Good Friday


Holy Cross Church, Back of the Yards, Chicago, Illinois

Good Friday always reminds me of many things. I know, I know, it’s Saturday. I’m not late. I’m running on Mexican Time. I once saw that on a T-shirt.

If you ever have a party and invite some Mexicans, make accommodations for Mexican Time. If you want everyone to be at your house by four, tell them the party’s at three. Well, because 3:00 o’clock lasts until 3:59! 3:59 is still 3:00 in the mind of a Mexican. Say 3:59 out loud. Go ahead. Did you hear all three digits? If you did, you’re not Mexican. A Mexican will only hear the initial digit “3” and then block out the rest of the digits. That’s just how Mexicans process time.

Anyway, I forgot all about Good Friday until late last night when Jay Leno mentioned that it was Good Friday. And then I felt guilty. Because I’m a lapsed Catholic who suffers from constant guilt. It’s like being Mexican. You never stop being Catholic–or feeling guilty about something. Well, during the day yesterday, I remembered that it was Good Friday. I thought I should celebrate it in my own lapsed-Catholic fashion to ease some guilt for forgetting about not going to church on Good Friday. So, I had decided to write a blog entry about Good Friday. But then I forgot all about it. Or I blocked it out. And now I feel extremely guilty. That’s why I’m writing this while Good Friday is less than twenty-four hours over. I feel a little less guilty now.

Toluca, México

As Mexican Catholics, we attended a Lithuanian Catholic church in the Back of the Yards. Holy Cross Church was our parish. I also attended Holy Cross School from kindergarten through eighth grade. There was no separation between church and school. We were taught lessons in church, and we prayed in school. In church, we were taught by Lithuanian priests and in school Lithuanian nuns taught us, with the occasional visit by the pastor who would give us holy cards if we answered his catechism questions correctly. We never forgot about religious holidays because we were in school five days a week and in church six days a week. We would be reminded for weeks in advance of an upcoming holy day. Holy Week was one of the most important times of the year for us. It began on Palm Sunday and ended on Easter Sunday.

Mexicans in Chicago commemorate many of these events by reenacting them. I’ve been to reenactments of the Last Supper, Jesus Christ’s procession to Golgotha, and the Crucifixion of Jesus Christ. This always struck many people, who were of the non-Mexican persuasion, as sacrilegious.

To this day, the holy day that I remember the most is Good Friday. That was the day that Jesus Christ was crucified for our sins. And we should never forget that!

We attended school on Good Friday until it was time to go next door to church for the Good Friday service at 3:00 p.m. sharp. All the students sat with their classmates and nuns who were their teachers. We would get to church early so we could pray until the service began. We were supposed to recall all the events of Jesus Christ’s life and how he died for our sins.

I remember when I was about eight years old, the nun told us in school that Jesus Christ died at three p.m. and that every Good Friday it rains at that time for Jesus Christ. I was just a boy and I believed absolutely everything I was taught. During the Good Friday service, the bright sunny church interior suddenly dimmed and then darkened. Just as the priest told of how the Romans were nailing Jesus Christ to the cross, the church became as dark as night. Someone turned some lights on. Then, we saw lightning flashes and a moment later we heard deafening thunder. The church trembled and the lights flickered. The thunderstorm, lightning, and thunder continued for several minutes. The priest stopped to genuflect and bless himself. That was a defining moment in my development as a young Catholic. I became a true believer at that precise moment. From then on, I always believed everything that the priests and nuns told me.

DDR

Choosing a major


University Hall, University of Illinois at Chicago

When I was an undergrad, I couldn’t decide on a major. After much deliberation, I finally narrowed it down to English or Spanish. After even more deliberation, I decided not to decide and I double-majored in English and Spanish. My emphasis in both majors was literature.

I love to read. And besides, my personal agenda includes writing The Great American Novel, that is, if I ever actually got around to sitting down at my computer and writing a novel. Nothing would help me achieve my goal more easily than majoring in Spanish, and oh, yes, English, too.

Anyway, by doing this double major, I straddled two academic cultures. I saw the best and worst of both worlds. Most of the students who majored in Spanish were from the middle or lower class and were very humble. The students who majored in English were also from the middle or lower class, but they thought they were really cool. Not every English major exuded this arrogant aura of “cool.” Just a handful, but just enough to annoy the rest of the class. Whenever they said something they thought was extremely brilliant or witty, they would proudly announce, “I’m an English major!” as if no one else in the classroom was also an English major.

Some of the English professors were of the plain vanilla variety who seemed tired of Academia, the “cool” English majors, and the literature they taught. The Spanish professors, on the other hand, were from Spanish-speaking countries who also seemed tired of Academia, but lacked “cool” students, and absolutely loved their subject. In general, there was much more laughter in my Spanish classes than in my English classes. The Spanish professors weren’t afraid to reveal their cynicism and world-weariness in satirical and humorous ways, and besides, the literature in Spanish is generally much funnier than literature in English.

Of course, whatever literary theory I learned in English classes, I applied to my Spanish classes, thereby making me one of the better Spanish students. I have never regretted my decision to major in both English and Spanish. Eventually, I will write a novel, even if it doesn’t achieve The Great American Novel status. But I did learn a lot about world literature as a double major in Spanish and English. I feel so “cool” since I majored in English!

DDR

W N O


Geographers Division, Draftsmen, Census was by U.S. National Archives is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Mexicans always have trouble classifying themselves ethnically or racially on paperwork such as questionnaires, job applications, census forms, and hospital admissions forms. You know, the part where you must choose among White, Black, Asian, Hispanic, etc.

