A Tale of Two Cultures

One of my first experiences with Nita’s Italian side of the family was during Thanksgiving while we were engaged.  She said to me, “They are very close, loud, and there’s lots of food.  It can be quite overwhelming.”  So, being someone who was in team sports, and someone who presented in front of lots of customers, and finally being Hispanic, I figured this will be easy.  So here we go, off to Houston and we get to the house and there are a lot of people and way more food than a most third world countries have in a year.  There were three generations of Italians and a priest.  The extended family was awesome and I began attempting to learn and memorize everyone’s name, side of the family, and which boat they came over on.  I’m kidding on the boat thing, but Nita is three generations from the Sicily.  One of Nita’s cousins came up and trying to be sweet said, “Hey Marco what do you think about all these Italians?”  The conversations get quieter and just like in the Sure Thing everyone hears me say, “I think they’re great, Italians are basically the Mexicans of Europe.”  In a movie, this is where the sound effects guy would scratch a needle across the record and everyone would immediately stop talking and stare at the new guy like he’d just peed the floor.

I then proceed to explain that, like Italians, Mexicans were mostly Catholic, family oriented, loud, and if any of them had ever been to a tamalada (tamale making party) they’d know about food. (Nice save)!  In the years that have gone by I’ve grown to love them like my own family (more in some cases) and think they’ve grown to love me as well. 

Sure there are some differences, and some of them are political.  You have to remember that many of the Italians either lived through or were close to the Mussolini Fascist regime, but kind of started out as the leaders of the world (Roman Empire in case any of you forgot about that portion).  Mexicans were ruled mostly the Spaniards, French, and now drug lords, but they too were an amazing civilization and even invented the zero (Aztecs and Mayans).  We both love Oregano.  Tortillas vs. Bread, can’t we have both? Cheeses are a little different, and spicy is in the mouth of the beholder. For example, spicy for Italians is whether or not to have gelato or a drink of water between sips of wine.  Spicy for Mexicans is whether to put the toilet paper in the freezer or just sit on an helado (ice cream).  I’d like to focus on the similarities.

Two weeks ago, Connor was the ring bearer in my cousin’s wedding.  We were invited to the rehearsal dinner and the reception.  This week Nita’s aunt had a birthday and the whole family came down for a really nice dinner and then a fun little brunch/lunch.  I thoroughly enjoyed both sets of events.  Connor got to meet some of his cousins and had a blast with all the sweets.  The funny thing is Nita is deathly afraid of Connor getting teased about his hair.  She doesn’t make things easier by putting so much sunscreen on him that he looks like Casper the ghost with red eyebrows.  But in both family gatherings the kids have been wonderful.  They all run and play with him and chased him around and were tickled that one of their cousins didn’t have black hair.  The cousins (both sides) adore him and can’t get enough of Josephine’s chunky legs and puffy cheeks.  (Originally I used fat, but Nita thinks I’m going to give her a complex).  Everyone is a hugger and everyone is legitimately interested in how you are doing. 

By interested, I mean it.  If you ask someone from work or at a party how they are doing, they’ll say fine or excuse themselves to go get a drink.  If you ask a Mexitalian (this is what we call Connor and Josie by the way, so for brevity, I’m combining them into one new master race J ) how they are doing, they’ll tell you.  You may find yourself in a 30 minute graphic conversation about lancing a goiter.  You cannot get away from their generosity and if you try to send a plate back with food on it, God help you.  You better finish it, ask for more, and eat that too… and then ask to take some home with you.  If you ask how to build a fence or a dock, you better expect 12 people in your back yard next weekend with tools and 13 different ideas on how to start.  If you go on a hunting trip, you better not expect to eat hamburgers and salads, you either eat some obscure “delicacy” or what you shoot.  And by delicacy I mean you better be willing to eat what other people throw away.  And they LOVE to argue, which is where I think I feel most at home. But more than anything else they love their children.  They are both beautiful cultures and I’m proud to be part of both.

Happy Father's day

I’ve heard a lot about different Father’s days.  Some do time away from the family (golf buddy trip), some do time with the family, some make it father and son time.  I think all three are appropriate.  This year I happened to hurt my back (again) and was unable to play golf on Saturday or Sunday like I normally would have.  Instead Nita, Connor, Josie, my mom and I all went to the club pool in our golf carts.  We played in both pools without another person showing up for a couple of hours.  Then we had a nice dinner where my Father’s day platter was unveiled.  Both of our mom’s came for steaks, scallops, roasted corn, and a lovely strawberry cake (thanks for helping daddy blow out the candle Connor). Finally I can bring in everything from the grill in one trip, added bonus that it has Josie and Connor’s foot and hand prints on said platter.

