I can’t remember Sergio’s last name. We met when we lived at the house at 4405 South Wood Street in the Back of the Yards neighborhood. We must have been ten years old back then. He thought I was the funniest kid in the neighborhood, so he always laughed at all my jokes.

What made him unusual in my eyes was that he was Mexican, but not Catholic. I always assumed everyone in our neighborhood was Catholic regardless of his or her ethnic origin. I never thought of asking about his religion until he went to Sunday mass with me once. As an outsider, he was more of aware of the Catholic rites than me, perhaps because I performed them as a matter of habit that was so ingrained in me. After we sat in the pew, Sergio watched the parishioners as they entered and blessed themselves with holy water. Then, he asked me why I didn’t stick my fingers in the water basin. As is my custom, I often forget to do things that have become so habitual.

One time, I mentioned that we had a red cat. He insisted that there was no such thing as a red cat. I insisted that we had one. The rest of the boys looked at me as if I were crazy. Eventually, Sergio bet me a quarter that I didn’t have a red cat. I took him on. We did the official shaking of the pinky fingers that made our bet legally binding in the Back of the Yards parlance. The loser had to pay up. He asked for proof that I had a red cat. I went home and pulled out a toy red plastic cat with wheels that I pulled by a string to Sergio. When he saw the cat, he laughed and laughed. He continued laughing for minutes. Then, he paid me a quarter as he continued to laugh.

When I was at Holy Cross, Adam Mendez was my best friend in the first and second grades. Despite having a Spanish last name, he didn’t speak Spanish. I really don’t remember him when we were in kindergarten together, but I remember being happy to see him on the first day of the first grade. Then he failed the second grade, but I still saw him a lot at lunch and after school. We were classmates again when I failed the fourth grade because my mother took my brothers and me to Mexico for three months during the school year.

He was always funny and could make just about anybody laugh. He was the class clown and I always got in trouble for laughing at him. But he was so much fun that I didn’t mind. No matter what subject we were taught, Adam always found somethng funny to joke about and make the class laugh. In geography, he asked a lot of questions about Lake Titicaca, and in science, he purposely mispronounced the name of the planet Uranus.

We spent a lot of time together because we lived on the same block. Sometimes we would go to his house after school, but I would have to leave before his mother came home from work so she wouldn’t know I was there. One day, we were wrestling on his back porch and I accidentally broke the screendoor window as I was falling backwards. Adam told me I had to stay until his mother came home so I could tell her what had happened. He didn’t want to get in trouble for the broken window.

When I finally met his mother, I was surprised that she wasn’t Mexican. That explained why he didn’t speak Spanish. Anyway, she asked why I was there and I told her that I had accidentally broke the screendoor window. Since it was an accident, she told me to be more careful next time and go home.

One day, we must have been in the fourth grade, Adam tells me that he can sing a whole song in Spanish. Of course, I didn’t believe him since he couldn’t speak Spanish. He said, “I can prove it. Come to my house and I’ll show you.” So we go to his house and he pulls out an LP with some Mexican singer on the album cover. He smiles mischievously as he puts the record on the phonograph. He strikes a pose of the Mexican singer on the album cover before the music begins. Then he begins singing along with the record. He sings, “Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero, te quiero …” And that’s all he sang. The whole song consisted of only the words “Te quiero” and nothing else. But true to his word, had sung a whole song in Spanish. I had to laugh because he had tricked me again.

My brother Rick in East Mesa, Arizona, was having problems with speeding cars in his neighborhood. He contacted the local police, and they investigated the problem. He then wrote the following letter that was published in the East Valley Tribune:

Speeding — Necessary traps

People need to stop and think! Do they call it a “murder trap” when police arrest a murderer? Do they call the mall a “shoplifting trap” when police arrest a shoplifter? Do they call a bank a “bank robbery trap” when police arrest a bank robber? So why do people call it a “speed trap” when police ticket speeders? When people speed, they are breaking the law. Plain and simple. Speeders endanger the lives, property of others, and pets, within their vicinity. A neighborhood with frequent speeders is less desirable to potential buyers, thus diminishing property values, which increases blight. Speeding automobiles are less efficient, thus increasing fuel consumption, and further contributing to impending global warming. Bring on the “speed traps” — I welcome them. People need to stop and think (or at least slow down).

Rick Martin
Mesa

Of all of my Spanish students, Dee had to be the coolest! She was a non-traditional university student in that she already had a nursing degree and other university degrees. She was older than me, she was born and raised in Ireland, and she still spoke English with an Irish brogue. She was an attractive woman despite being in an electric wheelchair.

She had studied French when she was younger, but now wished she had studied Spanish. In her assisted-living home, she spoke Spanish with the workers there, which really improved her Spanish. I would often see Dee outside smoking cigarettes before she came to class. I liked her because she would always liven up the class. If she didn’t understand something, she would ask questions without hesitation. If she thought that there was too much homework or the exams were too difficult, she was very vocal about that. All the students loved her because she would make us all laugh.

Every time I gave a pop quiz she would mutter things under breath, but not so softly that we couldn’t tell that she was cursing me in her own unique way. It was all very comical because she would eventually do everything required, but only after some grumbling.

Sometimes she would jokingly accuse me of picking on her because she was a woman, or a foreigner, or something or other. I learned to have a witty repartee to defend myself. We went through these mock arguments quite often, so the students looked forward to them. The students loved it! She was so comical! One day, Dee tells me, “You’re just doing this to me because I’m a cripple!” Then she gives me a big smile. The students laughed. I said, “That is so lame!” And students laughed even more. Dee said, “You don’t care about needs of the handicapped.” And I said, “You don’t have a leg to stand on!” Everyone laughed aloud, including Dee.

Sometimes perspective affects how we see things. As a Chicago sports fan, I can give you a specific example. When Dennis Rodman played for the Detroit Pistons, Chicago Bulls fans despised him. However, when he was traded to the Bulls, he suddenly became our savior and Chicago won three more NBA Championships with his help. So, perspective makes an enormous difference.

In Spanish textbooks, we see a different perspective regarding history and cultural aspects. When I was in grade school and studied history, I remember learning about Sir Francis Drake as a naval hero who was second in command when England defeated the Spanish Armada in 1588. When I started taking university Spanish courses and reading history books in Spanish, I discovered that he was Francis Drake el pirata because he helped loot Spanish colonial cities and ships taking gold and silver to Spain. In the Spanish textbook Sueña that I’m using now, the book mentions that the governments of England and France financed these pirates. So, you see, perspective changes a person’s status in history.