Made In Mexico

I'm cramped in the back seat of my dad's truck, surrounded by suitcases and my sleeping twenty one year old brother, Diego, who takes up more space than the luggage and me combined. His skin is so pasty white, people are often surprised to find out we are siblings. He doesn't look Mexican at all. Comfortable and content in his sleep, he snores loudly; his mouth hangs slightly open, drool slowly makings its way down his chin before finally becoming trapped in his "manly" overgrown goatee.
My mom keeps a watchful eye on the speedometer as Dad concentrates on the endless stretch of highway ahead of us. Except for the occasional "Honey, watch your speed...Slow down!...I think that driver is drunk!" Mom is silent. Hair clings to the back of my neck in a sticky, sweaty mess and as I dig in my purse for a ponytail holder, I regret ever coming on this trip.
Last week was spent arguing with Mom. "Why are you making me go? I hate Mexico! Can't I stay at a friend's house while you all go on the trip?"
"Gabriela Isabel Mendoza!" Mom screamed. "Don't be so selfish. Your grandmother isn't going to live forever. What if she dies without her ever seeing you again? How would that make you feel?" In search of my personal C.D. player, I rummage through my overstuffed backpack, but my mind begins to wander. I think about what awaits me at Grandma's. The stinky outhouse. The constant stench that lingers in the air, following me everywhere I go. My stomach aches just thinking about it. What I remember most about the last trip there is almost falling into the outhouse. My mom was standing right outside the door, waiting on me. As I started to slip I screamed for her and she came to my rescue. I have never smelled anything as bad as that outhouse.
I pull on headphones and let Tim McGraw's smooth crooning, sweet as honey, flow into my ears, drowning out the snoring and temporarily allowing me to escape the uneasiness I've felt since leaving on this trip. We are on our way to a country I have yet to embrace. Last time we were there, I was only nine years old, but the memories are still vividly alive in my mind; memories of a place I didn't want any part of.

Different
I first realized I was different on the first day of kindergarten. Mom walked me into the classroom and I was so overcome with nervousness, I wanted desperately to hang on to her.
"You have to stay, Gabby." Mom herself looked like she was going to cry. "Don't worry, I will be back before you know it." She forced my hand from hers and handed me over to the teacher, who was gently patted my back. I tried to hold back the tears, but I was unsuccessful. Mom left anyway.
The teacher took my hand and asked me if I wanted to play with the other girls. A few of them were huddled in a corner, fascinated with the finger painting abilities of a male classmate. I didn't want to ogle some boy's so-called artwork. There was another group of girls who were entertaining themselves in the play kitchen and that's where I wanted to be because they were having the most fun. She led me to them and immediately I grew excited. The smell of play dough and markers filled the air and for a moment all my anxiety vanished along with the tears, but the girls were all fair skinned and they looked at me like I was from another planet. I glared at my dark skin and for the first time I saw what those girls did.

Diego awakens and begins to devour a family size bag of Flamin'Hot Cheetos. His fingers turn a vibrant red and he licks each one thoroughly before putting his hand back into the bag for another handful. By the time he is done eating them, his goatee is covered in crumbs and he shakes it out, sending them flying onto my white t-shirt.
"Diego!" I say, "Now I have Cheeto dust all over me!"
"What's wrong?" Diego asks. "Don't you want my leftovers?" He throws his head back, letting out a burly laugh.
"Very funny," I say, rolling my eyes.
"What is with you? Ever since we've left you've been in a bad mood? So, come on, tell your big brother what's wrong. Is it, you know, that time of the month?" he asks.
I fight the urge to break his large protruding nose. "Shut up and leave me alone!" I yell.
"Diego, you're a little too old to be annoying your sister," Dad states, looking at the rearview mirror through his chocolate eyes at Diego. But Diego, staying true to his immaturity, sticks his tongue out at me. I respond by doing the same.
Diego and I were never close. Being six years older, he would never let me hang out with him in the front yard while he played basketball with his friends. I guess when brothers turn eighteen; they no longer like to associate themselves with their younger siblings.
"No," he would say. "You're too young to be tagging along with me and my friends. I'm not your babysitter." Diego soon went off to college and I was left at home feeling like an only child.

