[Vision2020] For Keely

[keely emerinemix]

So much of our upbringing was similar, Kai, and I really appreciate your 
story.  It brought a couple of hearty laughs and a few tears . . .

I remember paletas (frozen fruit treats), horchata (a rice beverage served 
icy cold), helotes (ears of roasted corn) and saladitos -- dehydrated peach 
pits soaked in salt brine.  You bought a couple for 25 cents and sucked on 
'em all day . . . all the better, I suppose, to enjoy your paletas and 
horchata.  I lived an hour from the border, but my dad owned the Green 
Valley News near Nogales, so we went south a lot.  When I was very young, my 
parents would go to Nogales, Sonora, to the bullfights; the next morning, 
I'd wake up to panes dulces and a hideously grinning ceramic marioneta, a 
bullfighter puppet almost as grotesque to a five-year-old as the bullfights 
themselves.  (A note on that -- my liberal agitation evidently began young; 
according to them, I harangued and whined about being mean to animals enough 
that they eventually quit going, although it took another decade or so to 
talk them out of the bullfighter-themed decor they foisted on us!).

I had a nana, an older woman who was like my grandmother, and a nena, my 
confirmation sponsor in the Catholic Church (another true story -- I put the 
meaning of confirmation in serious jeopardy by smacking Susan Mary 
Wittkowski for choosing her name, "Veronica," while I got stuck with 
"Angela."  But my patrona had the stigmata, so I won . . . )  I learned to 
cumbia (a dance; I was enthusiastic but hopeless), I knew to boil mesquite 
tea for menstrual cramps, and while other fiteen-year-old girls had 
quinceaneras, I got to see "Jaws" with three other girlfriends.  I shook 
Cesar Chavez' hand when I was 10 and listened, enraptured, at the Chicano 
and Chicana students my father taught at the university when they came over. 
  I didn't "get" the comedy of Cantinflas, but I still love norteno ranchero 
music.

It was wonderful, and I'd about kill for a paleta de coco e pina -- a 
pineapple-coconut frozen treat unlike any Popsicle you've ever tasted . . .

Thanks again, Kai -- maybe even, in addition to a firm handshake, a sincere 
hug of thanks for the memories!

keely


From: "Kai Eiselein, editor" <editor at lataheagle.com>
To: "Vision 2020" <vision2020 at moscow.com>
Subject: [Vision2020] For Keely
Date: Mon, 15 Jan 2007 16:50:43 -0800

I know you grew up in Tucson, but was your life like this?
And yes, there are always tortillas at my house.
Two Worlds
While having a discussion about food with my wife recently, my mind drifted
back to when I was a kid.
Nogales, Arizona was a different place in the late 60's and early 70's,
border crossing was a whole lot easier, and no one gave much thought to
going back and forth. To a kid, Nogales, Sonora, Mexico and Nogales,
Arizona, USA were oftentimes one and the same.
Like many kids I had a sitter, Gina Mercado, and spent quite a bit of time
at her house with her husband, Sol and daughter Judy.
Sol was a quiet, kind man with eyes that twinkled when he was teasing. He
loved his garden where he grew tomatoes, peppers, corn and the best
strawberries in town and he was proud of his chickens.
"Kai, Kai, cahree" he would say "Is what the roosters call in the morning."
"See you have a good name, all the roosters say it." He knew that I didn't
like my name because it was so different than my friends' names; Juan,
Jose', Miguel, Raul. It was his way of saying it was okay to be different.
Although I remember these conversations in English, they all took place in
Spanish. Sol didn't speak English, to my knowledge. More than anything, I
remember helping him in his garden and collecting eggs from the henhouse,
not talking a lot, just enjoying an easy comfortable silence.
Gina was a short, heavyset woman and although she could be tough, she had a
heart of gold. But you just didn't make her mad, or else! Gina was always
busy it seemed, cooking, washing clothes, cleaning house.
I used to love watching her make tortillas, she'd take a ball of dough and
with her hands moving at an unbelievable speed she'd pat out a perfect
tortilla and toss it on a hot griddle, turning it with her fingers. "Pat,
pat, pat, ssssssssss" was the sound as the stack of warm flatbread would get
taller. I'd sit at the table and hope for a warm tortilla with butter. Gina
knew it; she'd glance over... and make me wait. But that wait was worth it,
when the tortilla and butter hit my tongue.
Gina and Sol were the ones who introduced me to coffee "con leche", well,
mostly leche, and sugar. But I was "grown up" and drinking coffee with them.
Gina did most of her shopping "across the line" in Mexico. Going to the
market was always a treat, it was so different than American stores.
Papayas, mangoes, limons, pickled pigs feet (my favorite), chorizo and so
many other things.
Then it would be off to the panaderia, the bakery, and time for "pan dulce",
sweet bread,or empanadas with pumpkin filling.
Sometimes we'd have time to go to a park, where we'd sit and have a frozen
treat from one of the pushcart vendors or visit some of Gina's friends. Some
of them had boys my age and we'd go outside and play futbol until it was
time to leave.
At the time, it all seemed normal to me, but now I can't help but wonder
what a tourist might have thought seeing this towheaded little kid playing
in a street in Mexico, laughing with his friends and chattering away in
Spanish. (Yes, the "bad" words, too.) I know as I got older, shopkeepers
were often taken aback when I spoke to them in Spanish or translated for
someone who didn't.
Such was life with my feet in two worlds.
Copyright 2007
kai Eiselein


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