We’re On Our Own
Mar. 15th, 2019 11:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947We’re on our own, cousin
All alone, cousin
Let’s think of a game to play
Now the grown-ups have all gone away
You won’t be much fun
Being blind, deaf and dumb
But I’ve no one to play with today.
(Cousin Kevin, from Rock Opera Tommy: The Who – 1968 )
Kathy and I travelled to Chicago last week. The primary reason for the trip was to see our nephew, and Kathy’s godson, Jeff Parker in the Drury Lane Theatre production of MAMA MIA! We had seen Jeff in other productions in and around the Chicago area before, and Kathy had also gone with our daughter Prisa to see him in The Secret Garden. Needless to say, Kathy is an avid fan of Jeff’s work, and is willing to travel far and wide to see him performing, plus it took no effort to convince me to come along. I’ve loved all of Jeff’s performances, and I enjoy the songs by ABBA. What was different about this trip was my interference in its itinerary. Usually Kathy is the sole travel agent in these ventures, scheduling flights, booking hotels, buying tickets, and arranging our visits and activities. She was in this role again when I suddenly interrupted. I pointed out that previous visits usually centered around her family or close mutual friends, but on this trip I wanted to include some family time of my own. I reminded her that I had a cousin of my mother’s Villalpando family living in Chicago. Rafael (Avillo) Villalpando, the second son of my Uncle Beto (Adalberto), whom we often called “El Doc”, had immigrated to Chicago with his wife Estela decades before and raised 3 daughters there. I think the intensity of my request caught Kathy off guard, because she wasn’t aware of my interest in visiting a cousin I hadn’t seen in 50 years. After asking some questions about Avillo and Uncle Beto, she agreed to add another day to our trip to accommodate a reunion.
I have to confess that this insistence on meeting a distant relative was a little out of character for me. My connections to Mexico and my cousins had always been through my aunts and uncles, and they had diminished over time and distance. Although I stay in touch with a few of them through Facebook and occasional phone calls, the family ties have frayed. The Chicago connection was actually sparked when I came across Victoria Villalpando, Avillo’s second daughter, on Facebook, shortly after her college graduation a few years ago. Her postings and photographs of family, jobs, travels, and achievements seemed to minimize the distance that separated us, and I felt we had a lot in common. She and her 2 sisters, Estrella and Nazaret, were Mexican-Americans, as my siblings and I were, and we were all educated in American colleges with established careers. Victoria was also the first to reach out to me a few years ago when she flew to Los Angeles on a college recruitment assignment for her university. Conflicting schedules prevented our meeting, but her thoughtful attempt at communicating with me left a lasting impression and I resolved to arrange a future meeting if an opportunity arose. Once Kathy adjusted our timeline in Chicago, I “messaged” Victoria, asking if it would be possible to set up a meeting or dinner with her father and family. She quickly responded that her father loved the idea and she would take care of the arrangements.
To be honest, I was a little apprehensive about meeting Avillo, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in over 50 years. During my last extended visit to Mexico in 1973, Avillo had graduated from college and was a practicing orthodontist in Guadalajara. All I knew about him was second-hand information from my mom, who told me that he had immigrated to the United States sometime in 1990 with his family to establish a dental practice here. Had he changed? Would I recognize him? Would he speak English or Spanish, and was my Spanish good enough to sustain long conversations? All of these questions buzzed through my head before and after our arrival in Chicago. Yet, what came foremost to mind was a flood of memories of his father, Uncle Beto, “El Doc”. Of the four Villalpando brothers, Carlos, Beto, Pepe, and Lalo, El Doc stood out for his height, aristocratic good looks, and his quiet and soothing demeanor. Walking ramrod straight and erect, I remember him coming by on a regular basis to visit my grandmother Mima, to check on the medical condition of my great-grandmother, Mima Rosi, when they lived on Chopo 25, in the San Cosme neighborhood of Mexico City. Beto was a good listener who spoke in a soft, reassuring professional tone when diagnosing an ailment or prescribing medical treatment. He also had a warm, endearing laugh that always made me smile and put me at ease. He radiated such a sense of safety and wellbeing that I always want to hang around him, tagging along when he left Mima’s house, walking by his side, hoping that he would speak to me further. Since he lived nearby with his wife Licha (Alicia) and two sons, I would even offer to accompany him home. Rather than disappoint me with a no, he would give me a long, understanding gaze and laughingly offer instead to stop by a nearby drugstore and buy me a candy or “paleta”. It was the subtlest of bribes to have me return home.