La frontera
As we approach the border, I look behind me, out the window at the beautiful mountains in the distance. They are bluish gray and blend in with the sky above them. Already, I can smell Mexico inching closer with each mile. The desperation of the people who live there is the strongest odor of all, a mixture of sweat and pain, pungent as the human waste that rots in the bottom of my Grandma's outhouse.
We join a long line of vehicles waiting to cross, I find it ironic that so many want to get in, while others die trying to find their way out. My parents have always told me stories of the night they illegally crossed the border into the United States. Dad's cousin, an American citizen, took my brother, who was five at the time and passed him off as his son. Dad carried Mom piggyback across the river, mom three months pregnant with me.. Mom tells me I was made in Mexico, and that I should never forget that.
After crossing the river, they walked ten miles to a family friend's home in southern Texas. There, they bathed and ate before getting on a bus to Oklahoma, where my dad was promised a job paying four dollars an hour; more than triple what he was earning plucking ripe strawberries from the dusty ground in Mexico.
They lived in a cheap motel for three months. Dad left Mom and my brother alone in the motel room while he went to work on construction sites from dawn till dusk. There wasn't much for them to eat besides bologna sandwiches and milk. Unable to afford laundry detergent, she used hand soap to wash their clothing in the bathtub. During
the day, Mom would watch soap operas, even though she couldn't understand a word they were saying. To this day, she is a loyal viewer of The Young and the Restless.
We survive the long wait to cross the border. All around us there are Border Patrol officers carrying guns, threatening those who attempt to jump the border illegally. Even this doesn't stop some from trying to cross. One man runs past the officers and they shoot at him, narrowingly missing his head. The sound of the bullet echoes through the air and the man surrenders, dropping to the ground. He puts his hands up around his head, covering it. The officers pry his hands down before putting them in handcuffs and shoving him into the back of the van. I try to look inside, but all I see is darkness.
A Border Patrol officer approaches our truck, "Are you all American citizens?" he asks.
"No, only one of us is an American citizen," Dad says and Mom hands over their passports and legal resident alien papers. The officer quickly glances at them before handing them back to Dad.
"And what is the purpose of your visit?" the officer asks.
"We are going to visit some relatives," Dad says, as he fidgets with his oversized sunglasses.
"Have a safe trip," he says before waving us through and proceeding to the waiting car behind us.
We stop to use the bathroom, it is filthy and reeks of cigarettes and something else too disgusting to talk about and there isn't any toilet paper in the stalls. Instead, a woman stands outside with a roll of toilet paper in one hand and a basket half full of quarters in the other. Her hair is pulled back tightly in a bun, beads of perspirations are visible on her forehead. She wears a simple, long flowing skirt that looks like at one point may have been white.
Mom digs through her overflowing purse, in search of two quarters. "Gabby, I don't think I have any change," Mom says as she continues her search. Glad I brought my purse with me, I too begin to dig through it. Finally, after several shakes, two quarters emerge from the deep abyss of my handbag.
"Whew," I say. "Never thought I'd be so excited over some spare change." Mom laughs for the first time since we've left home. We each hand the woman a quarter and she hands us a few squares of tissue. I try to picture how hard the woman's life must be to stand in a stinky bathroom, all the while keeping a friendly grin upon her face, but it is too hard to imagine. After using the bathroom we load up into the truck. The air outside is hot and humid and I want nothing more than to take a shower, to let cold water wash away the images that are now imprinted onto my brain.

