Spatiality


Wrigley Field

When you learn a foreign language, you can’t help but learn about another culture and its customs. I often remember Vito’s friend Jean-Claude von Bostal who came to visit Vito in Chicago from Belgium. Everything was so different for him. Vito asked me what we could do with Jean-Claude that would be very American. I suggested going to a baseball game. That’s about as American as you can get, if you overlook the fact that most of the players are from Latin America. So we went to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs play. It was a warm day, so everyone dressed in summer clothes.

A woman seated near us wore a tank top. When one of the Cubs hit a home run, she clapped with her hands over her head, revealing her shaved armpits. We couldn’t help but notice her because she was also whooping it up. Jean-Claude immediately noticed her shaved armpits and said, “That’s stupid!” Vito corrected him, “You mean that’s different.” Well, I know for a fact that women don’t shave their armpits in Europe. So I said, “Vito, I think he really means that it’s stupid.” Jean-Claude nodded and said, “Why do they shave their armpits?” Well, you see, there are always cultural differences even when you don’t think of them. They abound everywhere.

Physical distance between people is a common cultural topic of many Spanish textbooks. When you learn a foreign language, you also learn about the culture. The two are inseparable. When associating with someone from a Spanish-speaking country,  they usually get very close to you when they speak. They are more likely to greet you by shaking your hand and/or giving you a hug and a kiss. This is something that you’ll have to learn to accept. This happens if you’re in the U.S. or in Mexico.

In the U.S. we’re accustomed to having plenty of distance between us when we speak to someone. And we hardly ever hug someone unless they’re a family member. For me, you have to be a family member on speaking terms. When I was in Mexico, I was hugging and kissing total strangers just because they were close friends to my cousin.

I’ll be perfectly honest. With certain persons of the female persuasion,  I squeezed them a little harder with the hug and held the kiss a little longer than necessary. This is something I would never do here in America. I generally don’t like people touching me! Period.

In Mexico, a hug between two male friends is quite common, but in America I never even think about hugging another man. Once, I hadn’t seen a friend for about five years. When I saw him, he immediately ran to me and gave me this big overly friendly bear hug. I said, “Whoa! I wasn’t ready for that.” I needed some distance between us.

Since I grew up on the south side of Chicago, I’m uncomfortable if someone gets too close to me when speaking. I like to have ample distance between my interlocutor and me. I like to be beyond striking distance. At UIC parties, I noticed that the Spaniards used to like to talk to me by putting their face about two inches away from mine and I felt extremely uncomfortable! I usually keep backing up until I bump into the wall and have to stop back pedaling. But then I discovered that if I held my plate of food about six inches in front of me, that offered me a buffer zone that kept me well beyond the striking distance of fists and/or food ejected during conversation. Spaniards like to speak to you face to face, but they respect food and will maintain a safe distance from it in order not to knock it over.

DDR

Man date


 

Men mourning a breakup

Man date. Sometimes you are the giver and sometimes you are the receiver. But this is one date to avoid if at all possible. I’m not talking about one man going out with a male friend to see a movie and there are plenty of seats to leave an empty one between you, so no one thinks that “you’re together” as in you two are an item–if you know what I mean.

I’m talking about you buying two tickets to a concert for a singer or band that only your girlfriend, fiancée, or wife would want to see. And you bought the tickets because you wanted to make her happy, for at least one night. But for some unexplained reason, she no longer wants to go to the concert with you. It could be for any number of reasons. She has a headache, she just doesn’t want to go to the concert anymore, or she broke up with you.  So now you have two concert tickets for which you paid good money! You can’t sell them at such short notice, so you call around and finally find a friend who is desperate enough to go to this concert with you because … well, just because.

No real man will admit he wants to go to a concert with you. So, you go to this concert with your friend because he once took you on a man date when his girlfriend dumped him and he had two tickets to Sting, but you feel guilty tonight because you’re only taking him to see Barry Manilow. You see the concert and make the best of an unpleasant situation. Unfortunately, you have assigned seating and you two must sit right next to each other.

You’re driving home and you realize that this wasn’t so bad after all. But then you wonder, should I take him straight home? Will he be offended if I do? Should I take him out for a drink and then take him home? Will I look desperate if I just drive him to a bar without asking him if he wants a drink? All I want to do is talk about my female problems. But he also has female problems, or he wouldn’t have gone to a Barry Manilow concert with you! Instead, you drive him straight home without saying a word. He doesn’t say anything either as he leaves the car. Both of you secretly hope that you’ll never have to go on a man date ever again!

