Everybody Wants to Be a Showgirl Until A Immigrant Is in Charge

Written by Bella Sin

I am a Mexican Indigenous immigrant woman. I am loud. I am opinionated. I have an accent. I am direct. I am not afraid to say what I think. And apparently, when you are a woman like me in charge, those things can become a problem.

If I am firm, I am aggressive. If I am direct, I am difficult. If I do not immediately forgive something, I am told I need to have more patience. If I enforce a company policy, suddenly I am the problem instead of the behavior that caused the problem.

But if I was a man… I would be treated with so much respect.

The truth is, I have a very low tolerance for things that do not align with the ethics and values I have spent years building my company around. That does not mean I am perfect. It means I take responsibility seriously. And sometimes that means people I love get held accountable too. Friends are not exempt because they are friends. That is one of the hardest parts of being the boss.

I have been thinking a lot lately about what it actually means to run a burlesque festival. Not produce one show. Not put on a costume, get on stage, take some pictures and go home. I mean actually run the thing — because everyone wants to be a showgirl until it is time to be the boss.

Everyone wants the lights. Everyone wants the applause. Everyone wants the photographs, the recognition, the backstage friendships and the moment when their name gets called. Not everyone wants to be the person answering emails at midnight, checking ticket sales, chasing paperwork, dealing with insurance, paying bills, handling taxes, writing contracts, dealing with HR issues, booking performers, making schedules, doing promotion, answering angry messages, fixing problems at the venue — and then somehow getting yourself into a costume and onto the stage.

That part is not nearly as glamorous. And honestly, I am used to hard decisions. Hard decisions have been my life for a very long time. What I am not used to is how differently people sometimes treat me when I am the person making those decisions.

Until You Have to Treat burlesque Like a Business

I think people sometimes forget that Cleveland Burlesque is an actual business. We have an EIN. We have business insurance. We have trademarks. We have contracts. We have monthly bills, we have taxes, we have HR policies, we have independent contractors.

At one point during festival season, there can be around 20 people on payroll as independent contractors, which means I am also dealing with 1099s and all of the paperwork that comes with that. I do my own taxes; I do my own accounting, with a backup accountant when I need one.

I handle social media, I handle email communication, I handle promotion, I handle payouts. I book people, I make artistic decisions, I produce, I solve problems. And then I still have my own costumes to make, my own bookings, my own career, and my own family.

There is a lot under this hat. Sometimes I think people only see the hat. They do not see what is underneath it.

Until you have to do the Work Nobody Sees

Everyone wants to be a showgirl until you have to work for hours without anyone seeing you do it. While everyone else is getting ready to go on stage, I might be checking ticket sales. While someone is getting their picture taken, I might be answering an email. While someone is getting applause, I might be running around trying to solve a production problem. While everyone is celebrating the end of the night, I am already thinking about the next day.

There are nights when I have had two hours of sleep and three coffees on an empty stomach. There are days when I am flying around trying to make sure everyone else gets their moment.

I have put up flyers myself, I have moved boxes, I have organized merchandise. I have written endless amounts of promotional material, I have answered the same questions over and over, I have chased people for paperwork, I have chased people for signatures, I have chased people for information. And sometimes I have wondered if anyone realizes how much work happens before anyone ever walks through the doors.

The funny thing is, I do not need everyone to know. But sometimes I wish people understood that the show does not magically appear. Someone builds it.

Until You Have to Say No!

Sometimes I have to say no. There have been times I have had to send non-invitations. There have been times I have had to remove performers from the festival. There have been times when restorative justice processes needed to happen. There have been times when our no-tolerance policies actually had to be used.

Nobody likes being that person; I certainly do not. It is not fun telling someone they cannot participate. It is not fun disappointing people. It is not fun having conversations that can completely change a relationship. But I have a responsibility.

Sometimes doing the right thing is not the popular thing. And sometimes the hardest decision is the one that protects the most people. At the end of the day, my name is attached to this. My company's name is attached to this. My life's work is attached to this. When something goes wrong, people are not going to say, "Well, there were 20 people involved in that decision." They are going to say my name. So yes, I think about every decision I make. A lot.

