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My bones are not indigenous here

I often think about how I’ll be remembered when I’m gone. Will my words be thought of, maybe quoted for posterity? Someone who raised a few hackles for the greater good? Or will I be thought of only as wife, Mom and Grandma? I hope somewhere in my lineage someone remembers the things I wrote were so they could continue living a good life here.

I also am Missy. That is my name too.

I’m dreaming of a beach in Oaxaca where the sun is so bright it hurts my eyes. The green foliage rustles gently, and I sip that chartreuse drink I’ve never been able to find again to quench the heat.

I’ve never gotten used to the heat in Southern Mexico. You can reach out and part it like a curtain. The humidity is 10 times anything you’ve felt in Ohio. Folks there go about their daily activities, their lightweight flip-flops protecting their feet from the hot cement, long sleeves guarding their skin from the midday rays of the sun. I never understood wearing long sleeves in the hottest of weather until I spent time in Oaxaca.

My bones are not indigenous to the Americas, unless you believe being born here renders that so. My heritage began somewhere in Germany and France until someone decided they needed better opportunities for their life, their lineage. Somewhere along the line, my ancestors came to these shores to practice their beliefs. Here you can do it without interference from the state, the country, at least that notion lasted for a while.

George’s bones are indigenous to the Americas. My suegra (mother-in-law) is Mixteca, a culture born even before the Aztec empire. She was born in the verdant hills of Oaxaca and spoke only her language until she was taught Spanish as her second.

Now eating handmade corn tortillas and arroz con pollo feels like home. I’ve adapted it into my bloodstream, where it feels as necessary as noodles and mashed potatoes. We learn what’s home, and sometimes we leave there and make another place home. Immigration of the physical body and spirit is sacred.

I read someone’s post that said, “Multiculturalism is dead.” I defy anyone to look at the food in your refrigerator and say that it’s dead. Most modern fridges here will have corn and flour tortillas, pepperoni for pizzas and a container of hummus for dipping. We enfold other cultures into our own and, as a result, expand our bodies and minds.

Will I be remembered? I don’t know. I hope so. I’d like to hope I can be seen as someone who tried to educate despite the pressures all around me, that I spoke to what was true despite the place I live wanting to implode on itself, creating an insular society bereft of any color, a society that disdains any flag that isn’t red, white and blue.

My bones now contain traces of the fertile soil of Holmes County and the dust that coats my skin in Maquixco. My tongue craves tortillas made of rich masa and salsas of ajo (garlic) and chile. I can no more change that than where the origin of my bones began. We adapt and we evolve to partake of what sustains us. Keeping it out only allows suffering and bones as dry as dust.

Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.

My bones are not indigenous here

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