The smell of gasoline and humidity fills the air. There’s no other way to describe the smell of Mexico. I walk out of my house, locking the front door. As we lock the eight-foot gate behind us, me and my cousin Sada look at each other, smiling with excitement once we hear the bass of the band from afar. Walking down to the plaza, streets are filled with street vendors selling tacos, hotdogs, corn, drinks, and little appetizers to munch on. Once we get closer, it’s obvious to know where to enter from. I could feel the bass while walking on the rocky road.
We get there, and at this point, you stop to take a moment to see and hear everything that’s going on in the plaza. Now comes the stressful part of the night. You have to go around the plaza, passing the section where they set up mini roller coasters for the kids in the town, and a little pulga, where they sell little souvenirs and clothing. Sada and I start making our way to the main stage. Already, the color lights are blinding us, making it hard to see in the distance. We have to squeeze in tight places through the crowd. People huddled up in their groups with drinks on the floor, food in their hands, facing the front where the banda plays.
After a good five minutes, I see a head shape I recognize. Getting closer to it, I find my brother with all of our cousins. All of us together, there’s about fifteen of us in a circle claiming our space. Perfect, we made it just in time. Just in time for the first banda to play. The lights dim, the crowd, with no doubt, waiting desperately and chanting. The mic screeches, and the lead singer introduces himself and his group, making the people in the town excited, making everyone throw up their hands with no care. Drinks are being spilled, people are getting rowdy, lights start flashing. In that moment, my blood and my pride, that makes me who I am, my ancestors who lived this heritage decades before me, fill me with contentment with who I am.