Red, White & Fire Ants

American Pride – Mexican Roots

My father and mother are from Mexico. Growing up, the emphasis was always on American Pride. It’s funny thinking back on it now. My parents were different. They embraced this nation and often celebrated the Fourth of July with such gusto that I still carry on many of those traditions today.

I grew up in Southern California, a first-generation Mexican American. We didn’t really fit the mold, mostly because my parents were so proud to call the U.S. their home. That pride instilled a deep sense of patriotism in our household. My father constantly spoke about the opportunities he had been offered here and how proud he was to be an American. Though he was only a resident alien, I didn’t understand all of that as a child. I just knew Dad was a proud patriot, his claim to fame being that he was a card-carrying NRA member. NRA stickers were on everything. American flags? Required.

My father was a very hard worker. He raised six children, supported family in other states and back in Mexico. He is a proud man; proud of his roots and the lineage he carried in his blood. He told us tall tales of the strength and pride of the Mexican people. He boasted about the potential in our blood to be great. I loved that. Only thing I didn’t love? I never understood why we had to watch Platoon so much. Rambo, I didn’t mind. But Platoon? That was intense.

My Family Circa 1990's

Now a citizen, my dad beams with pride to have two grandchildren and a son-in-law who are Marines. And unlike other Mexican homes, you wouldn’t hear cumbias coming from our house. Nope. My dad blared Willie Nelson, George Strait, and Waylon Jennings. In all of this, he conveyed to me the importance of the freedom offered in our great nation, and how here, I could dream big, work hard, and enjoy the fruits of my labor.

That sense of American pride was always felt in our home, although you wouldn’t guess it from the traditional aromatics wafting from my mother’s kitchen. My mother shows love through food, deep, rich, traditional Mexican dishes. People say they can’t eat Mexican food every day. Well, I didn’t have a choice. But honestly? I loved it.

My mother is the only person I know who paints in flavor. Her art is the food she crafts for her family. The depth of tradition I learned from her, watching her prepare sauces and dishes from scratch, filled me with awe. She told us about Chihuahua, where she was from. About the fresh cream from her grandmother’s cow. And how, at Christmas, she would get a gift that was put away and then re-gifted again the next year. Both of my parents grew up in poverty. But both came here, found opportunity and freedom, and embraced it—lock, stock, and barrel.

My parents worked hard. I remember weekends spent going door to door selling eggs for extra money after my mom was hit by a drunk driver. I remember going to Kobey’s Swap Meet around Christmas to sell poinsettias with my dad and brother. Dad would expertly unload the box truck and set up the little stand, wheeling and dealing into the late afternoon.

I share this to convey something very important: I was raised to work hard. To be diligent. If we don’t work, we don’t eat. And in this nation, all you have to do is put your best foot forward.

When I considered running for office, I sat with the Lord, prayed, and sought confirmation. What I felt, again and again, was the desire to work for the change I’ve long dreamed of, for this little town where I’ve planted my roots. I think of my parents and how they embraced all that the U.S. had to offer when they arrived. In the same way they had pride in this nation, I now have pride in my little town—Pelham.

When my dad came to visit, one of his favorite things to do was ride a paddle boat on the lake at Oak Mountain State Park. He could stay there all day. He loved the trees. Once, he just lay in the grass, staring up at the sky, as the occasional cumulonimbus cloud strolled by, left by a passing shower, only to find out the hard way that you don’t lie on Alabama grass. Because when you do, you meet Alabama fire ants.

As I write this, my only hope is that if I’m given the privilege and opportunity to be elected to office, I will serve this city with all that I am and all that I have, to make it a better place to live. Not only by addressing the concerns of our residents to the best of my ability, but by always dreaming for more. By pursuing the best for our city, a pursuit fueled by one question:

Why not Pelham?