I received an email from my Mexican cousin, Nena, a few weeks ago. I had not written, or heard from her, in about a year, and I felt a little guilty. In my family of six siblings (once known by our diminutive Spanish nicknames as Tonito, Tito, Tita, Gracie, Eddie, and Alex), I am the oldest, and the most anxious about maintaining a viable connection with our Mexican first cousins. Yet, I had not made any attempts at communicating with them since mailing a family Christmas card. Now, here was my younger cousin, Nena, gently scolding me and hoping that I had not given up on my promise to stay in touch. It was that subtly stated concern that has precipitated this reassessment. Just what is my connection to my Mexican family, my two remaining uncles, and 28 cousins? Despite my efforts of three years ago, I’ve grown lazy and careless about writing or calling on a regular basis. The last connections I made during my last quick visit for my Uncle Pepe’s Golden Wedding Anniversary are now at risk. I fear that if I don’t maintain some type of consistent communication with my first cousins, I, and my children, will lose this ancestral tether forever.
My mother was born in Mexico in 1924, and she had four brothers and three sisters, in her nuclear family. She was the head-strong, baby girl, who, after marrying a Mexican-American, World War II veteran, left Mexico to live in Los Angeles. Her family remained in Mexico. There, they lived, married, worked, and raised their own families. These aunts and uncles produced 28 children, my Mexican first cousins. My mom’s oldest brother, Carlos, married Chelo and had Carlitos, Guero, Ale, Nena, Pico, Ricardo and Betito. The eldest sister, Helen, married Gabino and had Gabinin. The next brother Beto (Doc), married Licha and had Betito, Avillo, Nena, and Jaime. The next sister, Chita, married Carlos and had Rosita, Carlitos, Estela, Jose Luis, Cecilia, and Jorge. The next sister, Totis, married Adolfo and had Nena, Adolfito, and Tavi. The next brother, Pepe (Profe), married Margarita and had Pepito, Marilu, Fede, and Margot. The youngest brother, Lalo (Lic.), married Lilia and had Lili, Lalito, and Sylvia. Most of these names are their diminutive, childhood nicknames, not their proper names. Nena, for example, is a generic name given to girls in Hispano America and Spain, which means “little doll, or little girl”. There were three Nenas in the family, and we would differentiate by calling them la nena de Carlos, la nena del Doc, and la nena de Totis. Most of these cousins are married now, and have children of their own; but I barely know these second cousins, and would never recognize them on my own.
Of my 28 first cousins, I developed the closest ties to those nearest my own age, Carlitos, Rosita, Guero, and Ale, or those I was continuously around, Gabinin, Totis’nena, Adolfito, and Tavi. The relationships I formed with these cousins developed from two types, or phases, of interaction: family trips we made to Mexico, and they to the United States, for summer vacations or short visits; and the three times I lived in Mexico City to study or escape. If I had not had these latter experiences, I think that time, distance, and local priorities would have slowly eroded my connections to Mexico and my family there. However, my separate sojourns in Mexico, and the sharing of hopes, fears, and adventures with various cousins, bound us together at an adult level for the rest of our lives.
Scenes of our early family trips to Mexico tend to blur together and coalesce around vague memories of staying with my grandmother Mima, in her ancient-looking, old fashioned townhouse on Calle Chopo, in the barrio San Cosme of Mexico City. When we flew into Mexico City with my mother, or drove in with my father, we always stayed in that old, two-story apartment-condo, in a courtyard complex. In the earliest years, when Totis, Pepe, and Lalo still lived there, our visits were the center of their attention, and they kept us busy sight-seeing, dining, and partying. When we came by car in 1954 (and only Totis and Lalo were single), my parents took us traveling outside the capitol, and we visited Mazatlan, Guaymas, Vera Cruz, Aguas Calientes, Guanajuato, and Acapulco. My mother and father controlled the itinerary and agendas on these trips, and we were reduced to children’s perennial questions: “Where are we going?” and “When will we get there?” However, I was more interested in asking “Who can I play with?” For me, vacations in Mexico really meant “too many parties”, too many dinners, and too few children to play with. When a multi-family gathering occurred, the cousins divided themselves along age groups, so I played with the eldest, Carlitos, Guero, Rosita, and Ale. When we visited individual families, I played with whoever was available. Language was a minor inconvenience when we played. Although Spanish was my original language (as it was for my siblings, Tito, Tita, and Gracie), it had grown rusty and heavily accented over the years through infrequent use. For us, Spanish was a knack we were born with, but we preferred English. Unfortunately, our cousins spoke no English. So we made due, as children always can. The longer we stayed in Mexico, the more fluent our Spanish became. In those youthful days, communication took care of itself. We were just interested in exploring games, toys, and new places. That changed when we became teenagers.
