Photo by Emma Quirk '26
By Angelina Godinez ’28
Staff Writer
We don’t talk enough about the alarming lack of Hispanic/Latinx foods in the Dining Commons. According to Mount Holyoke College’s enrollment data, in the fall of 2023 Hispanic/Latinx identifying students were the third biggest campus identity with 202 students, or 9.14% of the student body. Despite Hispanic and Latinx-identifying students being a solid percentage of the campus community, there is no dedicated dining station to serve them.
We occasionally find Latinx cuisines during lunch or dinner, but it is hard to consider it “Latinx food” when some of the biggest components of Latinx cuisine are the rich flavor and spices not present in a Mount Holyoke hard shell taco. I rarely consider any of the food marked as Latinx or simply “Mexican seasoned” to actually be Latinx or Spanish food. Rather, it is no different from the American food found in all stations at Blanch. Even Baraka, Wok and Global are closer to American versions of ethnic foods and do not deserve the title of “diverse.” Everything within the College’s dining options ultimately serves to cater to the school's historic majority of white students and their taste buds.
Despite priding themselves on their number of international students, the College fails to consider that Hispanic/Latinx students may also identify as being international. Although I understand the difficulty in recreating dishes that require money and resources, it is a disservice and an insult to all students for Mount Holyoke to claim to be “creating meals that taste good and do good for our whole community” when a significant portion of said community is Hispanic/Latinx-identifying students who are largely unrepresented in dining options. With two stations serving assimilated Asian cuisines and a “Global” station that tends to serve only variations of noodles, marinara sauce and pizza, there is arguably no representation for various ethnic groups on campus, whether they are domestic or international.
In my short time on campus I have struggled greatly with finding food that I feel I can even slightly recognize. Most days I find myself skipping out on meals, eating from my dorm or waiting for late night snacks to eat something I can stomach. At home in California, I was notorious in my family for absolutely hating breakfast food. Don’t get me wrong, I loved chorizo con huevos, chorizo con potatoes and pretty much any other plate that had chorizo, but other than that my breakfast was always just an early variation of lunch or simply a cup of cafe con leche.
But here, my favorite meal is breakfast. It’s consistent. A sausage and cheese omelet, a side of seasoned potatoes dosed with a heavy portion of black pepper and a cup of black coffee with sugar is my morning ritual. I find myself getting upset when I wake up too late on a weekend or am far too exhausted after a late study night to get breakfast, because that means I might not eat an adequate meal until dinner. Occasionally I find myself indulging in one of my favorite meals I've had since arriving at Mount Holyoke, although it is not even a meal found at the Dining Commons: a beef flavored cup of ramen drowned in tapatío with a side of hot fries, also covered in tapatío. I try not to indulge in it often out of fear of running out and ultimately not being able to get more due to not having transportation or enough money to pay $10+ in DoorDash shipping.
In my short time here, I have tried several ways of accessing ingredients or exploring restaurants in hopes of finding something familiar, to bring me the comfort of belonging and understanding. I recently attempted to take the bus to the Salvation Army and “JJ’s Tacos and Market” to buy some more winter appropriate clothes and hopefully Mexican produce. Once, I found myself sitting on the PVTA, and as the bus was just leaving UMass on the way to the Hampshire area, a woman had the courage to ask me, “What are you?” I was baffled. What do you mean, what am I? I don’t know. I am speaking in English, I was born in America, English is my first language and I have gone to school in America all my life. What am I? Not much different from you, I am assuming. I reluctantly said Mexican, because that is what I am. I have only ever known myself and my family to be Mexican. I am a third generation Mexican, born in Whittier, California. My grandpa is from Anguilla, Michoacan, and my grandmother is from Penjamo, Guanajuato. I was raised where both English and Spanish were dominant languages in my house. Despite this, she still responded with an “Ohhh, okay,” and the expectancy in her voice rang a bell in my head telling me she assumed that I was not from America. Not only am I not from Massachusetts, but that I was somehow different from her and the other students on the bus.
As I stood in the 30-minute line at the Salvation Army with tears in my eyes, this question lingered in my mind. All alone, I looked around and saw no one who looked like me. I felt panicked as if I did something wrong. I told myself for the billionth time, “I don’t belong here,” and the deep pit in my stomach grew a little deeper. I have never had to explain myself until my move here. I don’t know what people expect me to say when I feel I am not much different from them. While maybe from my clothes, the way I talk and my lack of preparedness for the winter might show I am not from the East Coast, it is my skin color that attracts offensive stares, questions and hesitation.
Unfortunately, I was not able to get the one thing I was most excited for: Mexican food and produce. I longed for the taste of something familiar, and the ability to cook my own food. My own desperate attempt to tie myself to something, to convince myself that I still have something left through food, had failed. I couldn’t stomach the idea of going back to Blanch after hours of tears shed just to have chicken tenders, so I ordered the closest thing I could find: $25 dollars worth of soggy Taco Bell. What me and my family already considered American fast food was my temporary and fleeting sanctuary for the night.
For the next few days I survived off of food I didn’t enjoy. It was hard for me not to call my family and tell them, “I give up, I must change my diet to strictly American food.” I have even walked miles to the closest Dollar General and failed to find even lemon lime hot Cheetos. I have taken Ubers to the closest Target where I had to stock up on packaged protein such as peanuts and beef jerky because I went from a diet rich with fresh meat to frozen chicken tenders, and it has taken a great toll on my health. It was disappointing to be met, time after time, with the East Coast impersonations of staples of my life just to return to the College and stomach another insulting meal of rice labeled “Spanish rice” that tastes no different from plain, boiled white rice.
