I am in my mother’s homeland for the week. After stepping out of the plane Monday, the humid breathe of San Pedro Sula wrapped itself around my skin forming immediate sweat glands in the crevices of my body. 10 years later, I found myself on Honduran soil again making it to the land of las cipotas and puchica, curvy girls and thicc mami arms crafting handmade tortillas de harina in the palm of their hands. The land of plantains in all forms: tajadas, maduro y frito. The land of “aha vos” pointing allá with lips puckered signaling direction in the form of a kiss.
It is nostalgic and bittersweet here. The green scenery, accessible fruta picked off tropical trees and fresh caught fish to be fried has been pleasing to my five estadounidense senses. The warm weather on my mesoamerican skin feels like home, like a place I have arrived at before. As beautiful as this is, it has also been difficult to digest conversations with family presenting the isms and generational effects of colonialism on the land.