Last night, I went to Aguijón Theater, 2707 N. Laramie Avenue, 773.637.5899. I saw No hay ladrón que por bien no venga, an adaptation of a play by 1997 Nobel Prize for Literature winner Dario Fo. The play was very funny even if the plot was a bit contrived. I love seeing plays at this theater because all its productions are in Spanish. I have seen many plays here over the years and I love this little theater.

Once, I brought my Spanish literature class to see La casa de Benarda Alba by Federico García Lorca because we were reading in class that semester. We read the play so they could understand it when we saw it at the theater. Everyone in the class enjoyed the experience because watching a play is the best way to experience it. If you want to see a play in Spanish, this is the theater for you. Here’s their website:

www.aguijontheater.org 

 When I was running and racing regularly, I was in exceptionally decent shape, even though many people thought I was extremely skinny. I lived and breathed for running. Occasionally, I did all three at once.

For a while there, I ran a lot of races. I was obsessed with racing because I wanted to become a good enough runner to get an athletic scholarship to a university. Unfortunately, I never improved enough for a scholarship, but I did begin writing for running publications, which I really enjoyed.

Once I went to Vertel’s, a running shoe store on North Wells Street, to pick up my race packet. As I was leaving the store, I saw a sign that read, RUNNERS WANTED FOR EXPERIMENT. My heart raced and I immediately wrote down the phone number because this sounded like something I really wanted to do. Perhaps this experiment would improve my running so I could get that running scholarship. I could just imagine myself in a running laboratory with all kinds of scientific equipment to measure my enormous runner’s ability.

Yes, count me in, I thought. I imagined myself running on a treadmill, wearing an oxygen mask that would measure my excellent runner’s oxygen uptake, my wired chest sending electrical impulses to the ECG machine that would record my highly athletic heart rhythm, and me drinking experimental electrolyte replacement beverages, even though my finely tuned body didn’t need them, and then reporting which one made me run the fastest. I was really excited about this experiment!

I was afraid to get left out because I was too late, so I called as soon as I got home. The woman who answered the phone was happy that someone had finally called her about the experiment. Apparently, she had put up her notice at many other races and I was the first runner ever to respond. Then she dropped the bombshell on me. She was not a doctor, not even a nurse. In fact, she had never even taken a first aid course. She was a polka dancer!

She and her husband were national polka champions, and they toured the country dancing at all kinds of festivals, parties, and picnics. So, what was the experiment? You better sit down. I wish I had been sitting down when she told me. She wanted runners to learn to polka! Why runners? Well, runners would be able to learn to polka faster because they had incredibly good endurance. This was not at all what I had expected when I read the sign at Vertel’s! She finally persuaded me to sign up for polka lessons. Luckily, they were free. So, I agreed to be her guinea pig since I had always wanted to learn to dance, and I really didn’t have any plans for the next two months anyway.

On the very first day, she paired me up with a nice Polish girl named Andrea. We would be partners throughout the “experiment.” In her mind, my polka lessons never ceased to be an experiment. Well, I had no rhythm and I kept stepping on Andrea’s toes. She said something in Polish to the teacher/dancer/mad scientist that I didn’t understand and then smiled at me. I smiled back, but I could tell Andrea was complaining about me. I apologized to her and told her that I couldn’t help stepping on her toes because I had two left feet. She suggested that I find someone with two right feet.

The polka woman came back to us and said something in Polish to Andrea and she continued to dance with me. The dance lesson went on for about two hours, and because I was a fine specimen of a runner, I didn’t even break out into a sweat. I didn’t have to stop to rest during the whole session, even though Andrea insisted that I rest so she could rest her toes a while. Well, the polka teacher was right about runners having a lot of endurance, but I don’t think that she had counted on me stepping on someone’s toes for two continuous hours.

The next week, the polka woman tried something different. Since I had told her my full name, she was fascinated by the fact that I was Mexican. I’m not sure why. Was it the fact that a Mexican was learning to polka? Anyway, she tells me, “I want you to listen to this song. It’s from your country.”

