Casa y Recuerdo

When I think of Casa y Recuerdo (especially when discussing the topic in the Spanish language), my thoughts turn to Mexico. My most treasured childhood recuerdos are associated with Mexico and the three day journey made each summer in our pick-up truck back to my parent’s pueblo in Jalisco, Mexico. A truck that became our home each summer. A home where we forcefully, all five of us had to interact with one another, something that was not very common on a day-to-day basis. The most meaningful childhood memories with my father are associated with this movable home. I became his copilot every time, huge map of Mexico in hand, guiding him down the different freeways in Mexico and ensuring he didn't fall asleep at night when everyone else in the car slept. In some sense, this pick-up truck holds more recuerdos with my father than any other item in my current parent's home.

During class, Tony brought up an interesting point. Those born in Mexico, return to their homeland. However, for me, I was born here, in San Francisco. Am I actually returning then? What does it mean to "return" to a place where, well your roots, customs and traditions lie, but not actual physical day-to-day home? This is the inner conflict that I've grown-up with, one that has became much more conflicting after studying abroad in Milan, Italy this past semester. Still have not come quite to terms with it, but nevertheless Mexico still represent home, to some extent, for me, especially for my childhood years. 

The border crossing at El Paso, Texas to Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua transitioned me to a whole new world filled with the tranquility of  la vida del campo, but exposed to the terror of consistently being searched and stopped by soldados Mexicanos searching for drugs. I knew our road trip was coming to an ended as la milpa del elote greeted us alongside of the huge metal milk-filled barrel right outside of our pueblo. Once in our pueblo, we were safe from soldados, and the terror, for the most part, vanished. 

Many childhood memories revolve around el elote, which is a heavily grown crop in my region, Los Altos de Jalisco, Mexico. El elote brings back childhood memories con mi abuelita que en paz descanse, of our many times desgranando masorcas de elote and feeding the chickens. As a four year old, that was what I always wanted to. El elote reminds me of the tatemas that my father would make with elotes from his brother's milpa. El elote, o mas bien, la milpa del elote that I found when I went for a run in the outskirts of Milan, Italy this past semester, gave me the sanity I needed after being homesick for a couple of weeks. 

Memories, many memories of  running through mi pueblo where the challenges of being raised in a Mexican home in an American society were left behind.