so my tías have this tradition…

Every December for a few years now, my mother and her siblings get together for something they like to call their “Sister Weekend”. I’m not exactly sure how it all started, but it’s known throughout the family to be quite the production. Planning usually begins a few months in advance and is carried out by the retired elementary school teacher in the family. The first phase begins with a discussion about dates and menu items for what has become an annual reunion-meets-early-Christmas celebration. Or at least, this is the intel I’ve been able to gather from years of eavesdropping phone conversations and seeing photos on social media after the fact.

Now mind you, this has always been a highly exclusive invite-only kind of event. Typically, no one under 55 or male is allowed at the dinner table, let alone through the doors. And yes, they are serious. “They” being the seven hilarious and incredibly loving grey-haired women I’m blessed to call my tías. And this year—in a clear break from tradition—I was permitted to attend. I say “permitted”, because I still did have to ask them explicitly. But I thought to myself, how many more times might all these beautiful people be in the same room together? So I wagered it best to risk rejection in the hopes of gaining access to this year’s Frida Kahlo themed…

…party held earlier this month.

Family gatherings of this size almost always warrant a dinner out at the ladies’ favorite Chinese food restaurant, Lucky Chinese Food located on 4th Street in El Centro. This tradition goes way back to my childhood actually, when the younger generation was automatically included in the invite and my grandmother was still alive. For a short while, their favorite Chinese food restaurant was China Inn located on West Main Street in Brawley, so we used to get together there more often than not. Since then, times have changed.

I think all families go through a natural evolution over the years, especially as key figures pass away and new members are born or introduced, and in that way mine is no different from yours. Some traditions are added, modified, or fall away all together. I like to think of this “Sister Weekend” as a remix of sorts, complete with the Santa Claus X Frida Kahlo collab no one expected. This year, my tías even went so far as to implement a strict dress code: colorful Mexican attire and large floral headbands required (huaraches optional). This was an aesthetic nod to the famous artista herself, highlighting stylistic features second only to Kahlo’s iconic, unapologetic unibrow. 

So, the Chinese food pre-game dinner went off without a hitch that Friday night. It was a joy to walk in and be greeted by so many familiar faces sitting together at one long table, sipping from blue plastic Pepsi-Cola cups and chit chatting amongst the backdrop of the San Francisco themed wallpaper. I hugged everyone I could reach, and blew a kiss to my older cousin who was flanked by two hungry postmenopausal women. She and another cousin of mine are sometimes included in these kinds of things more than I am; probably because their being Gen X makes their life experiences a bit more relatable to the core group of attendees than my own. 

The deep chasm of differences between generations these days is wider than at any other time in history, and I think a lot of this has to do with the dizzying turnover rate in pop culture trends and the highly individualized worldviews that have emerged as a result of personalized technologies. I swear to you, sometimes it feels like our perceptions exist eons apart. But aside from the cultural revolution (devolution?) that has occurred in the last 2.5 decades since the turn of the century, I feel like when I’m in a room with my tías there remains something true and unchanging in the way we interact. Whilst my oldest tía was born during the 1940s and faced challenges like family members going off to fight in WWII and caretaking for a growing number of siblings, my mother—the youngest of 8 by a long shot—had a simpler childhood in the 1970s and was far more concerned with dressing up her Barbie dolls, watching Sesame Street, and playing outside as much as possible. Still, the plight of being a woman in a man’s world is a throughline in our experiences, connecting the eldest sister born in the Silent Generation to someone like myself, a late Millennial. 

So there we sat, bonding over Hong Kong noodles and orange chicken while I nodded knowingly to harrowing tales of hot flashes, talk of newly installed pacemakers, and plans to embrace retirement. After much conversation about how good the food was and how the next day would go, the ladies began readying themselves for the customary group photo that follows every gathering. A blur of coats and canes assembled themselves in birth order, oldest to youngest, under the direction of my mother, the professional photographer in the family. Three restaurant employees were kind enough to snap about a hundred photos of us from all angles like we were on the red carpet, and that was that.

We thanked the staff for their hospitality, and the seven sisters left in a caravan to visit their one and only brother who was recently admitted to El Centro Regional Medical Center. I am told he was so surprised to see all of them at once that he both laughed and cried, each sibling well aware that this might be the last time the family is complete in this way. Like my mother always said, moments like this are what define the flavor of life—bittersweet…

And I knew exactly what she meant.

