Love and Hospitality

My great-grandmother was a lovely woman. She had a warm but distinguished Louisianan accent, and even at age 90, she had incredibly long, white hair. Whenever my mom and I would visit her house on the park, I’d come hungry. Right when you’d enter, she’d offer a cup of coffee or tea. If you politely declined, it wouldn’t be long before she’d offer again, then again, then again (I think she probably forgot that she had already offered four or five times, so she’d just keep asking). After coffee, it was ice cream, then candy, then another hot drink. I think she’d learned to show love and hospitality by offering food and drink.

When I arrived in Atlacomulco last week, I should have left my stomach as empty as my suitcases were full. Marina and her granddaughter were gracious enough to invite me into their home while I settled in and searched for a more permanent place. As soon as my first meal there rolled around, I recognized the joyfully familiar hospitality-through-food-sharing that I love about my home state.

My first breakfast was actually two breakfasts. I had the toast and jam that I thought would be my only morning meal, only to learn that that doesn’t really count. Marina (or Marinita) fixed me two fried eggs, a bowl heaping with freshly made green salsa, piping hot corn tortillas, and a quesadilla. It was all incredibly delicious, but I figured the huge portion size accounted for it being my first day there. Not so.

The following day, I made the same mistake of fixing myself toast and jam for breakfast, only to learn that she had purchased four enormous loaves of sweet bread baked over a wood fire with the hopes of me trying all of them. Afterwards, I smiled and thanked her for the delicious and filling breakfast. She replied, “I hope you’re not too full for barbacoa tacos?” Now, I was a bit too full for hearty meat tacos and was a bit confused by the offer at 10 AM, but I happily ventured out with her anyway. We had spent the night in her home town. I was excited by the opportunity to walk around, even though the elevation is higher than it is in Atlacomulco (almost 9,000 feet). Both the scenery and the elevation took my breath away.

I feel in love with her town right away. It reminds me of General Cepeda, my childhood home in the North of Mexico, much more than Atlacomulco does. We made our way past the rows of street vendors to an open air market in the center of town. She’s been getting barbacoa tacos here for years, and knows the vendor personally. Upon ordering, he pulled back roasted maguey leaves that protect each layer of the barbacoa. Then, he chopped and heated up the barbacoa on a circular skillet that is close enough to warm you while you sit at the table. Women next to him molded, pressed, and cooked blue corn tortillas right in front of us. The combination became the most tender, mouth-watering barbacoa tacos that I can imagine. I started to contrive ways to make it in time to eat these tacos every Sunday of my life (they’re only sold one day a week, and you have to arrive before noon if you want to get them).

Marina is a wonderful host mom. All throughout my stay at her house, she offered kindness after kindness—I could come to her hometown with her every Sunday, she’d show me the path up the neighboring mountains, I’d be welcome at her family’s celebrations, I could continue to live in her home if I wanted. Her offers of hospitality put me at ease and made my transition into my new city very comfortable. With her, I learned about the upcoming national celebration, that just happens to coincide with the feast day of Atlacomulco. September 16th is going to be a big deal. She informed me that the gun shots I thought I heard are actually fireworks that accompany every religious procession in town, and she laughed when she heard that I literally jumped in the street after hearing them. And all throughout, she fed me huge quantities of incredibly delicious food.

On my third day with her, after my second breakfast (I am starting to think I was a hobbit for a week), we sat down on her sister’s couch in front of the news. Donald Trump was on the screen, as he would be for the rest of the week. The newscasters processed the most recent, blood-chilling news from Washington surrounding the cancellation of DACA. We hadn’t been sitting for two minutes when Marina asked if the people alla (in the USA) really do hate our people, the Mexican people, so much. I held back tears and did my best to give some explanation behind what is a mess of a situation. “It’s certainly not everyone,” “people are afraid and don’t really know what to do,” “sometimes, it’s easier to believe a simple explanation, even a hate-fueled one, instead of finding the solution to a complicated problem.” What struck me most, I think, is how the president of the USA has come to be a symbol of hatred and intolerance in our neighboring country, how this hatred has become a reality for incredible and incredibly kind people like Marina. I’m not surprised that it happened, knowing who it is that occupies the presidency, but it was painful to see its repercussions, raw and alive, in my host’s living room.

So, I have settled in my new home for a year. I feel lucky and incredibly blessed to have landed in such a beautiful place. I am grateful to be surrounded by so many people, including Marinita, who continue to care for and look after me. I am also thankful to learn hospitality and to experience what it means to have a true, charitable neighbor from a country of people who, by and large, still know how to show it. I am very much looking forward to this year of learning, inside and outside of my classrooms. And while it may be a bit of a messy time, I am thankful to be here now, at a time when interpersonal conversation can help to shape our international understanding.