Guava, Guns, and the Burning of the Binary

I bought this guava-scented body and hair perfume because I love guava. Simple as that.

But the moment I put it on, I felt a quick prick of shame—like a pinprick to my ego. It smelled… pretty. Sweet. Fruity. “Too girly,” that old voice inside me muttered. I felt a flicker of embarrassment, like I had stepped into a space I wasn’t supposed to enter.

Then I paused. I sat with the scent. I let it linger on my skin.

And I began to remember.

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When I was a child, my father gave me my first guava. He was still a truck driver then, unloading boxes packed with fruit, tools, memories. He pulled one out—a small green fruit, shaped like a pear. “It’s from Mexico,” he said, “from where I’m from.”

He sliced it open and inside was the most stunning pink I had ever seen. It was like something sacred had been hiding in plain sight. My eyes lit up. He smiled. “In some parts of Mexico,” he said, “they celebrate the guava harvest. They even elect a Reina de las Guayabas—a Queen of the Guavas.”

But before I could take a bite, he stopped me. “You have to eat it the right way,” he said.

He bit into it first, then with his mouth full, explained how to suck out the sweetness, hold back the seeds with your tongue, then spit them out. “Así se hace. Así se come la guayaba.” That’s how it’s done.

He handed me the same piece he bit, and I followed his lead. The flavor hit me like a revelation—wild sugar, soft earth, sun-ripened mystery. I couldn’t compare it to anything I’d ever tasted. Maybe watermelon. Or cactus fruit—the kind my mom used to give me when I sat near the nopal tree outside.

It tasted like heaven.
Like home.
Like the home I forgot I left, and the one I finally returned to.

He left the rest of the guavas on the counter for me, and placed the box on the table so guests and family could help themselves. In our home, food was shared. Always. No questions asked.

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That memory brought me back. To the present. To the scent on my skin. And to the shame I felt about something as beautiful and innocent as guava.

Where did that shame come from?

I traced it inside myself, deep into the inner chambers where fear and confusion live. And I heard the old voice again:

“How can a big, chubby, muscular man like you wear a sweet, floral, feminine smell?”

I breathed.

And I remembered—these are not my beliefs. These are stories I was handed. Conditioned responses built from someone else’s discomfort. Gendering smells? Spirit doesn’t do that. Spirit doesn’t separate jasmine from cedar, guava from musk. Those labels are human inventions, built to make people feel safe inside boxes.

But most of us don’t actually agree with those boxes—we just inherit them. We live inside someone else’s dream instead of dreaming our own.

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Then I thought of the people in my life who defied those roles.

I thought of the strong women around me—bold, unapologetic, sovereign. Women who refused to be told what to wear, how to speak, or where to stand.

And I thought of my grandmother.

She used to tell me stories of herself, wild tales I assumed were exaggerations—until my family in Peru confirmed them all.

She was the first woman in her town to wear pants. Yes—the first. Back then in Lima, it was scandalous. Women were expected—often forced—to wear dresses. Pants were for men. Period.

There’s a newspaper photo of her walking through the streets with a slab of meat over her shoulder. La Pantalona, they called her. “The woman in pants.” It wasn’t meant kindly.

Later, when she couldn’t find work—because nobody wanted to hire a woman butcher—she opened her own shop. That alone was a disruption. In Lima, butchers were men. Always. She started delivering meat to rural areas herself, walking for miles with heavy loads.

But soon, she couldn’t keep up with the orders.

So she did something unthinkable again: she bought a motorcycle. Got a license. Learned to ride.

“Women don’t drive motorcycles,” people hissed.
“It’s not proper. Not safe. Not natural.”

The men in the market were furious. Some called her names. Others refused to speak to her. Even within our family, the whispers started. Some relatives tried to distance themselves. She was too much. Too loud. Too masculine. She was disrupting the image they worked hard to protect.

But she didn’t stop. If anything, she went further.

After receiving threats, she bought a revolver. And not just to keep at home.
She open-carried it.

She became known as La Pistola.

People said she was insane. A woman with a gun? Delivering meat on a motorcycle? Wearing pants?

But she knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t just protecting herself. She was telling the world:

You cannot define me. I am not yours to limit.

And in doing so, she gave permission to anyone who didn’t fit in. She cracked the mold, shattered expectations, and walked proudly through the rubble.

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So now, when I wear guava on my skin, I ask myself:

Who rebuilt these walls my grandmother broke down?
Who in my lineage became afraid again?
Who taught me to feel shame for softness?
Who taught me to fear the scent of joy?

Today, I refuse those lessons.
I burn them.
I burn the binary.
I burn the rules passed down out of fear.
I burn the story that told me I had to choose between strength and sweetness.

I am of my grandmother.
I am of guava.
I am of my father’s teachings and my mother’s fruit.
I am of Spirit.
And Spirit wears whatever scent it pleases.

I choose a path that doesn’t confine me. A path cleared by my ancestors’ machetes, revolvers, motorcycles, and wild courage.

I choose the path of joy.
Of memory.
Of authenticity.

And yes—
I choose to smell like guava. Because guava smells like home.