Labas


Holy Cross Church

Labas. That’s right. Labas. To all my Lithuanian friends: Labas! In fact, I’d like to greet everyone reading my blog: Labas! That’s hello in Lithuanian. My Lithuanian friend Vito taught me that word because he always insisted that we greet each other by saying Labas. Now, I always greet Lithuanians with Labas and they always smile. I especially love to greet them with Labas especially if they didn’t think I knew they were Lithuanians. I’m not sure why, but they’re always thrilled to hear me say Labas. So, to all my Lithuanian readers: Labas! I guess sometimes I go on and on, don’t I? Well, my friend Vito taught me another Lithuanian word: tylėk. Sometimes we would go to the show, I would just keep on talking even after the movie started. He would keep telling me tylėk until I finally shut up. That’s right, tylėk means shut up in Lithuanian. But I never did. And I never will.

For as long as I can remember, I have always lived near Lithuanians in Chicago. In Back of the Yards, Holy Cross was the Lithuanian church I attended. At Holy Cross School, the nuns always praised The Jungle by Upton Sinclair because the protagonist was Lithuanian, and the novel was set in Back of the Yards. When we moved to Marquette Park, 2509 W. Marquette Road, many Lithuanians lived there, and they even had a street named Lithuanian Plaza Court. In fact, that neighborhood was the unofficial capital of Lithuania during the Soviet era. Maria High School, run by Lithuanian nuns, was at Marquette Road and California Avenue. Right on the same campus was the retirement convent for the Sisters of Saint Casimir at 2601 W. Marquette Road. The Lithuanians also had their own Holy Cross Hospital at California Avenue and Lithuanian Plaza Court. I met my friend Vito when I lived in Marquette Park. Vito and I used to eat at the Lithuanian McDonald’s at 68th and Pulaski. I don’t know if it was actually Lithuanian, but Vito told me that the tiles on the wall were typical Lithuanian colors, so it became a Lithuanian McDonald’s in my mind. When I moved to Bridgeport, there weren’t that many Lithuanians there anymore, but they did have a street named Lituanica Avenue. My favorite restaurant in Bridgeport was a Lithuanian restaurant named Healthy Foods at 3236 S. Halsted Street. When I saw the movie Chariots of Fire, I was thrilled to learn that the family of Harold Abrams were Lithuanian Jews.

When I was a student at Holy Cross, my best friend was Patrick McDonald, but when he moved away, I became friends with Adrian Stanislovaitis and Anthony Kivenas, both Lithuanians. Whenever I was with them, we spoke English, but when they were with their parents, they spoke Lithuanian. I never understood what they said, and it didn’t bother me at all. However, I never even learned one Lithuanian word from them. And when they came to my house, I spoke Spanish with my parents and grandmother. I envied Adrian and Anthony because they got to go to Lithuanian classes on Saturday morning. I wanted to go with them. I wished Mexicans would have Spanish classes for Mexicans. Anyway, Adrian and I spent a lot of time together. For school holidays, we used to take the bus downtown and just wander around, but he showed me a few points of interest, such as the Prudential Building because it used to be Chicago’s tallest skyscraper.

When we moved to Marquette Park, we met more Lithuanians. Marquette Park has a monument for Lithuanian aviators Captain Steponas Darius and Lieutenant Stasys Girenas. This is where I met Vito and other Lithuanians. I went to Lithuanian restaurants and bars with Vito. At one bar on Lithuanian Plaza Court, it might have been Knight’s Inn, we met a Lithuanian improv group that was named Second Village, which is Antras Kaimas in Lithuanian. It was inspired by the name of Second City. We talked to them for a while, and Jim, Vito, and I told them that we performed standup comedy. We ended up making a little skit/song/dance for them sung to the tune of “Skip to My Lou.” I still remember it, but don’t know how to spell it because it was in Lithuanian. Vito wrote most of the song. My contribution to the song? Labas and tylėk! No surprise there!

