Okay, while in Celaya, Guanajuato, México, I met another David Rodríguez! I have a cousin named David Rodríguez!
Before I met him again, I introduced myself to his brothers and sisters, also my cousins, as David Rodríguez. They all gave me that same puzzled look because the only David Rodríguez they know is their brother. Add another list to the world population of David Rodríguezes. This one plus the two that one of my Spanish students told me about. She had two, count them, two Spanish teachers who were named David Rodríguez before me!
One difference I noticed when I entered México was that EVERYONE speaks Spanish–as opposed to Chicago where only half the people speak Spanish. México is like a totally different country!
I may be Mexican, but I’m not a real Mexican who grew up in México. When I checked into a hotel in Matehuala, I realized that my name, David Diego Rodriguez, even though it sounds Spanish, is really American. My name if I were really, really a Mexican, would be David Diego Rodríguez Martínez. But so far, I’m blending in here in Mexico. Or at least, I’ve convinced myself that most people don’t really notice that I’m from America. I found this Internet Café in Celaya and it has accent marks and ñ just like a real Spanish keyboard!
Well, I must go now. My time is up at the Internet Cafe. Hasta pronto.
I spent a significant part of my coming-of-age years living in Marquette Park. But I was aware of the Marquette Park neighborhood long before my family moved there.
My mother loved taking my brothers and me to different parks in the Chicago Park District. Before she learned to drive, we only went to Davis Square Park and Cornell Square Park, mainly because they were walking distance from our home in the Back of the Yards neighborhood. We would always walk there with my Aunt Mari and my cousins.
Once she learned to drive, she took us to Marquette Park. My mother took us to play at Marquette Park a few times and I remember as we were driving west on Marquette Road once, she said that we would someday live in this neighborhood. I really thought this was just another one of her farfetched ideas that she would propose to us from time to time. I remember thinking that we could never afford to live in Marquette Park, especially after my parents divorced. I was shocked when I found myself living on Marquette Road itself: 2509 W. Marquette Road to be exact. My mother had actually bought a nice house in a beautiful neighborhood. Wow! Was I surprised when we actually moved there!
I also remember going to the Marquette Park fieldhouse in 8th grade for a wrestling tournament where I met someone whom I had met previously at Divine Heart Seminary for the sneak-preview weekend.
There were a lot of fears that the Marquette Park homes would be sold to African-Americans, so the seller told my mother when he finally saw her, “At least, you’re not black!” This is the neighborhood where Jesse Jackson marched down Marquette Road and was pelted by rocks and bricks.
Of course, I never wanted to move to Marquette Park because I was perfectly happy living in Back of the Yards. After a while, I adapted. I accepted Marquette Park as my home and Gage Park High School as my high school. But I was never genuinely happy there. However, I was happy to live in a Lithuanian neighborhood near Maria High School and the retirement home for nuns of the order of St. Casmir. I actually ran into some of my teachers / nuns from Holy Cross School in the neighborhood.
The focal point of the neighborhood became Marquette Park itself. I soon joined the Mar Par Chessmen that met on Tuesdays in the fieldhouse. The park was such a great place just to hang out. When I began driving, I would drive my ’75 Pontiac Firebird around the park at 65 miles per hour. I really loved driving that fast around the park drive. Looking back, I’m surprised that I didn’t get into an accident because I could barely control the car around those curves at that speed. When I began running seriously, I would run laps around the park. Eventually, I joined the Marquette Park Track Club–but that’s a Blog entry for another day!
When I was honorably discharged from the Marines, I found an apartment in the Marquette Park neighborhood. I felt wonderfully comfortable in the neighborhood. I lived there for six years until I bought a house in Bridgeport, but that’s another story!
As I was driving to the Mexican Consulate on the corner of Ashland Avenue and Adams Street today, I had to stop at the red light on Ashland at 31st Street, under the I-55 Stevenson Expressway.
Suddenly, I had one of those Kung Fu flashbacks–like in the TV show from the 1970s starring David Carradine. I thought, “Grasshopper, what’s wrong with this picture?” Then, I realized that the kung fu florist was missing.
Perhaps you remember him? He was an African American male between 20 and 40. His flexibility betrayed his actual biological age, so I wasn’t sure how old he was. He would stand on the median under I-55 selling flowers, although I don’t remember what kind, I remember that they were red.
