Article by Em Peña, Graphic by Lauren Hodgson
I was born and raised in the sweltering summer heat of Miami, Florida, surrounded by fellow Hispanics and never more than a mile away from a panaderia. Since moving to North Carolina, I can’t say I haven’t missed the easy access to my favorite Hispanic treats. It’s safe to say, like many college students, I’m a little homesick.
Admittedly, it’s been nearly eight years since I moved, but no matter how many years pass me by, that nostalgia never fails to creep back in. So, how do you cure homesickness?
You search for little bits and pieces of whatever home may be to you wherever you can manage.
For me, it’s finding ways to embrace my Latino lineage. I’ve been to Latino festivals, frequented Hispanic-owned grocery stores and restaurants, learned how to cook my family’s traditional recipes and most recently, I went to my first ever jaripeo.
In case you have absolutely no clue what that is, a jaripeo is a Mexican rodeo-style festival equipped with food stands, live music, horse riding, animatronic bull riding and an amount of beer consumption that would make your doctor tremble. By the end of it, I was uncharacteristically sticky from sweat and the sheer amount of miscellaneous drinks flung directly into my face.
Now, although I am Hispanic, I’m far from Mexican. However, my current partner is in fact extremely Mexican down to his fish-leather cowboy boots (yeehaw). So recently, I’ve been fully submerged in the 5’7” pool that is Mexican-American culture and thoroughly quenched of my homesick thirst. I’m talking flea markets, bailes, quinceañeras, traditional Mexican foods I’d never even heard of and the revelation that cowboy boots are expensive. Very expensive.
This jaripeo was in a city I truthfully had never heard of before, Lumberton, and was a good two hour drive. We arrived to the sound of music blasting and the feeling of dry eyes from the looming sandy dust clouds. There were men on horses who swayed from side to side following the rhythmic music, a large crowd of people dancing, hootin’ n hollerin’ and infinite, unending, twisting lines of beer-filled bellies waiting for the bathroom. My partner and I decided to follow suit with our first order of business — potty business.
Let me set the scene: me, an unwitting 20-year-old, and the porta-potty, a profound experience. I bid farewell to my worried partner, waving a handkerchief in the air, and closed the flimsy door behind me. My new compost tomb was dimly lit and ripe with the smell of all those before me. I looked down at the toilet bowl. Pee had splattered on the seat from the previous line of drunken men, and accumulating inside the bowl was a pasty-pee-paper mâché. I examined my surroundings for the best way to approach this without sealing my fate and looked down at my shaking sweaty hands, horrified by a realization that would alter my life as I knew it.
I had forgotten hand sanitizer. I had dirty pee hands.
I may be exaggerating, yes, but there really aren’t enough hyperboles to describe the deep-seated feeling of dread a porta-potty brings to its unsuspecting victims. Although this mortifying moment had clearly sealed itself into the innermost ridges of my brain, I wasn’t about to let one run in with a dirty bathroom ruin the reason I was there in the first place — the thrill of experiencing a new culture while healing my achy-breaky homesick heart. So, leaving my dignity at the door and self-respect at the toilet, I allowed my stomach to lead us to the nearest taco stand. Don’t worry, I used a napkin to hold my food, I swear!
The night continued as we watched the horses trot around and, unfortunately, dance much better than I ever could. But despite my hips not moving and most definitely lying, dancing was not required to enjoy possibly the most exhilarating event I’ve ever attended.
It was nearing 10 p.m. and our feet, sore and bruised, were just inches away from calling it quits when the stage illuminated with a bright blue hue. A resounding baritone voice rumbled through the speakers, announcing the headliner as they entered center stage, “Los Inquietos Del Norte!” A tremorous boom of applause, cheers and gritos rolled through the crowd, making my stomach summersault and hair stand on end. Couples twisted and twirled, spun and swung and whirled all around us in a circular cyclone.
In that moment, I knew I was in the midst of something I could only describe as complete euphoria. There was such an immense amount of pride embedded in every yell and every step that I couldn’t help but feel it too.
My favorite part of the experience though, more than the roaring music reverberating down my spine and the swirling onslaught of lovey-dovey couples, was the rain that poured down in the form of beer. It was unexpected and slightly jarring, but there was something about the joy on their faces as they mounted their friend’s shoulders, shook their beer can and released a downpour of Modelo Especial that made the night unforgettable.
At the end of it all, I’m sure there’s a lot more to jaripeos than the five hours I experienced. But that’s exactly why I already have another one lined up and ready to go! Maybe this time I’ll dance or even ride the animatronic bull (though I doubt it).
If there’s anything I took away from this experience, it’s to get off my ass and dip my toe in the cultural pool that surrounds us. It’s everywhere if you look close enough, so take a swim and you might discover something pretty sensational. And if you’re homesick, there are traces of home all around waiting to welcome you back — You just gotta look for it!