Juan of Words

De Suerte Contentos, Uno De Cientos

With Good Luck, One Of Hundreds

My mother’s mobile Taqueria was purple.  It was wider than most.  It was taller than most.  We had bought it from a previous owner who utilized it as a small business office.  The large double window where    we served orders from was an add-on,    as were the fixtures inside my father had crafted.  We had painted it purple for no good reason other than that was the color my mother had found on sale.  When it came time to naming it, we settled on Taqueria Cerritos in honor of the small town in Mexico my parents were from.

We had never owned a business, much less one that required so much from every single member of our family.  Early in the dawn hours my mother would awake to begin the process of preparing the food she would sell that day.  My father would drive over to the parking lot where our mobile unit was parked and unload the gas tank inside before heading to his real job.  Once the tortillas were ready my mother would make trip after trip loading up her car: car, kitchen, car, kitchen, car, kitchen…

Soon after, silence would reign and we’d stay behind lying on our beds, grasping those last moments of sleep, smothered by the intoxicating scent of her cooking.  By the time I’d make it over to the taqueria before my shift at work she’d already be dispatching customers left and right.  Those months were some of the happiest I’ve ever seen my mother – despite the episodes of frustration she’d sometimes unleash on us.  She had achieved her American Dream.  She was working for herself, turning a minimal profit, and planning for the future.  This was a long way from our days of toting tamales and tortillas wrapped in aluminum around the parking lots of local Walmart’s and Fiesta grocery stores trying to sell them for a few bucks.

Customers now came to us, even if in sporadic bursts.

My youngest sisters were her sidekicks.  They were too young to stay at home by themselves and just old enough to understand how they should behave while at work.  Unfortunately they were so bored the pair would take turns coming in and out of the taqueria, playing in what little space there was.  There wasn’t much because although the unit was larger than most, it had a small stove inside, a refrigerator, a food preparation area, a storage area, and lots of stacks of Styrofoam cups and plates along the wall.  We even managed to get a small television and a phone set inside, so for fun my mother would let them sometimes charge customers for their orders.  The public always seemed to enjoy their presence and interaction.

Quite soon after, however, we realized our biggest impediment was our location.  People could not see Taqueria Cerritos as they drove by.  We bought signs and placed them in the median and along the strips of grass running parallel to the sidewalk, but it was all to no avail.  We were sinking, and we were sinking fast.  Sometimes my mother had to leave me or one of my siblings in charge (mostly when she ran out of supplies and had to hurry back home to pick up more) and, at least for my part, I’d make a lot of customers mad: either because the tortillas would not be soft enough or warm enough, or because I’d forget to add in the right condiments.   I was 20 and had never worked at a restaurant.  I was lost.

When they would complain I would just freeze and apologize.

My guilty conscious caught the better of me and I decided that year I’d use my vacation time to help out in the taqueria.  Two weeks straight I handed out flyers at local businesses, took orders over the phone, and delivered food within a 15 minute radius of our business.  Things began to pick up, but the question then became who would take over my place once I went back to work.  My father and all of my siblings could not do so because of work or school, my mother could not leave the business unattended, and our profit was not enough to hire anyone.  Slowly we started to realize Taqueria Cerritos was not going to make it.

The weeks that followed were difficult to say the least.

With the passing of each day the twinkle in my mother’s eyes began to lessen.  Her excitement replaced by stress; her energy usurped by fatigue; her dream breaking into pieces before her very eyes.  The only thing left to grasp onto were the memories inside those four walls on wheels.  One evening, my father’s truck just turned into our driveway with the restaurant attached to it.  That purple taqueria sat in our back yard, locked up, and untouched for several months until one day a younger couple turned up, attached Taqueria Cerritos to their truck, and drove away with our business.

My mother never again attempted to open a food service business.  Neither did we resort to our regular practice of selling tamales and tortillas in parking lots.  Instead she chalked it up to bad luck, thanked God for allowing her to makeup part of her investment, and continued her role as our matriarch.  She taught us to never give up no matter how heartbreaking the defeat.

Life In Prison: My Two Hours In Jail

A mixture of relief and excitement took hold of me as one door slammed behind us and another one jerked open in front of us.  This was my first time inside an actual jail, and it was much more than I had anticipated.  All at once I felt sad for the young faces locked up behind those concrete walls, angry about the illegal aliens – “mostly Mexicans” detained for illegal reentry – who made up the largest part of the prison population, proud of our tour guide for making it clear even inmates deserve to be treated like human beings, and tormented by the fact that some of the people I care about have had to endure the hardship of spending even one night in a place like this. 

At one point of our tour at this Federal Detention Center we walked among the general prison population in their living quarters.  Some guys were playing cards on long school-cafeteria-style tables; others were playing basketball and exercising behind a glass wall; a few did nothing but stand still; several guys nodded at me (I nodded back); and all of them stared at us in disbelief and confusion.  The tour guide told us federal prisons are no longer allowed to offer weight equipment that would enable inmates to build up their arms and upper body.  Instead they must do it the old fashion way: sit-ups and push-ups.  The bad thing is they are no longer exhausted and ready to sleep at lights out, creating a whole new set of challenges for prison staff.

