When
my grandmother was 94, the family pushed her to become an American citizen. Although
she had lived in this country for 90 years, we feared her social security benefits
might be compromised since, unlike my grandfather, she had never forfeited her permanent
resident green card. Now, my grandmother had always, to our knowledge, been an
upstanding citizen, raising her two sons as a single parent, remaining
steadfast even during war and the Depression, and ultimately becoming the core matriarch
of the family. She was a survivor to be reckoned with if anyone was foolish
enough to provoke her. On the day of her citizenship hearing, we discovered
that due to her sultry past, her application had not been considered. Although
we only knew the ethical, principled icon of virtue, we learned she had, in
fact, been a bigamist as well as a federal felon. When she had approached the
immigrations officials, she wasn’t attempting to be duplicitous; she simply
assumed that events that had transpired decades earlier carried no weight in
legal matters She shared with us that when she was very young, she had married
her childhood sweetheart and shortly thereafter had given birth to her two sons,
my uncle and my father. Unfortunately, her husband Carlos, soon started smoking
and pursuing a wayward life. Having no patience for his nefarious lifestyle,
she decided to leave him and raise her sons as a single parent in spite of the scarlet
letter she would have to wear in the community for shunning her man. Possessing
no job skills, but being responsible for two hungry babies, she bootlegged, brewing
and distributing home brew in the neighborhood. Since Prohibition was the law
of the land, she was apprehended and charged. Laughingly, she told us that
although she spent only two days in jail, in the evenings of both days her
jailers released her to care for her children. Apparently, nothing became of
the charges although the record of her infraction remained. To add insult to
injury, after she fulfilled her duty to her sons, she agreed to marry her beau,
a man who for years had been smitten by her charm, attractiveness, and
independence. Unfortunately, she neglected to inform the judge who married them
that she had never divorced her first husband. She must have convinced herself
that marriage vows have expiration dates. After her past caught up with her,
she sought the counsel of a kind lawyer and benefactor who, in fact, remained
her friend until he died of advanced age. For years she walked to his office on
the first of the month and paid him $2.00 religiously until the debt was settled.
By the time I was born, my grandparents were starting out their lives free and
clear. However, when my mother unexpectedly died and my father, my
grandmother’s son, found he could not raise me properly, I became my
grandparent’s son. In the truest sense of the word, they became my parents, and
better parents I could not have asked for. As for the misunderstanding with the
U.S. Immigration Office, after the meeting with the officials, my grandmother just
laughed, and we laughed along with her when she informed us that she had never
really wanted to become an American citizen anyway. Why upset the applecart by
becoming what you are not? She died decades later at peace and with no regrets.
Thus, early in life she became my prime candidate for the don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff
merit badge. After all, God recognizes that life requires tenacity. No doubt,
He rewards those who can sleep through a droning academic lecture delivered by
a verbose professor even as they dream of the bowl of steaming menudo awaiting back home.
my grandmother was 94, the family pushed her to become an American citizen. Although
she had lived in this country for 90 years, we feared her social security benefits
might be compromised since, unlike my grandfather, she had never forfeited her permanent
resident green card. Now, my grandmother had always, to our knowledge, been an
upstanding citizen, raising her two sons as a single parent, remaining
steadfast even during war and the Depression, and ultimately becoming the core matriarch
of the family. She was a survivor to be reckoned with if anyone was foolish
enough to provoke her. On the day of her citizenship hearing, we discovered
that due to her sultry past, her application had not been considered. Although
we only knew the ethical, principled icon of virtue, we learned she had, in
fact, been a bigamist as well as a federal felon. When she had approached the
immigrations officials, she wasn’t attempting to be duplicitous; she simply
assumed that events that had transpired decades earlier carried no weight in
legal matters She shared with us that when she was very young, she had married
her childhood sweetheart and shortly thereafter had given birth to her two sons,
my uncle and my father. Unfortunately, her husband Carlos, soon started smoking
and pursuing a wayward life. Having no patience for his nefarious lifestyle,
she decided to leave him and raise her sons as a single parent in spite of the scarlet
letter she would have to wear in the community for shunning her man. Possessing
no job skills, but being responsible for two hungry babies, she bootlegged, brewing
and distributing home brew in the neighborhood. Since Prohibition was the law
of the land, she was apprehended and charged. Laughingly, she told us that
although she spent only two days in jail, in the evenings of both days her
jailers released her to care for her children. Apparently, nothing became of
the charges although the record of her infraction remained. To add insult to
injury, after she fulfilled her duty to her sons, she agreed to marry her beau,
a man who for years had been smitten by her charm, attractiveness, and
independence. Unfortunately, she neglected to inform the judge who married them
that she had never divorced her first husband. She must have convinced herself
that marriage vows have expiration dates. After her past caught up with her,
she sought the counsel of a kind lawyer and benefactor who, in fact, remained
her friend until he died of advanced age. For years she walked to his office on
the first of the month and paid him $2.00 religiously until the debt was settled.