I listened. Someone was singing in Spanish. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “Hear what?” I asked. “The beat!” she said, but I could tell she was losing her patience with me. “Oh, the beat!” I repeated. “I’m sorry. I was listening to the words.” She played the song again and I listened carefully to the beat. I’m not very musical, so I had no idea what beat I was supposed to listen to. Finally, she said, “Did you hear the beat? It’s a polka beat, oom pah pah, oom pah pah, in a Mexican song!” “Oh, that beat! Of course, I heard the polka beat!” I lied, but I didn’t want her to get mad at me. Then we danced to this song. I actually danced a little better this time.

The funny thing about all this, she never mentioned the experiment again. She gave performances during the day to seniors and terminally ill people at hospitals. I guess that’s why I liked her so much. She was such a nice person. One day, she asked me to go with her and her husband to one of their shows. “You mean you want me to dance with you for these shows?” I asked. “No,” she said. “I want you to videotape us dancing. We need a demo tape.”

I agreed to do it since I didn’t have a job at that time anyway and they always bought me lunch when the hospital or nursing home didn’t give us free food. I got pretty good at recording them once I realized that they improvised everytime they danced and I learned to expect the unexpected from them. Plus, I learned one special effect with their video camera that absolutely amazed them. I didn’t tell them. I let it be a surprise for them. They were exstatic when I zoomed in on them while they danced! So from then on, they insisted that I tape all their shows. And she extended my polka lessons for three more months, much to Andrea’s chagrin.

Well, no other runners ever volunteered for her experiment. And, I never did find out the results of the experiment. However, I did learn to videotape moving targets.

Once when I went to México, I heard an interesting story from my cousin Becky. Her father didn’t like her boyfriend, so she had to see him secretly. He eventually gave her an engagement ring that she only wore around the house when her father wasn’t home.

One day, she forgot to take it off and her father saw the ring. He was so angry with her. And he forbade her from seeing her boyfriend again. Of course, she kept seeing him. And she wore her engagement ring around the house while doing chores provided her father wasn’t home.

Well, one day, she’s wearing her ring and peeling potatoes for the dinner soup. Later, while she cooking, her father comes into the kitchen and immediately looks at Becky’s hand to see if she’s wearing the ring. Becky looks at her hand and panics. Her ring isn’t on her finger. She has no idea where it is! But her father leaves the kitchen without saying a word.That night at dinner, everyone is eating soup. Her father is very quite while eating his soup. That is, until, just by coincidence, he sees Becky’s engagement ring on his spoon. He starts yelling at his daughter and he keeps the ring.

As soon as I get to México, all my relatives come to visit me no matter whose house I visit. A few childhood friends came to visit me as soon as I arrived, among them a certain girl named Flor who remembered me as a boy when we played together. My cousin Becky was dating Flor’s cousin even though Becky’s father totally disapproved of her boyfriend and his engagement ring. So, when I arrived in México, two people immediately looked for me. Becky and Flor. Becky contrives this plan to meet her boyfriend by taking me with her as her chaperone. Apparently, her parents let her go out with me. Becky had set me up with Flor who gets permission to go out only if she goes out with her cousin, Becky’s boyfriend.

So, we’re actually going out a on double date without permission, but no one really knows the actual circumstances. It turns out Flor is really interested in me, but I lose a precious opportunity when I go back to Chicago and only write letters to her telling her how I’m not really interested in her. Becky eventually married her boyfriend and they lived unhappily ever after. As they say in México, “C’est la vie!”

When I was in the Marines, I was stationed in California for my entire three-year enlistment. I wanted to get an education, so I started reading all kinds of books from the base library at Twenty-Nine Palms and Camp Pendleton. I spent every free moment reading. I even bought the Great Books collection and eventually read them all.

Since I had dropped out of high school, I always felt that I needed a formal education, a college degree, to validate my writing. While at Camp Pendleton, I enrolled at the Fallbrook Community College and took an English composition course that the college offered on base. I really thought I was a great writer and I truly believed that the instructor would absolutely love everything that I wrote.