Between our last family vacation in Mexico and my first solo visit in 1966, two of my cousins came to the United States on separate trips during Christmas. Rosita and her mom Chita came to visit (along with Lalo and Mima) when I was in the 7th or 8th grade. Then Gabinin and Helen came to visit when I was a junior or senior in high school. These encounters were very different because we were teenagers at the time. We were also experiencing very divergent influences, educations, and expectations in our different countries. For the first time, we were interested in comparing our thoughts and opinions on music, movies, T.V., schools, friends, and dating. Although language was again an impediment to perfect communication (I bemoaned the poor quality of my Spanish), we made ourselves understood. I developed a crush on Rosita. She had the allure of an older girl (2 years older), and she was cute, dimpled, and flirtatious. I struggled in vain to impress her. On the other hand, when Gabinin came to Los Angeles, I was the older cousin. I was in high school, playing a varsity sport (soccer), and flashing a new driver’s license. I worked hard at impressing him. I was especially relieved to see that Gabinin had matured, and bore no resemblance to the spoiled, only-child of his youth. These encounters with Rosita and Gabinin revealed something new. We realized that along with similar opinions on youthful issues (adults, school, and music), we lived in radically different social and cultural environments. It was as if we lived on different planets, and the other person’s seemed infinitely more interesting, romantic, and mysterious than our own.
I’m not sure what my parent’s plan was in sending me to Mexico after finishing high school. They simply called it my graduation present. However, I suspected it was my mom’s hope that I would discover my Mexican heritage and culture, and appreciate the uniqueness of her family. If that was the plan, some of it worked. I had listened to the stories told by my father of his stay in Mexico City after the war, and my mother’s tales of the history of Mexico, and about her family’s peregrinations from the state of Aguas Calientes to Mexico D.F. But these were nostalgic recollections of old people, colored by myth and fantasy. I wanted to connect with a contemporary Mexico, and interact with a flawed, but loveable, family, that I could examine and judge for myself. I was at a critical crossroad in my life. I had finished high school, and I would be attending classes at UCLA in September of 1966. I would be away from the immediate oversight and control of my parents for the first time in my life. I was to form my own impressions, attitudes, and opinions about Mexico, my aunts and uncles, and my cousins. My parents would not be there to set my itinerary and agenda. I would meet and interact with whom I pleased. It was a heady and intoxicating prospect, and foreshadowed my later university experiences at UCLA during the Vietnam War.
I joined the household of Helen and Gabinin in the summer of 1966. My grandmother Mima also lived there until her death in 1976. This was my first experience living away from home, so I was thankful it was not among strangers. I found it a gentle (and convenient) way to experience independence – among people who cared and were always watching out for me. At the same time, it was very important to me that this experience not be a vacation. I was not a tourist, coming to be entertained. Everyone was busy with their regular lives, doing the ordinary things that they did before I arrived, and after I left. I wanted to be part of that scene, and work at fitting in. I enrolled in the summer program at the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico (UNAM), the national university, and I quickly merged into the daily routine of a college student (universitario) in Mexico City. I took the Buenavista bus to the downtown Alameda every morning, and then transferred to the San Angel bus which traveled south on Avenida Insurgentes to UNAM. I had a full program of classes in history, literature, anthropology, and music, and soon found myself up to my eye balls in homework and readings in English and Spanish. I befriended other expatriate students from Chicago and Austin, and hung out at the student lounges and cafes that exuded the social and political ferment of the times.
