Tag Archives: Mexico

the big a

“By the way,” my father said on the phone this morning, “Diegolina died a few days ago.” He dropped it in casually, after detailing his weekend. He’d gone snowshoeing for the first time, with his girlfriend. He and my stepmother have been divorced for several years now, and Diegolina was my stepmother’s mother. I had been taught to call her Abuela. My father called her The Big A, made her a joke. She never thought that was funny.

Abuela had a hard life. She dropped out in elementary school, sold tamales wrapped in banana leaves on the street. Her home was a collection of tar paper and tin shacks. She cooked food over a fire in the dirt. She had seven children. Her husband was a drunk who beat her constantly and, once, tried to force her to drink poison as my stepmother watched. He hit her in the face with a belt buckle, and, as a result, she was nearly blind in one eye. Abuela lived with us for weeks here and there throughout my childhood. Ay dios mio, she used to say, all of the time, stereotypically. She watched telenovelas endlessly, the loud music and dramatic exclamations bouncing through the house. She cooked a red soup with chunks of shark meat floating in it, homemade corn tortillas. She cried for hours and hours. She told me I was fat. She told me my stepmother betrayed her country when she became a citizen. “Angie, Angie,” she called me. I bent to embrace her tiny frame, as I was required to do, and she’d cup my face and kiss my cheek with feathery lips. Her brown skin felt cool, and smooth, like wax. She smelled like flowers, and something else, something bad. I was expected to love this virtual stranger, whom I first met when I was 8, and whom I saw in short, sporadic bursts.

I did not make an effort to know her. I am ashamed to say that mostly, she annoyed me. I was a selfish teenager, and she sighed and criticized constantly. She took up a bedroom, and I had to share a bed with my sister. She spent what seemed like hours in the bathroom. My stepmother was even meaner than she usually was with Abuela around. I didn’t have the patience for it. My junior year of high school, she got sick, and I had to take over her job for no pay at the Wishy Washy Laundromat. Abuela was sick a lot–she had diabetes and gall bladder problems and severe depression. I was in high school at the time, and for weeks, I stayed up into the early morning hours, scraping hair and gum from the wheels of the laundry carts, sopping up strangers’ scum.

When I wasn’t annoyed with her, I made fun of her. I have a photograph of her wearing a black t-shirt featuring a huge, fluorescent green marijuana leaf. It says, “This bud’s for you.” She had no idea what she was wearing. She poses for the photograph, stony-faced, somewhere in San Bernardino. None of my stepmother’s Mexican family smiled in photographs. It was only after she lived here for several years that my stepmom began to smile. When you think about it, the constant smiling is goofy, for people who don’t know true suffering, who expect everything to work out. For Americans.

It was cruel of me to make her into a joke. I make jokes all of the time, about everything, even when I shouldn’t. I didn’t want to deal with the guilt of knowing about her life and the lives of all of her family back in Mexico. Were they my family too? Who was she to me? Who were they? My stepmother didn’t seem to care, then, or now. Abuela was sick in a hospital in Mexico for awhile, and my stepmother didn’t visit. Her family will call her for money, and she will send it, like she always does, and she will do so begrudgingly. She will not go there to face all of those hungry and angry faces, all of the chaos that will surely result from this death.

Once, when I was maybe sixteen years old, Abuela sang a birthday song to me in Spanish, in front of my family and a few of my friends. She had tears in her eyes. I know it took a lot of courage. I didn’t love her, but sometimes I think she loved me.

Tagged , , , , ,

mexico

The first time I went to Mexico, I was 8 years old, just a little older than my oldest son is now. I didn’t go to Tijuana like most Americans seem to, and I’ve still never been there. We went, instead, to my stepmother’s home in Merida, Yucatan, the very tip of the boot of Mexico. We flew over the ocean for a bit, and I imagined the plane sinking into the gray expanse. After a stop in Mexico City, we landed in Merida. It was all people, cement, and noise. Lucy hustled us into a cab and said something in Spanish to the driver. Or yelled it. When she switched from English to Spanish, her voice always seemed to get much louder. I stared out the window as we drove over bridges and crossed highway lanes. I read signs I was incapable of understanding. When we were off the highway, I noticed the colorful houses, the bars over the windows, and people and dogs everywhere on the sidewalks. We finally stopped, not at a house, but at a tar paper shack with a tin roof, which sat upon a dreary patch of rock and dirt. Tiny people emerged to greet us. I was taller than all of them. My stepmother was short at 5 feet, 0 inches, but her family was even smaller. Hands stroked my hair and mouths kissed my cheeks and I was hugged by what seemed like thousands of people and there was Spanish all around me and none of it made sense. A girl approached me, with wide open eyes and long, stringy black hair. She was maybe 12 years old, Clarita, I would later discover her name was. My stepmother’s youngest sister. She stared excitedly into my eyes and spoke exuberant Spanish words at me. She seemed to be asking me a question. I knew the words “si” and “no,” and I chose to answer with “si.” Before I knew it, I was being pulled away from the family, down the sidewalk, past stores and houses and parks, through alleys. Clarita held my wrist lightly, leading me along. Every few minutes, she would pause and ask me a question, and I would reply with “si,” and off we continued. I had never been in a city like this before, with so many people out on the street. I felt Clarita’s eagerness thrum through me. I absorbed it all. Suddenly, a look of concern washed across Clarita’s face. We had been gone too long, I understood. There was a moment when I realized that I had no idea where I was. There was the briefest flash of fear. But Clarita quickly tugged me back through the maze of the city to the house.

