New Year's Eve in Times Square

If you believe in 2012 time will truly be of the essence, considering the end of the world and all according to the Mayan calendar, then let’s just pretend this Bucket List is sort of a how to guide for putting your best foot forward in the next and final 12 months of life on earth. Think of it as all of the best advice your momma gave you growing up on how one should lead a good life! And hey, if we do live to see another year, this advice might just enrich your life anyway.

1. Haz Bien Sin Mirar A Quien – Do good for the sake of doing it, regardless of who might be on the receiving end of your good deeds. You don’t need to be thanked. You don’t need to be acknowledged. It will all be returned to you in the end. Read More About This Dicho Here.
2. Amor Con Amor Se Paga – Love is paid with Love. There’s no other way around it. If you really want to experience true love you have to learn how to love. How to love others, how to accept love, and most importantly, how to love yourself. Read More About This Dicho Here.
3. Mientras Hay Vida Hay Esperanza – So long as there is life there is hope. The last thing we should ever let go off is hope. There are going to be horribly painful moments in your life, when you probably won’t be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel, when life might not even seem like it’s worth living. It is these moments when our faith is truly tested. No matter what the odds, know that tomorrow is another day and that things will inevitably get better.  Read More About This Dicho Here.
4.  No Hay Peor Ciego Que El Que No Quiere Ver – There is no one more blind than the one who chooses not to see. Or loosely translated could also be “you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves.” Regardless of how hard you attempt to deny your own truths, or those of others, life always has a way of bringing them to light and making you deal with them whether you want to or not. Remember that age old rule, honesty is the best policy. Read More About This Dicho Here.
5. En Boca Cerrada No Entran Moscas – If you don’t want drama, keep your mouth shut. Nobody likes a chismoso, especially if your gossip is intended to offend and hurt others. Of course life without a little harmless gossip just wouldn’t be as much fun. The key is in keeping it respectful and not humiliating anyone. Read More About This Dicho Here.
6. La Muerte Es Lo Único Seguro Que Tenemos En Esta Vida – The only sure thing in life is death. Sorry, but your momma was right. It doesn’t matter how much money you make, how much fame you might achieve, how luxurious of a life you might lead, at the end of it all you’re still headed towards the final truth we all share: death. Concentrate not on how much you can attain, but on how much you can affect the lives of others and how you will be remembered. Read More About This Dicho Here.
7. Dios Aprieta, Pero No Ahoga – God squeezes, but doesn’t choke (sort of a literal translation). Or if you prefer a less religious interpretation, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. When you’re at the brink of desperation, right about ready to just give up, always remember that life is precious and ALWAYS worth living because you never know what tomorrow could bring. Okay, so this dicho is very similar to number three, but it’s just such great advice! Read More About This Dicho Here.
8. Quien Bien Te Quiere Te Hará Llorar – You are going to cry and that’s okay! Sometimes letting go and just letting it all out is the best thing you can do for yourself. I’m telling you from personal experience, the more you have been holding in, the more relieved you are going to feel when you just stop and allow yourself to feel what you need to feel. It might be a little embarrassing,sure. Then again what’s more important? Peace in your heart and soul or saving face? Besides, it’s not like you can’t go lock yourself up in the restroom and cry your eyes out. Read More About This Dicho Here.
9. Más Vale Tarde Que Nunca – Better late than never. It truly never is too late to right a wrong, or make a change, especially if it means you will be happier. So often we are held back by our own insecurities and excuses, preferring to live with the consequences of our actions and decisions, that when we finally decide to accept that apology or offer our forgiveness we can’t help to wonder why we waited so long in the first place. Challenge yourself. Ask yourself what is holding you back. Read More About This Dicho Here.
10. De Noche Todos Los Gatos Son Pardos – Certainly we’re different. In so many ways. There wouldn’t be enough space on my poor little server to go through all of our differences, and the truth is they don’t even really matter. We are much more similar than we are different. Remember that when someone approaches you for help, when they are too scared and weak to speak up for themselves, when they are hopeless and helpless, when you yourself are under any of these distresses, that on a human level we are all the same. Read More About This Dicho Here.

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Graphic by Eiji Boga

There was a television show by that same name that used to air on one of the major Spanish-language networks here in the states not too long ago.  Carmelita Salinas was one of the three hosts and aside from exposing a constant parade of dysfunctional families from one extreme to the other, the show was also well known for utilizing grossly made up characters, from midgets to circus folks, all exaggeratedly stereotyped, and for the most part, all fiction, as the jury of rhyme and reason in this chaotic makeup of a show.  I’ll admit it now, though I wouldn’t have before, that on some days when there was nothing else to do, or when it felt like the kind of day when my mind didn’t want to think anymore, I’d sit back on my sofa and just watch the craziness on screen.