Gabinin was a prep student attending the Universidad Iberoamericana, a private Catholic preparatory school and university. He and I became close friends during this time. School and studies took up much of our time, but we had adequate opportunities each day to become better acquainted. I assumed the role of elder mentor and advised him to pursue other extracurricular activities, especially girls. He had a crush on a girl next door, who just happened to have a pretty older sister, Gloria. So with a little coaxing we both spent a lot of time telephoning, visiting, taking walks, double dating, and going ice skating, bowling, to movies and coffee houses.
The big family event of the summer was the wedding of our eldest cousin, Carlitos, in Tlalnepantla, an industrial town outside of Mexico City. Although I didn’t see much of him, Rosita and the other cousins from Tlalnepantla, Guero and Ale, would come by on weekends to plan or go on daylong adventures. Rosita, a college music major, wanted to expose me to the arts and culture of Mexico. She arranged for visits to museums, concerts, and plays. But I could always count on Guero and Ale to push the envelope on exciting pursuits that my mom would never have approved. They would descend without warning and take us out to eat street tacos, visit barrio festivals, or travel out of the city to a rural pyrotechnic factory to buy skyrockets and firecrackers.
Totis and her 3 children, Nena, Adolfito, and Tavi took up the rest of my time. She would come by on a daily basis, with kids in tow, to see how I was doing. She was my favorite Auntie Mame, a whirlwind of humor, irreverence, and surprises. Just being around her was exhilarating. She made the mundane actions of every day life a marvelous experience. You could always count on Totis for a trip to the Villa (the national shrine of the Virgen de Guadalupe), Sunday mass and brunch, or a movie with dinner.
When I departed in August, I’d fallen in love with Mexico City, its broad avenidas, annoying traffic, crowded buses, and warm afternoon rainfalls. The city was nothing like Los Angeles, it was ancient, grittier, and messy, but it was accessible, charming and captivating nevertheless. Living in a foreign country had given me the ability to stand outside myself while acting out a daily role as a college student, resident, and relative. Everything was new and different, so I saw everyone as unique and interesting. It was a talent that would disappear in my native environs of Los Angeles, but would reemerge whenever I found myself in a new city or country. There were no tears when I said goodbye to the Rosita, Gabinin, Guero and Ale. We were each heading into new phases of our lives and would be very busy for the next four years with school and careers. We promised to write, but quickly added that we would understand if we didn’t.
I returned to Mexico four years later, after I graduated from UCLA, in the summer of 1970. The war in Vietnam was escalating and, by completing my Bachelor of Arts degree in Latin American History, I lost my draft exemption status. However, rather than waiting passively for my induction notice, I wanted to get away, celebrate my graduation, and just have a good time. I was not in a position to make any future plans, so I convinced my parents that a vacation in Mexico would be a better alternative than waiting around for bad news. It was pure avoidance. My life was on hold, and I had no romantic entanglements or personal commitments to prevent a trip. Helen, Mima, and Gabino (I’d stopped using the diminutive “nin” when he turned 18) were happy to take me in for as long as I wanted to stay.
Looking back, I’m amazed that I got away with it. It was my “Lost Boomer Generation” phase of my life. I didn’t do anything productive while I was in Mexico, I just filled my days walking, sightseeing, exploring, and visiting. I discovered the new Metro subway system, and spent countless hours traveling up and down its routes, sitting in station plazas, and surveying the surrounding areas. I walked throughout the Zona Rosa and downtown areas of the city, stopping at bookstores, and inspecting interesting shops and booths. On this trip, I also brought along my new college vices (tobacco, caffeine, literature, and alcohol), and cultivated them in a new environment. I found comfortable male-only bars and pubs, and sidewalk coffee houses where I could sit all day, reading, writing, smoking and drinking. I discovered a strong Mexican brand of cigarettes, Raleigh, and came to prefer Bohemia beer.
