Reclaiming “Chingona”: Healing Intergenerational Trauma with Alma Zaragoza‑Petty ~ 1021

Tim Villegas
From MCIE. Reclaiming her power and healing her community one chingona move at a time. My name is Tim Villegas from the Maryland Coalition for Inclusive Education, and you are listening to Think Inclusive, a show where with every conversation we try to build bridges between families, educators, and disability rights advocates to create a shared understanding of inclusive education and what inclusion looks like in the real world. You can learn more about who we are and what we do at MCIE.org.

For many years, “chingona” was a derogatory term used to describe Latina women who were seen as too aggressive, difficult, or out of control. It was meant to keep young Latinas in their place, while the male version, chingón, was used as a compliment.

On this episode of Think Inclusive, I speak with Mexican American activist, scholar, and podcast host Alma Zaragoza-Petty, who is helping women everywhere claim their inner chingona—or “badass.” In her new book Chingona: Owning Your Inner Badass for Healing and Justice, Zaragoza-Petty shares about the chingona spirit she began to claim within herself and leads us toward the courage required to speak up and speak out against oppressive systems.

Here’s what I cover with Alma Zaragoza-Petty in this episode:

• How the term “chingona” has been reclaimed to honor the Latina experience
• Uncovering the root causes of intergenerational trauma and pursuing healing
• The power of mentors and educators in inspiring underperforming students to pursue college

Before we get into today’s interview, I want to tell you about our sponsor, Together Letters. Are you losing touch with people in your life but you don’t want to be on social media all the time? Together Letters is a tool that can help. It’s a group email newsletter that asks its members for updates and combines them into a single newsletter for everyone. All you need is email. We are using Together Letters so Think Inclusive patrons can keep in touch with each other. Groups of 10 or less are free, and you can sign up at togetherletters.com.

Thank you so much for listening.

Tim Villegas
And now, it is my pleasure to introduce Alma Zaragoza-Petty. Let’s talk about Chingona.

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
Yeah.

Tim Villegas
Who is your target audience with the book?

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
As I was envisioning and when I started writing this book, I really wanted to talk to younger me. I think a lot of book writers sometimes do that because of pivotal moments they’ve had and learned from. One of the things that really motivated me was that I have always been a big consumer of personal development, self-care, self-help. I come from a family with a lot of trauma and intergenerational issues. I didn’t really have a spiritual mentor or someone who could mentor me in that. Because of that, I ended up going into psychology as an undergrad because I wanted to learn more about the human brain and behavior and why we do the stuff we do.

As I read a lot of these books and theories, I didn’t find much that resonated for me. I always felt I was reading a white woman’s perspective, or a white man’s perspective, or a brown man’s perspective. Those are needed and great, and they’ve helped me grow, but I also wanted something that resonated with a Latina experience—someone who self-identifies as that. For the most part, that’s who my target audience is. But I would say that if you know women or brown women around you, this is a great book to read or give to them because it’s really centering my experience as a brown woman going through a lot of personal healing.

Tim Villegas
So let’s unpack that title. What is the story behind the term chingona?

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
It’s evolved. When it was first used, it was for mestizo children—basically the equivalent of “bastard.” It referred to fatherless children the Spaniards didn’t want to claim because they were born out of rape of indigenous women in the Americas. That’s where the term chingona or chingón comes from.

Over the years, it’s come to mean, especially for men, that you’re just a badass dude—someone amazing, someone to look up to. Growing up, I heard my cousins being called chingón in a positive way. But when I was being unruly or loud or just wanting to have my own say, the same term—chingona—was used to quiet me, to say, “You’re being a lot right now. Sit back down.”

So growing up, I was called chingona because I had my own opinions and was vocal about them. Over the years, I learned to quiet that down because I started to feel it wasn’t a good quality to have. Sadly, this is one of those words where maybe it’s not the specific term you heard growing up, but a lot of brown women relate to this story—the way we are silenced or asked to tone ourselves down because of preconceived ideas of what womanhood should look like.

Over time, there’s been a reclaiming of the term, similar to feminist movements reclaiming certain words. We started calling ourselves chingona as a way to say, “You’re badass for trying to attain your goals—even if you’re fumbling through them, you’re going for it.” That’s amazing. That’s the chingona move: not letting things stop you and continuing to better yourself—educationally, professionally, spiritually, psychologically. It’s about being a badass as a woman and reclaiming the word to honor that.

