Category Archives: Familia

Old school

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My grandma only compliments my looks when I wear an apron Sometime in the late 80s, Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni sold their Boyle Heights home. My family’s Hacienda Heights home became their default residence while they were in LA, away from their homes in Tijuana and El Cargadero, Zacatecas.

As one might expect, our three bedroom, 1.5 bathroom house felt crowded with eight people spanning three generations sharing the space. The physical aspect wasn’t ever that big of a deal except when the grandparents went to bed early on the living room sofa bed and we had to be quiet in the kitchen. No, what took more time to adjust to mom and Mamá Toni’s often clashing opinions on how the house should be run.

Mom has always had all four kids help out with chores both in and outside the house. I had to help in the kitchen more often than my brothers, and they had to rake the leaves of mow the lawn more often than I did. There were times when the roles would be mixed and Danny would be doing the laundry or ironing. And we all had to help trim la mora and clean up the huge mess (the mulberry tree in the front yard).

Mamá Toni was quick to express her disapproval of this set-up. She scolded Mom for letting Danny iron his own pants and called me and Lori lazy. Once when she saw dad washing dishes and helping mom clean up after dinner, she told mom she was embarrassed.

My grandma’s old school attitudes stressed out mom who saw talking back to one’s parents as taboo. Mom had to find a respectful way to tell her own mother that in her household it was okay for her husband to help wash dishes and her sons to wash their own dirty socks.

After living with my mom for 20+ years and nearing 90, Mamá Toni has calmed down a bit in her strict division of labor. After she got sick and was hospitalized in 2004, she even let Papá Chepe wash his own dishes after lunch. I was flabbergasted when I saw this as I’d never seen him even take his dish to the sink or warm up his own tortilla. I’ve seen him do this a few times since, and it’s still strange for me.

Every once in a while, Mamá Toni will still speak up when she sees something that conforms to her view of the way things should be. On Sunday most of the women in my family complimented me on my cute new dress. Mamá Toni said nothing about the dress and only complimented me when I put on my apron so I could make a green salad and protect my white dress.

“Que bonita te ves con tu pechera,” she said. [Translation: You look so pretty with your apron.]

The only time she ever compliments my looks is when I’m wearing an apron. I’m okay with that. The apron is pretty cool.

The reactions

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A few years ago, I had a conversation with Alex about how one should spread the news about an engagement. I’m unsure if he had already asked his girlfriend to marry him. It was definitely before the Facebook engagement to Sean. Either way, we agreed that some people should not find out about life changing events like engagements or pregnancies via FB. I kept this in mind last week.

On Monday night after Sean proposed, I kept the news to my parents and siblings (except Adrian, he has an early bed time), a couple of my closest friends and roommates. Sean only called his best friend as everyone else was already asleep on the east coast. Neither one of us mentioned anything on FB or Twitter.

I spoke to Adrian as soon as I woke up on Tuesday morning. I told him the story I’d repeat several more times as I called other family members and more of my closest friends. I was often initially congratulated and asked about the marathon. The transition to the engagement was a little awkward, but all that faded away as soon as I broke the news and got some incredulous, but very happy responses.

Sean shared the news his friends on the east coast. Before I got out of bed, I had a half dozen posts on my FB offering vague congratulations.

I proceeded to email and send FB messages to cousins, aunts and uncles. Afterward, I posted on Twitter, FB and the blog. Sean did the same. I would have loved to wait to share until another mini family reunion, but containing the news was almost impossible. The nice thing about using email, FB and Twitter is that all those reactions are saved to more than just my memory.

I went through the reactions again this evening. It was a good antidote to the stress I felt Sunday night as Sean and I talked about a timeline — next fall sounds good, at least right now — and began checking out overwhelming wedding planning blogs and websites. I’ve posted some of the reactions from family and friends below. I’ll come back to it as I plan and stress to remind me that they’re not people on a guest list, just another plate at dinner or dot on a seating chart. They’re people who love and care for me and Sean and I’m blessed to have them in my life.

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The Tijuana house

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Last year when I interviewed Papá Chepe at the East LA StoryCorps booth I asked him about his proudest life achievement.

I was a little surprised by his answer.

He admitted that he was proudest to have donated his home in Tijuana (what I call the Tijuana house) to an orphanage, Hogar San José de Calasanz (HOCATI). My grandparents came to this decision after their home had been on the market for years. They’d had some problems with the house too. There were break-ins, and a car crashed in to the garage (no one was hurt). As they aged, they spent less time in Tijuana and their other home in El Cargadero, Zacatecas and more time at their LA home, also known as my family’s home.

