Die Hards Never Lose
Mar. 18th, 2010 04:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947“The time of my departure is come.
I have fought the good fight,
I have run the good race,
And I have kept the faith.”
(2 Timothy 4: 6-7)
There was something different about the house on Workman. I could tell as soon I bolted through the front door, looking around for my Uncle Charlie. There was an eerie silence in the house, and the usual clutter and dishevelment of the living room was gone. Inspecting the long dining room table as I passed, it too had been cleared of the piles of opened and unopened mail, and the stacks of magazines, books, records, and board games that accumulated over the course of the week. Even the television room was empty of aunts or uncles lounging around in pajamas, drinking coffee, or finishing breakfast. Only abuelita, my grandmother, was in her usual place in the kitchen, drying the breakfast dishes and cups by the sink.
“Hola abuelita,” I announced, moving next to her, into correct saludar y besar position.
“Hola Toñito, querido”, she said, cupping my face in her still wet hands as she bent down to kiss my cheeks. “¿Como está me nieto consentido?”
“Bien, abuelita,” I replied proudly. Although I suspected she called all her grandchildren preferidos, or “favoured ones”, I delighted at hearing her use the Spanish endearment for “special one”. I felt that my position as the first male grandchild in the family gave me a unique status and special privileges. “Where’s Charlie?” I asked, switching to English.
“Está arríba limpiándo su cuarto (He’s upstairs cleaning his room),” she said, giving my chubby cheeks one more squeeze before releasing me. “Dile que baje cuando acaba, porque tengo un mandado que necesito (Tell him to see me when he’s finished, because I have an errand for him),” she added, returning to work.
“Sí abuelita,” I replied, rushing past the entering entourage of my twin brother and sister, with my parents right behind. Hearing that my 10 year old, Uncle Charlie was cleaning his room on this bright and sunny Saturday morning was the most unsettling discovery of all. Charlie and his older brother Kado played a waiting game with my grandmother called, “Who will weary of the messy bedroom first and finally clean it?” They usually won and sometimes tied, but they NEVER cleaned their room. I knew Charlie kept his comics under the pile of shirts and pants next to his bed, and Kado stored his sports equipment along with his socks and shoes on the closet floor. I shuddered to think how I would never recognize an orderly landscape. Learning that my youngest uncle was hanging, folding, and storing clothes, and cleaning his room was apocalyptic news.
“Charrrllliieee!” I yelled, dashing up the stairs and running into his room. “What’s going on? How come you’re not outside?”
“Oh, hi Tony,” a distracted voice said from inside the closet. “Do you want to help?”
“Sure,” I replied, enthusiastically, peeking into the closet door. “What do you want me to do?” I was always a willing sap when invited to share in the duties and responsibilities of my Uncle Charlie, who was five years my senior. Despite the monotony of the task, doing things for, or with my uncle was a treat. I felt it diminished our age difference, taught me new skills, and gave me intimate access to an uncle I imitated.
“I need you to match the correct shoes into pairs, place them in empty shoe boxes, and stack them under the hanging clothes,” he instructed. “Balls, gloves, and equipment go in that basket, and you place the bats, and other long items against the wall.”
“Okay,” I replied, sitting Indian-style on the floor and beginning to pick up and inspect street shoes and tennis shoes. “Where is everybody, and why are you cleaning your room?” I asked again.
“Oh, didn’t you know,” he said, looking up in surprise. “Everyone is busy getting ready for the party. Qui-qui is coming home from the war today!”
I spent the morning organizing the shoes in the closet and cleaning the bedroom with Charlie, while downstairs, others decorated the house for the homecoming party or went shopping. The gaiety and excitement in the house grew with each passing hour. It was heightened by the uncertainty of Qui-qui ’s arrival time. All Charlie knew for sure was that Qui-qui was coming home TODAY, but he didn’t know when. He stayed remarkably alert to the conversations of his older sisters and sought clues from the actions of his brothers. Charlie did not want to miss anything; so playing in the backyard, away from the house was out of the question. I just tagged along behind him until my abuelita sent him to the store on his bike. With that errand my tether was broken, and I sat on the front porch waiting for Qui-qui to appear.
