 |
|
|
|
|
Back To The Old Houseby Trebor Jacquez It wasn't until I was 22 that I found out the meaning of Navidad - that lovely holiday that comes but once a year. But it wasn't always lovely. When I was a child, Christmas usually represented one thing: gifts. For our familia, holidays were harsh - especially for the children. Papa had died two days before Thanksgiving three years ago. Mama did all the raising with the help, of course, of her three sisters, advice from her Nina and guidance from Abuelita. Holidays simply represented La Familia and each year the same thing occurred. Everybody who was anybody from La Familia got together at some cozy house, usually the house where Abuelita was. It would smell of tamales, bunelos, champurrada, and alcohol. Slowly, the adults got sillier and the kids grew restless. It never failed, year after year, that for one reason or another, some tio would start arguing and fighting. Then, several men would kick his ass to calm him down as his children watched in despair. "NO PAPI, NO PAPI, PAPA!" cried mi prima. The world inside this home was chaotic for only a few minutes. For Mama, along with her hermanas, always seemed to control everything. Soon, mi prima was laughing, the drunken one was asleep, and everyone was okay by it -except me. Outside I was fine, always Abuelita's favorite, but on the inside, I was bleeding from the violence and a father, who now lay dead. There en la cocina, Abuelita would make atole and soothe out my troubles with stories of her past. Looking back, it made me the person I am. But growing up was torture. Being a second generation Mexican without a father was a burden on Mama. She worked five days a week, 9-10 hours a day, plus she went to school to learn English, and still managed to put me and my three sisters through private school. We went to a school in which 80% of the students were white and the other 20% tried to be white. Mama spent so much to give us a good education that money was scarce. We had enough to eat and live, but not enjoy. Every Christmas, the kids in my class all got what they wanted. But every year, I was let down by Santa. All I wanted was my Papa back and not just any papa -but mine, the one that left three years ago. The other kids all wore Vans, O.P. shirts, Hang Ten t-shirts, Sergio Valente, Jordache, and Sassoon jeans. I wore something slightly different - not by choice. My pants were Huskies from the big boy section at Sears. Mama would buy them extra large under reasons that led me to believe she wanted me fat. The shirts that the kids in my class wore had either Le Tigre, a French crocodile, or the initials O.P. on them. Mine were imitation and from the swap meet - Mama's favorite hangout. First we'd go to misa, then Bob's Big Boy for lunch, and then we were on our way. Together we drove down San Fernando Road in the brown station wagon with Mama blasting her Vincente Fernandez or Rocio Durcal on the 8-track tape. Yes, it was Sunday, and I truly hated going with all them women. Time came, and years flew by. I didn't take the time to enjoy my early years. Santa never brought papa, and I simply stopped believing. I grew up. It was the holiday season in 1992. I was 22 and a wealthy friend of mine, Chris, invited me to spend Christmas with his family. I was 800 miles from La Familia. Slowly, I had gained my independence, explored my sexuality, and earned freedom from the past. I accepted his invitation. So on a cold, chilly December day, I made the phone call that would upset Mama. "¿Que? No entiendo hijo!" "What Mama? What don't you understand?" I replied with sarcasm in my voice. I paused a few seconds to hold that thought as I continued. "I said I am not, N-O-T, going to be home for Navidad. ¿Comprende?" I spelled it out loud and clear to show that I had made up my mind. There was silence from both of us. The tension was growing like wild vines in the rainforest. She began rapidly, and I could sense her tone strongly taking control. "No comprendo y no lo accepto! I don't accepto!" In broken Spanglish she rattled on, "Do what you want Roberto Alonso Jacquez! Do what your gringo friends do! Be selfish this Navidad, but don't expect forgiveness! Noche Buena es una vez al año, I expect La Familia to be together!!" Her voice sent chills down my back, and anger fused in me with ammunition. I struck back with venom. "To be together, for what? So one of your pendejo brothers can get drunk, and prove he's a man by being violent! And so all the pain-in-the-ass children can run around like animals!" The wires of anger connected our voices as I spat more poison. Poison that I had held for so long. "All these people exchange gifts that they really don't want or need! No thank you Mama. No more new underwear and sox!" I said, with words that came up faster than a pitchball. I waited for a response. "Mama? Mama? Hello are you there?" I knew what I had done. I had said too much and too fast. "Si, si estoy. Mira hijo," her voice now sounding