By the time I was born, my grandparents were starting out their lives free and
clear. However, when my mother unexpectedly died and my father, my
grandmother’s son, found he could not raise me properly, I became my
grandparent’s son. In the truest sense of the word, they became my parents, and
better parents I could not have asked for. As for the misunderstanding with the
U.S. Immigration Office, after the meeting with the officials, my grandmother just
laughed, and we laughed along with her when she informed us that she had never
really wanted to become an American citizen anyway. Why upset the applecart by
becoming what you are not? She died decades later at peace and with no regrets.
Thus, early in life she became my prime candidate for the don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff
merit badge. After all, God recognizes that life requires tenacity. No doubt,
He rewards those who can sleep through a droning academic lecture delivered by
a verbose professor even as they dream of the bowl of steaming menudo awaiting back home.
Although
it skipped a generation, namely my father, I not only inherited her
intelligence, but I also inherited her roll-with-the-punches instincts. She may
not have been educated, being that she dropped out in the third grade, but when
I was in college and trying to prove to her how bright this egotistical college
boy was, she looked me in the eye like a hawk flushing out its quarry and
upbraided me, telling me, “Mijo, eres tan
inteligente que caminas en tu propia mierda.” “My son, you are so bright,
you walk on your own shit.” She taught me humility and gratitude with her wise
words. I never again did allow my swelled head to believe that I was better
than anyone else.
it skipped a generation, namely my father, I not only inherited her
intelligence, but I also inherited her roll-with-the-punches instincts. She may
not have been educated, being that she dropped out in the third grade, but when
I was in college and trying to prove to her how bright this egotistical college
boy was, she looked me in the eye like a hawk flushing out its quarry and
upbraided me, telling me, “Mijo, eres tan
inteligente que caminas en tu propia mierda.” “My son, you are so bright,
you walk on your own shit.” She taught me humility and gratitude with her wise
words. I never again did allow my swelled head to believe that I was better
than anyone else.
To
illustrate our binary connection that demonstrates how we were not that much
different from each other, some years ago, I was entertaining friends at our
home. Suddenly, one of my guests pulled out a rubber cock ring from his salad plate,
an appliance that must have been buried beneath the romaine and the croutons.
He held it up to everyone with a disgusted look on this face. The cock ring had
been a white elephant gift someone had given me a few days earlier, and I can
only guess that I must have inadvertently left it in on the kitchen counter
where I prepared our meal a few days later. I knew I had to think fast or
possibly lose a friend as well as my reputation as a host. Attempting to disarm
the situation with my Cheshire cat smile, I informed him that I had purchased
and deliberately placed the cock ring on his plate, in hopes that it would
inspire him to head out to Charlies that night and find himself a lusty cowboy with
whom to spend the rest of his life. He must have accepted my stretching of the
truth, for even to this day he has continued to accept dinner invitations to
our home. Later, as I reflected on how I had saved the day, I thought I heard
my grandmother’s muffled laughter at how I had managed to turn a possible
misfortune into a victory through guile and humor, qualities that are greatly
underestimated, especially when caught between a rock and a hard place…no pun
intended.
illustrate our binary connection that demonstrates how we were not that much
different from each other, some years ago, I was entertaining friends at our
home. Suddenly, one of my guests pulled out a rubber cock ring from his salad plate,
an appliance that must have been buried beneath the romaine and the croutons.
He held it up to everyone with a disgusted look on this face. The cock ring had
been a white elephant gift someone had given me a few days earlier, and I can
only guess that I must have inadvertently left it in on the kitchen counter
where I prepared our meal a few days later. I knew I had to think fast or
possibly lose a friend as well as my reputation as a host. Attempting to disarm
the situation with my Cheshire cat smile, I informed him that I had purchased
and deliberately placed the cock ring on his plate, in hopes that it would
inspire him to head out to Charlies that night and find himself a lusty cowboy with
whom to spend the rest of his life. He must have accepted my stretching of the
truth, for even to this day he has continued to accept dinner invitations to
our home. Later, as I reflected on how I had saved the day, I thought I heard
my grandmother’s muffled laughter at how I had managed to turn a possible
misfortune into a victory through guile and humor, qualities that are greatly
underestimated, especially when caught between a rock and a hard place…no pun
intended.
