It doesn’t take long for the officer that was with my uncle to return with someone else. The new guy opens the door of the cell and waves me out. Some of the gang-bangers dry their faces and wave goodbye. The big ugly one walks over and gives me a hug. Practically squeezes the life out of me. These guys weren’t so bad after all. I feel a kind of “summer camp” friendship has formed between us. How weird is that?

The shock of sunlight burns my eyes, and it’s making my head hurt again–or more–I can’t tell. I’ve been a little pre-occupied with this whole get out of jail thing, and let’s not forget the, your dad is dead revelation. I forgot about my hangover. I think it’s a hangover. Maybe it’s what they call, “Montezuma’s Revenge.”  My mouth feels like I ate a wax apple and all I smell is dust right now, which is a lot better than the alcoholic scarecrow scent back in the jail.

I see Carlos talking on a cell phone at the bottom of the wide cement steps that lead up to the jail. I look at the jail from the outside for the first time. The building must be a hundred years old. It has a domed roof, tall cement pillars and two large wooden doors. The few windows are small and barred. Kind of an old hometown look about it. They should sell postcards in the lobby for tourists like me. They could have a picture of this charming courthouse-looking jail on one side, and on the back it could say, “Wish you were here!”

Carlos hangs up the phone. “How do you feel?”

There he goes getting creepy on me again. Do I really want to know what happened last night, or should I let it go and pretend it never happened? He looks down at my hands and sees my socks and looks farther down and sees why they are in my hands.

“Where are you shoes?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Why would I know? I was not drinking last night with you.”

“I’m also missing my wallet, watch, money and my ID.”

“They were not in your bag?”

“No.”

“Then I am afraid they are gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, gone, not here.”

I know what gone means. Why is he not helping?

A metallic blue ‘65 Mustang convertible pulls up to the curb and a younger, thinner version of Carlos pops out of the drivers side. It’s like looking at a time machine. “Pancho, permítame, mi hijo Jose. Jose, este es su Primo, Francisco.”

“Mucho gusto” we both say at the same time. We shake hands. He’s probably a year or two younger than me, but he’s already driving. Great. There’s an uncomfortable silence as Uncle Carlos inspects us both very carefully, like one of us is about to start singing and dancing. Am I supposed to say something or what?

“I must get back to work, Pancho. Jose will take you to the house of you Abuela. You will meet the tias, and tios and possibly a prima too, if she wake up from her sleep.”

Great. Here we go with the Mexican family reunion.

“Vaya con Dios.”

“Tu tambien, Papa.”

“Yeah . . . you too . . . Uncle Carlos.”

Jose and I hop into his car and we drive off.

I like this car. The interior is an old white, and I can feel the old automatic transmission slipping a little when it changes gears. The blue dash has a crack down the middle and the seats are worn and some foam shows through in a couple of places. The center console is dusty, probably from having the top down all the time. I’m just thankful there are no fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. We drive slowly past Uncle Carlos’s police car, and he watches us go by.

“Radio?”

“Si, por favor.” He turns up a rock band. It sounds like Sting, singing in Spanish.

“You like?”

“Si. Muy bien.” This is the first good Mexican music I’ve ever heard. “Me favorite-o”

“Good.” He pulls out a pack of gum from a pocket in his shirt, “Chicle?”

“Thanks,” I take a piece. “Gum.”

“Ah, gum.”

He looks down at the socks in my hand, then my feet, and I know what’s coming next.

“No shoes?”

“No.” I’m getting the feeling his English is about as good as my Spanish seems to be. “Uno person-o tango.” I never realized how much Spanish rhymes before. He smiles and keeps driving. I’d rather not talk about it anyway.

I wonder if many Mexicans listen to this kind of music, or if Jose is a “rocker,” and different from other Mexicans our age. He looks normal. Short, dark hair, parted on the left and combed over to the right, clean, thin face, plaid long-sleeved shirt, levi’s, tennis shoes. He dresses American. I wonder if he ever spent any time up north.

This music is actually pretty good. Maybe if I bring a tape of this back with me, the guys at work can play it on the boombox, and I can finally get rid of those frickin accordions and tubas.

It’s starting to get warm again. This is a pretty sweet ride. The wind in my hair makes it feel like I’m on a motorcycle. Maybe I’ll get one of these after I get my license. I wonder how much this car would cost in the States? Hey, maybe I should come back down here and buy one; it’d probably be cheaper. My stomach lets out a growl and reminds me I’ll have to stay away from the bars if I do. We’re now climbing into some mountains. Terrific, just what I need right now—lots of curves. I seriously need to focus on something before I lose . . . act foolish.

The air smells good here. I take in a deep breath and close my eyes. Not like any forests where I come from. Smells like grass and flowers, and a green kind of smell. It got a little cooler all of a sudden too. Maybe the heat won’t be so bad up here in the mountains.

Our conversation consists of bobbing our heads to the music and smiling at each other once in a while. After what seems like an hour we turn onto a dirt road that winds through some trees.

Very soon, the trees give way to a large, gently rolling meadow. Inside this clearing sits a white stucco house with a covered wooden porch that protects the whole front of it from the harsh Mexican sun. In the center of that porch, is a Mexican woman, standing like a sentinel.

I feel as though I jumped off a tall building, and I’m swallowed up by a cold, dark cloud. I am hovering, numb, and frozen. I’m about to come face-to-face with the family I have grown up hating.

Her tractor-beam stare locks onto us and wills us to stop in front of her.

She stands there, short and proud. Thick with the evidence of bearing many children, but strong and sure, with all the confidence that comes with raising them. Her arms wrap each other up in tense anticipation around her waist.

Her once jet black hair now has streaks of silver and is tied up in a bun on the top of her head like a small plump hat. Her face is taut, her jaw is strong and her skin bears witness to many long days in the sun.

Years seem frozen on her, like she just stopped aging at around forty. She stands there, fearless of the unknown that is coming. She is the protector of the family heart. Her husband and children could turn to her when they got injured, and they could borrow her strength if they were in need of it. Inside her was the strength to fight off any danger, and they were surely never fearful. If disaster struck their family, her husband could look to her to see if he had reason to feel if he had failed as a man. She was his sanctuary, his preacher, forgiver of sins. Never had she given him reason to feel shame. She was the giver of confidence and faith that whatever bad thing that happened now was nothing compared to the greater thing that would surely happen later.

I look at her confident face and perfect posture and can almost see she’s had years of denying herself fear and pain, which she wore, if ever, in secret, hidden from those she loved more than herself.

Her clear brown eyes search our car for clues of what is coming. Her tight brown arms ripple as she changes the positions of her hands.

She has long cotton armor of fall colors. It gives her grace, like a dancer. She has a proud Aztec nose and high forehead.  She does not look like a grandmother; she is too beautiful for that.  She is colorful, confident and at one with her surroundings, like a local wildflower.

She watches my every step, never blinking. There is nothing else at this moment. She waits, frozen in time. I stop in front of her. What should I do now? Jose says nothing, probably not knowing what to do either. Neither of us have been here like this before. But she knows. This woman has the eyes of a mountain climber, who is taking in the vista from the summit, after a long and arduous climb. Perhaps at times like these, there are no words.

My numbness now settles into guilt for all the bad things I have thought about these people. From guilt to shame, then the shame melts into something else. What if they can tell how I used to feel? She talked to Carlos. Does she know how I got here?

Suddenly she hugs me with a strength I didn’t know was possible, and all the fear and shame are squeezed out of me with one powerful show of . . . forgiveness? Happiness? Relief? Joy? Love? How is it she does not hate me? I wonder if it’s me or my father she grips so tightly.

There seems to be something wrong with time on this mountain; it seems to flow in fits and spurts, followed by long pauses. When she finally pulls away and wipes her face, it feels like there were several people holding each other all at once. It doesn’t even matter who was holding whom; we all flowed from her fountain.

She takes a step backwards, but I still feel the residual effects of that hug, like a warm static cling. My body feels like it glows all over, and deep inside my chest I feel a tingling nugget of something I can’t explain. Something I’ve never felt before.

Other people appear on the porch, and they are looking at her with sad and hopeful smiles, as if asking her permission to spend some of the pain that they had been saving up for the day my dad came home. They probably never gave up hope for that. Women never do, even though they may say so, wearing the charade of indifference, while bearing the light of hope.

Love is the essence of hope, and where there has ever been love, there will always be a lingering hope. I can tell that even though they all knew very well by now that Armando is never coming home, my arrival is providing more than enough material for an emotional connection, and when they see their mother’s shiny cheeks, they trade an old hope for a new one.

After a time, when all these silent wonderings pass, Jose finds an opportunity to introduce me,  “Mama, permitame, este es su nieto, Francisco.“ She smiles, her eyes forming two slits of shiny black. She says something in Spanish and Jose moves on to the others, “Francisco, ellas son tus Tias, Adriana Y Joselyn.”

Adriana is slightly older and thinner, but not American skinny. They both look very strong. Being my Aunts, they are probably in their thirties, but they too wear the years behind their eyes and not on their faces. Although they both are living in the house of their mother, who obviously doesn’t need any help, the daughters look like they are the protectors of their mother, standing there like two lionesses. If their mother should break with tradition and fall, they will be there to catch her and show her there is nothing to fear, having studied for years at the side of the master; they too own the secrets of motherhood.

All three women have different shapes, but they all grew to the same height, as if the younger ones were told that this was the size all women should be, and they had dutifully obeyed.

Joselyn is a tad younger, rounder, and fairer than the others. Her hair is chestnut brown, not jet black like her sister, and it falls in shiny waves around her shoulders. She is dressed like her mother, but her colors are a little brighter, maybe newer. Younger. Her eyes hold no fear, no shame, no anger, and no pain. They are as clear and innocent a set of eyes as I have ever seen. She is like a child, pure and adulterated by the stresses and punishments of life.

She runs up and hugs me before Jose can finish introducing me, and she is the first one to say it. Calm and quiet like a breath in my ear, “I love you.”

She holds me a good while longer than the others, and I can tell she has a heart as deep and as vast as God has ever made. For some people there are no limits to the love they can give. It is made from a source that never runs dry, and they can call upon it as often as they wish, so there is no fear of running out, or not having as much as the next person, no fear of losing it, no need whatsoever for portioning it, or saving some for later. She is one of those.

Now that the women have had their time, I feel my nerves begin to settle, and the lone man of the house takes his position alongside the women. Herminio is a male, and that will probably deem him the man of the house, but it is obvious his age is his handicap. He is the youngest of all my uncles, In fact I bet he is younger than me by a year or two. It is this chance of fate that castrates him and keeps him the child of the family. It doesn’t appear to bother him though; he has grown up in this position, and as long as they are a family, he will belong. This must be where he gets his confidence. He knows his place in the family, and it is secure.