I’d seen all the prison movies, heard all the stories from people who had been on the inside, but nothing could have prepared me for walking into that cell and experiencing it for myself.  As the solid metal door shut behind me I looked around at my surroundings and felt immediately hopeless.  The room was just a few inches larger than a standard freight elevator.  It had one tall slender window in the corner.  The glass was hazy either from old age or dirt.  The width of it was smaller than my leg.  A single bunk bed sat less than a foot away from the toilet.  And on the immediate other side was a desk the two inmates who share this room have to share with each other.  I can’t begin to fathom what it must be like to spend one day, month, or year after the other within four walls such as those. 

Those young faces, years more juvenile than my own, are what are causing me to pause.  I can’t help wondering why they are sitting there.  Not the crime they were convicted for, but what course of action in their lives (what moment) led to them spiraling into a life behind bars.  It made me want to be a better parent.  It made me want to be a better person.  It made me want to do something to stop these young people from rotting away in jail. It made me want to yell.   

It made me want to cry.

Rage In Music: The Spanish Break-Up Song

Unlike its English counterpart, the Spanish-language break-up song is significantly more aggressive.  It directly attacks, insults and even ridicules the departed party, giving the scorned lover full liberty to unleash their rage.  

Few words are off limits!

While Gloria Gaynor’s greatest hit, I Will Survive takes us through the healthy process of overcoming our fears, discovering our inner strength and resolving to learn from our mistakes: I’m not that chained up little person / still in love with you / now I’m saving all my loving / for someone who’s loving me; Gloria Trevi’s Cinco Minutos (Five Minutes) openly boasts about her ex’s misfortune: I’ll give you five minutes; vent / Don’t think I don’t have anything better to do / And if I said hello it was only a courtesy / Now you are at the bottom and I am at the top.    

On the other side of the spectrum, Beyonce’s chart topper, Irreplaceable steps up the rage:  You could pack all your things, we’re finished / Cause you made your bed, now lay in it / I can have another you by tomorrow / Don’t you ever for a second get to thinking you’re irreplaceable; but still is not as forceful as say Pesado’s Ojala (Hopefully), which leaves very little to the imagination: Hopefully / Life will charge you with interest the damage you’ve done to me / That you may not find love, And if one day you do / That it fails / Hopefully someone will make you suffer and from all the pain / You will no longer desire to live / That you will want to die.

Now that’s frustration!

La India’s Que Me Importa (What do I care?), callously expresses: What do I care to see you like that, without dignity / I don’t care about anything and that is your truth / What do I care… / If it takes you a lifetime to understand / That you have lost me / If our memories hurt you / And cause you to cry like a child / What do I care?  Not to be forgotten.  Few can deliver a great break-up song as well as the Mexican singer Paquita la del Barrio (Paquita from the hood).  Her most popular anthem Rata de dos patas (Two-legged rat) spares no offense in its fury: Disgusting rat / Despicable animal / Slum of the earth / Ridiculous mistake / Damn reptile / How much damage you have caused me / Trash of this life / I hate you and despise you. 

Next time you’re unfortunate enough to be suffering from a love affair gone wrong, you might give Spanish break-up songs a chance.  They may not have a lasting impact, but in the moment, they are a hell of a quick fix. 

If you have a favorite break-up song of your own, share it here.

Song Links:

Gloria Gaynor – I will survive

Gloria Trevi – Cinco Minutos

Beyonce – Irreplaceable

Pesado – Ojala

La India – Que me importa

Paquita la del Barrio – Rata de dos patas

Where Were Houston’s Hispanics!?

So tens of thousands of people turned out for the immigration reform march that took place this past Sunday in Washington, D.C.  They were there demanding a reform to the nation’s current immigration laws from President Barrack Obama and members of Congress.  Meanwhile, here in Houston, organizers also put together a similar march down Canal Street in the East End, with one salient difference – significantly fewer protesters. 

Chanting the same message as their counterparts in D.C. (si se puede, yes we can), considerably fewer marchers convened at the intersection of Cesar Chavez Drive and Canal Street just before 2 p.m.  To say that approximately 1,000 individuals showed up for this march is a very generous overstatement because had it not been for the buses that drove people in from other areas of town, not even half of that number would have been achieved.  There were almost more police cars and officers than protesters. 

In a city as large as Houston, with so many Hispanics, what does that tell us about our community?

Are we to assume that not enough Latinos in our city care about immigration reform to march in support of its implementation; that word of mouth did not get around as it should have; that most of our protesters were actually in D.C. participating on a national scale; or that more people did not come out because they were afraid of being deported as The New York Times reported today?  Whatever the reason, it was discouraging not to see more familiar faces.

What do you think? 

