I grew up in New Mexico, and I spent many a day playing in the mesas, the arroyos, (where I would never let me child play in now) along the foothills of the Sandia Mountains, and building forts underneath sprawling Piñon Trees. It was not a unusual experience for me, and it did not occur to me that anyone else might have grown up differently. I knew that in other places they had many more trees, and a great deal m ore water, but I didn't know how unique my experiences of growing up in such a different culture really was until I moved to North Carolina at 13 years old.
There my friends asked me if I had to have a passport to move to the U.S., complimented me on my fine grasp of the English language. They had never heard of Piñons, or green chili or pueblos. They'd never been in a Kiva or seen a Navajo. They thought my poncho was a rug. When I brought beans, tortillas and jalepeños to school for lunch. they were disgusted. I didn't know that many of the words I used for the things in my life were Spanish or Native American in origin.
When I had children of my own and I was living in Florida, I wanted so badly for them to have a taste of my childhood. I wanted them to see the Balloon Fiesta, hold a Horned Toad, help me light Luminarios for Christmas, and see the wide expanses of beautiful acreage you can only find in New Mexico. They've both lived with me here now for close to 12 years, and they love it here. I know where ever they might move, they'll always have a piece of this in their heart to keep close.
We're still part of the United States here, but a little different from the one you might find just anywhere. It's off the beaten track, a sweet spot on the back roads of America, and I am lucky to be here.
