Tías and Primas

Two women stand in front of identical mirrors. One sees a face, a collection of features to be cataloged and compared against a standard. She sees the curve of her nose, the shade of her skin, the texture of her hair—each a data point to be judged. Her reflection is a report card, and she is constantly grading herself, usually harshly. The other woman looks in her mirror and sees a story. She sees her grandmother’s eyes, her father’s smile, the laugh lines earned from a favorite inside joke with her cousins. Her reflection is an archive, a living family tree connecting her to generations of women who looked similar, who fought similar battles, and who found joy in the same small ways. The face is a dynamic inheritance.

This difference—seeing yourself as a score versus seeing yourself as a story—is the quiet battle fought by countless women, especially those navigating the space between their family's world and the wider culture. It’s a tension that can feel isolating, a private struggle conducted in front of bathroom mirrors and in silent moments of self-doubt. Prisca Dorcas Mojica Rodríguez felt this tension so acutely that she had to write her way through it. As a first-generation Nicaraguan-American navigating predominantly white academic spaces, she was handed a rubric for her own identity that felt foreign and wrong. Her book, "For Brown Girls with Sharp Edges and Tender Hearts," which was later retitled "Tías and Primas," became her way of tearing up that report card and instead learning to read the archive in her own reflection, creating a space for others to do the same.

Module 1: The Matriarch — The Impossible Standard

Every family has a center of gravity. For many, it's the matriarch. She is the anchor, the protector, the one who holds everything together. But this role comes with a hidden, impossibly high cost. The author introduces us to her grandmother, Rosa Esperanza, a woman who was the "safest place on earth." Her home was a sanctuary. Her care was meticulous. She knew exactly how each family member liked their nacatamales, a traditional Nicaraguan dish. This was a demonstration of deep, personal love. So here's the first thing to grasp: The matriarch’s power is built on immense, often invisible, emotional and practical labor. This labor extends beyond the home. Rosa became the neighborhood matriarch. She visited grieving families. She sent meals to those in need. Her care created a web of community support.

But where does this strength come from? It's forged in fire. The author reveals a critical insight: A matriarch’s authority is often developed as a strategic response to patriarchal constraints and economic hardship. When the author's grandfather tried to control the family finances, Rosa didn't just accept it. She started a pulpería, a small neighborhood store, right out of her home. This business gave her financial independence. It gave her community standing. It was a quiet act of resistance. She stayed in a difficult marriage for practical reasons, but she was never a victim. She carved out her own autonomous, powerful life.

And here's the thing. This level of self-sacrifice is not sustainable. It's a crushing weight. The author makes a heartbreaking point: The very traits that make a matriarch irreplaceable often lead to her depletion and create an unfillable void. Rosa died at 55 from hypertension. The author is blunt about the cause. Her grandmother had a "habit of doing little to nothing for herself." Being the family's impossible standard literally cost her her life. Her death left the family adrift, a testament to the fact that one person cannot, and should not, be the sole emotional pillar.

So what's the takeaway for us? Honoring our matriarchs—and the matriarchs in our lives—requires redefining care as a two-way street. We must learn from their sacrifices by making different choices. The author honors her grandmother by choosing to leave a marriage that wasn't working, a choice Rosa never had. It also means actively helping the matriarchs in our lives. We must tell them, "I can help." And they must learn to say, "I need help." This shifts the dynamic from overdependence to interdependence. It’s how we prevent the role from becoming a life sentence.

Now, let's move from the family's anchor to a figure who bridges worlds: the Young Tía.

Module 2: The Young Tía — The Bridge to the Future

There's a unique figure in many families. She’s not quite a parent, not quite a peer. She's the young aunt, or "tía." She occupies a special space, acting as a bridge between the world of adults and the world of children. The author introduces her tía Calina, a woman who made adulthood look like an adventure. Because her own girlhood was still a recent memory, she could connect with the kids on their level. She made adulthood seem aspirational, not a burden. This leads to our first key idea: The young tía serves as a relatable model, making adulthood seem accessible and even desirable. Calina joined the Nicaraguan Literacy Campaign after the Sandinista revolution. She taught children to read in rural areas. To the author, she looked "badass and bonita," a picture of freedom and purpose.

