THE SPIRIT OF RESISTANCE
By Mya James | Photography Luis Adriano | Model/Creative Direction by TWIST
I was reading recently when I stumbled upon a picture of Rosa Parks—specifically, her mug shot. With its stark lighting and numbered placard, that small black-and-white image stands as an icon of resistance. But what struck me this time wasn’t just the defiance in her expression but how young she appeared. We often envision Rosa Parks as an older woman, weary after a long day’s work, simply refusing to give up her seat. Yet, at that time, she was only 42. Forty-two is two years younger than I am now, and somehow, armed with that knowledge, I understood her a little better—a middle-aged Black woman making a choice that would ignite the world.
Then, another thought hit me—she and Frida Kahlo resemble one another. I have a deep admiration for Frida. My mother has been a fan of hers for years, and growing up in San José, California, afforded me more than just a front-row seat to the Mexican heritage that Frida cherished. That culture is part of my DNA, absorbed like osmosis from the first time a friend’s abuela calls you mija. For me, the connection between Rosa Parks and Frida Kahlo represents a natural amalgamation of my American experience.
And it’s not just their faces—the sharp features, the intensity in their eyes—it’s something deeper. Both women embodied rebellion in their own unique ways. They were both shaped by pain and recognized that their bodies and very existence were political; both refused to remain silent.
Looking at them side by side, the similarities are undeniable. Their eyes hold the same unwavering intensity—an expression that doesn’t ask for permission, doesn’t seek approval. Rosa holds her arrest number while dressed in a pressed suit and wire-rimmed glasses—the systemic attempt to reduce her to a statistic. Frida, adorned in traditional Tehuana dress and bold jewelry, tilts her head slightly, as if challenging the world to question her existence.
Even in the contrast of their images, there is symmetry. Frida’s iconic unibrow and thick, dark hair echo the strong features of Rosa’s face, framed neatly yet no less striking. Both portraits capture them in a moment of resistance—one institutionalized in a police station, the other immortalized in self-portraiture that declares: I exist on my own terms. They lived in different places and fought different battles, but their struggles were intertwined. Rosa’s quiet defiance—the simple yet radical act of staying seated—sparked a movement that shook the foundations of American segregation. Frida’s raw and unfiltered art compelled the world to confront pain, identity, and the political nature of womanhood. Both lived with pain—Frida’s stemming from a lifetime of physical suffering after a near-fatal accident, Rosa’s from the burden of systemic oppression—but neither allowed it to define them. Instead, they weaponized it.
That feels especially relevant today because, in San José, the youth are boycotting mass deportations. Today, Black students celebrate Black History Month with complete audacity, despite a federal order attempting to erase it. Today, young people—just like Rosa, just like Frida—are staring oppression in the face and saying: No. Not today. Not ever.