Gabino was finishing his studies as a medical student, and I hoped to pick up our friendship where we had left off. Unfortunately, he came down with hepatitis shortly after my arrival, so he was unavailable as company for most of my stay. On the other hand, my uncle Pepe’s marriage experienced some troubles that summer, so he moved in with us. Although he was not the companion that Gabino had been on my prior visit, he was available much more than before. He introduced me to prominent Mexican writers and historians, took me to his classes at the university, presented me to friends, and lent me his Llave de Oro, Golden Key card to exclusive night clubs. La nena de Carlos got married that summer in Tlalnepantla, and I spent a lot more time with Guero (and sometimes Ale, who was a dental student and always seemed busy). Guero would accompany me on my wanderings in the city, and for beers stops at Metro stations, bars, and diners. He introduced me to pulpo en su tinta, a meal of octopus and rice, and pulque, an indigenous alcoholic beverage made of maguey (cactus).
On this visit, I spent even more time with Totis and her family, even though her life had grown busier and more complex. She was now teaching English, part-time in a secondary school and micro-managing the lives and education of her three children (Nena, Adolfito, and Tavi). I simply added myself to her family by being around all the time. I could now get to her home on my own by Metro, so she did not have to pick me up, or drive me home. I became a part of their family life for three months. There was also the special treat, that whenever I came for dinner, Adolfo Sr., Totis’ husband, would set himself up behind the bar and host his own happy hour. It was great fun, and an opportunity for him to pontificate about Mexico, America, the Vietnam War, and Mohammed Ali.
The foreshadowing event of the summer was my failed attempt at climbing Popocatepetl, an inactive volcano outside of Mexico City. Guero and Ale (and their younger brothers Ricardo and Betito) had arranged a day climb with their Volunteer Emergency Rescue Team. Along with 5 friends on the team, they borrowed an old ambulance, and we left at 12 o’clock midnight for the five hour journey. We never would have suspected a problem if Guero hadn’t noticed that Betito was suddenly silent. He was the youngest in the group, on his first climb, and very excited and talkative. When he wouldn’t awaken, Guero told the driver to stop, just as other passengers began complaining of headaches. When the back door of the ambulance was opened and we were struck by the bitingly fresh and frigid air of the pre-dawn morning, climbers started passing out. The Leon brothers and I were helping to carry these inert bodies out of the ambulance and off to the side of the road. Suddenly one brother collapsed into my arms, and as I cradled his fall I too lost consciousness. I awoke on the side of the road, with a splitting headache. Our expedition to Popocatepetl was over. Guero and the driver determined that there was an exhaust leak in the undercarriage of the vehicle and carbon monoxide had been escaping into the back of the warm and confined ambulance. On the drive back to Tlalnepantla, deeply inhaling the invigorating fresh air that was vented into every opening of the ambulance, we slowly realized our good fortune. We had experienced a benign encounter with death. Although we would laugh and joke about it the morning after, life seemed a little more fragile to me and death a little closer.
My second visit to Mexico ended when my father suffered another heart attack at home. I returned to the U.S. to help with the family, work full time, and explore the possibility of a draft deferment. Although my father’s health stabilized over the course of the year, my appeals were denied and I received my draft notice by Christmas. However, rather than accept two years of active duty with a tour in Vietnam, I enlisted in the United States Air Force, hoping to trade 4 years of service for some control over my duty assignments (and a shot at being posted in Spain). I left for basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, Texas, in June of 1971. After basic training, I was assigned to Norton Air Force Base, in San Bernardino, California, as an Information Specialist on the Globetrotter newspaper. Luckily, I was close enough to Los Angeles to visit my family and friends on a regular basis, so I never felt too disconnected or alone. I settled into a comfortable life as an Air Force journalist and resigned myself to a four year hitch when death paid a second visit. On Monday evening, November 1st, as I was returning to my quarters after a day off base, I was told to report to the Officer of the Day, who had a message for me. There I learned that my father had died of a final heart attack. That event changed the course of my life, and guided me to where I am today. After my dad’s funeral, I was given a hardship discharge by the Air Force, and talked my way into a position at St. Bernard High School as a U.S. History teacher. I taught for a year and a half, befriending a couple of St. Joseph of Carondelet nuns, who were on the faculty. They introduced me to my future wife, Kathy, just as I was solidifying plans to travel to Mexico, before starting a postgraduate program at UCLA in Latin American Studies in preparation for a career in the Foreign Service.
