She was basically a genius born into a world that had no idea what to do with her. Imagine being a teenager in the 1660s, a time when women were mostly seen as property or ornaments, and realizing you're the smartest person in the room. Not just the smartest woman. The smartest person. That was Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. She didn't just write poetry; she challenged the entire social fabric of colonial Mexico while living in a convent.
It’s easy to look at her portrait—the one with the massive nun’s badge and the library background—and think of her as a dry, historical figure. But Sor Juana was a firebrand. She was a self-taught prodigy who learned Latin in twenty lessons and allegedly wanted to dress as a man just to attend university. Since that wasn't happening in 17th-century New Spain, she chose the only other path that allowed her to keep her books: the veil.
The Nun Who Refused to Stay Quiet
People often ask why she became a nun if she wasn't particularly "holy" in the traditional sense. Honestly, it was a business decision. Marriage in the 1600s meant a total loss of autonomy. For Juana, a husband was a distraction she couldn't afford. She needed time to study physics, music, philosophy, and theology. The Convent of Santa Paula of the Hieronymite Order in Mexico City became her laboratory.
She wasn't just sitting there praying all day. Her cell was more like a salon. She entertained the elite of Mexico City, including the Viceregal couple, the Marquis and Marquise of Mancera. They were her protectors. Without their political cover, she probably would have been silenced much sooner.
She wrote everything. Plays, love sonnets (some of which were pretty steamy for a nun), and complex theological arguments. Her most famous work, Hombres necios (Stubborn Men), is basically the original feminist manifesto. In it, she calls out men for their hypocrisy—criticizing women for the very "vices" that men encourage in them. It’s punchy, it’s rhythmic, and it’s still relevant. You've probably heard the opening: "Hombres necios que acusáis a la mujer sin razón..."
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The Letter That Changed Everything
Things got messy when she got into a public spat with a high-ranking bishop. This is where her story takes a dark turn. In 1690, a bishop published a private critique she’d written about a famous sermon, but he did it without her permission. He then used a pseudonym, "Sor Filotea," to tell her she should focus less on secular learning and more on prayer.
Juana didn't back down. She wrote back.
The Respuesta a Sor Filotea de la Cruz (Reply to Sister Philotea) is one of the most important intellectual autobiographies ever written. In it, she argues that God wouldn't have given her an intellect if He didn't want her to use it. She basically tells the Church that "one can perfectly well philosophize while cooking supper." It was a bold move. Maybe too bold.
The pressure from the Inquisition and the Church hierarchy eventually became unbearable. Her protectors had left Mexico. She was alone. In 1694, she was forced to renew her vows and sign them in her own blood, declaring herself "the worst of all." She sold her library—over 4,000 books—and gave the money to the poor.
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Why Her Science Matters
We talk a lot about her poetry, but Sor Juana was a polymath. She studied the way light reflected off surfaces and the way sound traveled. She was obsessed with the mechanics of the world. In her long, dream-like poem Primero sueño (First Dream), she explores the soul’s attempt to grasp the totality of the universe through knowledge.
It’s heavy stuff.
She was living in a time of transition. The scientific revolution was brewing in Europe, and Juana was trying to bridge the gap between medieval scholasticism and modern inquiry from a convent cell in the Americas. She was looking at the stars while her peers were looking at embroidery patterns.
The End of the Dream
She died in 1695 during a plague. She was taking care of her fellow sisters when she caught the disease. It’s a tragic ending for someone who fought so hard for the life of the mind. For centuries, she was remembered as a "tenth muse" or a "Mexican Phoenix," but those titles almost feel like they're trying to make her more palatable.
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She wasn't a muse. She was a scholar.
Today, her face is on the 200-peso note in Mexico, and she’s a national icon. But the real legacy isn't the image; it's the refusal to be small. She proved that curiosity is a fundamental human right, regardless of gender or geography.
Actionable Ways to Explore Her Legacy
If you're tired of just reading about her and want to actually engage with her work, here's how to do it without getting bogged down in academic jargon:
- Read "Hombres necios" out loud. Even if you don't speak Spanish, the rhythm of her poetry is designed to be heard. It has a specific cadence (redondillas) that makes the sarcasm and wit pop. Look for a bilingual edition so you can see how she plays with word meanings.
- Visit the Ex-Convento de San Jerónimo. If you’re ever in Mexico City, go to the Universidad del Claustrо de Sor Juana. You can walk the halls where she lived and worked. It gives you a physical sense of the "intellectual prison" she turned into a sanctuary.
- Watch "I, the Worst of All" (Yo, la peor de todas). This 1990 film by Maria Luisa Bemberg is a bit stylized, but it captures the claustrophobia and the political tension of her final years beautifully. It’s a great visual entry point.
- Dig into her "Reply to Sor Filotea." Don't read it like a textbook. Read it like a modern "clapback." Notice how she uses humility as a weapon, masking her sharpest insults in layers of polite, religious language. It’s a masterclass in rhetoric.
- Look for Octavio Paz’s biography. It’s called Sor Juana: Or, the Traps of Faith. It’s a thick book, but Paz (a Nobel laureate) provides the best context for why the Mexican Baroque was such a weird, vibrant, and dangerous time to be a genius.
Sor Juana wasn't just a nun who wrote poems. She was a woman who dared to believe her brain was worth more than her social standing. In a world that wanted her to stay silent, she spoke so loudly we can still hear her 300 years later.