México Pequeño

A week of family adventures in Little Mexico, my hometown in Southeastern Colorado. I dubbed it Little Mexico because I forgot the mix of cultures that it is. In Mexico I remember the people I’d met there asking me what I thought about it and how different it was from home. I shook my head and replied that it reminded me of home. They looked at me with disbelief and I began doubting my memory.

Then I went to home to Lamar for a week. I think the town is at least 50/50 white to Hispanic, possibly 45/55. Something you feel when you enter town on the North side. That feeling was validated on day two. After painting Grandma and Grandpa’s house, many cousins and siblings sat in the living room. The ringing of a bell drew our attention to the two large windows face out to the street corner and the park. A little old Mexican man pushed his cart of popsicles down the street. The 106 degree heat pushed us out the door and we each picked our favorite flavor, mine a frozen strawberry bar dipped in chocolate and coconut. Various members of my family speak Spanish fluently so the conversation flowed and I piped in with hola and gracias. (I do know a little more, but nothing to do with frozen fruit bars.)

The next few days passed by and the subculture faded into the background, until late Saturday night. Laughing in the hotel room and after eating too much ice cream my cousin turned to me and slapped my leg. I’ve seen that same expression of excitement before—on the Latin dance floor. The not so faint Banda music played late into the night. And again throughout the park on Sunday just like I remembered. When we left at 3 this morning I mentally mapped out the steps to the Mexican Hat Dance and whispered Adios, silently drifting to sleep as Trav drove us to the airport.