Trouble had been brewing for a few weeks before the war erupted by the large wooden table of our home in Mexico. Though the details of the outrage are foggy, I recall that the conflict lasted several hours and I ended up falling asleep watching a National Geographic TV special of the gilded prince Tutankhamen and the curse that surrounded his resting place.
It was in the late hours of the night that my father’s hand broke my slumber and asked me to find my jacket. Though a little confused by the scene I knew from experiencing that questioning my father never yielded any pleasant results and after a few minutes of stumbling in the dark I found my Dallas Cowboys jacket and took his guiding hand that headed to the front door.
It wasn’t long after my back got used to the awkward angle of our Renault’s front seat that I drifted back to sleep. Hours later, I awoke to the chill of the morning and the hub of the Benito Juarez International Airport. This being my first experience with terminals, moving cars and the loud whirring sound of plane air planes, I was fast awash with a feel of curious dread.
Unfortunately, my father’s quick steps, muttering of obscenities, fumbling of paperwork, looks at his watch and wrangling of my hand while carrying an old blue duffle bag let very little chance that any of my thousand questions would ever be answered. Instead, I followed his prompts, scooted faster when he nudged at my back and wondered what my mother would make of this early morning adventure.
My first flight out of Mexico was exciting. The sense of wheels parting with the concrete was imprinted in my memory and it still ranks high on my favorite things about air travel.
During our hours in flight I asked my father about our trip. He was relaxed as he shared that he hoped to show me Disneyland for the first time and that we were on our way to the United States together. Excitement turned to overwhelming thrill upon hearing the news and I would have hugged him except for the knowledge that men in our family didn’t do that.
My thoughts then turned to my mother and I wondered why she had chosen to not join us. When I asked him about it, I noticed that his smile turned, the vein at his neck quivered and his shoulders dropped for a half second before they rebounded and his face turned towards me. All he said is that my mother would not join us on this trip and that we shouldn’t speak of her while we were away. I slumped into my seat as I understood his words as the newest law to respect.
We arrived at Tijuana’s International Airport and after a night at a hotel, we rented a car, crossed the border and made our way north on the 5 freeway. My father and I played a game of counting all the “Cinco al Norte” signs along the highway. A game I eventually lost as it turned out to be as effective as counting sheep.
When I awoke, we had arrived to a city named after a man not favored in Mexico and parked the red Mustang at a motel that boasted a pristine pool where I observed a pretty blonde girl play that afternoon from the window of our room.
As the day turned to night my father asked me to go to sleep as our trip to the magic kingdom awaited in the morning. It was then as I drifted into dreams in this latest new place that I cried as quiet as I could missing my mother and wishing she was there to be part of our fun.
Disneylandia was more fun and exciting as anything I had ever experienced. Sadly, the overwhelming sights left no real memories but the impression of being in a special place have stuck with me. Even now as I see Mickey’s face below the train station as you enter the park I get that same sense of excitement.
It was later that day…as another day’s light began to wane my father called me to the phone booth where he had been speaking heatedly with someone.
As I picked up the receiver I heard my mothers hurried voice come through the black speaker. Despite the occasional crackle her voice came through and I was overcome with happiness. I told her all about the day and she took in every single word as if it was worth a million pesos. Towards the end, as my father prompted me to hand him the phone she asked me when I’d be coming home. He over heard and told me to reply…”soon.”
As he grabbed the phone and I said my final good-bye I wished her a “Feliz Dia de San Valentin.”