We once went to a Lithuanian festival on Western Boulevard near the Lithuanian V.F.W. Hall, which if I remember correctly was named after Darius and Girenas. Anyway, there were all kinds of Lithuanian food. One vender was selling empanadas, which really surprised me because as far as I knew, empanadas were Mexican food. The Lithuanian cook tells me that empanadas were invented by Lithuanians. He could tell that I didn’t believe him. He pressed on with his explanation and tried to convince me that I really didn’t know Mexican food. He was so convincing that I almost believed him. Almost, but not quite. Finally, he told me that he learned to make empanadas in Argentina. During WWII, his family went to Argentina before they came to America.

That’s how I think of Lithuanians. They’re always ready to play a friendly practical joke on you. Vito was always the joker and had a great sense of humor that not everybody got. I could tell he got it from his father. Once I went to Vito’s house so we could go to the show. His father answered the door and I asked for Vito. He knew very well that I was asking for his son, Vito, my friend, but he said, “You’re talking to him.” I said, “No, Vito Junior.” He said, “I am Vito Junior!” This went on much longer than was comfortable for me, but Vito’s father was really enjoying this. Finally, he said, “Vito’s not home.” Why didn’t he just tell me that in the first place? Well, he wanted to play a joke on me. I laugh now that I think of it. But that day I learned that both Vito’s father and grandfather were named Vito. What really made me uncomfortable about them was how they greeted each other and how they said good-bye. Vito would always kiss his father on the lips. Talk about culture shock! For a while, Vito lived with his grandfather Vito. Before we would go out, Vito would kiss his grandfather on the lips before he went out. It was as shocking since I had finally gotten used to him kissing his father. But one day we were talking, and Vito told me that his father was adopted. Suddenly, it hit me. “Vito, you kiss your grandfather on the lips, and he’s not even related to you!” He thought nothing of it. I still can’t get over it!

DDR

Landscaping


Landscaping with cacti in Cabo San Lucas

About five years ago, I ran into one of my cousins who was born and raised in México, but then came to the U.S. I had not seen him for years, so we had to catch up on what we had each done since the last time we met. The last time I really talked to him was, well, I couldn’t remember the last time I talked to him. But I’m quite sure it was in México when he was still a boy. So, I asked him what he did for a living, and he said he was a landscaper. How cliché! A Mexican landscaper! But he owned the company because he started his own business. I wondered why I hadn’t seen him for the last three or four years and he told me that he was living in México. And he left it at that. But I wanted to know more. At first, he was hesitant to say anything else, but then he opened up. The reason I hadn’t seen him in years was because he was working in México. And making a good living, too.

Of course, I pressed him for more details, but he didn’t require much pressure because he loves to talk. To be truthful, I’m not sure that I believed everything he told me. But he said it well enough to sound believable.

Well, it turns out, so he said, that he started selling marijuana on a small-scale and his business grew, probably because of his talkative personality and charisma, and he eventually became a major distributor. Soon he started transporting marijuana to the U.S. Eventually the Mexican authorities arrested him. He was convicted and jailed.

From what he told me, I would never want to be in a Mexican jail. They don’t feed you there. You live in squalid conditions. If someone doesn’t bring you food, you don’t eat. I asked him if he felt safe in jail, and he said that he did. Well, because he had a gun in his cell. How did he get a gun in his cell? It was easy, he told me. He had money saved up from his “landscaping” business and he had a friend bring him a gun to jail.

How did the friend sneak the gun into jail? That was easy, too. His friend hid the gun in a bag of marijuana. When the guards at the jail looked in the bag, they asked his friend what was in the bag and his friend bribed the guard and was allowed to take the gun hidden in the bag of marijuana into the visitor’s room and he gave the marijuana and gun to my cousin. Amazing!

He told me he was sentenced to fifteen years in jail. I did the math and asked if he shouldn’t be sitting in a Mexican jail right about now. He said yes, but since he had money, he was able to bribe the jail authorities to mark him present whenever they took roll call.

So here he was in Chicago telling me this story that sounded too unrealistic to be real. But I did enjoy how he told it. The moral of the story? Don’t believe any story anyone tells you. And don’t believe everything that you read on the Internet!

DDR

Experiment


1982

 When I was running and racing regularly, I was in exceptionally decent shape, even though many people thought I was extremely skinny. I lived and breathed for running. Occasionally, I did all three at once.

For a while there, I ran a lot of races. I was obsessed with racing because I wanted to become a good enough runner to get an athletic scholarship to a university. Unfortunately, I never improved enough for a scholarship, but I did begin writing for running publications, which I really enjoyed.

