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!

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.

Mexicans! I’ll never understand them!!!

Last night, I went to eat at Nicky’s with my ten-year-old twin sons. As is typical in Chicago, Nicky’s is a hot dog / hamburger restaurant that is Greek owned, but you only see anyone of Greek descent during regular business hours.

Yesterday was Sunday, so all the cooks were Mexican. They took my order in English and spoke to me in broken English. Anyway, when my son finished drinking his pop, he asked me if they would refill it. I wasn’t sure, so I asked him to go to the counter and ask. I like to teach my sons to be independent and responsible. So, he asked for a refill and got it. While refilling the cup, the cook asked my son, “¿Hablas español?” My son just stared at him. You see, my son does not speak Spanish and I am truly embarrassed by this! I was waiting for the cook to give me a reproaching look, but he didn’t. My son just walked back and said, “I don’t know what he said.”

I’ve tried to teach my sons Spanish, but it’s an uphill battle. Their mother, my ex-wife, is a Mexican like me; raised in a Spanish-speaking Mexican home but born in the USA. While we were still married, I always spoke to my oldest son in Spanish at home and he attended a day care center run by nuns from Mexico. So, he actually spoke Spanish when he was younger. However, my ex-wife would never want to speak Spanish. As he got older, he only wanted to speak English like his mother who had more influence over him than me. Whenever I spoke Spanish, my son would tell me, “Talk the regular way!” So, when the twins were born seven years later, I was the only person speaking Spanish at home. I was foreigner in my own home.

Fortunately, they attend a school that teaches Spanish. My oldest son once came home bragging that he got a C in Spanish! I was so embarrassed! I wondered if the teacher was too demanding, so I asked, “Did anyone get an A?” “Oh, yeah, Tommy Sullivan.” ¡Ay, ay, ay!