La casa de mi abuelita
Grandma's house is about four hours from the border, in a tiny mountain village known as La Mesa. It's so high up in the mountains you can almost reach for the clouds. This is also where my mom grew up. The entire town consists of one rundown school and a couple of small stores that stock vital necessities.
As we make our way up the mountain, I notice there are no guardrails on the roadside. I feel like the truck is about to fly off the edge, plunging us to our deaths. The air smells like burning wood and it sneaks its way in through the cracked passenger side window, making my nose sting. I think about Grandma's house, how it doesn't have carpet, and the floors are made of concrete. I think of the comfort of my own home, patiently awaiting my return to Oklahoma. I picture myself sinking into my pillow top mattress, filled with down. Fluffy pillows to rest my sleepy head on, taking me to a peaceful dream. I miss my two miniature rat terriers, Pebbles and Bam Bam, who curl up in my arms, their warmth comforting me as I sleep. These are things that Grandma doesn't have.
Only a few people inside the desolate community of La Mesa have running water, and my grandmother is not one of those few. Each day we were there Grandma braided my hair and put a bright color of lipstick on my lips that matched her own, but Mom would always make me wipe it off. I was eager to, because I didn't want to look like her. My brother and I called grandma the gypsy. Her hair was long and dark, with a thick strip of gray running through it. While we stayed in her house, people would line up outside her front door so Grandma could tell them their fortunes. They would wait for hours with crying babies in their arms and no food or drink. She laid out the cards on a small rusting table in the kitchen and would look to the cards for the answers to her client's questions.
The nighttime sky looked different from the sky I was used to seeing. It was pure black with giant sized stars overwhelming its dark background. They looked like they could come crashing down on us at any moment. We all slept in the same room. Diego and I shared a tiny bed and its springs poked us in the ribs, not letting our sleepy eyes surrender. Mom made us keep our shoes on. When we questioned her about this, she said that at night, all the cockroaches would come out of their hiding places and if we had to go to the outhouse in the middle of the night, they would crawl onto our feet and feast on our tender flesh.
In the still of the darkness, we could hear the neighbor's horses walking freely in the backyard. Grandma hated those horses. She told the neighbors that if they didn't keep them off her land, she would kill them and sell the meat, which is why I decided not to eat anything Grandma cooked. I was too worried I'd be eating someone else's pet. When it was time to leave, I took one of Mom's baby pictures that she had taped to the wall and hid it in my backpack. Grandma hugged me tightly, nearly knocking me out with the strong scent of her perfume, a gift given to her from Diego and me. She kissed me on the check, leaving an imprint of her red lipstick on it.

