Month: November 2019

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Banda de Guerra

November 20th, Mexican Revolution Day, celebrates the beginning of the ten-year war to bring democracy to Mexico. School children dress like revolutionary heroes and bandas de guerras (bands of war) keep time as students parade through the city in long, jubilant lines.

Colegio Sinaloense, the middle school around the corner from my house, marched in the parade every year. The school band practiced in the park behind my house from early September until mid-November, getting ready for the big event.

Band members, about fifteen students in all, played either drums or bugles. None of them, as far as I could tell, had any previous experience on their instrument. What they lacked in talent and technique, they more than made up for in enthusiasm and volume. The noise was deafening.

Practice began every day at 5:00 with drummers beating out a rough cadence as they walked across the street toward my house. At 5:30 the buglers arrived and spent the next hour warming up. They were elephants on a rampage. They competed with each other to see who could play the loudest and highest notes. They played the same four measures over and over, but not in unison. Every once in a while they hit the right note.

At 7:00 the band master showed up. By that time, the buglers had no chops left and the drummers were exhausted, as well. Only the girls remained standing. The boys played sitting on the curb. They practiced like that for the next hour. The director tried to make them all play the same notes at the same time but since it was dark outside no one could see him. 

The students were proud as they marched in the Revolution Day parade. I loved the parade, too, but I was mostly happy that band practice was over for another year. Viva la Revolución!

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Mamacita is Back

This week’s blog post is by Ernesto

My mother arrived back on our doorstep last weekend. For the past six months she’s lived with my sister, Norma, in San Ignacio Cerro Gordo, where winters are cold in the hills outside of Guadalajara. It was time for Mamí to come back to Mazatlán to spend time in the sunshine with me and my brothers.

My mother is 92 years old. That’s a long life for a Mexican woman but my mother has always been a person in charge of her own destiny. She was born in La Hacienda del Tamarindo, the only girl in a family with five brothers. She was a warrior woman  ~ tiny, weighing less than 100 pounds, with fierce black eyes and a head full of wild curly hair. Her voice, low and growly like a pissed-off dog, commands attention.

One time, I took Mamí on a seven-hour bus ride to Guadalajara. It was a terrible trip. The bus was cold, the toilet wouldn’t flush and the smell was horrible. People complained but the driver said there was nothing he could do about it, so he just kept driving. My mother got the idea that the woman in the seat in front of her was the person who stopped up the toilet. Of course Mamí didn’t have any proof but she didn’t care. She harassed the poor woman all the way to Guadalajara. 

“You know you are the one who did it. We all know it. You gave us a terrible smelly ride and it’s all your fault.” 

Mamí wouldn’t stop until the end of the ride, when I walked up from where I was sitting two rows back, took her by the arm, and quietly led her off the bus.

Another time, not long ago, I looked out the window and saw Padre Lalo walking my mother home. The priest liked to stop at our house after Mass for coffee and sweet bread but I could see by the look on his face, this wasn’t a social call. I went outside to meet him.

“Neto, I’m afraid you need to keep your mother home from now on.”

“Why, Padre Lalo? You know she loves going to Mass.”

“I know, Neto. I’m happy to bring communion to Zelmira here at home but she causes too much trouble when she comes to church.

“What does she do?”

“She watches people going to communion and judges them. Today she stood up in her pew, pointed at Rosita Morales, who was getting ready to take communion, wagged her finger and shouted,  ‘You shouldn’t be taking communion, you (bad word). We all know where you were last night and who you were with.’ 

“Rosita left Mass in tears. Neto, your mother is a good woman. But so is Rosita. I can’t have scenes like this in my church. You have to keep her home.”

Now that Mamí is back with us, I notice a big change. She’s still stubborn but she doesn’t talk much and she doesn’t cause trouble. Because she’s lost most of her teeth, we bring her cereal and soup to eat. She’s quiet and mellow, content to sit in her chair and sleep a lot. I know this makes her easier to deal with, but I miss the feisty mother that I used to know.


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How I Met Ernesto

I’m often asked how I met Ernesto. The short answer is that he picked me up on the beach.

Here is the longer version:

It was April, 2005. I had just bought a house in Mazatlán. A really big house with five bedrooms and six bathrooms. A house full of cockroaches. A house that needed a lot of work. 

I was staying  at La Siesta, a cheap hotel across from Olas Altas beach. I didn’t bring enough money with me and I was quickly running out of cash. I didn’t know how to speak Spanish or how to use a foreign ATM. I was sitting on my bed in my desolate, miserable hotel room when it hit me ~ What was I doing here? In a strange city, in a foreign country, with no one to turn to for help? 

Neto found me sitting on a bench by the ocean, eating a Snickers bar and watching the waves wash in. He was good-looking and charming. He spoke perfect English.

“Hi, What are you doing here?”

“I just bought a house.”

“That’s nice.”

“No it isn’t. It’s a big mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because it needs too much work and I don’t know where to start.”

“Don’t worry. I can help you do whatever you need. Where is your house?”

“Right around the corner. Do you want to see it?”

We walked together down the street to my empty house on Aleman Avenue. I told him I wanted to start by putting a fountain in the courtyard.

“Can you build me a fountain?” I asked as we opened the front door.

“Sure. Don’t worry. I can build any kind of fountain you want. Just show me where you want it.”

Neto came every day to work on the fountain. Soon I realized that he had never built a fountain before and he had no idea what he was doing. He spent days digging holes in the ground and then covering them up again. Then I had an idea. 

“Neto,” I said, “This job is too big for just one person. From now on, I want you to be the foreman. You need to find some helpers ~ an electrician, a plumber, a tile guy, and someone to help you dig the foundation.”

The next day, Neto showed up with his friends, Publio and Pepé, and Señor Blanca, a plumber who arrived with all his tools on the back of his bicycle. They made tremendous progress in just one day. At the end of the day, I walked them to the door to thank them and say goodby. 

“Adiós. Graciás,” I said, as I formally shook their hands. 

“No,” said Neto. “When we leave, you need to say, “Adiós, Guapos. (Goodby, handsome men.) Hasta mañana.”

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Honoring Jesús Flores García

Today’s Día de Muertos essay is written by Ernesto.

We don’t put up Dia de Los Muertos altars in my house. If we did, my father’s altar would include a couple bottles of Pacifico, a pack of filtered cigarettes, a plate of boiled shrimp, a rosary and a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Every morning my father knelt before La Virgin to say a prayer before going to his job as a blacksmith in downtown Mazatlán. When his day was finished, he sang his way up the street holding his friend, the tequila bottle, in his hand. He walked through the door and knelt again before the Virgin’s picture to say graciás for bringing him home.

My dear, kind, generous, honorable father died of a sudden heart attack in 1993. I was lost for a long time after he died. Papí was my protector. My guardian angel. He held me up and never let me down. I’m glad he didn’t see how much trouble I got into after he died but I know he would be proud of the man I am now. My father was my North Star, guiding my way with his constant good humor and basic decency. When I look to the heavens, he is still there telling me, “Ernesto, you are a good boy. Make sure that everyone knows that about you.”

Who is your North Star?