Reflection- Part 1

Reflection - Part 1

I rarely write personal blogs, but this past weekend allowed for a bit of quiet time to reflect. Today marks the second day of Hispanic Heritage Month, and this year’s theme is "Pioneers of Change Shaping the Future Together." As I pondered this theme, I realized that my mother is a trailblazer in her own right.

I hadn't been back to the Bay Area for personal time since before the pandemic. This trip was special—it was to celebrate my mother’s 90th birthday with her dear friends at the Alma Senior Center in West San Jose. Watching her eyes fill with tears of joy, hearing her laughter, and seeing her dance, I couldn’t help but reflect on her remarkable journey.

Amada Monteon is a fighter—resilient, with incredible grit.

Born in Zacualpan, Nayarit, Mexico in 1934, her life has been marked by hardship from an early age. At just seven years old, she tragically lost her mother and took on the responsibility of caring for her two younger brothers. She would wake at dawn to prepare breakfast for her brothers and father, make lunch for them, complete the morning chores, and drop her brothers off with an aunt before heading to work in the tobacco fields with her father. After long hours working in the fields, she’d pick up her brothers, cook dinner, put them to bed, and finish the housework—washing clothes by hand, cleaning, and preparing for the next day. This grueling routine continued six days a week until she was sixteen, when she became a live-in maid for a doctor and his family.

She speaks of those years spent with the ‘doctor’ and his family with deep affection. They treated her like family, gifting her the first pair of new shoes she ever owned, having a dress made for her, and even teaching her how to read and write. She stayed with them for nearly five years until they moved. Her father wouldn’t allow her to follow, and heartbroken, she returned to the fields. Not long after, she met a handsome musician—my father. They soon married and moved to Tepic, Nayarit, ready to start a new life together.

For two years, they lived in happiness, but hardship struck once again. My paternal grandmother, left to care for a family of twelve after my grandfather left, relied on her eldest sons to provide. At that time, the United States had launched the Bracero Program to address labor shortages, allowing Mexican workers to temporarily work in the U.S. as agricultural laborers. My father and uncle spent the next 12 years working in California, sending money back to support their large family, as well as their own.

Money was tight, and my mother, resourceful as always, made ends meet by taking on odd jobs. She bartered for food, made tortillas to sell, cleaned houses, laundered clothes, and sold eggs. When my eldest siblings were 10 and 8 years old, she too left to join my father working in the fields and canneries. They visited home in Tepic once or twice a year, all while trying to secure permanent residency for our family. My sister remembers how hard it was to grow up without our parents present for most of her childhood. My mother returned to Tepic when she was pregnant with me, and I was born there in the early ‘70s.

Even though I was young, I still have vivid memories of those years. I remember the torrential rains and thunderstorms that sent paper boats racing down the street until they disappeared into the storm drains. I remember the sweet smell of the nearby sugar cane plant and the taste of fresh guavas picked from the trees in our backyard. They are wonderful memories, and we returned every Christmas until I was 15.

We immigrated to the United States when I was nearly five years old, settling in San Jose. My eldest brother stayed behind to finish his last year of high school. Both of my parents worked in the canneries for the next 25 years, mostly at Sun Garden Packing Company. My father was a mechanic and welder, and my mother worked the canning line. The smell of tomato paste constantly hung in the air, so much so that to this day, I still can’t stomach cherry tomatoes. My father would start work at 5 AM, returning by 3:30 PM. My mother left at 3:00 PM and didn’t come home until midnight. They worked six or seven days a week, depending on the season.

Everyone pitched in. My eldest sister took care of my younger brother and me until she left for college in Mexico, and then I took over. I handled dinner, laundry, and chores—thankfully, I only had to reheat the meals my mother had already prepared.

Our time as a family was limited, but I cherish the memories of those moments we spent together. The food—carne asada, pozole, enchiladas, ceviche, chile relleno, tacos—was always delicious. My mother, always in her mandil, made the most incredible food. And her tortillas, made with just three ingredients, were and still are beyond compare. To this day, I can’t recreate them. She must whisper something to them as she places them on the comal. And then there was the music—the dancing at every family gathering, whether at the beach, a park, or an uncle’s house. Sundays were always a party with aunts, uncles, and cousins, a celebration of life and love.

After she retired, she continued raising children—all her grandchildren. Seven grandchildren were lucky enough to receive her love and homemade cooking, from preschool all the way through high school, and even into college. And when the grandchildren left, she continued to serve others at the Alma Senior Center. She used to cook for them, and now she knits hats, scarves, and ponchos to donate. She may not move as fast as she once did, and my younger brother now helps care for her, but she’s still up at the crack of dawn making breakfast or dinner for her nephews when they visit.

Just yesterday, she showed me her birthday card, filled with thanks for the eggs and chorizo, the chilaquiles, and, of course, her fresh tortillas.

She has taught me resilience, hard work, resourcefulness, humility, and gratitude. She’s shown me to never forget where you came from, to help those in need, and to give your all in everything you do—échale ganas.

Feliz cumplea?os a mi madre (13 de septiembre), quien echó el grito el 15 de septiembre—el día que nací. Qué mejor manera de celebrar nuestra herencia que con mi primer respiro en el aire libre de nuestra independencia.

Happy Mexican Independence Day

?

?

?