Cinco de Mayo is another Mexican holiday that our Mexican family never celebrated. I never even heard of it until I was old enough to drink alcoholic beverages. I think that it has become a beer company holiday in America, just as Hallmark converted Valentine’s Day into a lovers’ holiday in order to sell Valentine’s Day cards. Beer companies would love to see Cinco de Mayo become a Mexican St. Patrick’s Day! Lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of publicity about the celebration for it. Chicago had a Cinco de Mayo parade downtown on the same day as the Polish Constitution Day parade. Personally, I don’t understand why anyone would celebrate Cinco de Mayo. On May 5, 1862, Mexicans defeated the French at Puebla, just west of Mexico City. However, the Mexicans then went on to lose the war and were ruled by the French until 1867. Is this cause for celebration?
Peppers and salsa are a daily part of Mexican life.
I heard on the radio that salsa is the number one condiment in America! And I was glad to do my part to help.
You see that pepper underneath this blog post? I did my part to publicize salsa over the years. So Mexico, or whoever it is who makes your salsa, can thank me whenever they have time.
I’m following in my father’s footsteps. My father, who always carried a jar of salsa with him wherever he went, always had to have his salsa on everything we ate, from Burger King to Dunkin Donuts.
This is such a happy moment in my life, even though I don’t eat that much salsa, thanks to my father. He always wanted me to put salsa on all my food. Once when I was about eight years old, he made some salsa and wanted me to try it. At first, I refused. But then he told me to try a small cube of potato that he took from the salsa. He was happy when I did. But even the potato was spicy! It had absorbed the hotness of the salsa. It’s no wonder I don’t like to eat salsa very often.
When I was a boy, one of the scariest people of my life was la llorona. La llorona had no children of her own because she had killed them. So she wandered around after her death looking for her children so she could rest in peace.
I never actually met her, or even saw her, but my mother always told me that la llorona was always looking for me or any boy or girl who didn’t obey their parents. She usually came out after dark looking for children who didn’t listen to their parents and stayed out too long into the night. If la llorona saw us, she would snatch us up thinking we were her children. Apparently she didn’t have very good eyesight.
Who was she? I don’t know since I never actually saw her, although I could always feel her presence. No matter where I went, in Chicago or México, la llorona was always nearby. I know this for a fact because my mother always reminded me.
When I was about six, my mother told me how she actually saw la llorona in Huatusco, Veracruz. When my mother was a girl, her mother told her to go to bed at sunset, which she did. But when my mother thought her mother was asleep, she sneaked out of the house through a window and she went to visit her friend who also went out her window to meet my mother.
They were wandering the streets of Huatusco–there were only two back then–at night and no one was out. That’s because all good boys and girls were home in bed sleeping. Suddenly, they felt a cold breeze and saw an old woman walking toward them. When they finally realized it was la llorona, it was too late to run away. La llorona grabbed my mother and her friend by the wrist and she was taking them away. Somehow, my mother managed to escape. But her friend wasn’t so lucky. She was never seen nor heard from again. My mother ran home and immediately went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep because of the fright she had just suffered.
The next day, the whole town is wondering what had happened to my mother’s friend. Finally, my mother speaks up even though she knows she’ll get in trouble. Well, everyone in the town was satisfied with my mother’s explanation and her mother didn’t punish her because she had been punished enough because she actually felt the cold hand of la llorona.
What about the missing girl? Well, she had it coming to her because she had disobeyed her parents. All the parents in the town made sure that their children knew about what la llorona had done. So, whenever I wanted to stay out late and my mother wanted to go home, she would remind me of la llorona and how she would snatch me up.
Now that I think of it, I have also had some memorable Spanish teachers in addition to Enrico Mordini at Divine Heart Seminary. My first semester at UIC, I made sure that I registered for a Spanish class. I took a placement test on which I scored poorly. When you sort of know Spanish, as I did then, you manage to talk yourself into the wrong answer many times just because it sounds right. I had to take a second placement test in the Spanish department because I had a Spanish surname, I admitted that I came from a Spanish-speaking family, and I still actually spoke Spanish. Sort of. For the placement test, I had to write in Spanish and explain where I worked and what I planned to do at UIC. This was actually exceedingly difficult for me because I only studied Spanish for two years at Divine Heart Seminary and I didn’t really apply myself because I was just a rebellious teenager. I occasionally wrote letters in Spanish to Mexico, but they were usually truly short. So, I wrote this little essay in Spanish, and they placed me in Spanish class for heritage speakers. This class consisted of students from Spanish-speaking backgrounds who sort of knew Spanish, but not really.
I will always remember our first Spanish instructor. She was a teaching assistant from the Dominican Republic named Juana. She insisted that we call her Jenny. I think she wanted to fit in with the rest of the Americans. As a side note, I was always, and still am, amazed by the fact that graduate students would come from Spanish-speaking countries to UIC to study Spanish. Anyway, Jenny was quite a teacher. When we took exams, she would look it over and tell us we might want to look over a certain answer. When I did, I realized that I was wrong, and she gave me a chance to correct my mistakes. She came to Chicago in September, and she was amazed at how cold it was: about 60 degrees Fahrenheit! The next week, the temperature dropped to about 50 degrees. When I saw her walking to class that 50-degree day, she wore a full-length winter coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves. She couldn’t believe how cold it was in Chicago. Just as a warning, I told her that it would get much colder in just a few weeks. I also reminded her that it also snowed in Chicago. Once winter arrived, she would only take off her hat, scarf, and gloves, but keep her coat on. She would shiver during the whole class. When she graduated with her master’s degree, she immediately went back to the Dominican Republic.
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.
Chicago USA 