I'm Mexican and I love it; but I didn't used to.
As a kid at Tice Elementary in Houston white-bred teachers would ask me if my family was Italian. I'd stretch my neck above my shoulders and agree.
'Yeah, we have relatives in Sicily.'
I didn't know where Sicily was or what it was mind you, or that it was even an island at the tip of a boot shaped peninsula, or that pizza was in fact not invented there, or that it was surrounded by Mediterranean waters that homed shores to every country seeming exotically cultural from a Houstonian's point of view. I just knew it was somewhere in Italy and definitely not in Mexico, which was a perfect clearance excuse from the labeled spic-hood I feared being subscribed as.
Cringing to the sound of my first name being pronounced incorrectly '' 'Mary-o' (which thankfully Nintendo sorted out years later with the smash hit Mario Bros.) 'and feeling a bit like a tamarind pod rather than a candy cane in a majority white district where blue eyes are called Brad, stereotypical comments such as 'you probably eat lots of beans and tortillas huh?' and 'arriba arriba, andale andaale!' never quite felt welcoming and always embarrassed me. So I started giving emphasis on the second syllable of my family name and dragged out the last 'o' to give it a 'Bon giorno!' feel to it: Zam '¢ BRan '¢ O! And voila; I was Italian. It became second nature to tell my classmates how awesome my marinara sauce was, which brought incessant concoctions of bolognese evenings in the Lorne Dr. kitchen every Friday night before watching a movie on HBO. And for a brief few years during my childhood, I actually did believe I was Italian. My father even liked the idea when I mentioned it to him and would nod his head with agreement.
But being a little brat Mexican in Houston was an irony in itself, because one must be proud of where he comes from, while not forgetting who he actually is as opposed to who is pretending to be.
I remember my mother and her tactics in making sure I wouldn't forget that I was indeed Mexican. She'd nudge my shoulder at family visits like some sort of cue to start speaking Spanish so that everyone could witness that her youngest spoke fluently; but a more accurate way of putting it is ... she'd pinch my forearm and make it burn like a fire ant bite! Her round eyes would glare and her smile would look curiously cheerful and terrifying just like the Poltergeist clown, sending that hidden message to obey. But you know what? I'd refuse down to the gritty pit of my gut and spurn to speak it. If I spoke, it would mean I was Mexican.
I proved to her that I could win ' 'Rey Cabezon' 'even though I was only six years old. If I didn't want to speak then I wasn't going to. I didn't care if she thought it was cool to be bilingual or that it would help me in the future. Just to prove her wrong I'd find ways to make her feel guilty for forcing me, or at least try to anyway, which deep down makes me an undeniable Mexican. It's in the blood and there's no escaping it: guilt trips and envy, passive aggressive connivance, a supposed faith, pride as piquant as a dry jalapeño, and a craving for lime juice just for that relishing sting effect.
First and foremost, you can't throw a tantrum; don't scream 'that defines you ignorantly disobedient, 'un niño maleducado' which can partly embarrass a mother but it doesn't win you brownie points.
What you had to do was cry (which wasn't too difficult because Mom's pinches hurt like queen bees out for retribution), and when your face was chapped with tears all you had to do was make a whimpering sound and stand next to your favorite aunt or uncle that understood you better than anyone else.
Wait one thousand. Wait two thousand. Wait three thou'and BAM! 'Que te pasa mijo?' And without actually making a sound, all you had to do is move your lips slowly and mouth, 'nada.'
Then to cross the finish line, you just pointed to the imprinted cherry raisin on your arm, and then at your mother with a crooked finger and a look of distraught disappointment; and you've won! Everyone would've forgotten about a boy trying to refrain from speaking Spanish and would be carrying wreaths of 'oos' and 'aws' to your rescue.

However, and this is important, if you were visiting relatives in Mexico where your cousins and step-grandmother didn't speak a word of English, there were no sympathy condolences and you ended up with more wounds then just cherry raisins on your arm. You had to at least say 'por favor' and 'gracias' if you wanted even just a glass of water. Scowls and sneers were common expressions to little Mexican boys who grew up in the US and couldn't hold a conversation with a grandfather whom only spoke Spanish because naturally, he had lived his entire life on a ranch in Apodoca.
