GIRLHOOD: SÃO PAULO

A WINDOW INTO THE LIVES OF FEMALE YOUTH IN SÃO PAULO.

By Igi Lọ́lá Ayedun

2025. Planet Earth. Latin America. Brazil. São Paulo. Despite the clichés that shape global perceptions of the region, real life in the tropics is many-sided. The Global South is often flattened, depicted through a lens of subjugation. It’s essential to understand how this stigmatization impacts the development of bodies, identities, and consciousness. But more than that, it’s crucial to see it in practice—its day-to-day rhythms, its communities in flux.

After all, what does it mean to live in the tropics? Beyond geography and political boundaries, what is the shared experience of growing up in a country like Brazil? What nuances shape the horizons of, for instance, its female youth?

There is no single answer. Without romanticizing it, Brazil is a nation forged at the convergence of multiple ancestries—a hybrid powerhouse where something new emerges every day. It’s the product of countless influences, creating social dynamics with no historical precedent.

We know that miscegenation and ethnic fusion are not exclusive to Brazil—the Roman Empire had already experienced these phenomena over a thousand years ago. However, when we combine contemporary circumstances with the historical fabric of Brazilian identity, we find innovation that projects us more toward an idea of a future-diverse society than a mere reflection of its conservative past.

Thus, it is impossible to look at Brazil without looking forward. And it is precisely in female youth that all the aspirations for tomorrow reside.

With 21 million inhabitants spread across neighborhoods, traditions, and lifestyles, São Paulo is a mosaic of small communities spanning a borderless metropolis. Its endless buildings rise over plateaus, bridges, and asphalt, burying rivers beneath them to form a landscape that reflects its diversity.

Between Brazil’s extremes, we step inside the homes of young women who do not separate the construction of their identities from resistance against all forms of oppression—patriarchy, racism, misogyny, and transphobia.

A room bathed in pink from floor to ceiling. The Rio de Janeiro skyline appears only as a print on fabric. FKA twigs and Sailor Moon are pasted side by side on the wall: a feminine aesthetic that borders on the absurd, shaping the world of 16 year olds Liz, Ito, and Nayara. The cute atmosphere contrasts with what they love most: subculture.

“I am an artist, and I believe that art is directly connected to one’s worldview and expressiveness,” Ito says.

Between technical courses in graphic design and fashion, their admiration for Erika Hilton (the first trans state deputy in the city’s history and a contemporary symbol in the fight against inequality), and their love for Visual Kei or the Brazilian post-punk band Inês é Morta, they build a life that unfolds offline—meeting friends, attending gigs and creative scene events, going to school, and expressing their personal style as a form of resistance.

“I don’t like capitalism,” Ito continues. “The environment is being destroyed, and our society is moving too fast. This takes a huge toll on people’s mental health.”

“I think it’s essential to strengthen the underground in a world led by social media,” Liz adds. “There’s a movement trying to revive patterns that take us back to discrimination. I’ve been through a lot, and I have friends with different styles who have also been harassed for being different. But the underground scene has so many people—it’s strong, it’s resistant.”

When asked about how her generation perceives itself, Nayara says: “I don’t need to please everyone all the time, and I don’t like how people demonize the idea that we’re not always perfect.”

That same self-confidence drives Júlia, 16, and Analu, 13, cousins who share almost every moment of their lives in the far east of São Paulo. Despite their joint love for Brazilian funk, street parties, and teenage classics—from Twilight to Tasha & Tracie—they’ve taken very different paths. Júlia attends a military school, while Analu dreams of becoming a model.

Even with their differences, both see themselves in the future as independent women, fully in control of their own lives. And they share the same conviction: The best way to fight racism is by loving themselves.

“I think girls from previous generations, like my aunts and cousins, didn’t have much self-esteem,” Júlia says. “They didn’t have beauty references for their hair and skin. Today, we have more role models.”

“Now, we know what makes us feel beautiful,” Analu agrees. “We take care of ourselves, we have fun, without feeling pressured to drink, smoke, or do anything we don’t want to.”

They reaffirm a truth that resonates across their generation: Health and well-being are priorities, and rigid behavioral standards are becoming increasingly obsolete.

Self-esteem is also crucial for sisters Marina, 17, and Iris, 15, who attended an elite private school in São Paulo. They realized early on that they were the only Black students in most spaces they occupied. Not because they were seen as special, but because class structures in Brazil are still deeply segregated by race.

