Holiday Traditions, Adrienne Ferguson

Photo Source: Minimalist Baker

Holiday Traditions

by Adrienne Ferguson (Political Science)

My mother is an immigrant from the beautiful and culturally abundant country of Guatemala. With very little resources, my mother made her journey to the United States in her twenties and since then, she has raised a humble family of seven in Columbus, Ohio. Despite transitioning into a life very different from her upbringing, my mother was set on preserving her culture for her children. She would incorporate her childhood cultural traditions into our family’s daily lives as best as she could. And one of the most prominent ways I have been fortunate enough to enjoy my mother’s culture is through her delicious food- especially during the holidays.

As a child and even as an adult, there are no other parts of the year that I look forward to more than the holidays. I always found it a bit humorous when people would be asked what their favorite season was, and everyone I knew would always say summer because of school break or winter because of Christmas. My favorite season is also winter because of Christmas, but more specifically because of my mother’s delicious cooking during the holidays, instead of the presents!

Even with the presence of COVID-19 this holiday season, my family was blessed to celebrate the Christmas holiday together. Like every year, my family will come together with my aunt’s family for a huge dinner. And thankfully, all my family members were healthy and COVID-free, and we met the

legal capacity of 10, allowing us to maintain the same traditional gathering like every other year.

Since my aunt’s family is also Guatemalan, and they share the same cultural traditions as my immediate family, it makes the holidays even more enjoyable. The most coveted part of the entire traditional get-together is the making of the tamales. A mouth-watering dish of bliss- the tamale is a holiday staple throughout many regions of Latin America. Comprised of primarily corn dough (masa), beans, meat, and really whatever other ingredients you like, the tamale is the focal point of our Christmas dinner. My mother would have these little tamaladas- tamale- making parties- with her mother (Abuelita Olga) when she was younger, and she made sure that this family tradition would be passed on to our family.

However, do not be misled. While this holiday tamalada is certainly a family-bonding experience, there is no funny business allowed by my mom or tía Mirna when handling the precious ingredients. My mom and aunt are the queens of the kitchens and every dish they prepare must be cooked to perfection and must receive their blessing before it is deemed servable. And since they are generous enough to allow their children into their sacred space, we have to be quite serious or leave the kitchen. However, after continuing the tamalada tradition for years now, all my siblings and cousins understand the importance and meaning to the Guatemalan dishes, and we know to respect and appreciate our parents’ culture.

My mom will always handle the moist doughy corn flour because she knows how to make the tamales into the perfect rectangular shape, and my siblings and I will always have the honor of scooping the inner filling- usually a concoction of sauces, meats, and sometimes beans- into the bottom layer of corn flour before my mom tops it off with another layer of corn flour. Then my mother wraps the tamales into a papery corn husk or sometimes a big green banana leaf, tying them up and popping them into a pot of boiling water.

Our meal commences once the tamales are fully cooked, which I love. Every other American traditional food we have - the turkey, the green beans, the mashed potatoes, will be prepared and already set on the table. But it’s the tamales that are the stars of the show, and to make sure they are the freshest they can possible be, they are prepared last. Once they are fully cooked, we start our family prayer and proceed with our feast.

We all serve ourselves our own plates- but not the tamales. They are a delicacy, so my aunt and mom handle them as such, gently placing them on our plates. The tamale is typically accompanied with fresh hand-made tortillas or sometimes bread; either are delicious. It’s never a surprise, that it is always the tamales that run out first at our meal.

For many others the turkey is the centerpiece for holiday meals, but for my Guatemalan family it is the tamale. It is a great blessing to be able to participate in this cultural experience because of my mother, and I look forward to sharing my tamaladas with my future family and children in the years to come.

Photo Credit: Andy Reynolds/ Getty Photo Source: The Atlantic

Ode of Quarantine

by Jacqueline Sampaio (SPPO)

Just another day Everything will be fine The mantra of life Repeated again and again In just one day Good luck, they said I wait patiently Good days will come soon Positivity messages Stuck in our throats Can you hear the scream coming from inside me? Or your screams are louder than mine? I embrace the hope Thin blanket covering my body during the Winter Tragicomedy Welcome to the new way to live

Illustration Credit: Jacqueline Sampaio

Tú eres la Medicina

by Maria Sabina

Cúrate mijita, con las hojas de la menta y la hierbabuena, con el neem y el eucalipto.

Endúlzate con lavanda, romero y manzanilla. Abrázate con el grano de cacao y un toque de canela. Ponle amor al té en lugar de azúcar y tómalo mirando las estrellas.

Con los besos que te da el viento y los abrazos de la lluvia. Hazte fuerte con los pies descalzos en la tierra y con todo lo que de ella nace.

Vuélvete cada día más lista haciendo caso a tu intuición, mirando el mundo con el ojito de tu frente. ¡Salta, baila, canta para que vivas más feliz!

Cúrate mijita, con amor bonito, y recuerda siempre… tú eres la medicina.

Señora Medicine For Dominica Rice-Cisneros

by Paloma Martinez-Cruz (SPPO)

The señora swirls copal to greet the four directions then swings the burning resin back to you: the fifth meridian the length of your body antenna connecting thirteen odd hells and eight or nine heavens give or take you never were clear on the count you just know the heavens are outnumbered

Excerpted from, "Señora Medicine" published in About Place Journal

Metamorphosis

by Igdalia Covarrubias (HESA)

I am metamorphosis. And I’ll tell you why.

You see, Antonio Covarrubias Sandoval Was my father. Sandra Reyna Munguia Is my mother.

My father resembled a Spaniard. My mother’s skin bared the indigenous brown.

And there it was all over again. The Spanish plus the Indian to Equal the mestizo race.

I was conceived.

In the Central Valley I was born. Igdalia given as a name.

With the “g.” It was not an accident, but With all intent.

I speak two imported languages And another that I’m

Well, Unsure what it is yet.

Spanish with the family. English for the academics. And Spanglish with the friends.

In the American continent You know that place, Down south. They call me a Pocha. A North American. Another tourist gringa.

In the same continent Just a little up north They identify me as a Mexican-American, a minority, A first-generation to go to college. Now, let me tell you who I really am.

Igdalia, yes that is my name. Una mujer (a women) That was born in the Central Valley You know? In Califas (California) Not just any part of Califas, but Farmas (Farmersville).

I was also born Catholic but of the Type that venerates Tonantzin. And I still eat nopales (cactus) And frijoles (beans) And homemade tortillas de maiz (corn).

I am also not the first to go to college. What about my ancestors? They went to the college of life. The college I go to is of Another type.

My Spanish is different. Well, the English gets in the way. My English is different. Well, the Spanish gets in the way too.

I’m of another type. I have metamorphosed into something new. A little bit from the north. A little bit from the south.

Burning Summer

By Dennin Ellis (English)

I remember well how it began. That summer we burned. A wind rushed and settled into silence and its ghost spiraled into a hurricane, a juggernaut. At a distance, we caught each other’s eyes; not cold, not dead, but more alive than ever and burning hotter than the sun. At a distance, we locked arms and gave in to nature. It carried us. And our thousand-thousand pairs of eyes accused the land beneath us. Mouths covered, we screamed into the wind and it carried our voices upon itself as we prayed for the hurricane to cleanse the earth of rotten trees that bore rotten fruit. Together, apart, we blew the wind until it caught fire. And among us, within us, one mouth opened, one voice called, and it is still burning, and it is still howling for righteousness. I remember well how it began but it hasn’t ended yet.