weak and sad. "If that is what you want, fine. Enjoy your gringo navidad. I hope they give you all those material gifts that I can't. And remember all those children you call animals? One of those animals is yours. Feliz Navidad, or should I say 'Merry Christmas.'" -click- Damn! She did it to me again. I felt rage inside my body and tears fell uncontrollably. Why did she have to have the last word? Emotions tossed inside me like a whirlwind. This time I'm doing what I want. Fuck that! Fuck this! Fuck them! Every time we argued, she mentioned my son, and with that, she would get the last word. Yes, my son whom she raised. My son, David, whose mom was what my hermanas called white trash. My son, who has everything except for his papa at his side. Tears of sadness swept my face, and I could not control the anger. No mama, this time I'm doing what I want this Navidad. Within minutes the phone rang. Nope, not this time mama. If memory serves me right, you'll have your whole crusade of Latina guilt calling me to make me feel guilty. The answering machine picked up. Of course, it was my tia. "Beto. Beto. Betito, llamame, es tu tia Alicia." -click- Within the next nine days, I received 38 calls in all, not one from my mother. They were all in the hopes of getting me to spend Christmas at home in Los Angeles. Chris was an upper-class wealthy boy - born, bred and fed white. His mom didn't work, and his dad was into real estate. On our way to Houston, two days before Christmas, we conversed endlessly on the holiday subject. "Are you kidding? Your mom still buys you underwear?" Chris said, laughing about my family's ways. "Mom stopped buying mine at 14 when she found out I was jerking off. Yeah, dad basically gave me an allowance and taught me how to wash my dirty underwear." And slowly his stories went on. "Well Rob, this Christmas, you'll have a white Christmas not a brown one." We laughed endlessly at stories that brought back too many memories. This Christmas I was truly gonna enjoy a white Christmas. Christmas Eve came, and everybody was going somewhere. Chris' parents were going out with the Wilson's. Jennifer, his 18-year-old sister, was in South Carolina with the Marcy family. Mark played Sega and Jeff got online. "What is there to do? Why isn't everything closed, and everybody with their families?" "Nah, Rob. That's just how you Mexicans hang out." I smirked at what he said. "Us white folks do what we want - enjoy!" His empty comments usually didn't bother me, for that's how we played around. But these bothered me more. He laughed, and I smiled falsely as I gave him the finger. Christmas Day came and I finally called my mama. "Bueno, Merry Christmas," she said with her beautiful Latina accent. Tears swelled inside me and suddenly my throat got dry. "Mama, Feliz Navidad." "¿Como?" she interrupted me. "Hijo, Feliz Navidad. Mi vida, I miss you." "I miss you too, mama. How's la familia, is David okay? Mis hermanas?" I had so many questions. And with so much that had happened, guilt took over and slowly tears strolled down my face. "Hijo, estas llorando?" she said slowly . "Si mama, I feel guilty, ashamed, sad." As we talked, she smoothly did her magic. Magic that only mothers know how to do. She sprinkled her love with words so peaceful that, for a second, I wished that she could hold me in her arms and make it all feel okay. She listened patiently as I told her about my white Christmas with the Wilsons. I could hear her laugh as I said, "Mama, next year and every year after that I'm having a brown Christmas." "¿Café? Brown?" she said, puzzled. "Yes. Mama, all my life I always wanted a gringo Christmas. A Christmas like the ones we saw on TV where the family sat around the piano and everybody got what they wanted - including filled stockings. I wanted to sit around the chimney with open chestnuts and, and, and..." "Hijo, son," her voice trembled on the other line. Didn't I give you that? I know that times were tough but we still survived, didn't we?" "Oh mama. Si, si, yes mama!" I spurted. "You gave me more than I realized, but it wasn't until today did I see that Christmas is not about taking or even giving - it's about togetherness, unity, one - uno." "Go on!" she whispered intensely as she felt my energy. "It's about who we are -the brown people mama. The ones who drink champurado, toast bunelos, unwrap tamales, enjoy Noche Buena, and give little gifts but with much love." Tears of happiness fell uncontrollably and mama cried also without shame. On that Christmas day, 1992, I discovered the word unity, unidos, one, together and I ached of sadness, for I missed my proud but humble brown family. And more than ever, I wished I was in la cocina with abuelita, to see her stir that atole. For one day, I will be the one stirring that atole with mi pareja, mi hijo, mis hermanas, and my few friends all around the house. And one day, I will look at my son, David, and say - "Hijo, did I ever tell you why we celebrate BROWN CHRISTMAS?" |