Amalia Gonzalez –

It was early in the morning. I had just woken up. My cousin Jonathan was driving. He picked me up from the airport and we drove five hours to my parent’s hometown in Mexico.

Mexico is the best part of my year. Every year in December, me and my family, like many Mexican families, go back home for an annual visit. Our town is Lindo Escuchapa, a little town in the state of Guerrero, where my parents are from. One year I took this journey alone.

The morning was so beautiful. Like always I found it so hard to believe that a year had passed since the last time I was here. Just eight hours ago I was in the cold Chicago winter snow and now I was in the humid, warm paradise of Mexico.

It was dark but yet I heard the calls of nature. Roosters were chanting the morning wake up calls along with other animals calling out. I was in the car, seat back, head up, loving everything that I found in sight. I saw that the sun was slowly rising and saying hello to the land. The houses were beautiful and very colorful. Windows were opening. I noticed every detail of what I saw. I wanted to remember everything. I wanted everything of this place recorded into my memory.

The fences were made out of wood and were held up with wires. I noticed broken glass stuck on top of the roofs of all the houses. There were pigs and dogs walking around the streets with no certain destination. A man was riding a moped going from house to house pressing on the horn, calling out, “Tortillas! Tortillas!”

Amalia Gonzalez

I rolled down the window and stuck my head out. The smell of corn from the tortillas excited my mouth. Mmm. Homemade tortillas I thought. I would soon get to enjoy my Escuchapa’s homemade cooking. The road was rough and bumpy as always.

There were rocks and potholes everywhere. My cousin was beside me, driving very slowly at about five miles an hour. There was a lady in her night gown and a smock sweeping the streets with a palm-leaf broom. Sand and dust were flying in the air. I was in Mexico. This year was the best vacation ever. The night I will never forget is Christmas Eve. I remember as if it were yesterday.

The sun was coming down, the moon rising. I was walking alongside my two cousins, Vicente and Johnny, and my Aunt Leticia. The road was crowded with people, all walking in two single file lines and chanting Christmas carols. Well, not exactly Christmas carols. In Mexico, my family, and their entire pueblo, celebrate the journey Mary and Joseph took from Jerusalem to Bethlehem by taking long walks from an old church, through the town, and finally arriving at the new church. Two men carried a ceramic baby Jesus, displayed on a small table and held aloft by the men with poles that ran underneath the table and rested on their shoulders. It’s called a posada.

I was born in America, but my family was born in Mexico, and many of them still live there. Everything was different there: the carols, the food, the traditions, even the roads. Especially the roads. They are dirty, rocky and wide, and are meant more for people and burros than for cars and trucks. And after a five-hour walk, your feet begin to hurt. I felt as if the trail would never end, and with darkness on its way I could hardly see what was in front of me. The candle in my hand made it a little easier, but the wax dripped on my toes, and it burned. That, along with the punishment of the rocky terrain, made me achy.

I closed my eyes so that the pain would stop, but this just made the journey longer. The pain accelerated through my body like a hundred needles poking my legs all at once. I had to stop and rest, but everyone kept moving forward. And to think, this pilgrimage was to continue until midnight.

Sure, I could have worn more comfortable shoes, but how was I to know the anguish that awaited me? I was a rookie at this game. I was in the country of my heritage but still a foreigner. It’s strange. In America, where I was born, I’m considered a Mexican, but in Mexico, where my family is from, I’m called a gringa.
I grew up in a majority white suburb called Glenview, about half an hour from Chicago. I was always uncomfortable because of my skin color, but I was still as much American as anyone else. My parents however, were both Mexican, and always reminded me of my roots.

I loved Mexico, but why so much walking? I grew up, like most Americans, spending Christmas at home opening presents. Here, Santa was a stranger. My grandmother’s house, thanks to my family’s efforts, was a little more like home; there was a Christmas tree and a little manger scene for a little Jesus underneath. There were no presents, but that didn’t matter.

Why was I in so much pain? I felt fine a few minutes ago, but now my legs were leaving me behind. Pain was spreading throughout my whole body, turning in to nausea.

Finally we arrived at the church. “I really need to sit down,” I said. And in that instant, my body gave up and collapsed. The crowd turned around. I was numb all over, except for my feet, which felt like they were being pulled out of my legs.

“It hurts,” I cried. The two men who were once carrying the baby ceramic Jesus were now carrying me to the house of Abuelita, my grandmother. My aunt Leticia walked alongside, her sons behind. The ceremony at the church continued.

“Hurry up, Vicente,” Johnny exclaimed. “Open the door. She’s getting worse.”

They put me on my bed and my aunt examined my legs. Thankfully, my aunt was a nurse, and as she walked her hands over my swollen foot, the pain dissipated. But I was paralyzed up to my legs.

“You’ve been bitten by a scorpion,” Aunt Leticia said quietly. I was shocked, scared and confused.

So it wasn’t hot wax dripping off my candle that had burned me? Where I’m from, you don’t get stung by scorpions. At the very worst, you might get pulled over by a cop for a busted taillight. But a scorpion? I couldn’t imagine what was to happen to me next. Would I live? Would I die? I was cold, sweating from top to bottom. I felt like vomiting and, finally, I died into sleep. My heart rate slowed, even as horrific dreams dream hunted my sleep.

I awoke two hours later. My aunt smiled as she rubbed salve on my foot. It was still swollen. Wonderful smells drifted in from the kitchen, outside even. Salsa, tortillas, mole, pozole, and more. Like a wonderful bouquet of everything. People were laughing and having a good time. It was now Christmas, and everyone was celebrating.

I was in Mexico, but I was born in America. So what was I, Mexican or American? I live in a world where technology comforts me, but I’m often an outsider because of my skin color. In Mexico, merely walking is an adventure and hard labor. But I love them both; I belong in two places at once. I have two homes where I can relax and be myself. I have two patrias. I am Mexican American.

Amalia Gonzalez is a student at Columbia College Chicago.