DDR

Estudiantes


Morton College Spanish Class

The other day, one of my Spanish students asked me if he could be my friend on Facebook.com. Of course, I said yes. And we are now friends on Facebook. I’ve always gotten along with my Spanish students. That’s because I love my students. But not in the sexual harassment civil lawsuit kind of love. I’ve been teaching college Spanish for about twelve years now, so I remember a lot of students from over the years. Some students kept in touch with me for a while after taking my class and then eventually disappeared from my life. Other students occasionally run into me by chance. Some I will never forget.

Elwood Chipchase, Morton College, Cicero, Illinois

I remember Elwood Chipchase and his wife Grace took Spanish 101 and 102 with me at Morton College. He was a minister in Cicero, Illinois, and his congregation was mostly Mexican. He was seriously studying Spanish so could better communicate with his parishioners. Both he and his wife were the students most dedicated to learning Spanish. At first, he didn’t tell me that he was a minister or why he was learning Spanish. One day, he asked me why when he asked Mexicans about their mother, they kind of paused before answering. Sometimes they gave him a pained look, as if they were offended. I asked Elwood how he asked them. He would greet them, ask them how they were, and how their spouse was in Spanish. Then he would ask about their mother, “¿Y tu madre?” I thought about it a while. Why would they hesitate to respond? Elwood’s Spanish was clear enough to understand. Then it dawned on me. But I felt uncomfortable explaining my theory to him since he was a minister. The problem is that all Mexicans refer to their mother as mamá or mami. The only time they use madre is when they swear at someone, as in, “Chinga tu madre.” Well, he was grateful for my explanation and said he would change his choice of words. The next week he reported that everyone responded more warmly to his inquiries.

DDR

Despedida mexicana


Why are these tequila bottles so blurry?

There are good-byes. And then there are Mexican good-byes. By this, I mean that most people say good-bye and then they leave. Mexicans, on the other hand, say good-bye and think of many reasons for staying un poquito más. Such as telling the story they just remembered on the way out, upon touching the doorknob. Or, because they haven’t seen each other in such a long time, since like last week. I, too, of course am guilty of these long, extended good-byes. Perhaps, I didn’t say everything that I wanted because I couldn’t get a word in edgewise or the stories told were so good that I didn’t want to interrupt them.

While I was in Mexico, every good-bye was a despedida mexicana, but one long good-bye especially comes to mind. I was staying at my cousin’s house and we were going to visit her sister, also my cousin. My cousin, her husband, my aunt, and I went to my other cousin’s house. We would leave about three o’clock in the afternoon in order to avoid the afternoon rush hour traffic. I agreed because Mexico City’s normal traffic is horrendous and traumatic, even if you’re just a passenger, let alone driving during rush hour. So we visit my cousin, we eat at a restaurant called California, we go back to the house of the cousin we just visited, look at some old family pictures, and talk and talk and talk over old times since the last time I went to Mexico, which was twenty-nine years earlier. By the way, we started up the conversation right where we left off the last time I was there as if I had just left a few days before.

At 3:00 p.m. sharp, my cousin announces that we’re leaving immediately in order to avoid the rush-hour traffic. My cousin’s husband says that we can’t leave his house without first drinking some tequila together. That would reflect poorly on their hospitality. Besides, how could I go to Mexico and not drink tequila?

As the guest of honor, he served me tequila in his very own special tequila shot glass that was wrapped in specially treated tan leather with his name embossed on the leather. How could I say no to this shot of tequila? So we all had a shot of tequila as we were standing to leave. Sure enough, we all start talking about when my cousin came to visit Chicago in 1979. As luck would have it, I was in California in the Marines at the time. So we all sit down to hear about her trip to Chicago and how she almost saw snow because the weatherman predicted a snowstorm, but then there was only a light dusting of snow.

Of course, this called for another shot of tequila! Which no one refused, including me because I always try to be polite and eat and drink everything that is served to me. (You’d be surprised at how polite I can be when food or tequila is involved!) Then it occurs to our host that if you drink tequila you should drink it properly. So he serves us another shot of tequila, but this time he passes around a bowl of lime slices and a salt shaker. That’s how Mexicans really drink tequila! You squeeze some lime juice on the side of your fist, shake some salt on the lime juice, you drink the tequila shot in one gulp, and then lick the lime juice and salt afterwards. Well, we down a few more tequila shots the proper Mexican way and then our host said he had to go to work to take care of some business, but when he returned, he would bring back some food for supper.