Suddenly, I feel very sad I never had any brothers or sisters. I never even thought about it before. It never occurred to me that I might be missing something. Being the only child and not having to share anything with anyone else, I thought I had it all.

It feels weird to have an uncle younger than me. A cousin, yes, but an uncle? This means that after my mother had a child, my father’s mother had one too, as if saying, I can still do that . . . or maybe this was Grandpa speaking.

Herminio is taller than the women, not needing to obey the height limit like his sisters. He has a naturally smiling face and I know at once he‘s going to be fun. He is too young to have known his brother, and while I’m sure they’ve informed him in great detail, unlike me. I wonder if he ever felt the longing for a relationship he never had.

In spite of this, his cheeks are as shiny as everyone else’s, but being a man, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Soon the tears will be dry and denial will be his defense. His short, black hair is shiny and mostly covered by a white straw cowboy hat. His body is lean and dark brown from hard work outdoors, and his dusty boots, jeans and sweaty t-shirt tell his story. He looks me in the eyes like he is investigating something and grasps my hand hard. When the investigation is over, and he has learned what he needed, he releases my hand and his smile returns to it’s natural state.

We all float into the white stucco house like an octopus caught in a tide. We land in a large white living room, with lots of natural light and furniture. There are pictures of family covering the walls, set in frames of various sizes and colors, and Jesus seems to be represented on every wall in one form or another.

A family lives here. A great big family. A small village really. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, grandpa’s and grandmas, brother and sister-in-laws. They are all here. A family tree covering the walls of the room. A vine really, with branches and bunches spreading here and there, yet all tied together at the same root, but the root is at the top, and all the youngest pictures are at the bottom. It’s kind of strange that way, but it makes sense too. All the young ones are new seeds and the older one gets, the higher on the wall they go, until sooner or later, each of them is going to pass away, and be at the top of their own vine. The top of the wall near the ceiling must be—like heaven.

They lead me around and introduce me to all the people who are represented in the room but not present at the moment. A lot of them will be here soon, I hear, even with my mediocre Spanglish. There is a party tonight, and it’s in my honor. That’s an awfully short time to put together a party. I wonder how many people will actually show up.

Grandma points to three pictures at the top of the large photo-covered wall. A picture of Pancho Villa on the left, and a photo of our great, great, great grandmother, Alberta Sala.” In between the two is a wedding photo set a little higher than the others, representing their relationship I guess. There is a picture, on the left and below Pancho Villa and Alberta Sala. That is the sole offspring from that union, my great, great grandfather Carlos Armando Villa Sala. To the right, after Pancho Villa was killed, Alberta Sala married again and had three more children with Ricardo Gomez. This is the important part they tell me: the children of Carlos Villa have “la sangre” and the children of  Ricardo Gomez do not. That is why there are no pictures of Alberta Sala and Ricardo Gomez together, not on this wall anyway. That family line is not important. The blood is what makes the difference.

They hand me a photo of Pancho Villa, and Alberta Sala, the family patriarchs. “Pancho Villa liked to marry,” Aunt Joselyn translates. “We don’t know how many times but many, more than twenty. It is impossible to know for sure. After the wedding Pancho would tell the preacher to burn the wedding papers so he was then free to do it again and again. Many people make the claim to be with his blood.” She hands me a photo of Pancho Villa in a white suit and a young-looking girl with flowers in her hair. “This wedding photo proves we have the blood.” They all smile at me and beam with pride. “Marriages join families together, and family is important, but the blood is what makes us special. We have the blood of Pancho Villa. You have the blood, too, Pancho.”

Wow. I don’t know what to think about this. This whole blood thing is really important to them. “Oh, thanks,” I guess. What do you say to that? I am starting to feel like the new kid in school. The outsider, not knowing all the inside jokes, the histories, the do’s and don’ts, the unwritten rules.

When they finish with the lesson on the history of their family, we all sit down on the sofa and chairs near a doorway to the dining room. All eyes are on me and I can almost feel the presence of my father. A quick violent shiver stops that little detour.

All the women begin talking at once, in Spanish, then Jose waves in, “Calmate calmate, Pancho es un Americano y no sabe espanol mucho.” They all look at me strangely. I seem to be the only one who understood that, and it was in Spanish! Now I’m confused. Do I or don’t I speak Spanish? Aunt Adriana jumps up and leaves without a word.

Grandma smiles and says something and Joselyn translates, as their mother goes over to a dresser and picks up a small picture in a gold frame.  “She says it is a miracle you are here, but always she know that one day, you will come.”

I look into the picture, obviously from the past, but I see what looks like me, sitting proudly on a large black horse and smiling broadly, posing for the picture. Although he had coal-black hair, his skin was fair, and his eyes held the invincibility of youth, and the promise of a full and happy life. I look a lot like my father at his age. I remember seeing that from the wedding photos and a couple of small pictures my mom keeps in the box at the foot of the closet. I now remember how much we looked alike when we were kids at the same ages. This picture, it looks like he is around the same age as me right now. We could almost be twins.

I stare at every detail in the picture. I have seen this picture before, but that was a long time ago. I can feel the years of hate begin to loosen its hold around my chest, like an iceberg shrinking in the desert. It is a huge feeling. I look up at the faces staring back at me, watching me meet my father. It seems that Carlos is the only other person who is not wrestling with the old feelings that once had protected our secret and sensitive hopes. It makes me feel a little better, knowing I am not the only one struggling with these contradictions. As the iceberg slowly melts, I see it drip a little on the picture frame.

There are many voices, and people coming and going, getting more pictures off the walls and tables around them. This is all so strange. I have another family.

Adriana returns, holding the hand of a cute little girl. “Pancho, ella es su Prima, Carlotta.”  She walks shyly over to me. She has huge brown eyes. I can immediately tell she’s one of the family. Her hair is a shiny black and is tied in a pigtail in the back. She looks to be about four or five years old, and not much more than three feet tall. She’s wearing old Levis and a pink t-shirt, no shoes, and obviously just up from a nap. She comes up and leans on my knees, staring at me with such intensity it feels like she is looking for evidence of our relationship, like she didn’t believe her mom and she has to see for herself. Satisfied, she puckers her lips. She wants a kiss. “Mmmmmwa.” That was a wet one. She must have done her duty, because now she’s leaving the room. So much for cute.

Joselyn brings out a tray with some sandwiches cut in half and several glasses of fruit juice with lots of pulp floating on top. I take a glass. It’s cold and delicious. I don’t recognize the flavors, and they all watch me as I take a sandwich. Grandmother sits up straight, and everyone seems to wake up. She gives them a look that they seem to understand. Jose gets up and walks over to Herminio, and Adriana smiles her apologies and goes back to work in the kitchen. Joselyn and grandma are the only ones left sitting.

“Josie.”

“ Mama!”

They say some more things in rapid-fire Spanish and Joselyn reluctantly gets up, puts the plate of sandwiches down on the coffee table and joins her sister in the kitchen. Great. Now I’m left alone in the room with Grandma. She is pretty intimidating, being so small yet having so much power over everyone. Why does she want to be alone with me?

She smiles, reaches over and holds my hand and says something in Spanish. I can feel the soft warmth of her small hands begin to climb up my arms and then into my chest. It stings my eyes.

By the way she dismissed everyone, I guess she wants to spend some quality time with her new grandson. Or maybe with the only thing living that’s left of her son. I can see she loved him very much. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a son, to have him just up and vanish without a word. I never met him, so I felt abandoned and hurt. I wonder what she felt, or how long she waited to hear some news of him and his new family. I don’t think she ever stopped looking out her window, expecting him to just show up.

So here I am, holding hands with a woman that before today I didn’t know. She is so much darker than me and her eyes are a deep brown, while mine are sky blue. She is Mexican through and through, and I am American, yet somehow we are the same.

She talks to me gently, her voice coming from deep within her chest. I can feel it vibrate through her hands and I wonder how on earth anyone could hate this woman. My other grandmother never held my hand like this, or spoke to me like this. My two grandmothers couldn’t be any different. I don’t really understand what she’s saying, but I get her meaning. I am happy to be here too.

Jose walks back into the room, “The horse is ready.” Grandma uses my shoulder to help get up and rubs my head, stopping me from standing too. She messes up my hair, smiles, and goes into the kitchen. I guess she said what she had to say. My life will be different from now on too.

I try to stand, but feel a little wobbly. Oh, my bare feet. I don’t have any . . . my grandmother reappears carrying a pair of black cowboy boots. I’ve never worn cowboy boots before. I take them, standing firmer now, regaining command of my legs. Oh, almost forgot, “Gracias”

She says something in Spanish, “De nada . . . Armando . . .”

I don’t understand everything, but I get the impression that these were my father’s.  I struggle to get them on. My foot doesn’t seem to fit.

After I break a sweat and finally get my feet into these things, they actually seem to fit pretty good. How does that work? This is beginning to creep me out. Do they want me to be my father or can they remember who I really am?

Jose says something about Tio Herminio, and I think he’s waiting for me. Grandma smiles and walks back towards the kitchen. Jose leads me outside. He’s heading towards that barn-looking thing. There had better be a truck in there. Everything I know about horses I learned from TV.

When I get to the barn, Herminio is sitting on a big black and white horse and Jose climbs onto the saddle on a big brown horse using a stirrup and the saddle horn. Looks easy enough, just like on TV.

There is a riderless horse all saddled up and ready to go, standing next to them. It must be for the guy who is out getting gas for the truck . . . who am I kidding? This horse is for me. It regards me for a moment, then looks over at the other two horses, who suddenly find other things to be looking at right now. My horse is brown with a bit of white on his nose and on its left front hoof. Not finding anyone to commiserate with, it looks back over at me, then hangs its head and appears to look for something to eat on the barren dirt floor.

Jose and Herminio just sit there looking down at me. Is this going to be a lesson, or are they assuming that because my dad could ride a horse, I can too?

I grab the saddle horn like they do in the movies, but I can’t seem to get my left leg high enough to put my foot in the stirrup. I feel like I’m practicing jumping hurdles while standing in place, and without actually jumping. The horse starts to walk off without me, so I try even harder to get my foot in the stirrup, but now I have to take two steps with every try. I’m almost getting my foot into the stirrup; so grabbing onto the horn of the saddle with my left hand I hop on my right foot while trying to reach the stirrup with my left foot. I can hear Jose and Herminio cracking up while watching me perform this ridiculous cowboy can-can. Finally I get a foot in the stirrups. Yay! Oh shit!  The horse isn’t stopping. I have to grab onto the saddle with both hands to keep from falling, but now I’m doing the splits and dragging my right leg behind me. With every step the horse takes, the more my legs stretch. I don’t think my body was meant to stretch like this. “Hey, guys! Can I get a little help?”

