PART I - SOFIA

"Buenos días, Sofi," Santi said on Monday morning.

There was one fundamental difference to living with Frank. We spoke Spanish at home.

Frank didn't understand Spanish and he didn't like it when Mom and I spoke it. Past the age of three, when they got married, I barely spoke Spanish.

I am Mexican-American. Today, I was able to say that without feeling self-conscious. Before I had moved to Mexico permanently, I was not as sure about that. That Mexican part had been underdeveloped: I couldn't speak Spanish past the name of dishes and various kitchen appliances my mother would shout at me while cooking ("Sofi, give me the - the - the - el batidor!"). We never went to Mexico on vacation, I hadn't seen my mother's home country before the age of 15. No, we would spend our holidays in Nebraska, at the grandparents', as real Americans do. Frank didn't like Mexican food - the tacos and tamales and enchiladas Mom must've made when I was younger - which made her stop eventually.

I blamed Frank for my detachment from the Mexican culture, but it was partly my fault, too. When in school, we were supposed to learn another language, and I took French instead of Spanish because I was too ashamed that I, the daughter of a Mexican immigrant, could not speak a word. It seemed embarrassing to start - restart - learning my first language as a beginner, and to sit in front of a "real" Hispanic person, who silently judged me for only knowing so little Spanish.

I never asked my mom about Mexico. We never talked about the festivities, the rituals, the holidays. We never watched Mexican movies (I knew Coco, but let's be honest, that is the bare minimum). The first Mexican TV-show I watched was Amar a Muerte - the reason for that was Juliantina, not the fact that it was Mexican.

Then I moved to Mexico and I was overwhelmed: The food, the music, the celebration. In my first year, I went to México (the city) to witness El Grito. I decorated an altar during El Día de Muertos. I ate so much street food that I gained four kilos. I learned the metric system.

And even though all of this shaped me as a person, I suddenly understood that I had been Mexican all along. There is no "not Mexican enough". As Emoni said,

"It's like I'm some long-division problem folks keep wanting to parcel into pieces, and they don't hear me when I say: I don't reduce, homies. The whole of me is whole." *

Santiago put down a cup of tea in front of me. I guess he had learned by now that I wasn't quite a morning person.

"Thanks," I murmured.

He patted my shoulder and left the kitchen.

"Cuídate," I shouted after him as he opened the front door.

"Tú también."

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* from With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo