Narrative Essay On Quinceanera

Try as I might, I can’t seem to focus on the words coming out of my best friend’s mouth, my heartbeat echoing in my ears, drowning out any sounds she made. The table’s edge is smooth, gliding across my hand as I run my fingers over the corner. The droning continued, but I could only catch snippets: seating....invitations....decorations. All of these things seemed so trivial, so unimportant, compared to the thoughts that ran through my head. My fifteenth birthday. What am I going to do? What should I do? Does it even matter? My heritage hasn’t been a burden before now; would this small thing really affect my standing with my parents? If I pushed away my father’s heritage would I remain a child in his eyes? My mother might want me to celebrate my sixteenth birthday instead. “Paloma, are you paying attention?”

Do I even want to have a sweet sixteen? I’ve never seen myself as the quintessential “princess”, in a flowing dress and mile high tiara. I could just wait until my eighteenth, then I’d be considered an adult, at least in American society. Do I even want a Quinceanera? It revolves around the church so much it’s practically the sun and the earth. Besides, could I even have a Quinceanera? My family would have to travel all the way to Mexico.

“Puh-lo-mah.”

Or maybe I

My fifteenth birthday was celebrated like any other, as was my sixteenth. They were both filled with joy, as I realized that even with the weight of culture on my shoulders, it was who I spent my coming of age with, not where I was or what it signified. I was surrounded by friends and family that love and care for me; who know that age is just a number. It’s my character that defines my maturity, and they looked at me no lesser than if my birthdays had been filled with frills and ceremony. In fact, they may think better of