Viva México!

How are you viviendo México hoy?

My coworker Juan asked me if I was going to celebrate today. I just laughed and said no. I’m tired and old. He just chuckled. I like Juan he’s quiet and seems sweet. He gives me first gen vibes.

Yesterday my neighborhood was wild and awake and full of energy. People were shouting at the top of their lungs and honking their horns in celebration. 

How do I vivir México?

I do that a lot. Speak Spanish in English.

It’s having a Spanish brain colonized by English speaking surroundings. “En esta casa se habla español,” becomes, “háblale a tus padres en español,” becomes “speak what you’re most comfortable in, they understand you anyway. They’ve lived here for a majority of their lives.”

It’s not being a “no sabo” kid. Thankfully, you’re not that bad. You tell them it’s ok, it’s not their fault they don’t know Spanish. But still, you clutch your gold name plate given to you by your Nina, and think, Como puede ser?

You can’t imagine not being able to jajaja con la Cuatro on Saturday nights, or fully understand how Chente was El Rey.

Yet every September you feel like you’re missing out.

I don’t really honk my horn or get dressed up with flags. Even though they’re readily available for weeks on every corner in my neighborhood.

It’s not my way. It’s not my tradition. My parents were not like that. And I guess that’s why I’m not either. We’re not. My sisters and I, the types to wear the red, white, and, green and wave flags on the corner. 

Sure we went to the parade downtown. Early in the morning on a Saturday. Stopping at the two story Mcdonald’s on Randolph and Dearborn for breakfast. But once the parade was over, we went home and packed up the flag for another year. 

What do you need a flag for? When you’ve got that huge nopal on your forehead?

How much does it matter?

Am I not Mexican enough when I say my last name in Español, or say mande when someone calls me in Spanish? Or how about when we get together to make tamales using my grandmother’s recipe?

These are the tiny flags I wave on a daily basis. The shouting I do from my kitchen.

Viva Mexico, every day.