Hey Hita

It's different for everyone. The endearing diction and mother tongue that lingers and is sprinkled in family traditions: for the older and the younger to use in everyday life. For some of us we hear it all the time. We hear it at our local grocery stores, we hear it in chatter circles while walking the streets of our barrio. 

But, like I said, it's different for all of us. How we interpret those niche but warming words. For me, the one that means the most, and isn't very common or used is hita. In Latin and chicano culture you will hear daughters, young girls, and women being referred to as mija, but in the midwest you can hear the word hita.  There's not a lot of information about how these endearing names got their origin (as in why does it have such an impactful meaning and why does it mean so much to us?) or even why they did. But one thing is for sure when you are called this you know in your heart that you are deeply, and unconditionally loved. 

Someone that calls you this loves you and cherishes you without a doubt. When they call me hita, my heart warms up; it takes over my whole body. It feels like I am being wrapped up in their love. I get the opportunity to be reminded of my roots that are ever so planted within me. 

I remember growing up, I was a kid that didn't have the privilege or choice of being surrounded by family twenty-four-seven. I wasn't able to form those cousin connections that come up all over my TikTok. Not because I didn't long for it, but because my fathers job was demanding. When we had to pick up and move we had no choice. I used to dwell on the fact that I couldn't control that. I used to feel like an outsider in my own family. 

But then, I'd get to go back home. In the moment, when the cool Colorado breeze blew past my face I'd forget that this place wasn't my home, because at the end of the day it was, it was my home. I didn't have my own house in Denver nor did I get to grow up there, but everyone I loved did. 

Mom would drive past a house and call out to me, "that's where your great grandma lived and where your grandma grew up, --OH and your Papa grew up a couple houses down." As a kid eager to go roll down Papa's hill I didn't pay much attention to those important facts. Now I feel like it's all I ever think about. 

When I think about my connection with home and the word hita I think of him. I think of my music loving, loud laughing, recored collecting, brilliant Papa (my grandpa lol). 

My Papa is a man I could talk about for hours. A man that knows and loves to know every song for any occasion, knows how to fix a car, maybe even your sink, but most importantly a part of your soul you didn't know needed a little repairing. 

Papa was the first person to get me into records and I loved the fact that he wanted to share that with me. Now knowing that he probably couldn't hold in the excitement at the fact that I wanted him to. 

Walking into Papa's house is like being transported to bliss. Smelling a combination of Zaza and a burned incense flaming in the corner. A corner surrounded by pictures of the ones he cherishes. Bob Marley a soul that is connected to this house is payed in tribute. He reminds all us of the importance he plays in Papas heart. Band posters are collected on bare white walls and speak to the color of music industry that lives in each of us. Stacks and stacks of records ranging from Blues to Metal find their spot on the shelf. A painting hangs in the kitchen of our chicano ancestors with the phrase, "and to all those who died, scrubbed floors, wept and fought for us." Papas house allows each and every person that walks to feel authentically themselves. 

I spent my first few months of life in Papas house. A house that has raised all three of his daughters. Has had friends of all ages and those connected to himself and others walk in and feel overwhelmed with comfort. My Papa is one of the most special parts of my life and my identity. 

I started calling my Papa every Thursday because I needed him and I needed his advice. One of my classes was giving me hard time and I wanted to hear what my Papa thought of it. The calls began to happen every Thursday after class. He always answered. I'd talk about the situation and he'd tell me in his warm and cheerful laugh of a talk that I was excelled at so many levels. He helped me and taught me so much not only about myself but about him. The trials and tribulations that come up in life. 

My Papa is definitely one of the smartest people I know. He's a hardcore music lover that knows so much about everything. He's an activist and an advocate for his community and culture. Things I love about Papa I see in the family he created. 

When I think about the word hita I can hear the echoes of Papa ending every call, every hello and goodbye with, "I love you mucho hita." Not only do I hear his voice calling out to me, but I hear those that aren't here anymore whispering in my ear, "hey hita". My aunty Donna never failed at calling me that. Her smile and voice linger with me every time I hear the echoes.