Category: Mexico City

Rebar to the Head

The drop of blood landed with a plop on my bathroom sink. I was in a hurry and in a careless swipe of my razor blade I nicked at an old-old scar that protrudes slightly from the lower part of my mandible on the left side of my face. I don’t usually think much of this imperfection and it has been years since I’ve touched it but in a moment of pause I rewound the clock to a warm day in Xochimilco, Mexico when I was a young boy. 
There on a plot of land I found myself not too far away from my parents playing on dirt as workers busied themselves around me, hauling bricks, making cement, drinking Coca-Colas and trying to stay away from my dad who was in no-nonsense managerial mode. Construction of our new family home was in full swing and the work crew were so motivated that they hardly noticed me wondering about the place on unsteady feet marveling at the speed and efficiency these men worked at. I tried to find a place to help. Sometimes I struggled to bring a man a shovel. Sometimes they would let me use a hammer. Mostly though I was asked to help entertain my baby sister who I resented for getting in the way of me having adventures. 
During a break in duty I saw some gravel being delivered and I wanted to play with the rocks. I stood and without reservation bolted to opposite side of the year while brushing off my moppy hair from my eyes. In my haste I failed to notice some bricks left on the ground and in a moment I was under gravity’s control. From the ground an incomplete column of bricks stood and from the corners standing straight up a reddish shoot of metal was waiting to greet me. The piece of rebar that speared me just below my mouth pierced my flesh at a sharp angle and easily moved its way into whatever cavities are designed into the human skull. Whatever shrieks I gave brought attention to me quickly and past that I do not remember much. 
Doctors called it a miracle. I call it luck. In either case, the morning’s drop of blood reminded me to stay steady on my feet and always look several yards forward as best you can.

Too Far to Help

I have heard and seen my mom cry many a times in the last 40 years. I’ve been responsible for some of her tears. 
This past weekend she broke down long-distance on the phone but her sobs were much different from those I’ve witnessed…but still recognized. From a file buried deep in my memory bank I recalled a moment of sadness of hers from over 30 years ago. Late one night I awoke and heard some rustling near my bed. We hadn’t had power for days and I had come accustomed to the darkness so I spotted her faint silhouette quickly. There in her cot she cried. It was silent but distinct and I got the feeling that if my sisters were not sleeping nearby it would have been much much louder. 
Last Sunday on the phone this woman I’ve known all my life tried her hardest not to crack but couldn’t help herself. Her Mexico house has intermittent power, my grandmother (who she’s caring after) had a hard fall, she got some odd news from a doctor, there’s no water readily available to her neighborhood and a boy up the street from her died when a light-pole fell. The weight of all this is resting heavy on her shoulders and she had to reach out somehow. 
It was hard to hear her. Harder to know that all I could do was just listen and give her what little reassurances I could. I feel like I did that night when I was a kid…not able to help my mom when she needs me most.

Jugando

The school bus dropped us off about 400 metros away from home at Avenida Chapultepec.

Walking or running to our property was a simple straight shot and often my mother would allow me to run on ahead and greet folks about the safe neighborhood. She often strolled far behind carrying my sister (Luz), my backpack and at time some groceries.
In those early days it was not uncommon to come across a friend and invite him to come over and play in our vast yard that was riddled with dozens of good hiding spots where we could plot and plan adventures like the heroes of the cartoons we watched on Saturday mornings.
That one afternoon, I met him sitting on the dirty street floor by our fence with his back was against our brick wall. He wore brown pants that were rolled up at the bottom and exposed his thin lower legs. He wore simple sandals. The shirt was almost white but it was obvious that my new friend had been playing on the dirt as his wears were covered in randomly scattered patches of deep dark dirt that laid about his chest section.
His name (he said) was Angel.
Despite the dirt his smile was radiant and welcoming and from the moment he hollered an “hola” I felt that this was a worthwhile chap to play with. He was shy but surprisingly funny and we shared a few jokes before my mother caught up to us.
As usual, she was scrambling to find her keys to our large red iron gate and as usual Luz was in an involuntary uproar over being stuck in the cloth carrying device that my mother engineered each and every day for her. Food would need to be ready in a couple of hours time and her mind was on the task at hand. Needless to say she didn’t bat an eye when I asked her if my new found friend could stay a few minutes and play in the yard.
When she agreed….two bolts of lighting careened past her and I couldn’t wait to show him my favorite hiding spots throughout the property.
He didn’t talk much but I was glad because he let me talk. I even shared my most intimate secret.
I wished that one day Matzinger Z would somehow appear at our yard and I would board him and save Mexico from its problems. The economy (as my mother explained) was not doing well and on top of it the dogs had been acting strangely around the property and some other special friends had mentioned some odd event that was due to come. Therefore, if trouble was coming Matzinger Z would help and if I played my cards right I could fly all the way to Los Angeles just like that man who had landed at the Colosseum in Los Angeles the year before.
He let out a roaring laugh and made fun of me. No way was there a city name after him he chuckled and put his hands to his mouth as he giggled uncontrollably at the concept. I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.
He shared too but his dreams were simpler. Angel desired only to visit the beach and drive a car.
Minutes ticked by and before we knew it I heard a loud scream coming from the house. Dinner was ready, the skies were darkening and the day would end soon. Angel and I made plans to play again but as we talked about the next day he grimaced and grew sad. He explained that his trip here was brief and would cease before September ended. With a solemn and kind smile he told me that he was glad to have meet me and that he hoped that he could stay longer. Then he put his hand to my face and stroked my cheek with his thumb and I then knew not to fret too much as the days ahead unfurled. 
I felt safe as he looked into my eyes. Without speaking I felt a rush of feeling from him that coiled about my chest. My father (who was away in the US)  was okay, he would return to us and no matter what near struggles to come we’d survive.
My mother shouted once again from the house and with a start I looked at Angel and he was dashing off. But just before he reached the Red Gate he looked back, smiled and waved goodbye.
Never again did I see him.
—
About a year later, after the disaster happened and my father returned home for a quick visit, my mother and I talked one night about the previous year. Then I told her about Angel.
She sat at our kitchen door stunned and paralyzed with the exception of a trinity of tears at her face. 
That was the night that she first introduced me to the photo of her father Angel.
He died of lung Cancer. His wishes were simple…to see the ocean and drive a car.

