Juan of Words

Telenovelas – Nuestro Drama De Cada Día

Thalia in Maria la del Barrio

All of a sudden everyone is a novelero!

Whether that is a new trend or just my imagination getting the best of me, it does seem that lately telenovelas are increasingly the subject matter of many a water cooler conversations, or agua fresca platicas, whichever you prefer.  Perhaps it’s just my accumulation of years making me realize and accept this reality – that soap operas for us Latinos are like the arroz and frijoles of our diet, we can’t ever seem to get enough of them.

No matter how cheesy, unbelievable, badly-acted, overdone, and ridiculous the storylines may be, we continue watching.  Every new season an opportunity to watch our favorite actors ping pong between protagonist and antagonist roles, for artists of the music world to prove themselves as thespians of the small screen, for once-headlining-starlets to transition into motherly and grandmotherly roles, and the best thing about our soap operas is that they end after a few weeks or months – closure, what could be better!  Then on to the next batch of Mexican, Colombian, Venezuelan, Brazilian, etc.-made novelas where we as the audience are the ultimate judges of which actors are worth our commitment of at least five hours a week.

The likes of Thalia, Lucero, Veronica Castro, and many more, owe their entire careers to our acceptance of their acting chops in one soap opera after the next.

And while the money-making conglomerates behind this multi-million dollar industry continue battling it out over legal rights, actors, scripts, and so forth, in Spanish-speaking households across the world families continue gathering around the tube every night to watch their latest and most favorite dramedies unravel one sixty minute episode, including commercial breaks and orchestrated music, at a time.  For me that was always the greatest appeal of the telenovelas growing up.  Mom and dad, my six brothers and sisters, and me, all sitting around the living room watching Marimar, Maria la del Barrio, Dos Mujeres un Camino. It was better than watching Little House on the Prairie, Night Rider or even The Visitors because my parents didn’t require translations for these shows and they liked them better too.  

Even my dad, who normally was all grunts and groans, was there with us almost every single night laughing and lamenting about the silliness taking place on the tube.  It was as if vicariously we were transporting ourselves into a make-believe world where happy endings were always guaranteed, no matter what the trials and tribulations of life.  We each had our own reasons for wanting to be there.

It was a break from reality…I think it still is.

Reflections on the first thirty

A cake and some thoughts

So today is my birthday.  Yes, that big day that’s like a personal holiday for all of us.  Our day.  When friends and family come out of the woodwork to wish us a happy birthday and an even better year ahead, and while I’ve been whining online the last few days about turning 31, the truth is over this last year of being three decades old, or should I say young, my aging ego has finally come to terms with the idea that each year I will inevitably keep turning older.  In all sincerity, I am really quite grateful to have been able to make it this far and looking back to where it all began, in a tiny shack with no electricity just a lot of hope, my heart is humbled, my faith strengthened.  So in appreciation for all the well wishes, emails, tweets, wall posts, phone calls, etc., my offering to you, dear reader, is the imparting of these words below: a summary really of my first three decades of life.

Happiest Moments

Waking up that Christmas.  Being eight years old.  Actually feeling the magic of the season.  The sheer surprise of finding a gift for me.  Walking across the stage with my sister as college graduates.  Riding nine people to a car all the way to Mexico.  Doing it again as adults.  Hearing my name with the word ‘daddy’ in front of it for the first time.  Making the promise ‘till death do us part’ and meaning it.  Smiles on my mother’s face.  Tears of joy.  My father’s embrace.  Laughing till it hurts.  The mishap between my brother in law and my mother’s gift.  White tux, pink vest.  Violin lessons.  Recitals.  Forgiving.  Being forgiven.  And time to go ‘yu-yu’ of course.   

