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.

Helen Hicks


I used to type on a manual typewriter, but then I bought an electric typewriter.

When I was in the Marines, I was stationed in California for my entire three-year enlistment. I wanted to get an education, so I started reading all kinds of books from the base library at Twenty-Nine Palms and Camp Pendleton. I spent every free moment reading. I even bought the Great Books collection and eventually read them all.

Since I had dropped out of high school, I always felt that I needed a formal education, a college degree, to validate my writing. While at Camp Pendleton, I enrolled at the Fallbrook Community College and took an English composition course that the college offered on base. I really thought I was a great writer and I truly believed that the instructor would absolutely love everything that I wrote.

Looking back, my writing was mediocre and forced. Well, I’ll be honest, it hasn’t really changed all that much. When I turned in my first composition, I was disappointed to get a B-. I was really expecting an A+++! Every time I see A Christmas Story and I see Ralph turning in his composition asking for the Red Rider BB Gun for Christmas, I remember feeling similar feelings of elation and expecting A when I turned in my first composition. Well, I guess I hadn’t developed as a writer because I couldn’t take the constructive criticism that my instructor gave me. I eventually stopped showing up to class.

But because of the college catalog, I learned that there was a writer’s group that met in Fallbrook, just west of Camp Pendleton. I would drive past the bombing range to exit out of one of the lesser used gates. As I entered Fallbrook, I always enjoyed reading the sign, “Welcome to Fallbrook. Avocado Capital of the World.” Nothing inspires me to write more than avocados! I always looked forward to these writer’s club meetings because I knew I would be surrounded by avocados. Maybe I’m just too Mexican.

Anyway, Helen Hicks ran this writer’s club in Fallbrook. She was a published writer who had written a few TV scripts for Bonanza and Little House on the Prairie. She really knew how to inspire writers by example. She was writing Gothic novels when I was a member. What I really learned from her was how to take constructive criticism. She could really dish it out, but I respected her opinion and I always tried to follow her suggestions.

Of course, she wasn’t always right, but she was a published writer and that counts for something. I remember one woman wrote an essay that began as one of our writing exercises. This woman was a flight attendant, but she had always wanted to be a published writer. Well, this woman read the essay to us and some writers really liked the piece. Helen offered her usual constructive criticism. But then she said she wasn’t sure who would publish it just as it was written. Undaunted, this woman kept writing and kept reading to our group. About two months later, she came in with a magazine that had published her piece almost as originally written. She was so proud of her accomplishment and wanted Helen to know it. Helen congratulated her and we all applauded her. And the moral of the story? Well, just keep plugging away and someday you’ll succeed.

When I returned to Chicago after my honorable discharge, I wrote to Helen to tell her that I missed her writer’s club. She wrote back and told me to start my own club in Chicago. She also told me to keep on writing.

DDR

Writer’s Desk


IBM Selectric

Back in the 1980s, my brother Jerry told me about a writer’s group that met every third Tuesday in the Beverly neighborhood at 107th and Hale. So I joined the group because I really enjoyed writing, and reading my works for this group motivated me to write. I met a lot of interesting people and I always looked forward to every meeting.

One of the poets, introduced me to her sister who just by chance had married a Mexican whose last name was Navarrete, just like one of my aunts in Mexico. The poet’s sister just happened to be a commercial artist. Eventually, she drew a caricature of me for my comedian’s business card. (It’s the caricature you see below.) I remember that she was afraid to show it to me because I might think that she was making fun of me. I really loved it! It was exactly what I wanted. I was always proud of my business card.

Elizabeth-Anne Vanek was the president of the group and she was a published poet. She was the heart, soul, and muse of the group. Without her, the group would have disintegrated. I also met Marc Smith before he became famous for his poetry slams at the Green Mill. He came to many meetings and would read his latest poetry for us.

I also remember Frida who came to every meeting religiously and listened to everyone’s work patiently and then commented with objective criticism. She was a writer who didn’t actually write anything. She couldn’t write anymore. Her muse had abandoned her.

I also brought my friend Tony Trendl from the Marquette Park Track Club for a couple of meetings. I must admit that I did the most writing in my life while I belonged to this group. It was then that I started writing for The Finish Line and the Illinois Runner. However,  I never published any of my short stories that I read to the group. My writing improved immensely while I was a member of the Writer’s Desk.

And in another one of those cosmic coincidences that frequently occur to me. I now live right down the block from where the Writer’s Desk used to meet!

DDR

Matilde y el martillo


Mi tío Samuel y mi tía Matilde

My tía Matilde was quite a character. Once when we were visiting México, we stayed with my abuelita who was blind. All our relatives would always visit abuelita, especially when we came from Chicago. Matilde was still single at the time, so she lived with my abuelita.

While we were there, my mother decided to fix up my abuelita’s place a little. That meant everyone there had to work, vacation or not! We cleaned and painted, and when my mother saw the freshly painted walls, she decided to hang up some family pictures. Only one problem. My abuelita didn’t have a hammer. So, my mother sent tía Matilde to get a hammer from a friend’s house.

That sounds easy enough, no? Well, not to a Mexicana. Somehow the simplest errands became a complicated quest. Tía Matilde sets off on the simple errand of bringing back a hammer so my mother could hang up some pictures. My aunt should have returned in ten to fifteen minutes tops. Well, a half hour went by and tía Matilde didn’t return.

My mother looked down the street and saw no sign of her sister. An hour passed, then another, and still no sign of tía Matilde. My mother sent me to the friend’s house to see if Matilde ever went there. No, they hadn’t seen her all day. No one really worried about her because in México sometimes people get distracted and forget their original mission, in this case, the quest for the hammer.

Tía Matilde finally returned about three hours later! My abuelita and my mother started interrogating her. “Where did you go? What took you so long?”

Well, she met this certain Samuel. He was standing on the corner playing the guitar and he started serenading her. They went for a walk and before she knew it, three hours had passed. Then, she remembered about the hammer! She returned, finally, but without the hammer!

My abuelita and mother were mad at my tía Matilde, but they also couldn’t help laughing at the whole situation. Matilde and Samuel eventually married and had six children.

DDR