Modern Bookstore


Translated into Spanish, published in Moscow, Russia

When I moved from Marquette Park to Bridgeport, I really missed having a bookstore a mere block away. Bridgeport had the reputation of being the center of city politics, rather than being an incubator of intelligence. So, needless to say, Bridgeport had no bookstores at all! Even their Salvation Army lacked a book section!

One day in the early 1990s, I was shocked when I saw an empty storefront on the 3100 block of South Halsted Street open as Modern Bookstore. For a neighborhood bookstore, it was very big. I was there the very first day it opened. The woman who greeted me let me browse for a while. I wasn’t sure what to expect from this bookstore, especially for one in the heart of Bridgeport. Imagine my surprise when I saw that most of the books were about socialism, communism, and labor unions. The woman asked me if she could help me find something. I asked to see the fiction section, but there was none. Then, even though I was sure that she would say no, I asked if they had a foreign language section. I told her I was interested in buying books in Spanish. Would you believe it? They did have a Spanish section that was actually bigger than most of the others in Chicago bookstores I had visited. And they actually had books by authors and biographies of political figures that I had actually heard of.

I bought a poetry anthology by Nicolás Guillén. Later, when I read the book, I discovered that the book was published in La Habana, Cuba, and probably shipped to the U.S. violating at least one embargo law. But wait, I also bought biographies about Diego Rivera, Benito Juarez, Benardo O’Higgins, and a few others that were written in Spanish. Much later, I realized that the books were written by Russian writers and later translated into Spanish. All these books were published in Moscow, Russia. I wondered if there would be any trouble if our local politicians had actually visited the Modern Bookstore and realized what kind of books the bookstore was selling there. But then I realized that’s why there wasn’t a bookstore in Bridgeport in the first place. No one in Bridgeport reads!

DDR

Restaurant


Today, my sons and I went to a restaurant for supper. I often take them out to eat when they visit me. One, I’m not a very good cook. Two, I’m too lazy to cook and then wash the dishes afterwards. And three, I want my sons to know proper restaurant etiquette and protocol. My oldest son who is eighteen hardly eats out with us anymore because he’s at that age where he prefers to be with his friends. My twelve-year-old fraternal twins and I go to a restaurant at least once a week. I always make sure they learn some new fact about restaurant dining. Today, we discussed how the restaurant pays the waitress a very low wage, so she depends on tips for most of her income. Why do I do this? Because when I was a boy, we never went to restaurants. Mexicans just didn’t go to restaurants. It was cheaper to eat at home or bring your own food to the park, to the beach, to wherever. I want to save my sons from some of the embarrassment that I endured the first few times I went to restaurant because my parents had never taken me to one. I had to learn the hard way.

I must have been about eleven or twelve years old the very first time I went to a restaurant. I had found a dollar at the park and I thought that I would like to go to a restaurant. Since my parents would never take me, I would go by myself. I knew exactly which restaurant, too. There was one on the corner right by Peoples Theater at 47th and Marshfield. This restaurant caught my attention the very first time because a car had crashed halfway into its front door. I actually saw the accident, which made it all the more exciting. The next summer, I rode my bike past the restaurant minutes after another car had crashed into it. About two months later, yet another car crashed into it. Somehow, this seemed like a restaurant where I wanted to eat. Often, I would ride by on my bike and stop to look at the menu in the window. Of course, I would always listen for cars that were about to crash into the restaurant. So when I found the dollar I knew I could afford to eat there. For sixty-five cents, I could order the cheeseburger with fries and a Coke. And still have change leftover.

Well, since I had never eaten at a restaurant, I walked in and didn’t know what to do. I was staring at everyone in the restaurant when a waitress approached me. She asked me if I was lost. I said that I came to eat there and showed her my dollar. Well, actually, I handed it to her because I didn’t think she would serve until I paid first. She put my dollar back in my pocket and asked me where I would like to sit. I said, way in the back somewhere, away from the front door and windows, lest another car come crashing through.

The waitress was very nice to me, took my order, and later brought out my food. She kept coming back to ask me if everything was fine. When I finished eating, she asked me if I wanted anything else, which I didn’t, since I couldn’t afford anything else. Later, she brought me this little piece of paper which I didn’t understand. It said check at the top, but since I didn’t speak English that well, I recalled that the only time I heard the word check was when my parents talked about getting paid for work with a check.

After the waitress left me the check, I never saw her again. I waited for her to come back so I could pay her. I looked all over for her. I went to bathroom and I didn’t see her anywhere. I didn’t understand why she would give me a check when I didn’t do any work. I waited for her patiently. I’m not sure how long I waited, but it was a very long time because I started feeling hungry again. Finally, I just left–with the check and my dollar.

To this day, I feel embarrassed about what I did that day. But, hey, I didn’t know any better. In order to atone for that faux pas, I teach my sons the proper way to eat at a restaurant and the importance of tipping. When I explained this ritual to my sons, Alex told us how his friend Jack didn’t understand tipping. Jack’s family went to restaurant eat. There were a lot of people, so Jack’s father left a hundred-dollar bill on the table for the tip. When they got home, Jack told his dad, “You forgot this on the table,” and handed his dad the hundred-dollar bill!

DDR

La llorona


I couldn’t find a picture of la llorona

When I was a boy, one of the scariest people of my life was la llorona. La llorona had no children of her own because she had killed them. So she wandered around after her death looking for her children so she could rest in peace.