A Head

My father scolded me harshly for playing at eastern corner of our residence on a cloudy Spring afternoon when I was about six. He had planned to create a garden there and had spent the earlier weekends tilling the soil.

My mother had explained to me that it was an escape from his grueling and psychologically draining work as a homicide detective in the Mexico City of the early 1980s.

From the window of my bedroom or from the shifting angles of my swing I watched his sweaty back, sun burnt shoulders and thick legs work in unison to plunge the shovel into the dirt and heave mounds of dirt that crumbled apart when they reached a few inches off the ground. It awed me that he could work 4 or 5 hours at a time with only a few lemonade breaks or an occasional beer that my mother would bring with a hearty refried bean, chile, avocado and ham torta.

Perhaps it was an act of rebellion that I decided to play in the island of loose dirt that he had worked so hard on. It had been one of my favorite spots of the yard to play in and I had been annoyed when he announced and described the planned garden to friends during our family’s yearly New Year’s Eve party. For a while I thought he had forgotten but then in early March he cordoned off the area with sticks and string and the special place was off limits for my baby sister and I.

When he spotted me that Sunday, I was doing cartwheels in the dirt. It was fun to feel my hands dig into the soil and I loved its coolness and how it dirtied my fingernails. His yell was powerful even from a distance and I grew cold when I heard it. By the time he reached me I was prepared for the worst but surprisingly he shooed me away gently with a warning not to do it again. This was a welcomed break and I resolved right there to comply.

—

The fever began early the next day. At first it meant taking one day off from school but when the stomach pains and severe headache sprung upon me my parents became alarmed. It had been about a week and no aspirin, tea or simple treatment helped. I was taken to a pediatrician who ran a few tests but failed to identify the problem. I was sent home while they studied further and it was then that I lost my appetite and for the next two weeks I began to loose weight rapidly.

Day after day my condition worsened and I felt terrible for causing my parents pain. My mother held her tears back as she placed countless moistened towels on my forehead. I saw a quiver at my father’s lip as he scoured my gaunt chest, thinning legs and ashen cheeks for clues or answers. I was slipping away slowly and there was nothing the they or doctors could do to stop it.

The weight of the situation drove my father to take a break and return to his work on the island of soil. A small tree he had planted early into the project was dying and he would take it out and replace it. As the shovel broke away the dirt and moved into the ground his foot felt the resistance of an object. It must have struck him odd as he had tilled this part and he was certain that no large rock or pipe layed beneath his feet. With curiosity he dug some more, pulled out the dying tree and in the whole he found a brown sack.

His fingers shook as he unfurled the burlap’s thick and stubborn knot. When it came undone a waft of stinking hot air moved up his nose. His surprise came in that he wasn’t surprised by the smell for he had encountered it before in his everyday work. It was the smell of decomposition and it belonged to the head of a large black cat.

—

My grandmother showed up later that evening and performed the ritual. She had been estranged from my parents for a few months and I had been surprised to see her. At my bed post she laid down a pack of cigarettes, a bowl, what seemed to a weed and a couple of eggs.

It hurt to cough as she blew cigarette smoke onto my face and I felt a chill tickle when she pressed the cool eggs about my naked body. The weed I saw smelled sweet and it soothed me as it brushed against my legs, feet and arms. I fell asleep some time during the event.

That night my parents burned the head, the blackened egg yolk and then prayed.

The next morning I awoke. The headache was gone, the fever had subsided and I asked my parents for a hearty breakfast.

A slab of concrete sits a top my father’s garden.

Disneylandia

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.”

Guayavera

My father wore Guayaveras,

Despite their casual nature, the men that would frequent our home in Mexico and smoked the strong cigars wore them like tuxedos.