There was always someone crying, someone yelling at the top of their lungs, people throwing punches, and of course, the little people jumping out of their chairs and running across the stage with an oversized pencil in their hands to try to call order on the set.  I never really understood the need for those humongous plastic pens… or the existence of a jury at all for that matter.  If it was strictly for the ratings, well it obviously didn’t work.  The show hasn’t been on the air for a couple of years now.

The thing is, somehow, for some reason, anytime there is any amount of chaos in my life it always comforts me to think back to the premise of that show: Hasta en Las Mejores Familias.  As if because my problems haven’t landed me on a similar television talk show yet they might not be as bad as what they seem.  Perhaps it’s the idea that all of the drama on that show was way worse than anything that’s ever happened to me.  In a lot of ways it was, but then again it was mostly make-believe… for the “magic” of the small screen.  More often than not though, on some days I completely understand the need for that excessively large pencil, the running around in circles on stage, the yelling, the crying, and yes, even the buenas cachetadas.  It’s not that my life is so stressful, or that the things happening in and around it are that chaotic tampoco, just that sometimes the freedom of going a little loco doesn’t seem all of that crazy after all.

They did always say things do happen “even in the best families!”

I’m beginning to think there is a lot more truth to this notion than I once believed.

Padre e hijo

Suffice it to say when you get a renter make sure you know who you are renting to.  A lot easier said than done.  But hopefully now we’ve learned a very valuable lesson.

Anyway, when we came back from vacation, from making all of those great memories and spending so much quality time together, we had to face the reality that there was a whole lot of time and money that was going to be required to get this house back into shape.  Estabamos un poco dumbfounded at the bad luck.  I mean we hadn’t even taken a real vacation in years, but as they taught me in French class c’est la vie.  So off we went planning and budgeting to try to make things happen as soon as possible.  The very first thing we had to do was replace the back fence on the property.

Okay.  No problem!  Only contractors want way too much money to put up the fence and I haven’t the slightest clue about how to do it myself.  The last time I tried my fence started out pretty even on one side and progressively became more slanted along the 48 feet of property we had to cover.  By the time I noticed it was coming out crooked ya estaba bien cansado and my response was “oh well, fudge it,” which in hindsight is probably one of the main reasons we’re having to do it all over again… only this time under the supervision of mi papá.  I’d kind of been hinting around about him helping me, and by that I mean talking to my mom about it (she seems to have a way of getting him to do things, lol), without coming out and directly saying “can you help me?”

No sé porqué pero como me daba cosa to ask my dad who’s already in his sixties to give me a hand.  Finally, I just broke down and asked him.  He, of course, said yes.

The plan was that we’d show up on Sunday and knock out the fence in one day.  Go ahead and laugh.  It’s okay.  Llegamos temprano, and we started right off digging the holes for the 4×4’s we would need to put in to support the new fence – after we had already knocked down the old one.  My luck, desde luego, was that out of all of the rainless-drought-inducing days we’d had this summer – and we’ve had plenty believe me – this particular Sunday was the one day the rain would not let up.  Entre breaks in the heavy down pouring we tried our best to get as much done as we possibly could.  We did it… well at least put in the 4×4’s that is, but by the end of the day our shoes and pants were covered in mud, we’d both slipped in the mud trying to work, every single item of clothing we were wearing was drenched in very cold water, including my chones, and now we were facing the dilemma of how to cover up 48 feet of a barren property line.

We figured that one out too, and despite my complete exhaustion at the end of the night when I hit the bed, I was happier than I had been in a long time.  As a kid I’d always been more of a momma’s boy and rarely went out to do real hard labor with my father.  That was my older brother’s job and he was good at it.  Besides when was I ever going to need to know how to do all that stuff?  DOH!  This weekend, though, I really felt like we were making up for lost time.  No pude evitar feeling a little sad about having missed out on all this father-son comradery, but as we were working, having an actual conversation and telling jokes, I couldn’t help but feel a little extra joy in my heart.  I still feel it today, and the fact that we have to go back and work on it some more this week doesn’t even bother me at all.

In fact, I’m actually looking forward to it.

I might not be a kid anymore, but hey… it’s never too late to make up for lost time!

