Mexico: how traveling made me connect to my roots

My entire family lives in Mexico City. This past summer, I went to visit them for the first time in 12 years. 

On one of my last days in the city, after spending the day with my grandpa shadowing his surgeries, we drove around the city before heading home, and along the way he decided drive me around UNAM. That was the university where he and my parents studied. Seeing the college students strolling down the street, I imagined my parents there; young and walking together. At that moment I told my grandpa, “Esta es la primera vez que estoy viendo donde mi mamá y papá estudiaron” “Si?” “Si.” It was the first time I saw where my parents went to university; it’s where they first met, yet I hardly knew anything about the institution until now. It was odd thinking about how they grew up in this city, how they went to university here, and their families are still here; yet, I didn’t have a clear concept of how connected I am to this country. Until now, I hardly knew anything about it.

That evening, my grandfather began playing the Spanish guitar for me, and my eyes swelled a little; because I realized that for the first time I knew what it meant to be connected to my family’s heritage. For the first time in 12 years, I had seen where my grandparents lived, where my cousins played sports, what schools my family went to, the markets they went to after school, and the obscure snacks they picked up from street vendors after school such as crickets flavored with lime and Valentina hot sauce. I had fun speaking in Spanish every day, whereas before I always felt awkward whenever I did. For the first time in 12 years I had sewed cotton skirts with my grandma using her 1960s sewing patterns while singing to jazz music. I had spent a whole day looking at all the photo albums that I had never seen before. These included photos of my grandma in the mid-60s, wearing similar styles that I had just learned to sew, and my 74 year old Grandpa when he was fresh out of medical school. I’d never seen what he looked like when he was young. I saw myself in them, and I understood.

To be “Mexican” was no longer a label written by the consulate, but meant that my roots were sewn into the country’s fabric. This may sound cheesy, but as my grandpa was playing the Spanish guitar, I understood why so many generations before me felt proud to call this their country.