I enjoy lazy Sunday afternoons with my parents and siblings. During a commercial break from The Goonies on ABC Family, my dad recalled a birthday ice cream sandwich from Diddy Riese. I took him before we headed over to the Dodger game. Dodgers lost, but at least the ice cream sandwich was yummy.

I was in New York when I got the first call on Monday.

“This is Lily with StoryCorps. May I speak to Cindy Mosqueda?”

“It’s me.”

She went on to tell me that a small portion of the interview I recorded with my dad for StoryCorps back in February had been selected to possibly be aired on NPR’s Morning Edition. The portion was about my father discussing Grandpa’s hobby (if you can call it that) as a sobador in Boyle Heights.

I tried to play it cool. Really. But inside, I was excited and plain old geeked. Very few StoryCorps interviews are played on NPR.

Lily asked me several questions and did her fact-checking duty. Sean waited patiently as I answered the questions and explained what Grandpa’s workshop looked like.

“Do you remember your grandfather doing this?”

“Yes, of course.”

Lily’s call came a few days after I took my dad to a Dodger game. During the game, we once again talked about Grandpa’s affinity for the Dodgers. Dad said he never remembered him going to the game. He was too busy attending to his patients and Grandma’s needs.

Except for Sean, I kept the news quiet, as it still seemed up in the air and they needed to talk to my dad too.

On Wednesday, I got a second call from the producer, Nadia. She had a few more questions to round out the information about Grandpa. She also played the clip for me. It had been a while since I heard it and I cried.

A few minutes later I got a message from my dad. He admitted that when he agreed to do the interview (last minute too ’cause Alex needed to find someone to fill the opening-day spot for the East LA stop on the Historias tour) he never imagined that Grandpa’s legacy would be shared over national radio. “Pretty cool,” he added.

I only wish Grandpa and Grandma could hear it too.

My dad and I will be on NPR Morning Edition tomorrow at 5:20 am and 7:20 am. The web story is currently up (sans audio as of the time this was posted). I’ll be up early to listen!

Two corrections for the web story: my dad as 5 sisters (3 older, 2 younger) and 2 brothers; Grandpa passed away in 1996. Everything else is accurate.

When I first signed up for StoryCorps Historias, I planned to take Papá Chepe, my 89 year old maternal grandfather.

I’ve always been a bit of a Grandpa’s girl. Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni sold their Boyle Heights home in the late 80s. They still had homes in Tijuana and El Cargadero, Zacatecas. However, when they were in LA, they stayed at my family’s home. Thus, I got to spend a lot of time with Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni growing up. I’m grateful for this as well as the opportunity to have learned more about my grandparents’ youth. I’ve interviewed both grandparents about their immigration stories, but this was the first time I recorded the stories.

In the interview, Papá Chepe speaks about being a feisty toddler, dating in 1920s Zacatecas, being a bracero and working in the lettuce fields of Salinas, coming to LA for the first time, his family and his proudest achievement. That would be donating his home in Tijuana to an orphanage. Oh yeah, he also tells the story of el blanquillo that I’ve always loved.

The entire interview is in Spanish. I apologize in advance for my pocha accent.

Historias de José Ureño

I watched as mom slipped on a pair of shoes and clipped a sponge curler into her bangs.

“Adrian’s taking me to the Hat. Ask him if you can go too,” she suggested.

I shook my head, “I already told Danny I’d go with him to 5:15 Mass. Besides, I just had some chili cheese fries from there last week. Do you know you can get tomatoes and pickles on them?”

“Really?”

I changed subjects as she put on a light jacket.

“Mom, how often do I ask you if you love me? Once a month? Every other month?”

She thought for a moment before answering. “Probably every other month.”

It sounded about right.

The questions started in high school after she brought home Mama, do you love me? from the kindergarten classroom where she worked as a teacher’s aide. The children’s book focuses on the unconditional love between mother and child.

The sweet story resonated with me and soon I found myself imitating the little girl in the book.

“Mama, do you love me?” (Or papa, I posed the question to him too.)

Mom would half-smile at me. “Of course, I love you.”

Dad would respond, “Yes, daughter-child. I love you.”

It wasn’t as if I’d never heard the words from them before this point. My parents are affectionate and honest. Mom would sneak a note in to the bags I packed for a week away at Girl Scout camp. Dad would remind us he loved and cared for us after a stern lecture.

