The falling apart tortilla was awkwardly slammed between my palms, over and over again. Laughing at me sloppiness, my classmate was on their sixth. In my frustration I slammed it harder till it fell on the floor, again. Not giving up, I took another one, and took a deep, muttering under my breath “why can’t I get this?!”. Rubbing it into a ball, then flattening with my fingers. The flour stuck to me, wet soggy. Gross. Still not giving up, I looked up at one of the women in “the women’s cooperation” and watched them do it easily and flawlessly. Her colored dress looked like it had a blanket of smoke over her dress coming from the perfect tortillas cooking. Like the sun of Guatemala, bright colorful, but with of layer of pollution (to my disappointment after thinking it was fog). She slapped them palm to Palm, until it got to her fingers, done and even. Replicating her actions, I formed a relatively acceptable tortilla. I got the motivation especially after Sophia said she wouldn’t clean her side of the room if I gave up.
The women’s cooperation introduced us to their culture. They could balance 50 pounds on their head when back home I can barley balance my books in my hands going to class. From a welcoming smoky smell, we spent the afternoon learning about a traditional dance to tortilla making to an actual Guatemalan wedding.
