My father is a devout Catholic. Growing up, the version of the Virgin Mother I knew was absolutely nothing like what was described to me in class at my Catholic school in Ohio. I was taught that Mary was meek, docile, without sin, and ever-obedient. But the one I had heard of, through a Latin American perspective, was a protector. There are stories of her appearing to help migrants cross the border, saving whole cities that were lit aflame by leading the people to safety, and protecting the people from the wrath of colonizers.

In my piece I play the Virgin. At first, she is meek and unassuming, white washed with face paint made to resemble the Eurocentric Catholic art found throughout the church today. I then wash off the heavy makeup, braid my hair, and apply war pain—a tribute to my native Central American ancestry, and a reference to the indisputable fact that Mary was a woman of color. Throughout, I speak of the stories of women in history who have been lost or corrupted by a patriarchal world, women made villains for the sake of uplifting a male hero: Medusa, the Jinn, the Virgin Mary. I discuss the power of image as a tool, and how these women have been turned from tools of empowerment and strength into tools of control and suffering. And I show the strength of women who run their own autonomous narrative.