Andrea Hernandez Holm

A tamalada is a traditional Mexican occasion when family and loved ones gather to make tamales. A tamal is made of corn masa (dough) spread on corn husks (ojas). In my family, we spoon red chile pork into the center of the masa, fold the husks and wrap each tamal like a small bundle, and then steam them all together until the masa is cooked. On occasion, we will have tamales made with turkey and green chile, or red chile beef. We’ve also made tamales of only masa sweetened with cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar, maybe with pecans tossed in for good measure.

When I was little, tamaladas took place at my grandmother’s home during the month of December. My grandparents, mis abuelos, lived in a rural farming community in central Arizona. They were parents to eleven children and every year at Christmas-time, many of their children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren, would return home. The house would fill with loved ones from near and far-- tias, tios, primos of every age and size would convene at the small slump block house in Stanfield. With a family that size, it seemed that there was always food being prepared but, perhaps because the process is so labor intensive, or maybe because they are a food linked to winter rituals, tamales were prepared in my family only once a year, in the last days December.

The process of cooking was pretty distinct—the women convened in the kitchen, the men in the back bedroom and the children in and out of every room, through the house into the yard, and back again.

The women’s work was pretty serious business. They were there to make at least twelve dozen tamales, usually more. The preparation for tamales began early in the day. There were ojas to be cleaned, masa to be made, meat to be cooked, and tamales to be assembled. But the kitchen was rarely as serious place during tamaladas. Usually, the laughter was louder than pots clanging. Occasionally, one of the women or two or three, would dart out of the kitchen to the room down the hall where the men were gathered. There, my tios and my dad were sitting on beds and chairs, even the floor as they listened to stories my abuelo shared, or singing along while my uncles played their guitars and accordions. The women might carry a song back with them to the kitchen and the whole house would be filled with singing.

A tamalada during the month of December is a tradition that I’ve known all my life. Most of my earliest memories include the smells of pork stewing in red chile and the laughter of the women in the kitchen as they assembled the precious tamales. I loved these occasions because there were times when I got to see my family members, times when I felt surrounded by so much love and happiness that I felt protected from any negative thing that might dare to enter my world. I loved that my mom and dad laughed out loud, my abuelo shed tears of absolute contentment, and my abuela actually smiled. The sounds of music and laughter lulled me to sleep and have stayed with me always.

Tamaladas like this no longer happen in my family. My abueltos are long gone, as are most of my uncles. And while my aunts are still with us, many aren’t able to travel much. Tamal making has moved to my mom’s house and is usually limited to our immediate family. Our music no longer comes from live musicians but from CDs blaring on the stereo. The men of the family can usually be found in front of the TV, though they may sometimes venture out to the large fire pit my dad built, where they pass the time telling their own stories.

My children, my nieces, and my nephews don’t play outside as much as we did when we were their age. They are often lured by the latest video games or YouTube videos. But as much as the tradition has changed, many elements remain the same. Tamaladas are important to my family because the remind of us who we are as a family, they keep us unified and close. These gatherings allow us to continue traditions that began long before our own experiences, traditions rooted in the cultures of Mexico and directly linked to this heritage.

Tamaladas reinforce our family values of love, joy, and support for one another. This is a tradition I plan to steep my children in and hope that one day, they will pass on to their own children.

Feliz Navidad, 1976

Songs tangled words with music

and made laughter unfurl

until the three were inseparable, unstoppable.

I heard Abuelito’s feet shuffle,

Uncle Bob’s camera click

and voices vine thorough the hallway.

Tias squeezed into the kitchen,

each trying to stand just next to Abuelita,

spreading masa on open ojas,

spooning hot red meat.

Folding,

patting,

tamales.

Tios gathered in the back room

cradling guitars,

accordions,

cameras,

and a tape recorder.

I remember the singing

and strumming

and loving.

And Abuelito’s sunshine smile

in 1976.