Herminio finally jumps off his saddle and helps me get my foot out of this horse trap. Jose looks at the stirrups and then looks at me. He smiles, points to his pants, and says some things in Spanish. I hear the word for pants and women, and they both laugh. Yes these pants are a little tight, but everyone wears them this way in the United States.

 

 

Herminio tosses the reins to Jose and he helps me get my leg back into the swaying stirrup. He pushes on my butt and I finally get onto the saddle.  If the horse would have just stood still . . .

This isn’t so bad. Jose gives me a condescending look, but I could care less. I’m sitting on an actual horse. And it’s moving. I’m on top of a living animal. And it is much bigger than me. And it’s moving toward the open barn door. “Hey, is the horse supposed to be moving?” Herminio shoots me a, duh, of course it’s supposed to move look, but is it supposed to move with me on it? That didn’t sound any smarter. What did I expect? I would get on this thing and it would turn into a couch or something?

Eeew! It smells like a horse too. Even though I’ve never smelled one before, I don’t think I would’ve mistaken this smell for anything else. I wonder if Jose’s and Herminio’s horses are this sweaty. Or maybe they gave me the one with hyperactive sweat glands.

Herminio flies onto his saddle again, just like they do in the movies. He talks really slowly and loudly in Spanish so I’ll understand better. I think he may even be using an American accent too. Jose just sits on his horse, laughing.

Herminio seems to be acting out how to ride. He’s using lots of hand gestures, pointing to his legs, gripping the reigns a certain way, and modeling correct posture, and explaining like he’s talking to some deaf child. I wonder if this is what I look like when I try to talk to new employees in Spanish. I’m glad we’re in this barn and no one is watching. They might think I’m deaf, or slow or something. I’m not gonna dwell on this right now, but I’m sure I’m gonna come back to this moment tonight, when it’s quiet and the need to re-live humiliation is at it’s strongest.

We’re moving again. I try to sit the same way Herminio is showing me. We stopped. That was a fun ride. “Are we done?”

. . . I didn’t really get much of that, but the laughter came through okay. I think all we did was get the horses all pointing in the same direction.

The view from up here is pretty cool. Herminio leads us out of the barn and I feel my heart jump into my throat. I grab onto the saddle horn with both hands, squeeze the horses ribs with my legs and stare firmly at the back of my horse’s neck so I won’t fall off.

We stop again.

My horse must do this all the time because I didn’t have to do anything. Maybe that’s why they gave me this horse. I’ll bet this is the auto-pilot horse they give to guests and visitors that don’t know how to ride.

I slowly look up and see we’re just in front of the barn, next to the pen with the pigs and cows. The house is on the other side, about sixty yards from us. I can’t see into the windows, but I can feel several pairs of eyes watching me.

Jose is on my left and Herminio is on my right and they both tell me to kick the horses belly with my feet and hold on to the reins like so . . . I’m not sure I really want to do this, but I guess it’s not up to me; we’re moving again.

I just had a horrible thought; what if he doesn’t want to stop? What if he hates me? What if he just throws me off his back because he can smell my fear? I heard they can do that. I wonder what fear smells like. One thing is for sure, it would have to smell a lot stronger than he does, for him to get a whiff of it.

Okay, pull the reins over to the right and we go right . . . Okay, pull the reins left and we go left. “Alto” Herminio says and he pulls back on the reins. “Stop” adds Jose and he pulls on his too.

Okaaaay, that was fun. Go, stop, left, right. I got this.

Herminio starts riding in a circle in the driveway, and he gestures me to follow. Jose just sits on his horse looking bored.

Okay, kick gently, don’t piss off the huge, powerful animal you’re sitting on. Good . . .  Okay . . .  I’m doing it.

Now we turn left, got it. Now turn right . . . This isn’t so hard, once you get on the darn thing.

Okay, pull to stop. Kick the belly and go. Pull back the reins and stop. Herminio laughs and tells me to stop standing in my stirrups. I thought I was sitting and holding the horse with my legs. I look at my legs, they’re straight and flared out. Okay, relax Frank, people do this all the time.

I try to grip the horse as best I can with my legs. This does look more like what they’re doing. Jose leads us out, behind the house and into a large field. I’m freaking riding a horse. This is great! I really have the urge to yahoo right now, but I won’t. It might freak the horse out. They probably don’t get too many yahoos in these parts. They probably say Olay or something like that.

 

Herminio stands up a bit and uses his legs as shock absorbers as he leans forward and smacks the horse in the ass with the ends of the reins. So now I’m supposed to stand up in the stirrups like he just told me not to do? His legs don’t flare out like mine did, they still kinda hug the, “Aaaaaaahhhhhh.”  Right, I forgot; auto-pilot horse. This is really bouncy—not fun. The whole world is shaking. I feel like I’m sitting on a jackhammer. “Oh shiiiiiiit”, I think my feet jumped out of the stirrups. I’m falling . . . sideways . . .  off the . . . lots of sky . . . “Ooof!”

Damn! That frickin’ hurt.

The horse is running away, and he’s bobbing his head like he’s laughing. I guess he’s had enough. I agree.

Herminio rides off and catches my horse. I look like I just slid into home plate. I dust myself off. Yeah, keep on laughing Jose. In the movies when someone falls, or gets shot off a horse, it doesn’t look like it hurts—but it does! My right arm hurts when I move it.

As Herminio brings my horse back, I can hear him before he gets near me. He can’t stop laughing. Oh, he’s trying, but he just blows snot out of his nose. “Ha-ha-ha-ha.” That was just as humiliating as me falling off this horse. Now I don’t feel so bad.

Herminio points to Jose and tells me he has done the same thing when he was a “nino.” Great. Jose outs Herminio too. Nice. I feel much better now. Thanks for comparing me to a little kid. Either my Spanish is getting better, or humiliation is a universal language.

Herminio says the horse’s name is “Claudia” Not Claudia, “Clow-dey-uh.” A girl. Is that supposed to make me feel better?

After a bit of sharing our most embarrassing moments with each other, I get back on the horse again. It was a little easier this time. We do the circle thing again. Okay, I got this. Herminio looks back and nods, and there he goes. I grab onto the saddle horn and my horse follows, just like I knew she would.

I try standing up and hold onto this saddle horn. Yeah, that’s better. My arms and legs are acting like shock absorbers. I think I’m finally getting it. The horse is not really running, but it’s not really walking either. It’s Jogging. Is there something wrong with this horse? This is not very comfortable. It’s like sitting on a jackhammer.

Jose gets his horse to run even faster. How many gears do these things have? Without warning, Claudia takes off too, probably not wanting to be left behind. Oh shit, oh shit, oh . . . Hey, surprisingly this is easier than jogging. The horse’s back moves much slower, and there’s actually a rhythm to it. This is great. I briefly take my eyes off the back of my horse’s neck and take quick looks around. I’d hate to run into a tree or something at this speed, although with an auto-pilot horse, I don’t think the fault would be mine. But still . . . it hurts like hell when you hit the ground.

Herminio rides over to me and he tries to tell me something. It looks like he wants me to squeeze the horse’s body with my legs. Oh, yeah, like that’ll happen. I’m just trying not to fall off this thing, but he keeps insisting. I think I’m kicking Claudia in the belly the way I’m doing it now.

Hey, this is more comfortable. I’m moving around a lot less, but my legs are getting tired already. I can’t keep doing this much longer—it’s not natural. I’m going to pull a groin muscle or something. This is probably how that lady got the idea for that Thigh Master thing. Why didn’t she just come out and say it, “this will help you ride horses.” I bet that would have saved a lot of confusion in the exercise equipment market. It could have started a whole new exercise thing. First there was the exercise ball, I don’t remember what that was called, then there was spinning; stationery bike riding didn’t sound cool enough. Now there’s Zumba. This could have been . . . Galloping. You get a whole room full of people in spandex, standing in rows with one of those thigh-masters between their legs, put on some slow cowpoke music; and squeeze, and relax, and squeeze, and relax. And maybe you could hold your arms like you’re steering a horse—hey, with light weights in your hands for an added burn. And squeeze, and relax, and squeeze, and relax, and squeeze—I’m an old cow haaaaaand! and relax . . .

I feel my feet starting to knock the horse’s belly again. I’m doing the best I can, I just hope the horse understands. Can they sense regret?

Jose smiles at me as he passes me. Now my horse thinks she’s in a race. Great. I’ll just hold onto this horn thing. I can’t fall off if I’m holding onto this, can I?

 

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We’ve ridden for almost an hour in silence. Well, I was silent. Herminio and Jose have been going on and on about string theory and its effect on third-dynasty Chinese architecture, or maybe they’re jabbering on about what kind of dish soap the Mexican astronauts will be taking to Mars—I really can’t tell. Whenever I hear a word I recognize I smile and nod, as if I‘m following along. I’m getting kinda tired of feeling like I’m visiting my own planet.

Okay, my turn. “Hey, Jose, sorry to interrupt, but do you know what has always bothered me?  It’s that everyone on Gilligan’s Island has been stranded there for months, maybe years, and yet nobody hooks-up. Don’t you think that’s kinda strange?“ Herminio smiles. Jose nods. Good. ”Now the Howells are married so you leave them out.  Married people never have sex, but it’s obvious that the Professor and Maryann got chemistry. Heck, they might even have normal-looking kids, so where does that put Ginger? The hottest babe on the island and the two doofiest dudes. You think the skipper and Gilligan would fight over her, or do you think that Ginger would just have the Professor make a mechanical dildo out of bamboo, a coconut and some vines? Personally, I think Ginger and Maryann were doing it in the girl’s hut all by themselves and the boys, well, they just, you know, do what lonely guys do.”

They nod and smile like they know what I’m talking about. I would say that’s pretty pathetic, but that’s probably what I looked like when I was doing it.

I think we’ve finally arrived at our destination. We must be visiting one of their friends. I guess I’ll just follow them up to this pen. Jose whispers something to Herminio and he laughs and whispers, “Cows here make bull happy.”

A thin, middle-aged Mexican steps out from behind a shack. He’s dressed in levi’s, a white, long sleeved shirt, and a white cowboy hat.  He smiles with a face that looks like an old eraser—dark, hard and shiny. I’m being introduced to Don Guerrero.

 

He seems to be giving me the once-over, like he either doesn’t believe I’m their nephew, or he’s never seen a white dude before. He smiles. “Mucho gusto,” he says at last.

Why the silence? Why are they looking at me? Oh! “Mucho gusto Don Guerrero.” Shoot, I blew that. He gives the boys an “Oh well” look and leads us to the gate and opens it. I guess we’re going to take the bull back home with us. I’ll let Herminio do the honors; bulls are always mean aren’t they? How are we going to do this? Do we use some kind of leash? Isn’t he going to try to ram us?

