Malagradecida

“¿Y tu mamá quien le va ayudar a subirse al carro?”

“I am,” I reassured him, “but I want to get you settled first.”

“OK. OK. Lo que tu digas. Tu mandas.”

Strapping the seatbelt around my dad that morning was a lot easier because this time he didn’t try to help.

“Déjame ayudarte, Negra,” he would say, as he tried to lift his arms out of the way only to slap my glasses off. Or tried to pull the seatbelt across his chest but never succeeding to insert the metal clip in the socket on the first try. Or the second. Or third.

“¡Chinga’o! Esta mugre jodida nomás no quiere.”

“Here let me do it,” I’d plead, trying hard not to sound impatient.

Today, there was none of that hassle. I got him into the car with no problems and the seatbelt clicked on the first try. I looked at him, smiled, and thought, “Here we go.”

Once Mom got in the front seat, she took out her rosary and started praying. She was in no mood to talk to me, so I left her alone.

Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden.

“¿Ya te informaste si va venir el Prieto?” Dad asked. “¿Y tu hermana?”

“No, Dad. They won’t be there.”

Mom didn’t hear us. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal.

“Dale despacio, Negra, pa’ ver la casa de lejos,” Dad instructed me. The recent rains had left the yard at 906 E. Edwards looking lush, a rarity for this yard. Mom’s multicolored bird houses, mailboxes, and flowers contrasted nicely against the green background.

“¿Como se ve mi Coyol, Mariana?,” Dad called out to Mom, referring to his canna lily. “¿Está brotando o no?”

She didn’t bother to look in the direction of the bell-shaped, salmon-colored flowers, so I answered for her.

“Yes, Daddy. It’s looking nice.”

“What?” Mom asked.

“Dad’s Coyol is looking really nice.”

“Sí. Estuvo bien que la plantamos allí cerca de la ventana para que la pudiera ver mejor,” she said.

“Attaboy, Mariana!” Dad agreed.

   Ave María, llena de gracia, el Señor está contigo…

When we got to 7^th Avenue, I knew what he would say. I pulled down on the turn signal.

“Dale pa’ la otra casa, Negra, pa’ ver como está el pecan tree de Danny.”

The pecan tree my brother planted for him at their other house was Dad’s most prized possession. He’d shut me up quickly whenever I’d bring up selling the house on 309 W. Nueces – the house where my siblings and I grew up.

“Mientras que yo esté vivo, esa casa no se va a vender,” he declared.

Heading south on 7^th, we saw a stout woman in short-shorts walking on the sidewalk. Dad waved toward her and shouted, “¿Que pasó, Mariana? “¿Pa’ donde vas?”

Ever since we were little, Dad had always called out to gorditas using Mom’s name. I cringed each time because I knew it would piss her off. Most of the time, she would strike back with, “Cállate el osico, viejo chinga’o.”

This morning she ignored it. I still cringed.  

I drove toward their other house on the opposite side of town. We call that house on West Nueces Street “Dad’s house.” We moved into that house when I was in 5^th Grade. After we were all on our own and Mom finally had had enough of the smell and the mess left by Dad’s fighting roosters in the backyard coops, she moved into their house on East Edwards Street – the first house they owned – while Dad stayed in the West Nueces house.

“I’m going to go Mom’s house,” we’d say, or “Let’s meet at Dad’s house.”

We used to say that our parents never got along better than when they lived in their respective houses.

I drove west on Lake Street. Just past the traffic lights, Dad noticed that the Fina gas station was open.

“Haber si compras unos tíquetes de lotería, Negra,” Dad said. “Nunca sabes si ahora es cuando le pegamos.”

“Mega or Powerball?”

“Compra el que tenga más,” was his usual reply. “You never know, Negra. We might hit it. You never know.”

I knew we’d never hit it, but I nodded in agreement.

I saw a man exit the service station.

“¡Pariente!” Dad shouted.

“¿Quién es?” I asked.

“No conosco al pela’o ese,” he admitted without a trace of embarrassment.