Until You Didn't Start From Privilege

I did not build this company while sitting comfortably with everything figured out. I started this while I was a single mother. I was an immigrant dealing with my own immigration process. My mother was a cancer patient going through chemotherapy.

I was trying to build a business while my family was dealing with things that would have been enough to stop most people. There were years when production came before travel. There were times when my mother was in the hospital and I still had things that needed to get done. My father once had to tell me that I needed to work because we needed money for her treatment and their rent. That is a reality that is very hard to explain to someone who has never had to choose between being the daughter at the hospital and being the person who has to go make money.

No one wants to be a showgirl while their mother is in a hospital. But sometimes life does not care what you want. You do what you have to do.

My team has become my lifeline. Over the years, bringing other people into production has been one of the best things I have ever done — Heather, Lilith, Breanna, Bryan, Gabe, Arys, Starboy. These are people who help me complete the circle. They have helped carry things that I could not carry alone. And I am incredibly grateful for that. But even with a team, there is still a point where the buck stops. That is me: good decision or bad decision, popular decision or unpopular decision. At the end of the day, my name is still on it.

Until Your Family Pays for It Too

That is another part people do not always understand: when I give my time to the festival, that is time I am taking away from my family. When I am gone producing, I am not home. When I am answering emails late at night, I am not completely present. When I am traveling, my family is carrying some of that responsibility.

And mothers get judged for this in ways fathers often do not. People will question a mother for being away from her children. They will question her priorities. They will question whether she is doing enough. And sometimes people have used my children as ammunition to try to make me feel guilty for continuing this business. That has hurt more than people probably realize. Even the way my husband has been verbally disrespected by some people in our own home changed something in me. It taught me that my home is sacred. There is a line between community and entitlement. And once people cross that line, I do not forget it.

Thankfully, some of my brothers and sisters in burlesque have become incredible uncles and aunties to my children. They have shown up for them. They love them. They understand that my family is part of this story too. Those people are precious to me.

Until You Have an Immigrant-Owned Business

Until it is time to actually support one. That one is personal.

People love saying they support immigrant-owned businesses. They love saying they support immigrants. But then you actually meet an immigrant who is outspoken and visible, and suddenly the questions start. "Did you come here the right way?" "What is your status?" "How did you get here?" I have heard these things. I have lived through them.

I have also experienced the smaller things — the comments that people probably do not even realize are hurtful. During my citizenship process, I needed help studying. Instead of someone saying, "Do you want help? I know these questions," it sometimes turned into a weird competition about who could pass the test. I did not want to compete. I wanted someone to study with me. There is a difference.

2026 was a very strange year for me. I applied for citizenship. I had an expired residency card, although I was still legally present in the United States. Because I am visible, because I am an activist, because I do voter education work and because I have spent years working with immigrant communities, I had to take things seriously. I made emergency plans. I made sure my family knew where things were. I made sure my business partners knew what needed to happen if something happened to me. I prepared information for Heather, Bryan, Breanna and Gabe. I made sure my husband and daughter knew what they needed to know. I had to think about something I never imagined I would have to think about: what happens to my business if I suddenly disappear?

That is a terrifying question. Before traveling to Viva Las Vegas, I was already thinking about immigration and identification issues. And on my way home, I was stopped by immigration. I handled it. I was okay. But I will never forget that feeling. Fear has a way of staying in your body even after the situation is over.

Then came my citizenship test. Three days after producing a festival. Apparently, citizenship tests do not care that you just produced a burlesque festival. You cannot exactly call them and say, "Sorry, I have a show." So I did both.

The night before my test, I had to talk to my husband and my children about the possibility that something could happen to me. That conversation broke my heart. Because I was not thinking about the business — I had already prepared for that. I was thinking about them. What if I do not come home? What if I never see my children again? What if I never see the stage again? What if the career I spent more than twenty years building suddenly ends?

I remember sitting there waiting to be called back and thinking about all of it. Then they called my name. I went in, and I passed. I became a citizen.

Until Activism Isn't a Cute Word Anymore

People like the word activist when it looks good on social media. The reality is much less pretty.

