You Never Really Leave Michoacán, Texas and Iowa

You’ve heard the adage that it takes no more than eighty random people to come up with someone who shares the same birth date. The numbers are even less for running into someone from Michoacán. A few weeks ago, the first Estadounidense I met had roots in my adopted state. Her grandmother was from some town which started with a z, but she didn’t remember whether it was Zitacuaro, Zacapu, Zamora, Zinapecuaro, Zurumbeneo, Tzintzunzan, or even Tzurumutaro. That part didn’t really matter; what mattered was the amazing, or maybe not so amazing, odds of running into someone with Michoacán ties so quickly.

“So, what is your Estadounidense connection?” she asked.

“I vote in Texas.”

The second person I met, of course, was a Texan.

My roots, from college through a decade ago, were in Iowa. And what did I receive the day after? An e-mail from someone with Roosevelt High School ties who went to school during the Bill Bryson era with my law school classmates who was now in Buenos Aires. Everyone who was anyone in Des Moines during a certain era went to Roosevelt.

Michoacános, Texans and expatriate Iowans are everywhere.

 

 

 

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