RECONNECTING

I was born in Zamora, Michoacan in 1982. Soon after my mother’s death in the mid 1980’s, my father packed our bags and we migrated north to California, to make a “better life.” I was too young to understand what was going on at the time and it took me many years to realize the value of what I’d lost and the value of what I’d gained.

Up until a few years ago, I had little knowledge of my native land of Mexico. I mean, I’ve always known where I was born, but I had no visuals to give me a better idea and understanding of my cultural background. (That’s odd considering I’m a photographer.) To top it off, I have virtually no photographs of my town, my mother and her side of the family, no photographs of my brother and I when we were young, no photographs of any part of the place I came from. I had no photographs to leave my future children, nothing to remember where I came from.

That changed a few years ago when I made my first trip, alone, into my estranged hometown. I had just turned 20, when I finally had the opportunity to venture into Zamora to see what I’d lost and forgotten. I didn’t know what to expect or what to look for. The first few days were extremely overwhelming. I met family members I’d erased from my memory, including my grandmother (my mother’s mother). The first thing I noticed when I got there was how humble and caring everyone was. Everyone greeted each other in the streets, including myself, the stranger that abandoned the town. I was overwhelmed by how cultural my land is.

The vast richness of culture and heritage came to me as a surprise because I didn’t grow up in a “typical” Mexican household. My father and stepmother were too busy working to make a decent living that following our old customs was not part of our life. Visiting Mexico, alone, uncultured, and inexperienced with my native tongue was a wakeup call for me. I was both angry and sad to have been deprived of my roots for all those years.

I cried the first three days I was in Zamora. I cried of sadness and joy. I was overwhelmed by the humble simplicity of life in Zamora. I was also saddened by the amount of poverty. A part of me felt guilty for living in the United States. The way of life in Zamora is much different than here. There’s less opportunity for most to make a “good living,” but they seem less stressed than in the United States. The majority of people in my hometown make an honest living selling food, housekeeping, tending the rich, working in fields, weaving, and cleaning the streets. I still don’t know enough about my hometown to tell you more. I’m only sharing with you what I saw when I visited in 2005.

One thing that I noticed is that food is sold everywhere in every corner of every street. In fact, every morning that I walked around town, people had their homes open to sell and serve food out of their living rooms. Others just set a table outside and had handmade menus. This would never pass in the United States! What a shame because I think this brings strangers together.

The local plaza was constantly filled with people and street vendors. My favorite part of the plaza was the market. Butchers slaughter and sell fresh meats, and others sell cheese, vegetables and other farm products to locals and restaurants. There are expert weavers and seamstresses that sell handmade clothing everywhere; other handmade items include jewelry, leather boots, and belts.

The entire time I visited Zamora, I realized I grew up cultureless. My family didn’t follow an American or Mexican culture. I would say we were neutral when it came to culture, neither here nor there. Besides the food, we followed no customs. We just lived to work and worked to live.

I still wonder, why hadn’t anyone shared with me the virtues of my land? The time I was there I was welcomed and greeted daily by strangers, but I knew they saw me as a tourist. I couldn’t hide that I was an outsider. I hadn’t been back since I was a child and now as an adult, I am estranged from both sides. I’m not an American; I’m not wise with American history. English is my second language and I struggle with Spanish. I know little about the history of my land. It’s not because my father didn’t want to teach me but because the American culture stresses the importance of assimilating, being and learning to live like an “American.” We are taught daily that this is the only way one can and will succeed.

The point is that visiting my hometown was a wake-up call. I still have a long way to go. I need to educate myself about Mexican history because nobody taught me growing up, not my family or school.
Being a Mexican immigrant in the United States is tough. I’m one of the “lucky ones.” I finished high school and I’m putting myself through college. I learned the value of hard work from my father and for that I thank him. I left home right after I turned 19 and since then I’ve put myself through college.

Being able to revisit my hometown was a privilege and an experience I treasure dearly. Since 2001, I have made six trips to Mexico all in great efforts to reconnect with my native land. I will continue to visit Mexico in attempts to regain my Mexican heritage.

See some of Belen Romero’s photos from Mexico in the photo gallery.