Hardest Moments

Racing to the hospital.  Waiting for results in the lobby.  Tears on my shoulders.  Uncontrollable weeping.  Saying goodbye every summer.  The blows.  The words.  The pain.  Guilt.  Falling flat on my face.  Watching loved ones fall flat.  Not being able to do anything about it.  Heartbreak.  Growing apart.  Distance.  Facing the ugly truth.  Realizing words cannot change people.  Allowing the heart to love once again.  Starting over.  Failure.  Making mistakes.  Talking through glass walls.  Dolor ajeno.  Death.  

Most Humbling Moments

Hearing ‘I love you’ in my darkest hours.  Receiving help from those with less to give.  Speaking my parents’ words.  My wife standing by my side.  Never letting me fall.  Thank-yous.  Calls of concern at two in the morning.  Presentimientos.  Being told to shut up.  Hearing the truth.  Experiencing the kindness of strangers.  My sisters’ sweat to help provide for us.  Their care of us, as children themselves.  Acceptance no matter what.  Our house in the Valley built for us at no cost.  Bags of clothing, groceries and toys pulling us through.  In-laws showing up to help.  Without even being asked.  Shelter.  Disappointment through the eyes.  My boy’s love.  Caring so much about other people.  Doors always open to me.  Responsibility for the ones that follow.  Growing up.

Funniest Moments

Getting spanked in front of my kindergarten class.  Getting spanked as a teenager by my mother.  Ordering eight whoppers as a fat kid.  Mishaps in middle school gym class.  High school play auditions.  Not being able to catch my balance.  Nostrils flaring as a tell-tell sign.  Dancing with my brother.  Mom drinking a shot of tequila.  Dad’s pranks.  Drunk episodes.  Too many to count.  Restroom walk-ins.  Naked walk-ins.  Running out of the house in only underwear.  Ice water on the bed.  And on me.  Spooking Edgar.  Getting locked inside a closet.  Getting kicked out of Catechism school.  And of course confusing The Galleria for a galleria.  As in a hen house.                     

Thank-Yous

To my mother and father for life and love.  Lessons of never giving up.  My older sisters.  Amazing support and motivation.  Strength even now.  My brother.  Respect and dignity.  Taught me it was okay for a man to cry.  My younger brother.  My rock through so many years.  The violinist of the family.  A sister wise beyond her years.  Caring.  Loving.  Truthful.  My baby sis.  Powerful.  A fighter.  Pulling me through so many times.  Pride.  My wife.  Side by side.  Against all odds.  Making me a better person.  Putting up with me.  Joy.  Beauty.  Grace.  My Edgar.  What a feeling to experience a love so pure and innocent.  My little man.  Friends and family.  There through every season.  Believing in me.  Even when I’ve doubted myself.  Blessed in every sense.  My prayers always with you. 

Once again, thank you guys for remembering me today.  Let’s see what three decades, plus one year are all about these next 12 months!  And hopefully another three decades, and then some.

Dias De Mucho, Visperas De Nada

Days Of Wealth, Eves Of Nothing

Art by Virginia Palomeque

Maribel, pronounced Mary-Bell instead of the traditional Ma-ri-be-l, that is what she called herself.  Short black wavy hair, almost curly, but not – just enough to get wildly tangled after being touched by even a single drop of rain.  Dark brown eyes – a window to her many ancestors, some she claimed, others she preferred not to acknowledge.  Long and lanky, pale and freckled skin, small breasts, a waist the size zero, dressed and wet she did not weigh more than 98 pounds at most.  When Maribel spoke her voice was high and pitchy.  Not annoying.  Not child-like. Feeble and lady like.  Delicate and sensitive, Maribel would often burst into tears for no apparent reason, especially if she felt she was being attacked, confused, mistreated, or if any other of her emotions were being evoked in any way. 

A woman of class.  A lady.  That’s what her friends at the country club called her.  When she was honored by them for her years of planning soirees she wore a white bead-encrusted gown, tight at the top, flowing at the bottom.  Her hair slicked back accented only by a simple gold necklace and two diamond earrings.  After years spent wanting to be accepted, Maribel Roberson-Huerta felt this night was her official induction into high society.  Her days of living in the projects of Houston were now a thing of the past.

