Some Latina mothers teach their daughters how to spoon masa or plátano onto a corn husk or banana leaf when making tamales or pasteles.
My Latina mother taught me to love musicals.
Or, more precisely, how to worship the diva at the center of a musical, the woman pulling at the seams of its tidy romance plot, unraveling in her wake a trail of delight and mayhem. Some days it was Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice in her mink hat and muff insisting that no one rain on her parade. Or Diana Ross easing on down the road. But most times it was Rita Moreno as Anita dancing her way beyond the borders of “Ameríca” in “West Side Story.”
In the decades since its opening night on Broadway in 1957, “West Side Story” has been the story, the persistent white fantasy of “Latinness,” that Latinas like my mom and I have had to reckon with. And yet my mom and I kept watching. Perhaps it’s because, like all musicals, “West Side Story” is a complex form of representation that revels in both its messiness and its marvelousness. My mother taught me to see in “West Side Story” not just the problems of brown-face makeup, but also the choreography of another Latina who could dance her way out of any script that sought to confine her or relegate her to a supporting role. My mother was showing me a diva who could move across these imposed limits. And who did it in a fabulous dress and heels.
It is not without a measure of sheepishness that I admit this now, long after the public and private conversations Latinos have engaged in about our vexed relationship to “West Side Story.” No doubt, it presents damaging stereotypes of “Latin” culture in America. Many of us have cataloged and condemned the musical’s depictions of criminal youth and blatantly sexual women all speaking in exaggerated accents.
Musical divas like Ms. Moreno helped my mother and me forge our bond as we made our own way in America from our working-class neighborhood in San Antonio, Texas, a city that has long had a Latino majority. “West Side Story” endures as a paradoxical — and often pleasurable — cultural text by which many Latinos have come to know ourselves and one another. Artists and thinkers like Lin-Manuel Miranda, Justice Sonia Sotomayor of the Supreme Court and Jennifer Lopez, to name a few, have turned to the musical as a means of understanding themselves or as a jumping-off point into a new narrative.
According to my mom, the first time we watched the 1961 film adaptation of “West Side Story” together was when NBC aired it over two successive nights in March 1972. I was a little more than a year old. In those days, she and I were sharing a bed in the front room of my grandparents’ house on San Antonio’s south side. My father was fighting in Vietnam. I spent countless nights in the years that followed curled up in bed with my mother singing along to “West Side Story.”
We learned every line, every lyric. We scoffed at the brown-cake makeup. Rolled our eyes at the accents. We believed that, yes, a boy like that could kill your brother. We cried every time Bernardo died. We cursed. We crooned. We held our breaths when Anita’s purple petticoat flared, her leg kicked up and stretching to forever, to the smattering of stars above, to some beyond somewhere far from here.
In “West Side Story,” Rita Moreno doesn’t just master the notoriously exacting rigors of Jerome Robbins’s choreography. She expresses undisciplined delight in her body’s movement beyond it. In Ms. Moreno’s mauve-blurred movements as Anita there is both a sense of well-rehearsed control and improvisatory curve, a sense of what my mother would call “movidas,” of finding a way when there seems to be no way, of creating space where none is ceded. Movidas are not just ways of making do but making do with Latina flair, of hustling so smoothly it becomes dancing.
Rita-as-Anita refuses to move in a straight line — and why should she when the playing field is so full of obstacles? Latinos know there are few straightforward paths toward securing a place for ourselves; the only constant is the well-rehearsed control and improvisatory curve and sartorial flair and audacious joy we perform in our movidas. We recognize in Anita’s movements the choreographies of our own refusals and striving for self-possession.
Again and again I saw in the film how Anita tends fiercely to Maria, the teenager left in her charge. Just as I joined my mother in bed to watch and cry and sing along, Anita joins Maria on her bed to sing the duet “A Boy Like That/I Have a Love.” It’s a pivotal moment when Anita, despite her own reservations, romantic attachments and aspirations, sacrifices herself to help Maria try to achieve what she wants. Anita and Maria are the only couple central to the narrative who survive.
My mother taught me to memorize the steps and the songs in a musical diva’s repertoire. Together, we studied the ways Rita-as-Anita moves across the battered gymnasium floor, across the rooftop, across the boundaries of turf and tribe. She showed me how to follow the diva who shows Latinas how to move and move and keep on moving, how to move until the skirts of our dresses achieve lift off, how to move past the violence done to our bodies and our boyfriends, how to move closer to one another across the borders that seek to keep us apart.
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