My third trip to Mexico was different from all the others. This time I did not come alone, and I spent little time with my cousins. I managed to convince Greg, one of my three friends from high school (see tag, amigos) that he too would benefit from this travel and education opportunity. Greg had graduated from U.C. Riverside and was teaching at a Catholic elementary school in Glendale. He was planning to get his credential and continue in this field, and Bilingual education offered the quickest route to advancement. The idea of enrolling in Spanish classes and graduate courses at UNAM, while living with a Mexican family in the capitol, sounded practical and appealing to him. He would benefit from the classes, and they would also give me a head start on my post grad studies. I would be there to keep him company, and together we could really explore the city and outlying regions. However, it did not turn out as expected. I imagined a visit of endless fun and adventure, but I did not count on being in love.
To save money, Greg and I traveled to Mexico City by bus – a 3 day marathon of sitting, reading, talking, sleeping, and watching countless hectares of barren hills and deserts glide by the window. Greg adapted to Mexico like a long lost native. He lost his language inhibitions immediately and never hesitated communicating in Spanish. My role as translator was soon pointless, as Greg initiated more and more encounters and conversations. After staying with Mima and Helen for a few days, Totis found a family home near the university where Greg could board for the summer. Once enrolled in a full summer program we settled into a routine of classes in the morning, sightseeing and traveling around the city in the afternoons, dinner with his landlord family or Totis, and evenings of study or entertainment. We had a distinct advantage over other foreign students in our classes, because we were long time friends with family connections in Mexico, whose presence and backup emboldened the other. We became notorious for describing our travels, explorations, and plans with teachers and students alike, and inviting them to participate. On one occasion we announced that we would host a Study Group at a local Shakey’s-like Pizzeria. What started as a dare (“Greg, I dare you to invite your young and attractive Spanish professor to a Study Session at Shakey’s”) ended up being one day-long keg party, with pizza. Two of our teachers showed up (Greg’s pretty Spanish professor did come), along with countless students, many of whom we did not know. Although no studying was done, we did learn much more than we expected from the professors (who were more or less our own age) about university life, student activism, and political dissent. After the event ended, Greg and I walked up Insurgentes Avenue for about an hour until we found an interesting seafood restaurant. There we had wine and lobster thermador (langosta) and critiqued the day. We were quite drunk at the end of dinner, as we separated to take different buses (we only traveled by mass transit in the city) back to our respective homes. Greg left first, threatening to brand me a “wimp” if I did not show up the next morning for our 8 o’clock class. By the time I arrived home (after missing two of my stops), my mood had changed from one of triumph to despair. Somewhere along the road, I had allowed the image of Kathy to enter my mind, and I suddenly felt forlorn, abandoned, and 1000 miles away from the only person I cared about.
I met Kathy four months before going to Mexico, but I knew she was special after our first encounter in the convent. Throughout my sojourn, I pined and longed for her. It must have been extremely tiresome for Greg, listening to endless descriptions of her letters to me, and those I planned to write. It was obvious right away to my grandmother and aunts that I was in love. I would show them Kathy’s picture and describe her, and beg them to be on the alert for letters and phone calls. My cousins soon picked up on this as well, and they stopped trying to set me up with dates. I was 25 years old, the age most Mexicans married and started a family, so they probably felt that it was time.
