Malagradecida

Fucking alarm!
Time to call Tasty Taco for Dad’s pancake,
but first, I “Frankenstein Walk” my way to the potty.
Looking out the window, I recall his instructions from the night before.
Same song second verse.
It should get better, but it’s gonna get worse.
No se te vaya olvidar llamar por el pancake en la mañana, Negra
No podras ir al Kevin’s Café mejor?
Nope, not Kevin’s.
I just want to drive through and pick up the order.
No bra required.
Pero que sea esquisíto el pancake, Negra, no me gusta muy grueso.
Y un café por favor
pero media copa nomas.
No quiero la copa llena porque ya no puedo agarrarla con esta mano desde que me la desgració tu mamá con la puerta del carro.
Y cómprale a tu mamá lo que quiera ella pa’ almozar.
De seguro que quedrá un café también, pobre vieja.
Gracias, Negra.
Before I call, one coffee for me please.
I love coffee, I love tea, I love the boys, and the boys love me.
Right here right now,
in my bedroom with the Hazelnut creamer,
my coffee is bien delicious.
One more cup before I call for the pinche pancake.
The lights are still off when I arrive at the house.
CNN is blaring through the window.
Sounds like he’s in a good mood.
Que tal el pinche Trompas! No se ahuíta ese vato.
Mom isn’t up yet, so he has the tv to himself.
“Morning Daddy!”
Que pasó, Negra! Como amanesíste?
Gotta set his place at the table.
El café, la azucar, las medicinas, la mantequilla, el syrup, el polvo que te ayudar hacer el cuerpo con un vaso de agua.
“You’re all set Daddy.”
Gracias, Negra. Lo pediste esquisito?
“Yes, sir.”
While he eats, I gather his laundry from the night before.
Wet bed sheets, wet bed pads, wet shorts, wet shirt, wet floor.
Walking past him to the washing machine I ask if he needs anything.
No Negra. Gracias. No has hablado con tus hermanos?
“Only texts they’re doing ok.
Was the pancake good?”
No estaba mal, pero no está tan bueno como el de Kevin’s Café
“I’ll be back in a while to take you to Tía’s house.”
Ok, Negra. Thank you. Te lo agradésco con todo corazón.
He smiles.
I smile.
“Want a bean taco tomorrow?”
No. Traime otro pancake mañana a ver que tal está
“No problem, Daddy.”

Jeannie Mendez was the cutest, friendliest, and most popular little girl. Mentiras. Jeannie was loved by everyone way into high school. As far as I knew, she had no enemies, and you know how bitchy girls in high school can be. (Insert evil laugh here.)

Jeannie and I were in the same homeroom one year in elementary school – either first or second grade. We were friendly, but she wasn’t my best friend. But, oh how I admired her and wished I was like her.

I wasn’t. She was the right size for that grade. I was taller than most kids, being a September baby and all.

Jeannie had long, brown hair. I touched it once (don’t recall why), and it was so soft. I, on the other hand, walked around the house with a towel draped around my head, hanging below my shoulders. I pretended my Cher-like hair was just too much for me, and I just had to swing it behind me.

Jeannie giggled when she found something funny. I cackled. Que pena. Eso nunca se me quitó. But the best thing about Jeannie was her smile. That pinche smile made her even prettier.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always liked Jeannie. I wanted to be part of her circle of friends. Todas bien cute que estaban. Nomás no se me hizo.

Then picture day came along. You know what’s coming, right?

As luck would have it, the teacher put me right behind Jeannie when she lined us up. And Jimmy Torres was behind me. Jimmy was what people nowadays would consider my bully. Seriously. If someone had interviewed me when I was a kid using the Bully Assessment Flow Chart, his antics would have definitely been classified as bullying.

But back then, you just had to manage. I cried and all, pero ni modo.

Anyway, there we are. Jeannie. Me. Y el cabrón de Jimmy. Jeannie and Jimmy were talking and laughing, and yo toda cagada.

I mean, I knew there was no way I would look cute in my blue stretchy polyester dress that was still bien apretado en las arcas. And I knew too that pinche Jimmy would make fun of me.

I was gacho nerviosa.

So, it was Jeannie’s turn to pose. She was all smiles as she walked to the stool. The photographer asked her to sit nice and tall. Then she had to turn her knees slightly to the left. Put both hands flat on your lap, please, pretty girl.