Well, admittedly, Mexicans have it a lot easier now, but things were much different when I was growing up in the 1960s. As the best English speaker in my family, I would often have to translate for my parents in many situations. So, I would have to explain to them where to print their name, address, telephone number, and other pertinent information on the various forms they would bring home to fill out.

The one that always stumped us was the section labeled Race. There were only three boxes from which to choose: W N O. No explanations were given, just initials. W was easy to interpret because it obviously stood for “White.” N was a little trickier for me as an eight-year-old boy. From what I heard, N stood for Negro which was the “official” race category at that time.

However, judging by the racial discrimination that existed in the 1960s, I’m sure that what the authorities really meant by N was the N-word. So, what did O stand for? I never quite figured O out. I wasn’t sure if O meant Other or Oriental. Just so no one would laugh at us if we were mistaken about O, we would always check W.

We were fairly sure that we weren’t W, but we were also fairly sure we weren’t N. As far as O was concerned, we didn’t even know what O stood for, so how could we choose O. W was the safest choice. And no one ever criticized our decision. Nowadays, I often have the option of choosing Mexican, thereby making my life a little simpler.

DDR

Hispanidad


Spanish-American farm family. Amalia, New by Library of Congress is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Spanish textbooks often discuss the topic of Hispanidad, which is an interesting topic indeed. Some people are considered Hispanic if they have parents who are Hispanic, even if they no longer speak Spanish or practice any Hispanic customs. “Hispanic” is a unique classification in that it is not based on race, but rather on culture. People of any race are considered Hispanic if they live in a Spanish-speaking country and speak Spanish. Can you be of Japanese descent and still be considered Hispanic? Well, yes. Remember President Alberto Fujimori of Perú? He was Hispanic, until, that is, he sought political asylum in Japan because of his Japanese ancestry. That and the fact that Japan didn’t have an extradition treaty with Perú who wanted to prosecute Fujimori for human rights violations.

One of my students was of Korean descent, but she was Hispanic by virtue of having been born and raised in Argentina. The most critical component of hispanidad is the culture in which one was raised. I remember once when I was with my sons in a McDonald’s parking lot in Back of the Yards, a male black approached me and wanted to sell me a bag of peanuts.

He was very insistent. I kept trying to ignore him, and when that didn’t work, I kept telling him I didn’t want to buy any peanuts. I figured he was just another one of these street peddlers trying to hustle some money. He was very persistent.

When I started to walk into McDonald’s, he followed me into the restaurant. Finally, he spoke to me in Spanish. He spoke Spanish fluently. In fact, it turned out that he was a native Spanish speaker. We spoke for a few minutes, and I learned that he had been born and raised in Cuba, which I guessed immediately because of his accent. I guess I stereotyped him because he was selling peanuts on the street, and in Chicago, we all have certain images associated with these street vendors. Anyway, he turned out to be a nice man who was selling peanuts for his church (non-Catholic). Yes, I bought some peanuts!

DDR

Man Speech


Photo by Dominic Xavier on Pexels.com

I don’t actually have a Man Speech, but I wish I would have written one long ago. Normally, when I meet a girl and I want to impress on her that I would be an ideal mate / boyfriend / lover / husband, I try to be witty by saying something like, “You’ll love me. I’m housebroken. I put the toilet seat down!”

Well, I’ve reached the age when I realize that I should plan ahead and start with preventive maintenance right from the beginning of a relationship. I should have done this all along. It’s never too soon to start meaningful relationship damage control. The next time I meet a girl, she will get my Man Speech in which I detail all my faults and defects. If she is foolish enough to continue associating with me, she will have no one to blame but herself. I haven’t exactly worked out all the details of this Man Speech of mine, but I feel that I should tell her absolutely every one of my faults, if she’ll listen to me talk long enough to make a fool of myself. I think my Man Speech should go something like this:

Are you sure you want to date me? I’m too emotionally needy. I’m too clingy. I bite my nails. Are you ready for that? I have a lot of emotional baggage, too. So much so that I won’t be able to lug around your emotional baggage, too. And, I also have a few faults. I’m selfish. I demand a lot of attention. I’m a loner. And I bite my nails. I don’t take orders well. Eventually, I’ll take you for granted. Can you deal with that? I will forget your birthday, your ring size, and your anniversary of when we met. I will forget everything important about you. You will be annoyed when I become obsessed by cleaning the lint from my belly button while I’m supposed to be listening to you. You will yell and scream at me, and justifiably so, and it won’t even faze me, which will make you angrier, which in turn will alienate me from you. I will forget to buy you flowers, but I will remember to make up some lame excuse as to why I forgot. And, by the way, I bite my nails.

What do you think of my Man Speech? Sure, it needs a little more polishing, but I’ll keep working on improving it. When the day comes that she is so angry at me that she wants to strangle me, I can tell her that I warned her right from the moment we met. Surely, the moment will come when she absolutely hates me absolutely, for reasons unbeknownst to me, and she tells me how evil I am, even more evil than (insert your most hated person here). But I will be able to tell her, “I warned you! I told you that I bite my nails! And just how exactly does biting my nails make me evil and a world terrorizer?” That’s the beauty of my Man Speech! I’ve anticipated many potential problems that would destroy our relationship. This Man Speech will solve many of my future relationship problems because if I deliver this Man Speech to a prospective prospect, I will never have another romantic relationship. But, hey, I can daydream!

DDR