Mexico Lindo Y Querido

Growing up in Mexico was the best thing that could ever happen to me. My neighborhood was a place where I was poor but happy because I could feel the community, ruled by simplicity, and any other stereotype you wish to impose on the third world but I appreciated the value of loyalty. There were no convalescent homes, few childcare centers. We raised our young and kept our old. I don't know that I would have traded any amount of money or toys to miss all the moments of having my mom, grandparents, great grandparents, uncles and cousins within the same house or block. 

The water in the desert came on twice a day with a view of the mountains. Like the way I imagined most Mexican neighborhoods, we played in the dirt streets. We didn't have many things so we made do. We played a game of hide and seek in which the timer was a soda can filled with little pebbles. There was a fascinating version of a snake game in which we all twirled around and the last person hung on for dear life, almost quite literally. There was several times where we were sent up against sidewalks, fences, rocks. My action figures were hard plastic wresting figurines and their ring was a board with four nails and some rubber bands. My imagination and creativity were born out of necessity. Plot lines with things made out mud and drawn into the dirt would have given Shakespeare a run for his money. 

We played soccer on the dirt streets. Well mostly my brother played soccer. I played too since its a requirement if you’re a Mexican boy . He was so much better than I would ever be that I felt inadequate and chose not to play as much. I'm not sure what it is about big brothers but mine intimidated me. None of my older cousins did and few adults held such sway over me. He was so full of life, bigger than life really. He liked motorcycles and all the neighborhood kids gravitated towards him. Yet he always seemed angry to me. Angry at my mom, angry at my grandfather angry at I don't know what. Even all the pictures of him as a middle school aged kid don't show him ever smiling. I was kind of scared of him but at the same time mesmerized. I wanted to be just like him but so afraid to try.

Things like being sanitary were insignificant. We all drank from the same soda can, ate things from the floor, played in the dirt. Mexican germs must not be as strong because somehow we all survived. To this day when I return I drink that dangerous tap water to beef up my system. 

However, I was really sick once. I remember it vaguely because everyone was stressed out and I was worried for them. Apparently I had a strong pulmonary infection and my mother was rather worried about my survival. They were up for a few nights while I had a strong fever. The medicine they prescribed to me then was effective and inconsequential except for one thing: it stained my teeth a very ugly brown. It was never a problem in Mexico since many of us shared the attribute. Once I got to America kids were so mean, they told me I had crap teeth or that I should brush me teeth—Ironically, it first inspired me to brush my teeth vigorously but once I realized that this wasn't fixing anything I essentially did not brush my teeth at all…I have had dental health problems my whole life.— I tried so hard to get rid of this throughout my entire life. As a teenager, my aunt tried a home recipe of muriatic acid, a poison, to get the stains off. It worked for a while but I think it took much of the enamel off my teeth and they became restained. I tried some dental work in Mexico that was supposed to be replaced every year but it wasn't and the stains returned. Finally, twice once for getting it done and then another for replacement, I paid several thousand dollars to have most of my upper front teeth replaced with veneers, just to smile pretty. Just to feel better. And now, every once in a while I get a complement on my smile and think that I just got complemented for being a liar.

Anyway, I was always a good kid. Conformity was the path of least resistance and I had no real temptations. I was naïve to the evils around me. There were gangs in the neighborhood and violence like a murder occurred about a block from my grandfather's house. It was printed in the paper I picked up the next morning and I saw it as I brought it it. Somehow, I was impervious that it could happen to me most of the time. 

There were other things that should be harder memories but I can't recall them. My mother was a single mom really struggling and I was being taken care of by my aunt who even wanted to adopt me. My grandfather was an alcoholic who struggled with his temper. My uncle Lalo was also an alcoholic and threw a dart at me. I had an aunt that when she was angry would destroy art creations she had made. Yet out of some suppression or the fact that the echoes of happiness drown out the problems, these memories don’t shout. I only remember my great-grandfather Benedito and my grandfather Medardo telling these great stories, my great grandmother and grandmother cooking these great meals. There was menudo and tamales on special occasions. There was coke or candy when were being extra good.  I remember my friends coming over to play and always laughing because well what else was there to life?

Many of my childhood friends are still in Mexico. Many of them are in the same neighborhood, almost all their families still are. Many of the girls are popping out children not that different than me, without a present father. Last I heard, Hugo is a taxi driver, Julio a police officer, Francisco an electrical engineer. Many of them have not had the "opportunities" I've had. They are still poor in Mexico. At my last visit a fair share of them are still on the exact block I grew up in.

I'm not sure which one of us got the better end of the deal.