Bougie while Boricua

As I age into señora-dom (the Latina equivalent of entering the ma’am years), tengo guille de filósofa and I ponder the big questions of this Boricua life. This morning, as I sit at the table by the window looking onto Webster Avenue, sipping my $3.20 drip coffee (teniendo café en la casa—and not just any coffee but a bag of whole beans grown on one of those small artisanal farms en la isla that I grind in the Baratza on my kitchen countertop) in the newish local cafe introduced to me by the bff that knows me most intimately—the Instagram algorithm—where everything is curated and properly placed in a way my home can never be.

My system is awash in happy hormones because I’m post-yoga-in-the-park, where I’d also strolled through the weekly farmers’ market, scoping out for free samples (like I used to do with Papi in ShopRite) and seriously considered whether a single, naked bagel is worth $3 and simultaneously equally seriously considering whether ’stoy loca teniendo comida en la casa. (The thought had sparked a memory so clear that I was again the little brown girl from the projects with Mami in Key Foods knowing not to ask for nothing unless I wanted un cocotazo that would’ve knocked sense into me y quitarme las ganas por Fruity Pebbles or any other overpriced porquerria my malcriada ass might have dared ask for).

But here in this moment, in this window seat, as I watch young couples saunter past, pushing pimped out strollers that might cost as much as my monthly car payment or even HOA fee (and these jovencitos seem unconsumed by guilt for having paid so much…maybe they didn’t grow up with a Papi who likely earned less in a week than what the stroller and accoutrements cost), that I weigh the heavy question of whether it’s possible for a Boricua to be bougie without guilt.