I was not raised with the saints or other spiritual icons of the Catholic Church. In fact, not long after my parents had me baptized in the Church, they decided that their growing dissatisfaction with its policies and practices had become too great to merit their family's participation. This was not an easy decision for either of them. Both my mom and dad had been active Catholics since childhood, but my parents came into their adulthood during the Civil Rights Era. They were among the first in their families to pursue post-secondary education, and my mom was the first daughter in hers to complete high school. They joined the United Farm Worker's in the call for the rights of migrant workers. They were vocal supporters of equal rights and equal access for all people, both male and female. TMy parents looked to the Church to provide spiritual guidance, but also to reflect and support these values of basic human rights. When they didn't find that, they made the difficult decision to walk away.

Although they departed from the Catholic Church, my parents continued to hold out hope that they would find an organized religion that would meet their needs. In their search for this religion, our entire family studied and attended services with a number of denominations, including Mormon, Jehovah's Witness, and Southern Baptist. But my parents never quite found what they were looking for. I think that what they sought was a religion that not only acknowledged but embraced the idea that there are multiple perspectives on spirituality and supreme dieties in this world, and all of them have merit. Ultimately, however, they wanted a religion that promoted selflessness, kindness, acceptance, and justice and embodied those qualities as well.

My mom and dad never found a religion that did this to their satisfaction. Years since their separation from the Catholic Church, they have chosen instead to celebrate their spirituality outside of organized religion.  But throughout my life, they have strived to teach their family to live  to regard others and self with respect, to demand fair treatment for all people, and, most importantly, to live our lives with the awareness that we are but  While I also have chosen to practice my spirituality outside of the Church, I have found strength in what is often affiliated with the Catholic Church, Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe.

When she appeared to Cuahtloatzin (also known as Juan Diego) in Tepeyac, Mexico in 1531,  La Virgen de Guadalupe united the Catholic religion and indigenous spiritual beliefs of MesoAmerica. In the process of this syncretization, La Virgen came to embody the virtues of the Catholic Holy Mother and the Mexica Tonantzin. She is an earth mother and spirtiual presence who yields the power to influence peoples' fates. She is primarily concerned with the protection of the people and followers have considered her a present force in many struggles for human rights, including during the Mexican Revolution, the Chicano movements of the 1960s, and the Zapatista movement of the 1990s.  She transcends the Catholic religion and devotees to Guadalupe can be found within a number of non-Catholic faiths and in countries around the globe. Followers world wide find in La Virgen divine love and guidance.

December 12 marks the anniversary of La Virgen's final appearance in Mexico in 1531. It was on that occasion that the bishop of Mexico City was convinced to build a chapel in her name on the hill at Tepeyac. Over a series of four days, she had made her presence known to Cuahtloatzin, and he in turn took her message to the bishop. During the celebration of this anniversary, devotees of Guadalupe will pledge their love to the Little Mother and honor her with prayers, music, dances, etc. I too will light a candle in offering to honor her and the love she represents.

November ushers in days and weeks that are characterized by a sense of old. During los dias los muertos at the beginning of the month, our ancestors come back to dance with us and, I'm certain, they remain with us well into the end of winter. Their voices, their stories, the weight of their presence is everywhere. While that possibility may frighten some (the presence of spirits, the idea of residents from the "other side" existing among us), it brings me great comfort. For as long as I can remember, my ancestors have a been an integral part of my life. I grew up surrounded by my living relatives, and the stories they told of my passed ones. These stories relayed the history of my family in particular, but also the histories of indigenos and mestizos struggling to survive as their worlds changed; of homelands that were siezed and abandoned; and of this mysterious region we call the borderlands. These stories of

grandmothers defending their homes, of brides disappearing in the night, of  grandfathers riding under lightening-skies were interwoven with my everyday life. And knowing who my ancestors are and what their lives entailed informs who I am.

As we approach the American holiday of Thanksgiving, I choose to be thankful for the strength of my ancestors and their love of family that continues after death.

