I am the color of my mother.

The thought swam through my mind as I peered down into the sweets case, my eyes mesmerized by the row of marranitos that winked at me from behind the plastic door. My finger traced the door handle, taunted by the cookies as a cloud of molasses waltz itself through the store front.

“Cerdito,” my voice erupted into the damp storeroom of the bodega, catching my mother in the aisle behind me. Her outstretched hand swept a bag of “estrellitas'' off the shelf and into the crook of her arm.

“¿Quieres un marranito?” Do you want a marranito?

It wasn’t a question.

The owner of the bodega swung open the door of the sweet case and laid a napkin over my palm. My fingers plucked a golden-brown piggy cookie from the line, wiggling it between my lips. “Cerditooo” I gasped, giggles bubbling up inside my throat. My teeth dug into the side of the marranito, leaving teeth marks in its cinnamon snout.

I learned how to honor my Mexican American identity at the bodega. As a young Hispanic girl living in a historically non-Hispanic community, I spent most of my childhood afternoons wandering through the bodega down the street from my house. It was a place that forged a sense of belonging in me, a place that taught me what it felt like to really belong to a community. The treasures hidden behind the doors of the bodega grew to become something I cherished, and the faces inside became familiar to my eyes.

The rhythm of a Latin song waltzed through an open window, floating over the roofs of the cars dashing in and out of the street outside the bodega. The music threw its arms around me, twirling me through the aisles as I sucked brown sugar off my fingerprints. My mother smoothed out one-dollar bills over the grocery counter, a collection of tarnished pennies jingled in the owner’s palm. Their laughter buzzed in my ears over the music. And I wished I lived somewhere cool like New York.

***

“Una taza de arroz.” Specks of pale rice swirled in my vision as they splattered into the pan. “Luego dos tazas de agua.” The burner hissed in protest, the pan gurgled up foamy bubbles as ripples of water sloshed inside it. The lid rattled above the bubbling water, and cloud of steam rose up from the depths of the cloudy mixture.

“These are the best limónes.” Abuelita’s voice curled into my ear as lime juice trickled down her wrist. “Know why?”

The corners of my lips twitched upwards. I took a wild guess, “Because they're from Mexico?”

She flexed out her arm, her muscles bobbing underneath her sleeve.

“I have something for you,”

I whirled around to find a tiny green pouch dangling from Abuelita’s index finger, swaying in the wafts of steam billowing through the kitchen. Muñecas quitapenas, she told me. Worry dolls.

Four bundles of wool came squirming out onto the kitchen table when I shook the pouch. The muñecas brushed against my hand, swaddled by the golden skin of my palm. My fingers curled over the muñecas, protecting them para siempre. Forever.

Of course, I’d have to name them.

Swimming in a puddle of pale blue moonlight leaking through the gap in my curtains, my feet teetered over the edge of my bed as I cradled the 4 muñecas inside my palm. Ana Rosa, Guario, Carlos, y Lupe. Now named, they began to come alive in my 9-year-old imagination. Each of the muñecas seemed to have their own story to tell, a unique story that their soul chanted with every beat.

Ana Rosa and Guario were siblings, they always fought but always forgave each other. Carlos could usually be found playing with the stray dog that secretly lived behind his garage. Lupe loved reading, and had a knack for getting into trouble.

Each doll was different. And yet, each was somehow connected.

I yanked the bed sheets up over my head.

It had begun again.

My eyelashes fluttered against the sheets as an invisible string tugged at my ribs, linking me to my new muñecas. The invisible string always seemed to tug at random at times. For most of my life, I hadn't understood it. It wasn’t until later that I realized what the invisible string was doing.

It was shaping me.

The worry dolls, the bodega, the marranitos. There was an invisible string that linked each of these things to my soul, creating a bridge between my identity and my culture. These things had become part of me. They’d become tucked away deep down inside my soul.

I smiled in the dark underneath the bed sheets. My fingers shoved the dolls underneath my pillow.

They were Mexican American.

They were just like me.

