My family background is Mexican, and I was born in Chicago. It's

Host: The evening lights of Chicago bled through the café window, streaking the tables with amber and rose. The air smelled of coffee, snow, and a hint of fried tortillas from the street vendors outside. Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes distant, fixed on the steam rising from his cup. Across from him, Jeeny hummed softly—something familiar, something warm, like a childhood song whispered through memory.

The radio played faintly—a Spanish carol, its melody full of laughter and homesickness.

Jack: “You ever notice,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “how traditions are just habits we give sentimental meaning to?”

Jeeny smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the handle of her mug.

Jeeny: “You call it sentimental, I call it sacred. Sometimes the smallest rituals—a song, a meal, a shared laugh—are what hold families together.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, like smoke in sunlight. The snow began to fall outside, tiny flakes clinging to the windowpane, glowing like silver dust.

Jack: “I read a quote once—Ailyn Pérez said something about her Mexican family, singing at Christmas, performing for one another. Sounds beautiful, sure. But it’s a kind of illusion, isn’t it? A way to pretend life’s cracks can be filled with music and food.”

Jeeny: “Is it an illusion, or is it a healing?” she asked gently. “You think singing together is pretending, but maybe it’s a way of remembering who we are. That’s what she meant—family as a circle of memory, not a performance.”

Jack: “But why must we perform at all? Why can’t we just exist together—without all the pretenses, the songs, the rituals?”

Jeeny: “Because existence without ritual is loneliness, Jack. You think the songs are the illusion, but they’re actually the truth—the sound of people saying, ‘We still belong to each other.’”

Host: The wind rattled the windows, and the café’s lights flickered. The barista switched on a string of red-and-green bulbs, and the soft hum of Christmas music filled the room.

Jack’s jaw tightened. He leaned forward, his voice sharper now.

Jack: “Belonging. That’s the dangerous word. People kill for that, you know. They cling so hard to their heritage, their identity, that they forget to see others as human. Look at history—wars fought over religion, language, customs. Belonging turns to exclusion faster than you can light a candle.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she whispered, “without that same belonging, we drift into nothingness. The songs that Ailyn Pérez talks about—they’re not about division. They’re about celebration, about roots. When her family sings, they don’t draw lines; they build bridges—between Chicago and Mexico, between past and present.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes gleamed in the dim light, her voice trembling slightly, as if she could see that bridge herself, made of voices, spices, and memories.

Jack: “But is it real, Jeeny? Or just nostalgia? You think it’s about roots, but it’s just comfort. People invent traditions because they can’t handle change. They want certainty, a story that doesn’t evolve. It’s like singing the same song every year so you can pretend time stands still.”

Jeeny: “But what’s wrong with wanting a moment where time stands still? In a world that’s always rushing, isn’t it courageous to pause and sing? To say—‘Here we are, still alive, still together.’ You see it as fear, I see it as faith.”

Host: The silence between them grew heavy, filled with the echo of unseen memories. Outside, a family walked by—parents holding children, their laughter carried by the wind. The city glowed with a strange tenderness, like a heart beating under snow.

Jack: “I get it. But look around, Jeeny. Families don’t look like that anymore. Half the people I know don’t even talk to their parents. The table is empty, the songs are gone. Maybe the illusion died with the last generation.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why the quote matters even more now. Because people have forgotten how to make rituals. How to gather. How to sing without irony. Maybe Ailyn Pérez wasn’t just describing her family—maybe she was offering a reminder: that togetherness is a discipline, not an accident.”

Jack: “A discipline? You make it sound like work.”

Jeeny: “It is work. Every kind of love is. Every holiday meal, every song sung off-key, every argument forgiven—that’s the work of staying human. You call it tradition like it’s a cage. But it’s a craft, Jack. A living art.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted his cup. The steam curled up, veiling his face. He seemed to be somewhere else now—far away, maybe in a memory he didn’t want to revisit.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to hum too,” he murmured. “Every Sunday morning. She’d hum before anyone woke up. But after my father left, she stopped. No songs. No breakfast together. Just silence. That’s when I learned that tradition can’t save you. It just makes the absence louder.”

Jeeny reached across the table, her hand brushing his.

Jeeny: “Maybe she stopped because she had no one to sing with, Jack. Even the strongest voice needs another to echo against. You think traditions are illusions, but maybe they’re just incomplete without others. The song doesn’t die—it just waits.”

Host: Her touch lingered, and for the first time, Jack didn’t pull away. The music from the radio grew softer—an old bolero, full of melancholy and grace.

Jack: “You think we can bring it back? The songs, the gatherings, the meaning?”

Jeeny: “Not the same ones. But we can make new ones. Tradition isn’t about repeating the past—it’s about renewing it. Maybe you don’t need your mother’s song. Maybe you need your own.”

Host: The words landed like a quiet blessing. The snow thickened, cloaking the streets in white, muffling the city’s noise.

Jack looked out the window, his reflection merging with the lights outside, as if he were both here and elsewhere.

Jack: “Funny. I used to think people like Pérez romanticized the past. But maybe what they really do is keep it from disappearing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every song sung at the table, every dish cooked the old way—it’s a small act of defiance against forgetting. It says, ‘We’re still here.’”

Host: The café grew quieter now, the last few customers slipping away into the cold night. Only the sound of cups clinking and the whisper of snow remained.

Jack smiled faintly, almost tenderly.

Jack: “You know, if you ever invite me to one of those family dinners you talk about, don’t expect me to sing.”

Jeeny laughed—a soft, bright laugh, like a chime breaking through mist.

Jeeny: “Then you’ll just have to listen. That’s where all singing begins anyway.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back. The window fogged over, hiding them in a warm blur of light and shadow. Outside, the city slept beneath its white silence, while somewhere—perhaps in another house, another kitchen—a family began to sing, their voices weaving a fragile, eternal thread between past and present.

The last note of the song rose softly, and for a moment, even the snow seemed to listen.