Colombian girls grow up immersed in a cycle of colorful religious and regional festivals: Growing Up In Colombia - 585 Words - Bartleby.com
To grow up as a girl in Colombia is to inherit a legacy of warmth. She carries with her the alegría (joy) of her people, the rhythm of her ancestors, and the deep-rooted
Young girls are raised to value education, hard work, and community support. They are encouraged to be independent, fiercely protective of their loved ones, and proud of their rich heritage. This unique blend of joy, deep cultural pride, and resilience shapes girls who grow up to be dynamic, adaptable, and deeply connected to their roots.
“There’s nothing bigger than that,” I whispered. as a little girl growing up in colombia
Walking to the local frutería to pick out fruits that many across the world have never heard of— lulo , guanábana , maracuyá , and tomatillo de árbol .
I was standing in front of a mirror in my cousin’s apartment in Medellín. She was doing my makeup—eyeliner sharp as a razor, lipstick the color of a wounded fruit.
Food is the ultimate love language in Colombia. A little girl growing up in a Colombian household often spends time in the kitchen alongside her mother, abuela (grandmother), or tías (aunts), passing down secret recipes for empanadas, buñuelos , and hot chocolate served with a slice of cheese. Colombian girls grow up immersed in a cycle
The air in the patio always smelled like a battle between and frying plantains .
the most powerful force I witnessed was not the military or the police, but the women. My mother was a single mother for several years while my father worked in the city. She worked at a colegio (school) during the day and sold empanadas from a cart in the evening.
That night, at a quinceañera, a boy named Sebastián pulled me into a corner. He smelled like cologne and sweat and cheap beer. He put his hand on my waist. He was seventeen. He had a motorcycle and a smile that was all teeth. This unique blend of joy, deep cultural pride,
For a little girl, daily life is full of rich sensory experiences:
I was five when I learned about the mountains. Not from a textbook, but from the view on the road to my abuela ’s pueblo. My father stopped the dusty Renault on a precipice. He lifted me onto his shoulders—suddenly I was seven feet tall.
From our backyard, I could see the mountains shift from green to black as the sun set. My father used to point to the far peaks and say, “ Allá hay culebras y guerrilleros ” (There are snakes and guerrillas over there). For us, the wilderness was not a place for hiking or recreation; it was a mystery, a boundary. We respected the mountain with a fear that bordered on religious reverence. A walk to the corner store wasn’t just a chore; it was a negotiation with the neighborhood dogs, the uneven cobblestones, and the stray motorbikes that whizzed past without mufflers.
Silence was suspicious. Silence meant someone was sick, or the power was out, or—worst of all—that the coffee had run out.