If you forgot stuff to stuff stockings with, try cutting up and using these memorias:
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| Not mine, but maybe... |
"Traíste mis Kreesmas?"
My abuela would say those words, pronouncing the last one like I spelled it, with
a very long E sound. It was the closest
that an old india-mexicana could do to melt into the pot of conquered south
Texas. She was asking if I'd brought her a Christmas present, maybe
wondering whether I'd forgotten her.
Her chemistry and electricity passed into
the ether long before I was old enough to gift her anything of value, and I
only wish I'd spent more time chatting at length with her, like I did towards
the end, hers, not mine. I still think it's one of the cutest things--an old person
asking about "mis Kreesmas," a heavy Spanish-laden accent
that goes back even further in history to the time before the Olmecs. Before
there was a Xmas.
– – – – – – – –
The most memorable Kreesmases when
I was young were those held at my abuela's house. All the tíos would come and the primos
and, sometimes, relatives that we didn't even know we had. The abuelo died
early, from cirrhosis and spending months or years away from abuela, that she
always forgave him for, and took him back. In between his stopovers, abuela
filled in her life with El Otro, whatever current man had moved in that she's
hooked up with. El Otro's name changed, but there was usually one there. Especially
on Kreesmas mornings when cabrón Tío Jesse would wake us all up at 5 or
some unnatural hour. To open presents that we'd already opened. His family
lived in Colorado, so they rarely came, but it was a treat to see the
out-of-state cousins. I don't remember El Otro ever getting one, though abuela probably gave him late night treats.
– – – – – – – –
Tamales. Every Chicano family always
makes tamales for the holiday, right? (Actually, not if they're cheap enough to
buy, which they no longer are in Denver.) Over the years, our families had also
cooked other things. Argentinian empanadas, fried or baked, buffalo burger or of
cualquier cosa. Or albóndigas soup or
tons of burritos, on occasion. The type of food didn't matter. It was the
communal, tribal means of production that made the cooking enjoyable.
– – – – – – – –
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| Not one of mine. |
Gingerbread houses. I loved
making those, once upon a time. Not gringo gingerbread houses, but adobes or
Zuni pueblos or barrio dioramas with Homie figurines. When I was a teacher, I'd make
one for my class and let them play with it, destroy it (not always just the
boys) and eat their hearts out, diabetically. I'm thinking of trying a new type,
less diabetic-inducing and healthier, out of corn meal. Maybe with some Homies
and other knickknacks I have around. I'll post a pic, if it happens.
– – – – – – – –
Possibly my best Krismas as a teacher was when a first-grade class got a visit from Greg Allen-Pickett, a
teacher-friend who'd guided my wife and I through Yucatan on a previous Krismas. My
class of mostly immigrant students knew Santa would visit the room because
I'd arranged it with Greg who had his own outfit. When this near-seven-foot
man of broad shoulders and build entered the room, in costume, the kids were delighted. When they
tugged on his huge white beard, they were surprised to learn it was real! But,
when he spoke Spanish to them better even than their regular teacher, they were
astounded. Greg left the state, and I left teaching. However, I doubt the memory of the
most realistic, bilingual Santa ever left them.
– – – – – – – –
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| Definitely not gentry |
My gentrified barrio has dark
corners revealing who's a gentry just living here temporarily, as an investment,
who's the Chicanos with families, and who are those in transition. No Xmas
decorations? A transient investor or a Chicano widower whose kids rarely visit.
A few decorations? A really poor Chicano family or gentry who might be
identifying their neighborhood as a home. Chingos of decorations? A
hipster-rich gentry or abuelos with lots of kids and grandkids who do visit
them. I'm stereotyping, but it gives you an idea of why I'm not overjoyed by
the 7 out of 10 bare-front houses on my block.
– – – – – – – –
Most of you might know that author Reyna
Grande is spending the holidays in Iguala, Guerrero, where the 43 students were
disappeared. It was her hometown that she trekked north from, as described in
her books. She recently raised more than $5k for toys and food to present to the
people of the village she left decades ago. It's like she's playing Santa, among some
of the poorest people in the world, with some of the most minimal facilities,
and walking around every corner wondering who might lurk to disappear you. Hopefully,
she'll provide La Bloga with an extended report after she returns. I imagine
that the only thing better than reading it will have been accompanying her. I'm
sure that waiting list is longer than Santa's.
– – – – – – – –
Now that my two siblings are in
their 30s, and wife Carmen has mellowed, neither bunch pays much
attention to this father's ideas. But once upon a time, I'd come up with
different gift-giving ideas. "No gift over $20," when I knew they had
no money. "Everybody make gifts to give instead of buying any," when
they were all young enough to have fun doing that. "Save newspaper comics
to use as wrapping paper instead of buying any" was one of my better ones
I still try to practice. There were other ideas, but I've forgotten them. Not
sure how many more Krismases there will be, for me, but I won't run out of ideas,
even if I run out of believers.