***

The next day, I feverishly lint rolled a black maxi dress and assembled a makeshift flower crown using a couple of rose clips my mother tossed me on her way out and a bright red scarf I had on hand in place of something Etsy would’ve probably overcharged me for. Knowing I had waited until the last minute to sort this out and now facing two obvious dress code infractions, I attempted to remedy my lack of preparedness for the event by carefully penciling in the space between my eyebrows. This wasn’t a gimmick, I assure you. If anything, it was a return to my kid self who actually did have a unibrow. It’s too bad thin was in back then, or else the social pressure in my teenage years might not have gotten to me. Since then, I’ve dressed up as Frida Kahlo exactly once for Halloween and I got so many comments that year about how much I resembled the Mexican painter and activist.

I even have a small chihuahua that follows me everywhere I go, just like her. Although I didn’t dare bring her with me this time; the host has a thing against dogs. That would be a third infraction.

I readied myself for the inevitable sensory overload on the drive to my tía’s chic, newly renovated El Centro home. It was a warm, sunny day and I could hear laughter through the screen door as I walked up the driveway in my unauthorized gold heels. I entered and passed a row of handmade gift bags bearing the likeness of a certain someone—a foreshadowing of the all-out Kahlo X Claus extravaganza about to ensue.

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“Sarina!” they said, as cameras started to flash. We exchanged warm hugs while the host went around dabbing blush on everyone.

She would not have anyone “looking like a ghost” in group photos, and soon it was my turn. I don’t wear makeup often, but admittedly it was kind of nice. I guess I can see the appeal. The room settled a bit and I immediately gravitated toward a giant spread of snacks guests were grazing on while finishing touches were being made to the main course. Everywhere I looked, the theme was obvious. Pillows, plushies, centerpieces and paper napkins featured Frida—one of the host’s longtime collectible obsessions. Santa was there too, but he clearly played a more supportive role in all this. My favorite fusion element of the collab was the Christmas tree that glittered in the corner near a print of Kahlo’s famous 1939 painting, Las dos Fridas. The precisely placed ornaments that hung from each branch were bright blue “just like Casa Azul,” explained my tía. A reference to the artist’s famous residency in Mexico City built in 1904.

My tío, the host’s husband (who sported an all white branded “KIRKLAND Signature” tee and was lovingly referred to as “the maintenance man” the entire evening) had set up a dinner table for us on the back patio and took it upon himself to offer the women ice cold water as they took their seats after serving themselves. In birth order, of course. Dinner consisted of salad, carne asada tacos, tamales, rice and beans, which seemed a natural fit for the occasion but are honestly never out of season for us. The women in my mom’s family are great cooks, and a handful of them bake well enough to warrant their own brand.

Dinner soon came to a close, myself being the last to finish. “Okay, everyone over to the photo booth!” ordered my tía, in a tone sure to get a 3rd grade class to pay attention. The women made their way to an area which quite literally could have been referred to as a pop-up art gallery. A series of 20+ paintings of Frida (proudly created by the host) hung on the brown picket fence to the right, while about two dozen flower pots featuring Kahlo’s bust sat pretty on a four-tiered shelf below. The vibrant setup, courtesy of the maintenance man, earned the praise of every attendee as each portrait glinted in the glow of the setting sun. Off to the left, a brightly colored floral sarape backdrop hung ready for the seven sisters and their special guests to assemble in front of. I chuckled to myself as they automatically formed a line in birth order.

The next portion of the evening went on to involve several chaotic attempts at Family Feud: Senior Edition, a rousing White Elephant gift exchange, and lots—and I mean lots—of lotería. We even played a few rounds on a special edition Frida themed set the host was eager to show off. Frankly, I had no idea so many versions of this classic Mexican bingo game existed. I do remember Millennial Lotería had a bit of a moment a few years back, going viral for reimagining cards like “La Sirena”, “El Mundo”, and “La Dama” as relatable -isms of the age. I myself can personally attest to the cultural relevance of what Guatemalan-American game creator Mike Alfaro renamed “La Selfie”, “La Student Debt”, and “La Feminist”. That second one especially.

