MaryJo 2: Mexico

Each morning that I leave my house for school, I find myself pulling tighter at my coat and wishing I put on an extra layer that morning by the time I’m sitting in class. Before I know it, I’ll be bedridden thanks to temperatures below 50 degrees and my abnormally weak immune system. When I’m in homeroom rubbing my arms and wishing I never left my bed that morning, I always turn to fond memories of heat to keep myself warm, my favorites being those of my trips to Mexico.

Although I haven’t visited Mexico in a couple years, my family would try to go to Mexico every other year to keep my mom company on her business trips and at the same time visit my family. Going to Mexico always brings out something in me that I can’t describe; it’s as if all my senses and consciousness work on autopilot and the moment I step out of the Mexico City airport, I'm seeing the world for the first time again. I’ve always had a sentimental attachment to the palm trees, cacti, sunlight you can’t get out of your eyes, and deserts. I was born there, and there is always something inside me that wants to lead me back. Something in the universe decided I belong there, and I feel most comfortable with the world once I am.

Each time I return to Mexico after an absence of 1 or 2 years, I experience a brief culture shock as my mind is forced to abruptly transition from my everyday life in the United States. At first, I am always a little skeptical of all the stray dogs walking along the streets, concerned when my mom starts yelling at windshield washers that try to force their cleaners onto our car, and almost uncomfortable with how friendly and loving everyone is with each other (other than those windshield washers). I remember one time we got into a taxi to get from the airport to the town my family lives in, and in those couple hours my mom had a long and engaging conversation with the driver full of laughter and what sounded like intense gossip. After we got out, I asked my mom if she knew the driver, and she told me she didn’t.

When I am reunited with my family members, I always go in for a quick hug before being embraced, accompanied with a wet kiss planted on my cheek. This is then followed by lines of fast and accented Spanish that sound nothing like the listening exercises I do in Spanish class, smiling and nodding whenever I feel necessary. The only time I am safe from this is when I am placed in front of my cousin only a year older than me, both of us making a silent agreement that transcends languages to initiate the least amount of physical contact as possible. The love that is always present for one another, even extending to strangers, is a huge difference from the reserved nature of Americans. Where there are situations that would just call for a handshake in the US, a warm embrace is exchanged in Mexico.

It’s not until I come back to the United States that I understand why at times I feel homesick even as I am sitting on the couch in my own house. I remember why I hate the cold so much, why I love buying mini cacti, and why I crave tamales so often. It’s as if Mexico has left itself in my skin, my eyes, and everything I carry with myself. My most vivid and comforting memories come from the small moments spent in Mexico that seem insignificant at the moment but become the most nostalgic scenes played over and over in my head. Sitting in my uncle’s truck in the desert, making OXXO stops with my dad when we have nothing to do at the hotel, eating too many tacos at a taqueria, and sitting on the beach at night are the moments that I hold closest to me, and they never fail to improve my mood no matter how far away they seem.