I started thinking about all the crappy ties and crappier excuses I gave my father through our 26 years together.  Sure the wife/mom is responsible for the gift for at least the first 10 or so years, but what about my last 16?.  Okay, money aside, did I do my best?  Not really.  Of course no one tries to be a good parent so they get cool gifts from children three times a year (birthday, Christmas, and Father’s/Mother’s day) or at least they shouldn’t use that as the incentive.  I mean I know if he were still alive now he’d get some really cool stuff.  I know I try to take care of my mother and get her some neat things. What would I do now?  I’d probably take him to a ball game…in another state.  Maybe take him fishing in Canada, or just spend the day with him.

Thinking about this reminded me about March 11, 1996, our last day together.  I’d gotten two tickets to see Texas A&M baseball vs. Michigan in College Station.  I asked dad if he wanted to go.  He said yes.  The night before I went out partying with my friends and was seriously hung over the next day.  So much so that I called mom and asked if dad was even interested in going to the game or if he was being polite (hoping for the latter).  Mom said, “Mijo, he is really excited.  He’s been telling his friends all week.”  So I told her, “Tell him I’m excited too and to meet me at (not important) and we’ll drive up together.”  So dad met me and off we went.  We talked about a job opportunity I had in Phoenix and he gave me advice on how to truly measure salary (proximity to friends, family, laundry, entertainment, travel, soft costs, etc.)  We talked about maturity, success, work ethic, and baseball.  We got to College station with plenty of time to go eat at Tom’s BBQ.  We got to the game and watched the Aggies beat the Wolverines.  Then we drove home.  We didn’t argued at all (rare for us) the entire way.  Most of you who know me know I’m very competitive in the debate arena and I kind of learned it from him. We used to have some doozies.  He dropped me off at my truck, I hugged him and told him that I loved him.

That night he had a heart attack and died in his bed.  I often thank God for the nudge to spend this last day with him.  I don’t know if I’d have ever been able to forgive myself if I’d have blown him off and he then died that night.  I hope Connor and Josie and I have a similar last day.  He also died in the bed of his adoring wife of 39 years.  I hope I get that luxury as well.  I hope the day I go to be judged that I have a chance to tell and hear from my family that I love them and they love me.  I miss you dad, you would have loved Nita.  Connor would have adored you, and Josie would have melted your heart.  Rest in peace and happy Father’s day.

I finally get it.

Technically I got it about 3 years ago, but I REALLY get it now.  First of all I want to apologize to my friends and family, and I guess to some of my co-workers.  For about two decades people sent me pictures of their kids, told stories about them, and tried to share their experiences.  I was a single workaholic who wasn’t really interested in “distractions.”  I was the guy who heard a baby cry or a child yell, “Mommy! MaaaaahhhhhhMEEEE!  MOM!!”  in a restaurant and thought (or even said it out loud) “Can’t they shut that kid up?”  As my friends got married and continued sharing these things I still wasn’t as interested as say, who won last night’s game and what the lead was on SportsCenter.

Then after two years of trying to start a family we got pregnant.  I showed everyone our first sonogram picture.  I even made it my desktop background on my computer.  Then Connor was born.  I took pictures and videos of everything.  I made collages and taped them to the window of my golf cart.  I created a website so my friends and family could share in my joy.  (Yes I am in fact seeing what a jack ass I was.  There is no need to re-point it out). I told countless stories of his development and bragged about each little milestone he surpassed.  I purchased a two terabyte SAN to back up all his pics and videos.  I started rotating the picture collage in my golf cart which has now morphed into three full panels.  Of course then comes Josie and they both own me.  I get it. 

When we were planning our wedding, Nita informed me that two of her friend’s daughters would be flower girls and her cousin’s son would be the ring bearer I was thinking, “Really? They are going to be a distraction, they won’t sit still, they’ll be loud and we’ll have to worry about what they do around the altar.  (I was a groomsman for a friend’s wedding and was put in charge of the ring bearers… it didn’t go well, it was all I could think of).  Of course the kids at our wedding did great and they even had a really cute moment at the reception where they held a plate under the chocolate fountain and were feeding each other the chocolate.  Again, now I get it.

