My Mama's Tamales

By Mia Rodriguez

A humanity gone haywire with superiority and inferiority complexes. The power of love, compassion, and vision. Having been born during the tumultuous sixties, Rosario Olmos experienced much havoc in her life. Those times of Civil Rights upheaval have marked her heart deeply. Now that her daughter is at an important juncture, Rosario is compelled to send her progeny to a very problematic world with the necessary tools for survival and with complete appreciation for her Latina culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mia Rodriguez
• Release date: Nov 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311459121

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My Mama’s Tamales

By Mia Rodríguez

Copyright 2015 Mia Rodríguez

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Dedication

For Jimbo V. who convinced me to take this novel out of a dusty drawer and let it come to life again.

For my mother who taught me to be proud of my culture. Even though she’s no longer walking on this planet, her influence informs every part of my life.

I hope, Mama, that wherever you are you know how much of what you’ve taught me I’ve engraved in my heart and mind. I hope I’ve done you proud with this novel about the Mexican culture you were so proud of and loved so completely.

For my new great amiga Angelica Acosta—an earth angel helping me with my mysterious disease and lending an ear to my zany out-of-the-box ideas. Kindred spirit friend, your truly incredible Angelus Physical Therapy is an oasis for me.

Last but certainly not least—for all the mothers out there of Mexican descent playing the cards that life has dealt them.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Author’s note

This novel has been a labor of love for me. My Mama’s Tamales is a love letter to my Mexican American culture. I’m appalled at all the bigotry and hatred floating out there disguised as truth. I’m deeply saddened by all the haters on the internet spewing their poison.

I firmly believe that earth is on RED alert. If we don’t get it together then the next phase for us is extinction. We human beings have to learn to get along instead of insisting on believing lies about each other to uplift our fragile egos. This work directly confronts bigotry all the while telling about the truth and beauty of my amazing culture.

Having grown up in the sixties and seventies and reaching adulthood in the eighties, this story is very personal to me. Even though it’s somewhat autobiographical in its heart, it’s still a work of fiction with fictional people and the fabrication of certain places.

I have interjected much Spanish in this novel to give it the flavor it deserves. Please note that the definition of those words will usually be either in the same sentence or paragraph.

I hope you enjoy this provocative, deep, and loving novel.

Prologue

Life

The world is a messy place. Very confused. Upside down and backwards much of the time. A giant ball of full-fledged problems. It’s like a super-hot firecracker salsa with all kinds of chile and fixings chopped, mixed, and blended in. Take a taste and you may end up in a flood of tears.

How does a mother teach her daughter about the many, many good and bad turns in life? That there are blissful days of enchiladas, tacos, and tamales. But there are also harsh days of illness, nausea, and starvation. Starvation. Even with all the necessary food, there are many other ways to starve.

How do you explain wars, genocide, hatred, guns, and atomic bombs without scaring your child half to death? How do you teach your progeny to survive in such a world?

I keep asking myself these questions.

Even though my daughter Martina is a remarkable young woman, life is still a loco rollercoaster ride for everyone—as crazy as can be. In just a few short weeks my daughter will be graduating from college with honors. I know better than anyone how hard she’s worked in her studies to get to this point.

But even with all her smarts, Martina is like most young people her age thinking she knows more than she really does and assuming that the world started with them because history is so ancient that it must have very little to do with their contemporary lives. Martina believes that all the books she’s read, the numerous tests she’s taken, and the many lectures she’s attended have told her the secrets of life.

However, her college education has only taught her through a narrow keyhole about the human experience. A very limited one that books can’t fully capture.

You can’t just read about a fiesta!—you have to experience it! Especially when those books might’ve been written by limited people who just researched through reading about pachangas and never actually lived them, or who only stayed in their own tiny perceptions. It’s a well-known fact that it’s the conquerors who write the historical materials! For the most part, they downplay their avarice, exaggerate their bravery, and fictionalize the foe. What happens to truth?

So it’s up to me, Martina’s mother, to fill in the holes of her education before she goes off to this often cruel world of people who insist on condescending superiority thinking and devastating misinterpretations of one another.

Martina is home for spring break and she’s as excited as a quinceañera on her fifteenth birthday about entering the real world. She asks me if we can make tamales. It’s her favorite food. I love that the complicated process of preparing tamales will bond us—mother and daughter just like it did with my Mama and me.

Then it occurs to me—how to give her the wisdom that all her schooling couldn’t even begin to touch. How to give her something much more precious than money because an overstuffed bank account can all be spent, but insight only keeps growing into maturity.

