Network Aztlan Latino Chicano Comunidades Transnacionales

(1) memoirs

(2) mama can't read

by Charles Mariano

memoirs

how long will i be satisfied reading the words of others? others with stories that i should be sharing. a few minutes ago, i searched the internet for a new book of memoirs about a texas born chicano. i read the reviews, and although intriguing, it saddens me. my stories, my precious stories. where are they?

instead of buying the book, i hit the return key, and came back to this blank page. at my age, it's been too damn long. everything i do, everywhere i go, i find myself saying that damn phrase out loud "i could have written a book on it." a dumb phrase, but strikes true enough, deep enough, to bother even thickskinned procrastinators like me.

there are a million blank pages before me, begging to be coverered. i look at the black and white pictures of my family, wonder what they were doing, think about who is left. i inch, ever so close to opening the first page, bringing them to life. in these pages they will be young again. in these pages, they will have the vibrancy, the music, the robust appetites. one by one, the names and faces trickle from my fingers. faces long gone, that warm my heart, just to write them here. so many.

so i haven't done the memoirs, the required lengths, sacrifices. i've written hundreds of miles that lead nowhere, except circles. i cut the journeys short, called, until i saw it in a magazine. the genre of self-called, until i saw it in a magazine. the genre of self-called, until i saw it in a magazine. the genre of self-easily. memoirs. i didn't even know what it was called, until i saw it in a magazine. the genre of self-biography. stories about your life, that write itself. you supply the movements, pictures, occasional breaths. lines, lovingly pulled to the surface, embraced.

i've begun the stories, as humble as it is, many times. fragments, false starts, almost by accident. they stumble awkwardly to the page. they have no bearing, no color. i close my eyes, let my fingers take me to the next page, find the pulse.

i am here to speak of you, and you, and you. no, you're not dead. you're still with me, i haven't let go. i gently peel back the layers, let your smile, your voice, find me. i'm a small boy, always a small boy. it's in merced, where i was born. a small farm town. a nowhere town, thats become my core, no matter where i am. this time, it's daddy i see. daddy, your dark brown face, your calloused hands. daddy, i dream of holding you often. we're in church, or fishing on a riverbank. i'm riding on your back, playing horsie. daddy, the way your sunburnt face lit up the room when you stepped through the door from the dusty fields. everyone of us shrieked with delight. "Daddy, Daddy!" the way you stayed up late with me, read me stories, taught me how to spell. the way you held me closely, all the time, night and day. so close, when you died, i couldn't let go for years.

this morning i wrote of swimming in a tiny town near merced. a hidden place off santa fe road, by the tracks near turlock. one of many swimming holes. the town of ballico, near an old bridge. there was an asparagas field near johnny paredes's house, where you worked under a blistering sun. johhnny, that whiskey-breathed old filipino with the catfish eyes who made me laugh. afterwards, we'd swim in the river, diving for mussels. i'd tie my arms around your neck, hold my breath, as you dove under. i can smell the minty bushes, the fishbait, feel every mosquito bite.

it doesn't seem that long ago. i didn't cry, not at first. it came later, when i wasn't paying attention. in your picture, your beaming smile, still close. i want to touch your sunburned face. i want to press my face to yours. look at me daddy, i'm here, lost as always, searching for the right words. the ones that lift me from the pages into the fast flowing river. the ones that won't be talking about how it was, because it will be. we'll sit down, drink a orange shasta. "it hasta be shasta," you'd always sing, before swigging it down. i'd tell you of these memoirs, and how funny it sounds. "it's just pieces, pages, no fancy names," you'd say.

daddy, i don't know where to begin, how to get there. the roads twist and turn, and i'm afraid i'm losing light. this morning i wrote of swimming, arms tied around your neck, holding my breath. the smell of fishbait, mint bushes, and a hidden river near an old bridge in ballico... "could of written a book on it."

mama can't read

last night, sitting with a group of friends who share a love for words as i do, someone mentioned what my mother would think if she read that silly thing i just wrote. "my mother doesn't read or write," i told them. i looked up and saw their shocked expressions. i've never been ashamed of that. never. they could assume it was some kind of culturally deprived circumstance, or measure of my family's intelligence. i knew better.

