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7 de Febrero, 2007
Mi Familia 5 [Mama's Memories]
Categorized under Cultura , Mi Familia | Tags: Antepasados, brown pride, familia, Mexicans, My Life, tortillas
MY CHILDHOOD LIFE was characterized by many things. One of them is how often we moved. I lived in a fair number of places over the course of my life. No, to preempt the persistent question—I was not a "military brat." I was in the care of some people who I feel were searching for a place in the world and in their lives where things felt right. Like most of us, I guess. We did a lot of moving. Coast to coast. Different families, communal living. Old mansion, tent off highway, adobe home, big creaky house, tiny cottage. Lots of houses, lots of schools. Short times here, short times there. Long stretch...and then rapid movement. Always waiting for the next change. In many cases, I know how old I was when certain events happened simply because I remember the environment. (Oh...that was on 82nd street, so I must have been around 11 or so). And many things I learn just from the memories of those older than myself, from pictures in a book, or stories still being told.
A lot of my blog is about growing up with "mixed blood," of mixed "races," of a Person of Color who grew up apart from most of his Brown culture, and all that means from this one person's view. Here is a recent letter from my mother (who is "White"), talking about some of the things I have written here, and her thoughts and memories on the same:
 DEAR [NEZUA], I see you are writing your history in your prolific blog, so I thought I might give you a perspective that you were not aware of, from my point of view, when you were young.
I was always so proud of your brown-ness, your name, and your heritage. Although I knew next to nothing about being a Mexican, I thought the beauty of your uniqueness (as it was in NY anyway), was so special. I never felt the least bit of unease although it appears that you did. I guess changing your name to "Jack" was a sign of it. All kids want to be accepted, and your name being different made you uncomfortable. Me, being somewhat of a rebel, liked the fact that you were not just white bread with so many children being so colorless, both literally and figuratively. I thought you were the most beautiful child in the world. And so smart.
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Here's another thing maybe you didn't know from when you were little, and your Nanita lived with Papi and me in the short period of time we were back together. She used to get up every morning and make corn tortillas by hand. They were delicious. She tried to teach me, and I was learning, but things changed before I could get a chance to master it. Your Nanita, Maria Luz, was a tiny little lady who reminded me of an Indian squaw. White hair, wrinkly brown skin. She was happy and laughed a lot. She was a very devout Catholic and kept an altar in her bedroom. She went to church every day. Once, her wallet was stolen, I think on the bus, on her way back from church. I remember this so well because instead of being angry, she said that the person who took it probably needed the money more than she did.
When your Papi and I first visited her together to tell her I was pregnant (with you), she said, "Oh, a gift." It didn't matter to her that we weren't married and I was only 17. She was so happy she would have a grandchild. Before she moved in with Papi, she lived in the mission district of San Francisco, in a very small place, like a small studio. I remember she washed clothes in the bathtub. She was poor and did the best she could for her son. She used to mail him packages with these see through button down shiny shirts with stripes and new underwear. She used to make hot blue cornmeal and very sweet Mexican hot chocolate for breakfast sometimes. When I was sick once, she put Crisco on my feet and baking soda and wrapped my feet in newspaper to bring the fever down. She had to put the food on the radiator at night to keep the cockroaches off it. Her life was hard but she never complained. We couldn't talk much because neither of us was any good at the other's language, but we did the best we could. I was just a kid. It's hard to believe any of this is real; it seems like a century ago. You are more than twice the age I was then.History, eh? It keeps even the nicknames you'd rather forget!
I have written more than once about how I remember my nanita (Maria de la Luz "Lucha" Quintana) making tortillas. Back and forth, back and forth, patting those between her hands. I remember the smell of the corn. When I read the news lately about the corn game in Mexico, I get very angry. I feel personally squeezed, as if some ladrón is skulking around in my backstory, trying to find a place to shove their GMO ledgerbook. I don't appreciate the birthplace of maize being rung round with corporate agendas, the monster of capitalism once again getting involved in the suffering of humans, indigenous humans, the campesinos today who are no different than the campesinos that were mi abuelos and living off the land only forty years ago or so. I take it personal like. This is one of the most dear memories I have of my Mexican heritage. I cannot invent more. Perhaps some have days and days and days to draw from, I don't know. I keep a small green box with a number of carefully-pressed leaves inside. One smells of the sun-filled hands of maize.
I think it is fantastic that my mother learned from nanita, and I don't mean how to make tortillas, which sadly, she did not. But I do remember once while I was living in Brooklyn while finishing school and in a real tough spot, my mother had mailed me a fifty-spot to help out and on the walk to the store, I had lost it. I ran up and down that street for a while looking for that bill. When I told my mother what happened, she comforted me. She said that she could probably send some more. But that I shouldn't be upset. The person who found it probably needs it more than you do. I had a hard time imagining that at the moment. But I appreciate where she found the wisdom. My nanita had a lot of that wisdom. She learned a lot in her life, it seems. And she had a lot to teach. I'm very glad her words still come to me, both from my father and my mother, who knew her better than I. The more I grow, the more I understand. And the world needs more Luchas like Maria....
She was a stern and intense woman, Papi makes sure I know, when I tell him of my memories of her. For in my mind, she is mostly kind and sweet. But of course, she was a Mexicana! And we know what that means.
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Comentarios (3)
luisa dijo:
your mom's story is beautiful and i hope she remembers more. i've read about wrapping of the feet to bring the fevor down. i think some indigenous people do it with herbs.
Palabras por luisa spat forth on el 7 de Febrero, 2007 at 03:47 PM
Nanette dijo:
I love that picture of the young girl with the guitar. Is that your Nanita?
These stories are great. Some of it reminds me of my own life, as we moved a lot too (although we didn't live in nearly as many different interesting abodes as you did) and I sometimes figure out what age I was when something happened by where I was living as well, or which new school i was attending. Only, after a point, I forget where I was living - seemed to get less and less important, as time went by, what my actual address was or wasn't. Odd. I'm still rather transient, only I don't go far, just to another apartment or something once the current one starts to feel too constricting.
The person who found it probably needs it more than you do.
A wise woman. As is your mom.
Palabras por Nanette spat forth on el 8 de Febrero, 2007 at 02:27 PM
nezua limón xolagrafik-jonez dijo:
sorry i didn't answer this! i don't know why i must have missed it. yes, that is my nanita with the guitar. she was a dramatic person from what i know. i think i took a lot from her in a few hard to explain here ways.
after a point, I forget where I was living - seemed to get less and less important, as time went by, what my actual address was or wasn't.
i totally understand this.
Palabras por nezua limón xolagrafik-jonez spat forth on el 21 de Febrero, 2007 at 07:48 AM