I did make it to 8 o’clock class the following day; as did Greg. The irony was that the professor (one of our guests the day before) did not. Rather than waiting around to attend more classes in our hung-over condition we decided to hit the busses and go up town. On the way we stumbled into a political celebration for Pancho Villa at his statue at the Monumento al Division del Norte (a rotary at the intersection of two or three main streets). T.V. cameras, news photographers, and soldiers were crawling all over the place, so we took a table at a small outdoor restaurant nearby and ordered beer and tortas to see if any spontaneous demonstrations might erupt. When nothing developed, we continued on our way into the downtown area, and found ourselves at the Mercado de Tepito, the “underworld’s” Thieves Market of the city. From there we wandered north until we found ourselves at the bar Tenampas at the Plaza Garibaldi. This is a famous plaza and bar where mariachis come to practice, drink, and arrange playing engagements. We just sat, drank, talked (in Spanish and English, depending on whom we were speaking with), and listened for hours in this wondrous locale. It was dark when we left, but our hang-over’s had disappeared. We walked to Bellas Artes (the Palace of Fine Arts) and Greg took the southern metro line home, and I caught the Buenavista bus to the Monumento de la Raza. We were just two Mexican graduate students catching their rides home, after a long day of research.
I learned later that many of the places that Greg and I were discovering were high risk locales: Tepito is an inner city barrio, and it’s mercado a common front for fencing stolen merchandise, while the Plaza Garibaldi and Tenampas is a haven for pickpockets and thieves. These were not places my upscale cousins (except for the boys of Tlalnepantla) would frequent on their own, and they would never take foreign guests. In fact, the only family (in law) member who approved of our dangerous travels was Adolfo, Totis’ husband. He had resumed the custom of hosting a happy hour before dinner at his home, and he loved the opportunity of practicing his English and listening to Greg’s Spanish (it was amazing how their fluency increased after a few drinks). Adolfo, nonetheless, counseled safer excursions, and he was delighted to hear that Greg and I had charmed Gloria (the “old” next door neighbor of Gabino) into volunteering as our chauffeur to the pyramids of Teotihuacan and Chapultepec Park. In fact Gloria gave Greg his Spanish nickname Goyo as we rowed on the same lake that housed the floating pleasure barges of the Aztec emperors.
Except for Totis’ children, Nena, Adolfito, and Tavo, my contacts with cousins during this trip were few and far between. We got together for a couple of family parties and dinners, but nothing like the spontaneous adventures of the past. I made a point of speaking with Rosita, Guero, and Ale (Gabino was doing his national service as a doctor in another state) to learn of their current activities and future plans. All of my contemporary cousins now had established, long-term jobs or careers; many had moved out of the city and taken residence in other places of the republic, or world (Rosita’s brother, Carlitos was living in Canada). We were each coming to a crossroad in our lives where marriage and children would soon intersect. These were not topics we talked about too much, but we assumed they might happen soon.
The trip ended in a flurry of activity when Greg’s younger brother, Jeff, arrived with additional money, to spend two weeks in Mexico. He and Greg moved into a hostel downtown, and we spent the last two weeks showing Jeff all of the historical and tourist attractions in the city. Greg was able to demonstrate his new linguistic and cultural fluency to his high school age brother, and show how deeply he had internalized all that he had learned. The best part of the trip was finally leaving. With Totis as the main organizer, my family threw a fabulous farewell party on the day before departure. Greg and Jeff were there, along with my grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. My clearest memory is Mima taking me apart from the crowd and telling me that she had seen the picture of the girl I loved, and she approved. It would be my last conversation with her. We left for Los Angeles the next morning, and 5 hours later I finally saw Kathy’s radiant smile beaming up at me as we walked through the arrival gate at LAX.
I made one more trip to Mexico City in December of 1979. On this occasion I came with my wife Kathy, who was 3 months pregnant with Prisa, and our 2 year old son, Tonito. We were also accompanied by my mother and two younger brothers, Eddie and Alex. The purpose of the trip was to introduce my Irish-American wife to my Mexican family, and vice versa. In Spanish, the saying (or dicho) is dar el ojo bueno, give her a good look. This was my family’s chance to meet and evaluate my gringa bride and son. The two most memorable events of the trip were the Posadas that were hosted by four different families, and Kathy’s first exposure to bullfighting. My mother had always hosted our own annual family Christmas Eve party, which featured our version of Posadas, a reenactment of Mary and Joseph searching for an inn (posada) to spend the night and give birth to baby Jesus. When the final innkeeper allows them to stay in the stable, there is a great celebration, with singing, and a piñata party for the children. After comparing the celebrations given by my aunts, uncles, and cousins, it was reassuring to certify that we were presenting an authentic version at home.