"she's not ignorant, or lacking," i tried to explain. then i caught myself. why should i explain? how could they possibly understand this special link, my personal bond to my mother? yes, she could have seen much more, but that's the way it's always been. we never thought anything wrong. besides, she had us to read to her. what might have been missing, brought us closer. some of my most cherished memories are sitting in the kitchen and reading the newspaper to her.

"how awful it must have been to not read," one woman commented. i glanced around this roundtable of white faces, and saw disbelief in their eyes. i resented having to defend my mother's illiteracy. i thought about my own joy for reading. i escaped my hopelessly poor surroundings, through the magic of reading. what about mama?

i thought back to those old school posters, "why johnny can't read." johnny, being some catch-all student that lurked in our poor illiterate souls. as children in school, we were to strive to learn reading. without reading, ignorance rages over us, a monstrous beast. from the depths of our struggling existence, this was our ticket out.

i wondered if mama's life could have been different. if i should have at least asked, or offered to teach her. i hated myself for thinking this. where before was glowing warmth, is now guilt and sadness. i longed to be with her, feel her arms around me.

i remember waking up early, and reading portions of the newspaper to mama in the kitchen. she'd always have a cup of steaming atole for me. i felt closer, whenever i read to her. her interest, or excitement, was mine. her eyes lit up in various shades, depending on the subject. if it was a killing, or scandal, her eyes would get wide as silver dollars. she'd raise her hands to her cheeks, and cry "aye dios mio!" she'd want to hear every detail. and if possible, a second time. if i read news of something especially nice, her eyes would melt into tears of happiness, "aye que suave mijo." she hung on every word, savored every line. i was her eyes, her window to the world.

mama's favorite part of the newspaper was the obituaries. after the main news, she'd always press me for it. it was a game i played. save the best for last. "who died?" she'd ask anxiously. i suppose to an outsider it might seem like a depressing way to view life in general, but to me, and especially to her, there was something about the obits section that brought great anticipation.

my anticipation was watching her reaction. i must admit, good or bad news,I'd get caught up in the drama. the whole mood and tone would change. i'd solemnly read the list of deaths, pausing briefly for effect. if there was one even slightly familiar, i was to go over and over it, until we understood exactly where the connection was. her heart would race, she'd shake her hands, wipe her brow, and remark who and how we knew this person. if it was someone very close, or worse, family, then she'd grab her apron, wipe the immediate tears of sadness and shock.

inevitably i grew up and moved away. a rite of passage. hit the road, read more books, come back a man. i wrote letters to mama whenever possible. sometimes i'd write a short story about our family and send it to one of my sisters with instructions to read to her. i knew she'd cry. she'd cry, because it would be about our lives, gentle slices, reminders. i pictured exactly how she would hear the words, winding their way into her heart. "look mama, this is about us, our stories," i'd write. her face would light up, tears in her eyes. "read it again mija. i want to hear it again."

i drove home last week to visit her in the early morning. she no longer stands over the table patting masa for tortillas, as she'd like to do, to please me. her hands are wracked with arthritis, barely able to hand me the cup of atole, as i sit down and unfold the newspaper. her once proud, upright figure, is now slumped and using a walker to move slowly across the kitchen. it hurts to see her this way. i wish i could buy something to rejuvenate her tired body, keep her with me. our days our slipping away. i stop, look lovingly at her and ask, "mama, did you ever feel bad, because you couldn't read?"

the stared at me, then scolded, "don't be silly, i have you to read to me." then with that familiar twinkle in her eyes, that magically erased all doubt she adds, "aver mijo, tell me who died."