When it came time for my husband to meet my family for the first time, I knew things would be interesting. I made sure to carefully walk him through what he was about to experience. You see, my green-eyed, blonde-haired, 100% American husband was raised in the Shreveport area with his green-eyed, blonde-haired family. And he was quite eager to meet his different and soon-to-be in-laws and relatives. I couldn’t have written it any better if I were writing a scene in a movie...oh wait, it has been written, and it was in a movie called Fools Rush In (rent it!). Enter the scene: My future hubby and I pull up to la casa de mi tío [my uncle’s house]—though actually, he realized we were getting close from a block away when we could really begin to hear Vicente Fernández wailing through the speakers of the dually parked in the front yard. We hop out of my vehicle, step around the chickens and dogs, and stroll over to where my dad stood, cerveza in hand, singing, laughing, and speaking (in Spanish) with his brothers. Mi esposo [my husband], not understanding too much of anything of the chaos around him, may have felt a little nervous and out of place. He was, after all, not only meeting the people who would soon become his family, he was meeting a new culture. In memory, it seems as though everything stopped for a moment. Silence fell, everyone ceased talking, maybe even the Vicente CD ended, and all eyes turned to me and my gringo. “Want a beer?,” my uncle asked in English, smiling, and Aaron knew that everything was going to be fine.
Growing up visiting Mexico, my father’s homeland, was always a fun experience for us as children; and it became more important to us as we grew older. I still love hearing the stories about my dad’s childhood and visiting the home and village where he grew up. My family lived in the rurals of Mexico, farming the acres and acres of land around their home, La Libertad [liberty, or freedom]—or, as we’ve always called it, the Ranch. He grew up in the state of Jalisco, just at the bordering state’s line. Jalisco’s capital city is Guadalajara, and is known for—you got it—tequila. The land is magnificent; it is surrounded by the Sierra Madre mountains and beautiful plateaus, with pleasant weather year round ideal for farming—mainly agave. The house he grew up in was made of clay bricks and surrounded by many types of cactus. Though now deteriorating, as no one had lived there in 30 years, the house is still very beautiful to me. Every single time I visit, without thought, I reach up and try to snatch a tuna (fruit that grows on the major type of cactus in the area) off a cactus paddle, or nopale, and wind up with stickers in my palm. They are so delicious, and I rarely manage to get one without injuring myself—maybe one day I’ll learn to stop and think before grabbing. Maybe not.
Throughout our years together, I’ve had the opportunity to travel to Mexico a few times with my husband. I believe he loves it more each time we go. But how could one not? It is a very different place. I think one of his favorite differences is the fact that the dogs often live on the roofs of the homes in urban areas, since those homes have little to no yard. He gets a kick out of walking down the street to the open air markets (another favorite) and hearing a dog bark, only to look around...look around...look around...look up, and see him warning you from two stories above. Culturally we are quite different here in los Estados Unidos [the United States]. Where we seem to be in a perpetual rush, the Mexicanos seem to be more laid back, more casual, and always eager to make you more comfortable. Ours is a loving and patient culture. When you are welcomed into a home or family, you are completely welcomed; and if there is anything your host can do to make your stay—be it long or short—more comfortable, they will. Though we are a close-knit culture—which is obvious to anyone interested in observing—we are quite eager to introduce any new ones to what we have, and share our culture and traditions. Maybe that’s why Cinco de Mayo has become such a big thing in America, whereas it isn’t celebrated on a grand scale in Mexico. It’s a time to celebrate traditions, culture, and food in a place where we aren’t constantly surrounded by our “Mexicaness”—a chance to catch up on what we may miss out on in day-to-day life away from one’s tierra natal [native land] and/or familia [family].Admittedly, I am not as deeply involved in my family heritage as I should be. I love my family, I love the food, I love the language, I love the culture, I love to visit the land where mi padre [my father] grew up—but I rarely get the opportunity to speak Spanish (which I should speak far better than I do) or get involved with the local community of Latinos. It is something I should make a greater effort to do, especially with the language. Interestingly enough, mis perros [my dogs] understand “quieres agua?” better than “do you want some water?” I think they’re happy to “speak” a bit of their grandpa’s native language, as long as I never make them live on the roof.