A
few days ago, I found myself among fellow writers at the Denver Gay and Lesbian
Community Center, where we congregate to share our stories, our adventures with
life. Notebook and keys, pens and reading material in hand, I went to the
lavatory to relieve my demanding bladder. As I flushed, in slow motion I noted my
keys tumbling from my hand and into the bowl, and in a split second, my world
turned topsy-turvy. In a surreal moment, I saw the keys swirl around the bowl as
though navigating on a white water river and disappear into the guts of the
plumbing system. I remember thinking, “Wow, this toilet sure has a strong
current.” I plunged my hand with some hesitation into the throat of the
porcelain throne, hoping to avoid some awkward explanation, in a desperate
effort to salvage my keys and my pride. After the water stopped gurgling, I
stood there with what I suspect was a classic what-do-I-do-now stupefied look
on my face. I debated simply walking out as though nothing had happened to save
face. Nonetheless, I washed my hands,
informed the receptionist at the front desk of my misfortune, and headed up to
the reading room. I was annoyed at my fate as I pondered my next options, to
walk home, to call Ron at work, to kick myself in the tuchus. I decided to muddle through the reading with as much grit
as I could muster. I found it ironic
that just before I read, one of the readers mentioned flushing a cigarette down
the toilet, and I took that as cosmic synchronicity. At that moment the tension dissipated like
steam released from a boiling kettle. I recognized my situation to be what it
was, small stuff. Gratefully, I discovered a new friend when she drove me home
after the reading. Furthermore, by the next day, I had managed to replace all
my keys. As for the Community Center, it was not, to my knowledge, deluged by a
flood of water from a backed-up toilet on steroids. Later, as I told Ron of my misadventure
of the day, we both laughed at how calm I was. In the past, I had cringed and gnashed
my teeth when buffeted by life’s inevitable headaches as when my cat pied on my
pants one night in retribution for some perceived offense to his feline sensibility.
I didn’t notice the stench of cat urine until the following morning at a job
interview. Ironically, I still got the job. Now, I just smile, and say, “Shit
happens.” And at such moments I can feel my grandmother’s energy as she reminds
me to wear my don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff merit medal with pride. Then, we both
laugh until tears roll down our eyes. In the end, I suspect most of life is
small stuff. When life rankles the soul, I recall an iconic epitaph I recently
saw on a Key West tombstone. The carving on granite, I told you I was sick, is undeniably
a testament to human grit. Therefore, Mámi,
kudos to you. You taught me to use what God gave me. I’ve learned that He
smiles at my victories even when I flush them down the crapper.
few days ago, I found myself among fellow writers at the Denver Gay and Lesbian
Community Center, where we congregate to share our stories, our adventures with
life. Notebook and keys, pens and reading material in hand, I went to the
lavatory to relieve my demanding bladder. As I flushed, in slow motion I noted my
keys tumbling from my hand and into the bowl, and in a split second, my world
turned topsy-turvy. In a surreal moment, I saw the keys swirl around the bowl as
though navigating on a white water river and disappear into the guts of the
plumbing system. I remember thinking, “Wow, this toilet sure has a strong
current.” I plunged my hand with some hesitation into the throat of the
porcelain throne, hoping to avoid some awkward explanation, in a desperate
effort to salvage my keys and my pride. After the water stopped gurgling, I
stood there with what I suspect was a classic what-do-I-do-now stupefied look
on my face. I debated simply walking out as though nothing had happened to save
face. Nonetheless, I washed my hands,
informed the receptionist at the front desk of my misfortune, and headed up to
the reading room. I was annoyed at my fate as I pondered my next options, to
walk home, to call Ron at work, to kick myself in the tuchus. I decided to muddle through the reading with as much grit
as I could muster. I found it ironic
that just before I read, one of the readers mentioned flushing a cigarette down
the toilet, and I took that as cosmic synchronicity. At that moment the tension dissipated like
steam released from a boiling kettle. I recognized my situation to be what it
was, small stuff. Gratefully, I discovered a new friend when she drove me home
after the reading. Furthermore, by the next day, I had managed to replace all
my keys. As for the Community Center, it was not, to my knowledge, deluged by a
flood of water from a backed-up toilet on steroids. Later, as I told Ron of my misadventure
of the day, we both laughed at how calm I was. In the past, I had cringed and gnashed
my teeth when buffeted by life’s inevitable headaches as when my cat pied on my
pants one night in retribution for some perceived offense to his feline sensibility.
I didn’t notice the stench of cat urine until the following morning at a job
interview. Ironically, I still got the job. Now, I just smile, and say, “Shit
happens.” And at such moments I can feel my grandmother’s energy as she reminds
me to wear my don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff merit medal with pride. Then, we both
laugh until tears roll down our eyes. In the end, I suspect most of life is
small stuff. When life rankles the soul, I recall an iconic epitaph I recently
saw on a Key West tombstone. The carving on granite, I told you I was sick, is undeniably
a testament to human grit. Therefore, Mámi,
kudos to you. You taught me to use what God gave me. I’ve learned that He
smiles at my victories even when I flush them down the crapper.
© 22 Aug 2016
About
the Author
the Author
Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am
and who I may choose to be.” In spite of
my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive,
intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too
retrospective, too pragmatic. Something
I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a
dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming.
Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and
His hand over my mouth. My heroes range
from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big
Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I
am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and
time. My beloved husband and our three
rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could
spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and
lying under coconut palms on tropical sands.
I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility,
victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional
cruelty. I am always on the look-out for
friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking
bread together and finding humor in the world around us.
and who I may choose to be.” In spite of
my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive,
intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too
retrospective, too pragmatic. Something
I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a
dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming.
Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and
His hand over my mouth. My heroes range
from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big
Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I
am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and
time. My beloved husband and our three
rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could
spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and
lying under coconut palms on tropical sands.
I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility,
victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional
cruelty. I am always on the look-out for
friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking
bread together and finding humor in the world around us.