Man Tears by Artemis

In truth, there have only been a few times that I’ve seen my father cry.  A couple of times of joy, another handful of pura tristeza.  He’s always been a man of strength and bravery to me…  the one with arms of steel and shoulders capable of taking on the world.  When I think of him, instinctively my heart goes soft and something inside of me just makes it unavoidable to want to cry, at least a little bit for all the little things I think I know now that I didn’t know back then.

Ahora que yo soy el hombre de la casa it’s easier to recognize the hows and whys.  The things I hated in him once I now see and appreciate in myself.

The same things Edgar will probably grow up hating in me too.

La cosa es, that until I was teenager, I really did believe the myth that real men don’t cry.  That it was a sign of weakness, a symbol of having been defeated, to let even one single tear run down my face.  Even worse, to do so in the presence of others, because it made me look pathetic and stupid to them and to myself.  As far as I can remember though, nobody ever told me that “real men don’t cry.”  I guess I just assumed so because nunca in my childhood did I presence my father cry.  Maybe he did and I just didn’t pay attention… estaba demasiado ingenuo para entender. No sé.

The truth is we do, and sometimes it’s even good for us.  Personally, les puedo decir that up to now there have only been a few times when I’ve literally balled my eyes out, sobbing uncontrollably as an adult for things I literally had no control over.  Those memories are still too painful and fresh to talk about, but the happy tears I’ve shed… those, have left a lasting imprint on my soul.

I want to make father cry again.  Not tears of sadness, but tears of joy, because in the end he was the one that taught me this very important life lesson: que los hombres también lloran.

I hope I can do the same for Edgar.

Los dejo con la canción que fue la inspiración de este post.  Se llama “El Hombre Que Más Te Amo” y la canta Chente.  El otro día la escuche por primera vez en mi camioneta y al escuchar la letra se me salieron una cuantas lagrimillas porque me hizo pensar en mi padre.  Espero les guste también.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=QntAiTCJjzA

Las piedras...

Las piedras en México tienen historia.  They’re jagged and rough.  Shapely in all sorts of colors and sizes.  Smooth to the touch.   Rough to the grasp.  Sturdy.  They tell the story of generations gone by, of old men playing their instruments and singing their música de vara, of old women walking by at the dawn of early morning, wrapped up against the cold in their rebozos, always in pairs, with their pails of fresh corn, heading to the molino, of huaraches de piel walking alongside mules, sheep and all sorts of other assortment of livestock, of children running to take care of mandados, of young men with their alcohol and cigarettes, laughing and carrying on, of young women giggling and smiling, trying their best to be proper while the objects of their affection walk by, of young boys and girls escaping from school, marching to the beat of el himno de independencia on Independence Day, of so many cousins showing us how to get from one place to the next without ever being seen.

That’s what I remember in those rocks.

I imagine Mamatule and Papanino, my grandparents, sitting at the front of their kitchen, wrapping up their tobacco in corn leaves, smoking it ever so peacefully in the dead air and silence of night, my father as a young man courting my mother, the young girl from Monterrey who showed up at the rancho every couple of months with her padrinos, wearing nice dresses and sensible shoes.  Shoes, in this place, where most girls walked around barefoot.  I imagine their conversations.  My mother playing hard to get, stern and dismissive, measuring every single one of her expressions ever so carefully, a half smile here, a look of agreement there, my father unrelenting, with his big smiles and nice words, staking out her every move from the tanque where pigs swam around to get refreshed and people carried pails of water to heat up for their baths, and slowly winning her over, one platica at a time.

I try to envision our land before the casita de escobas, that’s what they called the firmer shrubs they used to fill in the gaps between the frames of wooden sticks in those days, before the first room of cement blocks went up, when it was up to the people of the pueblo to decide whether the newly-wedded couple of my parents deserved to have this empty section of land donated to them, and then when they were there together for the first time, what conversations they might have had, what first moments they might have lived, welcoming my eldest sister, their firstborn, and then the ones that followed, the decision to leave home, first apart, cada quien a su tiempo, and then together, all of us together.

And I’m inspired.

It was there we began our journey.  The only place that ever felt like home, where even though it wasn’t my precise history that took place, it called out to me, made me feel one with the land, with the air, with the water, in a way that I’d never felt before.  Our apartments, houses here were mundane.

Those piedras, majestic.  Respectable.  Ours!

Battle of the Sexes

In driveways everywhere, front yards, back yards, neighborhoods, bars, clubs, patios, around the world, probably in every language, the principal complaint among buddies, when they get together for a little pisteada, is the same: ¡con las mujeres uno nunca gana! That universal grunt heard round the globe when words just aren’t enough to express our overall frustration with the opposite sex.

