A Legacy of Strength: The Women Who Came Before Me
- CVE
- Mar 10
- 9 min read
Updated: Mar 22
A Legacy of Strength: The Women Who Came Before Me
by Chantell Van Erbé.
Women shape history not just through grand acts, but through quiet resilience, unwavering vision, and the strength to endure. As we honor Women’s History Month, I reflect on the remarkable women who came before me—those whose sacrifices and determination paved the way for my own path as an artist. Among them, my maternal family stands at the forefront, their story woven into the very fabric of my work long before I even came into existence.
A Mother’s Dream, an Artist’s Destiny
My mother, Edny, knew I was destined to be an artist before I was even born. While pregnant with me, she wandered the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, dreaming about my future. She found herself drawn to the tender, intimate portraits of Mary Cassatt, the evocative realism of Jules Bastien-Lepage, and the haunting elegance of Madame X by John Singer Sargent—a painting in which she envisioned me. It was as if, even then, she saw my artistic destiny unfolding before it had even begun.
Following Hispanic tradition, my mother placed my umbilical cord inside an art book, a symbolic gesture meant to influence a child’s future profession. To her, there was no doubt—I was meant to be an artist. She had seen it in her heart long before I ever picked up a crayon, and in doing this, she cemented what she believed was my fate.
But my mother’s story, like so many women’s stories, is one of sacrifice and perseverance.
A Childhood Between Two Worlds
Born in Puerto Rico, my mother spent much of her childhood at La Casona, the home of her aunt, Senda. More than just a residence, La Casona was a working farm where they grew sugarcane, coffee, made rope, and even built coffins. It was also a safe haven where Titi Senda raised many of the children in the family, offering them care, guidance, and stability.
Decades earlier, during the 1920s and 1930s, Puerto Rico had been devastated by a tuberculosis outbreak, which took the lives of many and left lasting scars on families. Though the worst had passed by the time my mother was born, La Casona still bore the weight of those losses. Senda had nursed many people through tuberculosis, watching some recover while also enduring the heartbreak of losing loved ones to the disease—including my great-grandmother, Amalia, who died during childbirth. Her passing left Senda to raise the newborn, Anna, along with her two older children—Amalia, just six years old, and Rique (my grandfather), only four. These struggles only strengthened the bond between the women of the family, as they relied on one another for survival.
Regardless of these hardships, La Casona was a place of female empowerment. The women there sewed, sang, crocheted, and played instruments together, uplifting one another through creativity and tradition. Their bond was one of tenacity and unity.
For my mother, La Casona was also a refuge from home. My grandmother, Carolina (‘Caro’), was trapped in a difficult marriage marked by my grandfather’s infidelity. Despite having a wife and family, he maintained a long-term relationship with another woman, fathering multiple children while refusing to divorce Carolina. He came and went as he pleased, leaving her in a cycle of financial instability and emotional distress. As his other family grew, Carolina’s situation became increasingly desperate. Left without reliable financial support, she did everything she could to make ends meet—making limbers, a Puerto Rican icy treat, to sell to schoolchildren, working in a school cafeteria, taking in sewing work, washing laundry by hand, and accepting whatever odd jobs she could find. Despite her relentless efforts, it was never enough to provide the stability they needed.
Over time, La Casona began to fade. Those who didn’t succumb to tuberculosis, passed away from old age. The younger women, once integral to its daily operations, eventually grew up and moved on—some marrying, others seeking new lives beyond the family home—leaving behind a place that had once thrived with industry, music, and tradition. When Senda left Puerto Rico for the U.S., my mother was deeply hurt. She felt abandoned, as if her true mother had left her behind. For years, she remained in Puerto Rico feeling isolated, longing for the person who had always been her source of comfort and strength.
A Late Marriage and a Sudden Goodbye
Senda had spent much of her life caring for the family, always putting others before herself. She waited a long time to marry, not because she lacked suitors, but because her responsibilities kept her from focusing on her own future. Finally, on May 4, 1950, in her 40s, she married a man named Mayórico. But fate was cruel—her marriage would be tragically short-lived.
On a stormy island day, Mayórico walked into a grocery store, unknowingly stepping into the middle of a heated argument between a man and his son. A gun went off in the chaos, and he was caught in the crossfire. Just like that, Senda was widowed before she even had the chance to build a life with her husband. The loss was devastating—after years of self-sacrifice, the happiness she had waited for was taken from her in an instant.
A Hardship, Faith, and Poetry
My grandmother Carolina was the youngest of many children, born into a family where her parents were already older by the time she arrived. With limited resources and too many mouths to feed, she was sent to board at a monastery for poor children, where the nuns provided shelter and basic instruction.
Life there was strict, and her education was minimal. Beyond the fundamentals, she had to rely on herself to learn what she could. Yet, one thing she carried from her family was a deep love for poetry—a passion that ran through her bloodline like a melody. The rhythm of words, the way they flowed and danced in verse, was something she felt instinctively. Her father, in particular, cherished poetry, and his appreciation for language coursed through her as naturally as breath.
