As cookie-cut suburbia faded into golden grasslands, I couldn’t help but dread my annual family reunion. This year my mother, father, brother, his girlfriend Sofia, and I piled into our Sudan, heading South on an eight-hour road trip to Goliad. As the hours dragged on, the Texas humidity seeped into our car, filling the air with the hot, sticky smell of manure. I resented the monotonous prairie fields and the old farms, each indistinguishable from the ones before. My eyes glazed over as I stared into the ever-expanding plains, unable to escape the feeling that I might end up trapped in Texas for the rest of my life.
As I typed Goliad, Texas into Google, Wikipedia revealed to me that the last notable event to take place there was a Texas Revolution battle in 1836.
How fun.
After eight hours of family arguments, gas station tacos, and barren pastures, we arrived at the reunion. Immediately, we were greeted by the warmth and love of our hundreds of relatives, doting over us in Spanglish and admiring how much we’d grown since last summer. Setting down our bags, we walked over to the stage in the back of the ball room to introduce Sofia to our great grandparents.
13 black and white photos of my great grandparents sat perched on the stage, each adorned in flowers, a golden frame, and the name of their home city.
Following her immigration to the U.S. from Mexico, my great, great grandmother had 13 children, who all lived throughout the state. From Austin to San Antonio, from Alice to Victoria, from Goliad to Port A, my family has spread their roots all throughout Texas for generations. I’m descended from the Alice branch of our family as the great grandchild of Benito Garcia and his wife Emma Garcia. As I stared into the faded eyes of my woman who gave me my name, I could feel her presence in the room, like a warm hand on my shoulder.
After indulging in one too many conchas and jelly-filled empanadas, I spent the rest of the night on the dance floor, grooving to melodies with my cousins and talking with my great aunts. Although most summers I dread the reunion, my favorite part is always dancing to the two steps, mariachi tunes, and the 2000’s cumbias. Erupting in a fit of twirls, my brother guided me across the floor, unbound by any anxieties. In a blissful frenzy, me and my cousins ran out behind the ballroom and danced together in the open fields for hours. The party lasted until early in morning, with relatives saying their teary goodbyes with loving embraces.
On the eight hour trip home, we drove with the windows down, letting the warm summer air engulf us. Each small town we passed through was a window into the past, with sweet southern farmers bustling about along dusty roads. I admired the lilac wildflowers growing through old asphalt and windmills standing steadfast in the prairies. On that early morning, the Texan sun gleamed golden over the open fields and the expansive horizon brimmed with possibility.
Suddenly, the idea of staying in Texas forever didn’t seem so bad.