The common denominator among all men, in a relationship with a woman, almost our anthem, which we can’t help but chant when we finally come to that rite of passage, the realization that sometimes with our women, ‘we can’t live with them and we can’t live without them.’   Because no matter how common our interests, beliefs and values might be, the truth is ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.’  El Sexo Fuerte, with our general misunderstanding of all things emotional.   El Sexo Débil, with their seeming obsession to explore even the minutest of feelings, to the very core of their existence.

But before the flood of usual suspects – machista, chauvinistic pig – come to mind, or to the lips, consider the female equivalent to this frustration: men are all idiots!

Or as my comadre Juanita pointed out recently, which coincidentally is the reason for this blog post today, us men, a veces nos hacemos pendejos para tragar a puños.  The oldest trick in the book, really.  Playing dumb to avoid responsibility, commitment, conversation, extra chores, or any other tasks we just don’t want to do sometimes…or all of the time, in some cases.  Where no matter how thoroughly or in how many ways our parejas try to get through to us, make us understand, our expression back to them is always blank and blind, completely lost.  And it’s not like it’s any big secret!  Las mujeres a veces nada má s nos tiran al leon.

Often, we return the favor.

The only problem, as my father once pointed out: las mujeres nunca olvidan nada / women never forget anything!

Courtesy of Cornflakegirl

And why not?  It is the single-most important human emotion we all possess.  The one worth fighting for, against all odds; the one we would seemingly travel the world over to protect; the one that makes us feel safe and happy in the arms of our beloved; and even sometimes in the arms of a not-so-much-beloved.  But how do you know the difference between what love is actually real, and the one that, as they say, nomás es pasajero?

More importantly, how do you deal with the reality that after the honeymoon phase is over, whether literally or not, the real work actually begins?

At my sister’s wedding, last October, the priest said something that really made me laugh – not in any perverse way, more because what came out of his mouth was literally what I had always thought, and hearing him say it made me feel very, very validated.  Like hmm, see I knew I was right all this time! I’ll paraphrase what he said because I don’t remember exactly the words he used to make me feel SO right.  Basically, that while the beautiful couple was very much in love at the moment, in their enviable young age and physique, that the days eventually would come when they would not be able to bare the sight of one another…be it from anger, frustration, sadness, disappointment, or just plain boredom (depressing, I know, but it’s not all bad), and that it would be in those precise moments that their love would actually face the true testing of their vows.

¡Cuando lo veas gordo, feo y apesto!  Ahí es cuando tienes que demostrarle tu amor.

It made me laugh because I think, just maybe, that is the true test of how real a love actually is.  That when the muscle turns into flab, the abs into a gut, the hiney into a mass of cellulite, the full head of hair into a rapidly receding hairline…or maybe not, but in some way the physical attributes begin to shift.  And, mucho más importantemente, that when life begins throwing its curve balls, as it most definitely will, that person is there to stand beside you – even if they don’t know exactly what to do or say – holding your hand, pulling you through, caring enough to not just walk away…and knowing that you would do the same for them.  That when you’re facing tragedy, despair, adversity, the end of the road, or even the much dreaded drama of the teenage years, you learn to work as a team and fork ahead…just bow your head down and fork ahead, where no one player is ever more important than the rest.

Definitely not to say that one’s self-respect and dignity should ever be cast aside, sacrificed for the survival of any relationship.  They shouldn’t be!  But the fact is, love and marriage are a constant battle.  First to find the honest and sincere kind – sin interés – then to hold on to it, nourish it, and nurse it back from the wounds of life.

Then again, I may be completely off.

These are just the thoughts of this gordo, feo y apestoso.

True or False?

Okay, I know what you’re thinking!  But before you go getting all offended…or excited, about my very sexy blog title this time around, let me just say IT’S NOT WHAT YOU’RE THINKING.  Yes, there was a television series with this same title in very recent history, which in part was the inspiration for this post.  Nevertheless the subject matter in this piece is much more PG – a big BOO for quite a few of you out there also, I know.

So what is the allure of these infamous lady lumps for us guys?  All women want to know.  The truth is you won’t find any scientific answers here – mainly because the most obvious reason for me is just the simple fact that we don’t have them.  Plain and simple.  They are something foreign to us, hidden underneath all those layers of clothing and undergarments, hidden for so many years before we actually get to explore them (eww, go ahead and let it out…it’s okay), and that in it of itself makes senos so sexy to us.  We are pretty simple animals after all.

