Personal Narrative: My Family In Juarez

After building a house for a disadvantaged family in Juarez and working in the encompassing heat of the Mexican sun, I was exhausted. Relief came when I walked into a cool house with the rest of my youth group, about to enjoy an authentic Mexican meal with the family who would move into the new home. However, that relief was quickly offset by the uneasiness of entering the home of total strangers. Not only were we strangers, but we came from different cultures and spoke different languages. My stomach insisted that this would be an awkward experience, but my gut claimed otherwise. Beneath my apprehension and the gurgling of my empty stomach, I knew that I could learn something from this meal; I could learn to understand their culture and their personality through universal communication. Pushing past my anxiety and entering the family’s home, I look around me and took in the large, multi-purpose room. Scattered amongst the large wooden dining table, couches, and television, the sentimental trinkets and children’s toys added warmth to the small home. Although the walls were unfinished and half-painted, the home felt lived-in and cherished. The air was stale and warm, yet the room exuded an air of sweet, beloved family memories. Immediately,
I felt like an intruder, like these memories have been tainted by my presence.
However, my distressed thoughts were interrupted when my youth group leader called for the group to sit down. I shifted my attention to the old, wooden dining table which had been set with a cotton table cover, styrofoam plates, plastic cutlery, and children’s cups. Although the table setting wasn’t stunning, I could tell that the family went out of their way to provide our group with a nice dinner. I walked around the rectangular table and sit down on a folding chair; behind me, I heard nervous, hushed whispers in Spanish. As the rest of my group sat down, polite conversation began. While we patiently waited, I could feel my jeans and t-shirt cling to my damp skin as they attempt to dry. The group’s conversation became more comfortable, and my apprehension slowly began to fade.
A minute or two later, the family emerged from a small, outdated kitchen. The young husband and wife thanked us for building their new home and introduced the meal in their native tongue, which someone from the youth group translated. Next, the young couple walked back in the kitchen, gathered the food, then quickly and quietly served us the meal that they had prepared. They gave us a helping of a traditional, authentic Mexican meal: carefully prepared beef stew, white rice, and fruit juice. The stew and rice steamed; the air filled with humidity and spice. After the two finished serving our group of fifteen people, they shuffled back to the kitchen with grins lighting up their face.
Following our collective thank-you’s and gracias’s, our group dug into the meal. I tried the beef stew first, and as I took my first bite, my mouth immediately became overwhelmed with spice. My tongue and mouth felt like they were on fire while the heat travelled to my nostrils. I quickly swallowed the stew and I reached toward the fruit juice. I did not know what was fruit it was made of, but at that point I did not care: I simply wanted relief from the spice. I took a sip, and my mouth met immediate relief. As I swallowed, pulp coated my teeth, presenting me with a new problem. Around me, I heard the groans of people who encountered a similar pain when they ate the stew. Slowly the heat diminished, and I picked at my teeth, attempting to release them from the web of pulp. After finishing that, I took a bite of the white rice. It was plain and a bit boring, but I preferred it to the spice of the stew. I ate slowly and joined in conversation with my youth group. Eventually we finished our meal, and the family once again appeared from the kitchen.
The young couple went around the table and collected our styrofoam and plastic cutlery.
We once again thanked them and expressed how grateful we were for the traditional Mexican meal. After he finished clearing our plates, the young man came into the large room to say a few words. In his smooth, accented Spanish, he told the group that he was grateful beyond words for our work building the house. He began to tear up and explained that although his family didn’t have much, he wanted to serve us a meal. As someone from my youth group translated, our group began to understand this family a little bit more. Despite the family’s economic status, they wanted to give us a meal: a true sacrifice for a family that struggles to buy
food.
Our group once again thanked the Juarez family for their sacrifice in making the meal, collected our things, and began to head back to our housing. Our group remained quiet and we individually reflected on the situation. By the end of the meal, I broke through my initial apprehension, as did many of the other members of my youth group. Although communication was tricky due to the language barrier and the awkwardness of being complete strangers, we all managed to take something from the situation. Through the translated speech, the mannerisms of the family, and their small home, I was able to understand a part of the family dynamic and their culture.