Tamales con mi abuela
Family tradition
Ever since I could remember, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Mother's Day and birthdays were all at my abuela's house. She would spend hours in the kitchen and preferred to take on the herculean task of preparing Spanish rice, pinto beans, carne asada and red pork tamales all by herself.
As we waited and caught up with other family members in the living room, I remember her small radio playing rancheras amid the clanking of pots and pans.
My struggle with diaspora
I had trouble identifying with my Mexican-American heritage growing up.
Despite living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, my only exposure to my heritage was when my mom spoke Spanish to someone over the phone or when I was with my grandparents.
As I grew older, months would pass between visits with them. When I did visit, my grandma would hold me and cry. In Spanish, she asked why I never visited her.
Her cries eroded my reluctance to visit. I remember tearing up and telling her: "Yo no se, abuela. Lo siento." I don't know, grandma. I'm sorry.
I felt guilty I hadn't spent as much time with them as I should have. I loved them and they loved me, but I felt lost like I didn't know what my place was in the family.
I promised to spend more time with her.
Rebuilding what I lost
I kept my promise and they shared their stories with me. My grandparents, Irene and David, emigrated from Zacatecas, Mexico in the early 1960's. They moved to Reseda, California and had two children, my mom and my aunt.
Life was difficult for them. My grandfather struggled with alcoholism and my grandmother worked long hours as a house cleaner to provide food and clothes for them.
I played dominoes with my grandpa like I used to when I was little, and I sat at my grandma's table going through old family Polaroid photos of her growing up on a small, remote ranch.
Language was the worst barrier to be between us. My aunt was our translator. It felt like a duty to learn Spanish the more that I strengthened my relationship with them.
I read Spanish children's books to her that I had checked out from my library and shared sentences from new vocabulary that I was learning.
As long as I can remember, my grandma had a routine for putting my cousin to bed.
She always told my cousin, in Spanish, "goodnight my little boy -- sweet dreams my king."
Her voice cut through me and I finally understood her words.
I choked up at the realization that I had lost so much time with them and that I had never truly listened.
The Christmas before the COVID-19 pandemic, I asked her if she can teach me how to make her tamales.
She was a bit hesitant to have another person in the kitchen, but she eventually said yes.
Before I arrived, she already had bowls of masa on the table and hundreds of corn husks. I didn't have a clue on how to fill and fold a tamale.
It felt awkward; the first batch I prepared were misshapen, ugly balls. With her help, I eventually got it right.
Together we made about 200 tamales, each individually wrapped and tied with a corn husk bow.
I still struggle with learning Spanish and feeling connected to my heritage, especially after the pandemic, but I know there are people in my life who will help me get it right.