Juan of Words

Back To The Basics: My Reason For The Dichos

After A Week Of Little More Than Personal Observation…

Direction...

Back to the basics.

Something I’m beginning to understand a lot more profoundly lately.  Not like the concept of Back to the Basics of many an artist who swear off all luxuries in order to return to the good old days before their fame and fortune.  I’ve had neither, so I’m good in that department.  More like the idea of returning to square one, examining the road behind and thinking about the many steps ahead – personally, professionally and everything in between.

A look back really at where I’ve been and where I’d like to go.  The truth is there aren’t any clear answers and the more I think about it, the more stressed out I get.  But that in itself is precisely the problem.  My problem.  Over thinking and overanalyzing everything.   From what to post in a new blog, to what project or projects to focus most of my attention on at any given time.  Like it or not, I’m the product of my dichos – forewarnings for almost every aspect of my life.

Oh don’t do that or this might happen.

Are you sure that is what you want to do?

Maybe you should think about it a little bit more before you do anything.

It’s constant!  A never ending battle taking place inside my head.  One side of my brain wanting to be more spontaneous, the other too paranoid to allow anything unexpected to happen.  I could blame it on my Catholic upbringing, all the guilting of one’s actions into good deeds; my father’s rigid rules growing up, never even allowing us to sleep over at any of our friend’s houses; or even the circumstances of my own personal tragedies throughout these years; but in reality there’s only one excuse to blame:  the fear of failure.  To let myself go, to give all of my heart and soul, to sweat it out and cry it out, and still turn up empty handed, looking like a fool, standing there on that ledge knowing I’ve done the very thing I’ve always tried so hard to avoid – FAIL!!

Not that it’s unfamiliar territory, but the sour taste it’s left before I can still taste.

Still this blog now is all free-flowing, without the usual back and forth about what to share and what to keep private.

A step in the right direction, I think.

Cathartic even…maybe.

No se.

Ya veremos.

Al Que Madruga, Dios Le Ayuda

He Who Rises Early, God Helps

Brother-sister by Bobby Dacus

Rising Early
To stay in bed past noon was un pecado.  Early rising to get ahead of our day, not to let our day get ahead of us.  If by 10 a.m. we were not up, the calling of our names would commence – first lightly and calm, then at increasing frequencies, every couple of seconds, then louder, until there were full fledge hollers coming from the other side of the door, or inside our room if we had not remembered to lock the door behind us.  On school days, less formalities, just my mother screaming at the top of her lungs.  My father’s long, hardened nails jabbing at the side of our ribs: ¡Ey ya levantense! ¡Hay que ir a laescuela!

Al que madruga Dios le ayuda, they would say, as we clumsily rubbed our entire hands on our faces, inching slowly out of bed, yawning lazily, mouths open as far and wide as we could get them, to express our disapproval of these early morning rituals.  All we wanted was to stay in bed, curled up underneath our covers, dreaming…or not…just immobile in that sublime trance between reality and unconsciousness.  Where nothing else mattered besides the fact that we were comfortable.

Not my parents.

Even though we didn’t even have a gallo anymore they still got up like clockwork everyday at the crack of dawn.  My mother in the kitchen clapping her hands from side to side in small rapid motions, corn between her palms, forming a perfectly round gordita, alternating between this and turning the tortillas on the comal, stirring the mixture of chile and eggs on the frying pan, slitting gorditas at one side, filling them up with my father’s lunch.  He sipping on a cup of coffee, putting on his boots – the ones layered with blotches of dark black chapapote all over the front and sides of them – reading a piece of newspaper, a magazine perhaps, whatever was around to stimulate the brain.  Rare days when they didn’t work, they’d lie in bed, still awake, whispering to one another.  Me steady trying to listen.  Having very little success.

In our home these were the cherished moments.

And With God’s Help
Nothing could be worse than being un huevon and like it or not we all adopted that same mentality, albeit at varying degrees and versions over the years.   When my brother would sit on the sofa watching countless hours of The Nanny, to the point of making a hueco in ‘his spot’ that my father had to fix by nailing three two by fours of wood underneath our cushions, we’d all yell at him to get up; there was my sisters constant fighting with one another about who was going to clean up what – my oldest sister always yelling at the younger one to mop or broom; me forcing the little ones to do their homework, even at the expense of their very frightened tears.  We had a level of expectation from one another.  Unwritten perhaps, but all the same demanding of what we felt was right.