Across the Latino community, it’s being reclaimed in a positive light, but there are socioeconomic differences. Higher-income people might see it as vulgar and avoid it, while others grew up hearing it often. So reactions vary, but for me, it’s about reclaiming it as empowerment.

Tim Villegas
I guess I’m not in that sphere.

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
Yeah. First of all, it just means badass. It means you’re amazing, you’re doing it.

Tim Villegas
In the book, it seems like you relate reclaiming the word to healing. Is that right?

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
Yes. I reclaim it as a way to honor a bumpy ride to healing. It’s a term I wanted us—brown women, Latina women—to own and understand the historical roots of. For a long time, it was about the mestiza who was conquered and oppressed. But it can also be seen as survival—indígenas and Afrodescendientes survival. That’s why it’s important to reclaim it and use it as a way to think about intergenerational healing.

Tim Villegas
Can you give an example—either from the book or your life—of what healing from intergenerational trauma looks like?

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
For me, it started when my body began to give up. I had panic attacks, sleepless nights, and sleep paralysis—where you feel like you’re hovering over yourself but can’t snap out of it. This is often linked to PTSD, and research shows trauma affects people similarly, whether it’s veterans or those with childhood trauma.

My healing began by acknowledging where I’d been and my past—what I call “soul loss.” Some of that susto (cultural fright) comes from oppression and colonialism and what it did to our ancestors’ bodies, which is imprinted in our DNA. Acknowledging historical and social trauma is a first step to healing because it helps us understand why we sometimes feel inferior or less than.

Then, I talk about letting visions, memories, and dreams lead the way. In Western society, we don’t see that as knowledge, but it is. It teaches us about our bodies and how we process things. Chapter three explores what happens when we stop suppressing pain and instead ask what it’s there to teach us.

Another step is retelling your story. For example, I grew up in Huntington Park, which was labeled one of the most miserable cities in California. The article didn’t address why—redlining, racist practices, systemic inequities. Revisiting that history is part of healing because ignoring roots makes it hard to move forward.

I also talk about leadership. Many of us are natural leaders, but we don’t see it because of lack of representation. Sometimes it looks like rebellion—joining gangs, for example. I had a brief stint in a gang, and I explain why: lack of supervision, parents working multiple jobs, being out in the streets. That’s reality for many of us. It doesn’t mean there’s no hope. There’s redemption in those stories. Healing means normalizing that and saying, “We deserve fulfilling lives as adults,” even if we didn’t grow up in privilege.

Tim Villegas
Our audience is mostly educators across the country—California, Georgia, New York, the Midwest. They care about equity and creating inclusive schools. Do you have advice for people who want to push against oppressive systems?

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
That’s a great question. I’m also an educator. My background isn’t in teaching but in advising and counseling first-generation, low-income scholars—many with mental health challenges or undiagnosed learning differences due to lack of access to health services growing up. I also teach at USC, where I talk about equity with working professionals.

My perspective is shaped by my lived experience and research. Most studies focus on high-achieving students—those who “made it” out of difficult circumstances. But in my doctoral work, I studied Latina girls who were low-achieving in high school and what influenced whether they enrolled in college. The difference wasn’t grades—it was whether they believed they could retry after failure. That mindset usually came from someone telling them they could.

Mentorship matters. Students who had teachers, counselors, or any adult who showed genuine care were more likely to pursue college. It’s not about a formal program—it can be one conversation at the right time. Sadly, our education system isn’t set up for teachers to give that individual attention, and that leads to burnout. But those personal relationships beyond content make the biggest difference.

Many kids don’t get that support at home—not because parents don’t care, but because they’re busy surviving. So if you can be that mentor, even briefly, it matters. I’ll keep saying this: mentorship is powerful. Especially in the teenage years, hearing “You’re awesome” from someone other than a parent can change a life.

Tim Villegas
I think there’s a lot of misunderstanding about what kids’ lives are like at home. Sometimes we live in completely different worlds. Even the stories you share in your book—some people will read them and say, “I can’t relate to that,” while others will say, “Absolutely, that was my life.” It’s important to read, listen to, and experience other people’s perspectives. Otherwise, you assume everyone’s like you.

