GORDO
My cousin Gordo was crazy, flat out crazy. Like his namesake says, he was big, bigger than all of us. He had a scar across his face that he got when he was only nine years old after he stole a car. He stole a '65 Chevy that belonged to one of the eses from around the way. He hit a patch of oil or something and the car slid out of control. The stick shift smashed right through his nose, and now he has a metal plate in his face. We would always try to stick magnets to his face, but then he would kick our ass; he was too big. I don't know why he decided to steal the car, but I imagine someone dared him to. If you dared him to do something he would do it. Jump off the roof, smash a window, grab a girl’s butt, whatever--it didn't matter, he would try everything once. It got him into trouble a lot, but that was his niche. You have to find a niche to get out of here.
COUNTRY MUSIC
I love country music. All my cousins do. We would wake up every morning and get dressed for work before the sun came up. All of our moms would be making tortillas and eggs and packing lunches. My dad and my Tio's would be getting the tools ready to head out to the fields. We would try to get as much work done as possible before the hot sun came and scorched us. It would get so hot sometimes; all the clothes we had on would stick to us. But we had to keep the bandanas wrapped across our faces or else we would breathe the veneno.
At lunchtime my cousins and I would run to the pickup and turn on the radio. It was the only time during the whole day we could breathe easily and take off those stupid bandanas. We would all try to cram into the cab of the pick up, eat lunch and turn on the radio, which only played country music. We would try to figure out the words and sing along: well you get the fiddle and you get out the bow, kick of your shoes and you throw them on the floor dance in the kitchen till the morning light Louisiana Saturday night. That's all the English I knew for a long time.
BASEBALL
Keep your chin tucked. Weight on your back foot. Follow the ball to the bat. Chop down on the ball. Don't uppercut. Where are you looking? You are looking into the leftfield stands. I told you to keep your head in tight. Keep the bat still. Don't lift your front leg so high that it throws of your timing. Both hands on the bat on your follow through. You are not Daryl Strawberry. Back elbow down. Time the pitch.
Stay in front of the ball. Take it like a man. Take one for the team. Keep your eye on the ball; it won't hurt less if you close your eyes. Don't pull your head. Butt down. Knees bent. Both hands; you are not Kevin Mitchell. Throw with your legs not your arm. Follow through. Take your time.
MY FIRST BASEBALL GAME
My cousin Javi took me to my first baseball game. He told me everything I needed to know about life in one car ride. Never let a woman come between you and your goals. Always use protection. If she says she is on the pill use protection anyway. Don't let the gringos get to you. Don't trust them. They will always try to fuck with you. They love to see you fail; they want to see you fail. Listen to your mom and pops, they have been through a lot. Blood is thicker than water. Your family comes before all. If you do have kids take care of them, be a man. Don't be afraid of anyone, except God.
TRES VECES MOJADO
Jesse was from El Salvador. He taught me how to box, which helped me a lot the first time I got into a fight. His family came during the war. They had crossed El Salvador, Guatemala, and Mexico, all by foot. He would tell us things about Mexico that we didn't even know since we hadn't been there in such a long time. We would all sit in amazement of the things they used to see. He would tell us about the new train in Mexico City that traveled underground, that you would close your eyes and when you opened them you would be in another part of the city. He used to tell us that we were lucky because we only had to cross once. “El Mexicano da dos pasos y aqui esta, hoy lo hechan y el siguiente dia esta de regreso, eso es un lujo que no me puedo dar,” Jesse would say.
Our families got along okay. They looked Mexican and they spoke Spanish, but mom would say, “They are not like us, they suffer more than we do. We are just mojados. They are tres veces mojados.”
STORYTELLER
My Tio Chuey married my dad's oldest sister. Like my grandfather, my Tio Chuey was an Indian. Except he was from Oaxaca, he wasn't a Yaqui like my grandfather. I loved listening to him talk. He would try to make us go down to the store and buy him a six pack before he would tell us his stories, but then my aunt would quickly remind him that this was not Mexico and that they don't let kids buy beer here. Then he would go off for about half an hour about how the gringos had too many laws and they don't let people live.
“Yeah, the gringos have too many laws,” I would agree.
“No digas tonterias,” answered my aunt.
“Well they do…” I tried to argue, but I knew it was worthless.
“And what do you know? You are just a kid.” That was their favorite one, whenever I said something that didn't remotely make sense, they would tell me I was just a kid and that I haven't lived life yet, and I don't know what it's like to be an adult.
But my uncle didn't pay any attention to her and I learned from him to ignore her as well. He would sit there for hours telling us stories about the homeland and the struggles and the way things should be and how the pinche gobierno took everything frorm the indios. He would tell us stories about how the world came to be that didn't involve Adam and Eve or anything else we heard in church. My aunt would get mad at him, “Don't tell the kids that,” she would yell. But my uncle was a stubborn man who would yell back some groseria and continue with his story. Sometime he would get a little too drunk and began to ramble off in a language I and my primos couldn't understand. We all thought he was crazy or just really drunk. I found out later that he was speaking in his indigenous language, called Nahuatl.
GORDO GOES AWAY
It was no surprise really he was caught selling drugs, but hey you got to feed your kids somehow. Everyone knew he was headed there. After all, he had to try everything at least once.
SSN
We got pulled over again. It was Friday night and Laura and I were coming home from the movies and it was late.
“We are looking for two Mexican males,” the officer said. Laura looked at me confused. I just shrugged. “May I have your social security number ma'am?” the officer asked.
“Don't give it to him, babe.” I whispered to her as she glanced over at me, even more confused.
“What did you say, boy?” he asked, damn near beet red in the face.
“I told her not to give you her social security number.” It was the summer of my freshman year in college and I had taken some pre law courses and I decided to open my mouth and show off some of my knowledge.
“Get out of the car.” Oh fuck, here we go. I know I'm in trouble. I know he has no probable cause. I know he has no legal grounds. I know that I don't have to get out of the car. I know I am not under arrest. I know that I did nothing wrong. I know I got pulled over because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time and the wrong color. I know I have a big mouth. I know there is such a thing as knowing too much. I know nightsticks hurt and now I know what an emergency room looks like.