I’ve always struggled with connecting to my heritage. I never felt “Mexican” enough. I have light skin and can’t speak Spanish without stuttering out the wrong pronoun or forgetting a translation. As I got older and started connecting with distant cultures, I realized that I needed to embrace every part of my own. However, at the beginning of this year, it all felt pointless. My Grandma suddenly passed away in January. I was taking a Spanish class that semester and it felt cruel. How is it fair to perfect my Spanish when she’s not even here for me to talk to anymore? All the stories I ever could hear from her were gone. Learning her language felt pointless. The part of me that was working to embrace my Mexican heritage felt bruised without the motivation of her.
My Grandma Yolanda was only two months shy of turning 83, but she moved like she would live forever. Even when she slowed down, I always saw her that way—almost immortal. It’s the first Día de Los Muertos without her and I’m happy to celebrate her. For the first time, I finally saw the true purpose of this holiday. It’s a time to reflect on the good times we had with those we’ve lost and to share the love. Instead of grieving negatively and shutting down, we can positively reflect on our loved ones as a community. After all, they’d want us to celebrate their lives.
Grandma was already raising 4 kids when she decided to start a new life in the United States. Crossing the San Diego-Tijuana border to work as a cleaner was the stepping stone in her immigration story. She made Pico Union the home for her lineage, a district within Downtown Los Angeles—home to an abundance of Mexican immigrants. Grandma was no stranger to the triumph of pregnancy. She had at least 6 children before Mom and would go on to have 4 after her. For me, that became the most beautiful thing to come from grief: an infinite family tree.
Grandma dedicated her life to raising her children. She was a mother before anything else and that made her a woman I admired. It’s absurd to me how the ones who come after her death will never know her. They’ll only be able to dream up distant images of her. They won’t hear her voice, hug her, smell her, or even be taken care of by her. My cousins and I all have similar stories of her, despite our large age gaps. As kids, we would frantically surround the small TV in the living room, cluelessly wondering what she would put on for our sleepovers. All we can say is she got us used to horror movies at a very young age. This humorous tradition had some intention to make us all a little braver. Just like she was, if we can compare ourselves to her at all.
She was a fighter in everything that she did. She conquered motherhood and bathed in the infinite love of her grandkids every chance she got and loved us all abundantly. Most of all, her person was overwhelmed with legacy. You can analyze her womanhood, her motherhood, her immigrant story, and her whole life to conclude, with the truth, that she did everything right. Any flaw was just an implication of her humanity because every so often, I even forgot that she was just like me. I didn’t even realize how much of an impact she had on my womanhood until she was gone. She was the kind of woman I aim to be: fearless in action and so passionately and emotionally loving to her family.
I might not get to see her anymore, but opening myself to the history she connected to most fulfills the lack of her. I’ll put my grief to the side to continue embracing my heritage, even if I won’t get to share it with her. I’ll do it all, in order to make her struggles worth it. I won’t forget all the movies we watched together, even if she fell asleep sometimes. I credit her for my love of action movies. Every time I see a garden, I’ll think of her love for her own. I wish I had her green thumb. Every time I buy a lottery ticket, I’ll be reminded of her gambling. I never got to go to the casino with her. When I look in the mirror at my curls I’ll remember she used to call me Shakira. I love my curly hair because of her. When school starts to get stressful I’ll remember her reminders of how important education was. I’ll graduate college because she never had the privilege to. When I start to get hungry, I’ll think of how I never was whenever I was at her house. I still miss her Avena.