Our summers revolved around the beach. Specifically, Albion beach, on the Northside. My mom, a suncatcher woman looking for serenity in the city heat, loved this place. With our beach towels spread over burning sand, she watched me splash in Lake Michigan waters— carefully. She warned me of all objects to watch out for: broken bottles on the shoreline, Mcdonald’s bags washed up and soggy, a cigarette butt here and there, the sharp slippery rocks. I made sure to secure my footing before clumsily exploring any hazards. Regardless, my mom was not afraid to yell across a beach in an effort of protection. Her voice still carries the urgency of storm waves. She continues to remind me: the last thing you want to do is fall in unexpectedly.
We’d stay until sunset, treading in freshwater and sharing stories. We spoke in memory and life lessons, my mom hinted at something greater in every sentence. She warned me of things within this realm and beyond. Sometimes just a hint of Llorona was enough to correct my behavior. The mere mention of her cries reminded me to stay close to mama, to be careful in the water, and to never go out alone at night. Sometimes we’d stay silent and wait for her cries along the water.
La Llorona is a weeping woman turned oral legacy. She has become an important figure in Latinx iconography, and moral strings from her story have helped shape generations of children’s behavior.
Her narrative shapeshifts in the hands of her storyteller, every version of Llorona lives through retelling. From the 1500s to today, her story has warped across borderlines and waterways— adding and changing layers of history, culture, and psychosocial context at each iteration . Like ripples of water, she is endlessly changing.
However, in all her versions, her children have drowned in water. In most, she is the one to blame. Some shape her into a murderer, some craft her into a feminist, others leave her somewhere in the middle. But whether her final actions are out of neglect, protection, regret,
or
guilt—
her grief becomes immeasurable in the afterlife. Heard across waterways, she cries out for her
children. There is no peaceful rest for her, only endless searching.
Llorona became not so terrifying as I grew up. I began to peel her story back in layers, dissecting her choices from a refreshed perspective. She became a protector. A force of reason. A woman echoing strength along rivers and streams. A reflection of women in my own life. The sacrifices a mother must make do not often meet the level of desperation Llorona faced; but this story functions to rework our narratives of motherhood. To reinvest in the agency of women as they navigate solo motherhood is one step needed to rework how we think about Llorona and mothers alike. The unconventional paths taken in the greater interest of a child’s wellbeing blurs the lines of how we think about motherhood entirely.
In most variations of the story, La Llorona’s spirit ties to an (often Indigenous) woman of lower socioeconomic status who kills her children and herself because of what future lies ahead. Often directly linking her to La Malinche, her identity is critical in understanding her decision-making and what has become of her legacy. The act of both infanticide and suicide protects her from a wealthy/Conquistador ‘lover’— a man planning to uproot her children and raise them in aristocratic society alongside another (wealthy + white) woman.
By considering the layers of colonization and legacy, Llorona’s image is completely reconstructed. Now, I root myself in empathy rather than fear. And I know, a mother will do whatever needs to be done if it means protecting her children. Llorona is constricted by external forces in every retelling of her story. At her core, the lives she and her children deserve are crafted as unattainable. Her fear of their future becomes all-consuming, and she must make the ultimate sacrifice.
My mother’s fear stems from the same place as Llorona. This fear of not being able to provide perfection reflects the weight of motherhood, but especially under the context of patriarchy. She wants to give me everything life has to offer but knows that is not realistic. I was almost aborted out of protection and my own mother’s fear of the future. She was just floating around, enjoying life in the city and working. Babies were not something in mind. At only 23, she decided motherhood was her new path in life, despite all obstacles roadblocking her vision. My mother pushed herself through anti-abortion protestors, opened the clinic doors, and checked in for her appointment. She made it much further than some women even have access to. And just like Llorona, she was fully equipped to do whatever needed to be done. But rather it was an act of divine intervention or just the state of women’s healthcare at the time (and now, even)— a complication occurred during another woman’s procedure and all following appointments were canceled for the day.
Instead of rescheduling right then and there, ambulance alarms blaring outside, my mom-in-progress canceled her appointment and drove herself to Taco Bell instead. Having children was not in her playbook, at all. Nor was having an abortion, but with my father-to-be breathing down her neck, she scheduled the appointment anyway. She kept thinking: I’m not married, we don’t have a home, I have no savings. So she ordered three soft taco supremes and sat in a stew full of what-ifs and other intrusive thoughts; until she made the decision just to not tell anyone for a few more days.
Llorona wades in a stream of worries, waiting for a better future to come. Her palms wrinkle in exhaustion, as she searches and searches and searches. But she does not find what she is looking for. Her children have left, but she has not. Trapped by memory, she is only welcomed by fish swimming upstream and puddles laced with grief. Llorona wades, eagerly. And tries to fill the silence with her cry.
My mother wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Instead, she grew heavy with anxiety and defense. On her drive home from the clinic, Taco Bell strapped in the passenger side, as she’s dazed with overthinking— she accidentally hits a kid riding on his bike. And although he (and his bike) turned out to be just fine, the reality of her situation sunk in. She knew it was time to get it together. But before anything, she needed to quit smoking.
Protection takes forms in odd shapes and sizes. For some people, it’s a ring of salt around the room. An incense cleanse in both directions. A pocket knife. Others find solace in a prayer or two. A trust fund. Someone else entirely. Llorona found protection through escape, transporting children to another realm out of necessity. Her soul haunts ours as her sacrifice centuries ago. Her children are free now, but out of her reach. Protection is not an easy thing in every form.
My mother ran in protection, too. She left my father and hid the truth from me, but despite dropping dominoes of distraught— it was what needed to be done. My father, a man of Myspace girlfriends, Ecko Unlimited, pizza puffs, and drug money. She couldn’t imagine raising a child with him. So after a series of cataclysmic evenings, she signed restraining orders and custody papers. In order to be a working, single mom— she completely changed her lifestyle. My mother clipped coupons on her lunch breaks and before bed most nights. She meal-prepped on her days off and made sure I did all of my homework. No more Saturday nights out and summer vacations. No more purse and shoe shopping with extra cash.
Running alone as a mother with children is a form of fear I cannot fathom. As the fears of weakness and emotional distress run behind her, she is chased down by intrusive thoughts of abandonment. There is the lingering fear of not being able to control herself. The future’s pressure only strengthens as her children grow older. It is endlessly exhausting.
I go back to Lake Michigan as an adult now and mull over memories. Llorona’s voice comes back to me in waves as I diffuse into the shoreline. The resentment I once held for her is lost. Instead, her tone reflects my mother’s and harmonizes in imperfection— and it is beautiful. I know we are not made to be perfect. We hold onto our pain and craft power from its edges. And sometimes, we pour ourselves back out in exhale, flowing together in a release. My eyes water as I think of the pain mothers hold, and my own mom’s pain held too close. And I leave an offering to the lake, Llorona, and the women alike in my life.
And I extend my offer outwards as it washes away.
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