Las Borinqueñas is more than a title.
More than a play. They are the women who help a whole country not only survive but preserve its identity. They’re the people who raised and cared for me and mine everyday, despite everything trying to tell them we were not worth it. Las Borinqueñas are our mothers, sisters, partners, friends, who take care of their community despite themselves. Las Borinqueñas are heroes who are often forgotten.
Nelson Diaz-Marcano (Photo: Jackie Abbott)
My obsession with this story started years ago when I was living with my then girlfriend who had severe menstrual pains. Her doctor suggested the pill might help and she only found one that helped after years of trying different formulas which often left her paralyzed from deep cramps or so uncomfortable she had to forgo eating that day. This led me to study the birth control pill history and to my shock I found that the trials had not only happened illegally in my homeland, but that I knew someone that had been through them. She had passed away of natural causes by the time I found the story, so I never got to talk to her. This woman who sacrificed her body to help create the miracle of birth control had been buried and barely anybody knew her name. Yet everyone knows the name of Gregory Pincus, Edris Rice-Wray, John Rock and Margaret Sanger.
That unfairness, that these people who gave everything could be lost to time, while these people that took advantage took all the credit, didn’t sit well with me. It doesn’t sit well with me because it’s another part of the erasure of a culture so beautiful that to conquer it, you have to make them forget who they are.
But Las Borinqueñas won’t let us forget.
My mother Carmen Yaritza Marcano, who woke up every morning, despite rheumatoid arthritis, to make sure we were fed and educated, wouldn’t let me do that.
My abuela Hilda Suarez, who was one of the most respected teachers and one of the first post office workers in Gurabo Puerto Rico, won’t let me do that.
My other abuela Victoria Rodriguez who raised kids since she was a teenager, would never let me do that.
And my sister Yarinel Diaz is a living reminder of the everyday strength that is required to exist as a Borinqueña. Yet she thrives.
All these women were matriarchs of a proud but embattled culture.
As a child, Hilda was paraded in an American flag dress through the town square so she could receive benefits once her father died and her sister couldn’t work.
Victoria was married to my grandfather when she was 12; she had to raise her own kids, but also the kids from my grandfather’s other wives.
All these women were the women the community relied on.
My mother helped heroin addicts recover, fed people in need and never denied help to anybody, even while she acted like she hated helping.
My abuela Victoria is considered a matriarch not only by my grandfather’s children but by the whole community of the Barrio Jaguas.
My abuela Hilda was an unofficial advisor to local politicians from my town. She also taught English to most of the town in the 60s and 70s.
It continues with my sister, who after taking care of my mother for more than 15 years, created a fitness program to improve the lives of older people in our hometown.
These are the women who raised me. The woman who would never let me forget. So I won’t let you forget them. This play is for them. Because without them I would be nothing. Without them, Puerto Rico would have been a memory. Thank you Borinqueñas.
Las Borinqueñas is the 2023/2024 Mainstage Production of the Ensemble Studio Theatre/Alfred P. Sloan Foundation in collaboration with the Latinx Playwrights Circle & Boundless Theatre Company. It began previews at the Ensemble Studio Theatre on April 3 and ran through May 5.