The tequila had long ago been consumed and we were left to our own devices to entertain ourselves. Actually, for Mexicans like my aunt, my cousins, and I, we merely entertain ourselves by talking about what we did in the past since the last time we saw each other. In fact, I spent most of my trip just sitting around talking to my relatives bringing myself up to date on their lives. Well, it’s after six p.m. and our host still hasn’t returned. His wife calls him on his cell phone and it turns out that he’s stuck in rush-hour traffic. When he finally returns, he returns empty-handed. We’re all extremely famished by this time. So we all pile into two minivans and go to their favorite restaurant in town. We eat supper and spend a couple of hours talking over our food. By the way, we’re still saying good-bye since three p.m.! We eventually return to my cousin’s house about 9:30 p.m.! However, we did manage to avoid Mexico City’s infamous rush-hour traffic! I have to admit that it was my longest good-bye ever, even by Mexican standards. But it was also one of the most entertaining.

Okay, let me just blurt this out and be off. ¡Adiós!

DDR

Chicano


The story of Chicago, Illinois

When I was growing up I never heard the word “Chicano.” No one in my family used it and I never heard it in the neighborhood even though there was a sizable Mexican population in the Back of the Yards neighborhood. I’m reminded of this because I was just reading Ethnic Chicago edited by Melvin G. Holli and Peter d’A. Jones, Grand Rapids, Michigan, William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1984.

What reminded me of never having heard the word “Chicano” was Chapter VIII written by Louise Año Nuevo Kerr titled, “Mexican Chicago: Chicano Assimilation Aborted.” She uses “Chicano” throughout the chapter to refer to Mexicans who came from Mexico illegally, who were part of the bracero U.S.-Mexican agreement during WWII, were from Texas and therefore were American citizens, or had ancestors from Mexico.

So I’m thinking back to the very first time when I heard “Chicano” and I remember I first heard it at Divine Heart Seminary in Donaldson, Indiana, when I was a freshman. There were only three Mexican students out of 130 at DHS: Fred Casillas from Gary, Indiana, Tony Hernandez from Los Angeles, California, and me, from Chicago. There was also Hiram De Jesus, a Puerto Rican from Cleveland, Ohio.

I remember Ken Jones, an African-American who was from Detroit, telling me when we had our first family visits that he wanted me to meet his mother. He insisted that I meet her for the whole week leading up to our first family weekend visit. Well, when I finally met her, I was surprised that she was Mexican. That explained why Ken wanted me to meet her so badly. Hiram also wanted me to meet his mother, whom I did. I was surprised that she was so young. She was only twenty-nine even though Hiram was fifteen. Fred and Tony were sophomores and Hiram and I were freshmen. Tony was my big brother when I visited DHS in eighth grade. Hiram and I were in Enrico Mordini’s Spanish II class with other sophomores.

Anyway, one day, Fred calls me a Chicano, but I had no idea what he was talking about because I had never heard the word before. He then explained it to me. None of this made any sense to me at first. I attended a Lithuanian Catholic school with mostly Lithuanian and Mexican students in a neighborhood that was home to Lithuanians, Mexicans, Germans, Italians, Poles, and other ethnic groups that in general maintained their ethnic customs, but got along well with everyone else. This Chicano movement that Fred described to me was something that was entirely new to me given where I had grown up.

One day after Fred returned to DHS from a weekend visit home, he wore a brown beret with a patch that said “Chicano Power” and a picture of brown clenched fist with an iron manacle with a dangling chain that had a broken link on the end. He also wore a white T-shirt with the same exact message and image. Fred made me feel like I was some sort of traitor for not having the same feelings as him about the Chicano movement.

Well, when I went home one weekend soon after, I had my father take me to Old Town to Bizarre Bazaar where I bought the same beret, “Chicano Power” patch, and T-shirt that Fred had. My father didn’t understand why I wanted these items, but he bought them for me anyway. He asked me to explain what they meant, but he didn’t seem to understand and didn’t give them too much importance. When my mother saw me wearing the beret with the patch and the T-shirt, she thought I had joined a gang. None of my friends understood why I would wear “Chicano Power” even after I explained it to them. All their parents thought that I had joined a gang, just as my mother did. Everyone misunderstood me. Luckily, I was only home for the weekend.

When I returned to DHS, Fred was so proud of me. Tony didn’t think much of my commitment to the Chicano movement. Since Hiram was Puerto Rican, it really didn’t affect him in any way. Surprisingly, none of the priests or brothers acknowledged my new apparel, much less reproach me for it. In general, unless you violated the seminary rules or you committed a sin, everyone pretty much left you alone. The only one who was really excited about all this was Fred. I was disappointed that I went through all this trouble to buy these items and no one, other than Fred, really cared.

After a while, I stopped wearing the beret and the T-shirt. When I returned home for the summer, they stayed in my dresser drawer. I never again heard anyone in Chicago mention the word “Chicano.” Everyone I knew in Chicago was American.

DDR