He greeted all men with pariente. Most of the time, they were never relatives. Many times, he didn’t even know the men. It was just a courtesy he paid them.

I turned right on Avenue B. As we passed the blue house about one block in, Dad asked, “¿Y Ms. Mata? ¿No has hablado con ella?”

“Sí está bien, Dad.”

“¿Todavía es principal?”

“Sí.”

“¿Y su chavalío?”

“Está creciendo.”                                     

“¡Que tal la Ms. Mata!”

Mom turned to look at me as if I was crazy.

Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden. No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal.

At West Nueces Street, I turned left, driving slowly so Dad could get a good look at the house, which sits on a half-acre corner lot.

It was a beautiful house.

Built in 1938, it had character. Original fireplace. Original wood floors throughout the living room, hallway and dining area. Two sunrooms and an office with built-in shelves.

“Chinga, nunca me crecieron los crepe myrtles como yo quería,” he said sadly. “¡Mira como ha crecido el pecan tree que me dió mi güero!”

He was right. The pecan tree Danny had planted not long before he died in 2012 was getting tall, becoming a dominant presence in the yard. It was Dad’s prized possession. The Coyol came close, but that pecan tree meant everything to him.

“¿Y tu tía,” Dad asked as we drove past his sister’s house, “¿La vamos a levantar nosotros o qué?”

Tía Luisa lived in a small green house next to Dad’s house. She and my grandmother, now dead, had moved into it not long after my parents bought theirs.  

“Rob y Eliseo ya vinieron por ella.”

“¿Que, qué?”

“Rob and Seo already picked her up.”

“What?” Mom sounded perturbed that I interrupted her rhythm.

“Nothing.” I didn’t feel like explaining things to her.

We’d driven past the house and were now back on Lake Street.

Dad began to sing.

A ti te quiero mujer
No le hace que seas paseada
Te quiero porque te quiero
Porque me nace del alma

I started to cry.

The lyrics took me back in time. I could see my dad driving south on Highway 83 towards Asherton, the window open and hot air blowing across his face.

Tu no sabias querer
Porque eras mujer paseada
Y te burlabas de mí
Cuando de amores te hablaba

Before ‘Buelita and my aunt moved to Crystal City, Dad would visit them every weekend. Usually he’d take groceries, but mostly he’d just go to check on them. I loved going with him to Cheto because they had boxes and boxes of old comic books, a large pot filled with marbles of all sizes, and two doors at the front of the house. Two doors! I never understood why old houses had two doors that opened to the front room.

Pero llegaste a saber
Que con mi amor no jugabas
Y con el tiempo supiste
Lo mucho que tú me amabas

My favorite memory had always been of me lying across the front seat with my head on Dad’s lap and legs across Mom’s. Back when cars were huge, before seat belts laws were enforced. Dad would push the hair away from my face and stroke my head with his rough, calloused hands, all the while singing Ramón Ayala’s Mujer Paseada.

Tú despreciabas mi amor
Cuando en tus brazos lloraba
Pero llegaste a quererme
Así como yo deseaba

Everyone was already there when we arrived. I was in no hurry to park the car.

“¿No se ve tu tía, Negra?”

I nodded.

“¿Y quien es ese?” Dad asked. “¿A poco es José?”

His name was Jesús, but I didn’t want to correct him. Not today. I simply nodded.

“Pobre José. Muy buena gente.”

Jesús, Dad’s caretaker, had become one of Dad’s closest friends.

I parked the car and helped Mom out first. Once I had her situated, I returned for Dad. When I opened the door to the back seat, I asked him, “You ready, Daddy?”

“I’m ready, Mi’ja,” he said confidently. “Let’s go.”

“OK.”

“Ayúdame a quitarme esta chingadera.”

“I got it. I got it.”

I unbuckled the safety belt and lifted him out of the seat.

“OK, mi negra. You got it?”

“Here we go, Daddy.”

I walked with Dad to where the others waited.

  “Man, Dad. You’re heavy.”

“Ya si no, Negra. Está cosa está hecha de puro fiero,” he said.