That was back when I was a little brat though. The difference now is that I'm older and I speak to my parents in and out of Spanish, Spanglish, and English while they visit me for my thirtieth birthday in Osaka, Japan.
It's been six months since I last saw them; seven years since they both came to visit me; five years since I've been living in one place long enough to give them a chance to catch me; thirty years since they gave birth to me; thirteen years since I waved good-bye to them and moved my belongings to Chicago; and only one day since I last served them a pot of decaf coffee.
Who would've ever imagined that these two who moved to Houston in their teenage years from a small town in Mexico would be obliged to use chopsticks to grab slippery noodles in pork broth and be subjected to slurp.
Who would've ever imagined that these two who were the hottest dancing couple in banquet rooms at family weddings would be left no alternative but to smile and make faces as custom goes in pink frilly Japanese booths.
Who would've ever imagined that these two who were born just a few decades after the invention of the automobile would be sitting next to each other on a flight trip to, literally, the other side of the world.
It feels like just yesterday. I looked to both of them for consolation and comfort for whatever reason: advice on whether or not I should move to Israel overlooking the obvious political conflicts there; whether I should come to Osaka to gain money and culture to follow a writer's dream; if I should pour half a can of Coca-cola in the empanada masa or the entire thing. Sometimes I just wanted to hear about what happened to them at work, or about what they did when they were kids, stories often teased out if I knocked hard enough and that I appreciated with silent ardor once they had been shared.
Now I'm all grown up. Turned thirty just the other day.
I think to myself, we all have our little inconveniences right? Our little dramas and dreams that take over our entire experience of what we think life is about. Day in and day out we are consumed with either hope or fear of whether or not this or that is going to happen: if Santa will bring the new Play Station game; if I'm gonna win the lotto; if I'm gonna make this grade or that recital. Or maybe something more inflicting like a checkbook balance, or deeds so trivial as to whether someone's accused you of being judgmental 'that you've judged someone! And you're at a loss because she's gotten under your skin, this perpetrator, and all you want to do is apologize so that you can feel better about yourself. That kind of drama can get trivial. But something I consider more serious, more taken for granted, is the little dreams we possess, like mine 'infant wish beginning to pulse like a beating creature.
And what do we do between friends and family when one crosses continents to pay a visit? I figure we share; we end up discussing, if we are brave enough and unashamedly vulgar, our episodic dramas that we've been living. And mind you, some dramas are incredibly serious, and I don't want to go into quantifying degrees when the most tragic is obviously, and fortunately, not in my immediate family. There are no war victims, prisoners, or refugees that I know of. But there are pregnancies! Indeed. And graduations! Straight A report cards full of promise! Innocence in angel costumes.
I take my glass of wine and make a toast while my parents and I are having dinner at an Italian restaurant in downtown Osaka.
'Welcome to Japan!'
' smiles touch without even trying.
I look at my father as he sits with acquiescent posture on the Chuo-line on our way home. His gaze is up at the advertisements that line the top of the train car. I've spent all dinner telling him how solitary I feel even though I have many friends. I've gone on and on about wanting a literary circle so that I might feel a jolt of influence and pleasure as my mind sponges up the talk. I've told him what I want and what I have to do to go after it -independently, without responsibility to no one except myself, uninhibited, and entirely without consequence. A gypsy, and in a sense, a pre-release version of an older spoiled brat. Again.
I look at him; think of him.
When my father was thirty he had already had all three of us: Oscar, Veronica and myself. I was three years old. We were all going to school and growing up, and there was no other choice to think about or consider other than to work. He must've been thinking the children need to be fed. The mortgage needs to be paid.
When he was nineteen he married my mother and moved to Houston without knowing a word of English. When he was thirteen years old his mother, my grandmother, whom I still imagine as a sort of magical being that comes in and out of Mexican children's literature, died; and my dad was forced to work with his father in the dairy farm milking the cows. He had to take care of the entire family being the oldest and most responsible.