Mami called every Sunday to check in on Maribel, but usually these conversations were very short if they took place at all.  Most of the time daughter would look at the phone, tell herself she would call mami back later, and continue with her business.  Talking to the old lady validated her rags to riches story and that was something Maribel desperately wanted to forget.  Instead she’d recount made up stories about a privileged childhood in a manicured home in Texas.  Most of the other designer-clad women in her circle did not even know she was Hispanic – they just assumed she had some Latino heritage in her pedigree.  Perhaps Spaniard blood because being from Spain was more European than anything else, and what could be more exotic than that Maribel thought.  When mami offered to visit her in Alabama since it had been more than 10 years since they had seen each other in person, Maribel made up many excuses:

“Oh mami, David is taking me on vacation this summer.” 

“That would be great, but I am so busy right now that it wouldn’t be fair to you.” 

“I want to see you too, but maybe some other time.  Or maybe we can make it home for Christmas this year…yes, I think we will definitely be able to come.” 

They never did make it for Christmas, New Year’s, Mothers Day, Cinco de Mayo, or any other holiday for that matter.  Mami eventually understood and consoled herself with simply hearing her daughter’s voice over the phone. 

When the old lady was diagnosed with high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high blood sugar she implored Maribel to come home once again.  She could feel her body getting weaker and something told mami she wouldn’t be around for much longer. 

“Mija, we don’t know how much time we have on this earth, and we are both getting older.  I don’t want to die without seeing you again.  Por favor ven a verme.”  

“Hay mami, you are so dramatic.  Nothing is going to happen to you.  You are way too young for that, and I already told you we will come down as soon as we get a chance.  Now if there is nothing else you have to say, I have work to do.”

For a moment her conscious made Maribel stop.  Was she being too harsh?  Had it been too long since she had seen mami?  Was she being so insistent for a reason?  Was mami really that sick?  No.  Then she went back to the hard work of selecting a new countertop for the kitchen she was remodeling.    

A few weeks later when her brother Nando called, on a Tuesday of all days, Maribel knew something had happened.  His voice shivered, his words unclear, all she could make out was that mami had passed away.  Everything inside her plunged to the ground, her light frame landed on an antique Victorian loveseat she had bought on her last trip to Europe, tears escaped her eyes in a way they never had, and a loud screech was all that could be heard throughout her massive home.   

“Aaay mamita!!”

Nothing else was said between the siblings.   On her return to Texas she found an even smaller home than she remembered.  Plastered in mami’s bedroom were pictures of all her children and grand children.  Next to the hand-sewn curtains on the window, a simple chest held up dozens of pictures of Maribel mami kept close to her bed.  They were all at least 10 years old, and as she held the one of her and the old lady sitting on the same bed, smiling, looking happier than she’d felt in a long time, she couldn’t help but drop herself on the bed in a flood of tears.  Her sadness grew deeper and stronger when Nando told her mami had left the small house and all of her belongings to her. 

“In case she ever needs somewhere to stay, or some money to get herself on her feet,” she had told Nando before writing her will.

Memories

I wouldn’t call myself a poet since this style of writing has never been my forte, but this poem was inside of me and was nudging to come out.  Hope you enjoy, and you real poets out there…pardon the impersonation.  

I wish I had just one more day,
To share with you the things I’ve learned.

They’re not too many.
They’re not too few.

I do not know that they will help.
I do not know that they will heal.
I do not know that they will change,
The path you’ve walked,
And set to tread.

But in my life,
I’ve learned,
Of broad shoulders,
Upon which to lay,
Of strength in words,
And comfort in unyielding love.

I wish I had just one more day,
To share with you the things I’ve held.

There’ve been times,
The words were there,
When almost,
My thoughts were clear.
And yet,
Past these lips they’ve never fled.

