Juan of Words

El Sol No Se Tapa Con Un Dedo

You Can’t Cover The Sun With One Finger

Out of all the dichos I’ve ever heard, el sol no se tapa con un dedo, has always been the easiest for me to understand.  Not that I haven’t tried my damndest to cover up that metaphorical sun on so, so many different occasions.  But somewhere deep down inside of me, like the unyielding passage of time, that tiny voice in my head has always taunted me in the faintest of tones: el sol no se tapa con un dedo…you can’t cover the sun with one finger. 

I’ve wanted to tell it to shut up countless times, and a few of them I’ve done so successfully, but eventually it starts up again.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  El sol no se tapa con un dedo.  Then I have to face reality, evaluate my situation seriously, and endure the harshest of human conditions: being truly honest with oneself.  It is at this stage that raw emotion peeks its ugly head, be it in the form of anger, sadness, depression or just plain frustration.  I know the process well for I’ve undergone it many a times.  Still idling as a bystander on someone else’s grief is much more a difficult feat for me personally to withstand. 

With my reality I can manipulate and coerce my state of mind.  With another I can only offer guidance and support hoping that it will lead to the right action.  When it does the sensation of a lifted burden is alleviating.  When it doesn’t the looming pain of hopelessness sets in, bringing with it an infuriated storm of agonizing worries.  All the while that taunting voice continues: el sol no se tapa con un dedo, el sol no se tapa con un dedo, el sol no se tapa con un dedo.

And in fact you can’t.  Yes, placed at a correct angle the single finger can cover up the sun, anyone of them from the pinky to the thumb, but one nervous breathe or shiver and the burning presence of that ball of fire will once again be seen.  Our reality is the same.  No matter how hard we work to convince ourselves that something is right when we know it’s wrong we can never fully swallow our own lies.

As for others, I’m beginning to assimilate into the philosophy that so many out there have medicated for my males de amores over the years: In every relationship and interaction we engage in we are either planting, watering, fertilizing or harvesting.  We rarely get to enjoy the fruits of our labors, but that is not the point.  Our main objective is to understand and appreciate the process.

Aquel Que Tiene Fe No Está Nunca Solo

He Who Has Faith Is Never Alone

The existence of faith and God are two things I’ve often doubted.

Not so much for lack of understanding – my parents did an excellent job instilling the fear of God in all of their children – but because of simple disbelief.  To say that as of today my Confirmation in Catholicism has not taken place.  My parents did enroll me in the appropriate catechism classes as a teenager, but after months of skipping the Sunday gatherings at Assumption Catholic Church the priest pulled me and my brother aside one day  to ask us one simple question: name me one of the seven holy sacraments, he implored.

We stared at him blindly, at each other with mischievous grins, trying our best not to burst into laughter.  Finally he gave us a choice: either we got up and left voluntarily then and there or he would parade us in front of the rest of our class as an example of what could happen when you didn’t do what you were supposed to.  We weren’t about to be humiliated so we got up and walked away.  As we drove ourselves home, our greatest fear was breaking the news to my mother.  In those days she was a devout Catholic and took tremendous pride in the fact two of her boys were completing their Confirmations.

Even our godparents had already been selected for us – mine was to be the same padrino who had baptized me, and my brother’s was to be my mother’s youngest brother. I don’t remember anymore how we eventually broke the news to her, but to this day she still scolds me about the choice you and your brother made to not get confirmed…I signed you all up for the catechism classes, but you weren’t kids anymore and it’s not like I could have forced the two of you to attend the classes. As a parent we do what we can and that’s all we can do you know.  If a child doesn’t want to listen anymore and they feel they are grown what can one do? To which I just smile and say nothing.

I say nothing because at this point in my life doubt has no place in my faith.  One too many times when I’ve sat at the brink of despair a higher power has pulled me through, comforted me on the other side and allowed me to do the same for others.  It’s a sensation unlike any I have ever experienced.  One in which peace reigns over the exhaustion of my body and soul, where the trails of sadness running down my face are wiped away, under which for no explainable reason I know things will be okay.  Sometimes they aren’t, and even then a spiritual presence tells me the road I’m on, no matter how rocky, is the right one. That somehow there will be some logic to the hardships in front of me.

More than any words could ever promise me.

I don’t attend Sunday mass every week.  I don’t live my life according to the bible, although maybe I should.  I haven’t confessed in four years.  I’ve entertained more than one religion.  I have committed many, many sins.  Not that I am proud of any of these truths, but despite them all I feel close to my God.  He was there for me when no one else could be, when all I had inside me was rage, when my spirit was broken.  When my prayers went unanswered, when my sadness was blinding, when my hunger for revenge was insatiable, when nothing at all mattered to me anymore, and he showed me forgiveness and repentance.

On this, the celebration of his resurrection, I can do no less than remind myself how fleeting words can be and rejoice in the wisdom of his presence in my heart.

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.