When all the Mexican-Americans and Mexicans went to mass and I didn’t because I was raised protestant, Selena was my Virgin Mary; when I’d fret about my thick hair poofing out in humid weather, I’d remember how iconic Selena looked in her last concert, the texture of her natural hair revealing itself the more she danced and sweat. If I became tempted to lament my transitory place in different cultures, I thought about how it was possible for her to move gracefully between the two, never losing