I often marveled at the intricacy of the weave. Imagined a day when I could sit around our court yard with my own and join the men who told the stories, blasted out obscenities and told the dirty jokes with my father.

At the end of the evening the men would leave. My father had enjoyed too much cognac and his nose would be red.

Then I knew I would pay penance for the day’s trespasses. For the broken dish at the party, or falling down off the tree and scuffing my newer shoes.

The belt would sail through the air and strike. Often until he lost his breath and tired out.

Then my mother would relieve him of his shirt and put him to bed.

On the morrow…the shirt would be crisply hung. Ready to be worn again.

Oh Christmas Tree

The skies were cloudy when the last bell of the year rang at Malabar Elementary and we were released to our parents for the holiday break. I had lost my jacket a few weeks earlier and my thin gray sweater was too thin to keep the Southern California winter breeze from jarring me when I stepped out of the school’s main building.

The fourth grade was turning out to be challenging and confusing. I had started the school year knowing little-to-no English and I was just now slowly starting to find my way around the new language and the friends that it game me access to. I said my good-byes to a few key people and made my way to my mother who awaited with my two little sisters at the corner of Fresno Street.
Her year had been interesting too. She had moved our family from Mexico City to the U.S. to meet my father who had made his way here to make a new life for us. Seemingly timid and always proper, she struggled to acclimate to the new language, currency, my father’s work hours and a culture that she considered lost. Nonetheless, her family had to be whole and she left her homeland and made East Los Angeles her new residence.
My father worked security at the local hot spot and market. His job entailed catching thieves that picked the pockets of tourists, solving disputes between the vendors and breaking up fights between sweaty drunks who had enjoyed too much tequila at the upstairs bars. He worked around the clock enjoying the physical aspects of the job. Taking pride in the baton he wore, the badge at his chest, the occasional use of his fists and the women who frequented his office. Silvio was the head of security 12 to 16 hours a day and despite his efforts his pay was just enough to cover the basic needs at home.
That day at lunch, Santa Claus (the school’s vice-principal) had visited our class and dropped off presents. I was one of the lucky ones who picked a red remote control race car from his satchel. The boys in class sighed heavily when I tore the blue wrapping paper apart and drew from it the shinny box that held my prize. They flipped over the large rugged tires on the box’s picture and most congratulated my luck. Then, above my shoulder, a boy named Freddy said, “the good gifts always go to the poor wet-backs, he doesn’t even have a Christmas tree.” The room stood quiet for a moment and then the silence was broken by a tepid round of snickering once they realized our teacher hadn’t heard. I didn’t know what a wet-back was but I knew the word poor and I knew that it wasn’t good.  
I ran to the corner of Fresno and Malabar and reached my mother holding my prize. I could hardly contain myself and she had to shush me a handful of times before I could begin to detail the day’s events. We walked the mile back home hurriedly and the cold breeze was sharp and hurtful at the ears. Then on Blanchard street I asked her if we were poor.
She stopped and reached for my shoulder so that we stood squarely to each other. She asked me why I asked and I told her what Freddy had said. She looked up and then seemed to search the streets for something. When she found it she stretched out her arm and asked me to retrieve it.
On the opposite side of the street, a small branch from a fir rested. Perhaps it could have fallen from someone transporting a tree home for the holidays. It was no more than a foot tall and some of the needles towards the wider end were starting to turn brown. I picked it from the ground, joined my family and finished our walk home.
After supper was over, my mother asked us to turn off the TV set at the kitchen table which rested against a wall. The house still had the scent of fried rice, re-fried beans and tortillas. The windows wore the steam from the boiling coffee pot and help turn the light in the room warm. From the bedroom, my mother produced about a half dozen of magazines. Inside them, she said in Spanish, are “pictures of snow globes, tree decorations and presents”. “Cut out as many as you can and make a pile.” My sisters and I worked for 30 to 40 minutes. We fought, laughed, took breaks and finally finished with a healthy mountain of cut outs. When we thought it was enough we called my mother into the room.
She came in with the branch and some clear tape. After a minute of scanning the room she asked me to unplug the television and remove it from the table. She had found the spot.
With great care she taped the branch on the wall and laid a white bed sheet on the table. She created peaks and valleys by putting two soup cans under the sheet. Then her hand took one of our cuttings and showed us carefully how to tape them to the wall and decorate our tree.
My sisters and I took the next few minutes feverishly attaching cut outs to the wall. We put up pictures of ornaments big and small. Pictures of Santa, Jesus, snow globes, shiny lights, tinsel and finally presents.
When we were done, she asked us to take a step back and brought us close together.
She then said.
“We are not poor. We have each other. This year we won’t have presents but I promise you that next year we will. Your dad and I will do what we can to make every picture of a present taped to the wall come true.”
A tear had rolled down her cheek by the time she finished her last sentence and I felt guilty for bringing up the word “poor” and winning the car. She hugged us and told us to get to bed.
Just before I did, I caught her cutting a picture of a star from a JC Penny catalog and taping it to wall a top our Christmas tree.