Hello, reader. How you doing? I saw a video about some displaced Mexican people embroidering maps. It’s beautiful and sad. The Spanish as spoken in the video is comprehensible to me.
The video is short but made me think a lot. I’m thinking about
- home
- maps
- art vs craft
- memories
- history
- who we preserve history for
- my own embroidery
- how the cultural activities we most love can be mixed together and shared
This is the video about embroidering maps.
There are so many places where people are displaced from their homes by violence. I’m sorry this story is familiar.
Do you want to try embroidering maps with me? I like the idea of embroidering maps on clothes and bandannas.
tamales
Recently I made tamales for the first time. It’s something I had done with my family of origin since I was a little kid– a cherished winter tradition. A way of tasting home.
So it was emotional to do it for the first time just me and Ming. I’m grateful for what I learned in my family of origin, and grateful to take it with me to make new traditions.
I didn’t use a recipe for the masa I prepared from hot garlic-parsley broth, Maseca from the food bank, olive oil, and coconut oil. I just mixed it, felt it with my hands until I thought it was an ok consistency, then put it in the fridge overnight.
Also we soaked the corn husks overnight, so the next morning, we were ready. I prepared the veg filling, and I put lots of spices and extra water, making it saucy that way, so we didn’t need to make sauce separate.
Then I spread the masa on the corn husks, put the filling in, folded them for the first time, and arranged them in pots to steam. I looked up how long to steam the tamales, and I was shocked by how long it takes.
Every year over the course of my life that I helped make tamales, I just spread the masa. I had never done the whole process, which is why I had never folded them up before.
To finally do the whole process myself, I felt like an adult. I felt competent and like I could take care of myself.
mama
Missing my mom, I went to bed and cried.
“It’s ok if they’re not good, Laura-Marie,” I told myself. “It’s your first try. I’m proud of you for trying.”
The pot on the stove ran out of water, and luckily I smelled the residue burning. I leapt up to put more water in.
When an hour had passed, I took out the tamales. I was crying again to taste the delicious flavor. Not only had we made tamales, we had made delicious tamales. They tasted like home, but they also tasted like freedom.
questions for discussion
Who are you preserving history for?
How do you respond to the violence you’ve endured?
Is there any food you made with your family of origin?
What are your favorite ways of documenting and sharing information?
Can any of your practices be combined to make a new practice?
Is there anything you thought you couldn’t do, and then you did it?
What do you like in your tamales?