Through the years I’ve done as much as I can for my only child. I’ve made certain Martina knew that my divorce from her father when she was an adolescent had nothing to do with her. I’ve helped her with her homework. I’ve shared with her bits and pieces about how I grew up. I’ve even insisted she learn Spanish. I’ve made sure she was proud of her Mexican heritage, and she knew that her culture wasn’t just about piñatas and tacos. I wanted to make certain she didn’t treat her background as a cartoon instead of as a living, breathing, and changing life force. However, there’s much that is difficult for her to relate to. She didn’t grow up in poverty like I did. She developed during a very different time from mine. I worry that even with all my efforts she still doesn’t fully understand the value of her culture.

Sometimes new generations have problems connecting with older ones. Yet, I absolutely believe that it’s valuable that our children understand how from the past comes the present. There’s a saying in Spanish—saber es poder. I couldn’t agree more that knowledge is power.

Now that she’s about to be thrown into a much more chaotic world than she imagines, it’s a perfect time for a mother to pass down the wisdom of life to her daughter, to hand her the full spectrum of life-giving roots that tell her where she came from. She’ll see how my life informed hers.

My capirotada life of many ingredients going into the bread pudding.

It’s a story about human beings—hatred, greed, racism, discrimination, determination, endurance, misunderstandings, faith, survival, growth, sharing, self-preservation, and love. Lots of love. It’s about how I came to understand and appreciate my own misunderstood culture in the middle of beauty, upheaval, and ugliness. How I came to unravel the enigmas of my own self, my humanity in a world of billions of souls fighting tooth and nail for their own self-preservation.

It’s not a grandiose tale full of gigantic movie-screen-like heroines and heroes. There are no fiery dragons or massive sword combats to define the human experience in searing testosterone glory. Instead, it’s a rather simple saga of what it is to be a human being in the middle of other human beings.

My historia goes somewhat like this…

Chapter 1

Tamales and Turkey

I remember that when I was a little girl, I used to wake up to the shimmery red-orange of dawn on the eve of my favorite holiday. Busy sounds and vivid aromas belonged to that special day when the spiritual and the mystical sparked in the air—a magical time to believe in inspiring miracles and glittering dreams. I would lay still on Christmas Eve in my twin bed while feeling safe, snuggling in the warmth, between the striped multicolored serape-like blankets my Mama bought in Juarez, Mexico.

In the meantime, I would shut my eyes. I could see better this way. I could see sounds like the shuffling clangs of pots and pans. I could see fragrances piercing the air. I could see my Mama with her old, faded, flowery apron and red bandana on her gray, curly hair in the middle of her world.

My Mama would wake up about five a.m. to start creation. As tiny as she was, she would look even smaller in the middle of a kitchen full of pots and huge hunks of masa and pork. On her face was the look of an unafraid warrior tackling what many would never attempt—the art of making tamales. She would tear the pork into strips and place them in a big pot with red chile and spices. Then her long, slightly crooked fingers (from working extensively with her hands) would knead the corn gruel and spread it lightly on corn leaves. The stack of lifeless shucks would seem endless but my Mama would patiently work on each one giving them life and purpose. This was the part I would help her with.

I would hear again and again from those begging for a taste of her creation how my Mama made the best tamales this side of the El Paso border. They were right. She did make the best tasting tamales in Ysleta, Texas, possibly the whole United States, but I was not always as appreciative of them. It was the late 1960's, and I was seven when I rebelled against the Mexican tradition of tamales during Christmas. I told my Mama I wanted her to make turkey instead.

My Mama looked at me sternly. You don't like tamales, Rosario? she asked me in Spanish—it was the only language we spoke at home.

When I told her that having turkey was how Christmas was celebrated on TV, she scolded me. She firmly believed I would go blind someday because I watched so much of it. In looking back, I wonder why I viewed so much English television. I couldn't understand the language very well.

Turkey, mother, I insisted in Spanish.

I'm not making you turkey, Rosario. I have enough work making tamales. I'm not going to spoil you like your Papa, may he rest in peace, spoiled you.

I sulked, but Mama being the kind of mother she was, didn’t pay any attention to me. That blonde lady on the TV, Mrs. Brady, didn’t look like she would ignore her flesh and blood. This wouldn’t be happening to the Marcia daughter. I sulked even more.

Why the monkey face? My older brother, Jorge, asked in Spanish, stepping into the kitchen.

Shut up, dummy, I snapped at him.

"Rosario wants turkey instead of tamales." my Mama stated.

Oh really, Rosi. Jorge started imitating a turkey all over the kitchen.