I loved going to his home when my mother would take us to visit him and his family. He lived in a classic colonial-style residence surrounded by an intimidatingly high, ancient stucco and cement wall. Entering through a two-sided, wooden door, you were immediately greeted by a lush interior garden patio, surrounded by rooms and quarters on all sides. It reminded me of the luxurious interior gardens described in the Moorish Tales of the Arabian Nights. His sons Betito and Avillo would take me on tours of the rooms, always ending by sneaking into Beto’s “consultorio”, or consulting office where he would see private patients. I would stare in wonder at the glassed in cases and cupboards containing surgical instruments, medical equipment, vials, and bottles. It looked like a laboratory, and I imagined Beto working late into the evenings in this lab, discovering a miracle cure or a new, breakthrough surgical procedure. The longest time we spent with Beto and his family was the summer of 1955, when we drove our car to Mexico City. Once there we arranged to take Beto’s family with us to Vera Cruz, the port city in the Gulf of Mexico. I remember visiting the crumbling island fortress of San Juan de Ulúa that guarded the harbor entrance, and walking through the dank dungeons and antique armament. We also spent a lot of time on the beach with Betito and Avillo playing in the surf and looking for sand dollars on the shore.
The last time I saw Beto was in December of 1979, when Kathy and I travelled to Mexico City to introduce her and our son Tony to my Mexican relatives. There were a series of family parties, dinners, and posadas during our stay, but the event I remember best is when Beto invited Kathy and I to be his guests at La Plaza de Toros to see a bullfight on a Sunday afternoon. We were visiting during “la temporarada”, the bullfighting season, when the best matadores in the world were in Mexico touring its various cities and plazas de toros. Beto’s father, my grandfather, was an avid aficionado of the bullfight, and in his youth toured with the matadores as they traveled through Mexico. Beto had retained this interest, remaining the family expert of this ancient spectacle. After picking us up in his car, Beto detoured for a stop at his home, where he carried out two large medical bags. When I asked what they contained, he replied, “litros de sangre” (liters of blood), and I recalled that not only was Beto a fan, but, as a doctor with a hematology specialty, he was the official medical consultant if a matador was gored and needed a transfusion. We drove straight into the bullring, past the gates, guards, and spectators, and into the inner recesses of the stadium to deposit the blood in the clinic there, and then escorted to our premium seats near the ground level of the bullring.
Now a bullfight, or corrida de toros, is not for the faint of heart and stomach, and I suddenly panicked that Kathy, who was 3 months pregnant and had never witnessed one, might find it hard to watch. I tried preparing her for this bloody spectacle, warning her of the picadores, who speared the bull with lances from horseback, and for the sometimes clumsy, sword thrusts to dispatch the bull. I advised her finally, to just close her eyes or look away if the events proved too gruesome. I don’t recall the name of the matador, but the first bull was a marvel who charged straight and true. It is rare to see a monstrous beast and a lithe and daintily clad matador, in his “suit of lights”, so in sync and in rhythm with each other. It was a ballet of flowing capes and brutal force, with the matador effortlessly guiding the movements of the bull. Not wanting to weaken his partner in motion, the matador quickly waved off the picadores, and impaled his own “banderillas”, or decorated darts, in the back of the bull. Finally, when it came time for the kill, waving white handkerchiefs appeared throughout the stadium, and the crowd began chanting, “indulto, indulto”, demanding the pardoning of the bull from death. It would be the equivalent of watching a perfect game in baseball, only here the bull is rewarded for a perfect corrida by being spared, and retired to stud and sire other toros bravos, or brave bulls. As the matador acceded to the wishes of the crowd, and the bull was guided back into the pens below the coliseum, Kathy turned to me and said, “I think I can really enjoy bullfighting.”