She looked adorable. The photographer knew it. She knew it. I knew it. What else?

And just when the photographer counted to three, Jeannie topped herself. She bit her LIP! Nada como sexy pedo ever so slightly as she smiled.

What!

N’ombre.

It was now my turn. Only a second before I had been feeling confident. I knew exactly what the photographer wanted and wouldn’t have to stay on the stool a second longer than necessary, denying Jimmy a reason to cagarme el palo.

Ni modo. Ay te voy pa’ la silla all Sweaty Cunningham.

Sit nice and tall. Check.

Turn slightly to the left. Check.

Hands flat on my lap. Check.

Pretty girl, Sir?

One. Two. Three.

Not to be outdone by Jeannie in front of Jimmy, I went for it. I bit my bottom lip. Perfect! At least that’s what I thought, although I distinctly heard Jimmy cackling when I stood to walk away. I assumed it was just Jimmy being pinche.

Needless, to say, once Mom saw the picture, she had a fit. It had been Jimmy’s torment that made me do it, but she didn’t want to hear any of that, and I ended up taking a retake. You want to see it, right?

I saved that God-awful picture. In my baby book, no less. Don’t really know why because it remained a sore spot for most of my life. Eventually, I gave up trying to be Jeannie’s friend. I was too embarrassed. To me, EVERYONE knew about the picture. Jeannie must have, too.

I went through a few more years of torment from Jimmy, so I grew to hate him well into high school. But I still like Jeannie. She was always a sweetheart with me.

She still is. We have seen each other a few times since high school. Recently, we met up a wedding.

“Carmen, let’s take a picture,” she told me.

“Ay Jeannie, if you only knew what’s racing through my mind right now,” I said.  “But I’m going to sit down, so my pansa won’t show.”

Jeannie came out as cute as ever. Y yo con mis tres chins. Que pena.

Like many, our dad had a sobrenombre for each of us. Actually, he had three nicknames for four kids.

Negra! Tienes un lápiz pa’ que me escribas una carta.

Guero, ve y cambia la manguera pa’l otro árbol.

Prieto, búscame el remote pa’l TV.

Negra! Ahora dime lo mismo en español. Que es este pinche pedo que no sabes hablar español.

Unfortunality – como dice mi tía Dora – those weren’t the names Dad used to introduce – or even reintroduce – us to friends and family. N’ombre, that was something else. 

To Dad, these names explained our place in the family. To us, the names described who we were in Dad’s eyes.

Ven pa’cá. He began.

Párate aquí. He made sure we stood directly in front of the person we were about to meet.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes. 

Me llamo Cármel Zavala. 

Tengo diez años.

Basically, Dad taught us how to properly introduce ourselves to people.

Stand directly in front of a person.

Look him in the face.

Extend your hand.

Tell him your name.

The age thing? That was all Daniel Zavala. 

But still, that wasn’t the worst part. It was how he introduced us. Talk about leaving emotional scars. 

Mira, pariente, ésta es mi’ja, la grandota. 

In Dad’s mind, I was the oldest.

To me, Dad was calling me the fattest. 

Ven pa’cá.

Párate aquí.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes.

Tío, éste es mi’jo, el guero.

In Dad’s mind, look at how light-complected the boy is. Reminds you of my brother, Tere, right?

Danny had the best nickname. Tell me what Mexican family doesn’t gush over that one member with light-colored eyes, blondish hair, or whose complexion could link the family to a long, lost relative of Spanish descent. 

Ven pa’cá.

Párate aquí.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes.

Prima, éste es mi’jo el malito.

In Dad’s mind, look at how far my son has come after his many life-threatening surgeries.

For Roel it was more like, thank you for calling attention to the one thing I don’t want to be known as – handicapped. Pobre prieto.

Ven pa’cá.

Párate aquí.

Dale la mano.

Dile cómo te llamas y cuantos años tienes.

Buenos días. Mire señora, ésta es la cuata, la más chiquita.

In Dad’s mind, Corina is our youngest. She was a twin. Would you believe that neither family has ever had twins? 

How hard must it have been for Corina to be called a twin, yet stand there alone. To see someone’s reaction go from excitement to sympathy in a second. 

La grandota

El guero

El malito

La cuata

Dad would prod us to introduce ourselves properly way into adulthood. It went from verbal directions to a grimace on his face and an overt nod of the head toward the person. He came across as rude now that he was an old man, but we learned to make light of it.