I never actually met her, or even saw her, but my mother always told me that la llorona was always looking for me or any boy or girl who didn’t obey their parents. She usually came out after dark looking for children who didn’t listen to their parents and stayed out too long into the night. If la llorona saw us, she would snatch us up thinking we were her children. Apparently she didn’t have very good eyesight.

Who was she? I don’t know since I never actually saw her, although I could always feel her presence. No matter where I went, in Chicago or México, la llorona was always nearby. I know this for a fact because my mother always reminded me.

When I was about six, my mother told me how she actually saw la llorona in Huatusco, Veracruz. When my mother was a girl, her mother told her to go to bed at sunset, which she did. But when my mother thought her mother was asleep, she sneaked out of the house through a window and she went to visit her friend who also went out her window to meet my mother.

They were wandering the streets of Huatusco–there were only two back then–at night and no one was out. That’s because all good boys and girls were home in bed sleeping. Suddenly, they felt a cold breeze and saw an old woman walking toward them. When they finally realized it was la llorona, it was too late to run away. La llorona grabbed my mother and her friend by the wrist and she was taking them away. Somehow, my mother managed to escape. But her friend wasn’t so lucky. She was never seen nor heard from again. My mother ran home and immediately went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep because of the fright she had just suffered.

The next day, the whole town is wondering what had happened to my mother’s friend. Finally, my mother speaks up even though she knows she’ll get in trouble. Well, everyone in the town was satisfied with my mother’s explanation and her mother didn’t punish her because she had been punished enough because she actually felt the cold hand of la llorona.

What about the missing girl? Well, she had it coming to her because she had disobeyed her parents. All the parents in the town made sure that their children knew about what la llorona had done. So, whenever I wanted to stay out late and my mother wanted to go home, she would remind me of la  llorona and how she would snatch me up.

DDR

Haircuts


Yours truly

When I was a boy, for as long as I could remember, my mother always cut my hair. She cut everyone’s hair in the family because it was cheaper than going to the barber.

The only reason I remembered this is because I was looking at some of our old family pictures and my brothers and I all had bad haircuts for every single class picture. The only one who had a good haircut was my father, but that’s because he used to cut his own hair. He wouldn’t let my mother cut his hair.

Anyway, my mother bought her own electric hair clipper with all the attachments and bragged about how it paid for itself after the first four haircuts. But my brothers and I were always unhappy with our haircuts. My sister lucked out because she got to grow her long since birth.

But for my brothers and I, my mother would make us sit in a kitchen chair and clip our hair. If we moved, she would pull an ear or pull our hair. If necessary, she would also pinch us or give us a coscorrón to the head. Corporal punishment was my mother’s most effective way of controlling us. However, the ultimate threat was, “If you keep moving, abuelita will cut your hair!” And we surely didn’t want that because abuelita was blind.

Occasionally, we had bald spots on our head from flinching because we anticipated our mother’s phantom pinch or coscorrón that never materialized. We dreaded whenever our hair reached our ears because we feared that impending haircut.

When I became an altar boy, Sister Eva said I could only serve mass if I went to a professional barber for a haircut. My mother was offended when I told her. But she gave in because she thought that if I was an altar boy, it would be easier for her to get to heaven.

Well, wouldn’t you know it. I married a Mexican beautician. So she always used to cut my hair. I liked the fact that I could get a haircut at home for free. When I started looking at the pictures from when I was married, I noticed that I always had a bad haircut. In fact, my wife had given me very many bad haircuts judging by all the pictures. And she was a professional, unlike my mother. But then I remembered how she was always the jealous type, so she probably cut my hair that way on purpose!

I haven’t had my haircut in six months now and I’ve been feeling kind of free. I feel my inner hippie coming out. I actually enjoy not getting haircuts! Especially when I think about all the bad haircuts and torture that I had to endure under my mother.

I plan on holding off on my next haircut for as long as possible. My tía Jovita in Mexico suggested to me that I let my hair grow. And so I haven’t had a haircut since then. I enjoy the stares I get when people see me with my full head of disheveled, graying hair!

DDR

Dreams


Seagulls in Galveston, Texas

Last night, I had an unusual dream. I was aware that I was sleeping and that I was dreaming. I dreamed that I was driving on the expressway at night in the rain. I look ahead and I see an accident that is about to occur. I make a conscious note to myself to move one lane away from where the accident will occur. But in my dream, I am helpless to avoid this accident. Sure enough, the accident occurs, and I sideswipe two cars. I witness the accident in slow motion. I freeze and can only observe motionless until I pass the accident. I look in the rearview mirror and I see the accident, so I know I better pull over, which I do. I get out of the car to look at the damage, somehow hoping that there is none. Well, the whole passenger side of my car is damaged. I see the police pulling up to me. Suddenly, I realize that I am sleeping, and this is just a dream. I wake up and look around my bedroom and touch my pillow and blanket just to make sure I really was sleeping. I go back to sleep knowing that I didn’t wreck my car. I have another dream. I walk up to my car, and I see the damage from my previous dream. However, I’m aware that I’m dreaming now, and about how I was dreaming before. But the damage to my car seems so real now. Later, I have another dream where I try to verify if my car was actually damaged. Yes, it was. When I woke up, I was sure I would have to file a police report for the traffic accident. As I walked to my car, I make a mental note to check the passenger side of my car for damage. Only then do I realize that I have a red car and my car in my dream was a blue car that I had a long time ago. Everything about this dream gave me an eerie feeling, as most dreams do.