In many ways this is still true.

We don’t leave ours behind, one of my sisters said the other day and it was like an epiphany.  Of so many lessons learned over the years of what we should or should not be, what we should and should not do, how we should and should not live – like in that instant all my parents’ regaños flashed before my eyes at lightning speed, yet slowly enough to be remembered one by one.

Hearing her say something so profound, took me back, all the way.  To the days when she was our caretaker more than our sister, a teenager responsible for kids half her age, when nothing that we did was without the other.  When we were truly one.  All nine of us one single family, one single person.

It made me realize nothing has really changed.

Despite the distance and the years, the marriages and the children, the dramas and personal demons, there we stood.  Her, golden brown hair, braided on either side, past her waist, thin and guera, with the green eyes and simple smile, no makeup, spaghetti strap top, cheap track shorts, barefoot, holding my infant sister above her waist.  Me, a mismatched, chorreado ball of energy, looking to her, depending on her, laughing, playing, being a kid…perhaps at her expense.  The kid in me still there, married now, an adult, but still the little brother, looking up at his big sister, relying on her for so many things.

Maybe I don’t believe all the dichos we grew up with, but there is something comforting in knowing we still share many of those lessons.  More comforting even than the act stealing of a few more seconds of blissful sleep before we had to get up and go, all those mornings ago so many years behind us now.

Al que madruga Dios le ayuda.  Probablemente sí…papá, mamá.

In Bed And On The Dining Table, Shame Is Pretty Much Useless

Courtesy of Punto.es

Useless in the sense that no matter how hard we may try to hide who and what we really are, the rest of the time, in our natural state – when eating and er…sleeping – the truth simply has a way of revealing itself.  You know the old adage about breaking bread with someone in order to get to know who they actually are, or even the potentially  less literal catch phrase: “sleeping with the enemy.”  The idea that everyone has something to hide.

Or maybe just a simple reminder: accept yourself for who you are, don’t try to change to please anyone else besides yourself, and when it’s time to let it all hang out…just let it all hang out!  Plain and simple.  My interpretation anyway.

Easy Do-It-Yourself Halloween Costumes, Estilo Mexicano

La India Maria

So for Halloween a few years ago we weren’t sure what to do.  We had not really planned out any costumes – we rarely do – and the holiday was just around the corner.  The idea was to dress up and go out for the night, while at the same time sticking to our budget of let’s just say minimal resources.

What to do?  As the Chapulin Colorado would say, no contaban con (nuestra) austucia…or in our case, simple Mexican ingenuity.

In a matter of seconds it was decided!  I would be Cantinflas, my wife La India Maria, and Edgar a vampire, since he was the only one with an actual costume.  After raiding a few segundas – or as my mother in law calls them, “our Macy’s” – we emerged with everything we needed, except for a little makeup, which we improvised for by using some from my wife’s own collection.  Our costumes were a hit…even if only other Latinos were the ones who recognized our disfrases.

This year again, the jury is still out on what we’ll wear for the big day, but for the rest of you, ladies first of course, here are a few easy, do-it-yourself, Mexican-themed costumes that shouldn’t cost more than a couple of bucks at your local “Macy’s.”

La Chimoltufria

A classic, ‘La Chimoltufria’: aside from getting to yell in your most whiny voice all night, you can be mean an obnoxious too, just because…no questions asked!

La Chilindrina

If you’d rather connect with your inner child…you know the spoiled one that likes to snitch on everybody and anybody, and also burst into ‘llantos’ when they don’t get their way, consider ‘La Chilindrina’, another classic from the ‘Chavo del Ocho’ series.

Ugly Betty

Want something more recognizable stateside…and also a little more intellectual?  Ugly Betty can be the reason to just roll out of bed, put on whatever mismatched items of clothing you can find and go! Alternate names: Letty or Betty la Fea.

La Trevi

Y si de pelo se trata, who won’t recognize ‘La Trevi’ (shown here circa 1990′s during her ‘pelo suelto’ days, before her little stint in jail)…okay maybe the ‘gavachos’ will just think you’re an 80′s ‘chica’, but we’ll know you’re the ‘rock-n-rolera’ herself!

