There I am. My cold fingertips press against the glass window and my eyes stare at the outside world. It’s like looking at a blank page, cold and lifeless. What am I doing here? I ask myself. Too bad I don’t know the answer.

It’s 2019. More importantly, we’re in January. The saddest month of the year. I always say if January was a candy, it’d be a black jellybean, bitter, nasty and hated by most people. Christmas is over and I can’t seem to get my jolly self back. I never can. At least not in the past three years I’ve been trapped in Ontario. You see, we are Low German–speaking Mennonites from Mexico, and only half of our life is in Canada; the other half is in Durango, Mexico. My other home. I grew up there. When in Mexico, we live in a house that was built by my grandparents and my dad lived there his whole life, too. My grandparents passed away when I was three, so, ever since then, we’ve been taking care of the property every winter. Or we did, until Dad decided to stay here for three years straight for, in my opinion, no logical reason. It’s hard to explain, but it’s my ancestral home. It’s a part of me. How do you think I feel when I haven’t been connected to that part of me in over three years? It’s very hard.

“Lisa, go run outside and get the mail, would ya?” my mom yells from the kitchen. My brain snaps from fantasy back to reality and I reply.

“Are you kidding? It’s like minus 60 degrees out there! Plus, I can’t even see the mailbox through all the snow from here!” I say in a snarky voice.

“Hey, I don’t need the attitude and overexaggerating. Just dress warmly and you’ll be fine. It’s like three feet from the house.”

I grab my coat and start for the door.

“Now look who’s exaggerating,” I mutter under my breath. Thank goodness she didn’t hear it.

I smack the mail on the table, almost injuring my frozen hands, and dash toward my room. I lay in my bed to ponder my thoughts. I feel sad and incomplete. Almost like I’m forgetting my culture. I think to myself, I’m not meant to be stuck in a house all winter. I’m made to be outside, to feel the sun on my face, to work and to learn by seeing things in real life. I can’t do any of those things rotting away in this huge house. I start thinking about how much of my Low German language I’ve forgotten while living in English speaking Canada. Even worse, my younger siblings have forgotten almost the entire language. It isn’t fair. Do my parents not care if my brothers grow up knowing almost nothing about our culture in Mexico? This question makes me sad. Why can’t they care about it as much as I do?

These thoughts and feelings are putting me in a very depressed state of mind. I feel like I don’t even know who I am anymore. I curl myself into a ball and I feel like I never even want to leave my room. I hear my door opening and the light starts seeping into my room. It’s my mom coming in.

“Hey, what are you doing in here?” she asks.

“Oh, nothing, just resting a bit I guess.” I lied. I just tell her what she wants to hear.

“Okay, well I thought you’d like to know that our neighbours invited us over for supper tonight,” she said very excitedly.

“And why on earth would I want to know that?” I reply with an eye roll.

“Hey, you used to get so excited to see Katie! Where’s my happy girl?” she asks in a tone that made me think she really didn’t know the answer to her obscure question.

I really try to hold back my frustration, but it feels impossible. I feel like I’m going to explode!

“Where do you think she is?!” I snapped. “She’s in Mexico! She’s watching the sunset by the mountains. She’s dancing through the warm breeze with her cousins she hasn’t seen in years! She’s looking up in wonder at all the different kinds of birds. She’s learning about wildlife and going to school to learn more Low German. She’s hanging out with people of her culture, so she has someone to talk to. That’s where your happy girl is! But her body is trapped in this house, so you’ll have to accept the version you have of me right now.”

I look at my mom. She looks stunned and I feel scared to hear what she says next. Suddenly she starts smiling. No, not smiling, laughing! Is this funny to her?

“Oh sweetheart,” she says, taking my hand. “You never let me finish. We are going to our neighbours’ to discuss when we want to leave. Leave for Mexico. You’re right. It’s high time we paid our home a visit.”

I freeze. I literally don’t even know what to say.

“We’re going home?” I ask, holding back my tears. Then my mom nods her head up and down.

That night we decide to leave the 14th of January and my neighbours will fly out on the 15th.

It is now January 14th and we are beginning our three-and-a-half-day trip on the road. Our whole family of eight people is in our big white van, together, and happy. I’ve missed this so much. Throughout the whole trip we all bond so much. We talk about things we usually never would. We sing songs out of our High German Gesangbuch (songbook) and recite the Wenschen (High German poems) that we had memorized for Christmas. Though I’m most excited to get to our destination, the journey is such an insightful experience as well. I guess I shouldn’t have trash-talked January so much because it’s brought me many blessings right now.

We finally reach our destination, our home. We all crawl out of the van like ants eager to get out of the sand. We breathe in that warm Mexican fresh air so deeply I can taste it on my tongue. It’s funny how not a single thing is different. Not a grain of sand out of place. It stayed exactly how we left it three years ago. The cows are still grazing on the green fields, their calves not far off. The chickens start clucking and our dogs start barking like they haven’t forgotten and are so happy to see us. Our house still stands tall and strong. I don’t know how the house doesn’t crumble to the ground, considering all the memories it holds. This house is a rock, strong, sturdy, and it’s never coming down. My brother opens up the shop and reveals our beautiful ATV, still in perfect shape.

“You wanna go for a ride? It’ll be just like old times,” he says.

“Heck yeah!” I reply enthusiastically.

We stealthily grab our helmets to avoid having to help unpack, hop on the ATV, and drive. We own a huge field, so we drive down our favourite trail that we always used to explore as kids. We drive so fast the birds seem jealous. The sun shines on our faces and the wind slips through my fingers as I lift both arms into the air. Suddenly the sky fills up with birds – so many you can hardly see the blueness of the sky. They chirp and surround us like we’re stuck in a snow globe made up of birds. I almost forgot what this feels like. I feel free. I feel like myself again.

Within the four short weeks in Mexico I reunite with my family, eat so much Mennonite food, and learn so much about Mennonite culture, especially amongst the youth. My brothers learn to speak our language again and I feel like the hole, the thing that was missing in our hearts, is completely filled with this experience. I love living in Canada and I love living in Mexico. Both countries play a big part in my life. I realize I need both in my life forever. Mexico is like a little reminder of who I am and where my ancestors lived before me. I think my whole family and I have learned a valuable lesson, to take time to remember where we are from and experience the things that make us who we are as people and as Mennonites. This gives me an idea.

I run outside to find my dad packing up the van.

“Hey Dad, you’re born in Mexico, right?” I ask.

“Yes, I am, your mom and I, both,” he replies with a bit of confusion.

“Wow, I wish I was born in Mexico,” I replied.

“Now why would you wish that? You’re a Canadian, be proud of that. You’re lucky. You get the best of both worlds. The Canadian world and the Mexican world,” he replies very firmly.

“Well, I am proud, but I just feel more like myself in Mexico, I guess. But I need my other home in Canada, too,” I say, building up suspense.

“So . . . ?”

“Well, I wanted to ask if you’d help me get dual citizenship. I’m not eighteen yet so there should be no problem and then I can officially have the best of both worlds,” I appeal convincingly.

“Well, I’m not sure it’ll make all the difference, but if that’s what you want, we can definitely do that,” he says with a smile.

“Trust me, it’ll make a difference and it’s the only thing I want. I want to belong to both places, so, thank you,” I say with an even bigger smile.

It’s our last night in our Mexican home. I lie outside on the trampoline looking up at the stars. It’s a warm night and the stars are shining extra brightly. There are so many of them. It’s like God just took a can of glitter and sprinkled it all over the sky. There’s just nothing that compares to the Mexican night sky. I like to think my grandparents are watching from up there. They deserve to be in such a beautiful place. I thank them for helping me find myself again, for allowing us to nurture their place and keeping their memory alive.

“Ahhh, a dual citizen.” I whisper to myself. “I like the sound of that.”