Herminio walks into the corral and just shoos him out, like he was a stray cat or something. Don Guerrero closes the gate behind him. This is going to be interesting. Don Guerrero says something in Spanish to us. Jose replies. Me and Herminio just smile and nod. Thank God! Someone else does all the talking. I’m his nephew and I don’t speak a whole lot of Spanish, I mean, I do, just not as fluently, and certainly not that fast.

The guys are riding and talking all the way home, just like before, only I seem to be picking up a little more Spanish here and there. I should probably talk about real subjects in case they are learning English too. I don’t want to offend them.

The horses seem to be doing all the work of making sure the bull doesn’t wander back to where his girlfriends are. I don’t think we were needed much at all, except to make sure that the horses got the job done. I guess if a cowboy or, vaquero has a good horse, or caballo, then all he has to do is go for a ride. Wow. Nice job. This is pretty cool; being a vaquero.

The country around here is really nice. Lots of trees and plants and some springs and creeks. Frogs and birds and flowers. I’ve never seen these blue flowers before. They are really long, with lot of mini buds on them, and they smell so . . . flowery. Why would anyone want to leave here to go wash dishes in the US?

Jose points to some trees on a hill. Yeah, nice, trees. Hey, isn’t that a coyote? Holy shit. “What do we do?” I ask. “Protect the bull?” I should put my horse between the coyote and the bull.  I kick the horse to a jog. Oh no!  I pull the reins in quickly and stop. Why would I want to get in between the bull and the coyote? Who’s gonna protect me?

I look over at Jose. He’s not-laughing again, and don’t think I didn’t notice that quick little smile between them. Herminio points to the coyote and make a little sign with his thumb and first finger. Then he points to the bull and moves both his hands far apart. Okay, I got it. The little coyote isn’t going to be taking down a big bull. Great sign language by the way. He was probably just pointing out the coyote for me.

Herminio points to my horse. “Calma te.”

He wants me to calm down. I’m making the horse nervous. Sometimes Spanish and English are almost the same.

Jose pulls out a pack of gum from his shirt pocket, and offers me some. Sure, I’ll have some chicle. “Gracias.” Herminio takes a piece too. Since we don’t roll our own cigarettes and we only have one cow on this cattle drive, gum is the next best thing.  I’m feeling more relaxed already. The horse is more relaxed. This would be the perfect time to play the guitar and sing.

“Hot,” Herminio says.

“Yep,” I look at my shirt and notice it’s getting muddy from my sweat and the dust the horses kick up.

“Drink?” He offers me his canteen.

“No thanks.” I’m okay for now. We’re probably not very far from home anyway.

The ride is hot but pretty, and the hills are beautiful. I always thought Mexico was a giant desert with cactus and rattlesnakes and coyotes. I’m sure there are some of those too, but here it looks more green. The trees are short and broad, little creeks feed all kinds of wildlife in the valleys between hills. There are birds everywhere

“Tree,” Jose says, pointing to a nearby tree.

“Yes.” I think Jose is showing off his knowledge of one word English sentences.  I’m beginning to feel like I’m in one of those old westerns where the indian guide talks like, How, white-man, you speak with forked-tongue. That type of thing.

“What kind of girl you like Pancho?” Jose asks. “Herminio like big tits.”

“I like big heart,” replies Herminio. “She need grande chi-chis to carry it.”

We all laugh at that one.

“I like skinny,” says Jose. “And face nice.”

They both turn to me. “I like sexy.”

They talk between themselves a bit and Herminio asks, “Big tits are sexy, no?”

Well, he has me there. “Yeah, they’re pretty sexy alright.”

“Legs and nice face sexy too, no?” asks Jose.

“Yes Jose, anything can be sexy if you want it to be.” This seems to confuse them a bit and they jabber on for a few minutes, leaving me to wonder how I can use this conversation to have some fun.

“What then is sexy for you Pancho?” Jose asks. “You like big butt?” They both laugh like crazy. What’s wrong with a big butt?

“I like sexy clothes, a pretty face, big chi-chis, skinny legs and waist, and a nice tight butt.” They went along with my list until I said butt. That seemed to set them off again. It must an inside joke.

Herminio is the first to pipe in this time, “Pancho, what is tight butt? Big? Small?

“Small.” Jose puts his vote in quickly.

“Yes, small, round and firm, you know?” I use my hands to help describe these features.

“Oh, yes” they both nod. “We know tight butt. Yes.”

“I like tight jeans with long thin legs and a tight little butt. And I like skinny waist and big boobs with a tight shirt and many open buttons.” They seem to understand sexy now. They’re both smiling and looking off into the distance. I think their lists have just changed.

We get home and Herminio gets off his horse and opens the gate to the pen. Jose rides his horse behind the bull and guides it all the way into the pen. It heads straight for the shade of the barn, and Jose pulls way back on his reigns and makes his horse back up. These things have reverse? Herminio closes the gate.

Time to get down. Ugh! Getting off the horse is a lot harder when you do it on purpose, but it hurts less.

I follow Herminio as he walks his horse into the barn, using the reigns like a leash, and then he wraps them around a board.  Ok, just put the reigns around the post a couple of times? Really?  That’s all it’s going to take to keep this huge, strong animal here? Okay, pet the horse. Talk to it. Give it a hug. Is this guy the horse whisperer, or what?

“Okay, I’ll talk to it, and pet it, and I’ll even give it a hug, but that’s as far as it goes, after all, this is our first date.”  Herminio just looks at me. My jokes never work on Mexicans.

Okay, find the strap that goes around the belly. Here it is. Find that end and pull it through the ring. Again on this side. One more time. That’s it? “That’s all that was keeping me on top of this horse?” I ask.  “Why didn’t the saddle just slide around and have me hanging upside down between four hoofed legs as it ran around the countryside? What stopped it from doing that?”

He grins and nods. Note to self: stop smiling and nodding when I don’t know what someone is saying. It looks stupid.

Okay, pull the saddle down. Wow, it did not look this heavy. Herminio’s is probably lighter.  “Put it here? On the table?” He nods.

Pick the blanket up off the ground, okay, dust it off, put it on the table. Herminio comes over and gives me a brush and shows me how to brush the horse. “Why on earth do you need to comb a horse?  Have you seen how short their hair is?” If my hair were that short I would never have to comb it.

“Yes, yes,” he says.

“Okay.” Man, this thing—Claudia—smells worse than before. Do horses take baths?  Herminio takes the metal thing out of her mouth. The horse obviously knows the drill. She quickly walks over to a water trough and takes a drink. I’m thirsty too.

 

Okay, all done. Now we go to the house. Man, I’m having a hard time walking normally. I think I feel naked without my six-gun. Herminio and Jose smile at the way I walk. “Howdy pardners,” I say in my best John Wayne voice. “Why don’t you circle the wagons, while I go an’ head them off at the pass. Ba-ha-ha-ha.”

They just look at me funny. I guess they never heard of John Wayne.

 

 

Everyone in the house is busy preparing food, and Herminio is allowed to get some melon slices for us. According to my rear-end, we’ve been out all day and it should be dark soon, but the clock on the wall says we’ve been gone about three hours.

Jose grabs his bag and walks down the hall. I follow Herminio into his room and he lays out some clothes for me on his bed.  A pair of button-fly Levi’s, a long sleeve blue and white plaid button down shirt, some underwear and socks. I’ve never worn anybody else’s underwear before. I wonder if these, like the cowboy boots, used to be my dad’s.

Jose is taking the first shower. I hope I’m next. I probably smell like horse. Herminio and I go to the kitchen to grab another slice of melon, but grandma, without turning around, says, “Herminio, blah blah blah, negro?”

His eyes light up. We leave the fruit on the platter and he pulls me quickly into the living room.  “Que pasa?”  I ask.

Herminio looks towards the kitchen and sees that the coast is clear, then he cups his hand over my ear and says, “She has a spoon black.”

“So?”

He grabs my arm and pulls me into his bedroom, looks back towards the kitchen, then cups his hands over my ears again, “One time I very mad. I go outside and say bad word, very soft. She hit me on head with spoon.” He bends and stretches his arm like she did it from around the corner or very far away. This must be some legendary black spoon.

“Herminio!” he shuts his eyes and his shoulders jerk up next to his ears.

That was so cool. I almost start laughing, but Jose comes into the room with wet hair and fresh new clothes on. He sees we’re having a private little chat and nods what’s up? Herminio just nods his head towards the kitchen, and Jose understands everything.

“Lavarse,” Herminio wraps my clothes up in a towel and nods out towards the hallway. I pick up my clothes and walk down the hallway where I saw Jose go a little while ago.

When I finish my shower, I pick up my dirty clothes and carry them back to the room. I wonder what a hamper looks like around here.

“Finish?” Herminio asks.

“Yeah.” I hand him the clothes and he puts them in a duffel bag kind-of-thing that hangs in the closet, and then he heads towards the bathroom with his clean clothes.

I see Jose is in the living room, so I guess we’re no longer under quarantine.  There’s a mirror on this side of the door, and I have to see what I look like, even though mirrors are my sworn enemy. The moment I see myself, I get the willies. I look a lot like that picture of my dad on the black horse.

These clothes fit looser, but they’re definitely comfortable. If only I had these on when I went horse-back riding. I would have looked a lot less foolish . . . okay, maybe a little less foolish. Good thing it was only Herminio and Jose out there with me. I would swear them to secrecy, but I don’t know how to say that in Spanish.

 

 

When Herminio is finished with his shower, aunt Adriana tells Jose and Herminio to go get some tables out of the barn. She quickly returns to the kitchen, leaving my little cousin Carlotta for me to look after. Apparently I’m not supposed to get dirty again. Why am I singled out? What are they planning?

Carlotta has a red overall-like dress on and a white puffy-sleeved shirt with little red, blue and yellow trains on it. Her usually bare feet are sporting black shoes with silver buckles and white socks. She takes awkward, labored steps, and I can’t tell if it’s because her shoes are uncomfortable, or if she’s just being a drama queen.

I look out the window and see several carloads of people pull up to a tree next to the house.  I like my family so far, but I can’t help but wonder how I’m going to feel about them after this is over. Loud Mexican music, ay-yay-yay’s, coyote and stuck-pig calls . . .  This party could actually shorten our honeymoon.

I step outside, and the brightness of the sun forces me to look down and shield my eyes with my hand. Jose and Herminio are setting up a table in the shade of a tall tree in between the house and the corral, and there are a few benches and chairs scattered around, working their way past the corral towards the barn. That’s probably where the band will set up. There is always a band at these things isn’t there? Great. Live accordions. I can’t wait.

The people who arrived are gathering around the table, and Aunt Adriana brings out a large punchbowl from the house. Aunt Josie is right behind her with some plastic cups. One of the men who just arrived takes a large bag of ice out of the trunk of his car and plops it down on the table. Herminio and Jose bring another long wooden table from the barn and put it next to the first one, and then Herminio introduces me to the early arrivals. Soon everyone heads back into the house to get more stuff.