Mom and Tía Luisa were crying softly. Jesús, Rob, and Seo were waiting for us. Brother Dino said a prayer and sang a hymn.

I let Mom and Luisa give Dad one last bendición.

And before I lay my daddy down for the very last time, I kissed him. I kissed him again. And again.

“Bye, Daddy. I love you.”

I set the urn down as gently as I could. He was finally where he’d always wanted to be, with my brother.

“Thank you, Negra. Te lo agradezco con todo mi corazón.”

Today marked 10 years since her brother died by suicide. She’d been thinking about what to post on Facebook. That’s what people do – she thought – post everything on Facebook. Birthdays, engagements, anniversaries, trips, memorials. 

She would need to include pictures, but most of the ones she considered to be genuine were taken by their mother when they were kids. There weren’t many pictures of them together as adults. The occasions that did bring them together were few and far between. And if pictures were taken on those occasions their smiles often revealed how uncomfortable they were. Not fake. More like nervous smiles. Smiles that pleaded, “Just hurry and take the picture.” Uncomfortable.

She often joked to her friends that as adults, she and Danny only came together during a crisis. Other people had family reunions. Her family reconnected at funerals where controlling giggles – so they didn’t erupt into laughter – wasn’t always successful. Her family gathered in hospital waiting rooms where they refused to mind their behavior or how loud they spoke – despite their parents’ protests. Extended stays in the hospital counted for the best of times, except maybe for the unfortunate person who had been admitted – usually their mother or father. Yet, even if they were experiencing the worst of pains, it was evident that the parents liked having their children together.

“Aunque no se pueden callar el osico.”

Ah, good times. Good times.

Crises were good – so to speak – for their family because it brought them together as a unit. Because that was when the siblings felt most comfortable with each other. They shared stories. They leaned on each other. They could poke fun at each other with no fear of repercussions. Best of all, they laughed. Not nervous laughter either. They laughed to the fullest degree possible. Grab a hold of your stomach kind of laughter. Laugh until you can’t catch your breath.

But there were no pictures of those times. Who takes pictures to mark the occasion when you are told that your dad has to be sent to a nursing home for rehabilitation or your mother’s staph infection turned into sepsis?

There were two specific events that stood out to her. The first was of a funeral the siblings attended with their father. They were already grown but made the trip home to be with him. She couldn’t remember whose funeral it was, but it was important to him that his children be there.

The protocols for such occasions were ingrained into them as soon as they could talk. Say hello to anyone and everyone. State your full name. State your age. Give a firm handshake. Finally, their father would interject his own descriptors for each of his children. It was a descriptor that best identified that child’s place in the family line.

That was the part they hated most.

None of them liked the Daniel Zavala Rules for Etiquette growing up. However, on this day, the adult children took the bull by the horn and beat their father to the punch.

Soy Carmel Zavala Diaz. Cuarenta y dos años. La grandota.

Yo soy Danny Zavala Jr. Treinta y nueve años. El güero.

Yo soy Roel Zavala. Treinta y siete años. El malito.

Y yo soy Corina Zavala Lopez. Veinte y nueve años. La cuata.

The grown-ass children thought it was funny. Their father didn’t. But that was because he never knew how deep the negative connotations cut into each child’s emotional state growing up. Well, for three of them at least. Danny was assigned the best one. Being called a güero or güera was considered a badge of honor. At least they could laugh about it now. And laugh they did that day, much to the annoyance of their father.

She recalled one time they spent in the hospital when Roel had to have one of his balls removed due to testicular cancer. It was crude way of describing it, but if Roel said it that way so could she. Danny learned that Roel’s testicle had swollen immensely and asked to see it for himself. Roel later claimed he would never forget the ¡A la chingada! look on Danny’s face when he lifted the hospital sheet to peek underneath. Imagine capturing that scene in pictures.

Later as the family sat in the waiting room while Roel was being emasculated, Danny convinced their father they should switch shoes. Danny wanted to prove that his own slip resistant, tactical shoes were better suited for their dad who was on his feet all day as opposed to the Walmart version of Stacy Baldwins he wore. The poor man finally agreed to try on the shoes. When Danny commanded that his father walk up and down the aisle so he could feel the difference, he refused.

