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.
Irma Serrano, The Peoples Theater, Back of the Yards, Chicago, Illinois.
My mother always helped Mexicans who were new to Chicago. Whenever people threw away furniture, I would have to help her bring it from the alley to our basement until she could give it to someone who desperately needed furniture more than us. Many Mexicans came and went from my house because not only would my mother give them furniture, but she would also advise them on how to survive in Chicago.
My mother went to Mexico about once a year. She loved Mexico so much because the Mexicans in Mexico loved her and envied her because of her success in America. One year when she returned from her Mexican vacation, I overheard her calling the Spanish TV station and I asked her why. She had met a single Mexican mother with a one-year-old daughter. I don’t remember the woman’s name, but she also played guitar and sang songs she wrote herself. My mother had convinced this woman to come to Chicago because my mother knew people at the radio and TV stations. Important people!
So anyway, my mother told this woman she would have a promising musical career if she left Mexico and came to Chicago. Somehow, my mother convinced this woman to come to Chicago and she was scrambling to get her an appearance on the radio or TV. My mother was so sure that this woman was an extremely talented musician! I don’t know how she did it, but after a few days, my mother got her on the radio and on a TV show. I remember she rehearsed at our house a few times before her appearance. I was only about ten years old at the time, but I thought she performed very well, and she was so beautiful!
Sometime after her public appearances, she returned to our house to show us her new 45-rpm record. I don’t remember how well it sold, but she had a record! Her manager gave her the stage name of Flor de Mayo. We were all excited that Flor had made it, but none more excited than my mother who had exaggerated her connections to get Flor de Mayo to come to Chicago all the way from Mexico.
At my mother’s wake, many people, most of them Mexicans, came to pay their last respects to my mother. We had a three-day wake, which families no longer have. I saw a lot of people whom I hadn’t seen for years. The biggest surprise arrival was a woman who approached me, shook my hand, hugged me, and said in Spanish, “If it wasn’t for your mother, I wouldn’t be here in Chicago!” She was rather plump by then but still beautiful. I recognized her voice, but I couldn’t place her, so I asked her who she was. She said, “Flor de Mayo.”
I have always loved Mexican hot chocolate. I mean real Mexican hot chocolate, made by real Mexicans. I generally drink it during the winter months, but I myself have never made Mexican hot chocolate in my life. In fact, I have never heard of a Mexican male making Mexican hot chocolate outside of a restaurant.
Usually, my mother or abuelita made it at home. They would bring the water in the pot to a rolling boil and then drop the brick of chocolate into the boiling water. Stir it with that wooden thing with the wooden rings–okay, I don’t know the Spanish name for it–that cosita until the chocolate brick melted. I loved the hot chocolate! Especially after all the TLC that went into it. You see, whenever my abuelita or mother made the hot chocolate, they would dip a spoon into it to taste it to see if it tasted good. They would dip the same spoon several times after removing it from their mouth. Not very hygienic, but full of TLC.
When I was married, my ex-wife would also like to make hot chocolate, too. Usually, unannounced. Using the same traditional Mexican recipe and Mexican TLC techniques. Well, our stove was next to the water heater and when my son was four years old, I would tell him the water heater was hot, hot, hot. “¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay!” And he would repeat “¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay!” and pull his hand back as if he had burned it.
Well, one day, I heard my ex tell my son, “Ask your father if he wants hot chocolate.” My son came into the living room and asked, “Dadá, you want ¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay! chocolate?” I had a tough time containing my laughter, but I could see the logic of his thought process and it made perfect sense! Now, I only drink ¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay! chocolate.
We have so many foreign words in English that it’s quite pointless to insist on “English Only” or that English be made the official language. For one thing, what do we do about all the Spanish geographical names of the American southwest? There are too many names to translate to English.
And the reason they have Spanish names is because the Spaniards gave them Spanish names when the American southwest was still part of the Spanish colony called Nueva España (New Spain). Just think of the California cities called San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Sacramento. There is a place in California (named in Spanish by the Spaniards) called La Brea Tar Pits. In Spanish La Brea means tar pits. So if we translate the name into English, we get The Tarpits Tarpits! We could do that for all the cities with Spanish names. San Diego will become Saint James, San Francisco, Saint Francis, and Sacramento, Sacrament! Perhaps this would be an impossible task, but we will eventually translate all those Spanish names into English! Dammit!
And speaking of redundant, I am reminded of the song, “Surfin’ USA” by the Beach Boys. There is a line in the song that says, “You’d see ’em wearin’ their baggies / Huarachi sandals, too.” In Spanish, “huaraches” means sandals, so these surfers are wearing sandals sandals! And then there’s Carlos Santana with, “Yo no tengo a nadie that I can depend on.” Hey, Carlos. English only!
In “Vertigo” by U2, the song begins with some “counting” in Spanish: “Uno, dos tres, catorce.” Either Bono doesn’t know Spanish or he just doesn’t know how to count. One of my students told me that these numbers really are a tribute to U2’s producer who produced albums number 1, 2, 3, and 14. And this reminds me of the song “Woolly, Bully,” by Sam The Sham and The Pharaohs that begins, “One, two, tres, cuatro.” He counts in both English and Spanish, but at least he gets the numbers in the correct order!
Chicago USA 