Hoy es domingo. To Mexicans, Sunday is a very special day of the week even if they don’t go to church. That is the day reserved to do things that they can’t do the rest of the week.
Our family usually began Sunday morning by going to mass at one of the many churches that we frequented: Holy Cross Church, St. Francis Assisi, St. Procopius, Providence of God, or Immaculate Heart of Mary. After mass, we would go to Mercado Internacional on 45th and Ashland for bolillos and carnitas so we could eat while we went on our all-day excursion–or as we say in Spanish, “Nos paseábamos.”
We would make the rounds of different relatives and family friends. Some Sundays we would stay home and other Mexicans would visit us. In the summer, we would go to the beach or the zoo. But the thing that I remember most about these Sundays was what Mexicans call el domingo. Literally, it means the Sunday. However, on Sundays, Mexican adults give children money as their domingo.
It’s just one of those Mexican customs that no one knows how it began. Normally, all the adults give money to the children. I remember my Uncle Simon giving us a quarter each and a half-dollar to my brother Rick because Uncle Simon was his godfather. And if the adults forget about doling out el domingo, the children are allowed to remind them.
When I was in Mexico, I had completely forgotten all about el domingo. As luck would have it, I met many children every Sunday that I was in Mexico. My first Sunday in Celaya, some of my second cousins, all of whom were under twelve, reminded me. At first, I thought they were being rude, but then I remembered that that was how we acted when we were children when it came to el domingo. So I gave each child twenty pesos each, about two dollars. And they were all happy with that. I actually enjoyed giving them their domingo!
Okay, so how do I write my blog entries? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know. I have no rhyme or reason when I sit down at the computer to write a blog entry. In fact, when I’m at my computer, I’m usually supposed to be doing something else, “important academic work” such as grading online Spanish homework or compositions.
However, I never do what I’m supposed to do in a straight-forward fashion. For example, right now, I sat at the computer to grade online Spanish homework, send an email to my cousin in Mexico, enter student grades on my Excel spreadsheet, and then with time permitting, write a blog entry for the sake of posterity that will better the world in untold ways. Well, I hate correcting online homework online, I can’t think of anything to write my cousin, and I dread the thought of staring at a spreadsheet this early in the morning, so I think I’ll start with a blog entry!
So how do I choose my topics? I don’t know! I have many ideas percolating in my head, some for many years now, that somehow manage to ooze out through my fingertips and out into cyberspace. I can’t always contain them. And so they wind up in a blog entry.
As you’ve probably noticed, I’m rarely topical or current. I’ve reached that age where I’m very fascinated with the past, the nostalgic elements of life. I rarely invent anything that I write. I’m just not that creative. I write about just about everything that I remember because I have a good memory.
How good is my memory? Well, I remember things that most of my friends don’t remember even the slightest detail. But a good memory is like a double-edged sword: it cuts both ways. I also have some painful memories that I would like to forget but can’t. I have issues with my good memory: 1. I remember most things that ever happened to me, and 2. I remember many things that never happened to me. My imagination invents events from my past and I truly believe that they really happened to me. I try to block those out, but I don’t always manage to censor them.
Well, I will end this blog entry rather abruptly today, as I do with most blog entries. I have some things that I really have to do. But first, I’ll go out for my morning run.
Roxanne always reminded me of The Police song of the same name. But she never did put out her red light because she was quite different. She was the first Amish girl I met on the Internet. In fact, she has been the only one.
Somehow, I don’t picture many Amish being on the Internet. But Roxanne’s life seemed to revolve around computers and the Internet. I met her in a chatroom soon after I was divorced. She was really attracted to me. For some strange reason, I am a stud on the Internet! I just can’t figure it out. I always seem to attract these twenty-seven-year-old women–they’re always twenty-seven–who want to be with me even after I tell them I’m twenty years older than them. I just don’t get it.
Anyway, one day I’m in a chatroom and Roxanne contacts me. We start talking and we seem to have many things in common. As soon as I learn that she is from Oklahoma, I tell her that she lives too far away from me. But she insists that she truly interested in me. I just figure that I shouldn’t get involved because we’ll never meet in person anyway.
I tell her that I’m twenty years older than her, but that doesn’t phase her, either. In fact, she’s very persistent. So we continue our private chat and I get to know her a little better. She works at a Cherokee souvenir shop somewhere in Oklahoma. She found this job while she was on the Internet. She lives in a trailer with a roommate whom she met on the Internet. Her life revolved around the Internet! And now she’s serious about meeting me in person.
I asked her how come she spent so much time on the Internet if she was Amish. She said that she wasn’t Amish anymore. I didn’t understand how that worked, so she explained to me how her ex-husband had asked her to convert and she did. I was even more confused after her explanation. She wanted to talk to me on the phone, so we talked a few times, and I was truly attracted to her because of her southern drawl. I don’t know why, but I always fall for a female with a southern drawl.
