Every Christmas, Grandma would buy the girls in the family new dresses. She bought them at a store called Carousel on Atlantic (in the same shopping center as the IHOP). Mom says the dresses were pricey, maybe $50 each. That was a lot in the 80s. It’s still a lot now, especially if one is buying dresses for four granddaughters.
This Christmas will be the 10th without Grandma. For a long time after her passing in January 2000, I was ambivalent towards Christmas as Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were the last days I saw Grandpa and Grandma, respectively, alive.
I’ve come around on Christmas but still miss Grandma and Grandpa. That feeling doesn’t go away.
One year, my mom’s extended family rented a cabin in Big Bear. We spent Christmas Eve there (complete with a visit from Santa — er, tío Pancho) and opened up all kinds of cool gifts like an Etch-A-Sketch® and Rainbow Brite. The best gifts were waiting for us at home beside the fireplace.
There, we found two bicycles, one black and one pink (with a basket!). I was amazed and convinced that Santa brought the bikes while we were in the mountains.
That night, Danny and I rode our bikes down the block and back to test them out.
My family typically hosts the Nochebuena celebration at our home in Hacienda Heights. We’ve been doing this since at least 1983.
I love the expessions on my Madrina Chilo’s (holding the mug) and tía Eva’s faces. They look beautiful. My Madrina Chilo sort of reminds me of a Mexican actress from la época de oro. Also in the photo: my cousin Patty (holding the toy guitar), an unidentified girl, and Mamá Toni in the middle.
I went home this weekend partly out of necessity (brother’s birthday, laundry) and partly out of a simple desire to be around my parents, siblings, grandparents and VR (the dog). Plus, I was jealous of my sister’s texts and Facebook updates about the fire going in our fireplace.
Home feels like Christmas. The tree is up and decorated with lights, ornaments and some Christmas cards. The nacimiento (sans baby Jesus, of course) is in its place, but this year isn’t surrounded by the elaborate Santa’s village. Dad strung up the lights on Saturday and put up our stockings. There’s a wreath on the door. Two Christmas lists made by Adrian and Lori are on the fridge. And of course, we watched a Christmas movie (Four Christmases).
I don’t decorate my apartment much. I’m not even sure where I’ve placed my mini Christmas tree. Thus, I’ll decorate my blog with pictures of Christmas past.
(Sidenote: judging from Hollywood movies, I’d assume that all white people dread spending time with their families during the holidays.)
I was telling a friend about this song a few days ago. I sang the first few lines, but stopped. I never remember the first two verses about the selfish cochinitos even though dad sang the whole song to us.
He’d take breaks from the adult songs (“Camino de Guanajuato,” “Volver, Volver” y “El Rey”) to appease us kids with some classics from Cri Cri. I loved these songs, especially when dad would do silly voices or add in the snoring sound of the sleeping piglets.
These days, when he gets out the guitar, I still ask him to sing “Los Tres Cochinitos” like I did when I was 6 years old. It never gets old.
Some day I’m going to learn to play this song so I can continue the tradition.
I’d just left a Day of the Dead event when I got the news. Lori called me. The moment she said, “I have some sad news” I knew it was about death.
She proceeded to tell me that our cousin Robert’s 18-year old stepson, Joshua, had lost his life the night before. It was tragic and unexpected.
A few days later, I drove out to Orange County to pray the rosario. I was late and I arrived just as the prayer had ended. I greeted Robert with a long, tight hug. It was the same kind of hug I gave him when he showed up at the scene of my car accident exactly a year ago.
“I’m sorry,” I said and truly meant it.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Robert let me go and I greeted other family members there to pray for Joshua. I looked over the flowers, two dozen prayer candles, photos of Joshua with his mom and brother, and tiny stuffed animals placed at the corner of a yard. I read intensely personal notes left from friends and his mom, but stopped as I felt I was invading someone’s privacy.
I drove for an hour and 45 minutes, but was only at the site for 15 or 20 minutes. I said a temporary goodbye to Robert, he’d be at the house in a few minutes to have dinner with my family.
Robert pressed a rosary with purple beads into my palm and formed my hand into a fist.
“Grandpa says, ‘just ’cause you got here late doesn’t mean you escaped praying the rosary.’”
I smiled and nodded.
“Besides, it’s your mom’s rosary.”
I took the beads and put them in my pocket.
“Whenever we would complain about praying before bed, my dad would bring up Grandpa. He says that Grandpa made them pray the rosary every night… and on their knees! Grandpa didn’t mess around.”
I vaguely remember the day dad lined us all up for this photo: Mother’s Day 1984.
It was like a day at Olan Mills, except dad was the photographer and the background was a dark blanket. Dad took photos of all his siblings’ families. And then there was the requisite shot of all the nietos, the cousins.
I don’t know if this was the outtake or if there’s a photo that exists where all 15 of us are actually looking at the camera and smiling. I doubt it. And if it did exist, I wouldn’t want it.
My parents wanted to name me Veronica. Dad liked the idea of calling me Ronny. They passed on the name after a couple close friends chose the name for their newborns.
Cynthia came to them from a baby book. I don’t know what they liked about it, but just know that it met their primary qualification: it sounded good in English and Spanish (to avoid aCameron/camarón) situation).
They rarely use Cynthia, just as they rarely use Daniel and Laura. I’ve always been Cindy, except when it comes to a place like the doctor’s office or the DMV. Or when I got in trouble.
I didn’t think about this much until I read “My Name,” a vignette in Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street in high school. I wrote a short essay and concluded that Cindy fit me better. It was short, bouncy and casual. Conversely, Cynthia was too long, formal and sounded inherently snobby (only in English, I like how it sounds in Spanish).
I didn’t even consider the meaning of my name. After all, this was well before I fully developed my affinity for the moon and came to really appreciate my prominent lunares.
A few weeks ago, after a great run under the full moon, I came to new conclusion about my name. Mom and dad knew what they were doing.
It wasn’t too late when I left Hacienda Heights. Fifteen minutes later I was in East LA and slowing down for road construction on the 60 westbound. I decided to get off a few exits early and take a different route to my friend’s house.
I exited the freeway to find the normally busy intersection at Whittier and Lorena quiet at 11:30. I drove down 6th street as if going to my aunt’s house a few blocks away.
The light at the intersection of Lorena and 6th turned green and I started down the big hill on 6th. When I was a kid, I’d say “weeeee” as my mom or dad drove down the hill on the way to Grandma and Grandpa’s or Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni’s house.
This time was different. In the front and to my left I noticed two men. One pushed a shopping cart. The other charged toward my car, as if in anger. My heart quickened with fear, I made sure my doors were locked and stepped on the gas while sort of swerving around the man. I barely stopped at the stop sign up ahead.
Five minutes later after arriving at my friend’s house, my heart was still beating quickly. (more…)
I’d just left a Day of the Dead event when I got the news. Lori called me. The moment she said, “I have some sad news” I knew it was about death.
