As I work to set the masa in the soaking corn husks, the smell of altole, menudo and rice flirt
with the Durangan rancho music playing from the stereo somewhere in the distant background.
My grandma glides through the kitchen with a grace that has been cultivated by decades of
routine. She stops to sample her altole, adds more cinnamon and sidles up to me to examine my
progress. Her weathered brown-spotted hands gently take the tamale from my hand as she
croons, “Aqui. Here, tie it with a thicker strand. It’s easier and it won’t break.” I nod my head,
spoon more masa on to another husk and tie it using my grandma’s method. “See,” she smiled
triumphantly, “Grandma knows a few tricks.”

Humans have an incredible capacity for suffering and yet death is the singular unknown
absolute that separates strength from the invincible and joy from the hopeful. It was the death of
my grandfather that had left me living vicariously through the stories of the past. Traditions like
making tamales every Christmas because Grandpa Ray loved them vanished with his passing,
leaving me to linger in the reveries of a rich culinary tradition that time had robbed me of
experiencing for myself- until I asked my grandma to teach me.

My grandma, like the majority of my family, is an immigrant whose experience has
convinced me that everyone has a story they are waiting to tell. She grew up on a farm without
running water, electricity and worked incredibly hard to care for her twelve siblings. She left her
poverty-stricken pueblo as a teenager to come to America. Although she had no knowledge of
the language or culture, she enlisted in beauty school in hopes of becoming a hairdresser to help
support her family in Mexico. She eventually got married and had children, earned her
citizenship and became a loyal fan of “Los Doyers”.

Someone who can overcome the world, live beyond their capacity and yet take pride in
passing down a seemingly insignificant custom is to be admired. Those that usher tradition from
one generation to the next are the historians of the past and the gatekeepers of the future. She is
not only beautiful because she is very well preserved for a seventy-one year old, but she is
beautiful in her strength, in what she has overcome. She is beautiful simply in what she is.

In addition to inspiring in me a spirit of tenacity, she has also ignited my passion to relay
stories and to be the vehicle by which peoples’ voices are magnified. I hope to carry this passion
to college where I can hone my writing abilities and grow in my understanding of people.

I could say many things about what being raised in a multicultural family has taught me, but
there are a few ideas that remain fundamental: language and culture are reflections of the human
experience; a story can outlast any fleeting product of human invention. There is something
inexplicably unifying in tradition; that making tamales every Christmas can be both healing and
enlightening; that even though it may be painful to call upon the memory, it does not hurt so
much when it serves as a connection between generations.