Personal Narrative: Loss Of Identity

Outside in Urbana, Ohio, it’s an oddly summer-like day for February; the sun shines through speckled clouds and the wind blows through the open window of an apartment at Rotary Manor, a retirement home down the street from my house. On the floor of this apartment, lies a woman, seventy-seven years old with short curly black hair, dark brown eyes, & tan Mexican skin. Normally a visit to Mee-Maw’s meant being fed past stuffed and watching her “stories”; That is not the case on this occasion. My mother knocks, turns the handle, and lets the door slam shut behind her. Soon, an ambulance arrives. Soon, there is nothing the doctors can do. Soon, this gives me new resolve.
I have always had a strong sense of identity when it came to my heritage. I
My mother would bring her up, and I’d shoot back one-word responses and change the subject. We don't need to talk about it. A quiet anger inhabited my heart; I felt stuck. I felt lost. I felt as though I’d been robbed. Not only robbed of someone I loved dearly, but robbed of my heritage. The only person in my life who reaffirmed my identity as a Mexican, as a latina, was gone. The last one who could’ve taught me Spanish, the last one who could’ve taught me more about our culture, had passed. I did not mourn until much later when, with the inspiration of my mother’s pronunciation of the word “quieres” as “kweerase,” I took upon myself a mission to dig up family roots. I would be the one to bring not only the language back into the family, but also the food, the dance, and the pride. I determined my children would have all these things and more.
I get closer to my goal everyday as a teenager moderately-capable in speaking and writing Spanish. I still possess the same fiery passion to learn. The feeling of being stripped of identity is unlike any other, but such a feeling can only occur if one lets it. I am a better person now, having strived for years to regain my pride. I regained my identity, and no one will take it away from me ever