Raquel Welch was the It Girl from 1966 to 1969, her fur‑bikini poster folded into helmets and etched into young minds. Though I was born in 1968, I still grew up with that image practically tattooed on my brain. During the Vietnam era, she wasn’t just a sex symbol — she was the personification of American beauty, sex appeal, and glamour. And here’s the kicker: when she blew up as a global icon, Welch was already a mother of two. That fact only underscores how extraordinary her rise was, defying Hollywood’s usual rules about who gets to be the fantasy figure of a generation.
“In your satin tights,
Fighting for your rights
And the ol' Red, White and Blue.”
Later, I watched Wonder Woman on TV, and let’s just say Lynda Carter made an impression. For my generation, these two women overwhelmingly impacted what “All‑American” beauty looked like.
Sex symbol. Fantasy figure. That is nothing to sniff at. Images imprint themselves on our imaginations, on our deepest emotions and feelings — not merely of beauty or sexual attraction, but of something more primal: who counts as fully human, who is worthy of desire, who belongs at the center of the story. The biological drive goes deep, and those images don’t just titillate; they inculcate. They shape the norms of a generation, embedding themselves in the unconscious of boys like me who grew up absorbing that these women helped to define the essence of “All‑American.”
But they weren’t the first, and they weren’t the last. Before my time, Rita Hayworth — born Margarita Cansino — was the dream girl of World War II. For two years, her satin‑clad pin‑up was the most requested photo among American servicemen, until Betty Grable finally took the crown. After me, Jessica Alba filled that role for a new wave of boys coming of age in the 2000s, just as Rita Moreno and Carmen Miranda had once lit up the screen in more complicated, often stereotyped roles.
Here’s the thing: all of these women had Latin American roots. Welch’s father was Bolivian. Carter’s mother
Lynda Carter and her mother, Juana Córdova.
was Mexican. Alba’s father is Mexican‑American. Hayworth was Spanish and Latina. Moreno was Puerto Rican. Miranda was Brazilian. They weren’t just stars — they were the faces of American glamour in their eras.
Hollywood has always had room for glamorous immigrants with “exotic” European accents — Marlene Dietrich from Germany, Greta Garbo from Sweden, Zsa Zsa and Eva Gabor from Hungary, Joan Collins from England. But let’s be honest: they were all “white”. Their foreignness was chic, even aspirational. For Latinas, it was more complicated. Their heritage was often hidden, downplayed, or caricatured.
And yet, these women became icons. They proved that “All‑American” beauty has never been just one thing — it’s been shaped, again and again, by Latin American immigrants and their children.
So when people talk about shutting the door on immigrants, remember this: without Latin America, we wouldn’t just lose neighbors or workers. We’d lose Raquel. We’d lose Lynda. We’d lose Jessica. We’d lose Rita. We’d lose Aubrey Plaza.
Rita Hayworth’s iconic pin-up image.
And yes, all of these actresses are of partial Latin heritage. That’s a point dear to me — because of who I am, whom I chose to marry, a woman from Japan, and the children we raised together. Because of what the Stephen Millers of this country think of my children.
Latin American immigrants didn’t just give us neighbors. They gave us us. As of the 2020 Census, there were 62.1 million Hispanics and Latinos living in the United States — 18.9% of the population, making them the second-largest racial or ethnic group after non-Hispanic whites.
But long before that demographic shift, Latin America gave us the literal faces of American dreams. To shut the door on that is to shut the door on ourselves. On our past. On our future. On the very idea of what it means to be “All-American.”
