Recipes of Resistance

Her hands like leather, finger prints worn from Fabuloso, mime the movements to teach me her trade. Rodillio in her palms; rolling, stretching, pulling. 

To the townspeople who will savor them they are merely tortillas but to us they are so much more. I am nine years old standing on a stool in her kitchen. There, with all the patience she could summon, she taught me the recipe. One cup flour, one cup lard, a pinch of salt.

 In the kitchen hangs dried red chilis and a sign that reads, “This kitchen is for dancing.” Selena blasts through the boom box as our feet massage the floor, our hips sway with the beat. 

We sing De Colores together and I know the sounds but not the meaning. I ask, “Grandma, what does this song mean?”

She replies, “Oh mija, this song is about hope. It is about seeing the many colors, the many things in life, and finding God’s hand in all of them.” 

I smile, “Why does my mom not know Spanish, why did you not teach her?” 

“Well mijita, when I was a girl I was beaten in school for speaking Spanish. The teacher would take one of those big sticks and WAP me with it if I ever spoke a word. It was hard for me because at home we only spoke Spanish and my English was not very good. I didn’t want that for my kids, I wanted them to be safe.”

My heart sinks, “Is it safe to speak Spanish now?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that no one has ever slapped my hand away when I hand them a tortilla,” she smiles. 

Tortillas, tamales, and tacos didn’t only pay for my college tuition, they were one of the many ways my grandma resisted the erasure of our culture. I learned “This kitchen is for dancing” because it was one of the safe places to display our hope; our hands, our hips, and our hearts honored our ancestors with rally songs for justice and recipes of resistance.