Beyond just being cool, the young tía plays a crucial role in a child's development. She sees them. She validates them. In a world where kids often feel small and inconsequential, she treats them as complete people. The author explains, The young tía uniquely affirms a child's personhood by offering validation and protection. In the author's patriarchal household, her tía would defend her against her older brother. She would ask the author questions and maintain eye contact, signaling that her words mattered. This gentle, respectful approach was the author's first and only example of what we now call "gentle parenting." The tía didn't try to change her; she simply "accompanied" her.

Building on that idea, the young tía often represents a more expansive vision of womanhood. Before society's pressures fully set in, she embodies a life of non-conformity. The young tía models an identity that resists narrow, socially prescribed roles. Tía Calina wore bolder clothes. She loved the rebellious music of Gloria Trevi. She and the author would dance to the song "Pelo Suelto," its lyrics a declaration of freedom: "I'm going to always be how I want / even if they label me indecent!" She showed the author a life beyond the traditional expectations placed on women.

But it doesn't stop there. The young tía also acts as a guide to social rituals. She gives children their first glimpse into the world of adult relationships. For example, the author often served as a chaperone on her tía's dates. This was an induction. It demystified dating and made it feel like a shared journey. She was witnessing her tía's path toward marriage, observing the transitions that society traditionally offered women.

Here’s where it gets interesting. The author notes that as her tía got older, married, and had children, she began to deny her more rebellious past. She claimed she never wore purple heels or danced to Gloria Trevi. This illustrates a sad truth. Society often rewards a particular kind of conventional womanhood, pressuring even the most adventurous spirits to conform. The young tía’s expansive identity, a beacon for the next generation, can eventually be dimmed by these expectations.

We've covered the matriarch and the young tía. Next up, we explore a role that many women are pressured to perform: the Perfect Prima.

Module 3: La Prima Perfecta — The High Cost of Goodness

In many families, especially for eldest daughters, there's an intense pressure to be the "perfect cousin," or "prima perfecta." It’s about performance. It’s about embodying a rigid set of social norms: be quiet, be helpful, be modest, and never, ever cause trouble. The author paints a vivid picture. The perfect prima is always properly seated. She uses formal language. Her clothes are muted and her hemlines are respectable. This brings us to a crucial point: The "perfect prima" is a social construct, an archetype defined by behavioral conformity, not genuine morality. Her entire existence is a performance of propriety, designed to reflect well on her parents.

This perfectionism doesn't come from nowhere. It’s a learned survival mechanism. Perfectionism is a conditioned response to parental and social pressure that equates a girl's worth with her obedience. The author recalls being physically punished as a child for forgetting to say "please" or "thank you." Goodness wasn't encouraged; it was enforced through fear. The perfect prima learns early that her safety and acceptance depend on flawlessly playing her part. Meanwhile, her parents are praised for raising such a "good" daughter, reinforcing the cycle.

But flip the coin. This pressure is intensely gendered. The author points out a stark double standard. Boys are often deemed inherently worthy, while girls must constantly earn and maintain their perfection. In her family, boys were seen as perfect from birth. Their mistakes were forgiven. Their worth was a given. Girls, however, had to earn perfection. It was a "tenuous position" they could lose at any moment. This early conditioning teaches girls to suppress their needs and mask their true feelings to remain in good standing.

So here's what that means in the long run. The facade of perfection comes at a tremendous cost. The pressure to be perfect leads to emotional suppression, invisibility, and long-term harm. The author wonders where her own perfect prima stores her anger, because she’s never seen it. This suppressed emotion doesn't just disappear. It gets stored in the body, risking an eventual breakdown. Furthermore, the perfect prima’s reliability makes her exploitable. When her father loses his job, she becomes the sole financial provider for her family. Her perfection doesn't lead to empowerment; it leads to her being used. At family gatherings, she blends into the furniture, so predictably "good" that no one bothers to check if she’s actually okay.

So how do we break this damaging cycle? The author suggests a radical shift. We must stop rewarding quiet compliance and start raising children who can advocate for their own needs. The goal should be to raise "happy kids" who are allowed to be messy, make mistakes, and express their feelings. For those who have already been socialized into this role, the path to healing involves learning to prioritize their own needs. It means becoming the advocate for your inner child that you never had.

From the perfect prima, we turn to her opposite: the woman who refuses to be small, the "tía loca."