When Kathy and I entered the Greek Islands Restaurant, in the Greek town section of Chicago, I almost walked past a seated Avillo and his family before noticing them. Luckily, his wife Estela, recognizing Kathy from her Facebook photos, nudged him alert and said, “Son ellos!” They all arose, and with a laugh we all greeted each other, hugging, and introducing ourselves to one another. We’ve grown old, Avillo and I. We are a little stouter, and a little greyer, but our Villalpando characteristics still united us. The two of us fell into immediate conversation – mostly in Spanish. Though seated around a circular table, it was difficult hearing what everyone was saying to each other, so I concentrated on Avillo, asking about his mother, his siblings, and his journey from Mexico. Time and distance seemed to fade away, and our conversation was even better than in our youth, when we sometimes felt awkward with each other, and too embarrassed to ask personal questions. Over a fine meal of lamb and wine, I laughingly pointed out that I spotted many of my mother’s Villalpando family characteristics and attitudes in the proud way Avillo described his daughters education, their achievements, and their current careers. It was the same way that my mom, and all of my aunts and uncles, spoke of their high expectations for their children and grandchildren. Villalpandos were well educated, always punctual, polite, and discrete – and they were expected to achieve at a higher level than their peers. This became especially important for my mom, who quickly became aware of the ethnic prejudices and negative stereotypes of Mexicans by many Americans. Avillo and Estela had communicated the same values of self-esteem and the drive to achieve into their 3 daughters, Estrella, Victoria, and Nazaret. We talked and laughed and questioned together, barely finding the time to eat. Finally I had to mention a sartorial issue that had perplexed me. I had debated with myself over how to dress for this special evening dinner. Had I been in Mexico City, a coat and tie would have been my mother’s choice, but in Chicago, the restaurant only required “evening casual”. So I came in dress shirt, sweater, and slacks – only to find my cousin in proper Villalpando attire. I laughed at myself for not knowing better, and kidded Avillo for not having “Americanized” very much. It was only at the end of dinner, when we were posing for photos, that Avillo sadly noted that the entire generation of Villalpandos, which included our parents and all our aunts and uncles were gone and many of their children dispersed to different countries and cities. It was a thought I had never pondered from the perspective of cousins so far from their ancestral home. Avillo and I are truly on our own, so far from our parent’s Mexico and their influences, now that they are gone. It’s a litany of sorrow to say their names: Helen, Carlos, Beto, Chita, Totis, Güera (my mom), Pepe, and Lalo. Lalo was the youngest, and the last to pass away last year. I don’t know, or can’t recall exactly how they died, or when, but that is an unimportant detail. All I can do is call forth some memories, and tell stories of incidents that come to mind. Talking with Avillo, and speaking the Spanish that always feels comfortable when meeting Mexican cousins, brought up some of those long ago moments with Beto. It’s my small way of saying thank you to him for the care and kind attention he gave us, and the love for his family that never wavered.
Vaya con Dios, tio Beto.
All alone, cousin
Let’s think of a game to play
Now the grown-ups have all gone away
You won’t be much fun
Being blind, deaf and dumb
But I’ve no one to play with today.
(Cousin Kevin, from Rock Opera Tommy: The Who – 1968 )
Kathy and I travelled to Chicago last week. The primary reason for the trip was to see our nephew, and Kathy’s godson, Jeff Parker in the Drury Lane Theatre production of MAMA MIA! We had seen Jeff in other productions in and around the Chicago area before, and Kathy had also gone with our daughter Prisa to see him in The Secret Garden. Needless to say, Kathy is an avid fan of Jeff’s work, and is willing to travel far and wide to see him performing, plus it took no effort to convince me to come along. I’ve loved all of Jeff’s performances, and I enjoy the songs by ABBA. What was different about this trip was my interference in its itinerary. Usually Kathy is the sole travel agent in these ventures, scheduling flights, booking hotels, buying tickets, and arranging our visits and activities. She was in this role again when I suddenly interrupted. I pointed out that previous visits usually centered around her family or close mutual friends, but on this trip I wanted to include some family time of my own. I reminded her that I had a cousin of my mother’s Villalpando family living in Chicago. Rafael (Avillo) Villalpando, the second son of my Uncle Beto (Adalberto), whom we often called “El Doc”, had immigrated to Chicago with his wife Estela decades before and raised 3 daughters there. I think the intensity of my request caught Kathy off guard, because she wasn’t aware of my interest in visiting a cousin I hadn’t seen in 50 years. After asking some questions about Avillo and Uncle Beto, she agreed to add another day to our trip to accommodate a reunion.