One day,
You will be gone.

I will be here.

And all we’ll have,
Are things we’ve shared.

I wish I had just one more day.

Borron Y Cuenta Nueva

Wiping The Slate Clean

An infant in one arm; a toddler in the other; nothing but rubber underneath, shaped in the form of a tube; separating danger from hope.  In a tiny bag all her belongings, clothing and a few dollar bills.  All the coyote had told her before loading them on that makeshift raft was “don’t move a muscle or you and the children are dead.” As she sat praying for dear life, doubting her own decision, the rejection of that divided river could be felt against her entire soul.  Telling her she was not wanted, enticing her to give up.  She did nothing but squeeze harder on the legs of her children and stare fixedly without so much as a wink at the tube behind her carrying her two eldest daughters.  A moment later they were all on the other side.

That side her mother had implored her so much to forget.  The one her brother called her crazy for wanting to immigrate into.  Her two youngest boys were citizens of the United States, but know they were also mojados.

She had almost chosen to stay behind when the coyota who was supposed to pick her up from her rancho in Mexico never showed up on the date they had agreed.  All daylong she had waited, bags packed and ready to go.  She had tearfully bid her mother farewell, asked of her father’s blessing and locked all her earthly possessions in a tiny home of concrete and cement her husband had built just a few years earlier.  As night arrived she accepted her brother’s words and felt stupid for having confided in a stranger she did not know.

If she did show up eventually, there was no way she would leave with her now.

Days went by and quietly she resigned herself to the idea of not crossing back to el norte, at least for a while.  She phoned her husband and told him to continue sending whatever money he could.   Every dollar she received was turned into pesos for nixtamal, eggs, chorizo, sardines and crackers to keep their children fed.  What little garments he could send were used to clothe as many people in the rancho as possible.  Here every style and color of attire was fashionable in any season.

One day as she went about her daily life in her humble home, a brisk walk away from her mother’s property, she heard these words from afar: “there is a lady here looking for you.  Says she is from el norte and that she is here to take you with her.  You’re not going to leave with her right mija? You are going to stay here now.  You are, aren’t you?”  No words were exchanged between mother and daughter as they raced over to greet the Chicana waiting inside of a small truck. Anger flowed through her veins as she remembered the countless hours she’d spent waiting just a few days before, but mobilizing within her were also renewed feelings of hope.  For several minutes they argued about the missed encounter, debating who had misunderstood who.  As she turned back to face her mother the look in her eyes revealed a decision already made.

She would be leaving, this time probably for good.

My mother has never been one to fear many things.  Besides the misfortune of her children, there are few matters that evoke in her panic and worry.  In that moment, she thought of nothing more than the hunger and despair we all felt.  She hugged her mother goodbye, soothing her as much as she could through her own tears, and then packed us all into our coyota’s truck – with one last glance at her life in the rancho she was gone, never to return for longer than a few months at a time.

Now in el norte with my brother, two sisters and me, she hurriedly dressed herself and us by the Rio Grande River and walked us across the last stretch of U.S. –Mexico border.  We were now all invisible in our immigrant status.  The next eight years we’d spend in the Texas Valley redefining every single aspect of who we once were.  Here my siblings and I learned a new language and culture, my mother and father finished growing up hard and fast, we learned of Washington and Jefferson instead of Zapata and Pancho Villa, and became a new breed of Mexicans from our rancho. From then on, every time we’ve returned to Mexico we are referred to as los del norte, Americanos or Chicanos.

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.

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.

Father And Son

Last night my neighbor and his son were standing outside their home in the dark.  The light was dim, the body language was jerky, almost awkward, and the voices were deep.  Not that I could hear anything from where I was observing across the street, or wanted to, but as I sat there smoking my cigarette I couldn’t help to think about my own relationship with my father. 