Years later, I still ask. I want to hear the words. I often go days and weeks without seeing them. Thus, the words provide some of that warmth I miss from their hugs and home.

But I don’t need to hear “yes, Cindy, I love you” like I used to. Instead, I see it as I ask for help or support. They come through. Always. They’ve been doing it my whole life.

“You must have a really great family.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you haven’t moved away yet.”

Before our StoryCorps Historias’ session, I emailed my dad a list of questions and topics I wanted him to talk about. Once in the recording booth, I hardly referred to my questions and the topics I’d brainstormed earlier in the week. I just had to ask a couple of questions and dad did the rest. He can talk. Of course, I knew this.

We spent most of the 45 minuted interview talking about dad’s “little life,” or his childhood and youth. Dad touched on the joys of living on a dairy farm in Texas, playing stickball in the streets of East LA, how Grandpa truly touched people, and how he played Sabor A Mi during an assembly at Garfield High School. I originally planned to share parts of the interview here, but after listening to our discussion, I’ve decided I don’t want to edit it down.

I’ve uploaded the entire interview. You can listen to it or download it below:

Carlos’ “Little Life”

Since dad and I showed up on opening day for East LA we got a chance to talk to some media folks. Check out the LA Times story. Guess who was quoted.

And… many thanks to my friend Alex for being a great facilitator.

What was it like when your family left Texas and came to California? How did Grandpa learn como sobar? Where did you meet mom? Why did you guys call yourselves los Marcianos?

I know the answers to these questions. As a kid, I loved listening to stories of dad and mom’s “little lives.” Dad has a way of making the sad stories of his childhood somehow funny. Mom’s stories are filled with mischievous deeds, cleverness and narrowly escaping punishment through simple luck and collusion with a sympathetic sibling or brother-in-law.

In college, I had the opportunity to delve into my family history as part of my coursework in Sociology and Chicano Studies. I interviewed Papá Chepe about being a bracero and asked dad a dozen questions about Grandpa’s ability to heal people with his hands.

I wanted to know how the macro forces of the 20th century affected my family.

Why did your family leave Salamanca? What was it like going to school in Texas in the early 60s? Do you remember the East LA blowouts?

Later today, I’ll put on my inquisitive hat once again as I participate in the opening day for StoryCorps Historias in East LA.

Dad and I will talk about his life, his family and especially his parents. Sadly, by the time I got very curious about family history, Grandpa and Grandma had already passed away. Dad’s stories will be recorded and hopefully I can share some of them here.

I won’t stop with dad. In the near future (what dissertation?) I’d plan to take my digital recorder and do like Studs Terkel.

I thought about her all day. I looked at photos and wondered how to best commemorate the tenth anniversary of her passing. Brunch seemed like a good idea, but I woke up too late for that. A visit to the cemetery in East LA would have been good too, but I had a long day at work and there would be traffic. There’s always traffic. I settled on coffee. Grandma loved coffee, but I never really developed a taste. I drink it occasionally, the cravings having come after I had my first really good cup a couple years ago.

I didn’t have a cup of coffee until after dinner with friends. (Which explains why it’s 2:45 am and I’m not sleepy.)

When I got home, I searched through my archives for the piece I’d written about the day she passed. I didn’t need to do it again, an advantage of being a long-term blogger (and before that I wrote everything in journals). There’s also a downside to this constant chronicling. As I re-read old posts, I find myself back in the same place I was in January 2000. And once again, I get teary eyed and the pain is fresh, kind of like when you scrape off the scab over a wound.

Below, I’ve pasted a post from the old blog. Minutes after I wrote this, I learned that my Madrina Bertha had passed away after a battle with cancer. RIP, Grandma and Madrina Bertha.
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My favorite things about this photo: Rene’s (bottom left) expression and sweater.

Every Christmas Eve, Mamá Toni leads the family in a Rosario. At the end of the Rosario, we do the adoración del Niño Dios. The doll is always dressed nicely in a little outfit made by Mamá Toni.

Two children are chosen to be the padrinos and hold the baby Jesus doll as the rest of the family kisses the doll. Afterward, the doll is placed in his proper space at the center of the Nacimiento.

In the photo above, my cousin Patty holds the Niño Dios while Tony (her brother) gives him a peck and my tía Luisa waits in line. I think I was holding a second doll (we usually have two).