I have to confess that this insistence on meeting a distant relative was a little out of character for me. My connections to Mexico and my cousins had always been through my aunts and uncles, and they had diminished over time and distance. Although I stay in touch with a few of them through Facebook and occasional phone calls, the family ties have frayed. The Chicago connection was actually sparked when I came across Victoria Villalpando, Avillo’s second daughter, on Facebook, shortly after her college graduation a few years ago. Her postings and photographs of family, jobs, travels, and achievements seemed to minimize the distance that separated us, and I felt we had a lot in common. She and her 2 sisters, Estrella and Nazaret, were Mexican-Americans, as my siblings and I were, and we were all educated in American colleges with established careers. Victoria was also the first to reach out to me a few years ago when she flew to Los Angeles on a college recruitment assignment for her university. Conflicting schedules prevented our meeting, but her thoughtful attempt at communicating with me left a lasting impression and I resolved to arrange a future meeting if an opportunity arose. Once Kathy adjusted our timeline in Chicago, I “messaged” Victoria, asking if it would be possible to set up a meeting or dinner with her father and family. She quickly responded that her father loved the idea and she would take care of the arrangements.
To be honest, I was a little apprehensive about meeting Avillo, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in over 50 years. During my last extended visit to Mexico in 1973, Avillo had graduated from college and was a practicing orthodontist in Guadalajara. All I knew about him was second-hand information from my mom, who told me that he had immigrated to the United States sometime in 1990 with his family to establish a dental practice here. Had he changed? Would I recognize him? Would he speak English or Spanish, and was my Spanish good enough to sustain long conversations? All of these questions buzzed through my head before and after our arrival in Chicago. Yet, what came foremost to mind was a flood of memories of his father, Uncle Beto, “El Doc”. Of the four Villalpando brothers, Carlos, Beto, Pepe, and Lalo, El Doc stood out for his height, aristocratic good looks, and his quiet and soothing demeanor. Walking ramrod straight and erect, I remember him coming by on a regular basis to visit my grandmother Mima, to check on the medical condition of my great-grandmother, Mima Rosi, when they lived on Chopo 25, in the San Cosme neighborhood of Mexico City. Beto was a good listener who spoke in a soft, reassuring professional tone when diagnosing an ailment or prescribing medical treatment. He also had a warm, endearing laugh that always made me smile and put me at ease. He radiated such a sense of safety and wellbeing that I always want to hang around him, tagging along when he left Mima’s house, walking by his side, hoping that he would speak to me further. Since he lived nearby with his wife Licha (Alicia) and two sons, I would even offer to accompany him home. Rather than disappoint me with a no, he would give me a long, understanding gaze and laughingly offer instead to stop by a nearby drugstore and buy me a candy or “paleta”. It was the subtlest of bribes to have me return home.
I loved going to his home when my mother would take us to visit him and his family. He lived in a classic colonial-style residence surrounded by an intimidatingly high, ancient stucco and cement wall. Entering through a two-sided, wooden door, you were immediately greeted by a lush interior garden patio, surrounded by rooms and quarters on all sides. It reminded me of the luxurious interior gardens described in the Moorish Tales of the Arabian Nights. His sons Betito and Avillo would take me on tours of the rooms, always ending by sneaking into Beto’s “consultorio”, or consulting office where he would see private patients. I would stare in wonder at the glassed in cases and cupboards containing surgical instruments, medical equipment, vials, and bottles. It looked like a laboratory, and I imagined Beto working late into the evenings in this lab, discovering a miracle cure or a new, breakthrough surgical procedure. The longest time we spent with Beto and his family was the summer of 1955, when we drove our car to Mexico City. Once there we arranged to take Beto’s family with us to Vera Cruz, the port city in the Gulf of Mexico. I remember visiting the crumbling island fortress of San Juan de Ulúa that guarded the harbor entrance, and walking through the dank dungeons and antique armament. We also spent a lot of time on the beach with Betito and Avillo playing in the surf and looking for sand dollars on the shore.
The last time I saw Beto was in December of 1979, when Kathy and I travelled to Mexico City to introduce her and our son Tony to my Mexican relatives. There were a series of family parties, dinners, and posadas during our stay, but the event I remember best is when Beto invited Kathy and I to be his guests at La Plaza de Toros to see a bullfight on a Sunday afternoon. We were visiting during “la temporarada”, the bullfighting season, when the best matadores in the world were in Mexico touring its various cities and plazas de toros. Beto’s father, my grandfather, was an avid aficionado of the bullfight, and in his youth toured with the matadores as they traveled through Mexico. Beto had retained this interest, remaining the family expert of this ancient spectacle. After picking us up in his car, Beto detoured for a stop at his home, where he carried out two large medical bags. When I asked what they contained, he replied, “litros de sangre” (liters of blood), and I recalled that not only was Beto a fan, but, as a doctor with a hematology specialty, he was the official medical consultant if a matador was gored and needed a transfusion. We drove straight into the bullring, past the gates, guards, and spectators, and into the inner recesses of the stadium to deposit the blood in the clinic there, and then escorted to our premium seats near the ground level of the bullring.