 “¡Ésperate, Daniel Zavala! Dame chansa.”

And being who we are, we added our own spin to it. Something Dad wasn’t too happy with.

Me llamo Carmel Díaz.

Soy la grandota.

Tengo 36 años.

Sí, estoy iqual de gorda.

Soy Danny Zavala, el guero.

Cue point the finger to the dark, brown hair brought on by many years of playing and working in the sun.

Tengo 32 años.

Y yo soy, Roel.

El malito.

Cue the raising of his bad hand and finish with,

Tengo 30 años.

Hi. Corina Zavala.

Sí, soy la cuata.

No, ella se murió dos semanas despues que nacimos.

Tengo 22 años. 

Corina’s never been as cagapala as the rest of us. She’s the nicest one, so her introduction was more informational than anything.

We learned to appreciate the sobrenombres for what they were – terms of endearment – and what they taught us. The names explained the order of Dad’s life. What he’d accomplished. We are the fruit of his labor.

The sobrenombres are windows into in his heart, and no longer embarrassing.

Me llamo Cármel Zavala Díaz.

Soy hija de Daniel y Mariana Zavala.

Tengo 54 años.

Mucho gusto en conocerlos.

Cármel Zavala Díaz

Over the years, I have come up with many reasons for putting mom in a nursing home.

Many.

But the most compelling reason is for what she told me one summer day when I was 12.

We were on our way to my aunt’s house in one of the long blue Oldsmobile cars my parents owned. Back then, cars had seatbelts, but it wasn’t mandatory to wear them. So, ours were neatly tucked away on the upper door frame of the car.

Four to five kids could fit easily in the back seat. I liked it best when I had the seat to myself. I could lie across it for a nap. I could even ride in the back on my knees singing along to KTSA, a San Antonio pop station.

The year was 1977. Didi Conn starred in the romantic drama, You Light Up My Life, about a young woman with dreams of becoming a singer. I never saw the movie, but I remember the trailer clearly.

There was pretty dark-haired girl in front of a microphone as the piano began to play. The girl nodded her head to the music as if counting the beats to her introduction.

As the camera pulled back, it revealed an orchestra in the recording studio. The young girl looked around to take it all in as she continued to sing how there were so many dreams she kept deep inside her.

Cue the flute.

“And you light up my life

You give me hope to carry on

You light up my days and fills my nights with song.”

It seemed to me that the young girl couldn’t believe how well things were going for her. I had no clue what the plot was. All I knew was that this girl could sing. She was belting it out with all she had, and looked beautiful doing it.

How hard could that be?

So, now imagine me kneeling in the back seat of the Oldsmobile while Mom drove us to my aunt’s house that summer day, and Debbie Boone was blasting through the rear speakers.

I sang like I was that young girl in the recording studio. I looked out the rear window just before the flute came in, amazed at how awesome I sounded. I looked up toward the imaginary conductor, the one with the bushy hair.

I even pressed my hands on my lap just before I raised my hand to side of my face.

“Finally a chance to say, ‘Hey, I love you.’

Never again to be all alone.”

The icing on the cake was just before the second round of the chorus. I placed my hand on my head and belted it out with all I had.

“And you light up my life

You give me hope to carry on

You light up my days and fills my nights with song.”

Mom was already walking ahead of me by the time I got off the car. I had to hurry to catch up to her.

“Mom, did you hear me singing?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s it amazing how I sound just like the singer?”

“No, Mi’ja. It’s just that you’re so close to the speaker that you can’t hear what you really sound like.”

Waaah

Waaah

Waaaaahaha

And, that is why Mom is going to a nursing home.

A blessing only my mother can give

• 

      Cármel Zavala Díaz  

     Mom read the paper at the table as I prepared to leave that afternoon. Our goodbyes have never amounted to much. Not like the goodbyes between her and my brother and sister. Those end with a hug and kiss. 

     "I'll check on you later, Mom."
     "Ok, Mi'ja."

     It's not to say that Mom and I aren't close. It's a different kind of close. Atypical. 

     It's only taken 50 years, but I've finally learned not to take personally what she says to me. Oftentimes, what she says is simply funny. As was the case on this particular afternoon.

     "Bueno, ya me voy, Ma."
     "Que te vaya bien. Que te vaya mal. Que te pique un animal."
     "Que te pique a tí."
     "¡A  tí, jodida!"

     Y así fue que me jodió mi madre.