I go into the kitchen to ask how I can help, but I’m beaten back by a parade of food and chips and fruit and paper plates. Everyone puts their things on the table and then returns to the house for more, except Aunt Adriana. She stays to organize everything. Adriana is definitely second in command. It looks like Grandma is orchestrating the delivery, she is in charge of the presentation. They probably do this often. In no time at all the tables are overflowing with all kinds of colorful food: two large red-brown bowls of sliced melons, apples and strawberries; A white china bowl with green and yellow flowers painted on it, overflowing with lumpy green guacamole. I love guacamole. And right next to it sits a wicker basket filled with what looks like home made tortilla chips of tan and blue and red. Next to those are a couple of rough grey stone mortars. One is filled with a red salsa and in the other a green salsa, and large grey pestles rest inside each of them, showing proof that the salsa is handmade and very fresh. I’m so hungry after that long ride, even Mexican food sounds good right now.

Two more cars pull up and everyone is shouts and hugs. Josie comes over and takes my hand. I hate meeting new people; I feel so awkward. Oh well, I might as well get this over with.

“Hi, how are you?” . . . Sorry, I don’t speak much Spanish.”  I know a little, but I hope they don’t . . . “Hola, como estas? Mucho gusto to you too. Hi, yep, I am Francisco. Mucho gusto, Primo.”  God! Did I just say primo?

After I’m introduced to everyone, Josie grabs my hand again and leads me to the punch bowl. “Here Pancho, try this. It is very good.” She shoves a red plastic cup in front of me, filled with a dark red punch.

“Thanks Josie-Aunt-Tia Josie.” I’m never going to make it through this.

There is fruit and ice floating in the cup. Mmmm fruity. This is good. Aunt Josie smiles. She is studying me. “Very good.”  I smile again and take another sip just for her.

“Sangria,” she says.

“Oh, Sangria. I’ve heard of this” I guess when you’re done drinking you can eat the fruit. Kind of like a meal and beverage all in one. Is there alcohol in this? My stomach is so empty I feel each sip go all the way down, coating my throat and stomach in a warm glow, even though there’s ice in it.

That was good. I probably shouldn’t have chugged it like that. “I’m really thirsty.” I wipe my head to make the point in case their English is as bad as my Spanish.

Suddenly, I’m struck by a terrible thought: I wonder if they heard Uncle Carlos found me in a jail because I got drunk and. . . Oh, God! I haven’t even heard the story of what I did last night. I gotta remember to ask him about that.

People pile out of more cars and Aunt Josie wastes no time in introducing me to all the new arrivals. Every one of them is related to me in some way. I look into their faces. All smiles and Mucho Gustos. They don’t look like family. They just look like Mexicans.

A bunch of horns honking and more people coming. Old cars pull into the driveway and scatter themselves around the front of the house. If I thought the last half hour was tough, this next hour is going to suck. Josie grabs my hand. Here we go. . .

I feel like I’ve been introduced to everyone in Mexico. They seem to marvel at me, like I’m one of the seven wonders of the world. Some spoke kindly, some sympathetically, some were really happy, grabbing my hand and hugging me at the same time.  I heard Primo and Tia And Tio so many times I can’t remember what means what right now. Man, am I related to every single person here? Nobody brought a date that I noticed. I used to laugh when the employees would all call each other primo like it was some joke, or familiar expression or something. Maybe they weren’t kidding after all.

I better grab some food while I still have the chance. Gotta get me some guacamole and maybe try some of that red salsa everyone seems to be eating. I hope it’s hot. I love hot sauce. I use two packets of Fire sauce on every taco and burrito I eat at work.

I grab a  big blue tortilla chip and dip it into the red salsa. “Mmmmm.” perfect. “This is great. Nice and hot. Me gusto mucho.”  Yes, white guys can eat hot stuff too. Here I’ll show you how we do it up north. I’ll just fill this big chip with salsa, and pop it into my mouth whole. “Mmmmmmm.”

“Yaaay! Bravo! Pancho!” Everyone is cheering and I get some pats on the back. I guess I am now one of them. It feels like I passed a test.

Oh well, it’s only for one night. I need some more Sangria. “No, no cervesa, gracias. Yo prefer-o Sangria.” Beer—Ugh! Don’t remind me. I get the willies just thinking about it.

Primo Jose walks up and points to a small bowl of some orange, salsa looking stuff. “You like?”

I’ve never seen orange salsa before, but then again, I’ve never seen blue and red tortilla chips either. “Looks good.”  I scoop out some of the orange salsa with a tortilla chip and put the whole thing inside my mouth. See?

“Holy- ssssslllllppppppp!!!! ptuaw, ptuaw Aaaaaahhhh,” my mouth is literally on fire. ”Aaaahhhhhhhh. Sangria, Beer, yeah, anything, just gimme that. Oh my god, that’s so hot!” Everyone is laughing. Cough! What the hell is in that? Sneeze! “Awwww,” it’s even hotter when it comes out my nose “Aahhhhhhhhhh shit! Mother of . . . I try to breathe just through my mouth. Breathing through my nose is like snorting napalm. Yeah another beer. “Ahhhh.” Cold liquid cools it down a bit,  but when I stop drinking, my mouth flames up again. I grab another beer. “Ooooooow. You son of a . . .”

I chug the beer in seconds, then grab Jose by the shirt, but he doesn’t move. “Wow, you’re stronger than you look.” He grabs me by my shirt and we go down together. “How do you like this, primo?”  I get him in a headlock. “Yeah, sucker . . . Owww Owww Owww.” My ear feels like it’s about to be ripped off.

I let go of Jose and jump up, “okay Grandma, we’ll stop, we’ll stop!” Yeah, get him by the ear too, it was Jose’s fault. Damn that hurts. Almost makes me forget about the flaming marshmallows that are stuck to the inside of my mouth. “Okay, Okay, we won’t do it again.” Yeah, we’re dirty again. “Sorry.”

Dust is flying in the slight breeze. Everyone except Grandma is laughing, but her eyes . . .  I think she may just like dispensing justice. She says something about important and don’t get dirty. Is there some kind of ceremony for these types of parties?

Aunt Josie appears with a tall glass of milk. “No gracias Tia Josie. No quiero leche.” I need another beer, my mouth is still extremely hot.

“Si, si, es necesario. You need it.”

“Yes, drink,” Jose says.

“For sure I’m not going to drink it if you tell me to Jose.”

“Milk make the hot go.”

“Oh, really?” I don’t know whether to believe him or not. My mouth is still flaming hot and my eyes are still watering. “Okay. Thanks Tia Josie. Gracias.”

I take a cautious sip, but I don’t taste a thing. I don’t know how many beers I used to put out the fire. Hey, I didn’t even taste those beers. Maybe that’s the secret of drinking beer: eat something really, really, hot and fry your taste buds. I bet even tequila would taste okay right now, although I’m not about to test that theory.  “What was in that stuff anyway—acid?” They both look at me, and then at each other, like they both are waiting for the other one to tell me. “What the heck was it?”

“Habanero,” says Herminio.

“Habanero?” Everyone is nodding. I think I’ve heard of that.

“Much hot,” Jose says.

“You fricking got that right. Caliente!” Oh, great Uncle Carlos and his buddies were laughing so hard, they have mud stains on their cheeks.

Jose looks like he’s taking a bow. You’ll get yours buddy, just you wait.

It looks like one of my aunts or cousins is going to eat some Habanero. That’s not even half of what I had. She eats the chip, and smiles. She seems to like it. Now the men are laughing again, and holding their sides. I get it. A girl can handle habanero, but not the white kid. Yeah, thanks for that.

Herminio hands me and Jose another beer, and they raise them above their heads for a toast. “Cheers.”

“Salud,” they say together.

Habanero. I’ll have to see if we have any of that back home. Not a bad party trick as long as you’re not the one eating it.

 

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The three of us, beers in hand, head over to the far side of the barn. We pass a few guys coming the opposite direction and when we turn the corner, there are about six guys peeing against the barn. I really have to go. Those beers are going right through me, and apparently, I’m not the only one.

After we are finished we walk over to the corral and lean against it. In the shade of the big brown barn, it’s not so hot. I don’t think it’s as hot as the tarmac at the airport, or anywhere in town for that matter, but it’s still plenty warm.  “Que pasa con esta party?” I ask, trying to get more information on the reason we can’t get dirty. They both look at me, then at each other, “bien,” they both say together. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

The teens have all gathered around a folding table set up just for them. Their clothes are different from everyone else’s. Basketball jerseys, Low slung, baggy blue jeans with boxers hanging out. Just like all the cool kids back home.

I can hear a radio blasting Mexican rap music. Apparently all the young people smoke around here. They’re standing around . . . no, more like posing, and blowing smoke rings. They are the closest to my age of any group here, but I doubt we have anything in common.

Their dance moves are so MTV. Oh, they stopped . . . Now they continue to smoke their cigarettes in bad-ass poses . . . Now they’re dancing again . . . Now they’re just smoking. This must be the new break-dancing. You dance for a few seconds, then take a break. They seem to be living from one Kodak moment to the next.

Jose and Herminio are watching them too. They don’t seem to belong to their clique either. Since we don’t dress the same, we must not be alike. A natural selection kinda thing.

The smaller kids are playing some kind of chasing and shooting game. It seems no matter where you’re from, kids are all the same.

I remember sneaking around at night, playing army or Spiderman, while the grown-ups just sat round doing nothing. Looks like they’re hanging around that pinata like it’s . . .  it’s a candy-filled kid-magnet. Their little faces are trying so hard to avoid it, but it’s so obvious the focal point of the whole party for them is that shiny, cone studded ball, filled with sugary hope. Forget uncle white-guy, this is the important thing. Being a kid was great. I wonder what they’re waiting for. Is there some kind of bell that goes off and starts the thing or what? How do pinata’s work anyway, besides just whacking them? What are the rules?

A couple of the boys are playing a new game. One of them points his fingers like a gun and says, “Manos Arriba,” and the kids who don’t have an imaginary gun stick their hands up in the air. Then the kid with the gun shoots them and they all fall down. Now it’s another kid’s turn. Same thing, “Manos Arriba,” hands go up, he shoots them too. I guess Mexicans don’t believe in taking prisoners.

Everyone else seems to swarm here and there, forming small groups and then breaking off one by one to venture out and talk with someone else, or refresh their sangria, or get a cold beer from the barrel. I notice all the cans say Tecate. I guess only Americans drink Corona.

What am I doing at this party?  I am the only white person here. I can’t imagine feeling more foreign, and this is supposed to be my family.  It’s hard to believe I am related to all these Mexicans. I mean look at them. They are nothing like me. They don’t dress like me, they don’t talk like me, they don’t . . . well, they’re just not like me. How can I be related to these people?