I grew up going to Tijuana frequently. Each time my family went, we’d have birria downtown in a restaurant with stuffed cow heads mounted on the walls. Aftweward, we’d go shopping. I usually came home with a shiny pair of patent leather shoes. I’d scuff them up the next weekend chasing kids and imitating my mom’s dance moves at the next party.

For us kids, the Tijuana house was a bit boring. We couldn’t watch our typical cartoons. Instead we explored the house. We’d rattle Papá Chepe’s collection of Miller High Life glassware and neon signs as we ran around the second floor. We’d run up the cool metal spiral staircase in to Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni’s room. We’d crawl in and out of the tiny door in to the garage… until we got scolded by Mamá Toni or my mom. We’d have Azucaritas for breakfast and churritos with limón y chile from the store down the street for a snack.

Sometimes, we’d sit out on the second floor balcony and stare at the thousands of homes crowded on the Tijuana hillside. We’d walk down to the third floor, which had been made to apartments, and explored the outdoor laundry area and small garden.

I was too young to understand why my grandparents had three homes in Tijuana, East LA and Zacatecas. I didn’t know that Papá Chepe built the house nor that when Papá Chepe came to the States to work, he moved his family to Tijuana so that they’d be closer to him. It was in this period that my tío Chuy got lost in downtown Tijuana. He was just a little boy, no more than six years old. The family was rightfully worried and looked for him everywhere to no avail. That evening, he was brought home by a mysterious, short and chubby man. My family thinks it was the Santo Niño de Atocha. When extended family migrated north from Zacatecas, they often stayed at the Tijuana house on the way to the states.

While the Tijuana house was a significant part of my childhood, it was less so in my teens and almost absent in my 20s. I’ve only been to the Tijuana house once in the last 10 years. In 2005 I stayed with Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni for a couple of days before flying out with them to Zacatecas for Christmas. Rather than run around the house, I spent it going through old albums identifying tías and tíos as children and teens. The house was like a museum of my family’s history.

All of that history has been removed from the house. The furniture stayed. The home is large enough to house about 15 children. Currently, it’s being readied for teens to move in. My family is very committed to HOCATI. My grandparents and parents have visited the children and taken them toys. When they donated the house, my family knew we’d be supporting HOCATI for a long time. Last fall, my mom sold all of the avocados on our tree and donated what she raised. (There were a lot of avocados, at least 300.)

This Saturday, March 19th, my family will host a fundraiser for HOCATI at our home in Hacienda Heights. It’ll coincide with el Día de San José, which we always celebrate as it’s Papá Chepe’s saint’s day.

At the fundraiser this Saturday, we’ll have lots of great food for sale as well as entertainment. If you’d like to stop by for some tacos, sopes, tamales, or enchiladas or would like to know how to donate to HOCATI, let me know and I’ll send you the invite.

Question of the week: Sibling influence

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Last week during Jaime Hernandez’s talk, I started to think of how my own siblings, especially my older brother, Danny, had influenced me. Jaime is one of 5 children (4 boys). He said both of his older brothers had influenced him, but when it came to comics and writing it was mainly Gilbert. Jaime spoke of Gilbert with the kind of admiration you admit to strangers, but never to your own sibling.

I’ve done the same thing. I’m pretty sure I’ve written kinder words about Danny, Lori and Adrian here than I’ve ever told them. I’ve also never thanked them for unknowingly influencing my interests and habits.

Danny is about 20 months older than me, but because of his December birthday, he was only one grade ahead. Because of this, we were often enrolled in the same childhood activities like baseball, children’s choir and ballet folkórico together. I don’t remember choosing those things, but being a shy kid, I enjoyed them much more because Danny was there. I chose to be an altar server because Danny had been one for a few years before. Similarly, I picked trombone in 7th grade because my brother and cousin Robert both played. I likely would not have been in band if I didn’t know about Danny’s experiences his freshman year. I was a shy and bookish kid, but Danny was outgoing. He helped me come out of my shell.

Lori is the reason I’m running the LA Marathon. She’s the reason I took to running two years ago. I’d run before, but without Lori’s advice and her encouragement, I probably would’ve picked another activity for exercise. I cheered on Lori at her first half and full marathons. At the San Diego Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon in May ’09, I was at the finish line with her boyfriend at the time. I’m pretty sure I cried a little as she finished. I’m sure there are more ways she’s influenced me, but running is the first to come to mind.

Adrian and I share a lot in common (we’re both Virgos), but he’s also 5 years my junior and I’m less sure of how he’s influenced my interest. In writing this post, I could only think of Harry Potter and certain bands when it came to his influence. Maybe I’m not thinking hard enough, or maybe we’re already a lot alike.

La Pregunta: How have your interests or habits been influenced by a sibling?

