A friend asked me if I went to the Mexican Independence Day parade today. I had forgotten all about the parade. Of course, then he asked me, “What kind of Mexican are you?” Actually, I’m American, I told him. Which made me wonder. I guess I’m not very Mexican, but I speak fluent Spanish. But so do a lot of people who aren’t even Hispanic.
Am I proud of my Mexican heritage? I’m not sure! Makes me want to scream!!! When I’m in Mexico, everyone thinks I’m American. In the U.S., people think I’m American most of the time. I’m light skinned and I’ve managed to assimilate, even though some strangers immediately speak Spanish to me. I really don’t keep track of the Hispanic holidays. Usually, it’s some American non-Hispanic friend who has to remind me of the Mexican holidays. ¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay!
The Mexican stereotype is that all Mexicans are Catholics. And most of them are. However, when I met my ex-wife’s family, I was surprised, even shocked, that most of her father’s family were Mexican Protestants. And her family was Protestant in Mexico, too! Talk about culture shock. Even though I’m a Mexican Catholic, I, too, stereotype all Mexicans in Mexico as Catholics.
As a young boy I was a parishioner at a Lithuanian Catholic church, Holy Cross, where I also attended their grammar school. The church population consisted of mostly Lithuanians, but there were also a lot of Mexican families in the parish and school. We always went to mass on school days before we went to class and on Sundays we sat with our classmates and teacher for mass. All the Mexicans in the neighborhood went to mass, if not every day, at least on Sundays. My father’s family was extremely religious, so I had this image of all Mexicans being devout Catholics.
When I went to Mexico, I realized that my mother’s family wasn’t as religious as I had imagined. All my aunts, uncles, cousins, and other family members always said that they were Catholic. What a disgrace it would be not to be Catholic!
Anyway, once I went to Mexico to visit for a month. By the third week, I realized that we had not even gone to church even once. I wasn’t really a practicing Catholic then, but I was worried about what my family would think of me if I didn’t go to church or even suggest going to church. So, I asked them if they ever went to church. Immediately, my aunt told everyone to dress up nicely. We were going to church! Well, we went to church and there was no one there. There were no masses scheduled for that day, on a Sunday no less. We sat in the pews for a while attempting to pray, or at least pretending to pray, and then we went home.
So now that’s how I remember Mexican Catholics. People who want everyone to think that they’re Catholic. And, I guess, I’m no exception, either. Whenever someone asks me my religion, I say, “I’m Catholic!”
When we were little, my father took us to the Shedd Aquarium not only because it was an educational trip, but also because it was economical. In fact, there was no admission charge back then. We spent the entire day there and saw every fish, shark, eel, turtle, and every form of sea life that was on display at that aquarium. I liked the transparent fish, while my brothers liked the fish that glowed in the dark. What my father liked the most were the tadpoles. Tadpoles! Well, in Spanish, tadpole is el sapo. Just hold that thought for a while. El sapo. I’ll get back to it.
But first I must explain about how my parents named their sons, meaning my brothers and me. When I was born my father wanted me to be named Diego after him. My parents always told me conflicting versions of this naming process. But my guess is that neither version is completely true. My mother did not want her firstborn son to be named Diego. Especially since my father’s name was also Diego. Let’s not get into the psychoanalysis of my mother just yet. We’ll save that for another day. Anyway, the best my father could negotiate in the naming rights was for me to be named David Diego Rodríguez. At least, his firstborn son had his name in there somewhere. Brother number two was born, and he was named Daniel Rodríguez. WITH NO MIDDLE NAME! I never received any conflicting stories about this naming ritual between my parents, but I attribute it to the fact that we were much poorer by the time Daniel was born and my parents couldn’t afford to give him a middle name. Then brother number three was born, and he was named Diego! No explanation is necessary! Right? My father had finally won an argument in the great Naming of the Sons debate. My third brother was named Diego Gerardo Rodríguez. From that day forward, Diego was my father’s favorite son! And my father was not discreet about showing his favoritism towards my brother Diego.
Well, going back to the Shedd Aquarium, when my father saw the tadpoles, he turned his head and said, “El sapo.” But he was now looking at my brother Diego. “Diego is my sapo!” From that day on, my father called him, “mi sapo, mi sapito,” etcetera. Everyone started calling him Sapo, even his friends. The only one who didn’t call him Sapo was my youngest brother Dicky. (How did he get that name? That’s a long story for another day!) He couldn’t say Sapo, no matter how hard he tried. His four-year-old mouth twisted and contorted whenever he attempted to pronounce Sapo. But all he could utter was Tato. We thought it was so funny that we started calling my brother Diego, Tato. After a while even my father called him Tato. Everyone loved this new nickname except Tato, but the nickname stuck. We didn’t know of anyone else in the neighborhood or Mexico who was also called Tato.