I see a lady in tight-fitting clothes. Her boobs busting out of her shirt. She must be thirty-something and about forty pounds overweight. I smile and give Herminio an elbow in the ribs. “Herminio, mirror. La seniorita of your dreams.” I nod in the direction of the woman. Jose starts laughing and Herminio pushes him almost to the ground. “You like chi-chi’s right?”

“Calla te!” he whispers. The woman looks our way and we all look away, pretending we’re not really laughing through our noses.

“Hola.” An aunt and uncle crept up on us and scared both Jose and I. They are trying to tell me something. I wish they knew I don’t know very much Spanish. I understand about every tenth word if they talk slowly and loudly—ha! Something about my father is wapo. I guess they are saying I look like him, or act like him, but I don’t know for sure. I’ll just sit here and smile and nod. My Uncle breaks out some old disco moves . . . “Oh, my father was a good dancer? Great.” The differences just keep piling up.

 

Oh good, here comes Joselyn to the rescue. She must have seen that Duh look on my face. “Hi Tia Josie”

“Hola, Pancho. Your Tio Ernesto was saying how he like your father, and they have competitions to see who run to the barn first, or pick the most oranges.”

The Uncle spits out some more machine-gun Spanish.

“He says he paint the barn with your father and race to see who can paint more. Papa got mad at them for spill the paint. They make a mess big. Papa make them do it again, good.”

Every time Tio Ernesto speaks, It sounds like he is saying the same thing. I don’t know how Josie can make out the difference in what he is saying.

“They learn nothing is faster than to do the job good. He miss Armando very much.”

Her translating, is getting more than one odd look. I have the feeling that even being white, they still expect me to speak Spanish.

“Do not worry about them, Pancho. They are like that. They are from when Alberta Sala marry with Ricardo Gomez. They are family, but they don’t have the blood.”

I nod. She didn’t even have to turn around and she knew what I was both looking at and thinking.

“Marriage is how families are made, but when you have a person famous in your family, the blood is important.”

Ragged notes are hinting that some of the musicians in the family are getting ready to play. Several guys have gathered in a spot near the corral and are tuning up. Just in front of us is an aunt who looks like she’s trying to get her husband to put the beer down and pick up his giant guitar-looking-thing. Apparently he’s not finished with his beer and interrupting him is a major party foul. She, on the other hand, doesn’t look like she’s the type to take no for an answer. “Despues, despues,” he cries.  Just past them I see a lady near the barn smacking her husband upside the head with a trumpet. All the people near them laugh. I guess that’s how they got the phrase, strike up the band.

Little children are being herded to a large empty space next to where the band seems to be assembling.  Looks like the entertainment is about to begin. I have a feeling this is the part where I start to hate being Mexican. Yep, there’s the accordion.

“Come, Donna Villa is coming,” Aunt Josie says, and we walk quickly to keep up with her. Even Mr. Giant guitar is making a bee-line for the band area now.

Some of my uncles and cousins have finished warming up and are now showing off with their instruments. The guy playing the normal guitar is really good, and that trumpet is really loud. Looks like everyone is getting into good viewing positions. Even the teenagers, who just a few minutes before didn’t look like they were interested in anything, are making it to the audience. Who is Donna Villa?

Adriana tries to get me to go somewhere. “I can see fine from here Aunt Adri—I mean, Tia Adriana . . . no really . . . I’m fine.” She’s not taking no for an answer either. I guess being the guest of honor, I have to have a front row seat. Someone is arriving; I can’t believe there’s more to this family. Having everyone assembled in one area, there’s gotta be a couple of hundred people here. And this is just the relatives who live nearby?

An old man helps an even older woman out of the big black car that just pulled in. She takes small steps, but her back is rigid and her head is held high. Everything is very quiet. Even the crickets are silent. “That is Donna Villa,” Aunt Josie whispers. “Mi Abuelita. The mother of my mother. She is the most old relative to Pancho Villa. She marry Carlos Armando Villa Sala, my Grandfather, the son of Pancho Villa and Alberta Sala,.”

I look at Aunt Josie and she nods.

“ Pancho and Alberta marry for one a week.”

“One week?”

“Pancho make all the priests burn the marriage papers after the wedding, but not the photos. He did not burn those.” She smiles mischievously, “He like his photo very much.”  She quickly returns her attention to the old lady and her entourage.

Donna Villa is led to a big green vinyl overstuffed chair that a group of teenagers wrestled out from the back of a pickup. Everyone calls out to her, welcoming her. Some have the blood and some don’t, and you can’t tell the difference to look at them, but she definitely has it. She wears her blood like an invisible crown and everyone fawns over her, and caters to her like she is royalty.

Her every movement is regal, and proud. Her posture is rigid and straight and her head is held high, even for someone who is obviously at least eighty, maybe ninety years old. Her gown is black silk and her waist and neck are covered in white lace. A black broach hangs around her neck and something gold hangs from it. She looks like she has been mourning the death of her husband for a long time. Her grayish black hair is pinned up with a big, black comb, with shiny points that stick up from her head like a fan. Black stones in the comb catch the firelight and scatter it like confetti.

I’m startled when Grandma takes my arm. I didn’t realize I was so focused on the old woman in black, but she is amazing to look at. Grandma tugs at me to follow her over to the large green chair. I’m going to be introduced. This must be the thing I’m supposed to stay clean for. My legs begin to shake and each step is like walking on mattresses. I feel like I’m about to meet the Queen of Mexico. I wonder if this makes me a prince or something; I have the blood too.

The rest of my Grandma’s family comes over to where the big green chair has been positioned. My uncles are fixing their hair with their hands and dusting themselves off. I’m suddenly self-conscious of every spot of dirt on my clothes. What’s going on? What am I supposed to do?

Uncle Carlos clears his throat and the world stops spinning. “Donna Villa, permítame. Este es su sobrino Francisco Carlos Villa O’Reily.” Uncle Carlos is the oldest male of my family. That must give him the duty of making the announcements. Cameras click and phones get into position off all over the place.

She is looking at—no, looking upon me. Her gaze pierces my body and I feel her staring at my bare skeleton. Her smile is reassuring. Grandma nods at me. What does that mean?

Donna Villa holds out her hand and I walk over to her and take it in mine. It’s small, and warm, and soft. I feel like I should say something, “Donna Villa. . . mucho gusto.” Should I kiss her hand? Do I bow, what?! She smiles at me. I bend over and kiss her hand. A huge warm shock explodes in my head and then goes through my body the moment my lips touch her skin. I think I’m going to pass out. I feel like I’ve walked onto a stage in the middle of a performance and I don’t know my lines.

“Pancho Villa. Ese nombre es muy especial y tengo muy buenos recuerdos de él. Pancho Villa es la padre de me esposo Carlos Villa. Yo vivir en la sombra de la nombre de Pancho, pero Alberta Sala hablas con el y Ignacio y yo tiene una vida bueno, porque la sangre de Pancho Villa es en mi familia y la historia de Mexico es en mi sangre . . .” I don’t get much of what she’s saying. I hear a bunch of names, but even though she talks slow and loud, I’m just not getting it. I look for Joselyn, but she is nowhere to be found.

“. . . felicitaciones Pancho. Yo quiero tu vivir como su nombre, y poner mucho honor con la familia, y Mexico.”

With that she pats my arm and I move to leave, but she doesn’t let go. I think I’ll just stand right here and hold her hand a little longer.

With a smile and a wave of her other hand the band begins playing.

While I was busy getting introduced to Donna Villa, the mothers gathered their children and got them into some costumes. It looks like they’re going to dance. I guess it makes sense to dance first—pinata later. After the sugar rush, you can’t even talk to a kid, much less get them to do anything needing organization and concentration.

The band walks over to us, playing their instruments and singing gently in the late afternoon sun.

They are serenading Donna Villa. The sincerity in their eyes, and their voices is touching. They are singing to an old and highly-revered woman, and are giving her the honor she obviously deserves. It’s something we should do more of, ourselves, back home. I wish she’d let go of my hand. Being so close to someone who is being sung to, I get the feeling like some of the affection they shower her with is splashing on me too—it’s embarrassing

The song ends, the band bows deeply to Donna Villa, and then they move back over to where they had originally set up. The kids are now in colorful costumes, and have all lined up with the girls on the left, and the boys on the right. The music starts again and they step in their lines and kick the ground to the music.

The little boys, in black pants & shoes and white shirts, with their arms behind them and their elbows popped out. The little girls swinging their very colorful ankle length skirts. Their hair is up in a bun on top of their head. This is so cute. They look so serious.

After the first song ends, another one begins. “This dance is Huapango,” Tia Josie says in my right ear, her breath moist and warm. It takes all my strength not to shiver.

Some of the kids are smiling and having fun now, but I can see them sneaking peaks at the piñata, and silently counting down the steps before they can run and beat that colorful candy dispenser to pieces.

The song finally ends and they stay standing there, waiting.

Donna Villa waves her blessing, and off they run, screaming all the way to the tree. I guess that’s the last we’ll see of them for a while.

Next up, the teenagers. Those are not the same clothes they had on a little while ago.  The girls are wearing brightly colored skirts, trimmed in white lace. Their white blouses are worn off the shoulders, and are trimmed with material that matches their skirts. Around each of their necks is an inch wide strip of black ribbon with a gold locket hanging from it. Their hair is up in a bun like the younger girls, but they have combs stuck in theirs with white lace and shiny diamonds sticking out of the top. They are wearing gold hoop earrings that dangle from each ear. All their eyebrows are painted dark, and their lips are fire engine red. Some of them have beauty marks on a cheek near their eyes, or on their chin near their mouth. They don’t even look like the same girls; they are very pretty.

Herminio and Jose have joined them too. The boys have black pants with a shiny black stripe going down the sides of their legs, from their waist, to their shiny black shoes. Their shirts are white with puffy sleeves and black stitching down the front. A wide cloth belt with gold stitching and gold fringe at the ends, hangs from their sides. All the boys are wearing black bolo ties. They seem to naturally fall into four lines of six rows. Another song begins and the musicians have trouble competing with the screams of delight and laughter coming from the pinata area. The kids are actually out-trumpeting the trumpets.

The dance begins with a bow and a curtsy. They’ve obviously been doing this since they were kids. It looks kinda like the dance the kids just did, but the girls are spinning and whipping their long and brightly colored skirts, with the white frilly edges.

The boys dance with such confidence and authority, really moving and holding the girls, then letting go, then holding them with their other arm, then letting go again. This is kinda cool.

The shadows of the trees are climbing up the side of the barn, and the temperature begins to cool down a bit. Shadows are everywhere now, and it seems everyone is now free to move around as they wish, and not just hop from one shaded area to the next.