Once I went to Vertel’s, a running shoe store on North Wells Street, to pick up my race packet. As I was leaving the store, I saw a sign that read, RUNNERS WANTED FOR EXPERIMENT. My heart raced and I immediately wrote down the phone number because this sounded like something I really wanted to do. Perhaps this experiment would improve my running so I could get that running scholarship. I could just imagine myself in a running laboratory with all kinds of scientific equipment to measure my enormous runner’s ability.

Yes, count me in, I thought. I imagined myself running on a treadmill, wearing an oxygen mask that would measure my excellent runner’s oxygen uptake, my wired chest sending electrical impulses to the ECG machine that would record my highly athletic heart rhythm, and me drinking experimental electrolyte replacement beverages, even though my finely tuned body didn’t need them, and then reporting which one made me run the fastest. I was really excited about this experiment!

I was afraid to get left out because I was too late, so I called as soon as I got home. The woman who answered the phone was happy that someone had finally called her about the experiment. Apparently, she had put up her notice at many other races and I was the first runner ever to respond. Then she dropped the bombshell on me. She was not a doctor, not even a nurse. In fact, she had never even taken a first aid course. She was a polka dancer!

She and her husband were national polka champions, and they toured the country dancing at all kinds of festivals, parties, and picnics. So, what was the experiment? You better sit down. I wish I had been sitting down when she told me. She wanted runners to learn to polka! Why runners? Well, runners would be able to learn to polka faster because they had incredibly good endurance. This was not at all what I had expected when I read the sign at Vertel’s! She finally persuaded me to sign up for polka lessons. Luckily, they were free. So, I agreed to be her guinea pig since I had always wanted to learn to dance, and I really didn’t have any plans for the next two months anyway.

On the very first day, she paired me up with a nice Polish girl named Andrea. We would be partners throughout the “experiment.” In her mind, my polka lessons never ceased to be an experiment. Well, I had no rhythm and I kept stepping on Andrea’s toes. She said something in Polish to the teacher/dancer/mad scientist that I didn’t understand and then smiled at me. I smiled back, but I could tell Andrea was complaining about me. I apologized to her and told her that I couldn’t help stepping on her toes because I had two left feet. She suggested that I find someone with two right feet.

The polka woman came back to us and said something in Polish to Andrea and she continued to dance with me. The dance lesson went on for about two hours, and because I was a fine specimen of a runner, I didn’t even break out into a sweat. I didn’t have to stop to rest during the whole session, even though Andrea insisted that I rest so she could rest her toes a while. Well, the polka teacher was right about runners having a lot of endurance, but I don’t think that she had counted on me stepping on someone’s toes for two continuous hours.

The next week, the polka woman tried something different. Since I had told her my full name, she was fascinated by the fact that I was Mexican. I’m not sure why. Was it the fact that a Mexican was learning to polka? Anyway, she tells me, “I want you to listen to this song. It’s from your country.”

I listened. Someone was singing in Spanish. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “Hear what?” I asked. “The beat!” she said, but I could tell she was losing her patience with me. “Oh, the beat!” I repeated. “I’m sorry. I was listening to the words.” She played the song again and I listened carefully to the beat. I’m not very musical, so I had no idea what beat I was supposed to listen to. Finally, she said, “Did you hear the beat? It’s a polka beat, oom pah pah, oom pah pah, in a Mexican song!” “Oh, that beat! Of course, I heard the polka beat!” I lied, but I didn’t want her to get mad at me. Then we danced to this song. I actually danced a little better this time.

The funny thing about all this, she never mentioned the experiment again. She gave performances during the day to seniors and terminally ill people at hospitals. I guess that’s why I liked her so much. She was such a nice person. One day, she asked me to go with her and her husband to one of their shows. “You mean you want me to dance with you for these shows?” I asked. “No,” she said. “I want you to videotape us dancing. We need a demo tape.”

I agreed to do it since I didn’t have a job at that time anyway and they always bought me lunch when the hospital or nursing home didn’t give us free food. I got pretty good at recording them once I realized that they improvised everytime they danced and I learned to expect the unexpected from them. Plus, I learned one special effect with their video camera that absolutely amazed them. I didn’t tell them. I let it be a surprise for them. They were exstatic when I zoomed in on them while they danced! So from then on, they insisted that I tape all their shows. And she extended my polka lessons for three more months, much to Andrea’s chagrin.

