My mother always loved to help everyone in any way possible. If she met a family that was down on their luck, she would help them, even though we were just slightly better off than them.
Once when I came home after school, I went to my room to read my comic books and–they were all gone! I asked my mother where they were, and she said she had given them away. She said, “I didn’t think you wanted them.” Of course, I wanted them, but my mother had helped a family and their boys needed something to read! But why my comic books?
When we went to Mexico one winter, we had our fun there for two months. But then, as we were leaving, my mother, with great ceremony, made us give all our clothes that we had brought with us to our cousins.
We went back to Chicago with little more than the clothes we were wearing. I had to give my favorite boots to my cousin. You know the kind: yellow leather high-top construction boots. I argued with my mother the day before we left about this, and I refused to give away my favorite boots. As we were putting our luggage in the car to go to the train station, my mother told me to give my boots to my cousin. Since all the family was standing there giving us a warm sendoff, I didn’t argue. I gave my boots to her, and I hugged her warmly and we kissed each other before we left.
When I went to Mexico last December, she reminded me about the boots that I had all but forgotten. She told me how much she enjoyed wearing them and how she always thought of us because she wore my boots. Only then, did I feel happy about giving my boots to her.
I’ve already mentioned how when I went to Mexico everyone seemed to comment on my American accent when I spoke Spanish. Well, my written Spanish is much better than many of my Mexican relatives. I often get letters from Mexico and some relatives just don’t use accent marks that are necessary when writing in Spanish. When I e-mail my cousin in Mexico, she is always amazed that I write much better in Spanish than her, even though she’s a native speaker. Another cousin constantly IMs me. Every so often, she asks me how her Spanish is. I tell her it’s surprisingly good, even though she doesn’t spell very well, doesn’t capitalize at the beginning of sentences, and doesn’t use any punctuation. Some of my Spanish students have seen these types of writings in Spanish and then question why I insist that they use accent marks and ñ and all things Spanish. Well, the main reason is to show that you have been educated. It works for me because my cousins take more seriously when I write proper Spanish.
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!
Mexicanismos are words or phrases in Spanish that are unique to México, but may not be familiar to other Spanish speakers, also known as Hispanophones. French speakers are Francophones and English speakers are Anglo-Saxophones.
Anyway, in Mexico, people use words and phrases that are unique to that region and are commonly misunderstood by other Hispanophones. At UIC (University of Illinois at Chicago), we have graduate students who come from all over the Spanish-speaking world, most of whom specialize in linguistics. They can spot the dialect and region of most Spanish speakers almost immediately. Some have trouble identifying me because I have my American accent and I use words and phrases from almost every dialect that I’ve ever heard. I’m like a sponge in this regard. Sometimes, someone will throw their hands up in the air and just ask me where I’m from. They’re often surprised to hear that my parents were from México. My cousin’s husband thought I spoke with an Argentine accent. Once, a friend and I were speaking, and then I didn’t hear something she said. So, I said, “¿Mande?” and she said, “¡Ajá! You’re from Mexico!” That simple little mande gave me away as a Mexican.
Once, at the end of the semester, a professor from Argentina told us that she would bring us a torta for the last day of class. To most Mexicans and me, a torta is a type of sandwich that is served on a bun with meat and other condiments. I didn’t eat before class because I wanted to be polite and eat everything that was offered to me. Well, she came to class with a torta, but it was a cake, as in a pastry for dessert. I left the classroom hungry that day.
Another time, I brought some Thanksgiving leftovers to UIC for lunch. A graduate student from the Basque Country in Spain asked me what I was eating. I told her guajolote and camotes. She didn’t know what I was talking about. For her turkey was pavo not guajolote and yams or sweet potatoes were patatas not camotes because they didn’t differentiate between the various kinds of potatoes in Spain.
I have a friend who grew up in Seville, Spain, and we once had a minor misunderstanding. He told me that his car had broken down: “Se me estropeó el coche.” Being the nice guy that I am, I wanted to be helpful, so I offered him a ride: “¿Quieres un aventón?” I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was a little upset when he replied, “¿Y yo qué te hice?” You see, to a Mexican, un aventón is a ride, but to just about any other Spanish speaker un aventón implies some kind of physical violence. I explained to him that I only wanted to help him by giving him a ride to wherever he wanted to go, and I am happy to say that we are still friends to this day.
