One woman weaves personal stories and Mexican traditions into a powerful tapestry of history, culture, and the timeless spirit of tequila.
“There’s no place like Mexico. A Mexican who doesn’t sing wasn’t born here. For me, Mexico is another world. I can go to Europe, the United States, Chile, Argentina—anywhere—and I’ll always want to come back to Mexico. You miss your country, its freedom. Mexico is a free country.”
Today, we dive deep into the heart of Mexico, exploring the roots of resilience, storytelling, and tradition through the eyes of Maria, a passionate historian, storyteller, and educator. Through her stories, we’ll see how history isn’t just something we learn—it’s something we live, breathe, and carry with us.
Maria’s days are filled with activity, from teaching to community involvement, and caring for her beloved pets. But at the heart of it all, she finds joy in the simple moments.
“Every day always brings me something beautiful. If today has been sad, I try to turn it around and find something beautiful because I don’t like to be sad.”
That resilience, that ability to find beauty in every day, is something deeply rooted in Mexican culture.
Maria’s childhood was shaped by the voices of elders, carrying the wisdom of the past. Sitting at the feet of her grandparents, she absorbed every word, every legend, every piece of history of Mexico they could offer. To her, history wasn’t just something in books—it was something alive, something she had to preserve.
“For me, it was very beautiful to see the elders. They were my grandfather’s brothers, and they’d welcome me by saying, ‘Hello, little comadre, come in,’ and they’d teach me how to shell corn, to listen to their stories. I would think, ‘Don’t forget them, don’t forget them.’ Friends of my grandparents would also visit, greet me, and tell me stories.”
These stories, passed down through generations, became part of Maria’s identity. They shaped her love for history and her mission to preserve Mexico’s traditions.
Maria’s connection to history runs deep. One of her biggest inspirations was her great-uncle Cirilo, a revolutionary whose life was intertwined with the very fabric of Mexico’s past.
“He was a revolutionary, and the most incredible thing was that my grandmother’s father was also a soldier, but in the army. He wasn’t a revolutionary—he was against them. My great-grandfather was killed, and when that happened, they went to my uncle Cirilo’s big house and took him because he was the only one who knew how to write. They told him, ‘You’re coming because you’ll write down the names of all the dead.’”
Her uncle Cirilo then became a man that inspired her story: “He was a very tall man with a wide hat. He wore cotton pants, a cotton shirt, and a poncho… and he told me stories. You wouldn’t believe it—he had this tired, raspy voice like the old men of that time. When he started telling his stories, he transported me to that era, and I lived it. So, when I tell stories, I want people to feel what I felt with him—to live the story and feel part of it. That’s why I like to narrate stories that way.”
These intertwined stories remind us that history isn’t just something we read in books—it’s something our families lived, something we carry with us.
Her passion for history has led her to collect and narrate Mexican legends. Maria isn’t just a historian—she’s a bridge between generations. She even hosts storytelling nights at cafes, bringing people together through oral tradition. Her words bring the past to life, turning history into something tangible, something deeply felt. In a world where traditions fade, she stands as a guardian of memory.
“We’ve had around 30-60 people every time we go to a café and we have a great time.”
But like many great storytellers, Maria’s journey has not been without hardship. A recent fall forced her to pause her events, yet her community eagerly awaits her return.
For Maria, being Mexican is something profound—something that exists in our blood, in our voices, in our songs.
“There’s no place like Mexico. A Mexican who doesn’t sing wasn’t born here. For me, Mexico is another world. I can go to Europe, the United States, Chile, Argentina—anywhere—and I’ll always want to come back to Mexico. You miss your country, its freedom. Mexico is a free country.”
And that freedom, that deep love for one’s homeland, is something that binds all Mexicans together, no matter where they are in the world.
Maria is passionate about preserving traditions—through language, music, and cultural symbols. “Mariachi music is essential, indisputable, and recognized around the world. But today’s music should have meaning… Just like they had the creativity to make songs like Cielito Lindo, they should have the creativity to create works that are worth it, that endure. I’d love it if good music wasn’t lost. I’d love for the charro suit to continue being respected. I want the typical dress of Mexico—whether it’s the charra or campirana style—to be worn without judgment. People should say, ‘Wow, what a beautiful dress,’ instead of, ‘Look at that crazy person!’ It’s your Mexico, your Jalisco, your city. Wearing a tapatía dress is a source of pride, and it should be a source of pride for everyone.”
For Maria, traditions aren’t just about the past—they shape the future. By wearing traditional clothing, by speaking with respect, by passing down legends, she ensures that the essence of Mexico lives on.
Maria’s storytelling transports us to the past. Some stories remind us of history, others serve as cautionary tales, but all are deeply embedded in the culture of Jalisco.
Legend of the Fuente Seca
Legends carry the spirit of a place, preserving the essence of the people who once walked its streets. One of Guadalajara’s most intriguing stories is the legend of Fuente Seca, a tale of excess, celebration, and an unexpected turn.
“There was going to be a baptism, but I’m talking about many, many years ago, like around the 1800s. So, they built a fountain, and this fountain had little angels pouring out jugs like this. Well, the legend says that when they finished building the basin, the man who had it built, his wife gave birth to a baby. So, the man, very proud, went and told his compadre, ‘Compadre, you are going to be my son’s godfather.’ ‘Ah, very well. And I’m so happy,’ said the compadre, ‘I’m going to fill the fountain you made with pure tequila.’ ‘Great!’ So, they filled it with tequila—a lot of tequila. People came and drank and drank, the tequila kept going down. ‘Pour more,’ they’d say, and they poured more, and people kept drinking from the fountain.”
Then the wives—the comadres—were angry because their husbands were completely drunk, and so was the whole town. So, they said, ‘What do we do, comadre, so they stop drinking like these fools?’ ‘Let’s make a hole in the fountain.’ And there they went, making a small hole at the base of the fountain. They made a little hole, and through that hole, the tequila began to escape, and the fountain dried up. Then they said, ‘Oh, compadre, the fountain dried up.’ ‘Well, pour more.’ But it wouldn’t fill up anymore; the tequila just spilled out. And then they said, ‘Oh, this fountain dried up.’ And since then, that fountain has been called the Fuente Seca (The Dry Fountain), because the women made that little hole so the tequila wouldn’t stay in it. Otherwise, everyone would have ended up completely wasted.”
A story of indulgence that reminds us that even the most joyous moments can come with consequence. This is an unforgettable part of Guadalajara’s folklore, and a clear display of how tequila has always been woven into Mexico’s history and celebrations.
Legend of the Stone Dogs
Guadalajara is a city rich with history, but some stories leave behind more than just words—they leave behind mysterious relics. One such story is the legend of the Stone Dogs:
“They said that a long time ago, a man came from Europe, and among the cargo he brought to his house were some bricks—blocks marked with red numbers. But those marks weren’t paint. They were blood. And it was children’s blood. He arrived in Guadalajara with his cargo and wanted to build a house—the most beautiful house in Guadalajara. So, he started constructing his house and hired bricklayers. The bricklayers followed his instructions: ‘Place this brick here. No, not that one. This one. Then this one. Then this one.’ They had to arrange the blocks according to the shape or number they had.
When the house was completed, and he thought it was very beautiful, he brought in dogs from France—the same place where the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, and the Guadalajara kiosk were made. He imported Neapolitan Mastiffs. He placed one dog at one end of Guadalajara, facing the Cathedral, and the other at the other end, facing the Sanctuary.
They say those dogs weren’t statues originally. They were real dogs. Then the man settled down and said, ‘Now I’m going to marry the most beautiful woman in Guadalajara.’ While searching, he fell for a neighbor, a young woman whose family made high-quality clothing. He liked one of the sisters and married her. He took her to live in his house and told her that she would live there under one condition: she was not allowed to go to church. ‘No church at all,’ he told her. She agreed: ‘Okay. No church at all.’
They had two children. But deep in her heart, she couldn’t let go of her faith. Being from Guadalajara, with such deep Catholic roots, she said, ‘No. I must make sure my children are baptized, confirmed, and receive their First Communion.’
But how could she do it without her husband finding out? So, she said to her mother, ‘Mom, we’ll take the children to Tonalá, to the Cerro de la Reina, so they can receive their First Communion without him knowing. You’ll take the kids in the carriage, and they’ll have their First Communion there.’ Her mother agreed: ‘Yes, that’s fine.’
The mother took the children toward Tonalá. But on the way, the dogs that belonged to the man attacked the carriage and killed the children. The mother-in-law returned with the dead children and said, ‘Look what happened. The dogs attacked us, and the children are dead.’ The woman wept bitterly. Then her husband asked, ‘Where did you go? Why did the dogs attack?’ ‘It’s because the children were going to have their First Communion,’ she confessed. ‘But the dogs attacked us on the way.’ The man replied, ‘Woman, what have you done? I told you: no church.’
That night, they held a wake for the children and buried them. But the next night, the children’s bloodied clothes appeared on the dining table. The man said, ‘This can’t be.’
He called his servants and said, ‘Tomorrow, take the whole day off. Don’t come. I’ll pay you for the day, but I don’t want anyone here.’ The cooks and servants all left. He stayed alone with his wife.
The next day, when the servants returned, they found the man and his wife dead. The dogs had bitten them. Realizing that the dogs were responsible for killing the couple, the servants grabbed machetes, pitchforks, and other tools to kill the dogs. But the dogs ran and climbed to the roof. The servants chased them, but when they reached the roof, the dogs stood at opposite corners… and turned to stone.”
Even today, those stone dogs stand as silent sentinels, keeping watch over Guadalajara, a lingering reminder, standing in plain sight, of stories that refuse to fade.
Legend of Mayahuel, the Goddess of Tequila
The roots of tequila run deeper than we can imagine, stretching into the sacred myths of ancient Mexico. One legend tells the story of Mayahuel, the goddess of agave, whose fate became intertwined with the drink that defines Jalisco.
“There is a story called the story of Princess Mayahuel. It’s a sad one, but it’s related to mezcal, which is like mezcal—the close cousin of tequila. So, the story goes that Princess Mayahuel was captured by the enemy tribe and held as a prisoner to ensure that her father would not declare war on them. Because if he did, it would end very badly. So, they kept her as a hostage to guarantee peace between the two tribes. This happened in Oaxaca. She respected their terms, but her heart already belonged to someone. She was in love, but since she was taken away, they could not be together.
At night, he would sneak in to see her, and after their time together, he would leave again. They only saw each other at night. One day, the girl’s father, Mayahuel’s father, said: ‘We can’t continue like this, with them holding my daughter. We are going to get her back, and we will declare war.’ So, they declared war and marched forward. When the soldiers—well, the indigenous warriors—arrived to attack, Mayahuel was in her room. Her captors came in and killed her. They said: ‘Your father broke the agreement, and now your father is coming for you. But since he was bad, this agreement no longer exists.’ And they killed her.
The young man came looking for her and found her dead. The man who loved her took her body and buried her in a secret place only he knew. After everything was over, people began asking for her: ‘Give me my daughter.’ But they replied, ‘She is dead.’ ‘I don’t care—give me my daughter.’ But they said, ‘No, we don’t know where she is.’ ‘What do you mean you don’t know where she is?’ ‘We don’t know where she is.’ What happened to her?
The young man said nothing. The other tribe grew angry because they didn’t have the princess’s body. And the story goes that a tree grew where she was buried. From the maguey, a pure white flower blossomed. When the chief of the other tribe saw the flower, he understood that it was a sign of his daughter, Mayahuel. What does ‘white flower’ mean? They dug there, lifted the maguey, and found Princess Mayahuel.
And from that maguey, mezcal was born.”
Even today, with every sip of tequila, we honor the legacy of Mayahuel—the goddess who lives within each bottle, whispering her story through the taste of the agave.
But Maria reminds us that tequila is more than just a drink—it’s a story, a history, a cultural symbol.
“Look, if you don’t talk about tequila, you’re not talking about Jalisco. Because Jalisco’s most representative symbol… well, aside from mariachi and the charro, is tequila. They say tequila, a horse, and a woman are not to be shared. Others added the pistol to that list, right? But most of my family says it’s tequila, because you don’t drink tequila from someone else’s glass. It’s your tequila, ha ha. Tequila tells its story through its color, its agave, its barrels, and how many years it’s been aged. The tequila itself is already telling you a story.”
To Maria, tequila is not just a drink—it’s a story in liquid form. It carries the essence of the land, the strength of the agave, and the resilience of a people. With every sip, we taste centuries of history, of struggle, of triumph and the resilience of a people who have carried their traditions through generations.
Maria’s story is one of resilience, tradition, and community. Through her words, we rediscover what it means to be Mexican and find that legends are more than their echoes of the past.
“Many stories remain in the inkwell, stories that have yet to be written… “If people did what they enjoyed, like you, they would be happy. Because many people do what they don’t enjoy, but if you do what you love, you’ll always have enough—and even more.”Stories do not die. They live on in those who listen, those who remember, and those who choose to pass them forward. They teach us who we are, where we come from, and what we should never forget. In a world that changes quickly, these stories remain,—not just through history books, but through the voices of those who lived it – reminding us of the values we hold dear.
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