By Karina Aguilar –

I’m a city girl that was born and raised in Chicago. Both of my parents grew up in a southern part of Mexico called Oaxaca, a place I didn’t know. At the age of 6, I took my first trip to the homeland of my parents.

The smell of dirt soaked into my entire wardrobe and stained my white-washed shoes. It was an earthy smell that was unknown to me from the city, where the exhaust of cars and factories took over.

Everything around me was all new and I didn’t understand this country whose roots I carried with me. I am Mexican, the color of my skin and the language my parents speak tell me this, but I didn’t know this Mexico.

I realized I had relatives I didn’t even know existed. I met aunts and uncles I never knew about. And I realized that in Santa Maria Camotlan, a small town in Oaxaca, almost everyone was somewhat related to me or knew me in some way. “Oh you’re an Aguilar, I know your parents” I often heard.

As I entered the pueblo of Camotlan, the warm smiles of strangers greeted us. I would often ask my parents, “Los conoces?” My parents tried to explain to me that here everyone greets each other out of courtesy, which I found strange yet nice.

The land in the pueblos was overtaken with a sea of hills and valleys with little grass to be seen. Most of the land was covered with dirt and cactuses. As I looked around me, I saw no tall buildings just arched mountains beyond the horizon.

I was always apprehensive about tasting new food and at first I would religiously eat corn flakes with milk. After a week there, I began tasting the traditional foods of Oaxaca. The fruits and vegetables were all organic. And most dishes were served with rice and beans, and always served with a big handmade tortilla.

In the kitchen my abuela Lencha, from my mom’s side, a dark-skinned lady with blue eyes, which were burnt from the overexposure of the sun, was seated near the small stove in her kitchen. She wore her long grey hair was in braids as she stirred the huge cazuela of mole with her oversized wooden spoon. She added extra ingredients to the dish and she chatted away with my mom on gossip of the pueblo.

Abuela, who wore no makeup, asked if I wanted to eat already and out of courtesy I said, “una cucharita nada mas.” And I soon discovered that it meant a serving with her oversized spoon, the size of my fist. “Gracias,” I said looking at the vast amount of food.

She spread the mole, a maroon-colored thick sauce over two pieces of chicken with some moist rice on a white decorated flower-plate. I looked to my side and I saw my mother give me the look mom’s always give, that said, “You better eat that.” So I closed my eyes, scooped it in my mouth, and discovered to my surprise, it was actually good. I tasted the flavors of the richly blended spices mixed together and savored the taste of mole.

During my time in Oaxaca I normally wore a colorful dress or jeans and a shirt. But I saw others around me dressed differently. They wore clothes that looked like hand-me downs and I realized how many poor people there was. So I felt bad that I had nice clothes, I didn’t know this Mexico, was a country that was poor.

Later I began to understand why my parents decided to move to the United States. They left behind their family and friends, but frequently visited home to be united with them, so they wouldn’t loose the essence of who they are and where they came from.

Abuela Lencha’s cooking was part of the Mexico I understood. She usually made us handmade tortillas with the food she served us. “Mira la chula tortilla,” she would say, stretching out the tortillas towards us persuading us to grab, yet another tortilla.

At first I thought she just liked feeding people but this is how abuela showed the love she had for us. Her cooking transcended into something bigger than just food but into love.