“¿Qué va pensar la gente?”

Danny didn’t give a shit. He stood up and started walking. He walked up and down the aisle – again and again – in the generic black shoes that produced a clackity-clack sound on the laminate flooring. Slow at first. Then a little faster. Eventually he broke into a light jog.

Clackity clack. Clackity clack. Clackity clack.

But the kicker was when Danny suddenly stopped in front of them. Looking straight at his father, he extended his arms parallel to the floor and began to tap dance. “Mira. Soy Sammy Davis.”

Cue the laughter. That stomach holding, can’t catch your breath laughter.

“No están más mensos porque no están más viejos.”

In the 10 years since Danny died, those were the Zavala reunions that always came to mind. She told – and retold – the stories to whoever was willing to listen. Sometimes she’d catch herself changing a detail here and there, but the images of those precious moments captured in her heart never changed. They would be cemented there forever.

It was difficult to recreate the essence of Danny with words alone. If pictures were worth a thousand words, she thought, then maybe her tribute today would do him justice.

She wrote 1,010.

Ring. Ring.

Mom: Daniel dice que te vengas.

Me: On my way. 

I start imagining all the things that likely went wrong for the caretaker on duty. When I drive up, the caretaker’s car missing. Fuck! He didn’t show up, and Dad’s pissed.

Once inside, Mom tells me that Dad sent the caretaker to buy him breakfast. I’m thinking, so why would Dad need me? And why is he NOT eating the breakfast I told the caretaker to serve him? 

Not surprisingly, I walk into Dad’s room and find him sitting on the wheelchair, alone, and in great discomfort. 

As I put him into the bed, I asked Dad if he told the caretaker to leave him in the chair. He says he did, but expected him to get back faster. So that’s when the principal in me breaks through.

When the caretaker arrives, he stops to talk to Mom in the kitchen, and goes into a long explanation about why it took so long to get back.

“¡Dile al vato que se venga! Que no te jodiendo allá con tu mamá!”
“If you had let him follow my plan, you would have eaten breakfast by now.”

The look on my face must have been that of Principal Diaz because Dad just raised his hands and said, “So-rri. So-rri.”

And you know when you get after your kids, and they do something to make you laugh? Well, that’s what happened to me right then and there. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Back when Mom and Dad could still walk and drive, they’d go out for breakfast at a local restaurant. One morning, as Mom was getting dressed in her room, Dad walked past the door and to the truck outside.

            As they drove to the restaurant, Dad turned to her and said, “Huele bien fea es cosa que te pusiste.” He was talking about the lotion she put on just before getting into the truck.

            Mom couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. To top it off, he had caught her off guard. She always made it a point to be ready for anything when she was around Dad because he always managed to say something that would piss her off.

            “I was more mad at myself for accepting the invitation to go out to eat,” Mom recalled. “How could I be so stupid?”

            And right then and there, Mom began plotting her revenge.

            During breakfast, she didn’t even speak to Dad. “I’m going to get him back,” she thought to herself. “I’m really going to let him have it.

            After breakfast, Dad took Mom home and he went to work.

            “Pinche viejo jodido,” she told her herself, “I’m really going to tell him off when he gets back.”

            Dad returned from work late that afternoon, and found Mom reading on their bed. “Ten,” he said as he handed her an H.E.B. bag with something inside. Still pissed, Mom took it from him halfheartedly. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of looking inside the bag or asking what was in it.

            “Te la cambio por la mugre chingada que tenías en la mañana,” Dad told her.

            Now Mom had to look inside the bag. She was surprised to find an expensive tube of hand cream.

            “¿Y para que quieres la que tengo yo?” she asked him.

            “Para ponérsela en las patas de mis gallos para que no se les suban las mugres de mites. ¿Como se llaman esas mugres chingadas?” Dad told her.

            Once again, Dad caught Mom off guard.

            “Pero no me quedó más que darle la crema mía para que la usara para sus gallos.”

