Before Cinco de Mayo, Lucia Alderete met boys at the dances held on the Diez y Seis de Septiembre celebrations. Commemorations of military victories, so it’s no small irony that she found her husband at another dance, July 17, 1952, one celebrating returning war veterans, among whom was her brother, and a very handsome boy from Crawford, Jose Anaya.
These are my grandparents, and as a small child, after my father left us, I was raised and cared for in the Anaya house, a home to whites and blacks and Mexicans and the great creeping Texas outdoors, crawling with horny toads, earth snakes and Siamese cats. I wasn’t always proud, childhood jealousy of privilege, perhaps, or the nascent tendencies towards self-loathing that would have afflicted me regardless of the tones of my skin, the pitch to my voice.
So in adulthood, with the wisdom that comes with maturity and emotional scarring, I relish the fact that I can honor the limbs and roots of my heritage. Last week was Cinco de Mayo, some might argue no great reason to celebrate, but nevertheless, a reminder of who I am.
On Friday, then, I made margaritas, one for each member of my family, and toasted to my heritage. And then I made another, just for me, to allow myself a bit of forgiveness and pride.
And then I made another, but I think I was just thirsty.
Er, and then I just tapped the bottle, for no apparent reason at all.
Pretty soon, I was looking for more tequila, or reasonable facsimile thereof. I drank to the entire Mexican army. Which one, I’m not sure, because my history wasn’t so hot at that moment in time BECAUSE FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES TIME HAD CEASED TO EXIST.
Alex recalls finding me at roughly 4 AM on SEIS de Mayo snoring, wearing nothing but my knitted boxers, on the floor in the guest bathroom.
Apparently dreaming of battlefield conquests.
BEWARE the danger of national pride, amigos.
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