The endearment in a foul language

There is something about hearing foul language when talking with a boricua that makes me feel like I am talking with a friend. Maybe because someone called me "cabrona" once. If you are a boricua, do not freak out just yet. Keep reading.

The solo experience of school lunches

In high school, the school café was amazing and, therefore, busy. The ladies working there were the sweetest people on earth. They always made sure I got an extra scoop of rice and beans. If that isn't a true representation of kindness and love, I don't know what is. As I stood there with my tray, I had to find a table for me and my overload of rice and beans. I chose an empty one. I always did. I never felt comfortable joining the ones with people without an invitation. Or, by the time I was looking, they were already full.

It was me and my lunch. But that never meant I always ended up alone. On that particular day, five guys from my classroom sat with me. Some saw me as a little sister; their company always felt like big brothers looking out for me. I connected with them in areas I didn't with my girlfriends, like playing musical instruments or video games. The disconnect? Being around guys meant one thing, a lot of swearing involved.

When cabrón means pana

Foul language is not part of my way of expression, at least not in Spanish. My mom made sure of that. I was just an active listener in those types of conversations. Between the guys, it represented easiness and comfort, being close friends, especially calling each other "cabrón." A way of speaking between "panas." Then, it happened. One of them was very into the conversation, and when he went to say something to me, his sentence started with "Cabrona."

He stopped right after that.

Instant awareness, followed by 2 milliseconds of silence.

A hit in the chest from the guy next to him.

"¡CABRÓN!" is yelled at him by the group, and with a different meaning than the previous "cabrones" or his "cabrona."

I was shocked. He turned red. A wave of apologies and reprimanding him all happened at once. He apologized. I laughed. We all laughed. The result? I felt like I was part of the "panas." I felt like I belonged in the group. Belonging: A need that has followed me in life and even more after moving to the States.

A language that provides comfort

From the music that has become popular globally, between jangueos and lunch breaks, get-togethers among friends, and the classic "puñeta" in sports events, foul language can be found in almost every conversation back home. The type of language that creates nostalgia for me. The memories of going to a lovely café and hearing the barista saying, "es que está cabrón" while referring to the day's events. A way of expression that makes me feel at home anywhere else.

People like Illyanna (@eatgordaeat at Twitter) and Eric (@ericriveracooks at Twitter) are very unapologetic about this. What it may sound like overly used or simply wrong in their spaces to others, for me, a boricua, their way of expressing means representation in a land where I continue to struggle to see myself represented. Something about it makes you feel you can trust them, like talking with an old friend. It is the turning head and looking around when you hear a "cabrón" in a random place outside Puerto Rico. It is the "¿Tu eres boricua?" and the inevitable hug after.

Now, did he keep calling me that? Heck no. But that was and still is my preference. My preferences do not represent everyone's preferences, and the way of expressing themselves does not offend me. I understand my culture and my people. I understand the context from which things are said. From talking with our hands to facial expressions, it is all part of how deeply we feel things. Like a wise woman said:

"It is not the word you use, but the intention behind it." -- Mom.

To-do: be able to play a Spotify song from a post. For this one, "Está Cabrón Ser Yo" by Bad Bunny.