Qui-qui was the nickname of my Uncle Enrique, who was also called Henry or Hank. I vaguely remembered him before he was drafted into the U.S. Army during the Korean War (1950-1953), but doubted I could describe or recognize him. I simply knew him as one of my two uncles in the war. The other was Tarcisio (also called Tarsi, Chato, or “Shadow”). Their absence was the unspoken concern of the family, amplified by the loss of two other brothers during World War II. My father rarely mentioned Qui-qui or Shadow, except to hope that the war would end soon, and they would return safely. He said nothing about today’s homecoming, so I wondered if he had been told. Coming to my grandparent’s house on Workman Street on Saturday was a weekly ritual. It permitted my parents to go grocery shopping or visiting, and gave them a break from their four children, whom they left in the care of my two young aunts and uncle - Lisa, Espy, and Charlie. In its entirety, my father’s Mexican-American family numbered 14 children in the following order:
Antonio Jose: Tony, my father, was born in 1921.
Alberto: Albert, died in France in 1944.
Manuel (also died in France in 1944).
Victor: Vic
Maria Guadalupe: Lupe, Lulu, or Lue.
Tarcisio: Tarsi, Chato, or Shadow.
Enrique: Qui-qui, Henry, or Hank.
Jovita: Jay-jay, or Jay.
Helen.
Ricardo: Kãdo.
Ana Maria: Tillie.
Carlos Cruz: Charlie, or Chuck.
Esperanza: Espi, or Espy.
In the course of the afternoon, members of the family slowly began appearing and involving themselves in the activities and rising tensions of the arrival. Charlie returned from his errand, but stayed near his older siblings. I just sat on the porch watching and wondering if I would recognize Qui-qui if he walked up from the sidewalk. But even that worry faded in the unending monotony of waiting. The afternoon passed and I began despairing that my mother would insist on taking us home for dinner before the homecoming, and we would miss the party. Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement in the house.
“Qui-qui’s on the telephone,” an excited female voice shouted through the screen door behind me. I catapulted off the porch as though sprung by a starter’s pistol-shot and rushed to the telephone room in the narrow passage way between the first floor bedrooms. Whoever the voice was sounding the alert, others already knew, because a throng of bodies blocked the inner corridor. I ran around to the opposite end for a better view, but could only get as far as Lisa, who was looking over someone else’s shoulder.
“Who’s talking to Qui-qui?” I asked, standing on tiptoes.
“Helen” replied Lisa, staring intently into the telephone scrum. “She’s trying to figure out what’s wrong”.
Adults behind me began muttering that he wasn’t coming, that the army had cancelled his discharge. Even though I didn’t understand what they meant, I sensed their frustration and rising panic over something being wrong. I heard Helen say something loud, but garbled, and suddenly the crowd began rushing out of the hallway toward the living room.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” I yelled, grabbing hold of Lisa’s sweater so she couldn’t dash away too.
“He’s at Savon’s,” she shouted, pulling away. “He’s up the street at the soda fountain, now let go of me!” She rushed after the rest of her sisters, with me following close behind. Even by leaping the porch steps, I couldn’t compensate for Lisa’s long and skinny legs, or match her speed. I could see Helen and Tillie far in the lead of the pack, with Charlie and Kado close behind them.
“Why didn’t he come home?” I yelled, hoping Lisa would answer and slow down.
“I don’t know,” Lisa panted. “I think he got scared”.
That didn’t make sense, I thought. How can a soldier be scared? Lisa was giving me crazy girl answers, so I stopped asking and concentrated on keeping up.
Savon Drugstore was located on one of the corners of “Five Points”, the 5-block intersection of Pasadena Ave and Avenue 26 in Lincoln Heights. It was only about 10 minutes away, on a leisurely pace. Running, I reached it in 6, but well behind my aunts and uncles. They were huddling around a tall, black-haired soldier at the soda counter. The girls were tearfully screaming, and Kado was laughing and pounding the back of a skinny, curly-haired, young man dressed in khaki. I stood back from the hectic scene and watched, leaning against the rear wall. The soldier looked vaguely familiar, and clearly resembled my dad and his brothers. His laughter was clear and sharp, and acted as a bugle call shushing the scolding of his sisters for making them run all the way to the drugstore.
“I just wanted to rest for a minute and have a soda pop before going home,” he protested with a casual smile, acting as if calling from a pay telephone booth was the common way of returning from war. “I also wanted to see who loved me most and would arrive first”.