Dear Dad and others

I am so tired begin the oldest and doing everything. So I will go live somewhere where no one will find me. Please send $10 dollars to Chay’s house he will give it to me and I will go back to this house.

No love

Carmel

P.S.

Send food.

2nd Grade, 1972

Mumu’s visits to Crystal City have always meant a lot to the sisters. They meant a lot to my grandmother when she was alive. Juan Ramon was Gami’s youngest, and my primos and I assumed he was her favorite being that the she and the sisters made a big deal of his visits.

Juan Ramon, whose name was changed to Mon by one of my cousins, later just became Mumu. That’s what some of us still call him. Mumu is what I call him.

“Va venir Juan Ramon este fin de semana y vamos hacer tamales.”

“Mañana llega Mumu y vamos hacer mole.”

“Cuando estemos hablando con Mumu vale más que no andes allí entremetida. ¿Oíste?”

I learned early on that my uncle was off limits to me. Mom made that very clear with her warnings in the car just before we entered Gami’s house or by the frown on her face if Mumu engaged me in conversation.

Mom’s look made it clear that I was to answer him, but not to talk for long. My place was not at the kitchen table with Gami and her children.

Mumu never believed he meant that much to his family, but that’s what it seemed like to us.

After my grandmother died, Mumu’s visits were still a special time for the sisters. However, I noticed that eventually he could no longer relate to the local gossip they were into. And they couldn’t relate much to his life as a reporter for a major newspaper who lived in Houston or Washington, D.C.  Many times, he’d had have to explain the significance of people or places, so the gist of a story was often lost on the sisters. 

Their conversations eventually found their way back to someone or some event from back in the day – a relative, a neighbor, a friend, a fire, an accident, a death. Common ground. It was mostly the sisters who recalled the stories. Mumu would ask clarifying questions. Everyone would laugh.

Because Juan Ramon was the only uncle who ever showed any interest in what I had to say, I looked forward to his visits, too. I always loved talking to him as a kid. Even as an adult, I made it a point to hang out with him when Mom wasn’t around. I knew better than to intrude on their time together.

It was during one of the times that I had him all to myself, that I complained to him about how mean Mom could be sometimes.

“Your mom was always mean,” he told me.

“Well, not to you,” I said, “You’ve always been her favorite.”

“No, she was mean to me when I was a kid,” he told me.  “I was the youngest in the family. I was the only boy left in the house with three sisters. And I believe she was tough on me because she thought my mother was spoiling me.

“They were all mean to me. Not just your mom. They would say something funny, and everyone laughed. I would say a joke, and no one would laugh. Later, one of them would repeat the same joke, the one I had told, and they would laugh like it was the first time they’d heard it.”

That’s when my uncle told me the story of the Kotex box.

“Are you old enough to remember the cuartito next to the kitchen of Grandma’s old house? No? It had two small beds there. Sometimes my parents would sleep there. Sometimes, I would sleep there.

“My mother also did the ironing in that room, and we would all just sit on the beds talking while she ironed. We all liked being wherever my mother was. Whether it was in the kitchen while she cooked or her bedroom while she sewed or in the cuartito while she ironed. We would be talking and talking about anything and everything, and my mother would listen to us and laugh.

“This one time, I must have been in grade school, I remember sitting on one of the beds with my back up against the wall. I noticed that there was a small space between the wall and the bed. Wedged in that space was a box. And on the box, I read the word Kotex.

“I didn’t know what that was. You would think that I would know being that I lived in a house full of women, but I’d never seen the box before. I had no clue what Kotex was.

“My sisters were still talking to my mother, y se me hizo fácil preguntar, ‘¿Qué es Kotex?’ Nobody said anything. They just kept right on talking to each other, and my mother kept right on ironing.

“So I asked again, ‘¿Qué es Kotex?’ Nothing. I’m sure I must have asked a couple of times more, but no one acknowledged me.

“Finally, I remember that your mom stood up, reached over, and took the box from its hiding place. Before I knew it, she swung and hit me on the back of the head with it really hard. Then she walked out of the room with the box in her hand. I assume to find a better hiding place for it.