– – – – – – – –
Ya son
muchos años that I had this asshole boss. One Xmas night, he took his young kids and his 38 Special outside.
Shot into the sky. Told them he'd killed Santa Claus. He said they cried but
they stopped believing, which was his intention. Go figure. He wasn't a Chicano
guy. Chicanos shoot their 38s on New Year's Eve night.
– – – – – – – –
I'm completing work with
dramatist Jose Mercado, on my first stage play, Los Doce Días de Mis Krismas. (I needed help since my two
CU-Denver college classes mostly taught me professors were superior to any
student's work or thoughts.) Some of you have read the story on La Bloga, as a
radio script, but Mercado formatted it for a play and says it's funny now. I
thought it was before. After it's officially copyrighted, I'll get it out in the
world, however that's done. And maybe you'll get to see it one Krismas. It's even funnier than Jose thinks.
– – – – – – – –
The "American"
gift-giving around Krismas makes less sense the longer I live. Stuff to fill an
assumed obligation is no gift; it's some type of duty that lacks the spirit of. This ironically reminds me of the year I made umpteen individualized, riding horse sticks for nephews and
nieces. The kind that's like a horse head on a pole, and you ride it around
using your leg-power, dragging the bare end of the stick over the polished
wood floor or carpet. The kind my generation had when we were kids. They were
cool. The ones I made went over like Obama's Cuban announcement at Rubio's Xmas
party. A couple of kids tried riding them, looking for the gas pedal or the
electronic display, but most of my creations soon found themselves in the attic or garage
or Goodwill pile. I should have been crushed; they'd taken weeks of cutting wood, sanding, painting and
decorating. Which turned out to be the most fun they provided anyone.
– – – – – – – –
Whenever I go to Mexico or even a
poor neighborhood in the U.S., I inevitably see little kids playing with a lot
less than electric Hummers they can ride or remote drones they can spy with.
Instead, I've seen little girls in raggedy clothes stirring the ground with a
twig, making designs, drawing scenes or imagining future paths. Or a
couple of boys sorting rocks of different sizes, maybe preparing their teams or
armies for a slaughter. Kids don't need stuff; they need opportunity for their
imaginations, time to explore and discover the world's wonders.
– – – – – – – –
In that spirit, below are the
opening paragraphs to my first children's story in English, that three
bilingual publishers have already decided should be put where the wooden horses are gathering dust. I made copies of the tale for people who helped me with it and
for relatives who have small kids. It may not have happened on a day that would become our Krismas, but it's my
attempt to capture the wonderment that children find in the world, instead of
in stuff. I hope it provides you with a touch of the same. Es todo, hasta que
recibes tus Kreesmas. - RudyG
* * *
The legend of Sleeping Love begins in the most ancient
times on the Central Continent. For the hundred members of a tribe of First
People, a day of marching and foraging seemed like it would end as countless others
had.
Instead, dozens of the boys and girls suddenly sprinted
far ahead. On the mountaintop, they stopped. Only a little of the cold
penetrated their animal-skin clothes, and their run had warmed them. They
shaded their eyes against the low sun, and what they saw, steamed them up. Hopping
around like crickets, they screamed, "Grand Ta, Grand Ta, come look at it all!"
As Grand Ta shuffled faster, his chest
filled and he sensed it glowing. He thought, Almost makes me cry whenever they want to share their discoveries with an
old man. Smiling, he patted his wrinkled cheek. Ah, nothing smooths out this turtle skin, anymore. Sweeping back
his rabbit hair cloak, he accidently passed it directly through his nagual. The mountain lion-spirit growled a friendly warning at him. Too bad no one else can see or hear you,
huh, my faithful companion. Its growl turned to a purr.
When he reached the youngsters, he let himself hope. Maybe we finally found it. They let him through
and dozens of fingers pointed. At gigantic ahuehuetl
cypress trees holding up the sky. Over an endless, deep-green valley full of
wonders. He was so amazed, he couldn't hear every child.
"See, Ta, see?" He saw armadillos escaping into the
underbrush. Children saw the hunter, a spotted ozelotl jaguar. They heard it cough-grunt,
and they got the giggles from trying to imitate it.
"Look at them!"
The youngsters saw dancing pieces of rainbow, which they playfully mimed. Grand
Ta saw red-green-blue-feathered parrots and quetzals
crossing the rainforest
"Just listen
to those!" Scores of ozomatli
monkeys swung from branch to branch. They chattered in funny tongues, making
the children giggle louder. Grand Ta also caught the giggles.
He thought, This
land is so bewitching, they could forget our Ancestors and their teachings. I will
be remembered as a worthy Elder only if I use this moment to strengthen their minds
and hearts. When they were out of wind, he signaled for the children to gather
where he had started a sacred circle. Adults moved aside and stayed back.
The young people sat and squeezed one another's
hands. They hoped there would be time to play before night fell, but they could
wait a little longer. The tribe had been traveling for thousands of years and
even more miles. Searching for a prophet's vision….
[I'll give you a hint: it wasn't a shining star.]