In verifying the name of the concept’s creator, I stumbled on an article in Men’s Health that gave some background on what inspired Alfaro to conjure up this cultural remix. And while it wasn’t a tía (a plot point too good to be true), it was in fact the birthplace of all tías—La Nana. Which I don’t think is an actual card in this version of the game, because that plot point is also too good to be true. See, this is why I was never cut out to be a reporter for traditional media. To me, these are the kind of connections that make news relevant. The kind that cross cultures, generations, and boundaries, and allow us to imagine the things that could be rather than what already is. Things that just feel, well…

So anyways, Millennial Lotería was inspired by Alfaro’s abuela and in his interview he spoke of how traditions are often carried on through our grandmothers in the widely-varied Latino experience. I think the search for an identity in an age where we were taught we could be anything we wanted is more of an epidemic than people realize. The options are endless, and honestly, where do you start? And despite glaring intergenerational differences, so many of our famílias were able to accommodate potentially divisive changes such as divorce, LGBTQ identities, and probably several forms of toxic coping mechanisms. Yes, laughing and teasing each other in the overly thematic room around me sat living examples of each. And yet, there we all were.

Some of us are fluent in Spanish, while others still stumble in Spanglish. It is with mixed feelings that I say I fall into the “others” category. Some have high school diplomas, and exactly one has a PHD. An author and Chicana studies professor at ASU since 1994, this tía played a pivotal role in my success during my own time at university. She became a second mother to me while I was away from the valley learning about the Great Big World that exists beyond county lines. While most women were expected to choose motherhood early on, she fought for her right to pursue knowledge through higher education outside the valley. I’m told a dedicated teacher from IVC even made it a point to knock on the door of the family home and ask to speak to the head of household, my tata, all so that he might be convinced to allow his daughter to attend UC Santa Cruz. And it worked.

Being a family of seven brown girls (and one boy, not to be forgotten) born into Brawley’s poor working class, eventually having four daughters with degrees was a feat nearly unheard of in those days. Their own mother had been made to quit school after reaching the second grade, and by fifth grade she became a live-in maid for a rich family with a big home west of the railroad tracks as a means of contributing to family funds. They treated her well, but that isn’t the point. Fast-forward down the line a bit, and my mother, the baby of the family, managed to be both a full-time homemaker and earn a bachelor’s degree from SDSU Calexico later in life. She went on to start and expand a successful photography business with little to no experience and only the support of her husband at the time. The wide range of identities that these women embody says so much about the Latina experience as a whole, as we all live through the exact same time in history while individually and collectively overcoming vastly different traumas.

The Feminist movement (now in its unofficial Fifth Wave, which I see as attempting to rebalance the relationship between men and women by promoting an empowered return to traditional gender roles) has garnered harsh criticisms since it first strut onto the scene back in… 1848, apparently. The butt of even more jokes online, these are the real women that lived to see the fruits of this enduring social movement—before it turned a bit sour. And though the pendulum may have swung too far in one direction, all I know is that while some of these incredibly tough, immensely loving women had a childhood defined by where their next meal would come from, I had a childhood defined by what I wanted to be if I could be anything in the world. I had a loving mother in the home and a father who was blessed with the ability to provide through thick and thin. How lucky was I?

“La Feminista!” the host called out, catching the attention of one tía looking pretty sleepy on the couch. Only some of us got to put a marker on our special edition Frida cards, but all of us have lived lives marked by tales of both feminine tragedy and triumph. No, we are not a perfect family. It’s kind of impossible with that much estrogen steering the ship if we’re being honest. But here, amongst the abundance of feminine energy came with it a wealth of beauty and motherly love. Here, the inner child was alive and well despite all the hardship. And as I witnessed two rival gangs of 5’5” average grey-haired women nearly kill each other trying to buzz in answers like the game show host actually was Steve Harvey and not a retiree wearing a Frida apron, I knew we had something special. 

So I write to you today because I stand on the shoulders of these rather unassuming giants. I am a living, breathing product of their love, investment, and personal achievements. These ladies are like heroes to me, and I know one day obscure family traditions like this might only exist in memory. Having considered this before, I came ready with little notebooks and rainbow gel pens and proceeded to get everyone’s autograph before we parted ways. 

 I went home that evening socially exhausted after what had somehow become a seven hour affair, but also deeply fulfilled. I unpacked two large gift bags overflowing with gourmet baked goods, hand sewn potholders, crochet accented kitchen towels, and culturally inspired trinkets of all kinds. I felt rich in all the best ways. And this holiday season, I hope you do too. 

Here’s to harnessing the power of nostalgia, remixing it, and channeling it towards a future where we see things out in the world that truly look and feel like ours. Stories and People and Places that remind us of our own families and feel just a little more…

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