You see, he had a bouquet in each hand and would execute his kung fu moves wielding the flowers as if they were weapons. Granted, he was very graceful, but the flowers suffered so much from his movements that I couldn’t tell if they were roses or carnations. However, I always enjoyed watching him perform while I waited at those excruciatingly long red lights. Of course, I never actually saw him sell any flowers! He was tireless, though. He was the epitome of perpetual motion. Today, I finally noticed that he wasn’t there anymore. I really miss him!
I have two incredible talents: 1. I can easily remember useless information for no apparent reason, and 2. I always attract people into my life who will complicate my life way beyond my personal management skills. As far as my ability to remember trivia, go ahead. Ask me a question. Do you know the chief export of Bolivia? Well, I do! It’s tin. What is Ulysses S. Grant’s middle name? It’s Hiram! Why does Homer Simpson say, “Doh!”? I know that, too. Well, Matt Groening, the creator of The Simpsons, used to watch the Laurel and Hardy comedies when he was a boy. Whenever Stan would get them into a predicament (with these movies, if there was no predicament, there was no movie), Ollie would get frustrated and say, “Doh!” So, Groening pays tribute to Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy by having Homer Simpson say, “Doh!”
My second incredible talent involves me, a shy, quiet, nice guy, who wants his life to be as boring as possible, getting more action than he had counted on. I don’t want too much excitement in my life. I don’t get bored if I’m not in imminent danger. In grade school, I was an altar boy; in high school, I lettered in chess; my idea of a fun vacation is to stay home and read novels for a few weeks. You know how they say that every time you leave your house you risk your life and expose yourself to certain death? Well, that’s the story of my life! I have always lived under the sword of Damocles!
Let me give you a few examples. When I was in high school, I entered a chess tournament at the La Salle Hotel in downtown Chicago. Now how exciting is that? Most people would consider a chess tournament boring, but I was excited and looked forward to playing the tournament. Anyway, as I was about to board the bus to go downtown, someone ran off the bus and almost knocked me over. When I got on the bus, a man was leaning against the fare box stopping the bleeding in his leg. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I knew enough to mind my own business. I told people at the chess tournament what I had witnessed, but no one believed me. When I returned the next day, a few people saw the incident reported on the news. Apparently, the two men were arguing on the bus and then one pulled out a gun and shot the other. The gunman pushed me aside and ran past me! Doh!
Once, as I was driving away from my apartment near Marquette Park, 3006 W. 64th Street, I saw someone whom I thought was a friend of mine. He was tall, lanky, shirtless, had scraggly, dishwater blond hair, scrawny arms, and was staggering a little. He looked exactly like my friend Porky (I never did find out how he got his nickname or what his real name was). Since it was hot outside and my car had no air conditioning, I had all my windows open. He was standing on the corner, and he said hi to me. Then, he jumped into the front seat of my car. Only then, did I realize that he wasn’t my friend Porky, but rather a total stranger who strongly resembled my friend.
He began to talk to me as if he had known me for a long time. I was fine until he pulled out one unopened beer can from his each of his front jeans pockets and tossed them on my dashboard. Plus, it was only then that I realized that he was drinking a beer as he walking. Then he pulled out a gun from his waistband. I thought he was going to rob me. But then he put the gun under the front seat, “Just in case we get pulled over by the cops.” I was glad to drop him off where he was going, and he told me, “We’ll have to party again real soon!” Apparently, he thought he knew me from somewhere. It wasn’t until much later that I realized what kind of danger I was in. Doh!
When I was a police officer, I also had a brush with death. But, wait! It’s not what you think. I was working inside a building at the Alternate Response Section answering telephone calls. I loved this job because I was away from the dangers of working on the mean streets of Chicago in a patrol car. I took calls from citizens who were crime victims, and I would determine whether to send a squad car to their house or have them make out a police report over the phone. How safe is that job?
Even if someone didn’t like me, they couldn’t shoot me over the phone. I felt very safe. Then, one day, I noticed my fellow officer who worked right next to me–one with whom I had talked for hours over several months–was conspicuously missing. I asked where he was and I was reluctantly told that he had died–of tuberculosis!
And I had been breathing the very same air as him for months! Well, everyone in the building had to document their contact with a communicable disease for the police department and then take a TB test. Luckily, we all tested negative.
I realize that throughout my life I have always been in constant danger. Doh! However, I’m convinced that I am Laurel and Hardy combined. Doh! I can honestly say, “I’m lucky to be alive!”
Chicago USA 