Now a bullfight, or corrida de toros, is not for the faint of heart and stomach, and I suddenly panicked that Kathy, who was 3 months pregnant and had never witnessed one, might find it hard to watch. I tried preparing her for this bloody spectacle, warning her of the picadores, who speared the bull with lances from horseback, and for the sometimes clumsy, sword thrusts to dispatch the bull. I advised her finally, to just close her eyes or look away if the events proved too gruesome. I don’t recall the name of the matador, but the first bull was a marvel who charged straight and true. It is rare to see a monstrous beast and a lithe and daintily clad matador, in his “suit of lights”, so in sync and in rhythm with each other. It was a ballet of flowing capes and brutal force, with the matador effortlessly guiding the movements of the bull. Not wanting to weaken his partner in motion, the matador quickly waved off the picadores, and impaled his own “banderillas”, or decorated darts, in the back of the bull. Finally, when it came time for the kill, waving white handkerchiefs appeared throughout the stadium, and the crowd began chanting, “indulto, indulto”, demanding the pardoning of the bull from death. It would be the equivalent of watching a perfect game in baseball, only here the bull is rewarded for a perfect corrida by being spared, and retired to stud and sire other toros bravos, or brave bulls. As the matador acceded to the wishes of the crowd, and the bull was guided back into the pens below the coliseum, Kathy turned to me and said, “I think I can really enjoy bullfighting.”
When Kathy and I entered the Greek Islands Restaurant, in the Greek town section of Chicago, I almost walked past a seated Avillo and his family before noticing them. Luckily, his wife Estela, recognizing Kathy from her Facebook photos, nudged him alert and said, “Son ellos!” They all arose, and with a laugh we all greeted each other, hugging, and introducing ourselves to one another. We’ve grown old, Avillo and I. We are a little stouter, and a little greyer, but our Villalpando characteristics still united us. The two of us fell into immediate conversation – mostly in Spanish. Though seated around a circular table, it was difficult hearing what everyone was saying to each other, so I concentrated on Avillo, asking about his mother, his siblings, and his journey from Mexico. Time and distance seemed to fade away, and our conversation was even better than in our youth, when we sometimes felt awkward with each other, and too embarrassed to ask personal questions. Over a fine meal of lamb and wine, I laughingly pointed out that I spotted many of my mother’s Villalpando family characteristics and attitudes in the proud way Avillo described his daughters education, their achievements, and their current careers. It was the same way that my mom, and all of my aunts and uncles, spoke of their high expectations for their children and grandchildren. Villalpandos were well educated, always punctual, polite, and discrete – and they were expected to achieve at a higher level than their peers. This became especially important for my mom, who quickly became aware of the ethnic prejudices and negative stereotypes of Mexicans by many Americans. Avillo and Estela had communicated the same values of self-esteem and the drive to achieve into their 3 daughters, Estrella, Victoria, and Nazaret. We talked and laughed and questioned together, barely finding the time to eat. Finally I had to mention a sartorial issue that had perplexed me. I had debated with myself over how to dress for this special evening dinner. Had I been in Mexico City, a coat and tie would have been my mother’s choice, but in Chicago, the restaurant only required “evening casual”. So I came in dress shirt, sweater, and slacks – only to find my cousin in proper Villalpando attire. I laughed at myself for not knowing better, and kidded Avillo for not having “Americanized” very much. It was only at the end of dinner, when we were posing for photos, that Avillo sadly noted that the entire generation of Villalpandos, which included our parents and all our aunts and uncles were gone and many of their children dispersed to different countries and cities. It was a thought I had never pondered from the perspective of cousins so far from their ancestral home. Avillo and I are truly on our own, so far from our parent’s Mexico and their influences, now that they are gone. It’s a litany of sorrow to say their names: Helen, Carlos, Beto, Chita, Totis, Güera (my mom), Pepe, and Lalo. Lalo was the youngest, and the last to pass away last year. I don’t know, or can’t recall exactly how they died, or when, but that is an unimportant detail. All I can do is call forth some memories, and tell stories of incidents that come to mind. Talking with Avillo, and speaking the Spanish that always feels comfortable when meeting Mexican cousins, brought up some of those long ago moments with Beto. It’s my small way of saying thank you to him for the care and kind attention he gave us, and the love for his family that never wavered.
Vaya con Dios, tio Beto.