There was something familiar in the way the boy humbly towered over his father.  The way the father cautiously measured his every move.  And finally how so much seemed to be understood by the simple arm embracing that took place before the son drove off.  After he was gone, my white-haired neighbor stood there, alone, staring at the road for a few minutes.  No words were spoken.  No emotions were visible.  He simply stood there, and then in one instant was out of sight. 

My father and I have never been expressive about our emotions.  We know that we love each other and that is enough.  The closest we’ve ever come to actually exchanging an I love you was when we shared a couple of beers and made small chatter about simple nothings.  There is just an unspoken understanding between fathers and sons, I think.  Where with my mother I can hug her, kiss her forehead and verbally enunciate how strong my feelings are for her.  With my father it is not necessary. 

His lessons to me have been to persevere no matter what, to take responsibility as a man, and to provide as best I can for my family. 

I wonder what the transformation from boy to man must be from the other side.  To see your son grow from something so small you can carry with one hand to a towering facial-haired adult.  To hear his voice deepen farther and farther away from the innocent sweetness it once was.  To know that his strength is now more powerful than yours, and that all the time you thought you had is now gone. 

It’s definitely not something any of us are ever fully prepared for

De Noche Todos Los Gatos Son Pardos

At Night All Cats Are Strays

We weren’t exactly strays, but we were in the dark in many ways.

That night we made the decision to leave for the city there was nothing but frantic movements.  In one instant the sharp pain of my father awaking us with jagged force, the overfilling what little we could into the few bags we had, the hurrying to leave before sunset, all blended together into one drunken blur of adrenaline and excitement.  Before I knew it we were on the road going north farther than we had ever traveled away from our sleepy little border town, at least in this direction.

My father hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell his uncle that after more than eight years of working for him and living beside him he was moving us out of town, so we had to hurry up and leave before anyone awoke that morning.  We were heading for Houston.  My father had a brother there and my parents had enough money to get us there.  People said there were lots of jobs there and something called minimum wage.  I don’t know if there was an actual plan to what we were doing, but we were told we’d be staying with my uncle for a few days until we could afford a place of our own.  I’d never met this uncle, but the excitement of knowing he was somewhere new made me want to meet him.

Our biggest excitement in the Valley was making the weekly trip to the grocery store.  Valley Mart was an hour away from our home in the woods and every Saturday like clockwork we would all pack into my dad’s car to make the trip into town.  If we were lucky, he’d hand us a few quarters to go buy some candy or anything else we could afford.  Even when we didn’t get any money, being inside the Valley Mart was thrill enough.  Yet we had always wanted to know what else was out there.

For years my mother had begged my father to move us into the city.  He always shot her down by reminding her neither of them, nor my two eldest sisters had the legal documents to make it past the immigration checkpoint on this side.  One slip of the tongue and we would be back in Mexico faster than you could say immigrant.

By this time, though, everyone had their residency papers, and try as he had, my father finally realized improving our life in the Valley was not going to be possible.  He didn’t earn enough and we were only getting older, requiring more and more.

This was long after our days of running to hide from la Migra. Before then, every time we’d see their green trucks driving along the main road – a good football field from our home – we’d run inside yelling la Migra, my mother would lock us inside the house, and we wouldn’t come out again until we were certain no immigration officers were nearby.  They did come to our house a few times, and just a few years before, their threats of involuntary deportation had been enough to send us packing back to Mexico for several weeks.  Our family, however, like countless others, could not afford to stay put.  We came back and were lucky enough to gain legal status in the United States.

Green cards were all we needed to take flight.  Now there was nothing stopping us from hitting the road towards Houston.  My father, my mother, my three sisters, my two brothers, and I all crammed inside my dad’s car for the trip.  My youngest sister was not born yet.  On the drive over my brothers and I spent the entire time asking the same questions over and over:  What is the city like? Are there any trees there? How tall are the buildings? Are we there yet? We imagined a barren landscape with nothing but concrete floors and metal skyscrapers shooting up from the ground.  Apartments and homes stacked one on top of the other, building after building.

