I’m almost drafting a mental apology for this person who, in my opinion, has just been particularly rude.
Of course, that never happens. The thing is, it’s not universally seen that way, right? Maybe it’s just the Mexican in me reacting based on what I’ve been taught.
“Se dice mande,” my mom would correct me if I responded with any other answer to her calls like, “Qué? Qué pasó? Eh? Mm?”
“Se dice mande!” Apologies would follow, and naturally, I’d switch to the “mande” to continue our chat, otherwise, a flying chancla might have been my fate.
In recent years, an intriguing debate has surfaced: is “mande” polite, or is it a subtle form of teaching submissiveness?
In a culture that places immense value on respecting our elders, it's unsurprising that "mande" has been deeply instilled in us from a young age. We say it out of respect. Yet, it still amuses me how I react to someone not using it. My immediate response is to be on guard, as if I'm bracing for someone to become angry or reprimand them. That’s rooted in my upbringing, a conditioned reflex.
Where does the term “mande come from?
To trace the roots of "mande," we need to explore Mexico's colonial past. When the Spanish colonized Mexico in the 16th century, they introduced not only their religion and administration but also their language, customs, and societal norms. The indigenous populations were subjugated and served the Spanish rulers.
It is in this backdrop that "mande" is believed to have been born. Directly translated, "mande" means "order me" or "command me." The indigenous or lower-class people were expected to reply with "mande" when addressed by Spanish rulers, signaling their readiness to obey. Over time, this phrase permeated the common vernacular, evolving into a way for Mexicans to say, "Pardon?" or "Excuse me?".
For many, especially older generations, saying "mande" is akin to "please" and "thank you." They see it as a sign of respect, especially towards elders or authority figures. However, many believe it's a colonial relic, symbolizing the historical subjugation of the Mexican people. Using "mande," they argue, maintains the power dynamics of colonial times, subtly promoting submission.
This debate is so potent, it’s even become a marketing strategy. Ever seen the Corona “Yo Mando” campaign?
Corona wants Mexicans to transition from “mande” to “mando.” It’s a bold move, but will it stick?
Language is dynamic. It changes and evolves, reflecting shifts in societal values and understanding. Take the “Latine/Latinx” debacle, for example. Whether you like either of the terms, actually use them, or feel so strongly against them you need to comment on every social media post using them with a flurry of insults, the terms exist. The terms are used by some, or by many. And they are here to stay.
Similarly, with “mande,” there's no definitive answer. With the rise of decolonial movements and a broader awareness of historical contexts, there's been a noticeable shift in how younger generations approach the term. Many choose to opt for neutral alternatives like “Qué?” “Qué pasó?” “Sí?” which are all perfectly valid. If you value “mande” as polite, “Dime?” or “Diga?” can be just as courteous.
This is not just an attempt to break away from colonial ties but also a part of the larger global trend where societies are reflecting on and challenging their historical and cultural baggage.
So, is saying "mande" wrong?
Here’s a hot take: there's no right or wrong way to express oneself (provided you aren't being hurtful or discriminatory to anyone), and I’m certainly not here to tell you what is right or what is wrong. What is important is that we challenge and question our language, our words, and the way we express ourselves and interact with the world, because language has been around for ages and, well, times change.
It’s great that we’re even having this debate, and it’s great that many of us are now taking a pause to ponder which word better suits us - and that’s the beauty of the Spanish language, and any language, really. It’s also the beauty of our choice to participate in the changing of norms that no longer match the times.
The abuse of power, the remains of colonialism, and racism continue to impact the community. Some places like Canada and even more recently in the U.S., are still finding remnants of inhumane policies in the form of Indigenous children remains in government-founded schools.
White people in power stole Indigenous land and left them with next to nothing without ever making amends. The systemic oppression they face is ruthless and historical and it traces back thousands of years. More recently, government laws like the Indian Removal Act gave the authorization to move Indigenous people forcibly in the early 1800s. Many died in this process, and the colonizer’s heirs are still holding and benefiting from Indigenous lands to this day.