Now I am digressing!

Still the idea of there ‘being no paradise without breasts’ seems a little excessive.  No doubt they are a beautiful part of the female anatomy that can fill in our tees and sweaters like nobody’s business, but when a woman is forced to make that difficult decision between her breasts and her life there definitely should be no question about what comes first.  Life.  Perhaps it is not my place to be saying this.  I’ve not actually had to deal with this reality myself, or with the heartache of having a loved one go through this very personal dilemma themselves, but my reality is full of beautiful women from all walks of life for whom I care a great deal about.

These words then, are dedicated to them.

Breasts, no matter how big or small, real or fake, do not define the woman.  They are a cup size, not a lifeline.  They are sexy!  They can make us guys go crazy.  They can bank in some pretty good perks if used in that way.  They can feed.  They can make a girl feel like a woman.  But at the end of the day, senos are just that: senos.  Another part of the female body, like any other part of the human body, male or female, subject to illness, old age and unannounced shifts and changes.

That is all.  No more.  No less.

And for the thousands of you out there suffering through this choice or helping someone along right now, remember: just because someone, at some point, decided to coin the phrase ‘sin senos no hay paraiso’ – it don’t mean a DAMN thing.

Don’t buy into the hype! 

¡Pinche huerco travieso!

De chiquillo siempre me metía en lo que no me importaba.  If someone was a having a conversation – the more private it was the better – there I was, con las orejas bien paradas, as my parents would say.  Trying my hardest not to be noticed, listening carefully to what exactly was being said, and making every attempt to make sense of what I was hearing.  When I didn’t understand the subject matter or context I’d make it up in my head – it was more fun that way anyways.

¡El metiche! That became my nickname and stuffing chisme after chisme into my morral became my business, even if I did not know exactly what to do with that information once I had it.

My sisters would get so mad when they would bring their friends over and could not have a private conversation without having to worry about Juan sitting around somewhere trying to listen. They were both in junior high at that time and their conversations never amounted to more than the usual schoolyard chatter, but I could never get enough.  It was like a rush of adrenaline to know that I could get caught at any moment or even better, that they might spill the beans on something really juicy that I could then run around telling the rest of the family about.

Neither ever really occurred, so I kept listening.

Then one day my sister had a steady boyfriend.  She couldn’t go anywhere with him without the company of at least my second oldest sister – just two years younger than her – and usually with the rest of us, her five younger siblings, tagging along for the walks in the park and trips to the pulga as well.  My parents were old school, used to the way things were done in their rancho in Mexico, which unfortunately for her, being the oldest and all meant she’d have to deal with having the least amount of freedom in her teens out of all of us.   So there we all were at the park.  She and her now-husband always walking in front of us, holding hands, exchanging words in the lowest of tones so as to not to be heard by the rest of us.  My other sister trying to keep us entertained, playing with us, making us run around all over the park, Los Patos, keeping up her end of the sisterly-pact, which I assumed meant ensuring my sister her privacy with her boyfriend.

I wasn’t having any of it though.  When it became impossible to listen to what they were saying or even keep a close eye on them – every time I’d get close they’d shoo me away, sometimes literally dragging me away – my anger and frustration got the better of me.  I must have been 10 or 11 years old, but I was a healthy sized boy with more muscle than even I was aware of apparently.  In one single motion my hands were on her legs, her legs, in that short ruffled mini skirt, went flying up above my head, then hers, backwards over that bench they had been sitting on, past his frantic attempts to grasp them, and finally pointing straight up into the air, her back laying flat on the ground, as she stumbled to get back up enraged that because of her stupid little brother her boyfriend had now seen her chones!

On the way home that day I experienced the real first cachetada of my life, as well as a banana squished and splattered across my hair and face, combined with a painful dosage of pelizcones on one arm and then the other, as both my sisters ganged up on me for having embarrassed them so badly.  My cheek burned so bad, and the pinches stung so much, that all I could do was cry.  How could they have plastered and humiliated me so much with that single banana!?

In truth, I deserved it, for being such a pinche huerco! And in the end I learned a valuable lesson: los trapos sucios se lavan en casa. Never again would I air our dirty laundry out there in public like that.

For what, another banana split a’lo Guey!? 

No hay como una buena metida de pata.

¿Apoco no? ¿Cuantas veces no hemos metido la pata? Most times, from literally opening our mouths just one too many times – perhaps at the wrong time, in front of the wrong people, or even worse, without even realizing every single word we are saying is being heard…almost always by the one person we don’t want to know exactly what we really think.

