Ese


Mi abuelita

I’ve had a few of my Spanish students ask me were the Spanish term, ese comes from.

Well, now it can be told! I really believe my abuelita, my grandmother, started it. When we had our holiday parties, say for Thanksgiving Dinner or Christmas at my uncle’s house, more than one-hundred family members and friends would show up. We didn’t always know everyone’s name. This was before the invention of nametags. I remember asking people there, “And how are we related?” “I’m your cousin Agustín. You met me in Mexico when we were four.” “Oh, yeah, now I remember you,” I would lie. At every party, I would always meet a new family member whose name I would forget by the next party.

I have never been good at remembering names, but my abuelita had an even worse memory for names. I do believe I inherited this deficiency from my abuelita. At dinner, everyone would have to eat in shifts in the kitchen. She would make sure that everyone at the party ate in a smooth, systematic manner.

With my abuelita coordinating everyone and controlling the distribution of food, no one went hungry. Of course, that would involve everyone in close proximity of my abuelita to participate and obey her direct commands to the letter. The punishment for disobeying was a rap to the hand with a wooden spoon! Everyone entering the kitchen was on their toes.

So if you were standing by the stove and she didn’t remember your name, she would point at you and say, “Ese, dame el arroz.” [That one, give me the rice.] Since my abuelita couldn’t remember very many names, just about everyone in the house became ese. So now whenever I hear a Mexican say, “Oye, ese,” I think of my abuelita!

DDR

Street people


Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois

Okay, all you people working on the streets of Chicago. Leave me alone!

You, selling “Ice-cold water! Ice-cold water!” Don’t tap on my window. I’m not hot and thirsty because I’m in an air-conditioned car!

Hey Homeless Man, stop asking me for money for food. At least be honest. Just say you want to buy a bottle of whiskey. The last time I gave you my sandwich, I saw you throw it away.

Squeegee guy! Please don’t squeegee my windshield clean when it’s raining out. That’s why I have the windshield wipers on!

Preacher Man, yeah you with the portable sound system standing on the corner of Washington and State. Don’t preach to me when I’m walking arm in arm with my date for a night on the town. Do I look like I’m preoccupied by Eternal Damnation?

Newspaper Dude, pay attention to your customers. When I actually want to buy a newspaper, I want service with a smile. I don’t have time to wait for you while you flirt with the crossing guard.

Mr. Street Salesman, if I’m wearing a suit and tie, I most certainly don’t want to buy white socks!

Hey Lady of the Evening standing on the corner! I really don’t want to take you out on a date! Ever!

Mr. Sax Player, no one wants to hear the same Christmas carol over and over again in July!

Hey! Bucket Boys! I have nothing against the Bucket Boys, but get a performer’s license so you won’t ever have to run away from the police again!

DDR

Independence Day lakefront festivities


Photo by Anna-Louise on Pexels.com

Well, I celebrated Independence Day with my sons in our backyard yesterday. Nothing fancy. We just shot up some bottle rockets for an hour and then went inside. I enjoy the simple things in life. I live in an integrated neighborhood and many families on the block did the same thing. That was showing the American spirit!

This morning I read Hoy, the Spanish newspaper published by the Chicago Tribune, and their front page story talked about all the Mexicans who came from all over Chicago and suburbs such as Carpentersville, Romeoville, and Bolingbrook to the Chicago lakefront to celebrate the Fourth of July. The Espinoza family came to Chicago to celebrate because they liked that other Hispanic families were there, too. But Chicago has always been friendly to immigrants. I know from personal experience because I lived in Pilsen and Back of the Yards before they became predominantly Hispanic.

We should always remember that America is a melting pot, a salad bowl, and/or the land of immigrants.

DDR

Happy Independence Day


Stars and Stripes

Happy 231st Birthday, United States of America!

On this national holiday, everyone will celebrate by picnicking, barbecuing, watching fireworks, and of course, setting off our own fireworks. We may worry about polluting our environment all year long, but we get a special dispensation to celebrate our nation’s independence and blow things up. Try to stay out of the emergency room. Don’t get burned when barbecuing, don’t blow your fingers off with your fireworks, and most importantly, don’t overeat and raise your cholesterol level to astronomical heights.

During all these celebrations, take a moment to look around you. You will see Americans all around celebrating this special day. Some of them will be Mexicans, perhaps undocumented. I know we are always looking forward to this day. Occasionally, we would have a family picnic on the Fourth of July. We would do all the traditional American activities, but we would barbecue carne asada, elotes, and tamales and have a piñata for the kids. We even played Lotería using beans for the markers. But we always celebrated the Fourth of July!

DDR

Accents


On the road in México

Accents are a funny thing. An accent separates or distinguishes you from another person or group when you speak. For as long as I can remember, I have always had an accent. In kindergarten, I spoke broken English since I only spoke Spanish at home. So, I had a Mexican accent. But when I went to Mexico, I had a gringo accent when I spoke Spanish. Then, I met my friend Patrick McDonnell in the second grade, and I spoke with a little bit of an Irish brogue. Since I attended a Lithuanian Catholic grade school, I picked up a few Lithuanian words. In high school, classmates made fun of the way I talked, so I only talked when necessary. I remember reading books aloud to practice my pronunciation. I was trying to eliminate any trace of an accent. Unsuccessfully, I might add.

When I enlisted in the Marines, I met people from all over the United States for the first time in my life. It was the first time someone told me that I had a Chicago accent. I was surprised when I met someone new, and he said he knew I was from Chicago because I had no accent. My accent adapted unconsciously so it would fit in. And I did fit in. During my enlistment, I spoke with the accents of Brooklyn, Texas, Queens, Boston, Virginia, Oklahoma, and California. But I didn’t do this on purpose. I just somehow blended in with everyone around me.

When I began teaching Spanish, I also unconsciously adapted the accent of the people around me. So, depending on to whom I spoke, I would speak like them. I’m not sure what my authentic original voice sounds like anymore. A colleague once said, “I was trying to figure out what dialect you were. Now I know you’re Mexican because you said, “Mande.”

I suppose if I listen to myself carefully, I hear all these different accents in my voice from different places.

DDR