Even though treaties were written and signed to ensure Indigenous lands’ safety, well-being, and respect, the treaties are regularly violated. There are many examples where industries simply don’t take no for an answer and continue exploiting indigenous land for profit without care for the negative repercussions the tribe will have to deal with.
The Dakota Access Pipeline is a well-known example. The treaties are supposed to ensure “undisturbed use and occupation” of reservation lands but clearly, these have proven to just be words on paper and not much else.
And as usual, women suffer from another layer of injustices. Many Indigenous women around the world have been victims of coerced sterilization; an attempt to wipe out their heritage. This genocidal practice has existed for quite some time and has been forcibly imposed on Indigenous women and women of color since the medical practice was discovered in the late 1880s. For example, more than 2,000 poor Indigenous and campesino women were allegedly sterilized without their consent by state authorities in Peru in the 1990s.
Indigenous women are often victims of violence and kidnapping where they aren’t as likely to be found safely or have their cases resolved. Abigail Echo-Hawk, director of the Urban Indian Health Institute, found that native women are murdered at rates 10 times the national average. Indigenous women are brutally murdered annually yet research, media coverage, and authorities don’t give these cases the same prioritization as other cases of violence against women.
After generations of abuse and injustice, Indigenous people throughout North America are making gains in dismantling the system of oppression they are forced to live in and demanding their rights. For example, the first Indigenous Peoples March took place on January 18, 2019, with the primary goal of bringing awareness to the ever-growing list of injustices they’ve been subjected to.
One of the organizers of the march, Nathalie Farfan, is an Ecuadorian Indigenous woman who co-hosts the Latina feminist podcast Morado Lens and leads the La Brujas Club spiritual wellness community.
Many Indigenous leaders are now pointing out that apologies for the crimes against them aren’t enough. The reparations must begin, like returning the lands to their original owners. They’re actively working to gain justice for the crimes against Indigenous women, whether it be forced sterilizations or the disappearances of Indigenous women that go unnoticed. The United States and other North American and Latin American countries have an enormous debt to Indigenous people that must be paid.
While Columbus Day is still a federally recognized holiday, many states are moving to replace Columbus day altogether, or do not recognize it as a state holiday. Indigenous People’s Day is gaining momentum, which is a clear indication that Indigenous people are finally making some progress in getting a country that was founded on their mass murder and cultural erasure to recognize that they are the only original Americans, and everyone else is a descendant of immigrants living on stolen land.
I was inducted into the Catholic faith pretty much straight out of the womb, starting off at this Catholic primary school in Mexico when I was just six years old. I was pure Play-Doh back then, ready to be shaped and molded. There I was, learning the Holy Bible like it was basic arithmetic or the ABCs.
Now, as a kid, you don't exactly have a whole laundry list of "sins" under your belt. Yet, we were herded to the confessional every week and prompted to confess our sins. Often, I'd be at a loss for what to say, and the priest would suggest things like: "Did you raise your voice at your parents? Did you disobey them? Did you think of something mean? That's a sin, too." So, there I was, scavenging through my memories for something, anything, to feel guilty about, confess, and beg forgiveness from God at the ripe age of six.
As I grew, I jumped through all the Catholic hoops. First communion, confirmation, even theology courses. The path to becoming an exemplary Catholic is indeed a long one. In time, I took on the role of a youth pastor, passing on the teachings ingrained in me since childhood to a younger generation of girls: respect and honor your parents unconditionally, remain a virgin until marriage, treat your body like a temple, and as a woman, be submissive and compliant to your man…
As I moved on to college and gained more independence from my parents and the environment I grew up in, I started to experiment with new experiences. Nothing outrageous, just typical teenage activities: flirting with boys, drinking, partying, and sometimes sneaking out on adventures my parents would never have approved of. It's ironic, really – the girls with the most conservative parents turn out to be the sneakiest of the lot. I should know.
