Marisol had always thought of her heritage as something folded neatly in the back of a drawer—beautiful, but rarely touched. She was born in the United States, spoke Spanish with the careful pauses of someone who learned it in kitchens and living rooms, not classrooms, and carried her Mexican roots like a quiet ember in her chest. It wasn’t until her grandmother, Abuela Rosa, passed away that the ember began to glow.

The day after the funeral, Marisol found herself in the old adobe house in the small town where her mother grew up. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and earth, as if the walls themselves had absorbed decades of cafecito and rain. In the corner of the living room sat a wooden chest, its surface carved with swirling vines and flowers.

Her mother told her it had belonged to her great-grandfather, a campesino who had worked the fields until his hands were as cracked as the soil. “He brought it from Michoacán,” her mother said, running her fingers over the carvings. “Everything important went inside.”

Marisol knelt and opened the chest. Inside were layers of history: a rebozo (a Mexican woman’s shawl) woven in deep indigo, smelling faintly of smoke; a bundle of letters tied with twine, their ink faded to a soft brown; a small clay figurine of a jaguar, its painted spots chipped with age.

She picked up the rebozo and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric was heavier than she expected, warm, as if it remembered the women who had worn it before her. She imagined her great-grandmother wrapping it around herself on cool mornings, walking to the market with a basket of mangoes balanced on her hip. The letters were written in looping Spanish, words of love and longing exchanged between her great-grandfather and great-grandmother when he traveled north for work. One line caught her eye: “Aunque la tierra esté seca, nuestras raíces siempre encontrarán agua.” Even if the land is dry, our roots will always find water.

Marisol felt something shift inside her. She had always thought of heritage as a story told in the past tense, but here it was—alive, breathing, woven into her skin. She realized that her identity wasn’t just about where she was born or how fluent her Spanish was. It was about the resilience in her family’s hands, the songs her grandmother hummed while cooking, the way the scent of masa could make her feel at home anywhere. That night, she stepped outside into the courtyard. The stars above were sharp and bright, the same ones her ancestors had looked up to generations ago. She whispered a quiet promise to them—that she would carry their stories forward, not folded away in a drawer, but worn openly, like the rebozo on her shoulders. And in that moment, she understood heritage isn’t something you inherit once. It’s something you keep choosing, every single day.

This story is nothing, but words generated by AI. Sadly, has an underlying theme that begs the question, are we proud to be next generation of our Hispanic ancestors or not? Being an American does not remove your genealogy it only gives you the privilege of being proud of it or forgetting it. Latinos have been and continue to be a loving and giving people. For those closest to them sharing food and other resources is a given. It helps them survive together. That goes from the bario to the rest of the community. Those that have the least are the ones who give the most. Always thinking of others less fortunate.

HPLA Charities aka Habitaciones Para Latinos Association is sharing our resources to those in need. Our heritage is that of La Raza. We do so much more because of those who donate to our organization without expecting anything in return. Over the years we have seen tremendous success in making life better for many. Some are stilling hand to mouth but are no worse because of our help. Your help.

Its giving Tuesday 2025. Can we count on you to keep helping more people who are hurting through no fault of their own. Use www.hplacharities.org/donate