We finally arrive at Grandma's. Her house is made of brightly colored rock, unconventional colors not normally found on homes; turquoise, pink, purple and yellow. Orange colored shingles make up the roof; many are missing and leave gaping holes, where rain can fall through, flooding the floor and leaving a moldy smell behind. Stray animals mill around the dirt roads, dogs so thin their ribs are visible. I even see a mule, which I assume is someone's form of transportation. Young children linger around their homes, some of them in diapers.
We pull into an empty lot directly behind Grandma's, surrounded by tall green grass and pine trees. Almost immediately, Grandma comes out of her house. Her face is much more wrinkled than I remember- evidence of a hard life. Grandma's arms are outstretched and she walks quickly. I sneak a peek at Diego and can tell by the look on his face that he too, is not looking forward to staying here. We climb out of the truck and Mom walks to Grandma. Tears come down her face, I can almost hear them hitting the ground. Grandma doesn't shed a tear; she just smiles a smile of pure joy.
"I've missed you so much, Mama," Mom says to Grandma, hugging her so tightly I'm afraid she's going to squeeze her to death. Grandma's petite, thin body holds Mom's just as tightly. Grandma turns to me, "My, look how tall you are." For a second I think she might pinch my cheeks, but she doesn't. Instead, she cradles my chin in her hand, which feels rough in contrast to the smoothness of my skin. She kisses my forehead. Grandma does the same to Diego and Dad. Afterwards, we all head into the kitchen.
"I bet you all are hungry, I've prepared lunch." Grandma says, pointing to a big pot of pinto beans boiling on top of the wood burning stove. The crackling fire warms the kitchen, relieving me of my goose bumps.
"I haven't any bread, I ran out last night and forgot to get some this morning. I should walk to the store for some, it won't take me long." Grandma opens a small drawer in the kitchen cupboard, taking out some pesos.
"Why don't you and Gabriela go and get some bread, that way your Grandma and I can visit," Mom says to Diego, who looks more than willing to go.
"Okay, Mom." he says. "Let's go, Gabs." Diego points to the door. Mom hands him some money and we leave for the store.
"Anything to get out of there!" Diego says as soon as we are out the door.
"Yeah, no kidding! I can't imagine living there, day after day. No baths. No showers. I don't know how Grandma does it."
"I don't either, but I'm just glad we don't have to live like that." The store is not far from Grandma's house. As we get close, a short man who looks to be around thirty nearly runs into me. He is wearing a dirt covered cowboy hat and his jeans are torn.
"Aye, chicquita, venga a papi," the man says to me with a look that says he is undressing me with his eyes. Diego immediately goes into big brother mode. He pulls me close to him, ready to punch the life out of the man. He gives him a look that clearly says to stay away. The man automatically takes a step back and puts his hand up, obviously regretting his choice of words. I turn to Diego, "That guy was pretty scary, for a second there I thought he was going to grope me."
"Yeah, I know. But don't worry, I wouldn't have let anything happen to you."
"Thanks."
"Well, I am your big brother, it's kinda my job to protect you ,little sis." He gently hits me on my shoulder. I hit him harder.
As we enter the store, Mercado de La Mesa, the wooden floor creaks beneath my feet. A young woman sits behind the cash counter, and she looks up from her newspaper, giving us a warm smile. The store is even smaller than I remember. A boy about the age of twelve enters the store after us, carrying a basket full of eggs to trade for other items. He is scantily dressed despite the cool weather.
A few customers are carefully inspecting the sparse selection of newspapers and magazines. I contemplate buying a paper but change my mind; I don't read well in Spanish. Among the store's customers is a young mother of three, one child is in her arms and the other two are next to her, laughing and entertaining themselves as their mother browses the canned fruit section. Her face shows frustration as she attempts to quiet the girls.
I walk through the aisles, inspecting the merchandise. I see bars of hand soap, toilet paper, bags of corn flour for tortillas, canned food, shampoo but no conditioner. There is a stack of bagged pinto beans and rice almost as tall as me. One of the aisles has an entire shelf full of glass candles. Some of them have Jesus on the front, his heart enlarged and topped with thorns, while others have the Virgin Mary on them. In the back of the store there is a cooler, filled with glass bottles of Coke and orange flavored Fanta soda, which is my favorite, eggs and fresh milk. Diego opens it.
"Hey, do you want a Coke?"
"No, I'd rather have an orange soda." He hands it to me and I open it right away and take a big gulp of the cool citrus drink.
I let my nose guide us to where the bread is. After placing five white rolls into a plastic bag, we go to the register. Ahead of us is the woman with the three children. She pulls a small bag of pesos from her pocket and dumps them out onto the counter beside the few cans of food she is purchasing. The clerk helps her count the money, and I am relieved when she has enough to pay for her groceries.
After paying for our bread and drinks, we walk back to Grandma's house. By the time we get there, Grandma has our meal prepared for us. Bowls and silverware are arranged on the table. Diego and I sit on next to Mom and Dad, while Grandma brings the pot of beans to the table. I place the bread, still in its bag, in the center of the table. I notice that Grandma doesn't eat much; she takes half a piece of bread and a ladle full of beans. I poke at my beans, and nibble on the bread. Diego digs in, finishing his first serving quickly and gets a second.
"I think I'm going to go to the cemetery after we're done eating," Mom says to Grandma, "Would you like to come with me?"
"Yes, I think I will."
I decide to go with Mom and Grandma to the cemetery, where my grandpa, who I have never met, is buried. He died from pneumonia when Mom was ten years old. The cemetery is a lot nicer than I anticipated. Instead of concrete grave markers, there are small wooden crosses. Many of them are decorated with pictures of their loved ones, so they would always be with them. Grandpa's grave doesn't have any pictures, but it does have a cut out paper heart taped to it and a rosary wrapped around it. Mom bows down her head and says a silent prayer for him. Grandma does the same.