My greatest apprehension was taking Kathy to a corrida de toros, the running of the bulls, at the world famous Plaza de Toros in Mexico City. I felt this would be the family’s litmus test of my wife’s suitability. So far, she had charmed my aunts, uncles, and cousins with her humor, personality, and Spanish fluency (“Su acento es mejor que suyo!”- “Her accent is better than yours, Tony!”). But she had never witnessed a ceremonial “blood sport”, which many Americans (and Spaniards) find cruel and distasteful. Could she tolerate a blood initiation to one of the core rituals in Spanish culture? My uncle Beto, the “doc” (a hematologist), was the event medical specialist, and he had arranged for our box seats and transportation. When the first bull came charging out, after the aesthetically gorgeous processional and opening ceremonies, I held my breath, and kept close to Kathy. The bull was a courageous marvel. He charged straight and true, time after time after time, despite the annoying efforts of the picadors and banderilleros to bleed and weaken him. Soon the matador realized his good fortune and waved off all of his assistants. He would work (faena) the bull alone, mano a mano, one on one, with capote (large golden cape) and muleta (small red cape). The tiny but gallant matador and the monstrous, but doomed, bull performed a ballet of grace and motion, until I noticed that the crowd had begun waving white handkerchiefs, the sign for clemency. By the third and final stage of the faena, with muleta and killing sword in hand, the matador relented. He looked up at the rolling sea of white, and gesturing with hands and arms, appealed, “What would you have me do?”, and the crowded of thousands roared back “vida, vida” – life, life. The bull was saved and would live to sire other brave bulls. I remember Kathy turning to me, handkerchief in hand, saying, “I like this sport”. Kathy had witnessed a perfect corrida on her first attempt. She had the Mexican magic, and she walked away from the corrida a beloved member of my Mexican family.
With my mother involved in the planning and arrangements of this visit, the trip took on many of the aspects of our old family vacations: a strict itinerary of family outings, parties, tours, and dinners. There were no opportunities for spontaneous excursions or walking adventures in the city, and little use of mass transportation (except for taxis). I was able to talk to my cousins only in passing at parties or on car trips with my family in tow, but our common situations in life were obvious. We were all married with children, or engaged; and our jobs were evolving to align with economic necessities or new career paths. We were becoming our parents, in Mexico and in the United States. Some of us were happy and satisfied, and some were not. Some marriages were blossoming, and some were already withering and dissolving. We were more involved with out own private lives than in each others. When our airplane took off from the airport in Mexico City on the eve of 1980, I thought I was saying goodbye to my Mexican family forever.
In the fall of 2004 I felt a strong compulsion to reconnect with my family in Mexico and to establish a more independent channel of communication, especially with my cousins. It was probably some derivative aftereffect of my empty nest syndrome. Tony and Prisa were 26 and 24 years old respectively, and had lived away from home for years. Suddenly, at 57 years of age, I was feeling disconnected from them, and coming to the shocking realization that all important relationships (even between children and parents) will wither and die if they are not actively maintained. This was true of my children, friends, family, and especially family living in another country. I had also lost touch with my uncles and cousins in Mexico. All news from Mexico came from my mother, who is notorious for not informing anyone of family misfortune or gossip. She was my only source of news. It was through her, that I eventually learned that Mima, Adolfito, Helen, Totis, and Chita had died. Except for Mima’s death and burial, the news from Mexico was never urgently communicated or timely. It was after Aunt Chita’s death in 2003, that I began feeling a general restlessness and a nagging curiosity about my relatives in Mexico.