“We were always on scholarships at the schools we attended. I always felt different, so I tried to fit in,” Iris confesses. “I spent a long time minimizing myself—doing things to feel whiter. I wasn’t confident, I didn’t like being Black, I didn’t like standing out.”

This distorted reality delayed their racial awareness, which awakened last year. However, it was within their sisterhood that they found strength and inspiration.

“Last year, I had the option to change schools, so I transferred to a more diverse technical school,” says Marina. “I made Black friends, started to understand the importance of recognizing racism, and, through that, recognized myself. It helped me accept who I am.”

“Our personalities are completely different, but we go through the same things,” Iris adds. “Marina has always been an inspiration to me. When I saw my sister wearing her natural hair, looking at herself in the mirror and loving her hair, I wanted to feel the same. Today, I love being Black. My hair is beautiful, my skin is beautiful. I love myself.”

Recognizing one’s identity is also deeply tied to ancestry. For sisters Hanna, 16, and Zahra, 18, connection to their roots has always been central to how they relate socially. Arab, Muslim, and granddaughters of Lebanese immigrants who fled war, they grew up in the countryside of Minas Gerais, where their family were the only Muslims around.

Their trips between Brazil and Lebanon during the holidays were ripe for reflection: afternoons on the farm, evenings lounging on the doorstep, horseback riding, the scent of coffee and tobacco. But at school, their experiences were marked by prejudice and discrimination.

“The image most people have of Arabs is of barbaric, violent bodies. Nothing beyond that,” Hanna says.

“It was difficult. When I was younger, I withdrew a lot,” Zahra adds. “Sometimes, I would lie about my origins or say they were distant because I just wanted to fit in.”

Moving to São Paulo allowed them to see themselves in a more genuine way. With a larger Arab community and an increasingly visible international political landscape, their identities became more politicized.

“The current conflicts and everything our community is going through with the televised genocide have made us more vocal,” Zahra says. “People have a completely distorted understanding of what Islam means in the world.”

The complexities of race relations in Brazil also shape the way young Black women build their dreams. Despite her age, Júlia, 17, has been an entrepreneur for three years, transforming a family-taught skill into a business, providing hairdressing services for curly and coily hair.

“I’ve always loved the world of beauty and aesthetics. Hair care is deeply connected to my desire to build other people’s self-esteem,” she says.

Her friend Maria, 17, who is preparing to study communications in college, has learned to navigate the differences between her peripheral reality and the elite private school where she studies full-time.

“The biggest reality check for me was the ability to dream. The people who come from where I do have a limited perspective—not because they want to, but because only limited possibilities are shown to them,” Maria says. “There, I see people with huge dreams, opportunities that were never even presented to people like me. Information and access take us to unimaginable places.”

The daily vision of a more equal and successful future is not about escaping reality, but rather transforming what already exists.

“I don’t think success necessarily means leaving the suburbs,” Maria continues.

“In some way, I want to prove that, even while living in the suburbs, I can transform the world around me,” Júlia concludes.

The future, then, becomes a system of goals and perspectives that encompasses the idea of longevity. In Brazil, the country with the highest number of trans murders in the world, Angel, 14, Luiza, 16, and Jullie, 17, found a family in ballroom culture—a space of belonging and acceptance.

“I transitioned very early, at 10 years old in 2020,” Angel says. “I saw a video of a trans woman on YouTube, and I remember that when I watched it, I turned to my mom and said, ‘I’m trans!’ She felt lost. because the word travesti is still heavily stigmatized.”

Her first ball was a moment of emancipation, not only for her gender identity but also as an artist and dancer.

“Ballroom transitions minds. It helps us understand that our bodies are worthy of love, of family, and it teaches us to see the world differently,” reflects Angel, who introduced Jullie and Luiza to the scene, guiding their initiation into the community.

“Being a Black trans woman from the periphery isn’t easy. You go through a lot, but I receive a lot of support from the girls. Today, I can even envision a career as a dancer,” Luiza says.

“Ballroom made me feel more like a woman,” Jullie explains. “It allowed me to embrace my femininity even more. Before ballroom, I only danced with cisgender people, but in the ball scene, I found an entire LGBTQIA+ dance universe. I used to feel alone, but now I have a family.”

And so, we see young women who can envision their existence beyond the present—who want to become unstoppable, unafraid of any street corner.

“The biggest lesson I’ve learned so far is that people can hit me as much as they want—it won’t change who I am. I want to live, and I will live a long life,” Luiza concludes.

And so it shall be.