A Painful Departure & Struggles in America
In December of 1959, Caro made the heartbreaking decision to immigrate to the United States. She was 42 years old when she left.
She was forced to abandon the home she had lived in, which my grandfather eventually took possession of without offering her any compensation. She also had to entrust their beloved family dog, Bulcan, to Pasqual, the owner of the candy store across the street—and leave behind the large, convex family portraits that had once lined the walls of her home.
With only what they could carry, she and her children boarded a plane and stepped into an uncertain future.
Having mourned the loss of her husband, Senda had already moved to the United States years before them. Though she had little to spare, she diligently sent money back to the island to help support my grandmother and her children. It was she who eventually convinced my grandmother to come to the U.S. in search of a better financial future.
She worked tirelessly, sewing in a shop that provided clothing for the poor, all while caring for her niece Lali’s children—one of whom was deaf.
When my grandmother, mother, and uncle arrived, Senda was waiting at the airport with warm coats in hand, ready to welcome them into their new life. After years apart, my mother was overjoyed to see her again, their long-awaited reunion filling the cold airport with warmth.
But settling in Union City, New Jersey, was a stark adjustment. They moved into an apartment building where the heat was unreliable, the plumbing outdated, and the winters unbearably cold—a far cry from the hot weather and colorful familiarity of Puerto Rico.
Almost immediately, Caro filed for divorce from her husband, determined to sever ties and start anew. To help ease the burden of rent, she took in a roommate named Anita, who quickly became like family, forming a lasting bond with all of them.
To support her family, Caro worked in an embroidery factory, enduring long hours. Learning English was another challenge—at 42 years old, she struggled with the language, while my mother, at 14 years old, picked it up quickly, and my uncle, at 12, found it much more difficult.
A Legacy of Art, Strength, and Creativity
My mother came from a lineage of incredibly skilled women. She learned to sew at nine years old, and by the time she was older, her creativity with fabric and design was undeniable. She didn’t just make clothing—she brought ideas to life. Her aunts were phenomenally gifted at both sewing and art. Her Titi Amalia could create anything from sight without ever using a pattern, while her Titi Anna was a natural artist. This extraordinary talent ran deep in their bloodline, shaping the artistic spirit that my mother carried with her throughout her life.
She also had a profound interest in watercolor painting and sketching. Whenever she had the chance, she would paint delicate washes of color or fill pages with her drawings.
Marrying young, as many did in her time, my mother built a life with my father, Gary, and gave birth to my big sister, Kim, and me. She used her sewing skills to create intricate props for his paintings, designing costumes, fabrics, and elaborate details that gave depth to his work. She also instilled in us a deep appreciation for culture and beauty, handmaking all of our clothes when we were young. She was also proficient in American Sign Language, a skill she carried with her throughout her life.
After 15 years of marriage, my mother and father divorced. But long before that, she was the one who encouraged my father to pursue art, supporting him wholeheartedly. She accompanied him to as many art shows as possible and was his greatest advocate, always pushing him to follow his passion. After their separation, she was determined to build a new way for herself. She became a middle school art teacher, sharing her love for creativity with young students, and also worked as a fit model for Playtex bras, embracing new opportunities and truly blooming into her own. Later, she remarried and found happiness in her second marriage, sharing many wonderful years with her husband, Dan. But above all, she found joy in her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchild, surrounding us with love, wisdom, and warmth. She was the heart of our family, always nurturing and deeply devoted to those she cherished.
When Titi Senda passed away in 1983, my mother was devastated, and so was I. She too was like a grandmother to me, nurturing my love for art from a very young age. She had a deeply spiritual nature and an unconventional way of seeing the world, encouraging me to draw cemeteries, the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and visions of heaven. Her influence on us was profound, shaping not just part of my artistic journey but also my understanding of the mystical and unseen. I will never forget it.
A Mother’s Dream Fulfilled
To her very last day on earth, my mother was my biggest champion. She always believed in my art, with a conviction so deep that I don’t think I will ever find another person who supported me in the same way.
Before she passed, she was able to witness one of my greatest milestones—my one-woman art show. Though she was too ill to attend, she cried when she saw it come to life, saying, “This is exactly what I always imagined for you.”
My sister, Kim, was also there to celebrate with me, even while battling cancer. We were incredibly close, and our bond was unbreakable. She told me she wouldn’t miss it for the world and was proud to stand by my side, sharing in that moment. Before she passed, she promised she would always be with me, and I believe her.
Kim passed away in 2020, and just three months later, my mother followed.
I am proud to harbor these memories and to share them, knowing that I am now the keeper of our family’s history. I carry with me the songs, poems, and recipes passed down by my mother, grandmother, and aunts—treasures of our lineage that connect me to them in every way. Their voices, their wisdom, and their love live on through me.
Who are the women who shaped your journey?
What lessons have they passed down to you?
How do you carry their legacy forward?
Let’s honor them this month. Women’s voices in art matter. Women’s stories matter. And the lessons we inherit from the women before us continue to inspire future generations.
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