Now, I have not been exactly quiet about this struggle. One of the most comforting conversations and interactions I have had on campus was with Pilar Guevara, the professor of my Intro to Latinx Studies course who also teaches the U.S. Latinx Foodways course. She was born in the highlands of Ecuador and attended various colleges in the United States, including one of the other Seven Sisters, Wellesley. Although she is fairly new to Mount Holyoke, she is not new to the difficulties and failed efforts in trying to recreate aspects of her culture. Very similar to my fading optimism, Guevara mentioned how when searching for produce or restaurants that bear a passing similarity to her culture, she “get[s] tired of looking because I already realized that there's not a lot of diversity in terms of Latin American cuisine in this area, so I kind of like give up, and then just end up eating at home whatever, and cooking whatever I can, the best that I can.” Although we have different cultures and experiences, we are both tied under the term “Latina,” a word itself coined by Anglo colonizers as a way of ignoring our individuality and only grouping us by the color of our skin. Despite our differences, we also share similarities. Our desire to recreate different ethnic foods, the challenge in doing so, and the shared disappointment and comfort that is brought from foods that tie us to home are very similar.
Guevara spoke further on the importance that culturally specific foods bring to a person in our interview, stating that, “You have a connection with your heritage, with your cultural heritage, with your family, wherever they are, or if they are here, you're able to share with the people that you connect through these foods similar to, very similar to language.” Food you can connect with goes much deeper than “good taste” and “flavor.” For me, it is home and a part of me that is essential to my way of living. Without it, I feel I walk these halls of campus as a ghost. Not only do I not feel seen or represented, but I also lack the energy and nutrition my home foods bring me, and I end almost every class with a feeling of lightheadedness and a need for a 3+ hour nap and an IV.
On Oct. 3, I checked the lunch menu; although I was reluctant, I knew I had to try it. The grill was serving “beef cheeseburger quesadillas, cheddar jack cheese quesadillas, tacos (hard shell) with ground beef, frijoles pintos, Mexican street corn and Tex mex rice pilaf” and various toppings for tacos and nachos. I got a little bit of everything: a beef hard shell taco, rice, a small portion of frijoles, a “cheeseburger” quesadilla, salsa and “Mexican street corn,” or, as I know it, elote or esquite. The elote was certainly the best. It instantly fueled me with warm feelings I haven’t felt for what feels like a year. Finally, something somewhat familiar. I found myself going back for seconds and even added parmesan cheese with help of the cooks. I felt comforted. I felt seen. I felt for a second I wasn’t here.
Guevara recalled a similar feeling she gets when she finds plantains. “I always say, like, when I find plantain and I cook it at home, I feel free. I mean, it's a sense of happiness, like, almost like, the same way I feel when I get to speak in Spanish, because Spanish is my mother tongue.’’ I found myself feeling very similarly once I found the first thing that tasted just an ounce similar to my culture, to my home. It’s sad to admit I feel I haven’t found my “MoHome” due to the food. The students do a great job at making us firsties welcome and I have had an all right time finding people I mesh with, but I find it hard to stay awake and be my best self when I go from eating meals with plenty of meat, fresh vegetables and flavor to my daily sandwich, an omelet or pink unseasoned chicken. It has gone beyond the feeling of alienation, but now to where I fear for my health and mental well-being.
In Southern California, specifically Riverside, California, I can name at least 5 mercados and authentic Mexican restaurants within a 10-minute drive from my apartment. There was never a question of feeling out of place due to the color of my skin or impossibilities of trying to find cultural foods. Despite this, most of the food I ate was made at home. My mouth salivates and my eyes tear up as I recall warm meals and some of my favorite dishes. Caldo de Albóndigas, my favorite food, is a meatball soup with numerous different vegetables and Mexican seasonings. It can be served with rice in the soup or on the side — my personal preference — with flour tortillas toasted just enough so they crack when you touch them, but soften into delicate wraps once dipped in the caldo and with a nice serving of meatball, veggies, salsa and lime. For me, Albodnigas aren't eaten right unless I am sitting at the dinner table for an hour, my caldo is dark red from all the salsa and lime added, and I am sniffing from the heat. A few other traditional meals are carne con chile, caldo de res, chilaquiles, chorizo con huevos, tacos de milanesa, arroz con leche, flan, café con leche, any of the many variations of chorizo, carne asada, pollo, al pastor, and arroz y frijoles. My stomach aches as I recall the warmth and feeling of safety these foods bring me.
Before leaving for Massachusetts, I spent time learning from my grandma and father important family recipes. I could taste, smell and touch my culture through these foods with my very own hands. The way pinto beans feel when I take them out of the bag, when I separate them one by one with my bare hands. I wash them several times under cold water looking for flaws and allow them to soak overnight before setting them to boil. The smell the beans get when they boil and begin to rise to the surface. The taste from the sample chip my father offers me to let him know if they are ready. How my bare hands ache from the freezing mixture of ground beef, rice, eggs and various seasonings as I help mix and shape the Albóndigas. The conversations, laughter and arguments at dinner with family and friends are all deeply rooted in my identity. It is a connecting piece between our lives, our blood, our heritage and our feeling of belonging. All these things have been lost through the lack of representation of Latinx students on campus.
It is almost impossible to find imitations of any of these foods within the city of South Hadley, but specifically within the Blanchard Dining Commons. As Hispanic Heritage Month comes to an end, I fear it will become even harder to find safety and comfort on campus. I crave to be connected to my culture again. I feel almost unfamiliar to myself as I struggle to find something to fill this missing puzzle piece of my life, stolen from me by the assimilation and imitations of food from my culture that Mount Holyoke uses for “Taco Tuesday.”
Sofia Ramon ’27 contributed fact-checking.