I see him on the train curiously deciphering what all those Japanese characters might mean, and realize that he's never been nearly as selfish as I have been. He's never been given the option to make such a solitary and independent decision based upon the simple question: 'What do I want?'
It hits me like a soft light over my head, that question that has been the greatest gift my parents have bestowed to me ' given with a warm embrace: 'What do you want?'
A hushing wind brushes in my stomach like the hallway AC unit used to do in our old house in Pine Trails, and my eyes begin to swell. I feel so embarrassed suddenly 'parading around foreign countries at thirty years old with a healthy check and a fashion dream coming into focus; a second one!
My gratitude stays silent for the rest of the night and its not until my father is sleeping on my quaint love-seat couch for two that I tell him, mind to mind, that I love him indelibly, and that I'm glad he made it to Japan. Just to see, nothing more. Just to see.
And my mother; she's excited! Always excited to see her son!
I even argued (slightly, not seriously) with her about her motives for coming to visit Japan: you should come to SEE Japan!
'No, no ... I only want to come and see my son,' she says, which then frustrates me because I want her to enjoy the culture shock. I want her to feel as foreign as I felt when I first came to visit and saw so many Japanese characters all over the buildings and road signs. I want her to be curious about sushi and temples. 'Where's a geisha? Where's a monk?'
But besides sight-seeing Japan, or being curious of all the differences between the Mexican-Americans and the Japanese, I will tell you this: there is nothing more overflowing than watching both of your parents in the applause of a show you've just finished performing, and seeing their faces turn into the faces they owned as children (even though I wasn't alive to know what they looked like). It's immaculate and evident that they're bursting with excitement, like two kids with free tickets at a carnival. And it tickles you back to the very same age. All three of you become children again, smiling at each other out of abundant happiness.
The greatest gift, the greatest joy that I think I have ever given my mother is the fact that I became a dancer. And it wasn't the acclaim or the traveling, it was, I believe, the simple celebration of dancing to the music, under stage lights and in front of an audience with the style and grace that I am absolutely certain would've been the style and grace she would've danced with if she'd ever been given the support, the opportunity and the encouragement as she perpetually gave to me for so many years. If there is any aspect that saddens me about that 'already written' chapter in my life, it is simply that it will no longer ever be present again. It has become a postcard of the past now treasured as a memory. I can't imagine what new chapter will reward her as much as that period in my life has awarded her. Unconditionally, in any case, I know she loves and supports me limitlessly; the greatest love of all as they've come to call it.
The day we spent in Kyoto, my thirtieth birthday, was for her. Don't know why exactly. Can't pin-point it to a specific reason, but somehow I guess, perhaps the intricate beauties found in the shops and the cobblestone alleyways, it was for her because it was such an ornamental place, like a piece of geographical jewelry. The red silk fabrics, the arrow rooftops, the hand made pottery, the geishas.
Then suddenly, it wasn't until I was alone again, sitting in my room and passing through all the photographs we had taken between the three of us on their visit that I realized that they were gone. They were on board, on their NWA flight back to the USA; and I still had the feeling as though they were arriving tomorrow.
But it was over. The visit had come and gone and was already out of my hands. I stared at the computer screen: us at the Namba sushi bar; poses in front of the tori gate at Miyujima Island; looking up at the A-Bomb Dome at Hiroshima Memorial Peace Park; the baseball game; the multi-colored game room; my room; USJ; the noodle bar in Umeda; the pink and yellow decorated shots we took in Japanese photo booths 'so many photographs.
There was one in particular however that made me pause. I sat still for about five minutes just staring at it as tears welled up in my eyes. My mother's head is leaning against my dad's with her hands cupped below her chin. They each have such an expression that goes beyond the fortune and luck of a photograph.
I stared and saw them looking straight into my little Mexican soul, when I realized that I was their son. Their son. Between her and him, mother and father, I was born. Without them I would've never existed, never would've had thirty years worth of time to live, laugh and cry my personal dramas for friends and family. I was, I am, their growing toy model 'little general she used to say' that has become this person before you. I saw them looking at me, and felt love...
A gold love. Parental love. Real love.

Osaka, Japan. 2007

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