“You know, if you wear braids and a big hat, it makes you look even more Indigenous,” my aunt said, as if offering some kind of life advice. I felt a tiny part of myself shrink in that moment, but I quickly caught it, took a breath, and calmly asked, “What’s wrong with looking Indigenous?” She looked confused and almost annoyed that I’d challenge her, and after a pause, she replied awkwardly, “Because you don’t want people to think you are less than.”
That’s when I realized that in a warped, self-hating, colonized mindset, my aunt was trying to save me from ridicule, hate, or anyone second-guessing my worth. But I responded, “Tía, whoever thinks that I am less than for looking or even being Indigenous is not for me. Plus, I feel really beautiful and powerful.” She quietly accepted defeat, nodded her head, and served me a cup of freshly brewed café con leche.
The truth is, I’ve heard different versions of that comment my entire life. I’ve been defending my Indigenous features and aesthetic since I was a child. It took decades of inner work — therapy, journaling, and solo travel to Peru — to feel secure in my identity. To respond with clarity and confidence, as I did with my aunt that day, was no small thing. It was the result of years of unlearning and reclaiming. Teenage Cindy would be proud.
Growing up in New Jersey, I learned that Indigenous aesthetics were only socially acceptable for cultural shows or tourist photos, not for everyday life. That meant no braids, no big hats, and absolutely no ponchos. For far too many of us, hiding Indigenous culture or downplaying our connection to Peru has meant moving on up in the world. Many in my community saw assimilation as success, so minimizing Indigeneity was a survival strategy.
Growing up in New Jersey, I learned that Indigenous aesthetics were only socially acceptable for cultural shows or tourist photos, not for everyday life.
But all I saw were the effects of colonization running rampant. All I saw was the cost, the silence, the shame, and the erasure. I didn’t have the words yet, but I knew I didn’t want to keep carrying that kind of weight.
To most, a braid might seem small. But for me — a Peruvian American woman of Indigenous descent — I know now that my hair carries resistance, memory, healing, and pride. Every braid, every curl, every strand has been a homecoming.
In Peru, braids are synonymous with Andean identity, especially for Quechua and Aymara women, who many refer to as “cholas,” a term loaded with anti-Indigenous bias with historical ties to Spanish colonizers. Unfortunately, the word chola is still used to shame and degrade women who present as Indigenous.
Braids are part of the ancestral language of the Andes — one braid traditionally signifying that a woman is single, and two indicating she is married. But beyond cultural symbolism, braiding is also a spiritual practice. The three strands represent the mind, body, and spirit, making it vital to braid with intention, sometimes even with prayer. Being mindful of your thoughts while braiding can influence your vibration for the day.
Braids with colorful ribbons are traditionally reserved for celebratory occasions. Today, Indigenous braiding is experiencing a powerful resurgence among Peruvian youth, who are reclaiming their Indigenous heritage. Artists like Quechua hip-hop singer and activist Renata Flores are leading the way, using their platforms to challenge discrimination and assert that their identity is both personal and political. Flores wears braids, sings in Quechua, and makes ancestral heritage and pride beautifully visible. It’s inspiring to witness this cultural resurgence in real time.
“I am proud of and connected to and recognizable to my ancestors,” said Native American author, educator, and speaker Dr. Anton Treuer. Several years ago, he spoke about the spiritual significance of hair in native cultures — and how, historically, hair was weaponized against native people. That’s how powerful braids are. Colonizers cutting them was often the first act of erasure, stripping native children of their cultural identity and forcing them to assimilate. Learning that history only deepened my commitment to growing my hair long, embracing my natural waves, and braiding whenever possible — to honor those who never had the choice. Hair, especially braids, is an energetic boundary, not just an aesthetic.
During the pandemic, I decided not to use heat on my hair for a year as an experiment to see where my natural hair was. At first, I would use braids very practically to condition my hair or while I was hiking to avoid having my hair in my face. But then something shifted. After months of braiding, my childhood curls came back. So much so that my mom asked if I had gotten a perm. When I told her no, she was shocked. Braiding then transitioned from a functional to a spiritual experience — I started to feel stronger and more grounded while wearing my braids. Over time, it wasn’t just about looking good, but also about feeling more connected. Braiding became a ritual. My mom started to notice the shift and suggested I be careful with who I let braid or even touch my hair. Because our hair is sacred, it is a form of energy work that requires serious care.
Another major shift happened when I joined the Dance Your Ancestors program, led by Peruvian dancer, choreographer, and educator Cynthia Paniagua. Paniagua doesn’t just teach movement — she offers us a spiritual map home. Through her, I was able to embody my ancestry in a way I had never fully accessed before. She gave language to what my spirit already knew but hadn’t been able to name: that movement is memory, and dance is ceremony.
In one round of the program, we studied tondero, a traditional courtship dance from Piura, the northern coastal region of Peru — my paternal grandmother’s homeland. I never got to meet her, but learning this dance made me feel like I was finally standing in her story. Every step, every sway, every beat of the music was a conversation with her. In our final performance, we were asked to choose what hairstyle we wanted to wear, and I, not surprisingly, chose a braid. That moment sealed it for me — braiding, dancing, and remembering were no longer separate acts. They were all part of the same ritual: coming back home to myself.
Today, I rock my braids wherever I go: to the gym, family parties, and even, still, hiking. I wear them in ways that I never felt allowed to before. What once made people uncomfortable now makes me feel whole. I still get comments from strangers, long, awkward stares, and wildly inappropriate comments for wearing my hair in braids, but I don’t shrink anymore. I don’t even explain. I refuse to soften my edges or water down my identity to make others feel comfortable.
Every braid I wear is for the women or children who couldn’t, and every curl carries a soft kind of resistance. I no longer hide; I honor my hair, like a spiritual cape. My hair is no longer policed, it is prayed over.
Cindy Y. Rodriguez has spent 17-plus years crafting powerful stories. One of her proudest achievements is hosting and producing the Webby-honored and Emmy-nominated five-part docuseries “Hay Dinero,” which offers practical financial planning tips for the Latine community and highlights the deep connection between culture and generational trauma. Cindy’s commitment to creating diverse and impactful content shines through in her work, especially when addressing topics like identity, culture, and race. Her work includes co-launching Vivala as well as HuffPost’s Latino Voices, and cofounding the award-nominated feminist podcast “Morado Lens,” which features conversations spanning sex, culture, and spirituality.
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