I check on the progress of the kids. It looks like it’s Carlita’s turn. Someone gives her the stick and she takes a few practice swings. Go Carlita! She’s a natural. An aunt or cousin blindfolds her and leads her to the pinata.

She swings that stick like a baseball bat. Nice form. Someone has been teaching her a thing or two. She almost had it that time . . . One more swing, she steps in and nails it! Candy is flying everywhere. Kids are covering the ground in half a second, grabbing up candy with such precision, Carlita just has time to get her blindfold off and the candy is gone. That was amazingly fast. They are like little sugar piranhas.

Uncle Carlos picks her up in a victory celebration. He looks like he’s proud of her. I’ll bet he is the one who has been teaching his niece a thing or two while her Dad is away. It must be nice to have a big family. I never had a brother or sister. Come to think of it, I never had cousins or uncles. I never really thought about this before. It must be tough on a kid to have your dad gone so much—what am I saying? Of course it’s rough. That’s one thing I do know something about.

Uncle Carlos pulls a piece of candy out of his pocket and hands it to Carlita. He must have picked up one that came his way. Awwww. She kisses his cheek. Those two have a special bond. Carlos is a good uncle.

 

 

The first song ends and I missed most of the dance. “Bravo!” That appears to be all for the dancing. All around I see people relaxing, settled into comfortable positions. The kids are rushing to eat their prizes; the adults with their beers and sangria; and the teens, with their cigarettes, and the cups full of “soda” which is probably the Mexican version of don’t ask don’t tell.

Donna Villa finally lets go of my hand. Aunt Adriana is trying to get me out on what is considered the dance floor area. “I don’t know how to dance.” Oh, great! Everyone is egging me on. I guess I’m the next act. A hot flash flows through my entire body. I haven’t been taught how to do this stuff. I know my name is Pancho Villa, but come on, there is only so much you can do with a name. “Seriously Adriana. I don’t know how . . . “ She’s not listening. Looks like everyone wants to see if this white Mexican can dance.

Herminio and Jose join us. “Gracias.” Apparently being white means you can’t dance—in any language, but that makes them all try showing me how to dance a “Jarabey Tapatio,” as Herminio called it. Sounds like a fruity hot sauce.

Uncle Carlos, Aunt Adriana, and Aunt Joselyn are going to dance with me too. The guys start out showing me how to stand with my hands behind my back, and then they show me some kicking steps. Okay, I can do that. Then there are some straight legged, high-stepping things, turn, turn. Aunt Adriana comes over and it looks like she is showing me how to dance around a girl and duck here, thanks Herminio, and kick there while the girl twirls her skirt and smiles. Okay, I think I got this.

Music starts playing again and I forget everything I was just shown. I’ll just follow Herminio and Jose. Kick-jump, step, kick-jump step—oh, right, step hop, hop, hop to the right, step hop, hop, hop, to the left, I feel like Miguel Flatley, Mexican Lord of the “bye-lay.”

. . . Ooops! grab her elbow and walk to the left, switch and walk to the right.  I feel so stupid—Ah! It’s that kick-jump thing again, and now step hop hop hop, step hop hop hop, grab her elbow left, switch and go right.

I watch the other guys,and just follow along.

There. Not too shabby. This is kinda fun. It’s like a Mexican Dance Dance Revolution, only with a live band and without the flashing dance floor. I’m doing pretty good, I think. Hey! Either this is a really long song, or the band just keeps going until I get it right.

Everyone is cheering. “Gracias Adri—Tia Adriana. Gracias Tio Herminio.” They are so happy for me. I am surrounded by congratulations and hugs. A few people shout, “Viva Pancho Villa,”  which, makes me laugh. This is the first time in my life, when someone calls my name, it isn’t to make fun of me, or in utter disbelief.

Donna Villa is smiling and patting her son’s arm. These people just met me and yet they act like I’ve been a part of the family all their lives. A warmth spreads throughout my chest like a rash of guilty happiness.

A couple of cars have just pulled up and there seems to be a commotion. A tall man with grey hair and a grey mustache is getting swarmed by people. One of my musician cousins rush over to him and they talk for a moment. My cousin leads this man over to us and everyone is talking excitedly and running to see him.

I am grabbed by both arms and pulled over to Donna Villa and where everyone in my immediate family is gathering.

Donna Villa stands up and the man is introduced by my cousin as Diego Fernandez. He bows graciously and there is much excitement all around. I’ve heard of this guy. I’ve even seen his picture on billboards back home. This guy is really famous. Am I related to him too?

Aunt Josie says that one of my cousins plays in his band and when he heard that an American Pancho Villa was coming home, since he was in the area, he thought he would see for himself. It’s not every day you get to meet such a famous person.

Me?

Donna Villa extends her hand towards me so I walk over to her and take it. She introduces me to Diego Fernandez with much pride and seriousness.

He asks me how I got here, or what brings me here or something like that. Aunt Josie is not close enough to whisper her translation. He is waiting for an answer. All I can think of is, “I was deported.” The look on his face is hard to describe. Amazed? Surprised? Confused?

“If you were deported, then you are more Mexican than you think.”

He speaks English? Everyone laughs with Diego as he looks around as if to see if anyone is playing a joke on him.

A few people shout out requests for him to sing, and everyone else agrees.

He thinks for a moment, then smiles and says some more stuff in Spanish. Something about a perfect song for this occasion. A lot of it sounded like English.

The band gets together and some of the other people that came with Diego take out their instruments. The band that was playing for our dancing moves over to let the pros take over, but they will have none of it, insisting that they play with them, side by side, in a great show of camaraderie.

Uncle Carlos says, “he is going to play a song about the people who go north to work for their families who stay here in Mexico. The song is called, “Pulpus de Amor.”

All around are enraptured faces. Adults looking like they are children on Christmas morning. The music seems to stop time and erase our differences for a moment. The violins cover the hills in soft velvet. The bass pulses like the beating of hearts and the trumpets soar into the night sky, as Diego pleads his case for all humanity.

The guitars strum like the beating of six kindred hearts, and the horns take on the role of a family, crying into the night, longing for their father, working in the United States to come home. Diego’s voice is like a man who sacrifices everything for his family, calling out to them, wishing them well, from so very far away. The father, endures the hard work of many jobs, and the shame of many bad names, but the thought of providing for his family makes the insults easier to swallow. With the thought of rejoining his family, the trumpets are the children’s happy voices, and the violins are the many arms of the pulpus de amor as the whole family embraces the the man who sacrifices everything for the love of his family and together, with many arms entwined, grabbing, squeezing, grateful for the chance to touch each other again, they form the “Pulpus de Amor.”

When the song is over Diego comes over to me and offers me his hand. “Pancho Villa de Ustedes Unidos. He says some more Spanish, and everyone cheers.

“Gracias Senior Fernandez.” I say.

“Diego,” he insists.

All around people plead for more, and Diego politely accepts. As the next song gets underway Uncle Carlos says, “Diego says if you are deported, you are as Mexican as you can be. Welcome to Mexico Pancho Villa.”

We both laugh. I feel electric. What an experience.

After the song ends and Diego and his band accepts some food, I take a break and look around at the changing scenery as I catch my breath. The sunset looks almost fake! A few clouds are hanging over the hilltops, misting downward towards the summit, and they’re lit up like bright neon fog, glowing yellow-orange and blending into a creamy red-orange. The back sides of the hills look eggplant purple, and the sky around the clouds is the very definition of turquoise. As the clouds let loose its water over the trees, It looks like it’s raining orange velvet fire. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life. The smell of burning wood and brush from the bonfire, the crackling and popping sounds of the fire, the bubbling of conversations, and in the background are pulsating crickets with the occasional coyote calling out to the rising moon. All of this together with the warm summer night. The decorations. The sangria. Diego Fernandez. This party could not have been any more fantastic.

Tia Joselyn and Tia Lupita, Uncle Carlos’ wife, are lighting some lanterns that hang from tree branches. There is also a thin rope stretching from a tree next to the house, all the way to the barn, and the lanterns hanging from it sway lazily in a gentle breeze. I can smell the cooling hills too, growing more fragrant as the overwhelming summer heat backs off and allows the plants to breathe again.

Footsteps wake me up from my trance, and I see uncle Carlos with a smile so big you could see it from space. He looks me up and down.  “Ay Pancho.” He gives me a big bear hug, and then pushes me away, recovering from what was bubbling up from deep inside him. I know, I felt it too. He is the first Mexican relative I ever met, and the first one I have ever said goodbye to, and then saw again. That kinda makes it real for me, I guess. I’m standing in front of my dad’s brother, in his parent’s front yard. The same yard my father and he grew up in. Wow. This is really happening.

A Mariachi band begins playing. My cousins are showing off for Diego. There is a lot of instrumental fireworks in this song.

“Pancho . . . Pancho, this is very hard for me . . . and my family too, I think. We all think that Armando was not to come home again. I know deep inside he was maybe . . . but it did not feel real until I see the photo, and then you, and then . . . I guess the most difficult part is I feel guilty.”

“Guilty?”

“Guilty for I feel happy or something, I do not know for what. I think I feel sad, too, but my sad is a long time ago.” He looks me in the eyes, then straightens up, “I do not know what I say any more. I just want to say to you, I am very happy you are here. You are bringing things to a finish, and with the same moment, I feel something good begins.”

“Yeah, this is hard for me to, knowing now that my dad didn’t leave me because he didn’t love me . . . and now, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.” I try to keep my voice from cracking. “This is all happening so fast.”

“Yes, very fast. This is all happening very fast . . . but it was slow too.”

The expression in his eyes is warm and friendly, yet I can’t bear to look at him right now. Aunt Adriana comes from out of nowhere and playfully takes my hand. “And what are you talking about so serious?”

We both look away from her, and each other.

“A secret huh? Okay, let me take him for one moment Carlos. I give him back in one minute. I want to show him something.”

Carlos nods and goes back over to the beer barrel. Aunt Adriana leads me into the house. I hope she’s not going to show me more of my dad’s old clothes.

She leads me to her room. There is a cross in the center of one of the walls, and it sits above pictures of family in various sizes. There is a thin table against the wall, with frames and little statues. I see a picture of my father. It is the largest one on the wall. Around it are many more pictures with my father and other relatives. It’s kinda like everyone that knew him is represented here and acknowledged for knowing and loving him. It looks like a tribute or her shrine. Adriana elbows me in the ribs. She has been talking and I haven’t been listening.

“My brother was very special to me. He walk with us to school and protect us. He help me with math and to read.” She points to a photo that is identical to the one I had in my pocket. This was the photo that freaked Uncle Carlos out, and now I see why. They have one too.

On the table is a picture of my mother and father standing together, kissing. They were under an archway of flowers. My father is dressed impressively in a black suit with a white stripe down the side of his pants, and gold braids and piping along the cuffs and collar and pockets of his coat. His white shirt matches my mom’s white dress.