Tato was unique! Until one day, my brothers and I heard the song “Coconut” by Harry Nilsson on the radio. The song where “she put the lime in the coconut, she drank ’em both up.” Well, toward the end of the song, the words to chorus, “Doctor, ain’t there nothin’ I can take, I said / Doctor, to relieve this bellyache,” are slurred slightly by the singer so that Doctor sounds like Tato. You can clearly hear the singer sing, “I said, Tato” several times! My brother was world-famous in our neighborhood!!! We would often tell my brother as if we were singing the song, “I said, Tato, is there nothing I can take?” This was certainly much closer to his name than the Fred Astaire song, “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off” in which he sings, “You say tomato, I say tomahto / You eat potato, I eat potahto.” Tato was in the Astaire song only if you forced it out, but in “Put the Lime in the Coconut,” Tato is there, loud and clear. It was a proud moment for our family, but especially for my brother Tato.
My uncle named one of his chihuahuas Chispirita. But none of the family children could pronounce Chispirita. All the children called him Cheese Pizza instead.
Translated to English, Chispirita is the English equivalent for a common name for a dog: Sparky. I have known of several dogs named Sparky in English, but this was the first Sparky I knew of a Sparky named in Spanish. Chispa means spark. Adding the diminutive “-ita” or “-irita” to “chisp-” makes the name Sparky or Chispirita, a term of endearment.
All the children in the family loved Chispirita, even though he was a moody chihuahua. When my twin sons were three years old, my uncle warned me that Chispirita would bite them. Although I had warned my sons, they still petted Cheese Pizza, and of course, Cheese Pizza bit them. But my sons laughed as Cheese Pizza bit them and they told me to let Cheese Pizza bite my hand. When my uncle saw that Cheese Pizza was about to bite me, he came running over and said, “Watch it! Chispirita bites!” But, alas, Chispirita started chomping down on my fingers with his tiny mouth and I started laughing because my sons were right. Chispirita’s bite didn’t even hurt. Cheese Pizza’s bark was certainly worse than his bite. My uncle picked up Chispirita to put him in the house and told me, “I hope you learned your lesson!” I couldn’t believe the pain I experienced from laughing so hard with my sons!
My parents had an unusual way of judging friends. For example, if someone came from the same region in Mexico as my parents or they knew the same people in Mexico as my parents, then they were honorable and trustworthy people. One of their honorable and trustworthy friends was Don Benito. Not only did he come from Celaya, Guanajuato, my father’s birthplace and hometown, but he had also been to Huatusco, Veracruz, my mother’s birthplace, and hometown. AND he knew the same people my parents also knew.
I remember meeting him at my house one day when my parents introduced him to me with great pride. His qualifications were his acquaintances in common with my parents and his having been from Celaya and to Huatusco. He was a balding man in shabby clothes who probably wouldn’t recognize a bar of soap if he saw one. I couldn’t understand why my parents were so excited about having him as a guest in their home. Well, I forgot about him until I saw him by the park one day. He was drunk and some kids were teasing him. He was helpless against them.
I remember another day I was walking, and I found some false teeth on the ground near some garbage cans and empty beer bottles. I’m not sure why, but I picked them up and brought them home. I showed them to my mother, and she took them immediately. “I know whose these are,” she said.
Later that day, Don Benito came to our house and was thankful to have his false teeth back. Without even washing them, he immediately put them back into his mouth. My mother gagged while watching him do so. Even I thought it was pretty gross even though I was only about ten years old at the time. I couldn’t understand why they thought Don Benito was someone worthy of their friendship and respect.
Sometime after that, I saw Don Benito drunk near the park. I thought I would greet him since my parents thought so highly of him. After I greeted him, he pulled out a knife and said, “Come here so I can cut off your balls!” I got scared and ran home. But I was afraid to tell my parents what had happened. Whenever he came to our house to eat, I would stay in my bedroom. Soon he stopped visiting us. I’m not sure what happened to him, but I do have my suspicions about his final demise, none of them honorable.
Years later, when I was married and had my own home and children, some strangers rang my doorbell. They were a Mexican family of six whom I had never met before. They asked me if I was David Rodriguez, the son of Diego Rodriguez. When I said yes, they explained that they knew my father’s family in Celaya and my mother’s family in Huatusco. Then, they all proceeded to hug me. I felt awkward considering the situation that they were still total strangers to me, but I hugged them back. And even though they were total strangers to me, somehow, I felt they were trustworthy and honorable friends. So, I invited them into my house. They refused politely and then left because they had a lot of other people to visit. I have never seen them since. But I remembered how Don Benito had been valued as a friend just because of his connections to Mexico and his acquaintances in common with my parents.
Chicago USA 