“I think your mom thought that I was trying to be funny, but I wasn’t! I really didn’t know what was in the box.

“I just remember that my mother continued to iron. Carmen and Dora continued with their conversation. No one said anything about what your mom did. And no one told me que era Kotex.”

I asked Mumu if he’d ever brought up that story to Mom and the sisters now as adults. He said he hadn’t. I told him that he should. Just to see if they would all laugh about it.

However, now that I think about it, I don’t think that would be a good idea. The sisters would probably laugh. They may not remember the story or could have a different take on it, but they’d laugh.

The thing is, Mumu didn’t laugh when he told me about the Kotex box incident. It’s obvious to me now, that it was one of those instances in his life, like we all have embedded in our memories, that left a mark on him.

And if the sisters were to laugh, would he feel they were laughing with him or at him?

After all, you never really stop being the baby of the family. And sisters, no matter how old they are, can still be cruel. Even if they don’t mean to be.

“Ready, Dad?”

“Vamonos.”

He’s already had his breakfast, so we don’t have to take it with him to his sister’s house this morning. Un atole – no cinnamon – and half a cup of coffee to avoid spills.

I hand my dad the little, blue carry-all. Cell phone? Check. The white Zavala County Bank envelope where he keeps this week’s winning lottery tickets, but not much cash? Check.

He crams the carry-all between the seat of the wheelchair and his leg. Then I hand him the walker, so he can hold it over his lap as I wheel him out the front door to the SUV.

“Say good-bye to your wife.”

“Adiós, vieja,” he calls out to Mom who is eating breakfast at the table.

“Adiós, viejo. Que te vaya bien. Que te vaya mal. Que te pique un animal.”

“OK Daddy, here we go.”

With a good tug at the bars, I manage to easily get the chair over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. A dove coos in a tree nearby. I rarely notice the sounds around me; my focus is on walking backwards down the ramp without tripping over my own feet.

But Dad does.

“Es la misma paloma que canta todo el tiempo.”

I take his word for it, and reply with a soft, “Hmm.”

On cue, Dad begins, “Cuu. Cuu.”

Now, Dad’s cooing I do notice. I used to find it annoying. Still do. However, the voice in my head always reminds me to let him be. “He won’t be around much longer, and you will wish you could hear the cucú just one more time,” she tells me.

It’s when he breaks into his two favorite lines of Pedro Infante’s Cucurrucucú Paloma that my heart drops – always – because I know he will be leaving me in a few seconds.

Cucurrucucú Paloma

Cucurrucucú no llores

Cucurrucucú Paloma

Cucurrucucú no llores

“Nadie cantaba esa canción como Pedro Infante.” My daddy sings these lines, as they say, “con mucho llanto.” And just like that he’s gone.

“De que piensa, Tío?”

“Tristes recuerdos, Mi’jo. Tristes recuerdos.”

Dad has traveled to another moment in time, a better one. A time when he was happy. When he felt whole. No wheelchair. No depending on anyone, but himself.

“Así me decía mi Tío Tereso cuando trabajábamos juntos. ‘Tristes recuerdos, Mi’jo. Tristes recuerdos,’ me decía.”

Dad manages to get into the SUV with some assistance. I wonder how long before he won’t even be able to spend the day at his sister’s house. When he will have to stay put – maybe only in his bed  – because he can no longer manage the visit.

For some, a wheelchair offers mobility, freedom, and independence. For Dad, la mugre jodida might as well be chains that bind his hands and feet. He feels useless, and often complains aloud about the burden he’s become to his children. Spending the day at tía’s house is Dad’s only saving grace. They reminisce about “la gente con los que nos creamos en el barrio,” watch CNN and Fox News “pa’ ver que dicen del jodido de Trompas,” and watch westerns on the Grit Television network. Tía Luisa is literally the only one left who truly understands my dad.

“Tristes recuerdos,” he grunts as he settles into the seat.

Stopping to catch his breath, he releases an angry, “God damn!” He’s come back to the present, and he’s not happy about it.