She desparately wanted to me, so I asked her to come to Chicago. She said she would and even sent me the longest love letter that anyone ever wrote to me. Well, it turns out that she couldn’t come all the way to Chicago. Against my better judgment, I agreed to meet her halfway. However, something always came up and she couldn’t make it. Then she met another friend Vivian on the Internet and we all agreed to meet a mutually convenient location. As it turns out, we never agreed on a mutually convenient location. I never became emotional involved, but I did enjoy all this attention. Eventually, we both agreed that we would never actually meet in person. She seemed happy when I told her that the only reason we wouldn’t meet was purely for geographical reasons. And I never heard from her again. I consider myself lucky.
I can’t believe my mother let me grow my hair this long!
Everyone called him Hildago and he never corrected anyone. Years later, I discovered that his surname was actually Hidalgo, which is derived from the Spanish hijo de algo meaning someone with wealth.
I first met Hildago when I had my paper route. Later, when I was promoted to branch captain (Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?), I was his boss. He was Mexican, but he didn’t speak Spanish. Now that I think of it, he only kind of looked Mexican.
Hildago is one of those persons whom I often meet when I least expect to. I knew him as a paper boy. Then I didn’t seem him for years until I went to Tilden Technical High School. We were in an English class together where the teacher really didn’t teach anything and we talked the whole period or read comic books in class. That’s when I learned his real name. He was the one kid my mother told me to avoid. She just didn’t like him, for whatever reason I never found out. The more she tried to break up our friendship, the closer we got.
When we moved out of Back of the Yards to Marquette Park, I didn’t see Hildago for a couple of years. Once I started working and got a car, I started visiting him again. I guess he was a bad influence on me, but he made life much more fun. Because of him, I met my first wife Linda who was his cousin. When we were nineteen, Illinois lowered the drinking age to nineteen, so we used to drink wine and/or Southern Comfort together. I went to my first concert with him and two other friends. We used to go to discos together a lot. I can now see why mother was against our friendship. He really was a bad influence on me.
Hildago was quite unusual in that he made a lousy first impression, but he was very well liked by many people in the neighborhood. He was socially inept, but he always managed to impress people who needed to be impressed despite his various faux pas. When we were young men, he no longer looked Mexican. I mean, he had black hair, brown eyes, and perpetually tanned skinned, but he looked Filipino! Whenever we went out, a lot of Filipinas were attracted to him. He dated quite a few. I remember he dated one nurse whose husband was back in the Philippines. She was saving up enough money to go back to the Philippines, but she was lonely here in Chicago. So she dated my friend.
He eventually married a Filipina and when they had a daughter, they asked me to be the godfather. At first, I tried to turn down this great honor because I didn’t think I could fulfill the responsibilities of being a godfather. He told me that I would just have to show up for a few birthday parties and Christmas parties and then I could disappear. He insisted and then his wife insisted, so I agreed.
Then, they introduced me to the godmother with the hopes of starting a serious relationship between us. Well, the godmother was a Filipina named Lalin. We talked on the phone a few times before the baptism. Since she had just come from the Philippines, she didn’t speak English that well. We eventually spoke Spanish since she had studied it more than English. We seemed to get along fine. We never actually dated, though. After the baptism we never talked again. Hildago kept asking me what happened between us, but I told him that there wasn’t much chemistry between us. I was probably more interested in her than she was in me.
I lost track of Hildago again. Later, I invited him to my son’s birthday party and he came with his daughter, my god-daughter, whom I had not seen since she was very little. Then I didn’t see him again for years. But then I saw him at a K-Mart by my house. Just when I never expected to see him again. He told me it was my god-daughter’s eighteenth birthday, so he invited me to her party. I went and my god-daughter was happy to see me. Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen her since. But I warned Hildago in the first place that I wouldn’t be a good godfather.
Imagine that you were in a relationship for a long time. Then, you break up. Somehow over the course of that relationship you accumulated many objects that represent that relationship, not to mention all that emotional baggage that you’ll always lug along.
Now, you’re in a new relationship and you want to invite her to your house. But wait! Don’t do it! Not right away.
First, you have to do a house cleansing. You know that you have to remove all traces of any previous female in your life. The most obvious of all: all the pictures that show you with your ex. No girly things are allowed to remain. So get rid of the seat cushions on the kitchen chairs and the place mats on the kitchen table. Because no real man buys seat cushions and place mats of his own free will.
The magnetic shopping list on the fridge. Gone! Because a new girlfriend won’t believe that a man actually makes a grocery list all by himself. And while you’re at it, get rid of the fuzzy toilet seat cover. That’s a girl thing. Because if your new girlfriend finds something that your ex-girlfriend gave you and you kept it… You’re in big trouble!
Jealousy is retroactive! Men, don’t you ever forget that! Remove the bra hanging from your rearview mirror. The panties from your lampshade. The empty condom wrappers in you bedroom wastebasket. Woman notice these little things.
Chicago USA 