4/12/2021 Not Sticking Out like a Sore ThumbA cultural essay by Molly Bloom My bag hit the cracked concrete ground with an announcing thump. My back ached from standing for half an hour with my overstuffed backpack as I waited with my family for a taxi to take us out of Mexico City. The dirty smells of fuel and pollution had slammed into my face as soon as I stepped off the plane. However, as soon as we were off in our small green taxi, all I could do was stare out the window at the beautiful buildings of Mexico City. The city was covered in vibrant colors that seemed rebellious compared to the whitewashed walls in America. The tall clutter buildings vanished into vast dirt hills as we traveled deeper into the country to reach my mom’s hometown: Sahagun.
The town is small, so small that you didn’t know if you were already in another town after driving down several streets. Before I knew it, I stood in front of a small orange house squished between a pastel pink and a yellow house. I could only blink as shouting relatives and hands came flying out of the wide metal door to wrap around my sister and I. “Bienvenidos! Te quero, estamos muy contentos de que estas aqui. Tienes hambre?” That last set of sounds was the only part that my ears could register its meaning. “Tienes hambre?” or “Are you hungry?”, a rhetorical question in the Perez family (as they were already carrying you to a table overloaded with food), but one that was so repeatedly asked that even I feel fluent in the language when asked it. As for any other words and questions stringing out from my relatives' mouths, I found myself to be completely and utterly powerless in comprehending. My frustration continued as the conversation was tossed back and forth between my mom and Tia, and all I could do was stand between them wondering about what they said and what made my mom laugh in a way that only happened when she was with her sister. Every morning seemed to start earlier and earlier, as carts and trucks rode through the tight street. The sun itself was not awake when all the blowing and honking of the vendors began to advertise their corn and milk or to collect the trash. The mornings were cool and fresh compared to the hot day I knew was already on its way. Hair a rat's nest, I strode into the cramped kitchen, my mom giving me a look to say good morning to everyone. A kiss on each cheek to every family member -- a ritual I have never grown accustomed to. I was quickly ushered out of the kitchen by my Tia where she instructs me to sit at the table next to my sister and dad. Plate after plate is set in front of us with steam dancing on top of the freshly made tamales. The rice is dished out with the bolas, sopa, and chilaquiles. The spice bites my tongue, and I try to swallow down my shame of intolerance for it with a sweet mango juice. Another tell sign to my whiteness. After breakfast, we walk. We walk to the market or to another relative’s house that I briefly know about. The sidewalks are cracked and worn down with the footsteps of the entire town, as walking is preferred to driving (unlike in America). Everyone wore long pants and a light sweater, despite the growing heat of the day. I suddenly began to feel self-conscious in my shorts that exposed my pale long legs, matching my sister’s and dad’s. I noticed the stares glued to me and my sister, the one that took in our height that seemed to tower over my cousins and Abuelita. The same stares that took in our summer clothes and light skin. It was my dad who captivated the crowds, his height -- over 6 feet--towered over the crowds of people. His white skin and green eyes are what attracted the vendors like a beacon: an opportunity to sell their merchandise for slightly more to the American. I was embarrassed to never be able to fit in with my family’s culture. I would look up words and phrases just to show them I had a voice. It was our last day there when I felt that small tug at my sleeve. Turning from the green taxi waiting to take me back to the chaotic heart of Mexico City and the airport, I looked down at my Abuelita wrapped in her long colorful skirts and decorated in her gold jewelry. A tear slid down her face as I dropped down to hug her. “Te queremos. Por favor, vuelve pronto.” Her rich accent danced in my ear as I pulled away. “ We love you. Please come back soon.” My family never once looked at me and saw a tall white girl who couldn’t dance or eat spicy food. They just wanted to see and be with their granddaughter, niece, and cousin. It was only when I left the loving hands and kisses and tears of goodbye from my family did I realize that just seeing me, being with me, showing me their lives was always enough for them. Soon I will be able to speak to them, as I made it a mission-- coming back to the states--to learn to speak Spanish even if I will never truly obtain that perfect accent. Just enough to figure out what it was my Tia said to make my mom laugh in such a different way. Comments are closed.
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