But, looking back now, that time in my life feels more sad and uncomfortable than fun and exciting. I wanted to be a normal teen, but the guilt was always there, and boy, was it heavy. Every time I stepped out of line, I was sure God would punish me, perhaps by taking my parents away or making me fall ill. The looming "fear of God" that Catholics preach about became a literal terror for me.
When I first became sexually active, the accompanying guilt was overwhelming. No longer a virgin and unmarried, I felt like I'd let God down, disappointed my parents, and failed myself. Surely no man would want me anymore. I vividly remember crying about it constantly.
Fast forward a couple of years, and I found myself growing apart from the church. No big dramatic reason, just a general feeling of guilt and shame every time I was at church or with my youth group. Eventually, the guilt got so bad I just stopped going – I couldn't bear to be a hypocrite.
So, I distanced myself from it. And the more I walked away, the more I began to see the bigger picture. And it was ugly.
I realized I'd been taught since I was a kid to be perfect in every way – honor my parents, never swear or steal, keep my thoughts pure, avoid 'fake gods' like yoga or horoscopes, follow the rules blindly, never question your faith, always be obedient and submissive, and never try to grow or learn outside of God's teachings.
Love until it hurts. Real love is always painful and hurts: then it is real and pure.
— Mother Teresa
I was led to believe that love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. I was taught that love must hurt. That suffering leads to the purification of the soul. Between popular media bombarding young girls with depictions of unhealthy relationships and a very misguided interpretation of Catholic principles, I fell into very harmful relationships. I had been conditioned to accept this as the norm. After all, the señoras talked about staying with their cheating, abusive husbands. Because love endures all things, right?
Only in the past few years have I learned that there's a name for all these experiences I've been going through. And say what you want about that – some people think we're just making up names for things – but naming it validates your experience and makes it easier for others to share theirs; it helps us define and express this amorphous monster of a thing we've been dealing with for all these years.
The term "Catholic guilt" is widely recognized today to describe a particular feeling of remorse that arises from violating the moral standards ingrained through Catholic upbringing.
For Latina women, the manifestation of Catholic guilt is not merely a theological concept but a sociocultural phenomenon that extends beyond the church's walls and permeates daily life. It intertwines gender expectations, family relationships, community dynamics, and individual self-worth.
The cultural ideal of "marianismo" suggests that women must embody purity, virtue, submissiveness, and self-sacrifice, akin to the Virgin Mary. This ideal puts considerable pressure on Latina women to uphold these standards of morality and virtue. Deviating from these norms can evoke feelings of guilt rooted in both cultural and religious contexts—emotions that I haven't been able to shake off, even though I abandoned Catholicism more than 10 years ago.
Many Latina women often bear the burden of preserving the family's honor and moral standing. This responsibility can engender Catholic guilt associated with behaviors or thoughts that deviate from the church's teachings, such as premarital sex, divorce, abortion, or even questioning the religious doctrine itself. You must not waver in your faith.
I cannot stress enough how heavily the weight of Catholic guilt can influence a woman's self-perception. It can induce feelings of inadequacy due to the impossible task of upholding an idealized and frankly unattainable standard of morality and purity. Guilt can also play a role in a woman's struggle with her personal identity, particularly if she identifies as LGBTQ+, a status still stigmatized in both the Catholic Church and many Latine communities, sometimes leading to internalized homophobia.
This ever-present feeling of guilt can be detrimental to mental health, resulting in issues like anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem. The fact is, many of us are introduced to the Catholic faith almost as soon as we are born, baptized, and sent to Sunday school. So these teachings and feelings of guilt become deeply rooted in our sense of being.
As we acknowledge these experiences, we empower ourselves and others to open up about their struggles and seek healing. It’s vital for mental health professionals to recognize and understand the nuances of Catholic guilt in Latina women, offering culturally competent care and support, yet not many do.
By recognizing and naming my experience, I've found it easier to share my story with other women who face similar struggles. My hope is that, through open conversations and mutual understanding, we can begin to break free from guilt, embrace our individuality, and respect our autonomy in making informed choices. Only then can we find the freedom to heal and redefine our relationships with faith, culture, and ourselves.