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
I’ve had a couple of mostly white men and women reach out and say how impactful the book has been for learning a different experience and learning from someone else. They also felt seen because I talk a lot about the human condition—issues we all grapple with. That’s universal, and that’s what I wanted. Similar to books I read from white women I couldn’t personally relate to, I could still gain a lot of wisdom from their experiences and what they went through.

Tim Villegas
Something you said earlier about healing—“you can’t move on or try to heal unless you deal with how you got there.” That’s scary. Maybe it’s an American viewpoint, but people don’t want to bring up old stuff because they feel like they’ll be reliving trauma, as opposed to, “I’ll just fix myself now and move on.” If I say, “I don’t want to relive all the stuff with my parents”—my dad was born in Juárez, emigrated, carried a lot of trauma; my mom was born in Los Angeles; they married in high school; it was an unhealthy relationship; they divorced when I was an adult; I have a lot of stuff. I’m not sure I want to bring it all up. Can’t I just fix myself and move on? What would you say to me?

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
Well, your friend—just kidding. First, you’re not alone in feeling that way. No one goes into self-healing and therapy saying, “Yay, I can’t wait,” because we know we’re going to talk about uncomfortable things.

I often tell students who are ready to deal with their stuff that it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. If you’ve never brought up your scars and have just tried to get by, revisiting painful memories to heal from them will be hard. For example, if no one ever apologized, you may need to learn to forgive without an apology. It’s hard but possible. We don’t need others to ask for forgiveness in order to forgive. That’s separate from the pain that was inflicted. Our goal is to heal.

You might not feel ready, and that’s okay. Many of us confuse forgiveness with saying what happened wasn’t impactful. That’s not true. It could have been awful, and you can still forgive. When I forgave my mother for things I wish she’d shown up for, I saw her more fully—how sacrificial and selfless she was. She came to another country at twenty. Would I have done that? Maybe not. That reframed so much for me.

It will get worse before it gets better. But the “better” will be so much better. It opens parts of your heart you didn’t know you could understand and lets you feel joy more fully. You won’t get stuck in grief. At first, it can be dark because you grieve things you didn’t realize needed grieving—the loss of innocence, childhood, your twenties, your health if you’re not able-bodied. If you never grieved one thing, starting to grieve can reveal others, which is why it gets heavy. But there is light at the end of the tunnel—greater joy, awareness, growth, and the capacity to show up authentically. That’s worth it. I don’t know if I sold it to you, but those are the rewards of the hard work and courage of showing up for your grief.

Tim Villegas
I do want that. And I know our listeners want that. Thank you for the pep talk.

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
Something else that helps me in those moments—if anyone decides, “I’m going to do it because that lady who wrote the book talked about it”—is reading stories of Holocaust survivors and people who survived horrific things, like Desmond Tutu. That’s where I learned a lot about forgiveness. He talked about forgiving people who treated him like he wasn’t a person. As a Black man in South Africa, he was jailed for many years just for standing up for what was right and lost decades of his life. He forgave everyone and shared his process. Reading stories like that helps me keep perspective when it’s hard. Even if you want to read my book to put things in perspective, I talk about painful stuff—that can help, too.

Tim Villegas
Well, everyone should go out and get Chingona and read your book.

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
Thank you.

Tim Villegas
What’s one thing you’d want to leave our audience thinking about?

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
If you’re motivated by justice and a better world, start working on yourself. We externalize our insides onto the world. The world is as messed up as we are on the inside. Until we start working on ourselves, we won’t see the world I’m talking about—loving one another, community, embracing difference. If we can’t embrace the soft parts of ourselves, how can we embrace others? That’s the main takeaway of my book and what I hope you take today: the world is as healed as we are. If you want change, start with yourself.

Tim Villegas
That’s powerful. Thank you, Dr. Alma Zaragoza-Petty. I really appreciate your time.

Alma Zaragoza-Petty
Thank you so much for having me. Really excited to be here.

Tim Villegas
Think Inclusive is written, edited, and sound designed by Tim Villegas, and is a production of MCIE. Original music by Miles Kredich.

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