Tessie Martinez Herrasti Legacy

“Sally at the Window” By David M. Taylor

Legacy By Tessie Martinez Herrasti

Her memory was fading in me, and yet I missed her at every moment. I felt robbed of time, of her presence. This is maybe why I escaped, why Mexico felt so haunting, so difficult to set foot in.

Has it been twelve years already? I can’t seem to remember, I have been gone from my country for so long in the pursuit of happiness, freedom, and opportunity. Today I was finally back. What a turbulent journey to return to this surreal kingdom, with its old smell of chocolate and pepitas covering my nostrils, impregnating my senses with memories long buried. I feel an epic and melancholic atmosphere of nostalgia surrounding me. The feelings of my gente, my place.

For a long time, I was a European version of myself. I believed that I didn’t deserve my Aztec blood because of my white skin. I assumed I wasn’t Mexican enough to speak Tlaloc’s name or to invoke the Coatlicue. My world was that of ancient narratives, I kept convincing myself that I was unworthy of my ancestors, unworthy of my own belonging.

Today is awarm day, sunny and beautiful, the perfect weather, not too cold, not too hot. I am ready to see my brothers again and hold them so tight to prove to them that I never left. Instead, I bought a ticket to Quetzálan, the misty town with the paved stone paths and the bridge of niebla where I once loved someone with passion.

Upon arriving here, I developed a somewhat sour sensation in my mouth. A combination of chipotle and dried pineapples. I was loved here once, however, I neglected it, tossed it away into the very same flames of mist that covered long hours of lovemaking at the waterfalls.

I sat once more on the steps of the old plaza and I admired the people as they went by. Them, simple people, unweary, enjoying their lives, and occupations. Me, on the other hand, incomplete, full of doubt, and alone. I sat there for hours contemplating the colors of that old town. The Papantla dancers were there once again, flying around the high polekissing the sky, filled by the sound of the wooden flute that carriedthe message of rain and fertility.

Some people stared at me with my small hat and my red dress, my bare legs, and white skin. I could read their faces, to them, I was a foreigner, an outsider. How could they know I had been raised by this land. Rocked to sleep by the poems of Xavier Villaurrutia and the boleros of my great grandfather singing to the moon during his long bohemian nights in Tamaulipas. Nobody knew me here, nobody ever thought that I was actually from this country.

My Mexico is filled with an epiphany of magic and humanity, a mystical thought covered by the joy of living, the simplicity of honoring what you have, and the gratitude of being able to enjoy it day by day. At least that is what my mother used to say. I miss her, my gordita, my angel of corn and flowers with the sweetest smell of an intoxicating evening surrounded by stars.

I walked back to the small posada where I would spend the night. On my way there, I found a house. A beautiful beige residency with square windows and wooden french doors that framed the entrance. The floor consisted of a variety of tonalities, cream, pink, and soft violet. It was a stunning composition of geometrical shapes and shadows.

The house seemed abandoned, nothing inside, no furniture, no one around. I got closer to the door and peeked inside, the oddest jolt of energy came rushing inside my heart. Speechless, I was glued to the glass, watching, motionless. On the other side was a figure, a woman. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There she was, my beautiful gordita, my mother, peering back atme.

She left a long time ago to have a party with my ancestors and yet there she was, on the opposite side of the glass. Memories rushed by and Isuddenly remembered saying that I would come back here one day, buy a small house in this enchanting town. Maybe a place where I could write and bask in the beauty of nature, joining the caves to be reborn as a member of my own culture. I guess this is where my journey truly begins.