She fluttered her wings to make sure they were still there.

“Buenos días,” she said.

“Good morning,” the friendly driver replied.

And when the big yellow school bus dropped her off at school, María felt very nervous.

“We have a new friend in class,” María’s teacher announced. “Please tell us where you’re from.”

María stood in front of the room. She carefully picked out each of the words she wanted to say.

“Hola. I am Mexico.”

“No, you’re not” came a reply.

And the children laughed.

“Sorry,” María whispered, for she had not chosen the right words after all.

In art class, they drew self-portraits.

María was proud of her colorful wings, but a careless elbow bumped her arm.

In science, María got to feed Button (and tell him all about Mexico).

But when she forgot to close the cage, everyone was very upset.

At lunchtime, nobody shared stories or riddles or giggles with María.

She didn’t feel much like María Mariposa anymore.

And just like that, her wings were gone. Only loneliness stayed behind to keep María company.

And the loneliness was so big.

But the Mexico in María’s heart was bigger.

She didn’t need a butterfly to remind her that she was bougainvillea pink, mango yellow, and the bright green of a parrotlet.

Inside her she carried sunset golds, jacaranda purples, turquoise, and deep ocean blue.

So even in the deepest, darkest loneliness, even when María was anxious or afraid, the gift of Mexico was always with her.

And that was a very special magic.

“Hola. Yo soy María Mariposa.”

To that magic was added the jade-green ribbons of new friendships, the lilac of secret-coded messages, the silver of puddle-stomping shoes, and the making of new memories.

“¡Hasta mañana!”

“See you tomorrow.”

And as that brand-new morning turned into a brand-new evening, in a brand-new city, on the very first day of a brand-new school, one butterfly departed, leaving behind another.

Author’s Note

This story contains many elements of magical realism, a storytelling device that originated in Latin America. Magical realism has many characteristics, but the most important is that the storyteller portrays fantastical events in real-life settings. For instance, María and her new friend, Swadhi, have wings and a magical touch that transforms the real world around them. I love this storytelling technique because it reflects my own life growing up in Mexico.

Mexico is a country rich in folklore, legends, and vibrant storytelling. As in María’s story, these elements have been woven into my own life story to create a narrative that incorporates bits of myth and magic into my reality.

Once, when I was a young girl, my sister found a beautiful smooth pink stone. My father, magic maker that he is, suggested we plant it under our favorite tree in the backyard. For weeks, we went back to check on that stone, finding nothing amiss or out of place. Then, one day, my father announced it was time to dig up the stone.

Holding our breath tight, my sister, my brother, and I watched as my father ever-so-delicately scooped up piles of dirt with a spoon, careful not to disrupt the magic brewing beneath the soil. Scoop, scoop, scoop until … POP! All at once, the earth opened to yield a diamond! An impossible stone, transparent yet at the same time reflecting the sky in a million facets. A second diamond followed the first, this one splitting the spectrum of light into a brilliant rainbow. The third and final diamond caught the sun and held it tightly in its core. I reached for one of the stones and placed the sky on the palm of my hand.

How else to explain that magic except to say: I am Mexico.