Another Sunday, another long run

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This morning, I ran 21 miles. Once again, I tagged along with students. This time it was the Mt Gleason Runners out in Sunland. The team’s coach, Craig Moss, put out an open invite on Twitter and I jumped at the chance. I’d had a great experience with the Hamilton HS runners, but they were doing 10 miles this weekend and my training plan called for more. I knew running with the MG Runners along a new route with support would be great motivation. And it was.

The MG Runners are a big group with several adult runners. For the majority of the run, I was near students (good since I’d lost my map and was unfamiliar with the area and course). The views of the snowy mountains of the Angeles National Forest were quite awesome; I wished I had my camera. Parents and volunteers manned 5 water stations with gummy worms, oranges, bananas, water and Gatorade (much better than my GU Chomps). One of the parents even brought an RV for her station at mile 13. Impressive.

In a short break between mile 17 and 18, a parent asked if I was one of the students’ parents. In between water and orange slices, I told her no and explained the Twitter open invite. I found the concept of being a middle school kid’s mother amusing until I realized I was old enough to have a 12-14 year old. I thanked her once again and continued on my run. Some students offered “good job!” as I passed them. Shortly after, I caught up to a man who said his son was running in his second marathon. He was training for his first. We chatted a little and then concentrated on the hills.

If I was a runner in middle or high school, I know my mom or dad would definitely be at a water station. My siblings and I were lucky enough to be involved in lots of activities as kids. My parents paid for us to participate in Little League and take other classes, they bought the necessary equipment (cleats for baseball and soccer, botas for ballet folkórico), drove us to all the practices/games/performances, and watched us play and perform. When we were in the high school band, they were active in the parent booster club. Dad helped set up for half-time and pre-game shows. Mom helped hem uniform pants and jackets. When our high school hosted a day-long band competition, they were out there all day. I took their presence and support for granted back then. I just assumed all parents gave up their Friday nights and Saturdays.

The parents out there this morning reminded me of my own awesome parents who are still the best support I could ask for*.

As for the run, I felt much better physically and mentally than I did two weeks ago for the 18-miler. I fueled much better today with Chomps (1 pack), gummy worms, orange slices, water and Gatorade. The ~20 degree difference in weather definitely helped too. I was also free of the self-doubt that hit me hard in the last few miles two weeks ago. During the tough part of the run today, I repeated my mantra (¡Sí se puede!) and concentrated on getting up the hill rather than wonder what I was doing training for a marathon. I finished in 3:40:56 (10:31 pace).

Many thanks to Craig Moss and the MG Runners. I look forward to seeing them in 28 days (!) running from the stadium to the sea.

[*Sean and Lori are great too. Sean had ice waiting for me when I got home. Ice baths used to sound so torturous, but now I look forward to them. Lori comes through with great advice, massages and discounts on athletic gear.]

The Snow

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I decided a few minutes in to my long run on Sunday afternoon to go north so that I could begin the “out” portion of my out-and-back with the mountains in view. Due to all the rain in the last week, the mountains are capped with snow.

As I ran north along Azusa Boulevard and then west along Temple, I kept wanting to stop and take a crappy cell phone photo of one of my favorite views in LA. But I didn’t. I just stared at the San Gabriel and San Bernardino Mountains and zoned out.

I used to go up to Big Bear or Lake Arrowhead in the San Bernardino Mountains often. As a kid, I just called it The Snow as if it was a place. My parents would get together with their siblings or compadres and split the cost of a large cabin for the weekend. A whole bola of Mexicans would get cozy for the weekend. I loved it as it meant there were plenty of kids to play with and each night was like a slumber party. My family went once or twice a year, enough to warrant buying snow boots, ski suits (we didn’t ski) and sleds. I loved playing in the snow, especially sledding down a big hill. I was never as adventurous as Danny, who quickly earned the nickname Evel Knievel. We continued going to The Snow often as I got older. My parents had friends who owned cabins and would let us borrow them. Those trips were usually just immediate family, but still fun. In high school, I’d go to Lake Arrowhead for weekend retreats with the St John Vianney youth group. Most of those trips were in the spring or summer, but occasionally we’d go in the winter. If there was snow, we’d still make time to sled, snowboard and build snowmen.

I went up in college too, usually on MEChA retreats. On one retreat during winter quarter, it started to snow outside. My friends ran out to play in the snow, but I refused to go out. I was warm and comfortable inside and not dressed for snow. My friends didn’t care if they were in jeans and Chucks. They were too excited to play in the snow for the first time. I stayed on the couch and watched them played. They made snowballs and tossed them at each other just as I had when my parents first took me to The Snow as a little girl.

It’s been six years since my last trip to The Snow with extended family. There was no snow on the ground and rain kept us indoors. It was a great trip with lots of delicious food and laughter as we played games and watched movies.