The next morning I awaken to the sound of chatter outside the window. Grandma's clients have begun to line up. A child breaks out in a loud, whiney cry; Dad wakes up and pulls his pillow over his head, covering it. Diego and Mom are sound asleep. Unable to sleep through the noise, I start to walk into the kitchen but stop when I realize that Grandma is there with a client.
Standing by the door, I open it enough to see them sitting at the table. The client is bombarding Grandma with questions.
"Will I ever be rich? When will I find a husband? How many children will I have?" Dressed in a long sleeved plain brown dress, she sits on the edge of her seat in anticipation. Grandma, with a deck of tarot cards in her hands says, "We must be silent. Let us concentrate so I will be able to find the answers." She closes her eyes, instructing her client to do the same. After a few moments of quiet, Grandma's eyes open. Placing cards on the table, she flips them over one by one. Slowly, she begins to tell her client, "I see a husband in your future," she flips another card. "He will be dark and handsome, and he will have a lot of money." A smile forms on the client's face, clearly pleased by the answers.

"But will I have children?" she asks.
"Yes, you will bear three children." Grandma tells her. The client nods her head, happy with the results of her session.
"But," Grandma says, "you will have to move away from the village if you are to find your husband."
"Leave the village? Why?" the client asks.
"Because this man I am seeing in this vision lives in the city of Juarez. Besides, there are no good looking men in this village. I myself have looked."
Stifling a giggle, I can't help but wonder if what she is telling her is true. The client takes some pesos from her dress pocket and places them on the table and leaves without a word. Before another client can enter, I walk into the kitchen.
"Good morning, you are up early. Sit down," Grandma says, pointing to an empty chair opposite of her.
"Was what you said really true?" I ask. Shrugging her shoulders, she extends a pointed finger to the ceiling, "Only God knows the future." Grandma says in a low whisper.
I gasp, "So what you told that woman wasn't true?" With a grin on her face she answers, "Not necessarily. Juarez has many men who are both good looking and rich, surely she will find a husband and have children if she goes there."
"Do you think she will leave the village?" I ask.
"I hope so, there isn't much life here for a young woman like her."


Later on, while everyone goes for a walk, I stay at the house. I notice that Grandma has about a dozen tubes of lipstick all neatly lined up on top of the dresser. I pick one up and look at the bottom, indicating its color as Tahitian Rose. I take its top off, revealing a vibrant pink shade. It is unused. I take the top off another tube and see that it too, has yet to be worn. I check them all, one by one and out of the twelve, only one of the lipsticks has been used. Also on the dresser top, is the bottle of perfume, White Shoulders, which Diego and I gave to Grandma six years ago the last time we were here. The perfume is half full.
On one side of the wall hangs a collection of rosaries, every kind imaginable, gold, silver, even the rarest type, which is made from compressed rose petals, capturing their flowery sweet fragrance. The beads are white and red, which represent both the blood that was shed by Jesus and the purity of the Virgin Mary. I pick it up, bringing it to my nose, taking in its scent.
"Do you like it?" I hear Grandma ask. I jump back, startled. "Oh, I didn't see you come in? Where is everybody?"
"I couldn't keep up with them, so I came back. They will be back soon though." Grandma takes the rosary from my hands and holds it up, admiring it.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Grandma asks, placing it back into my hands.
"Yes, it is." I say. "Where did you get it?"
"A friend gave it to me." I hang up the rosary on the wall, and as soon as I do, Grandma takes it back off, handing it to me, "It's yours, keep it."
"I can't," I tell her, shocked that she would give me something so rare, something that seems so special to her.
"What am I going to do with it? You've got the rest of your life to enjoy it."
"But it seems so special to you," I say.
"Yes, it is and that's why I want you to have it. I'm a poor woman and I've never been able to buy you birthday presents or Christmas presents, I want you to have something to remember me by when I am gone," Grandma says and my eyes fill up with tears. I take the rosary, carefully placing it into my purse. When I get home I will take it out and hang it on my wall as a tribute to Grandma.

La despedida
The next day it is time to leave and Mom is overcome with emotion, clinging to Grandma much the same way I clung to her on that first day of kindergarten. For the first time in my life, I see Mom as a little girl who doesn't want to leave her mother. She has only seen her twice in the last six years, only able to visit when Dad's construction business is slow. Grandma shows no signs of sadness upon her face.
"I am glad you all came to see me. Hopefully we will have another visit." I look into her eyes for any trace of unhappiness, but there is none. I recall a conversation I overheard last time we visited Grandma. Mom was arguing with her.
"Let us help you. I don't like you living like this," Mom said to her. "We are making plenty of money now. The business is doing very well."
"I am perfectly happy here," Grandma told her. "I was born here on this mountain, and I will die here on this mountain." I have always wondered why Grandma refused Mom's help, but now it has suddenly hit me. This is the only life she has known. She feels comfortable with it and somehow manages to find pleasure in the little things this place offers. The quiet, how the dew drops dance on the pine trees, illuminated by the sun's rays; the way the stars shine brighter here than anywhere else. I can't imagine living this life, but Grandma doesn't know any other way of living.
While we make our way down the mountain, Mom stares out the window. Her eyes appear heavy with sorrow, and it makes me wonder whether she would rather have stayed with Grandma, instead of going back to Oklahoma. It must have been hard for Mom and Dad to leave their country. I asked Mom once, why they didn't stay in Mexico.
"Were you two not happy there?"
"It's not that we weren't happy," Mom said, "Mexico was my home, it's in my heart and runs through my blood. Your dad and I simply didn't want to raise children in a country void of opportunity.”
I realize now what a big sacrifice was made. Mom and Dad left the only place they have ever known and even though we are living a thousand miles away from it, Mexico lives on in them.

Chihuahua
"Only twenty more minutes till we get to Chihuahua," Mom happily announces. Chihuahua is where my dad was born and raised and where he met Mom, after she moved there to live with her aunt. This city is home to many family members and friends. It used to be a small town, but through the years has grown into a large city. Last time I was here, I didn't like it and I doubt this time will be any different. The city stinks. It smells heavy with oppression and makes me want to throw up the tacos I ate for lunch. Pollution is everywhere, filling my lungs and making it difficult to breathe, it invades my eyes, making them water. I cough repeatedly, trying to get a breath of fresh air, but I can't breathe something that isn't even there.
Chihuahua is just as I remember it, only this time there are more people roaming the streets. There are little children all along the road, especially around the stop lights. Cars honk at them, warning them to stay away. As we come to a stop at one of the lights, a little boy jumps onto our windshield and sprays the glass, drying it with newspaper. Dad rolls down his window and gives him some spare change. I look at the little boy and he is dressed in rags. His eyes are big and innocent and for an instant I think that I might cry because my life could have been like his. His scrawny hand grasps the money tightly, his knuckles turn white. He grips it in his hand for a few moments before finally dropping it into a small bag he pulls from his pocket. His eyes meet mine for a split second before he continues on to the car behind us.