Maria la del Barrio

Innocent, sweet, helpless…think again!  More like sassy and ‘pelionera’, with the added excuse of ‘not knowing any better’ to get away with virtually any faux pas.  Think Little Mermaid brushing her hair with a fork at a formal dinner…and do it!

Paquita la del Barrio

Even though she may no longer be a favorite for her harsh words and lukewarm apologies, you can’t deny ‘Paquita la del Barrio’ has Halloween costume written all over her persona and personality – “Rata de dos patas, te estoy hablando a ti…”

Doña Carmen Salinas

And finally, a Doña to bring us full circle…none other than the incomparable Carmen Salinas.  Never at a loss for words and as good at the ‘indirectas’ as your momma, with a hefty helping of ‘chuntis’ all over her vocabulary…but be warned, if you take on the Doña for Halloween you better train your tongue very, very well.

Happy trick-or-treating!

A Cada Marrano Le Llega Su Sábado

Every Pig Gets Their Saturday  

Regocijo

Un poco vulgar, pero cierto.  After watching nearly 24 hours of almost uninterrupted Chilean miner rescues taking place before the world’s eyes, there are so many important lessons to be learned.  Many of them technical – about engineering, crisis intervention, management, political action, etc. – but the most important of which revolve around one thing: faith.

Despite being trapped underground for 69 days, away from their loved ones, unaware if they would in fact ever be rescued, and if so, when, these 33 men have each shown amazing resilience and strength so far, as they slowly make their way back onto the surface of the earth, one by one.  Falling on their knees, praising God, and all of the men and women who have made their miraculous rescues possible…smiling at the world, even rejoicing, and bursting at the seams with positive energy.

Their experience and journey truly a testament to the strength of the human condition.  In their darkest hour they remind us that never are we alone.

“Not 33 miners, but 34…because God never left our side,” they said, and in those words summarized for all of us the how of their survival, above any and all material elements that kept them alive.

Whatever personal dramas they may face henceforth – I’m thinking particularly about the gentleman with the two love interests above ground – their day has come.  Today, in one way or another they have become a part of all of us.  Their names and likeness we may not always remember, but the images of their emergence from the earth we will never forget.

A cada marrano le llega su sábado.

 For me, another Saturday to awe at the power of faith.

¡Naranjas!

Oranges!

¡Naranjas!

No seas orgulloso, ven a saludar…
I hated these words.  Every time people would come over they’d make me come out, smile, shake their hand, answer a few questions, and sit in the living room with them.  To be amable, what one should always be…aside from humilde.

I really couldn’t have cared less to be either.

Yeah I’d hear my own name being called from the living room, first in speaking tone, then progressively louder, until it was a full-fledged yell, but the last thing I wanted to do was acknowledge any recognition.  I was asleep, taking a shower, listening to music, reading a book, doing homework, anything to not have to come out.  But then, there’d come my brothers and sisters hurry up, they’re calling you…you’re not asleep, stop acting…I’m going to tell mom…APA!! The latter would send me racing into the living room with my best fake smile on my face.  ¿Apoco este es Juanito? ¡Qué gordo se está poniendo! ¿Pues que come Juanito?

At these questions I’d smile and say nothing.  Just sit down and wait to be dismissed…or for the first opportunity to make a run for it, usually pretending to be called by one of my siblings in the next room: Huh?  I’m coming.  Hold on real quick…horita vengo!

It wasn’t anything personal, or even that I wanted to be sangron or orgulloso, just that hearing other people say what was already in my own head was uncomfortable and embarrassing.

Eventually, though, I figured it out.  I didn’t have to come out if I didn’t want to, what was said to me didn’t have to be taken a pecho all of the time, and if I wanted to I could be as much of a smart ass as the next kid.  The funny thing is after I figured this out I didn’t have to hide myself away anymore.  No seas orgulloso, ven a saludar, now I’m the one saying this.

¡Naranjas!

This post is dedicated to my friend @customcreative who shared this colorful dicho with me, from her own family’s usage of refranes y dichos.  Here it is meant as an expression of exclamation.