Returning to Brownsville...

While driving down highway 77, I pass the familiar sign that reads "Robstown". I check my speed gauge automatically. I grin and think "I guess some habits are hard to break." It reminded me of one of my drives in which I received a speeding ticket near Robstown on my way to Brownsville, Texas while on Spring Break from Southwest Texas State University.

Ten years later, I am returning to Brownsville to conclude my Texas book tour for Las Niñas. It is my final stop before I return to California. After Robstown, I notice all the recognizable cities that notify me of a shorter distance ahead. I pass Sarita, a city I can't miss since it's also my nickname. I drive over a bridge that announces Harlingen ahead of me. Brownsville is only exits away.

Brownsville is more than a border town and the southernmost tip of Texas; it is my place of origin. I spent the first four years of my life learning Spanish from my grandparents and eating homemade flour tortillas con frijoles made with manteca. I always refer to being born in Brownsville as receiving the best of both worlds – all the Mexican heritage with the U.S. citizenship.

As soon as I get out of the car, I take a deep breath to inhale all that the humid air has to offer. The aroma of mesquite trees, hot sun and fresh cut grass linger at the back of my throat. Visions of South Padre Island, homemade tortillas and bottled flavored soda from Matamoros flash in my mind as I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

Next I look around to see if anything has changed. The fence around my grandparent's house seems to be worn out; I have to jiggle the latch just to get in. I question if I'm at the right house. I look around again and think to myself, "Wasn't this fence new the last time I came to visit?" I enter the path that is marked by milk jugs storing the last rain and ivy leaves creating a garden façade on the walls of the house. I swat the spider webs from my face and fix my hair before I knock.

I wait a few seconds with my finger on the doorbell, thinking "Maybe they can't hear the knocking? After all, they are older now." Dressed in her usual oversized floral night gown, Abuelita opens the door stating, "Ay Sarita! Mira Javier, ya llego Sarita."

She looks older. Her hair is gray and each step is slower. But her smile still conveys that love I remember as a child. The same smile from years ago that never gives away her age. She grins from ear to ear as her aged hands clasp mine and she reaches for a hug. I embrace her, trying not to let her see the tears in my eyes. She really seems a lot older this time. We kiss each other on the cheek, a greeting tradition that was taught to me by my grandmothers.

I walk over to my grandparent's bedroom and try not to stare at my grandfather's aged face as he lies in his bed. I notice nothing has changed in the room, except for them. Abuelito is very fragile now; surviving Parkinson's has humbled his machismo pride that every Mexican man is taught to display. He hesitates to take my hand as he stands up to greet me. When he stumbles, he reaches for me to help him from falling. I sit on their bed, to keep him comfortable.  My grandmother continues to tell her story as if nothing has occurred, saving the last of his pride.

I can't help but wonder how my grandmother came to be such a woman. As she turns the pages of the family photo album that she has shared with me many times before, I wonder what makes her so patient, submissive and above all maintain such an endurance to live.

Here I am defying all laws of our culture, single at the age of thirty-four and travelling throughout the world without a male companion to protect me or should I say guide me? I have sipped on plenty of drinks, at times over indulged, while Abuelita's lips have never touched alcohol and she has been married to the same man for over fifty years, even though she has countless stories about his infidelity.  The only analogy I can draw from my life is that when a Mexican gentleman accompanies me and insists on walking along the street side to protect me out of respect for our culture, I smirk and think about diverting my walk to his opposite side just to prove that I don't need him. In the end, I just keep walking as we are just to respect his intent, as Abuelita would.

All I can assume is that somewhere beneath the floral nightdress and gray hair there lived a spirited woman who gave me the opportunity to live my life in the United States as an independent soul and the liberty to choose the parts of my Mexican culture that I will maintain and pass on to the next generation. But I can't keep from thinking if those were her true intentions or could she just be living in the simple pride we have lost through the years.

I am eager to hear her stories that I will soon share with the rest of the world, she is the reason I will be returning to Brownsville for my next book. María Luisa Castillo existed before Abuelita María Luisa García; I can only hope that I will be able to find myself in her.

I think I already have in many ways. Returning to Brownsville made me realize what I'm missing in my life and more importantly what I want to remain the same in order to share it with the next generation.

Necesito mi cultura y familia para existir. I need my culture and family to exist. Therefore, I will return to Brownsville to acknowledge my culture and family, volverá a Brownsville para reconocer mi cultura y familia.