Halloween is over, El Dia de los Muertos has passed, and the chaos of fall and winter begins in earnest, yet on the brink of the madness of holiday gathering, cooking, shopping, agonizing and celebrating, I find myself thinking more about writing than anything else. It's this time of year that does it to me. Perhaps because the cooler weather has restored my energy, but perhaps too because when the fall embraced Tucson and  the veil between worlds lifted, restless ancestors slipped to the other side, our side and now gather around me, reminding me of the many stories waiting to be reborn.

Earth shifts ever so slightly

and the moon pulls herself closer

in her yearning to embrace us in her light.

The veil between the living and the dead

is caught in the gusts of her sweet breath

and it flutters

and it pulses

like gentle strokes

of a lover's hand.

Los muertos are drawn

by the movements.

Eager to touch bone to flesh

and dance among the living,

they bob on the breezes

between sky and earth

watching

waiting for us to welcome them home.

Copyright 2009 Andrea Hernandez Holm

I'm so happy that Fall has arrived! As a resident of the southern deserts of Arizona, I spend the better part of the year anxiously awaiting the few cooler months we do have. Summer may not officially begin until the end of June, but by St. Patrick's Day, we are already weathering high 90s.  By the time the beginning of September arrives, we have trudged through searing temps of 110, 112, often a day or two of 115 and I am weary. Soooo happy when October brings crisp, cool mornings.

As the weather cools, life seems to reemerge in southern Arizona. Having spent our summers hibernating in our air-conditioned caves, we awaken in the Fall. Suddenly, we are ready to be outside, ready to socialize, ready to simply enjoy what Tucson has to offer. The air is alive with a sense of anticipation and excitement.

 From the time we were small children, my mom took my siblings and me to the public library at least once a week . I will openly admit that I was in love with that library. It was full of  every adventure a girl could imagine, and, oh, did I imagine them. Growing up in a small desert community, the library served as my travel agent to worlds I may never have  visited except through the words of others. Books served to introduce to me to far off places, times long gone, and dreams to be fulfilled. I quickly learned that books could teach me, entertain me, comfort me, and fulfill me.

What is your purpose? is a question I am often asking students to consider and reconsider. I think that as writers, many of us tend to become engrossed in the stories we ourselves are telling and forget what  the purpose is of our books, or texts or art or music. Many times, I will say that a story is telling itself, failing to acknowledge my hand in the direction that the story takes, or the ulitmate impact it may have through the way it is told. Recognizing purpose and molding our narrative to it  directly impacts the effectiveness of our telling in general. But the purpose is only part of the working knowledge we need in order to write successfully. How, or if, we connect with our audience is the sole determinate to our effectiveness.

Writing is a relationship. Here, words serve to create connections between the writer and the audience. It is the way that language is used by a writer that allows (or disallows) a reader to identify with the story being told, understand the information being shared, or consider the claims being argued. I will tell students, this is your power. As writers, we use language to weave bonds between two people who may never meet face to face. This is what we should aspire for our writing to do:  capture the reader and, with our well-crafted language,  illicit an emotional response that introduces possibilities and wonders that they may never have experienced otherwise.

Scott Momaday said there is power in language. I believe this, know this. I hold a book in my hand and marvel at the world that is contained between its covers. Recently, I took my children to the library. They are old enough now that they don't need me constantly by their side so after I found my own treasures, I sat and watched them search for theirs. They made their way between stacks, scanning titles, flipping pages, and even talking with the librarians and I was struck by a feeling of giddiness. Reminded of my own childhood experiences in the library, and further fed by my belief in the power of words, I was excited for them, hopeful that each writer they encounter will build a relationship with them that allows them to experience new worlds, expand their knowledge, and dream new dreams.

To all who have visited my site, thank you so much for your support and encouragement. As always, I am honored by your trust and love.

Writing has been a part of my waking and dreaming selves for as long as I can remember. My mom can attest to my most basic instinct to write as she'll recall the words I used to scrawl on bedroom walls in my seemingly desperate need to express thoughts and dreams, or simply recount my experiences of the day. While I've graduated from these early murals to pen and paper, writing continues to be my preferred mode of expression. In fact, most of the time, writing is not a choice for me but an obligation to my heart.  

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