With it being Hispanic Heritage Month, I naturally decided to talk about it in my column this week. Growing up, I was always confused about what I exactly called home. I was born and raised in North Carolina — but with a twist. Both of my parents are from Sonora, Mexico, the state that borders Arizona. So, I’m your Southern belle, but with an edge.
When I was younger, my parents and I would visit Mexico twice a year. As my grandparents got older, we switched to once a year. My culture has always been present since the day I was born. Spanish was my first language, and I insist my parents only speak to me in Spanish — I find it almost dystopian when they speak to me in English. I also do this because I want to practice as much as possible. I’d say I’m about 96% fluent. There are times when I stumble, but I always manage to get my point across.
For my parents, it was always important that I understand and appreciate my culture.
I’ve always been proud of my heritage, and I try my best to support Mexican artists and stay up to date with news from Mexico. I’m an absolute menace whenever my favorite Hispanic film directors are nominated for Oscars — I like to think I single-handedly run their campaign trail. After all, I have dual citizenship, so I am one of them (literally).
My family hasn’t exactly been the Cinco de Mayo type. My cousin and I have a running joke that the holiday is mainly reserved for Americans who want their all-you-can-eat guac — and more power to you, but we don’t view it as a significant holiday. I’d say the real highlights in Mexican culture are Independence Day and Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead.
I’ve personally never celebrated Day of the Dead in Mexico, since I usually travel during the holiday season and this is observed Nov. 1. But I love the concept of an ofrenda and remembering our loved ones — hopefully this year I’ll make one of my own.
You may be asking yourself, “This girl doesn’t celebrate anything,” and to some degree you’d be right. But I think my heritage is more than a handful of celebrations. It’s the little things that matter. I miss my conversations with my grandfather about his childhood — how he dropped out of school in fourth grade to work and help his parents. He eventually grew up, met my grandmother, and the rest is history.
My dad came to the United States in the ’80s searching for the American dream. His journey began in Arizona, then Florida, and eventually North Carolina.
That’s why Hispanic Heritage Month is more than just a recognition on the calendar for me. It’s a reminder of the sacrifices my family made, the traditions they carried, and the identity I get to hold with pride — Southern roots, Mexican soul and the best of both worlds.