“Cabrón!” Helen exclaimed, her long, lustrous hair flying as she punched his arm with her balled fist. “I wanted to be the first so I could slap you for being such a stupid ox!” With that she threw herself headfirst into his arms and began sobbing. That set off all five sisters, and even Kado was brushing away tears. I just watched, wondering what role I played in this family scene.
That was my first clear memory of my uncle Qui-qui, whom I soon started calling Henry. I was 5 or six years old at the time, and in awe of this tall, dark, and sharply dressed warrior. Eventually, someone noticed me, standing wide-eyed and silent in the rear of the drugstore, and I was pushed forward and introduced as Tony’s eldest son, the first grandchild in the family. He gave me a hug, mentioning how much I’d grown since he left - and promptly ignored me. Soon my mom and dad arrived to welcome and scold him good-naturedly for not going directly home. My dad ended the impromptu soda fountain break by stating that my grandparents were anxiously awaiting Henry at home and it was time to leave. Slowly and grudgingly, Henry arose from his seat, removed the folded garrison cap attached to his shoulder strap, and adjusted it rakishly to the side of his head. Then, with arms encircling the narrow waists of Helen and Tillie, they began the slow triumphal walk home.
After this homecoming, I had only sporadic interactions with Henry during his residence in my grandparents home. He quickly returned to his previous job in the County of Los Angeles and I only saw him in passing when we visited on weekends. His world seemed a faraway Olympian peak of work, older friends, dating, and sports. I found him very different from the other men in the family. Although his eyes twinkled when he gave the family’s characteristic deep and hearty laugh, he was remarkably serious and taciturn in his speech and manners. This separated him from the raucous group of uncles I knew, and made him stand out. I was used to joking and playful ribbings from the uncles who engaged me in conversation, quizzing me, and allowing me to join their games and activities. Henry didn’t do that. He would greet me solemnly, speaking to me in an adult fashion, and then dismiss me. He was always busy, and didn’t seem to have time for children, especially when competing in sports. He tolerated children, but didn’t play with them the way my father, Victor, Kado, and Charlie did. My dad said Henry reminded him of Manuel, the lean, dark, and brooding younger brother who died in the Second World War. Yet, despite his seeming indifference to me, I idolized him. He was cool and detached, handsome and brave, and strong and athletic. In the absurdist, wishing-based world of a 5 year-old, Henry was the one person I would have picked as my father. At family gatherings I silently studied how he spoke, and the way he explained his interests and values. He was very diligent about his work and anticipated his future responsibilities as a husband and father. I secretly envied him when he brought his girlfriend to family events the year before he married. Lupita was a cute and petite brunette, with a kind face and a charming smile. She reminded me of a Mexican-American June Allyson, in the Glenn Miller Story. The most crushing disappointment of my childhood was not attending their wedding in 1956. I was a 9-year-old student at St. Teresa of Avila School and Church. The same church in which Henry and Lupita were to marry, in a double ceremony with his brother Tarsi and Alice! I was excited to finally be old enough to enjoy a wedding, but I came down with the flu the week before and never saw it. I had to be satisfied with the verbal descriptions of my parents and siblings, when they visited me at home during the daylong nuptial activities.
Another clear memory I have of that period of time was the athletic club Henry and Kado organized called The Die Hards. It was a motley team, composed of friends, family members, and an occasional “ringer”, who got together as often as they could, and competed in a variety of intramural, park league sports. Charlie was my main source of information about this team with the unusual name, and who seemed to lose more games than they won. I remember watching them play touch football, softball, and horseshoes at various times during my childhood days, and longing to be old enough to join them. Henry was the president of the club, and although he and Kado were captains, Kado was the best player. I think Kado told me that, along with his explanation for their name when I asked who made up such a crazy name.
“Listen, J.R.,” he said, calling me by the initials for ‘junior’. “A team name is important because it describes how we compete to our opponents, and the rest of the league. We’re a collection of brothers, cousins, and carnales who play with heart and passion, because we love the games. We may not be the best athletes or the strongest players, but we are going to give all we have and never give up. Somos valientes, we are warriors, like the ancient Aztecs of Tenochtitlan, or the revolutionary soldiers of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata, who didn’t fear death when they fought against the superior odds of the Conquistadores and Federales. They were never defeated, even when they were killed, because they never gave up and they died hard. You can’t lose, when you don’t give up – even if the other team has more points at the end of the contest. That is what our name tells our opponents - we may not always win, but we never lose. Only quitters lose and we’re the Die Hards - we never give up”.