As we pull out of the driveway, Dad reaches for the button to close the window. He pauses one last time to call out again, “Cuu. Cuu.”

“No tienes música Mexicana en esa mugre chingada,” he says pointing at the CD player.

“No, Dad. Not the kind you like.”

He looks around the neighborhood as we drive up the street y con mucho llanto he sings,

Cucurrucucú Paloma

Cucurrucucú no llores

“Tristes recuerdos,” he whispers. “Tristes recuerdos.”

Facebook Post: July 26, 2018

Let me preface this with, Mom is doing well. She’s waiting to see her doctor, but things look good.

You see, Mom had surgery yesterday to fix a minor complication that resulted from a previous surgery earlier this month.

This week, we made three trips to San Antonio. For this last one, I brought Seo to keep me company. Dad had his own agenda, and sent Adrian to keep me company, too.

– Así pa’ que te haga plática en el camino. No vaya pasar que te quedes dormida cuando estes manejando.

Every phone call we’ve had with Dad these last two days includes the questions,
-¿Y como está Adrian? ¿Cheo?
Roel and I can’t help teasing Dad. It’s what we do.
-No se pa’ donde se fueron, Dad.
-Éstamos ocupados con Mom. No tenemos tiempo pa’ ellos.
-No se hacen nada si no comen, Dad!

He gets worked up.
We laugh.
Mom tells us to behave.
Then we reassure Dad that everything is ok
It’s how we come together in times of crisis.🤣

Before we left, Dad gave each of the boys $20.
-Take care of yourself, Cheo.

As we arrived at the hospital this morning, Dad called.

-Negra, ¿cómo va tu mamá?
-Apenitas llegamos al hospital, Dad.
-Bueno, dile a tu hermano que le dé veinte pesos a Cheo. Y tú dale veinte a Adrian.

I started to tease him about it, but he was still giving orders. So I thought it best to explain that we’d already left the house.

Unfortunality (as my Tía Dora jokes), Dad was STILL talking, so I just told him I’d take care of it.

Around 11, Dad called again.
-Negra, ¿qué se ha visto?
-Todavía no llega el doctor.
-Chinga’o. ¿Con que todavía no ha llegado el pinche doctor?
-No, Dad.
-¿Y los muchachos?
-Corina los va llevar a comer.
-¿Corina?
-Sí, Corina.
-Pobre Negra.
-No tiene nada de pobre. Élla tambien tiene que hacer algo, Dad.
-¡Es tu hermana, cabrona!

Let the teasing begin.

-¿Le dijíste a Roel que le diera dinero a su sobrino?
-Dad, es que cuando tu llamaste ya estabamos en el hospital.
-¿No les dejaron nada?
-Corina los va llevar a comer. Marie tambien tiene comida en la casa pa’ ellos.
-Como quiera. Les hubieran dejado unos veinte a cada uno.

After we hung up, I share all of this with Roel.

Ring. Ring.
-¿Bueno?
-Dad?
-¿Qué pasó, Prieto?
-¿No hay una manera que me puedas mandar veinte dólares para darle a Adrian? No me pagan hasta mañana.
-¡Que qué!
-Que si me puedes mandar dinero pa’ darle veinte a Adrian porque a mi no me pagan hasta mañana.
-¡Lo que te voy a mandar es una faja negra, Cabron!

Facebook Post: July 25, 2021

Dad is feeling some of the effects of the COVID-19 vaccine: headache, soreness in the arm, weakness, some body aches. I give him Tylenol, but he insists on only taking one. I just called and asked how he was.

– Apenas hablé con Corina. Quiero arreglar papeles para que tú te quedes responsable por todo.
– No te preocupes. Roel se va encargar de eso.
– Huerco cabron.
– ¿Te sientes tan mal como la última vez que estabas en el hospital y no podías respirar?
– Peor.
– ¿Entonces porque no estas en la cama con la máquina puesta?
– ¡Que qué!
– Te estoy mirando por la cámara en la sala.
– O chinga’o.

Apparently he forgot I installed cameras in the house.

– Dad, se te va pasar.
– Bueno bye.
– Bye.