Serendipitously, just as these pangs were becoming noticeable, the children of my uncle Pepe and his wife Margarita organized a Boda de Oro, a Golden Wedding Anniversary party in November of 2004. Pepe had asked my mother to attend, but when she declined he wondered if I might wish to come. When my mother finally mentioned the invitation, I jumped at the chance to see everyone again. The weekend after Thanksgiving, I flew into Mexico City to celebrate the 50 year jubilee of my uncle’s wedding, and visit my uncles and as many cousins as I could. The whirlwind visit was almost perfect. I arrived on Friday, and had dinner with Pepe, Margarita and their children (Pepito, Marilupe, Margot, and Federico). I then had a late supper (merienda) with my cousin Gabino and his wife Beatrice. At the wedding ceremony and reception on Saturday, I saw almost everyone else, with the exception of Rosita, Nena, Tavo, and those cousins who were living outside of the city. It was fabulous seeing everyone, speaking to them as best I could, and promising to stay in touch. On Sunday, I spent the day with my uncle Lalo, his wife Lilia, and daughter Sylvia at the home of their son, Lalito, and then had dinner with Nena and her three children. I also managed to telephone Rosita and Tavo that evening. By the time I flew out of the airport (after spending the afternoon with Guero in Tlalnepantla) on Monday, I was fired up with the desire to keep our communication vital, and I had the telephone numbers, addresses, and emails of almost all of my cousins (certainly the ones I wanted). My resolution for that year was to maintain a consistent correspondence with my cousins through email. I was pretty good for a while, but then month by month, and year by year it became harder and harder. I rationalized my failing by claiming that writing in Spanish was three times as hard as English, but it was an excuse. Eventually I stopped emailing altogether, and sent a family photo Christmas card for the last two years.
So here I am, reassessing my Mexican connections, and wondering what I’m going to do next. Actually, the answer is obvious; I just need to do it. Besides compelling reasons to write (email) or telephone a particular uncle or cousin (I called Nena when I was planning to visit in 2004), I need to produce and send a generic Cousin Letter (or email) at least twice a year. I could also link my relatives to my blog, and make that option available to the more English proficient of my cousins. These efforts would at least keep the channels of communication open and available for family news and emergencies. That’s all I can hope for. I was fortunate to have been emailing Rosita for about 6 months before she suddenly died from cancer in 2006. The illness was discovered one day and immediately lethal. Gabino, who is an internist, emailed me as soon as he learned what had happened. The brief correspondence I had with her was simple and uncomplicated. We wrote about our jobs (she was a music teacher) and our children (she had a daughter, Begonia). However, this seemingly, inconsequential correspondence greatly mitigated the shock of her death, and eliminated any guilt of not having communicated with her for such a long time. I would like to feel that way with all my cousins.
I’m still hoping to arrange one more extended residency in Mexico (see A Retirement Sabbatical) in the near future. It would be nice to have viable communication and relations with my cousins when this occurs. As to how far this connection will extend to my wife and children that is for them to decide. I hope they keep it up. My Mexican connections are greatly responsible for much of who I am.
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dedalus_1947
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sisters
Date: 2008-08-14 04:48 pm (UTC)kathy h
Mexican Connections
Date: 2009-01-19 08:00 am (UTC)TRH
Mexican Connection
Date: 2009-04-17 08:25 pm (UTC)This is a very, very important document. I have had Mexican girlfriends, but not information like this. This presents a authentic and valuable example of Mexican and Mexican American culture and life that is neccesary to dispell misconceptions and stereotypes -- from American movies and the American media and press. I am not that familiar with Mexican American writers, but I have a strong feeling that this is very, very important. I think you are on to something. My limited exposure could be an inspired assumption, but I dare not to think so. This is quite, quite enlightening, inspiring, and just plain good!
ps. If you ever began taking 'dramatic license, 'Katie bar the door!'
TRH
provides access
Date: 2011-01-18 09:43 am (UTC)Спасибо за информацию
Date: 2012-02-16 09:24 am (UTC)