My father didn’t do much to avoid our wild imaginings. Perhaps he thought they were charming, even a little magical.  For me they were – I didn’t sleep at all that night, afraid to miss any of the incredible new things my eyes were discovering.  That moment of driving into the big city I would not miss!

Ironically, we never actually realized where the city began because the trees and grass never disappeared as we had imagined.  Instead we rode in on a sea of concrete past the extravagantly spacious commercial complex labeled The Galleria.  My older brother yelled out look dad that huge building is a galleria (hen house).  We all gasped in amazement: wow what an enormous hen house! We could even drop off the rooster we brought in the backseat of the car with us there if we wanted to, or sell it for money. Eventually we realized it wasn’t a hen house at all – it was, and still is, one of the most prestigious shopping malls in the United States.  Later we’d get to know it well because our first apartment was actually within walking distance of The Galleria.

That night we wandered aimlessly, lost in the little we knew about the world from our vantage point as simple country folk, but amazingly on the road we were like so many others – immigrant or not.  Just another car driving down the interstate looking for a new start in a new place; hopeful about the possibilities ahead; scared, nervous, happy, sad, all at the same time.  In the darkness we were no longer invisible.

Pig In The City

I had a pet pig as a kid.  Not the kind you tied ribbons around.  The kind you fattened up and ate.  How we came to own these animals I don’t know, but my brothers and I each had a pig in the wooden corral my father built.  After school we’d race over to their sty everyday to prod and poke those poor animals with whatever stick or tree limb we could find.  We’d argue about whose pig was the fattest and whose pig was the fastest-growing until we grew bored of their sluggish stares and gestures.  They were never too amused by our antics, and though we argued there was no denying my younger brother Junior’s pig was the fattest.

His real name is actually Moises like my father, but we took to calling him Junior instead.  It was easier and more pronounceable for our white friends.  Actually in those days Spanish was still the main language we spoke at home – that was before we figured out that if we just spoke English our parents couldn’t understand most of what we were saying – so we really called him Lluni.

Our pigs were light-complected; they were cream colored with white patches smeared across their round little bodies.  That’s when they weren’t covered in slimy mahogany-brown mud from head to toe.  Our darker pig came much later when we moved to the big city.  Joaquina was her name, and my mother had found her strolling through our suburban neighborhood in the north side of Houston one day.  I know many people consider Texas to be a huge countryside where farm animals roam freely, and while that may be true for some parts, in Houston owning a pet pig, especially one as large as Joaquina, is not the norm.  I’m sure our neighbors would have a lot to say about the months Joaquina spent in our backyard, even now.

We had fun with her anyway, and by that time we had learned that she was only around momentarily until she was big enough to sell or eat.  I was in high school.  My eldest sister had already gotten married and moved away.  My mother loved Joaquina and thought it was divine providence she had found her, after all how many pigs roam the streets of suburban neighborhoods.   Our earlier swine did not have names.  They were our entertainment, our toys.

That is until one day we awoke to find Lluni’s pig hanging upside down from the tree in our yard, her belly slit open, and her intestines lying beside her in a common gardening wagon.  We didn’t understand what was going on, why she had been punished.  Maybe my brothers did, but I was horrified at the sight of that poor animal hanging there, lifeless, being butchered into pieces.  Shortly after that, the two remaining pigs were loaded in the back of a pick up and taken into town.

We never saw them again, but my parents explained to us that the animals were serving a purpose.  Because of them we were getting to eat all assortments of fine meats prepared in different chili sauces, accompanied by homemade rice and pot boiled fresh beans.  More importantly, my parent’s had a few extra dollars in their pockets to see us through.

When Joaquina made her departure in the same way Junior’s pig had, there was no sadness in my heart.  I felt happy to have met her, to have made so many memories with her, and to be witnessing the end of her time with our family.