I’m still waiting for a do over of that trip. With snow, of course.

Christmas Past: Boys and their toys (1984)

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¡Feliz Navidad!

I spent Nochebuena at home with my family. We ate delicious food then attempted to burn it off with playing Just Dance 2. There was lots of laughter, singing, adoration of the baby Jesus, and of course a visit from Santa.

***

I love this photo of Danny and our cousin, Agustin, for two reasons. First, they’re just cute and exuberant boys enjoying their new toys. It makes me miss the days when there were lots of kids tearing apart presents on Christmas eve. These days we’re all grown up and there are just a few small children.

Second, I can’t help but look at the photo and think politically. I can’t turn off being a Chicana even on Christmas. I think of it as a play on the concept of a reconquista. I bet the image of two small brown boys holding guns (one pointed at the photographer) is the kind that strikes fear in the hearts of those who favor SB 1070, oppose the DREAM Act, build walls along the US-Mexico border and deport us all.

From Tepeyac to Hacienda Heights

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I was raised to be a Guadalupana.

This happened long before my parents met at the youth group at Assumption Church. I’m pretty sure it was before Mamá Toni learned to pray the Rosary or Grandpa made dad and his siblings kneel down to pray the rosary every night.

But I don’t know that far back. I just know that my affinity for La Virgen is undoubtedly influenced by my elders. My parents and grandparents rise at dawn on el Día de la Virgen de Guadalupe (or the Sunday preceding the 12th of December) to go pray and sing Las Mañanitas with other devotees at church. Mom typically dresses up in traditional clothes. Dad always takes his guitar as he’s part of the church choir.

When I was a kid, I slept through the early morning prayers, but would not miss 8 a.m. mass and the subsequent party at our home parish, St. John Vianney. Like my mom, I’d dress up in traditional clothes for mass, which was packed more than usual with hundreds of Guadalupanos. The church might have been more full than on Easter Sunday. Mass on la Virgencita’s feast day was festive. A mariachi would come and play “Las Mañanitas” as well as other songs like “La Guadalupana” with the regular choir. Aztec dancers would offer up their dance in the aisles and at the foot of the sanctuary. Sometimes there was even a reenactment of the story of la Virgen’s apparition to Juan Diego. There was no way I would nod off with sleepiness on la Virgen’s feast day.

After Mass, we’d proceed to the party at the O’Callaghan Center for delicious food, more music from the mariachi and dancing with my folkórico group.

I’ll be up early with my parents and grandparents tomorrow.

I miss the celebration.

De pollos y privilegios

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I wasn’t leaving my parent’s house, just loading up my car and clearing my laundry baskets from the living room. As I loaded the trunk with my baskets, Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni looked on from their swing beneath the broad shade of la mora (the mulberry tree).

I put the second basket in, closed my trunk and walked over to them.

“Your trunk is big,” Papá Chepe observed. I didn’t argue or try to explain that my old car had a bigger trunk.

Mamá Toni agreed and added, “You can fit a couple of pollos in there. Two, no three, one on top.”

In case you’re unclear on the terminology, my grandparents had just sized up my car’s usefulness for smuggling migrants across the border.

I remained silent, took a seat between them, and listened as they told me about my cousin, V, and her husband who live in Arizona. Well, lived. V’s family is one of thousands of families with mixed immigration status and citizenship. She and her two daughters are citizens, but her husband is not. I had no clue about this until recently; it’s not as if I ask my family members if they are here legally or not. I’m unsure if V’s return to Zacatecas is related to SB 1070, but do know it has to do with her husband’s immigration status.

My grandparents didn’t seem worried or even saddened about V’s family’s move. They used the same matter-of-fact tone as they had discussed my trunk’s ampleness earlier. I was a little saddened. I rarely see my cousin and her family. I had just seen V reunited with her siblings and parents scattered from California to West Virginia in the spring for her niece’s First Communion reception. There were a lot of joyful tears at that surprise reunion.

That afternoon, I was once again reminded that I’m not as removed from the recent immigrant experience, especially that of undocumented immigrants, as I tend to believe. My mother and father’s families migrated legally in the 60s. They have the benefit of legal residency or US citizenship. My cousins were born here and thanks to the 14th Amendment, we’re all citizens too. We can access federal and state financial aid (yay loans!), work legally in this country, obtain an ID or driver’s license, and travel freely to Mexico. We don’t “live in the shadows” nor fear that local law enforcement will turn us in to ICE if stopped at random traffic checkpoints.

I get angry and upset over the lack of any real immigration reform, the stalling on the DREAM Act, and Arizona’s SB 1070. But it’s an anger over general injustice. It’s all kind of abstract until it affects my family.