Sweet 15
The rise of the all-out, over-the-top, super-spectacular, bank-breaking quinceañera.
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The next time I saw Elizabeth, she was walking down the aisle of Holy Spirit Catholic Church carrying a bouquet of pink roses. Her dark hair was swept up off her face, which was framed by a glittering pink tiara; cascading curls fell past her shoulders over a pale pink dress, embroidered with silver thread, that looked as if it had been fashioned out of cotton candy. Her skirt, which was buoyed by multiple petticoats, was so colossal that she had difficulty maneuvering herself once she reached the altar; she tried to sit in the chair that had been placed there for her benefit but nearly lost her balance. Bertha crept up behind her and steadied her with both arms, easing her into her seat. Her chambelans, attired in tuxes and pink satin ties, and her damas, in black cocktail dresses with pink sashes, sat behind her, impassive. The priest, an older man with white hair and a beneficent smile, spoke about the importance of Elizabeth’s honoring her parents as she made the transition to adulthood. Bertha approached the altar and blessed her daughter, making the sign of the cross on her forehead and kissing her cheek as Elizabeth wiped away tears. When it was Elizabeth’s turn to speak, she delivered a prepared statement in English. “Oh Lord, may your grace not be wasted on me,” she said. “Take my heart and make me a worthy daughter of yours.” Elizabeth’s padrinos and madrinas—of which there were only a few—presented her with jewelry, which was sprinkled with holy water and then put on her, piece by piece. Everyone took Communion, and then Elizabeth placed her bouquet at the foot of a portrait of the Virgin Mary.
“¡Felicidades!” one woman whispered, squeezing Elizabeth’s arm, when the mass was over.
“¡Que bonita!” exclaimed another.
After the photographs were taken, there were two hours to kill before the reception began. Bertha had arranged for something called the Party Bus to drive Elizabeth and her court around McAllen, and I followed them on board. The interior had circular seating and window shades that shut out the daylight; recessed neon tube lights gave the bus a purple glow. There was a wet bar—which was not stocked, due to the age of the partygoers—as well as a sound system and a karaoke machine. The teenagers exhaled with delight. “All we had for my quinceañera was a limo, so it was crowded,” said one of the damas. “Our knees were touching. This is nice.” But as the bus drove up and down McAllen’s wide boulevards, Elizabeth and her court grew quiet, as if they were too tired or too bored to know what to do; most of them sat in the dark, staring at their cell phones, texting. One of the chambelans studied Elizabeth, who was resplendent in pink. Her dress took up the entire back of the bus, and it appeared as though she might disappear into its folds. “You look like a retarded flower,” he offered.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“My feet are killing me,” muttered one of the damas.
The driver stopped for a few minutes at the National Shrine of Our Lady of San Juan del Valle, where Elizabeth and her court posed for pictures. (As I looked on, the Party Bus’s driver, David Estrada, told me that his son had recently celebrated his quinceañero—boys having fifteenth-birthday bashes has become an increasingly common phenomenon—“because he didn’t think it was fair that only girls got to have quinceañeras.”) When we got back on the bus, the chambelans took turns at the karaoke machine, competing to see who could sing the most off-key. Elizabeth grabbed the mike when Aqua’s “Barbie World” came on. “I’m a Barbie girl, in the Barbie world!” she sang. “Life in plastic, it’s fantastic!” The damas kicked off their shoes and clapped their hands. Everyone was dancing, and when the driver took a corner a little too fast, they all leaned into the turn, still swaying to the beat. We rolled up to Las Palmas as the reception was about to begin.
Inside, the club looked far more glamorous than it had the previous evening. There were floral centerpieces, pink balloons, chairs wrapped in jewel-toned tulle, soft lighting, a chocolate fountain. An enormous three-foot-high ice sculpture of a diamond stood near the entrance, backlit for added drama. Elizabeth’s birthday cake, which was surrounded by fourteen smaller ancillary cakes—one for each of her damas and chambelans—had pale pink frosting with darker pink polka dots and was topped with a giant E studded with Swarovski crystals. The mariachi band struck up old standards like “Las Mañanitas” as kids in formal shoes and starchy collars ran underfoot, playing tag in the crowd of about three hundred.
Older folks circulated around the room, greeting relatives from Reynosa who had come across the border for the occasion. Two of the injured chambelans sat by themselves, their crutches propped up against the wall. Bertha had saved money where she could by having a buffet of finger food rather than a sit-down dinner and asking guests to bring their own alcohol. Still, all told—when she added up the cost of the photographer, the videographer, the choreographer, the venue, the clothes, the bouquets and boutonnieres, the Party Bus, the chilled shrimp, and all the other odds and ends that a year and a half’s worth of planning entails—she had spent around $20,000. “I told Elizabeth, ‘That’s it, girlfriend—I’m broke!’” she said.
