in Between Corn and Flower

Ernesto Alonso

My grandmother was your traditional Mexican woman. She migrated to the U.S. of A from the state of Durango with my grandfather and her kids; my mom was four. My grandmother was a devout Catholic, often attending Mass multiple times a week at our local parish. There were two parishes—St. Procopius and St. Pius, and she would alternate between the two, capitalizing on the availability of sermon time. She loved to sing. She sang with all her heart the hymn and chants of Mass—a direct reflection of her fervor for God. My grandmother, whom we referred to as Ama, was our protector as well. When my cousins, siblings, and I, were subjected to the draconian discipline measures our parents imposed on us in an attempt to remedy our mischievous behaviors, Ama would stand in front of us like a shield, or like Gandalf from Lord of The Rings when he said, "You shall not pass!"

When I was around the rambunctious age of five, she commanded me to pick up the tortilla that had slipped out of my hands and flopped to the floor. Subsequently, Ama then proceeded to tell me a maxim that has bewildered me until very recently: "La tortilla es la cara de dios"—The tortilla is God's face. "That's preposterous," I used to think. "How can a tortilla possibly be God's face?" Some might say it is sacrilegious to say such a thing, blasphemous even. The contours of my adolescent consciousness couldn't begin to understand such an allegorical statement.

La tortilla is an inherited birthright to Mexicans. It is an integral part of our lives and as important as family and a home. The ubiquity of the tortilla allowed me to say "Oh well, I'll just grab another." Some kids got apples or Go-Gurts for snacks; we got tortillas rubbed with a stick of butter and a sprinkle of salt. Ama would heat the tortilla on the open stove flame, flipping the tortilla with her bare hands, because to use something other than your bare hands to flip the tortilla is a crime against the culture. All the doñas (older Mexican women) solidified their Mexican femininity by flipping with their bare hands. You weren't a real "woman" or Mexican for that matter if your fingers were unable to stand the scorching heat of an open flame. However, the tortilla demands respect, the flipping itself is a process—flip not quick enough, it burns, flip too quick, you burn your fingers—respect the flip. The timing is an acquired skill developed over trial and error (please do not try this without a doña around). I am also obligated to state that the over-coveted microwave is for the lazy when heating the tortilla; as I have nefariously been reminded by my fellow cousins when in a hurry, its convenience forfeits authenticity.

To understand the value of the tortilla, one must understand the value of corn. "Maiz" (Spanish for corn) is a sacred food in Latinx culture, dating back to pre-Columbian Indigenous culture. It was the crop of the Aztecs and Mayans, among many others. Corn is the staple of Mexican food aside from beans, squash, and chili peppers. Corn has fed the people from the region for thousands of years; a constant in the midst of adversaries such as drought, disease, and displacement has been the resiliency of corn. Corn cannot survive without human intervention, and humans wouldn't have been able to survive without corn. The land was important. It was part of the livelihood, where it was grown and the crop was looked after. The plant is cherished for everything it has given us: food, feed for animals, and solace. Mexico is the mecca of corn; the copious amount of corn variations is nowhere else to be found in the world. There is red corn, blue corn, and even black corn. Every corn is unique with its own special properties.

La tortilla, which is corn transformed, is more than a taco. It is more than a burrito, more than a contemporary hashtag like "TacoTuesday." It's more than a Taco Bell chalupa or chips for your salsa. The tortilla has become holy, connecting to the religiosity of Mexican-ness. It has become our daily bread. So, when my Ama proclaimed the tortilla to be God's face, she was emphasizing a deep respect to the point of reverence, for the satiation the tortilla has brought in times of hunger, for its abundance that is rooted in community.

When I would visit family in Mexico, during meals there would lie a circular contraption with a lid placed as the center piece of the table. Inside this centerpiece, the tortillas would be elegantly wrapped in a colorful cloth with floral motifs surrounding the borders. The wrapped tortillas are placed in the container, so to retain their warmth and softness. Nothing is more tragic than a cold tortilla. Tortillas are essentially a gift. Every time you take one, you open the lid, unwrap the cloth, take the tortilla, and cover them back up. The experience is like opening a present at Christmas every time you reach for one. In that way, the next person can also open the gift given to us by tradition, nature, and most importantly—God.

The process of making tortillas is wrought with sweat, love, and necessity. They are made with the hands of women who would wake up at four in the morning alongside the sun to start the process. It was an arduous endeavor, unlike the way the process has been industrialized today and tortillas are mass produced by machines. It is imperative that I mention that women have traditionally been burdened with the task of labor. My grandmother was from a time where her hands bifurcated between prayer and work. There was no time for anything else. I'm beginning to understand what Ama meant and am grateful for the memories and lessons she passed on. So next time you find yourself eating a taco, remember... it comes from a sacred place, full of history and most importantly, it is a gift, meant to be shared.