Another graduate student from Spain taught a class that had many Mexican American students. She frequently used the word coger, meaning “to get” or “to pick up” when she spoke not realizing that to Mexicans coger is a profanity that refers to the act of sexual intercourse that begins with the letter “f.” So, one day, she talked about picking up her dog: “Cogí mi perro.” She was surprised when the class began to laugh until someone explained to her what she had said.
While I was in México, I learned a few more mexicanismos. My cousin used the diminutive “-is” instead of “-ito, -ita.” For example, she went to see her “amiguis” instead of her “amiguitas.” Before we went to visit my cousin David Rodríguez in Celaya, everyone refered to him as Davis.
In the U.S. we have Spanglish, which is the mixture of English and Spanish, but I only thought it existed north of the Rio Grande (In Mexico, they call it El Río Bravo). For example, you take an English word like “to check” and make it Spanish: chequear, instead of comprobar or some other Spanish word that already exists. Anyway, they have a similar word in Mexico: checar. Several street venders approached me and called me jefe, showed some product they were selling, and said, “Checa esto.” Or “Check this out,” in English. So, this word is a little different than the Spanglish word chequear because it’s a mexicanismo. Or maybe it should be called inglañolismo.
I always thought of an aquarium as un acuario, but to my cousin in Celaya it was el pecero. I had never heard the word before, but I knew exactly what he meant. Then when I was in Mexico City, when people talked about taking the bus they still called it el camión, but now a lot of people also called it el pecero. That made perfect sense because if you look at the buses with their large windows, they do look like aquariums with people swimming inside instead of fish.
If you park your car in México City, you’re likely to meet el viene viene. He is a self-appointed parker of cars and is often found on public streets and grocery store parking lots. He doesn’t officially work for anyone. He’s just there–and everywhere else. You can’t miss him. He pops up out of nowhere waving his salmon-colored mechanic’s rag as you park your car. As you back up, he tells you how far you can back up by saying “Viene, viene.” When you get out of your car, he’s standing next to you with hand, and you’re supposed to give him a tip of two pesos or so.
Then, there’s also the aguinaldo that is a bonus that most employees receive before Christmas and before el Día de los Reyes to buy holiday gifts or pay off debts. At Christmas, children received candy bags. They were told, “Come get your aguinaldo!”
My maternal grandfather, José Guillermo Martínez, is another family mystery. My mother told me several stories about him, but I’m not sure if any of them were true. Although they may be based on truth, my mother embellished them beyond recognition. My cousin and I compared stories when I was in Mexico and all the stories seem to be plausible to a certain extent.
My mother absolutely loved her father, and many things often reminded her of him. She would tell me about him on these occasions. I really believed all these stories for most of my life.
When I began playing chess religiously in high school, she told me that I reminded her of her father because he always loved to play chess. People would always go to visit him so they could play him at chess. One day, my mother asked me what the highest chess ranking was. I told her chess grandmaster. She then said, “That’s what my father was! A grandmaster!” I was truly proud of this fact! No wonder I suddenly developed this interest in chess. It was in my genes.
I started bragging about this little interesting tidbit about my grandfather to my chess friends. My friend Jim asked me what my grandfather’s name was, so I told him. A few days later, he gently broke the news to me. My grandfather was never a chess grandmaster, or even a master. Jim had looked up the names of all chess masters and grandmasters who had ever lived. If my grandfather were really a chess grandmaster, his name would have appeared on one of those lists. I was so embarrassed. I told my mother about this little discrepancy in her story, and she brushed it off as if it were nothing. I told this story to my cousin in Mexico, and she had heard that our grandfather did like to play chess but didn’t know much else about his chess career.
My mother also told me that her father’s father had come to Mexico from Ireland during a potato famine. His surname was either McLean or McLin, but she really wasn’t sure. Well, he met a Mexican girl, and when she got pregnant, they killed him. That’s what my mother told me when I was a boy.
My cousin had never even heard this story. She had heard that he was possibly Jewish and possibly from Germany. He had studied electrical engineering and had many books on the subject in German. He also knew various languages. My cousin’s mother told her that they called my mother and her sisters, las judías, again suggesting that my grandfather was possibly Jewish.
When my grandfather was on his deathbed, my mother flew to México from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, to be with him. I went, too, but I was still a baby in my mother’s arms. My mother was so concerned about his spiritual well-being in the afterlife that she told her father that she would get him a priest to administer him his last rites. My grandfather indicated that he didn’t need a priest and said, “If he comes, I’ll talk to him. But I won’t confess.” My mother never told me that story.
Chicago USA 