I have worked on campaigns, I have planned protests, I have participated in sit-ins. I have signed support documents, I have driven for hours to rural communities to help immigrants get fair treatment, I have translated at doctor's appointments. I have helped people fill out paperwork; I have stood in front of danger for people I love. I have done things because somebody needed to do them.

Being a community leader is not a title I put on a business card. It is work. It means constantly educating yourself. It means admitting when you do not know something. It means being willing to learn. It means sometimes being wrong, and it means understanding that the issues affecting one community eventually affect all of us.

I love being able to help. Providing hot meals. Helping with groceries. Helping people experiencing homelessness. Helping immigrant families. Helping Latina women get ahead. That is the part of my work that makes me feel like everything else is worth it.

Until You Think About the Next Generation

I do not want to crucify the next generation. I want to help them. I think a lot about the Latina performers coming up behind me. I know what it feels like to be the person trying to figure everything out. I had people before me who carried this history. I am carrying them now. And someday, younger women will carry me. That is how this works.

I want to be kind to them. I want to teach them. I want to give them information I did not have. I want them to be unapologetic. I want them to be free. I want them to understand that they do not have to make themselves smaller to make other people comfortable.

Until the Community Needs Accountability

The burlesque community is not immune to accountability. I think this is one of the hardest parts of what I do, because burlesque is largely an unregulated industry — which means we have to hold ourselves and each other accountable, and that is something people are often very uncomfortable with.

We talk constantly about community, but community without accountability is just a word. After more than twenty years in this industry, I have watched the same patterns repeat themselves: power struggles, gatekeeping, racism, appropriation, people refusing to apologize or listen, and people supporting restorative justice until it requires them to actually participate in the work, or supporting accountability until the person being held accountable is someone they love.

Every generation thinks it will do things differently, but eventually we find ourselves facing many of the same problems. The real difference is whether we are willing to recognize those patterns, learn from them, and choose to do better.

Until You Stop Trying to Be Liked

I am not interested in being liked by everyone. I am interested in leaving something meaningful behind. I am a proud, loud, opinionated Mexican woman, and after surviving enough in this business, I have learned that I will never make everyone happy — and I am finally okay with that.

I would rather be honest than popular, accountable than comfortable, and willing to have a difficult conversation than allow something harmful to continue because people are afraid of conflict. I would rather educate someone than destroy them, and I would much rather help the next Latina coming up than pull the ladder up behind me — because ultimately, I want the people who come after me to have a bigger stage than I ever had.

Until You Have to Grieve on Stage

My mother died on October 7, 2023, and years later my father died suddenly. Grief changes you in ways you never really expect — but grief does not stop production. The emails still come, the shows still happen, the bills still have to be paid, people still need answers, and somehow you still have to get on stage.

Some people do not know how to treat you when you are grieving. Some leave. Some make excuses. Some stay but make you feel like a shadow. And then there are the ones who surprise you by staying close — those are the people you remember.

After more than twenty years of doing this, I have learned that the most important thing I can do is keep moving forward without forgetting where I came from, because I have carried the pioneers who came before me on my shoulders, and now I am carrying the next generation, hoping that someday they will carry someone else.

That is the legacy I want — not that everyone loved me, not that I never made mistakes, not that every decision I made was perfect, but that I showed up, built something, made space, protected the people I could, used my voice, helped people, and refused to disappear.

Because everyone wants to be a showgirl until it is time to be the boss. Until it is time to make the hard decision. Work when nobody is watching. Say no. Protect your values. Be accountable. Sacrifice your own spotlight so someone else can have theirs. Work on two hours of sleep. Grieve and still open the doors. Fight for your community. Be the immigrant in the room. Be the mother who chose to build something. Or stand up and say, "This is not okay."

That is the part of being a showgirl nobody puts in the program. But it is the part I know best. And after all these years, I am still here — still building, still learning, still making mistakes, still fighting, still producing, still performing, still making room for the people coming behind me, and still being the boss.

EDITOR’S CALL TO ACTION: If you would like to support Bella this month please contribute to the Nuestro Burlesque Directory which. isa global network dedicated to celebrating, documenting, and connecting Latin burlesque and fringe artists worldwide.