Chaos and Charm

“¡Porque yo dije!”
That was the beginning and end of every argument in my house.
No logic. No discussion. No “we’ll talk later.”
Just instant obedience — or consequences.

My mom didn’t negotiate. She demanded.
You didn’t need to understand why.
You just needed to move.
Fast.

There was raised volume, raised eyebrows, and raised chancletas.
And somehow, we turned out fine — twitchy, but fine.

I remember trying to reason once — one time.
“Pero, mami… that doesn’t make sense.”
Cue the look.
You know the one.
The look that said, “Keep talking and I’ll show you what doesn’t make sense.”
She turned around slow — with that calm, terrifying composure — and said,
“Wha ju mean it don’ make sense?!”
I knew right then I had chosen violence against myself.

We learned early that “porque yo dije” was the final boss of parenting.
It could cancel plans, end friendships, and ruin summer in one breath.
You didn’t argue — you just went to your room and quietly plotted your future freedom.

Now that I’m older, I can admit it —
for my mother, it was about control.
She didn’t know how to handle softness,
because softness was never safe for her either.
She was taught survival, not connection.
And I became the product of that same survival training —
confusing fear for respect, and silence for peace.

Man, was I wrong.
Silence was deadly.
It was dangerous.
It meant she was plotting 17 different ways to punish me —
now and in the upcoming future.
Because she could hold a grudge and remember everything
except what she said or did.
You never knew when it was coming.
You just hoped you were quick on your feet
and ready to dodge the chancleta or the verbal attack.

I don’t ever catch myself saying “Porque yo dije,”
because I hated that response.
But I do catch myself being quick to anger
and having a tongue that can slice like a verbal samurai sword.
That part… she passed down perfectly. Gee, thanks.

So yeah, sometimes I hear my mom’s voice come out of my own mouth.
And the first time it happened, I swear I saw my inner child flinch.
But the truth is, “porque yo dije” raised a generation of strong-willed, sarcastic survivors
who still say “yes, mami” even in their 40s — just in case.

And I’m learning — slowly — how to unlearn it.
How to pause.
How to respond instead of react.
How to give myself the gentleness she didn’t know how to give.

So no, my childhood wasn’t “fine.”
But it was formative.
And I’m still learning how to raise the parts of me
that never got to feel safe enough to ask why.