“Have you guys tried Greenville Street Tacos?” my friend, Janiah Cooper, asked.
When those words left Cooper’s mouth, I felt a wave of disappointment. She had never truly experienced authentic Mexican food.
That question carried me back to my childhood when things seemed like they would never change. In the mornings, when the sound of the blender would wake me up, I knew my mom was blending chiles for her salsas. As the smell of jalapenos hit, they promised to add the perfect flavor to the food.
Before coming to SMU, I had the gift of eating homemade Mexican meals. Some dishes trace back generations, each generation teaching the next how to season meat for carne asadas or how to fold the masa for tortillas gently.
At SMU, I searched for a community that made me feel at home. I was fortunate to have met members of HOLA, the Hispanic or Latin Association. The beauty of the organization is that I found other students who came from Mexico and other Spanish-speaking countries, such as Costa Rica, El Salvador, or Honduras.
As a Mexican-American, there is a lingering feeling that a part of you isn’t complete. At least for myself, a part of me longed for the moments when I would visit family in Mexico or hear my aunts from Mexico City on the phone with my Mom.
Now miles away from my home in Houston, I realize what I miss most is not just the food but my community. Growing up with an immigrant and single mother from Mexico City, two things were constant: the push to accomplish the goals I had set for myself and the pride I took in carrying my Mexican culture wherever I went.
My mother made it clear to my sisters and me that our family’s history was an essential part of our identity. From watching Mexican soap operas at the age of 10 to learning how to season caldo de res correctly in my grandmother’s kitchen, I grew proud of my roots.
As summer approached, the anticipation of deciding where we wanted to visit loomed over my mom and sister, Daniela. For weeks, we couldn’t come up with a decision. I knew all along my mother wanted to visit her home in Mexico City, and a part of me wanted to do the same.
After much back and forth, my mom took it upon herself to book the tickets, and we were set to visit her home.
The cool summer air that hit my face when I stepped out of the Benito Juarez Airport and the utter impatience I had waiting for my cousin to pick us up made me appreciate the family and place I could still visit.
It had been years since my mom had seen her second-oldest sister, Rosario, or as we call her, Tia Chayo. When my mom and Tia Chayo finally saw each other, the two could not hold back from embracing. I was blessed to live in a home where any one of my sisters was only a few feet away. I could not imagine being hundreds of miles away from them, like my mom was.
Tia Chayo welcomed us into her home that night with her sweet smile, similar to my grandmother’s long and warm hugs.
The week flew by, and we had our final dinner in her home. Her small kitchen, filled with fresh mangos and a stocked fridge, was the heart of my Tia Chayo. It’s also where she spent the day cooking two types of pozole. That day, we spent walking around the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, grabbing ice cream from one of the local vendors. Later, we feasted on red and green pozole, tostadas de nopal and a cold Coke. Sitting down and watching my family talking took me back to a day in spring, when I was still on campus.
One Saturday morning, I walked into Umphrey Lee to find that the breakfast spread wasn’t anything new. The usual omelet bar was packed with students ordering or waiting for their eggs.
When I began walking away, I smiled at one of the workers, Maria Romero, who had become familiar with me. I asked her what that delicious smell was that reminded me of home. She told me it was chilaquiles she made for the workers. I began to reminisce with Romero about home and missing my mom’s green chilaquiles, and I asked her if I could have some.
Without hesitation, she got me a plate and served me. “Que tengas un buen día, mija,” she said, which means, “Have a great day.”
Romero’s warm tone and sweet smile reminded me of my grandmother and all the laughs I shared with her while listening to stories about my family growing up. Over time, I realized I was finding home at SMU through friends, organizations and even staff members that felt like extended family.
