Ramón López
To be a vejigante is not the same as merely dressing up as one. Anyone can throw on the costume and revel in the freedom of hiding their personal identity amid the revelry of public celebrations. In that case, dressing as a vejigante is no different from dressing as Mickey Mouse or a vampire: the costume is a shell of borrowed identity, a mere concealment of the body for the sake of fun.
But being a vejigante is something far more complex. It means embodying the identity of a figure who is both historical—he’s been with us nearly five centuries—and imaginary—he vanishes the moment we remove the costume. This character is woven into the visual symbols of Puerto Rican culture. In this sense, dressing as a vejigante becomes the start of a supernatural summons: a cultural memory brought into the present for ceremonial purpose.
The true vejigante is a creature of the street, not the stage. His business is freedom of movement, not choreography.
In Puerto Rican tradition, vejigantes are carnival creatures—figures of transgression, mischief, and excess who animate annual festivities such as the Ponce Carnival and the Festival of Santiago Apóstol in Loíza Aldea. Their garb is a voluminous jumpsuit of dazzling colors, often adorned with wing-like flaps. The mask is distinctly Afro-Caribbean: monstrous features, hues native to West Africa, and raw materials drawn from the daily lives of working-class communities—coconut shells, gourds, papier-mâché.
In today’s Puerto Rico, there’s been a noticeable decline in the authentic public appearance of carnival vejigantes. Characters from film, TV, and Halloween have crept into their ranks, diluting their role of reconnecting the festival to its Afro-Boricua roots. Moreover, some entrepreneurs have transformed vejigantes into ornamental figures—mere props adding color and variety to the choreographies of commercialized folklore.
At the same time, the image of the vejigante has spread across the island as a proud symbol of Afro-Boricua heritage and a central motif of Puerto Rican national identity. It’s no surprise that this masked figure has also boarded the air bridge—that well-traveled route between Puerto Rico and the mainland—and now flashes its fierce grin among Puerto Ricans in the United States.
All this is a preamble to the text at hand, where you’ll find essential and unexpected instructions for assembling a troupe of vejigantes in Puerto Rican municipalities with temperate climates—places like New York, Philadelphia, New Jersey, and, of course, Chicago.
Make use of your calendar.
Vejigantes don’t come out often. Traditionally, their time is Carnival—once a year. On this side of the pond, the island’s municipal Carnival often morphs into the Puerto Rican Parade and/or Puerto Rican Week. These are the biggest, most visible public celebrations where vejigantes are welcomed—and needed. Remember: climbing onto a float to bake in the heat and sunshine is merely dressing as a vejigante. To be one, you’ve got to take to the streets, swing your inflated bladders, scare the kids, change your voice, chant songs, and keep your mask on—no one should know who’s inside the costume.
Find a seamstress early.
Here in Chicago, we left it a bit late: Celia—the one who sews plastic furniture covers—said no; Lily—the one who makes children’s clothes with Puerto Rican flag designs—was too busy; and Lourdes—the one who sewed the Three Kings’ costumes—had other commitments. In the end, a Mexican seamstress, skilled at making clown suits from a Simplicity pattern, crafted the jumpsuits with such cleverness and care that they turned out superb and authentic. Naturally, our kind artisan is a devout Pentecostal, so we took care not to show her the masks, which in her faith are considered manifestations of devil worship.
Don’t confuse tradition with purity.
Folk traditions are patchworks of diverse cultural influences and are constantly evolving. What sets them apart from foreign cultural impositions is that they stem from grassroots efforts to preserve shared customs—incorporating innovations as resources allow. So don’t be embarrassed to buy fabric at Minnesota Fabrics; many of Puerto Rico’s vejigantes have worn textiles imported from abroad. Likewise, don’t be discouraged if you can’t find an ethnographic, cleaned, and dried pig’s bladder to inflate and use as your whacking tool. There are Creole alternatives: stuffed stockings and paper bags. Plus, half-gallon plastic bottles of your favorite soda are excellent for smacking without injuring. Vejigantes wear gloves—just use last winter’s pair.
Don’t use wall-hanging masks.
Even if you manage to get coconut masks from Loíza or papier-mâché ones from Ponce, most will have misaligned eye holes and the wrong proportions because they’re made for decoration, not for actual vejigantes. If possible, commission a skilled artisan or choose carefully if buying from a store. Order from the Island, or do what we did: track down a Chicago-based artisan who makes them—though he moved and didn’t leave a forwarding number. If all else fails, make the masks yourself following traditional designs, even if you have to experiment with new materials. That way, your bond with the character will run deeper.
Wear your national pride.
In our parade, the vejigantes of Ponce and Loíza unite, and both stand for the same thing: Puerto Rican national identity. Don’t be scandalized if you spot a patriotic vejigante whose costume sports two Puerto Rican flags instead of the usual wing flaps, or who wields a small flag instead of an inflated bladder. This blending of seemingly disparate meanings is an essential hallmark of the cultural life we create in these migrant spaces.
Publish something about it.
That’ll spark a controversy like this: Albizu must embody what Puerto Ricans are. He must speak every word of our protest and assume every form of our secrecy. That’s why he can rise to Christ, as Lolita Lebrón envisioned, or become a violinist, as Elizam Escobar imagined. A wise teacher, according to maestro Lorenzo Homar—or a subversive Charlie Chaplin, as Dennis Mario Rivera portrayed. Albizu must be versatile in all our images and disguises. So if we need him as a Wise Man, he stands as Melchor beside Betances and Corretjer; or with Cofresí and Agüeybaná. That’s why, within Chicago’s Dr. Pedro Albizu Campos Puerto Rican Museum of History and Culture, Albizu, these days, is a vejigante: with raised arms, a dazzling yellow-violet costume, and a terrifying black-and-yellow mask, this Albizu is a cultural redefinition.
Surrender to the magic.
In doing so, you’ll learn—and become a master—for next year’s vejigante troupe. If you have any questions, ask me. I’ll be the red-and-yellow vejigante—unless I’m someone else, and I won’t tell a soul.
