la rosa de canela
rosa manzo corona — eldest daughter of the manzo-figueroa family and matriarch of my mother’s family. more than a tia, she was my grandmother figure on my mother’s side. i can still hear mi tia rosa’s distinguished chuckle and dramatic “hay charhaku” (charhaku = child in purépecha) as she took in whatever out of pocket statement i had made. an affirmation that she was seeing me yet not judging me. if you could be a fly on the wall in my family, you would understand why reactions like hers were so important to my development. generations of trauma and hardships, all symptoms of colonization, caused the women in my family to often uphold standards and practices rooted in the patriarchy and machismo as a way to continue their own survival. backhanded compliments, stares and judgements were common, especially by women on my father’s side. my mother has done what she could for her survival, not always knowing the ways to show up for me whole heartedly. i do not blame her; i am responsible for my own healing, and she is for her own. i thank the creator for blessing me with women like my tia rosa, that were always encouraging me and gassing me up.
being a first gen kid, comes with an enormous amount of unpredictability and struggles. un ejemplo es que you grow up separated from the majority of your family which i believe is one of the most unfair experiences. like many people i know, i did not have the privilege of growing up around my extended family outside of a few trips to mexico. any time i was able to spend with my family in mexico was so special to me and to my family. not knowing when we’d be back — if it wasn’t the lack of money, it could be the lack of safety in our territory. whenever my parents let us know we were going to mexico for the holidays or las fiestas they’d be so happy and remind us, “si dios quiere.” i clearly remember how happy it made me to hear my mom make that call back home to her older sister in tingambato, letting her know, “ya mañana llegamos, si dios quiere.”
as soon as our taxi pulled up to our front door, my sister and i would run out and head to my tia rosas house, over on calle guerrero. her big metal portal was usually open and we were able to run right into her house. letting her know we had safely made it back to her was one of the best feelings of my childhood. her hugs were so familiar and followed by “al fin llegaron a verme.”
the time we spent with her was special—always filled with food, hugs, hair braiding and the occasional outfit change or two, she loved dressing us up. since a little kid, she watered me with affirmations. as she braided my long thick hair, she would remind me of how beautiful and unique i was. while my mother made up excuses about my nose shape, my tia reminded me of the warrior women i shared a facial trait with. she would tell me all these stories about how my unique features reminded her the most beautiful tarascan [purépecha] princesses. as my hair strands went over one another to create the braid, she was inserting love and confidence. not only telling me that i was physically beautiful but also that i was smart and would accomplish everything i set myself to. anytime she saw me, she would greet me with a loving compliment — an extreme contrast to all the other older women in my family who constantly greeted me with stares and judgment even as a child. my tia rosa was the first person who told me to ignore everyone and continue to do me, “tu has lo que querias, que hablen esas viejas.” the “hay charhaku” were constant affirmations to me. her way of letting me know that whatever i was doing was making her proud, i was willing to push that boundary because she would be right there with me as i did it.
i’m not entirely sure if she realized how radical she was.
“que dios te socorre con mucho trabajo para que me puedas mantaner,” she would jokingly tell me as an adult. i always laughed and laughed when she told me this because i knew she was serious. said with so much love and like a prayer. she was looking out for me and still has, to this day. when she would tell me things like that, i could feel how deeply i wanted to be her protector now, and ensure she was taken care of. the way of life, suddenly the child is now stepping into a caretaker role.
my tia rosa passed in november of 2020; unfortunately i was not able to say goodbye to her before she passed. her loss was felt between our family and many people in our pueblo. in a way, she is still here. part of her has always stayed behind and is felt. i think it has so much to do with the stories i have heard about her from family and strangers. everyone knowing her name, everyone knowing her bold sense of humor and intense personality and if you’re from tingambato, you know her for her pan tradicional–everyone’s favorite tia.
i often think back to a dream i had a few days after her passing — i was in tingamabto and had just arrived at my parents’ house in a taxi. as soon as i stepped out of the car, i realized i had to use the bathroom but couldn’t find an open house to go to. i walked the block in search of the nearest bathroom. as i made my way down calle guerrero, i saw my aunt walking up her neighbor’s door steps as she signaled at me to go into her house, with the portal wide open. even in my dream andaba en la calle. i remember waking up and laughing at how real the dream felt, the social butterfly making the most of her time while still receiving me with an open portal.
when i think of the ways i want to mother and show up as a tia for my nieces i am reminded of my tia rosas ways and fierceness. reminding my nieces that they are beautiful and braiding affirmations into their hair. because even if they cut it, at the root, they have already been planted with a revolutionary seed.
pictured is my grandmother chaya (to the left) and tia rosa (To the right, holding the candle)