We stop for gas and I'm shocked at how expensive the prices are. Three dollars and fifty seven cents per gallon.
"Dad? Why is the gas so expensive?" I ask him as he gets out of the truck.
"Because the government makes it that way," he answers, getting out cash from his wallet.
"Why would the government make the gas so high, especially when the people here are too poor to afford it?" I begin to feel anger building from deep inside me.
"The Mexican government doesn't care about their people," Dad explains, "all the gas is owned by the government and they make all the prices the same so that people have no choice but to purchase it. Unless they want to walk, and that's exactly what some people do.”
"But that doesn't seen very fair," I tell him.
"The government doesn't care about being fair," he says, "it has been this way for a long time, they aren't going to change. They are corrupt, greedy, money hungry politicians who only care about themselves and their own families; they don't care about the poor people stuck in this country." Hearing this, I wish I could tear down the border, letting anyone and everyone who wanted to come to the United States through.

La Iglesia
After getting back on the road. Mom says we are going to an old church she's wanted us to see. It's on the other side of town, where the pollution isn't nearly as thick. My lungs immediately feel relief. I would have rather gone to a hotel to sleep and take a cold shower, but my parents are dead set on taking us into this church.
"Mom, what's the big deal with going to this church? What makes it so special?" I ask, hoping she will change her mind about going. Mom smiles, "You will see when we get there."
Diego is fast asleep and his snoring is annoying, I want to staple his mouth shut. I poke him hard in the gut.
"Ouch," he wakes up and gives me a confused look. "Why'd you poke me? I was sleeping."
"Because, you are snoring again and it's getting on my nerves," I say.
"I'm always on your nerves, what else is new?" he asks. "I'm going back to sleep."
"Alright," Dad says, bringing the truck to a stop. "Everybody out."
The street opposite the church is lined with several bakeries, the smell of freshly baked pastries fills the air. A young man, who looks to be about eighteen, is leaving the church and he holds the door open for us. I make eye contact with him and he winks. He flashes me a wide smile, which shows off his perfect white teeth. His eyes are the color of night and I wish I could look into them for eternity. He possesses smooth caramel skin that begs to be touched and I practically have to stop myself from doing so. I'm not allowed to date yet, and even if I was I probably couldn't get a boy to ask me out if my life depended on it. Yukon High School is full of preppy looking white boys who date pretty blonde white girls. I catch a whiff of his cologne, it's spicy with a hint of sweetness. He gives me one last glance before I disappear into the church. It's a look I will never forget.
I expect the church to be old and falling apart like everything else in this city, but as I enter it, beauty unfolds before me. White lit candles adorn the cherry wood pews and at the front center hangs an extravagant crucifix. At the bottom of it, there are dozens of red roses and their petals cover the entire front of the church. Made of shiny white marble, the floor is rock hard beneath my feet. Stained glass windows cover the walls, whispering a glorious story to all who enter. Goose bumps cover my arms and legs. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"This is gorgeous," I say to my parents.
"You think so?" Mom asks. "I knew you would like it."
"I would have never expected to see a church like this here; this is such a poor city, why would they have such a nice church?" I ask out of curiosity.
"Because," she says while walking to the center of the church, joining hands with Dad. "The people of this city may be poor, but they are very proud of this church and their religion. It was built in the late eighteen hundreds."
"Hey," Diego says, as if a light suddenly went off in his head, "this church kind of looks familiar. I think I may have seen it in a magazine or something."
"It should look familiar," Dad says. "your mom and I were married here and so were my parents. You have seen it in all of our wedding pictures."
My parents, along with Diego, go to the back of the church, where they light candles for all of our dead relatives and pray. I stand in the center of the church, taking in its magnificence. It is the same church that has brought people together and joined them in hope and love. Taking the rosary out of my purse, I hold it in my hands and think about Grandma. I stare out the church's largest window, and see the country where my history was born, where it lives through those who continue to endure it. I look past the struggle of poverty that many dream of escaping, and see the land where I was made.