I could feel a sweat drop forming on my forehead. The weather was blazing like a tamale. This is the place where my mom was raised. San Ignacio, Sinaloa, México, is one of the most alluring places I’ve ever been. Since I was little my mom has been telling me her childhood memories from this place. Now being here, I understand why my mom loves this place. Here everybody is close, and help each other when they are in need of help. I would always like to listen when the little boy says to his mom, “Ama, esta el panadero, dame diez pesos para comprame una.” Then the boy would run fast as he can to catch the bread maker in the little car. I began to understand how difficult it must be for my mom to leave this place, and go to a totally different, new country. These houses around me are super different than where I came from. They are vivid, and each of them tells a story. Made from brick rather than wood.
Being there was totally different from San Francisco, California. There are no longer big buildings, and the pace is slower. You could hear birds chirping rather than cars beeping. Everybody knows each other. Passing through the houses, I could hear the sounds of my feet: thud, thud. Just thinking how my mom would walk here when she was young; it made me feel weird walking the same footsteps my mom would walk. Knowing every day she would go to school, and then to work. I remember sometimes I would ask my mom why she would move to the United States if San Ignacio was alright. She would always answer the same thing: “I did it for you. So you can have a future. In this town, you won’t get a future. There are not so many opportunities here.” She also told me she needed to take care of her six sisters, my grandparents, and her brother. My mom is the second oldest, and she would always be the responsible one. My grandpa was a baker, and he would make amazing bread, which made your mouth water. It felt warm in your hands, and the bread wasn’t that hard or soft, it was just right. But there was never enough money to take care of all of his children. So at an early age, my mom worked, and helped my grandpa out. She decided to go to the United States to send her family money. It made me realize how my life was a piece of cake, because I did not have to sacrifice so much. My mom sacrifices herself to make my life easy. My mom is a hero.