“May I please have your attention,” announced Nadia, who was serving as emcee. “We are about to start the presentation!” The lights dimmed and a video collage of Elizabeth, from birth to present day, played above the dance floor. Nadia introduced the court, and the damas and chambelans filed in, each holding a flute of pink champagne. “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we have all been waiting for!” Nadia said. “Will everyone please rise and join me in a big round of applause for our beautiful and lovely quinceañera!” The crowd roared as Elizabeth, radiant under the lights, was led to the center of the dance floor by her mother and grandmother, clutching a pink teddy bear (traditionally, the ultima muñeca is a porcelain doll, but Elizabeth had struck a more American note). “At this time, we will watch our quinceañera go through a transformation that occurs to all little girls who reach this age of fifteen,” Nadia said as dreamy music played in the background. Elizabeth gave the teddy bear to Bertha and was given a bouquet of roses in return. Bertha then knelt down and reached under her daughter’s petticoats to swap her flats for a pair of silver rhinestone heels. Elizabeth wept when she was done. “The time has come to embrace the metamorphosis of a little girl who once dreamt of being a princess and has reached her journey of transformation,” Nadia said, as flutes of pink champagne were handed out to all the guests. “We wish you the best of luck, and may God bless you!” There were screams from the crowd, and several girls yelled, “We love you!”
Before the dancing could begin, there was one more thing. “Okay, Elizabeth,” Nadia said into the microphone. “I know you’ve been waiting anxiously for this moment . . . so if we could please have the regalo de sorpresa!” The “surprise present” is a staple of the quinceañera, and I had heard stories of girls receiving cars, horses, puppies, Rolexes. A small box was brought out to Elizabeth, and she anxiously tore into it, digging through pink tissue paper until, at last, she extracted a pair of hot pink Nikes decorated with pink swooshes. She held them up for the crowd to see, unable to hide her disappointment. “Oh, wait—” Nadia said, with mock surprise. “There’s another present!” A much larger pink box with pink balloons attached to it was brought onto the dance floor. When Elizabeth had torn off enough wrapping paper that she could see what was underneath, she covered her mouth, her hands trembling. It was a brand-new Apple MacBook with a color printer—a gift, Bertha later told me, that she had justified because Elizabeth could use it for school. The crowd gasped. “That’s a really good present,” exclaimed one of the boys standing next to me.
In order to head off any family conflict, Elizabeth did no fewer than three father-daughter waltzes: first with the most beloved of her padrinos, who was her godfather; then with her biological father; and then with her stepfather. When she took her father’s hand and began to dance to Tim McGraw’s “My Little Girl,” she lay her head on his chest and started to cry. But when the time came for her to perform with her court, her game face was on. The group waltz with her chambelans went off without a hitch, and I watched, mesmerized, as the boys who had been so sophomoric earlier that day on the Party Bus were reborn as debonair dance partners. Elizabeth was giddy with excitement, enjoying her moment in the spotlight.
When the song was over, she curtsied as each chambelan kneeled and proffered her a pink rose. For the more elaborate number, Elizabeth changed into a hot pink, midriff-baring flapper dress and ended up stealing the show. She hardly seemed fifteen; she executed each move perfectly, dancing with such self-assuredness that you couldn’t help but watch her. At the song’s conclusion, balloons burst overhead, raining down confetti as the crowd screamed and broke into wild applause. Then the deejay took over, blasting a huapango. What looked like the entire party, young and old, took to the dance floor. Elizabeth changed into yet another dress, a fuchsia baby-doll-style cocktail dress with silver straps, and joined her friends, laughing as they shimmied to “Super Freak.”
At midnight, Bertha invited everyone over for an after-party that she called a tornaquince—a reference to the late-night gathering that often follows a wedding, a tornaboda. There were menudo and tamales, and people lingered until five o’clock in the morning, talking and laughing until they wiped tears from their eyes. By dawn, the house was quiet. Several of Elizabeth’s damas had fallen asleep on her bedroom floor, which was littered with torn wrapping paper. Elizabeth padded around the house in her pink sweats and tiara, unable to settle down. “The tiara has to come off!” Bertha told her, amused. “Princess day is over. Back to reality!” Yawning, Elizabeth begrudgingly handed it over. Then she hugged her mother goodnight and crawled into bed.
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