And once it’s done, it’s not like we can just take our words back or pretend they were never said.  They’re out there!  Up for interpretation, miscommunication, confrontation, etc.  All we can do at that point is damage control.

¡Ay, es que no me entendiste! You did not understand what I was saying, or how I was saying it.  You missed the context of my words.  How much did you actually hear?  Had you heard the rest of my conversation, you would understand why I said what you heard – an honest attempt at completely annihilating the other person’s interpretation of our words by convincing them they are missing some mysterious piece of a verbal puzzle.  However, be forewarned this excuse will only work a limited number of times.  Soon enough you’ll be hearing: no estes chingando, como que no entendi si no estoy sordo…or any other similar reclamaciones.

Then you may you want to move on to option # 2.

¡Yo no dije eso! With fury in the voice.  What are you taking about?  I never said that!  You must be imagining things!  Whatever! – the thought of you thinking about me in such a way that I would say such a thing is so enraging that it makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs.  Combined with a furled brow and somber face this single action may very well avoid many a heated yelling matches…at least the ones where you are the one getting yelled at the loudest.

If even this attempt does not deliver the expected outcome, one final suggestion.  Mujeres you are particularly good at this one…don’t deny it, just accept it.

Suelta el llanto. Open the floodgates and let the lagrimas de cocodrilo flow.  Your poor fellow will be so confused and ridden with guilt that he won’t know what to do to calm you down (he knows if you’re not at peace he surely won’t be).  The last thing he’ll want to do is continue any argument where you’ll be shedding tears and spewing feelings all over the place.  With other women, though, this method likely will not work.  Like a sixth sense, most women can also seemingly detect when another member of their same sex is spinning lies to get what they want.  Sort of like The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf…only the adult female version.

Maybe it’s all the telenovela watching, or just the many years of practice, but after putting my foot in my mouth one too many times, and in preparation for the many more times that are surely to come in the future, I can honestly say I consider myself somewhat of an expert on all of these defense mechanisms.

On a sort of related side note, more of a public service announcement: if you’re going to talk smack…make sure you’re not leaving the person you are talking smack about a voicemail recording with every single word you utter on it.  Not a very smart move.

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.

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.

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.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5dbBiWOrVE

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptrZDyA6Usk

¡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.

Bailando, siempre, Sra. López

by Tracy López
Our first school dance –  How our already fast beating hearts beat faster once there!  Colored lights swam in the darkness, paper streamers decorated the walls of the gym in swooping scallops, limp balloons drooped from basketball hoops.  The heavy scent of too much cologne, mostly Drakkar Noir, hung in the air and the music already thumped for an empty dance floor.

The boys shoved their hands deep in their pockets, tried to look casual, checked their slicked back hair with careful fingers and stood against the wall.  The girls, squealing the way girls do, admired each other’s dresses and elaborate up-do’s at the opposite side of the gym.

We cast nervous glances in each other’s direction, afraid of being rejected, afraid of being laughed at, afraid of what might happen. It took a few songs, but eventually, slowly, most of us decided we had made it this far, we might as well dance.  This familiar feeling will come back to us many times through life – in relationships, in our work, even in the things we do for pleasure.  We start things, and then hesitate, unsure of whether we should continue. Sometimes this indecision is valuable and saves us from making big mistakes – other times, it only serves to hold us back from reaching our full potential and from enjoying all of what life has to offer us.

I remember when my husband, Carlos, was only my boyfriend – early in our very short courtship, I had doubts.  He had done nothing wrong but things had moved too quickly and his certainty about us being destined for each other made me uncomfortable.  In a deserted parking lot one night I gave him the “maybe we should just be friends” speech.  He begged me to reconsider, with tears no less.  Lágrimas?  Para mí?  Pero… ¿qué es esto? No one had ever cried for me before!

Despite my doubts, I gave him another chance.  More than 12 years later my heart hurts a little when I imagine what could have happened.  What if Carlos had decided to be macho and let me go?  Maybe I wouldn’t have known what I had lost, but I do now.

It isn’t always easy to make decisions, and though some may see it as a little reckless, I think that sometimes the right answer is ¿por qué no? Go for it, seize the day, see what happens.  We’re at the dance, so dance, pues!  You’ll never know what could have been if you don’t give it a chance.

About the Author: Tracy López is a writer living outside the DC Metro area with her husband, children and Suegra. You can visit her blog, Latina-ish.com or follow her on Twitter: @latinaish.