Looking back, my writing was mediocre and forced. Well, I’ll be honest, it hasn’t really changed all that much. When I turned in my first composition, I was disappointed to get a B-. I was really expecting an A+++! Every time I see A Christmas Story and I see Ralph turning in his composition asking for the Red Rider BB Gun for Christmas, I remember feeling similar feelings of elation and expecting A when I turned in my first composition. Well, I guess I hadn’t developed as a writer because I couldn’t take the constructive criticism that my instructor gave me. I eventually stopped showing up to class.

But because of the college catalog, I learned that there was a writer’s group that met in Fallbrook, just west of Camp Pendleton. I would drive past the bombing range to exit out of one of the lesser used gates. As I entered Fallbrook, I always enjoyed reading the sign, “Welcome to Fallbrook. Avocado Capital of the World.” Nothing inspires me to write more than avocados! I always looked forward to these writer’s club meetings because I knew I would be surrounded by avocados. Maybe I’m just too Mexican.

Anyway, Helen Hicks ran this writer’s club in Fallbrook. She was a published writer who had written a few TV scripts for Bonanza and Little House on the Prairie. She really knew how to inspire writers by example. She was writing Gothic novels when I was a member. What I really learned from her was how to take constructive criticism. She could really dish it out, but I respected her opinion and I always tried to follow her suggestions.

Of course, she wasn’t always right, but she was a published writer and that counts for something. I remember one woman wrote an essay that began as one of our writing exercises. This woman was a flight attendant, but she had always wanted to be a published writer. Well, this woman read the essay to us and some writers really liked the piece. Helen offered her usual constructive criticism. But then she said she wasn’t sure who would publish it just as it was written. Undaunted, this woman kept writing and kept reading to our group. About two months later, she came in with a magazine that had published her piece almost as originally written. She was so proud of her accomplishment and wanted Helen to know it. Helen congratulated her and we all applauded her. And the moral of the story? Well, just keep plugging away and someday you’ll succeed.

When I returned to Chicago after my honorable discharge, I wrote to Helen to tell her that I missed her writer’s club. She wrote back and told me to start my own club in Chicago. She also told me to keep on writing.

There is this little Mexican church built in the Spanish Mission style in the Back of the Yards on the corner of 45th and Ashland. When I didn’t attend mass at Holy Cross Church, I went to Immaculate Heart of Mary where all the masses were in Spanish instead of Latin. I liked following the prayers in Spanish in the missal. I always wanted to learn Spanish formally, but this was as close as I got.

There used to be a rectory right on the corner when I was little, but it’s gone now. They added an addition to the back of the church where they put a baptismal font and my sister Delia and brother Joseph were baptized there. That was the only church that I saw at that time that had a crying room for the children in the back of all the pews. We never went in the crying room even though we belonged there on some Sundays because of our behavior.

Sometimes my brothers and I would start poking in each other behind my father’s back, and slowly intensify our physical agression until my father would scold us and finally hit us. And if we still continued, my father wouldn’t threaten to really hit us when we returned home. Of course, my father never hit us for anything, but he was a very devout Catholic and he thought we should listen to mass with our undivided attention. So once he threatened to hit us, he would follow through with it once we returned home. We really dreaded the trip home knowing that our father would hit us.

They had a social center in the middle of the block where we would sometimes go after school to play boardgames and basketball. I was an altar boy at Holy Cross Church, but not at Immaculate Heart. When a friend of the family got married, she asked the pastor of Immaculate Heart if my brother Tato and I could be her altar boys. This was the first time that we served in another church, but somehow, we managed to wing it. My favorite part about this parish was their annual carnival. Not so much because of the rides, but because of the Mexican food that they served. I went to the carnival every year, for every day of the carnival. My favorite drink there was atole. I just loved drinking it. And when I had drunk too much, I would stand next to stand that sold it and just inhale deeply so I could continue enjoying this atole.