This weekend my cousin’s daughter was getting married.  We were honored that they asked Connor to be the ring bearer.  Imagine a whole bunch of Hispanics on either side of the aisle and Connor in a tux walking down the center with flaming red hair.  He was going to be a hit.  So Nita took him to church a couple of times to practice walking down to do it just right and not go off running or get nervous.  The morning before the wedding Nita took Josie with her to get her hair touched up.  I was to feed Connor.  So I took him to our golf club for tacos.  I thought it’d be fun to take him in the golf cart and even called my mom to meet us.  Connor wanted a granola bar and stuffed too much of it in his mouth.  Then before you could say, “drink some milk sweetie,” he started puking everywhere. I picked him up and tried to carry him as quickly as possible to the showers to have him do it there (sorry BCC, we almost made it) and he threw up just inches away from the shower entry one more time for good measure.  So I pulled off his little collared shirt, rinsed him off and used his socks to wipe off his little arms, cheeks, and legs.  So here I was walking back through the club with a no shirt, barefoot little boy and puke on my shirt and shorts and soaking wet shoes.  I had not one shred of embarrassment.  I felt bad for the folks who had to go clean up and apologized, but I only cared about getting my little boy some sprite and having him rest.

Fast forward to the wedding.  Y’all know a full on Catholic Mass is already a full hour, throw in wedding vows and a gift to La Virgin, and you’ve exceeded the attention span of a 2 ½ year old.  But Connor did great.  We showed him a couple of videos, played etch-a-sketch, and gave him some books to read.  He even kept his flower pinned to his lapel without tearing it up, picking the petals, or even stabbing anyone with the pins.  One time he started calling for mommy and wasn’t using his whisper voice so Nita took him to the front and they played out front for a while.  But he did great and even made it back for Communion. I was so proud of him.  He even stood relatively still and smiled for pictures. He even cooperated for re-enacting a few pictures with his sweet little cousin Sienna who was the beautiful flower girl you see.  We then took both kids to the reception and I’m glad I did.  Connor ate about 15 sugar cookies and basically had a three cameras following his dance moves (which mostly look like bat spin races) until he fell, laughed and did it again. 

For those of you who sent me the pictures 15 years ago, I’m sorry I didn’t look.  But I tell you this… I look at your sweet little Facebook posts now.  I read and share in your joy when your kids turn on a fastball, win gymnastics or swimming meets.  Sing, dance, or act in their latest recital or play.  I watch the cheering and the band formations.  I read your posts on their victories, heartaches, and crushes. I get it.

A Guardian Angel

I promised myself not to get overly religious or political, but I just can’t ignore this story.  My son Connor had an incident last night and this is the context.  I’ve been told about guardian Angels my entire life.  My mother had a – we can call it near death, but she was clinically dead for 8 minutes – experience.  She also had a falling off the roof incident when she was a little girl and she describes seeing a hand catch her and gently place her on the ground.  In any case, I believe. 

Connor is 2 ½ years old (and a few days).  He has a pretty amazing vocabulary for his age, knows his numbers to 15, colors, every single Thomas train engine, truck and tender, and most of his animals, fish, and birds (including the difference between a macaw and a parrot).  He is also very adept in identifying his wants.  Additionally he is really working his boundaries and is thoughtful about things to which he will agree and disagree.   For example the other day he was reaching for a bird feeder.  He said, “Daddy…can’t reach it.”  I said, “Can or cannot?”  He said, “Cannot.”  I asked if he wanted daddy to get it and he said, “No.  Daddy hold Connor.  Connor get it.”  Also, he attends Hope Presbyterian pre-school in a mother’s day out program.  He knows what Angels are.

Okay, now you are caught up.  I’m not boasting about Connor’s skills, I’m just setting the tone.  We have a two story home and Connor’s room is upstairs.  We have a spiral staircase and it is hardwood with no runners. Connor again, being 2 ½ and testing the limits of his independence wants us to carry him some days and others he wants to hold the rail and our hand and walk himself. Sometimes he wants to do it completely by himself holding the rail.  Anyway, he goes forwards, not the backwards crawl. 

Last night I fixed dinner.  Nita was upstairs playing with Connor and Josephine.  When I called them to dinner, I heard Nita say let’s go down and wash our hands.  Connor decided he was going by himself this time.  Nita was just behind holding Josie.  Then Connor tripped and fell forward.  I heard Nita gasp and yell out his name.  When I came running around the corner, Connor was half way down with two hands in the middle of one of the steps perfectly balanced.  His chin was two inches from the corner of the wood step.  His knees were barely on the edge two steps behind.  I ran up and grabbed him and held him, carrying him down the stairs.  He was visibly shaken.  I took him to a chair and just held him and rubbed his back and said soothing things.  When I kind of let him go he sat still staring over my shoulder.  Usually he’d look at me.  I asked if he saw anything.  He said yes.  I asked if it was an angel and again he said yes.  I asked if the angel caught him and again he said yes.  I then told him to thank the angel and he said, “Thank you Mr. Angel.” 

Okay, so some of you may or may not believe. Cool.  That’s for you to decide and God bless you no matter what decisions you make.  All I can say is the more I pray the luckier I get.  Don’t worry, I’ll go back to funny next week.  Yes the picture is an allusion to "Footprints."