De Tal Palo, Tal Astilla

The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From The Tree

Higueras, duraznos, naranjas, hierbabuena, Piquin, and romero are just a few of the plants that come to mind when I think of my mother’s gardens throughout the years.  Everywhere she’s ever lived she’s left a tropical paradise behind.  None more so than at the last house   we shared before I went my own way.

Picture purple leaves, sprawling through the ground, greens of every tone dancing in the wind, running parallel to the curving sidewalk on either side, trees taller than grown men whispering in your ears, roses by the dozen lining the entrance of our home, the scent of orange and peach, rosemary and mint, greeting you the moment you walked in past our iron gate.  That was the home we shared while I was finishing school and getting ready for the rest of my life.  It was also the place where I finally understood why my mother is so meticulous about her gardening.

You see, for her, gardening is more than growing plants; it’s about planting seeds and leaving something behind.  Something that represents who you are, that let’s people know you were here in this world, and that you cared enough to leave your plot in the world a little better off than you found it.  That is the explanation she gave me.

Knowing life in the rancho would not be for her, uncertain about which part of the States she’d end up in, and nostalgic about leaving her parent’s behind, my mother packed up what little clothes she had, prepared to meet up with the coyota that was crossing her over, and walked up to my grandfather to ask for his blessing.  He obliged and gave her a piece of advice she never forgot: plant mija, wherever you are remember to plant; that is our legacy; that is what we will leave behind.

Poverty was the perpetrator behind her departure, and my mother had spent enough of her life away from her parent’s to know that the tall tales of abundance in the United States were exactly that – fables.  At the age of five she had been given away to her mother’s sister who lived in another town.  Try as she had, moving back home was never possible until she turned 15.  By then it was too late – she was a stranger in her own home.  In leaving, her goal was not to obtain great wealth, but to earn enough money to raise a family and send money back home to Mexico.

She did both, even when what she could send was little more than a letter letting her parents know she was still alive.  Building an empire was never an option.

Over the years her gardens became more elaborate.  Each one incorporated more techniques and precision to the process.  Five gallon paint cans, old pots, plastic containers of all shapes and sizes were recruited to serve as incubators for new plant life.  As the foliage began to pour over their containers they were either replanted on solid ground or given away as gifts.  At one point, my mother became so popular for selling peach plants at her garage sales that neighbors would just randomly show up to ask if she had any more.

When my parent’s moved out of that home, just a few years ago, it took an entire 24-foot U-Haul truck to transport less than half of her plants.

Almost four decades later, my mother is once again beginning the process of leaving her mark in the home she was finally able to have constructed from scratch.  Her garden is once again beginning to take shape, and despite the added years my mother is still as meticulous about her planting as ever.

I’m excited to see her efforts come to fruition, even though in my heart I now know her most far-reaching undertaking has been to plant in us the inspiration to leave behind a legacy of our own.

No Hay Rosa Sin Espinas

There Is No Rose Without Thorns

Everything that goes up must come down.  If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.  Never say never.  Love all, trust few.  All wise words easily interchangeable with this dicho.  Their commonality, each warns us about making mistakes in judgment and in life.  Yet regardless of how many times we hear these words, or others, we’re still bound to make mistakes.

Nobody can live life for us and rarely do we really learn from the mistakes of others.

It can’t happen to me, that’s their own fault, I’m not going to make that mistake, this is not the same thing – all excuses we use to rationalize our actions when that pesky little voice in the back of our head is warning us something is not right.  A lot of times it’s just easier to ignore that queasy feeling.  We occupy our time so we don’t have to think about it, and go on with our lives.  The unfortunate fact of the matter is that sooner or later our mistakes will catch up to us. 

Like an unwelcome and unexpected guest, our blunders will waltz into our lives, make themselves comfortable and refuse to leave until we properly deal with all of their ramifications.  Of course the argument could be made that whatever doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.  And it does, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could have a radar of sorts that would tell us when we were about to make a mistake.  That we could just push a button and avoid the error completely.  Then we would be able to consciously decide whether we want to deal with the associated drama or not. 

Even better, as parents we’d have decision-making authority on our children’s mistakes, at least until they turned 25 or something.  Wouldn’t that make life so much more peaceful!?

Parent:  I know you are 21 and you want to go out for a drink and have sex, but I just don’t think you’re ready for all that.

Kid:  But all my friends are doing it, and they even get to stay out past midnight. 

Parent:  Well you’re not your friends.  I’m sorry…my answer is still no.  I am hitting the anti-blunder button now and that’s that!

Kid:  This is not fair…       

Mr. Steve Wozniak and Mr. Bill Gates you’ve just been assigned a new project!

Until that happens we’ll have to settle for trying to be better listeners with ourselves – to not dismiss those butterflies in the stomach, or the whispers in our mind.  That when we find that rose that captivates us like no other, we do not blind ourselves to the thorns that will undoubtedly line its stem. 

And yes, using naivety and ignorance as an excuse eventually does get old.