Translated her blog:
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I came to New Mexico to mourn.
To judge.
To see firsthand how America trampled on Spanish civilization, painted over our cathedrals with neon signs, turned our colonial history into Disneyfied museum exhibits, and renamed everything that once belonged to the Crown.

And maybe, let’s be honest, to post an angry Instagram in front of a Taco Bell next to a 17th-century church.

I had rage in my suitcase and skepticism in my heart.

But New Mexico… had other plans for me.

DAY ONE: “Where is Spain in this mess?”
I arrived in Santa Fe expecting to feel disgust. The capital of New Mexico. Oldest capital in the U.S., they say — but do they give thanks to Spain? Of course not.

The plaza was full of English signs. People sipping lavender lattes. I almost rolled my eyes so hard I saw El Cid.

But then I heard it.

Not English. Not even just Spanish.

Tewa. Diné. Apache. Caló. Spanglish.
Languages that swirled like wind through the plaza.

I stepped into the San Miguel Chapel, the oldest church in the U.S., and touched its adobe walls. The guide said it was built by Tlaxcalan labor under Spanish orders. And suddenly it wasn’t just about my history anymore.

DAY THREE: “Chile, not chili.”
Let me tell you something right now: New Mexico chile is not a joke.

I scoffed at first. “We invented tapas,” I muttered. “What can these norteamericanos know about flavor?”

But then I tried a bowl of green chile stew in a dusty diner outside Española, and it nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Not just from heat. From memory.

It was like Andalusian puchero… but kissed by corn, mesquite smoke, and some secret fire from the Earth itself. Like Spain and Mexico and the native desert all decided to make love in a pot.

And don’t even get me started on the sopapillas.

DAY SIX: “Spain didn’t die here — she evolved.”
I met a woman at the Museum of International Folk Art — a Native elder who told me, without bitterness, how her people had survived colonization. How they still dance, speak, weave, and pray on land taken and renamed.

And I met a young Chicano poet who wrote sonnets in Spanish and English, quoting Quevedo and Kendrick Lamar in the same breath.

And then I realized:

Santa Fe didn’t erase Spain.
It folded her in.
Wove her into a new tapestry of earth and ash and rebellion and joy.

Here, Spain is not queen. She is sister — one of many voices in a great, humming song.

FINAL ENTRY: “An American state with a Spanish soul”
I still believe in my heritage. I still love Madrid with all my heart.
But New Mexico… taught me something Madrid never could:

That culture doesn’t weaken when shared.
That when the Spanish past meets Pueblo present and Mestizo future, the result isn’t erasure — it’s alchemy.

Santa Fe isn’t perfect. No place is.
But I came here expecting to mourn a grave.
And I found a living flame instead.

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Total muslim death. Total kike death. Total pajeet paki bengali sikh/hindu death. Total spic death. Total turk roach death. Total chink death.

>>509810454 (OP)
>retarded bitch blah blah blah blah blah
Not political