De Prada's 'Charo' Term Sparks Feminism Divide

De Prada and the term «charo»: anatomy of an uncomfortable word

Some words are born old and die young. «Charo» is not one of them. Columnist Juan Manuel de Prada revived it in a Sunday article, triggering a semantic storm that still rages: what is a charo, how does it differ from the traditional maruja, and why does its use offend some while amusing others? Far from being settled, the discussion has evolved into a popular lexicography treatise where everyone twists the definition to fit their view.

The underlying thesis is simple: the maruja was society's glue, an unpaid domestic economist balancing impossible budgets. The charo, conversely, would be her successor with a salary, ideology, and a certain tendency toward sarracena superiority. According to readers, De Prada's article goes beyond costumbrista portraiture: it attacks inclusive language, the "submissive papilla," and what he considers a new vocabulary inquisition.

What is a «charo» and where does the term come from?

The term is not new. It has circulated for years in forums and bar conversations as a derogatory substitute for a specific female archetype: the middle-aged woman, civil servant or administrator, socially pogre and a firm defender of proge causes. The most repeated definition places her at the antipodes of the traditional maruja: the latter did not work outside the home, did not get involved in politics, and did not dye her hair green. The former does.

The comparison has substance. One line of opinion argues that the maruja mastered more sciences than a graduate: household economics, logistics, urban agriculture, and game theory applied to making ends meet. The charo, however, swapped the crochet doily for the school parents' WhatsApp group and the croquette recipe for the latest manifesto. The contrast is cruel but explains why the term took hold so easily.

The alternative dictionary proposed by the article

According to the echoes it has left, De Prada's column is not limited to a definition. It deploys a catalog of synonyms ranging from classic to grotesque: sargentonas, viragos, rabaneras, soletas, ménades, piltracas, farotas, lagartas, circes, arpías, anabolenas, suripantas, melonas, sandias, pazpuercas, lechonas, loros, cotorras, tucanes, viriatas, sansonas, gárrulas, cotarreras, ramonas, and hildegardas. And gems like «monja alférez» or «vacaburra», which Mortadelo already used to call Ofelia.

The inventory has philological charm. It recovers obsolete words, mixes them with coined neologisms, and launches them as darts at a moving target. The floating question is whether this lexical arsenal describes reality or simply constructs an enemy. Because criticizing inclusive language is one thing; inventing a character to hang all the century's evils on him is quite another.

The reaction: between applause and accusations of hate

Reception has been pendular. Some see the text as an exercise in expressive freedom, while others predict that the "sharia" of language —the play on words with Sarracinic sharia is deliberate— will end up denouncing the author for hatred against women. The accusation is not trivial: the article plays with fire by associating a female archetype with submission to religious law. Irony, in certain hands, becomes a boomerang.

Others point out that the term has suffered an involuntary Streisand effect: the more people try to ban it, the more people search for and learn it. The minister in charge, according to this reading, has become the word's best advertiser. This is not the first time a banned word multiplies its reach; the history of linguistic censorship is full of examples.

Maruja, charo, and nostalgia for a world that doesn't return

Underneath the wordplay lies real nostalgia. The maruja belonged to a world of scarcity where domestic ingenuity was a survival skill. The charo belongs to a world of offices, subsidies, and social networks where identity performance replaces know-how. Or so the narrative says. Reality, as always, is more elusive: there are marujas with master's degrees and charos with aprons.

At its core, the debate is not about women. It is about classes, status, and who has the right to define whom. The word «charo» is a social position marker disguised as cultural criticism. And like any marker, it says more about the user than the recipient.

Why does «charo» offend and «cayetano» not?

The asymmetry is the juiciest point. «Cayetano» is used without complexes to ridicule the well-off right-wing boy; «charo» raises blisters when pointing in the opposite direction. The circulating explanation is that politically correct language only protects certain groups and leaves others exposed to scorn. It is an old complaint, but the article has reignited it with new ammunition.

The fundamental question is whether the solution lies in expanding the dictionary of insults or emptying it. We suspect De Prada would vote for the former. His critics, for the latter. In the middle are millions of people who do not recognize themselves in either trench and will continue to call their neighbor by name.

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It remains to be seen if «charo» will survive the media winter or wither away like many seasonal neologisms. The word has hook, no one disputes that. What is less clear is whether it describes something real or just the anger of whoever pronounces it. With these materials, any prediction is an exercise in divination.