Nobody said much of anything as we were all too depressed. The boys hid in the telephone booths, trying to hide their tears, tough little samurai warriors. I held Taco’s hand as my lip quivered and tears streamed down my face. My father turned his face away, but I could see his shoulders shaking. Mother cried and dabbed her face with a tissue as his flight was announced over a loud speaker. Everything went in slow-motion panic then, my mother asking if he had his boarding pass, family rushing in for last minute photos, hugs, tears and chaos. This was it. The dreaded moment. To this day, whenever I see the long, white lines of cloudy contrails left in a blue sky by a passing jet, I feel a twinge of sadness for the memory.
They were impressed with my Spanish and asked me why I decided to come to Mexico. Black people in Mexico is a rarity unless you travel to the Pacific coast of Boca Chica and other parts of Guerrero. I was treated like a tourist with money to spend. Many locals tried selling me everything from jewelry to hats like I was a walking wallet. The poverty in Mexico is real and people do everything they can to survive by hustling common goods. Mexican women would flirt with me and show curious interest. This would have been impossible if I didn’t speak Spanish. If you want to impress Mexican women, then speaking Spanish to them is a must. They will completely change their opinion about you if you know their language.
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