I am a Mexican American man. I am a baseball lovin’, classic rock singin’ American and I am part of a proud, tamale eating, Christmas Eve celebrating, family of Mexican origin. Being a third-generation Mexican-American is tough, especially with the social and political climate in which we find ourselves these days. With a culture built on tradition and the importance of family, I have admittedly, struggled at times finding where I fit in. How American is too American and how Mexican is too Mexican? How do I keep something that I feel is so vital to who I am always a part of me?
This leads us to a Tuesday about 3 years ago.
Seven years ago or so, my grandma started the tradition of “Grandma Tuesdays”. Each Tuesday, rain or shine, act of God or not, she’s there making dinner from anywhere between 5-20 people, depending on who is around that day. As she and my grandpa have gotten older, and us kids (“the Cousins,” as the 13 of us refer to ourselves in most forms of communication), have gone on to make a life of our own, she and my grandpa have seen it as a way to lure us to her home as often as possible to hear about everything that is going on with the entire family. Some days are more crowded than others. It’s an open-door policy. If you’re family, friend, or friend of a cousin or friend I met last week, you’re welcome there. No matter what, there will always be enough food, a spot at the table, a laugh to be had, and more than enough love to go around.
This particular Tuesday was special. It was Grandpa’s (“Chino’s”) 87th birthday. This isn’t something you miss. I had been told about it a week in advance and if you miss something with this much warning in my family, you may want to think about grabbing some bench and sitting the next few plays out, as you regather your dignity that someone in the family will most lovingly break. As I entered through the garage, as I normally do, there were already people of four different generations of this family mid-meal in three different rooms. Some of my cousins sat at the table in the kitchen, still routinely referred to as “the kids’ table”, even though all that were present were well over the age of 21 and had been for some time. These days, a hybrid mix of cousins and the next generation of “cousins” that is being ushered in with each (seemingly bi-monthly) new marriage and pregnancy populated this table. In the living room, some of the other newer additions, threw themselves onto the floor from the ottoman that’s been around since I was their age—attempting to incur the same injuries I did in my prime. A living breathing family tree, whose branches grow with each year.
Lastly, came the dining room. The foundation. The roots of which this family has been ground. The big show. When you grab a seat here, on a day like this, where there are well over 20 people this Tuesday, you’ve “made it.” At the head of it, as he always is, my grandfather leaned back in his chair taking in the conversation that went back and forth across the table. On the other side, my grandmother, leaned forward either intently listening, or using her finger to direct her way through some sort of ordinary story that always seems to end up extraordinary. The living archive.
For 26 years, I had made my way through thousands of hellos, handshakes, cheek kisses, and fist bumps that would be fit for a foreign dignitary, almost always culminating in the heads of my family, my grandma, and grandpa, where the best efforts are saved for last. I never really realized the importance of this, until this day. They deserve the utmost respect, as these two built this family into the well oiled, unbreakable, machine that it is today.
This day, my grandpa headed the family, or at least he liked to think he did. This was flipped on its head as soon as he was on the receiving end of the “Connie eye” (which scientists and sociologists believe, can actually sear a hole into your soul, make hell freeze over, stop a bullet or end a war…the research is still out), and we were very quickly reminded of who really runs this family. But this day, this was his. No matter what. At 87, a life as a self-made millionaire, who didn’t get past sixth grade, he worked only to support his family. This was the celebration he was due.
Then commotion started from the backyard. My godfather rushed his way to open the door. In came the heroes, instruments in tow. Dressed in the traditional charro, (“horseman” in English), the uniform of the soul of Mexico — the mariachi. Then came the first horn. The evening was ready to truly begin. My grandpa’s face lit up with the smile of a 5-year-old kid at Disneyland. Actually, I don’t think this hypothetical kid could be as happy as he was.
My grandpa is a simple man. He loves his family, tequila, John Wayne Westerns, and mariachis. The order of which are pretty much interchangeable. Surprise mariachis for my grandpa’s birthday have become a common occurrence for his past few birthdays. He loves them. They’re what give him just a little extra vigor in his already vigorous life (the man went skydiving for his 80th birthday). To state the obvious and the morbid, we simply don’t know when this may be the last one, so each birthday better damn well count.