Well, no other runners ever volunteered for her experiment. And, I never did find out the results of the experiment. However, I did learn to videotape moving targets.

DDR

Becky


Oaxtepec, México, 1978

Once when I went to México, I heard an interesting story from my cousin Becky. Her father didn’t like her boyfriend, so she had to see him secretly. He eventually gave her an engagement ring that she only wore around the house when her father wasn’t home.

One day, she forgot to take it off and her father saw the ring. He was so angry with her. And he forbade her from seeing her boyfriend again. Of course, she kept seeing him. And she wore her engagement ring around the house while doing chores provided her father wasn’t home.

Well, one day, she’s wearing her ring and peeling potatoes for the dinner soup. Later, while she cooking, her father comes into the kitchen and immediately looks at Becky’s hand to see if she’s wearing the ring. Becky looks at her hand and panics. Her ring isn’t on her finger. She has no idea where it is! But her father leaves the kitchen without saying a word.That night at dinner, everyone is eating soup. Her father is very quite while eating his soup. That is, until, just by coincidence, he sees Becky’s engagement ring on his spoon. He starts yelling at his daughter and he keeps the ring.

As soon as I get to México, all my relatives come to visit me no matter whose house I visit. A few childhood friends came to visit me as soon as I arrived, among them a certain girl named Flor who remembered me as a boy when we played together. My cousin Becky was dating Flor’s cousin even though Becky’s father totally disapproved of her boyfriend and his engagement ring. So, when I arrived in México, two people immediately looked for me. Becky and Flor. Becky contrives this plan to meet her boyfriend by taking me with her as her chaperone. Apparently, her parents let her go out with me. Becky had set me up with Flor who gets permission to go out only if she goes out with her cousin, Becky’s boyfriend.

So, we’re actually going out a on double date without permission, but no one really knows the actual circumstances. It turns out Flor is really interested in me, but I lose a precious opportunity when I go back to Chicago and only write letters to her telling her how I’m not really interested in her. Becky eventually married her boyfriend and they lived unhappily ever after. As they say in México, “C’est la vie!”

DDR

Mexican sense of humor


Exhibit A: Mexican sense of humor

Mexicans have the best sense of humor in the world. No one laughs more than a Mexican. They’re always joking around, and they are always laughing. Just watch them and see. Many people often ask me why I’m always laughing. I never actually have an answer because I don’t know why I’m always laughing. Sometimes, I laugh for no apparent reason, which makes it easy for me to find a seat on the train.

When I was in México, I noticed my cousin David Rodríguez laughed just as much as me and just as loud. My sons always complain that I laugh louder than everyone else in the theater whenever we see a movie. I can’t help it. My mother and I always told jokes and we weren’t afraid to laugh. My abuelita was also quite funny. Our whole family is always laughing. If you ever go to a Mexican party, you will hear continuous laughter. It’s just our nature. We lead simple uncomplicated lives and enjoy every moment of life. If we have a place to live, food to eat, and drink to drink, we’re happy as a tamal in a corn husk. And no matter what tragedy occurs in our lives, we’ll just laugh it off.

I’ve heard Mexicans tell how they lost their job, their house, their car, etc., and make everyone listening laugh while they told their sad tale. I admit it. I’ve laughed, too. My friend José was a carpenter who had once cut off his index finger with an electric saw. One day, I saw he had two fingers bandaged and I asked him what had happened. He told me how he was cutting wood with an electric band saw and his mind drifted a little. Right from the beginning he slipped into the typical Mexican joke-telling mode. “Remember how I told you how I cut off my index finger the last time,” José said, and I remembered how he had made me laugh then. “Well, this time, I cut off my index finger AND my middle finger!” He started laughing with his contagious laughter, and I couldn’t help but laugh, too. “¡Chingado! I did it again!” he said to me. “Then I couldn’t find my fingers right away because they went flying across the room!” I regret to say that we both laughed hysterically during his recounting of this catastrophe. Of course, he never did finish telling me the story because he was laughing too hard. But even in a crisis, a Mexican will find humor.