A love letter to Ecuadorian culture.

Poetry written for Hispanic Heritage Month.

The day after another, a festivity arrives,

Schools close down and the city thrives,

Rhythmic music in spanish fills the streets, 

Vendors open up to sell us Ecuadorian treats

Remember?

You’d get home in your Catholic school uniform, crinkled blouse,

Walking in you’re greeted with a Hibiscus tea scent-filled house,

Kicking off your Mary Jane’s, you’d crank up Luis Miguel’s hits,

Your mother’s richly spiced food, for which you’d automatically sit,

Remember? 

You’ve always loved how loving your mother, sisters, aunts, cousins, nieces, grandmothers, next-door neighbours are, 

How they either look exactly like you, or like complete strangers,

How some are blonde, ginger, brunette, curly-haired, straight-haired, tall, short, pale, brown,  green-eyed, blue-eyed, honey-eyed, 

Looks exactly like abuelo, looks like no one at all, looks like everyone all at once, 

How jokes sound funnier in spanish, how their laughter grows louder as the night deepens, 

You jokingly call each other ‘chismosas’ (gossipers), but when you say goodbye you ask to meet up the next day so that they fill you in on what happens next, over coffee, obvio

How they call you ‘mami’ out of love, even though you’re no ones mother,

How you specifically know who to go to when you’re lost, worried,

When you need to laugh, cry, sit in silence, 

Remember?

-There’s a parade and your traditional dress is set out on your bed the night before, 

-A week before Christmas, it’s you and your cousins singing Ecuadorian carols for baby Jesus snuggling in hay in your aunts nativity scene,

-The presidential elections are live and the power goes out, the wrong candidate suspiciously wins, 

-How your voice goes up an octave when you speak spanish,

-It’s Semana Santa (Easter) and you’re visiting the 7 churches up until midnight,

-How the sun beams proudly at your house after showering rains, and how cold it gets as it fades away,

-Your first day of sixth grade, it’s your first time in a Spanish-speaking school, and half of the class huddles around you to ask for your name instead of giving you the cold shoulder,

-You’re staying up late with your friends on call, explaining Physics homework in your improved spanish, 

-When you’ve realized that you’re more than capable, and that the way you look or where you were raised or how you’re such a girl or that you’re dealing with too many things; remind you of how much you’ve done to be where you are and become who you are, 

I love it, I really do,

I love being latina,

I love our soft-spoken, language of love,

I love how my hips automatically move to the rhythm of our music,

I love my skin, how pálida (pale) it becomes in the winter, and how morenita (brown) I get in the summer,

I love how comforting my mother’s food is, and I wonder how comforting her mothers-mothers food was, and the comfort she once felt to her mother’s-mother’s food,

I remember,

I remember when you learnt to embrace your skin, your dark eyes, wavy hair,

How once, that little girl felt different and unpreferred to her lighter peers, 

How she’d hide from the sun, burn her hair with a straightener, long for golden hair, wish to speak Spanish “the right way”,

How she’s now no longer afraid of the sun, now lets her dark hair flow in wavy-unpredictable patterns, 

How she’ll express, sing, shout in spanish anytime she can, 

How she knows the worth of long, doubtful, and endless sleepless nights, nose stuck in book after book, with her mind set on her future, 

How she’s accepted nature’s invitation to connect with her roots, 

To not fight against, but accept, 

To understand who she is, who came before her, and who will come after her, 

And so, I cannot stress it enough, 

I love this, I love us, I love you, Latinas. 

I love you, Ecuador.  

Ecuador via Wikimedia Commons