Memories in Mexico
Dedicado a mi querido Grandpa
For me, Mexico is a land of memories. So much goes into really loving someone. A combination between the smell, the feel, and the way they make you feel. The more experiences you make with them. You want to know more about that person and you start to find their flaws captivating. This is how I feel when I think about Mexico. This is how I feel about my grandfather.
Growing up, I was very close with my grandparents and for this reason I feel very blessed. I cherish the memories I have from growing up in their home. Throughout my childhood, my grandparents were present for every event. They came to all of my choir concerts, musicals, piano recitals, and every graduation since kindergarten. I couldn't celebrate any event without having them there because they are like my second parents. I have so many vivid and episodic memories of all the times I spent with them.
I close my eyes. I can see memories of my grandpa making my favorite drink, "pachaquike" and getting ready to watch the movie Titanic with me for the thousandth time. Bedtime at my grandparents house was also special because my grandpa would tell me stories of his childhood in Mexico. He talked about working at a young age and always helping his family. He told me how at four years old, he would walk into town all alone to buy el mandado. His family didn’t have much but expressed the love he had for Mexico despite the hard times he lived. I loved his stories and hoped to one day visit Mexico.
My favorite day to spend with him was Sundays. Every Sunday we would wake up early, watch a movie, and then get in our best clothes for church. I knew grandpa was ready to leave once the smell of his cologne seeped through his bedroom to the living room. After church, grandpa would take us out to eat and always let me choose the restaurant. I would always say La Quebrada or Olive Garden. At Olive Garden my order was always the same, pasta Alfredo and Grandpa would order the "pasta Berenice" which later I found out was not a real pasta. Memories like this make me stop, smile, and miss him.
Since I could speak, I would beg them to take me to Mexico on their yearly trips, but they said I was too young. Finally, at six years old my grandparents said I was old enough to go with them on their trip to Mexico. We traveled all across Mexico but we spent most of our time in Cuernavaca, Morelos at my grandparents' home in Mexico. The new smells, sights, sounds, and colors of Mexico were inextricably woven into the memories of my grandparents. This place immediately felt like home. All the stories my grandfather told me at bedtime came to life. I even begged him to let me walk to the corner store alone and buy whatever we needed. I wanted to feel like I was helping as he helped his family growing up. He let me go but he watching from afar, but I loved it. I met so many family members, characters come to life.
My grandfather loved to share. He helped countless people from Mexico who were now trying to make a new life for themselves in the U.S. He shared his time, money, advice and, above all, his love. But he passionately and, some would say, excessively loved to share food. For lunch, he would take me to his favorite spot, which quickly became my favorite. It was at a small puesto (teency restaurant) on the corner of a busy street in the center of Morelos. We ate consome and picaditas until we hurt. This is where my love for picaditas and all things cheese took off. We would always order a huge amount of food and I could barely finish it. So grandpa started the saying "Èl que acaba primero, le ayudarle a su compañero" meaning "Whoever finishes first, helps his partner" he would then turn around and eat whatever I couldn't finish.
Our yearly trip to Mexico happened around Christmas time because my grandpa loved to throw Posadas. Everyone who lived in Morelos knew about it. We would close down our block and it felt like the whole town was there. My grandpa would buy food, presents, piñatas, and candy for all the kids and families who had nowhere to spend Christmas. I loved being a part of this because I saw the happiness he brought to so many people. All of this made me happy to travel to Mexico.
In recent years I have been traveling to different parts of the world but on Friday, September 14th 2018, I traveled back to Morelos, Mexico. That place that held so many beautiful memories for me, now brought a somber memory. While on vacation there, my grandpa passed away. My grandparents decided to take a two week trip to Mexico to spend time with family back in Morelos. My grandpa wanted to spend time with one of his brothers who had just been diagnosed with cancer. After a week there, my grandpa became sick and underwent an emergency surgery. I received a call from my mom at six in the evening on the day of his surgery. I remember my heart sinking and not wanting to pick up the phone. Then she called Dain, who answered the call and his face said it all. As he handed me the phone, I felt pain, anger and powerless, I didn’t want it to be true. I loved my grandpa as a father.
His commemorative service was beautiful. All of the beloved characters coming together to see him again one last time. He was interred at a cemetery with his youngest son Freddy and his parents. His life had led him to the United States to raise a family and flourish. He set down deep roots, started businesses, helped countless people and became a citizen. But when he passed, he passed in Mexico. The land that made him who he was. In the land of his family and roots. In a way, his passing was perfect. He was able to see all his family in both the U.S. and Mexico because parties were thrown for his brother who had been diagnosed with cancer. My grandpa's death was unexpected but couldn't have been planned better.
A month later I traveled back to Mexico for Dia de los Muertos or Day of the dead. The trip had been planned in advance of my grandpa's passing but now the trip took on new meaning, a new memory to be made.
Dia de los muertos is both a very personal and widely celebrated Mexican tradition. To the native people of Mexico, death was an important part of life. People celebrate those who died, instead of mourning them. There is a strong belief in the afterlife and to them death was just another step, not the end. To this day, there are numerous festivals and gatherings to remember and honor those who have passed.
They make ofrendas to remember those that passed. They are adorned with beautiful arranged fresh flowers, photographs, candles, food and drink. Many of the ofrendas are temporary monuments of highly personal art. Cempasuchiles (marigolds) are everywhere. The cemetery smells more like a garden than anything else. The aisles of headstones are serenaded by banda music. It is neither somber nor rowdy. Neither festive nor macabre. It is a mix of all of these things and yet nothing like any of them. There is no equivalent custom in the United States.
This Dia de los Muertos, I traveled to San Miguel de Allende. This was the perfect place to take part in this beautiful tradition. People from all over the world travel just to be a part of it. San Miguel is known for its vibrant streets, artistic life, rich history, colonial architecture and authentic Mexican culture. It is another place rich with memories. It has strong connections to Mexico's colonial and revolutionary history.
On this day, I walked through San Miguel de Allende towards the cemetery. Everyone else was walking the same direction with flowers, food, and baskets of decorations in hand. On my walk, I couldn’t help but think of my grandpa. All the memories started flooding back.
To me, he was the greatest man. I witnessed him help anyone and everyone but never asked anything in return. He was the biggest blessing in my life. My grandpa was affectionately known as "Chicho." He was the anchor of our family his entire life. He made sure our family was united and he got us through anything that life put in our way. If anyone needed anything, he was the person they went to, in Mexico or the U.S. He helped every person that needed it.
My grandpa, moved to the United States in his mid-thirties and accomplished more than some people do in a life time. He achieved a life many birthright Americans dream of. Without knowing English, he started many businesses. Not only for himself, but for the entire family. He loved his family so much and I will forever be grateful.
This trip was different. I was coming back to the land where I left my heart, the land full of memories. Though I believe he is in heaven and that I will someday see him again, for now I keep him in my heart. Returning brought both sadness and happiness all at once. I always had so much appreciation for him, so much that I had recently written him a letter. A thank you letter for being an inspiration to me. Even though I told him in person, it will never feel like it was enough.
Grandpa, I will always keep the best of our memories near to my heart. I am proud of the example you set, your dedication, work ethic, for your love, and your stories, for giving me everything I could ever need. Thank you for sparking the love of travel in me, for giving me my first trip to Europe at fifteen instead of a quinceañera everyone wanted and for always encouraging me to do what I loved. My grandpa would always tell me, "Mija, tu viaja y disfruta por mí.” Now, when I travel, I feel him with me.
For me Mexico is a land of memories, the land where I left my heart in so many stories. My Mexico is found along the quiet dusty roads of Morelos, where my grandpa and I used to drive. It's on that corner where we would have our daily consommé and picaditas. Now, I have buried your body, and have left my heart, but no matter how far my traveling leads me. I will always come back to you. Te amo, Grandpa!