I’d forgotten what true courage felt like, to have it billowing through your lungs like air. The feeling swelled through my body, tingling through my bones as sleep began to wash over me. When my eyes blinked open the next morning, sunlight dancing on my forehead, I could still feel the magic of the worry dolls gushing through my veins. I could feel it in my soul as the wind swept me through the doubled doors of my elementary school. I had believed in the magic of the worry dolls, making their power real. And in turn, the dolls had believed in me, showing me that the magic had always been my own.

A day in 3rd grade was never mundane. Not when you were the only Latina in a class swarming with 19 ill-mannered boys.

A blond-haired kid leaned over the side of my desk, sliding the carcass of an orange peel onto the carpet. “You have a mustache, you know.” he sneered.

A chunk of orange slid down my throat.

“No, I don’t.” I snarled coolly, my lips betraying me.

“Yeah, you do.” 

The troop of boys huddled at the table behind him snickered behind their sandwiches.

“Dora, Dora, Dora,” the boys roared in sing-song voices.

The blond-haired kid joined the rest of the boys in their guffawing. I breathed in the subdued scent of citrus as I stroked my upper lip, my fingerprints brushing against the thin hairs that pricked my skin. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. I swatted them away through blurry vision.

I’d never let them see me cry.

They’re stupid boys. I told myself. They don’t know anything.

They didn’t know anything. In my 9-year-old mind, that was a universally acknowledged fact. So, I pretended not to care. The orange peel crumbled between my citrus stained fingers. The fear that I looked “too Mexican” slithered down my throat and crawled down my spine, weaving itself through my ribs. The feeling began to gnaw at the knot inside my stomach. The same feeling chased me down the slide on the school playground at recess. I couldn’t shake it. I didn’t understand it.

I still didn’t understand it that evening, slumped against the frayed fabric of the dining room chair, my fork shuffling through the bed of beans on my plate. Though the feeling the boys had provoked inside me quickly dissipated, a new worry had quickly clung to me. I sat surrounded by my Mexican family members at the dinner table, finding myself worried I’d never be “Mexican enough.” It tugged at the embroidered hemline of my dress, whispering into my ear.  I’d never be able to speak Spanish as well as my abuelita.

The tang of pico de gallo tingled on my tongue as I peered into the bathroom mirror. My “mustache” seemed to have grown 3 inches since lunch.

“Evita,” my mother’s voice pounded against the bathroom door. “vamos a empezar en diez minutos.” We're going to start in 10 minutes.

My words slid through the gap under the door as my spine slid down the wall. My hand stroked the side of my cheek, my fingers leaving streaks in the mesh of colors that glistening against my skin. The hues intertwined and melted into each other, fusing into one color against my face. I turned to face the girl in the mirror, and for the first time in my life, I finally stopped looking, and finally began to see.

I am Mexican American.

And I am a painted girl.

I am painted with the colors of those who have walked this Earth before me, those who have helped me find my culture. Their truths run through my veins like blood. The hopes and dreams of my ancestors are intertwined in my ribs. Their legacies are carved into my soul, etched into the sides of my bones. Their words, their languages have become my own. And they have taught me to speak the sacred words that connect me with my heritage.

My heart pounded against my ribs.

Yo soy Mexicana Americana. It chanted. Yo soy Mexicana Americana.

I’d become so accustomed to listening to the voices of others, I’d forgotten how to listen to my own.

My reflection smiled at me in the mirror.

I remembered now.

My mother’s words pulled me into the dining room, “Listo?” Ready?

It had begun again.

My stomach fluttered as I stretched myself across the tablecloth, wiggling a plate of marranitos next to a picture of my great grandmother. A flame danced in the November air, giving life to the ofrenda candles. The sugar skulls wallowed in an orange glow. Invisible strings branched out all across the room. And in my heart, I will always know it as Dia de los Muertos.

These traditions are part of who I am. The traditions of both Mexico and America are fused inside my soul. They are the invisible strings that tie me to my culture, my ancestors, my heritage. And they are the bridges that guide me toward my future.

I am proud to be Mexican American. That is something no one will ever be able to take away from me. That’s why when they stare me in the eye and snicker, “what are you?” I raise my head, the colors of my culture gleaming on my skin, and I speak the words my heart chants with every beat.

“Yo soy Mexicana Americana.”