Diegolina, whom I would soon be instructed to call Abuela, was crying. “Ay dios mio,” she lamented, taking my face into her hands, clutching me fiercely to her body. Then more Spanish. My stepmother yelled into Clarita’s face, and Clarita took off.

I was a freak in Mexico, the good kind of freak. People stopped in the streets and openly stared at me. Strangers touched my hair and bought me chips. Grown men whistled at me, assuming, I suppose, that I was an adult. My stepmom explained that many of them had never seen a (white) American before. I was not a beautiful girl. I had crooked teeth and was awkward, large, and ill-dressed. In Mexico, I was suddenly a celebrity and it made me both embarrassed and proud.

I stayed out in the streets until 1 and watched in horror and interest as the other kids burned the tail of a black scorpion. I went swimming in an underground cave with bats, the turquoise water filled with fish. I visited Mayan villages and ruins, stared at the women in their beautiful white dresses embroidered with flowers of every color. I ate a freshly slaughtered pig. I watched a man break a chicken’s neck on an interminable bus ride and sell it to a woman next to me.  I got so sick I stopped eating and drinking and fainted in church. I caught a baby sea turtle in the ocean at Progreso Beach. I danced at a stranger’s quinceanera, in a ridiculous polka dot dress. I was bitten by hundreds of mosquitoes as I slept on a hammock in one room with 8 of my stepmom’s relatives.  I became fluent in Spanish.

When we left, my stepmom’s entire family accompanied us to the airport. Many of the younger cousins had never been to such a place. In the bathroom, her family members pumped liquid soap into bags for later, amazed that it was free. I grew up fairly poor, but I had never seen poor like this. We had toilets at our house. We had walls and a roof and enough food.

I have never gotten along with my stepmom.There is no malice there, at least not anymore; we simply do not belong together. I don’t know why she took me with her on the two trips she made to Mexico during my childhood. I know it wasn’t intended to be an educational experience or anything like that. She grew up barely surviving; that kind of bullshit is for gringos like me. And I am certain it was not because she couldn’t stand to be away from me for very long. Regardless of her intention, it changed the way I saw things then, and now, and for that I am grateful.

Tagged , , ,
midnightpears

Just another WordPress.com site

The Winter Bites My Bones

Collected Poems of Dennis McHale, 1986-2013

A Birth Project

Transracial Adoption from one black girl's perspective

The guilty preacher man

Inspirations, Words & Visual-reflexions

terribleminds: chuck wendig

Chuck Wendig: Freelance Penmonkey

projectophile

\ˈprä-JECT-oh-fahyl\ (noun) 1. A lover of projects, especially those derived from scavenged materials and made more beautiful through paint, thread and sandpaper.

Return

Just another WordPress.com site

Another angry woman

Thoughts and rants from another angry woman

unkilleddarlings

Faulkner said, kill your darlings. I say, put them on the internet and let strangers read them.

MiscEtcetera v2

Random bits about libraries, digital culture, life, and writing

glass half full

This is my blog. I write a lot about autism, raising boys, and my own alcohol consumption. I also tend to cover topics like poop and toothpaste. You've been warned.

The War In My Brain

About Mental Health, Daily Struggles, My Cat, and Whatever Else Pops in My Head

Platform 9-3/4

A product of my boredom !

The Belle Jar

"Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences." - Sylvia Plath

Daniel Nester

writer, teacher, husband, dad, Queen fan, inappropriate, dilletante flâneur, Shader

a publisher of quality chapbooks

"To hold a pen is to be at war." -Voltaire

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 221 other followers

%d bloggers like this: