I don’t often divulge where my parents come from. But when I do tell people where my parents are from, and specifically my mom, many people don’t react, though not because my mom’s hometown is unknown — in fact, it is extremely well known within Mexico.
My mom comes from the city of Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico. Many Americans may not have heard of this city, but its history is extremely important. Culiacán is where the Sinaloan Cartel would regulate the city and its people, and it’s where “El Chapo” originates from. Over the years, there has been an intense tension between the government and the cartel presence within Culiacán, making it a high-risk city where simply traveling downtown can get you killed.
However, I have spent many years traveling to Culiacán and visiting my mom’s side of the family. Even with the danger, the fear of what can happen to foreigners and the fear of the cartel’s presence, the city is still full of life and wonder.
Many times, I have walked through el centro, or downtown, looking for my favorite stand to get aguas frescas and tacos at El Taco… Taco or waiting for my mom to finish looking at fabrics while I explore the fabric and crafts store, Modatelas, that I’ve looked through for years, even if nothing changes.
And the biggest excitement of all: going to the man with the souvenirs stand and getting my friends or family’s names burned on the souvenirs made of wood resembling hats or coin purses made of leather.
Despite all of these aspects of Culiacán, nothing beats the beauty of seeing my family — the days spent teasing and arguing in the beat-down house. We’d gather and cram into the front area with the kids running at our feet, laughing from the endearment. The day-to-day running down to the corner OXXO, the biggest Mexican convenience store chain, to grab sodas and snacks, or waiting for the man with the tortillas or even the paletero. The summers and winters have always been filled with joy.
Everyone from the generational line — from the Guzmans to the DelReals to the Acostas — would gather, surrounding nuestros viejitos, our elders, Mama Lochi y Papa Cheche. (No one ever called my grandparents by their names, it was always Mama Lochi y Papa Cheche.)
These days, Culiacán has gotten harder to mention, not because the conditions have gotten worse, but because my family lost a piece of our beauty. On Dec. 25, 2023, my Mama Lochi passed away in the early morning of Christmas Day. A day meant for joy and celebration was now filled with mourning and loss, especially after my Papa Cheche passed away in August of 2021, and my aunt Marielena, the eldest child of the family, passed away in July of 2023.
These losses have made Culiacán a scarier place, but knowing my family continues to reside in a place we are all haunted by makes it easier to confront and understand. Culiacán may be terrifying, but it is beautiful nonetheless.
Q Acosta is a photographer for The Beacon. He can be reached at acostaa27@up.edu.
