In my Latino Studies course, we discussed how mediums influence whether is worth preserving and sharing. We were tasked with creating an art piece to challenge this notion. I chose to represent the topics of tactically stolen language and how culture & community can persist through food.

  • Two winters back, my Mom gifted me a Dutch oven for Christmas. The large basin would be perfect for crafting stews and soups just in time for the incoming weather. I have utilized this gift many times with my favorite rendition being my Abuela’s pozole. Simmer one pound of chicken breast in broth with onions and garlic for twenty minutes. Boil ¾ pounds of peeled tomatillos, a jalapeño, onion, and roasted pepitas until the tomatillos lighten up. Shred the chicken in a separate bowl, reserve half the broth, and blend everything else together. Add everything back to the Dutch oven you were gifted with a can of hominy. As that comes to a boil, prepare tostadas and a side of diced onion, cilantro, and lime. Call your Abuela, tell your Mom you love her, salt to taste, and have friends over to share.

    Preparing and enjoying my family’s food is my strongest connection to my culture. But it isn’t easy. You won’t find these ingredients at Target, Whole Foods, Trader  Joe's, or Jewel Osco. You must take the bus West for some time. When I take that bus, I feel the separation hurt my heart– I want to go home. Food is my last connection, for they have already taken my tongue. I speak enough Spanish to communicate with my Abuelo but not enough to know him. This loss of language and the resulting cultural apathy isn’t accidental. This is the product of structural violence, language ideologies, and commodification working together to strip my birth tongue down to a line on a resume: conversational.

    It hurts, but I can live with it. I cannot live with the long bus ride I take to grab fifteen dollars worth of ingredients. I cannot live with Instagrammable taco kitchens/bars. When I started this project, I wanted to use video to document my experience making pozole. As I was filming, though, fear of eventually losing another part of me welled up and I knew I needed another medium to express this loss and anxiety.

    If you’ve listened to me speak, you know my accent only reveals itself through names and foods. You’ve damaged my tongue, but don’t you dare take my stomach from me.