The moment the mariachi entered the dining room, my grandpa’s best friend, Reuben, who was an unexpected addition to the night himself, began singing alongside them, as he had been known to and absolutely could not resist doing. My grandpa just looked on and laughed the laugh that creeps out of the side of his mouth, almost as if he doesn’t want people to see how good of a time he is having. Reuben belted out the song, as I’ve seen him do time after time, holding the attention of the entire room, not in a selfish way, but with his energy and passion for life that, at the age of 92, was impossible to turn away from. He would tell my grandpa to request songs from the mariachi, egging him on like a little boy trying to get his mom to order pizza for dinner, so as not to get in trouble for the mischief that will inevitably follow. They knew what they were doing. They knew that they were going to sing or pull one of the ladies aside to dance. Their hips may not have moved as smoothly and their feet may not have shuffled quite the same, but they still moved with a fluidity that matched each note of the song that played.
After he sang his few songs, something happened that I hadn’t seen before. My tough, take no shit, grandpa, stood timidly and self-aware, as the next song started. He began to sing. At first softly and as the song carried on, with more volume, more confidence, more “ganas,” as he likes to say. The confidence in knowing that he was 87 and at this point, no one can tell him what to do or how to feel. He was unabashedly, unquestionably himself. He was happy. My grandma looked on with a love and affection for her husband that only 57 years of marriage can bring–a stoic infatuation that never leaves her face or her heart. She was so in love with him in that moment. This was all he needed.
Throughout the evening, my grandpa and his best friend took turns singing songs of their choosing. With each lyric they sang—they sang of a life of heartache, of love, of happiness, but most of all, they sang of a life well-lived. A contentment and a passion that only the most satisfied of souls could pour into each note. Taking brief breaks every now and again to let the quote-unquote-“pros”, or God forbid, me, try their hand at doing what they so flawlessly executed. We weren’t able to match up to the life they brought to the room. That was impossible.
They told the story of the mariachi’s songs, so perfectly. Each time they dug deep into their lives to pull out the next lyric. They gave us the privilege to listen to them sing. That is what this music is meant to do. In between each melody came a shot of tequila—not liquid courage in this case, just a friendly counterpart to share this moment with, just like the decades of them before. A friend that, once drank, is lost but never forgotten. It sticks to the soul, tending to each new memory that each shot locks in. They lived like 21-year-olds that night, at the tender ages of 87 and 92, respectively. What some 21-year-olds won’t do at a bar without the influence of alcohol or drugs, these guys did with just a fire that is deeply embedded in their love for life.
As the night wound down, I stood in the corner, keenly observing my grandpa, who in his own way just took it all in–a tear fell gently from his eye. This is his joy. His culture, his music, but most of all the love and company of his family and friends—one in the same these days. This is what matters to him. This is what he was born with, what he learned, and what he has lived in his incredible life with. This is the truth that he knows and the truth that he so eagerly hopes gets passed down well after he is gone.
This was the day, like so many of the parties in my family, that made me feel like I belonged, like I for once, really knew who I was. I was the guy that loved his family, sang along with the mariachis (needing the help of my phone, of course), that could barely get by with Spanish, but most of all I knew where I came from and the people and the love that remind me of this every single day. Most of all, I am a man that wants to love his future family, his future wife, his future grandkids, with every fiber of his being, so that they will never forget the happiness, the joy, and the good times that we share. Following the example my grandparents have set, I’ll turn to my family, to our traditions, whatever they develop into, and know that this is where I’ll find happiness.
These are the traditions that my family has instilled in me. The traditions of life, of joy, of love, music, and family. These are things that no amount of money, no amount of things can give to you. It is with the people you love and the people that love you that true happiness lies. This is what is so deeply ingrained in me and what I hope that my cousins and I, as we continue to age and move into leadership roles in the family, can continue to pass on to our families both present and future. This is who we are and who we know we all want to be for many Tuesdays to come.
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This post has been republished on Medium.
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