Sensing hesitation in the crowd about being the first to grab someone and start critiquing their looks, Father E storms around with a mic and gives a few demonstrations. “Déjate de ir a Forever 21,”
he says, critiquing a ponka
in the crowd who is wearing a fast-fashion shirt that you could probably find at any mall on the island. Someone points to a sign that states “cunt—la esencia del ballroom boricua,” reminding them of the fierce confidence they are supposed to bring to this category.
As a linguistic anthropologist, I research how people put verbal art forms into practice. As part of my fieldwork, in October 2023, I co-curated and hosted the Kiki Ball del Palabreo with the Puerto Rican Ballroom collective Laborivogue. The event in Miramar, San Juan, celebrated the history of the Puerto Rican diaspora in shaping Ballroom culture, with a focus on how Ballroom artists play creatively with language. My main collaborator, Father E, served as a commentator for the night, managing the crowd’s energy and pulse, and ensuring everyone stayed engaged and knew which category was coming next.
In many ways, the Kiki Ball del Palabreo felt like an homage to the early days of Ballroom. I was inspired by early archival clips on YouTube of Puerto Rican transcestors like Alyssa LaPerla, a fierce femme queen prominent at the height of the New York City scene in the 1990s and 2000s. Her legendary set of reads and tit for tat with fellow performer Onjanae Milan made waves in Ballroom history as an example of the ruthless wit of femme queens. I wanted to draw attention to the intimate connections linking San Juan with New York in the performance and celebration of this particular art form.
But the Kiki Ball del Palabreo also revealed some of the tensions between these Ballroom scenes. Participants called attention to the United States government’s colonial relationship with Puerto Rico, using the language and art of Ballroom to question and shift these power dynamics—in both subtle and direct ways.
“NO QUIERO ESCUCHAR INGLÉS”
At the ball, I sit next to the judges on a slightly raised stage. From there, we can see the performers, the DJ, the commentator, and how the crowd is reacting and vibing. The panel represents different Ballroom houses, 007s
, and members of Puerto Rico’s queer performance scene—poets, DJs, and commentators. One of the judges is the mother of House of G, a femme and nonbinary Afrodescendiente-centered house.
Inspired by Father E’s prompting, I watch as folks start to creep toward the center of the room to try delivering a read. TRE (a pseudonym), a Black boricua nonbinary femme and member of the House of G, walks up to the mic. They’re wearing black tights, a ruffled skirt, a mini sleeveless crop top, long silver pantallas
, and a fiery-print hair wrap. TRE picks someone out of the crowd who is wearing a white button-down top and long athletic socks paired with black heels.
TRE draws them to the mic in front of a bunch of curious onlookers and says in Spanish, “Cual es el look, profesore o atleta con esas medias de Nike?”
White Top, as I’m calling them, responds in English with, “This is fashion. What are you wearing?”
To this, TRE puts one hand on their hip and lifts the other hand softened at the wrist with sass. “Se llama estética que tu no tienes,”
they say. Then, switching to English, TRE adds, “THIS is fashion!”