“The dress was first to wear by Great, Great, Grandma Alberta Sala, when she marry Pancho Villa in 1922. She gave it to Guadalupe Fuentes when she marry their son, Carlos Armando Villa Sala.  She give it to my mother when she marry their son, grandpa Humberto Villa. Your mother wear it too, like me.  Your mother was much honored to have permission to wear it for her wedding, and because she did, if she has a daughter, she can wear it too, if they want, and, your daughters too.”

In America, all women wear a wedding dress once. Here they make all the women wear the same one.

My mother was in a place of honor in this house. I’m reminded of the box at the bottom of the closet back home and I feel intensely ashamed. Aunt Adriana’s arm wraps me around my shoulders and I feel her warm lips against my cheek, which I notice is wet. It is a long kiss. She seems to savor some silent meaning.

“I want to show you this so you will know where your picture will be when you go home.”

That didn’t help. I’m trying really hard to see through watery eyes, to find a picture of my dad when he was my age. I think I see one. I pick it up off the table and turn away from Aunt Adriana to find better light with which to inspect it.

I’m holding a medium-sized portrait, the kind you get from school. For once I get a really good look at my father, and see what everyone is making such a fuss about.

 

He was a little darker than me, but what really stands out, besides the fact that we are almost twins, is his eyes. They were blue too. Did my mother ever tell me that?

I put the picture back down on the table, next to a picture of Adriana’s wedding. They looked very happy.

“That is Enrique.”

Uh-oh. She saw me looking. I hope this doesn’t bring up a bad subject.

“He is in the United States.”

Does that mean they are divorced?

“He sends money home every two weeks.”

“He sends money?”

“Yes.” Her voice takes on a new enthusiasm. “This is why we have the new sofa, new windows, the floor in the bathroom, the beautiful new stove. Our father did a good job of providing for us when he was alive, but now it is our job to take care of the family.”

Oh, it isn’t charity. It’s responsibility. Family.

“Your father did the same when he went north.”

My self-image is taking a real beating at this party in my honor. How could I have been so wrong with how I saw Mexicans? I work with them for Christ’s sake! Which reminds me, “why don’t you just go up there and all be together?”

“Oh, no! We have Carlita. The journey is very hard and gets more dangerous every year. All three of us apply for, to get a travel visa and a passport. We pay all the fees, but we wait for the call to come and take a medical exam and pay more fees. All we have after five years is a passport, and that will not get us into the United States.”

“Why not? US passports let us go into any country we want.”

“Well, Mexico is not like the United States. The rules are different. The US is more afraid of us to go there than you to come here.”

“Then what good is a Mexican passport, if you can’t go anywhere with it?”

“We can go to many countries with it, just not the United States. When you go to the border you will see. Nobody is made to stop coming down here, but there is a large line always to inspect every car, truck, motorcycle and person who goes north.”

 

The band begins playing that song again. Don’t they ever get tired of it? That seemed to end the conversation, and as if on cue, we drift back outside to rejoin the party. It’s a beautiful night; not too cold, not too hot. The breeze blows gently toward the barn, so we don’t have to smell the animals too much. It’s almost like somebody planned it that way.

Looks like food and beer are the popular attractions again. There are tomales, and what looks like a make your own burrito and soft taco bar. I wander over to the beer barrel and grab a bottle. The water in the barrel is ice cold. I don’t know if I’m ready for another beer . . . oh, what-the-heck. I twist off the top and chug about half of it, burning my throat with the carbonation. All around me are smiling, happy people. All shapes and sizes, all colors and lengths of hair. If I didn’t know these people, I would think I was back home, but I do know them. They are all Mexicans. All around me are Mexicans. All around me are family.

The bonfire glows and lights up smiling faces. Shadows skitter around on the dirt and silhouettes of trees dance against the house. Over to the side there are a couple of women begging the men to dance, but it looks like they just want to drink and yell into the night.

 

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The music. The Mexican music. Mariachi. It sounds a little different here in the mountains of Mexico.  At home, the music comes from tinny speakers on cheap radios, and gets bounced off stainless steel walls and cold tile floors. The music is different too. Here the music blends with the fire and the stars and the happy faces. The guitars strum like the beating of six kindred hearts, and the horns are a family, crying into the night, longing for their father, working in the United States to come home. The voices are like a group of men who sacrifice everything for their families, calling out to them, wishing them well, from so very far away. It sounds like everyone singing along hears the message. A few couples hold each other close, and sway to the music. Aunt Adriana stares off into the distance—northward I think.

This is not like my family in the US. I can’t help feeling this is not just different, it’s more. My family eats together at Thanksgiving and sometimes at Christmas. We listen to the stereo playing holiday music, or watch TV specials. This party is meant to be more personal, and it’s not even Christmas or anything.

The coyotes “yip yip yip yo-uuuuu,” in the background, as if singing with my uncles and aunts and cousins around the fire. It’s so painful to think that a few hours ago, I looked down on these people. Heck, I hated them. They were inferior. Unwanted, dishonorable and dirty. I try to look at them like I did before, but it just doesn’t work. How quickly the heart heals.

The shadows of the rocks on the ground move to the music. I draw a “P” in the loose soil with my boot. I like the dirt—it’s natural, it supports us all, every last one of us. It makes life, and this dirt, the very dirt beneath my feet, made my family. My dad came from this dirt . . . I came from this dirt.

There has been an almost constant line of women outside the little shed behind the house, and a constant stream of men flow to and from the far side of the barn. We are definitely not in Kansas any more, but no one seems to mind.

Outside bathrooms; you sure wouldn’t find ass gaskets out here, that’s for sure.

Some of the adults have found chairs, or brought their own. Others use benches, tree stumps, and large rocks. They even sit on top of cars, leaning back against the windshields, staring into the night sky, drinking beer or sangria and watching the light show. That brief little rain seems to have missed this party, which is great. I don’t think we’d all fit in the barn.

A coyote calls out in the distance, and as if on cue, a few of the men reply in kind. I’m hit with a revelation: that’s what they were doing at work. When they yell their high, laughing yelps, hey are imitating something familiar from back home. I always just thought it was just a Mexican thing to do. The superiority complex I landed here with is dissolving. Or perhaps I’m just hiding it under an invisible cloak of shame.

I walk back over to the food tables and start eating everything in sight. I’m suddenly very hungry. Surprisingly the food here is terrific, some of which I’ve never even had before, nor do I know the names of some of it. Tamales, a fajita bar, where you make your own soft tacos, there is just so much food. Guacamole, salsas, green, red, brown, lumpy, creamy, orange (shudder). Apparently everyone brought something to the party too as there are more tables than were in the barn, and way more pots and pans and bowls than could possibly fit in the house. Probably everyone brought their specialty, to show off for everyone. Showing your cooking prowess here is futile, in the best possible way; everyone is obviously a really good cook. There are many contented and happy faces enjoying the music and dancing.

I hear a voice that sounds like my grandma. There are some men and some of the boys gathering in front of the fire where people were dancing. They are waving me over.

“Ben.” Uncle Carlos wants me to go over to him. I look around and everyone is smiling and telling me it’s okay. What’s okay? The band is playing softer than usual.

Carlos begins a speech in Spanish, but slowly, and he puts his arm around my shoulders. I feel really embarrassed. I don’t really know all of what he is saying. I hear “tiempo” which means time, and “negro” which means black and their brother Armando, and something about me . . .  siempre, which I just learned means forever. . .  Corazone—heart . . . familia—family . . . Pancho—me again.

 

There are no tears that I can see. It looks like everyone is just happy and glad to be a part of these festivities. Uncle Carlos raises his beer, “salud!” Everyone says, “salud,” and drinks.  Some people shout, “Ay-yay-yay,” and the band plays a happy tune. This is not the same song they play all the time. Hey, I’m beginning to be able to tell the difference.

Herminio and Jose run up to me and Herminio hands me a beer. We all clink our bottles together and, “salud.” I like these guys. I look over at a giant of a woman, and just before I can say anything, Jose speaks first, “Herminio, I think she has a heart, big.” He looks in her direction. She is over six feet tall and probably weighs two-fifty, straight black hair and tight fitting blouse and skin tight white pants.

“I hear she has a great personality too,” I add.

Herminio immediately starts chasing us and we laugh and run from him. We end up at the corral again and lean against it to catch our breaths and finish laughing. I can see this is one of those cases where confiding your innermost secrets can backfire on you.

It hasn’t been very long since the toast, and I see some of the guests are starting to leave. I guess this party isn’t going to be an all-nighter.

I’m called over to my grandmother, and the three of us go to say goodbye. I am the guest of honor. I guess that means it’s my duty to thank everyone for coming.

Donna Villa is the first one to leave. I look down on her glittering semi-circle comb and her immaculately styled hair and clothes. She really does look like a queen, but one who wears black.

She grabs my face with both hands and looks me square in the eyes. “Te quiero Pancho.” I nod. “Via con Dios hijo.” She kisses my forehead. Her son, Tio Fernando Villa and his wife, Tia Maria, shake my hand, and hug me and kiss me. I think I’m going to get a lot of hugs in the next hour, as it looks like others are now picking up and leaving too. Uncle Fernando hands me his card and says something in Spanish. Probably: keep in touch.

And so it begins, over a hundred people—I mean relatives—pay their respects to me, and not my father; that tribute had already been done earlier. They want me to know how happy they are that I’ve come home to meet them. This is, I guess, a big deal in their lives, and I’m coming to believe it will be in mine as well.

 

With hugs, and tears, and handshakes and plenty of, “hasta luegos” and, “vio con Dioses,” many more hand me cards, and pieces of paper with their names and addresses and phone numbers. Tio this, and Primo that. I’m stuffing my pockets with slips of paper from people that want me to stay in touch. “Llamame,” they say. I don’t need Joselyn to translate much of it, really. All the important stuff is said with their hugs, their eyes, their lips.

Lots of people have little Instamatic and Polaroid cameras and someone with a nice, modern camera comes by and I stand with my grandmother, two aunts, great uncle and two uncles, and he takes a few pictures. Now everyone wants a picture with me. I feel like I’ve just been married and the bride is, “To Be Determined.” The cameras all flash now, and people are forming a line for pictures.

A group of my relatives leave and I hear Jose whisper, “Pancho, she has a tight butt no?” I turn to see what he is talking about. Walking away is a fairly chunky cousin with skin-tight black pants and there is a rip along the seam of her butt, exposing a thin slit of white underwear. They bust out laughing, but when she turns around we are all as solemn as pallbearers . . . until she turns back around again and walks away.

Grandma looks very pleased like she has waited a long time for this party, sad and relieved it’s finally over, all at once.  It only seems like a day in the planning to me, but everyone made it feel a long time coming. I look out over an ocean of sleepy, contented faces, and for the first time in my life, I feel like a Mexican.