The name of that team always made me smile – Die Hards! When it became the title of Bruce Willis’ action-movie franchise (the Die-Hard series), I wondered if Bruce gave the same explanation for the title as my Uncle Kado. I doubted it.
My Uncle Henry died this month at the age of 81. I attended his mass and burial on March 10, 2010, with my mother and siblings, Gracie and Eddie. I’d been unable to attend the requiem for my uncle Tarsi (“Shadow”) in 2007, so it was my first family funeral in many years. It was a bittersweet experience. I was happy to see so many of my aunts, uncles, and cousins in one place, and yet saddened that it took Henry’s death to bring us together. It was also sobering to see how we were all inexorably aging and fading into grey. The realization of our own eventual demise kept me very detached from the proceedings and immunized me from the waves of sorrow and grief that swept over Lupita and her children. My connections to Henry and all my aunts and uncles had slowly weakened over the years. As I aged, married, and raised a family of my own, I rarely interacted with my father’s family. I only saw them accidently (when visiting my brother Eddie in Monrovia) and at special family reunions (See Celebrate and Rejoice). At first, the only thing the funeral was provoking were nostalgic scenes of Henry’s return from Korea, his days living at home with Kado, Shadow, and Charlie, and his Die Hard exploits. It wasn’t until the eulogy of one of his grandchildren at the end of the service, that I learned a startling truth - something I never suspected about this uncle whom I believed to be so strict and self-critical in his adulthood and middle age, and so aloof to children. Henry was a devoted and loving grandfather and great-grandfather. Who knew!
The stories told by his grandson, reminded me of the antics and joyful actions of my uncles Victor, Shadow, Kado, and Charlie when they recounted jokes and stories, and played games with me and other nephews. I recalled Charlie teaching me to make rubber band guns out of wood, Kado showing me how to build and fly a kite from scratch, playing horseshoes with Victor, and learning to draw with Shadow. Each brother had unique talents and told a special brand of story: Charlie about soldiers, Kado about athletes, Shadow about knights and kings, and Victor told jokes. The warmth, humour, and attention from these uncles seemed to coalesce and unite in the tales I heard from Henry’s grandchildren. It was as if his retirement as Head of Property and Supply for the Probation Department of Los Angeles released him to finally pay attention to the important things in life – games, laughter, and the play of his children’s children and their children. Henry had seven children, 20 grandchildren, and 4 great-grandchildren, and he became an integral and vital part of their lives, in the last quarter of his. I couldn’t help feeling a rekindling of my childhood jealousy of Henry’s good fortune. He had found the wisdom of age. He had discovered the real value of life and the importance of love and children. I prayed that this was a lesson I could learn and imitate as my own retirement began.
Later, standing next to my mother at the gravesite and watching Henry’s family slowly reach out to touch the casket as they trooped past, it struck me that Henry never stopped being a Die Hard. As an adult, he stoically faced the rigorous duties and responsibilities of marriage, a career, and fatherhood, and he never quit. Like a Die Hard, he never lost, and perhaps he even cheated death by finding the Kingdom of God on Earth in his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He retired to re-discover the joys of children and became one of them again. He played the game of life and never lost. Saint Paul’s epistle to Timothy seemed very appropriate in that moment, and I mouthed the words as we walked silently away from the grave:
“The time of my departure is come. I have fought the good fight, I have run the good race, and I have kept the faith.”
Goodbye tío Qui-qui, we’ll have to finish this game without you.
If you are interested in the complete photo album of our my father's family in Lincoln Heights check my Flickr account: http://www.flickr.com/photos/39441480@N02/sets/72157623640715263/
no subject
Date: 2010-03-19 03:29 pm (UTC)Gracie
Batteries?
Date: 2010-03-26 05:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-13 04:32 pm (UTC)I love all the pictures, but that picture of your grandfather and his sons on the front lawn in suits is a killer! "How can a soldier be scared?" is classic! "You can't lose when you don't give up," is incredible advice for anyone, but especially for a child!
I dare to say, I think your eventual Novel is a great plot with your family surroundings and background! If not the first novel, one of them! I would certainly buy it!
TRH