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The Quinceañera I Was Too Poor to Have
By Gwendolyn Zepeda

The reason I'd wanted a quinceañera was for the dress, of course. The whole thing would be like a dress rehearsal for my prom, I figured. Or even for my wedding.

No, that was a lie. The real reason I'd wanted a quinceañera was for the doll. I thought a lot about the little doll that would look like me, with a matching dress. My little plastic doppelganger. That, and a tiara. And the cake. And a dance. Maybe the handsomest sacker from Fiesta would show up and we'd dance together under the lights...

At night I counted girls’ names. Dorothy, Amanda, Myrshia, Jocelyn... I'd have to get them to get their moms to buy bridesmaid-like dresses. And yet, no matter how many names I counted and persuasive arguments I composed, I could never reach the magic number fourteen. And I needed fourteen girlfriends to make up my royal court. Somehow, I would need to become more popular.

My family barely had enough money for school clothes, much less a glittery ball gown in pale pink tulle. Plus, there was the matter of religion. Somehow, I’d never been baptized. Therefore, I’d never had my first Confession, Conception, Confection, Condensation or any of that. My cousin Helen, newly married and looking for glamour, had half-heartedly suggested rushing through all the ceremonies the month before my fifteenth birthday. I walked downtown and tried on a few formals, just in case. But it never panned out. The day I turned fifteen, there were no girls, no dolls, no tiaras. I don't even remember a cake.

A year later, my friend Letty showed me pictures of the quinceañera her family had thrown her. It was a backyard affair. No royal court, no tiara, no disco-light-lit dancing. Just a family, a barbecue pit, heavy religious symbolism, and a clown. And a cake. And, dressed just like her, a doll. Although it wasn't anything like what I'd imagined for my own quince, she seemed proud enough of it, and I managed to feel envy.

“I was going to have a quinceañera,” I told her. “But I didn't have enough girls for my court, so I decided it wasn't worth it.” There. Saying such a thing settled the sour grapes in my stomach.

“Aw... You should have told me!” she said. “I would have been in it. And my friend Nelly. And my sister. You could have asked all your cousins. You would've found enough.”

“No,” I said. “I couldn't have asked all those people. I barely know them.”

She rolled her eyes at my ignorance. “Everybody helps for your quinceañera. They have to.”

The thing I ended up most wistful about, then, wasn't the doll. Instead, I regretted missing the opportunity to see... to feel... such an outpouring of goodwill on my behalf. Before, I never would have imagined near-strangers coming together to celebrate the birthday of one measly teenage girl.

But that, apparently, was the power of our community. And I got to learn that lesson for free.