Mom, look at Jorge. I whined.

Neither of you let me do anything. Go outside and let me finish these tamales.

Gee, boss-mom, Jorge said, his light green eyes merging with his full happy lips as he said jefita—boss-mom. His Adonis chiseled face enveloped his wide smile. I hated how he changed the atmosphere in a room with so little effort.

Dirt-bag, boy, I said.

"Get out of my kitchen and let me finish the tamales in peace." I had already slathered masa onto many corn leaves. This part of the preparation of the tamales was almost completely done.

My brother and I obediently stepped outside. Jorge, who was about six or seven years older depending on the month, grabbed me, pulled me up to him, and tickled me.

Let me go, dirt-bag boy.

Let me go, dirt-bag boy, he said, imitating me calling him a mugroso muchachillo.

You take advantage because you're bigger.

You take advantage because you're bigger, he kept imitating me.

Finally letting me go, he left. I hated so much being young. I wanted to be older. To be all grown up so I could buy myself a two story house like the ones on TV, to make turkey, to tell off my brother.

I wondered what it would be like if my Papa was alive. He had died two years past. People never believed I remembered him, but I've always had a good memory and could remember morsels of life even when I was extremely young. In this case, however, I didn’t need a good memory because my Mama would speak of my Papa often, as if nourishing his spirit. I guess she was really nourishing her own. She would often say, And when Artemio was alive… Then she would talk about something she and Papa did together. The only times she never spoke of was when he died, but those days were painfully vivid to me. No hole in my memory existed there. The luxury of forgetfulness had not been mine.

When I would close my eyes, pictures of my very ill Papa would appear. I wanted the movie projector in my head to stop, but the pictures would keep moving like a crushing tornado, and I would be forced to re-live those moments.

My Mama would tell him that she knew in her corazon that something was wrong. Seriously wrong. I don’t know why my Papa paid so little attention to my Mama's heart since it was rarely mistaken. She would tell my Papa to see the doctor, and he would say he couldn’t possibly get off work for some little illness. They needed the money too much. How would they eat? Mama would tell him they would live in a cave and eat only frijoles if it came down to it, but he had to see the doctor. We had survived on beans before and would do it again if necessary. When he finally did, the cancer had spread, and he only had a few months to live.

My Mama would cry in private but in front of the family, she never wept. She never stopped taking care of Jorge and me.

The nurse in the hospital, Nurse Jenkins, would ask my Mama if she wanted to take some tranquilizers, but my Mama would tell her with struggling English that she had two kids and a sick husband to take care of, and she could hardly do that while drugged. Nurse Jenkins would shake her head and insist on spouting out stereotypes—never realizing her own prejudices. She’d retort that it was the way Mexican women were, fatalistic and passive. If it had been her husband, she would have already gone crazy. My Mama asked what Nurse Jenkins’ kids would do with a crazy mother. Nurse Jenkins stayed very quiet and eyed my Mama, and Mama's tired gaze of legions of Mexican women coping with the cards life had dealt them stared back. Nurse Jenkins would assert that in her culture women were strong and brave. From where I stood it was my incredible Mama who was strong and brave.

My Papa died one very sunny day in June. Tía Chata said the angels were lighting up the earth as they were coming down to get him. My Mama arranged the funeral herself, keeping busy, as people admired her strength.

But at night, she cried.

I sat in bed wondering why los angeles just didn’t bring him back. It seemed to me he was needed here much more than in heaven.

Jorge cried, and my Mama would tell him to go ahead and cleanse himself because he would need to be strong now that Papa's life had ended. In the following weeks, Jorge lied about his age and began working at the grocery store packing food into bags. My Mama worked at a garment factory and did piecework after hours. That was how we survived without my Papa's income.

I started feeling sad with the pictures in my head as I relived those harsh times. I stepped over to the little house my brother had built out of old lumber for me in our backyard, and I played with my Barbie. My Mama had wanted to buy me a cheaper one with the brown hair, but I wanted what I then considered to be the real thing, the blonde one. I didn’t think she would get it for me, but she had surprised me with it for my birthday.

I combed through Barbie's long blonde hair, and I put a blue outfit on her that would match her eyes. I sighed while thinking about how the apparel was not store bought. My Mama had made it. One day I would have money to buy my children doll clothes, I promised myself, not wanting to think about my mother's crooked, tired fingers making the little garments. Instead, in my child's way, I could only see how much more superior the store bought clothes were supposed to be.

I also played with the bald baby dolls I bought at the Winn’s a few blocks away. They were so tiny, fitting in the palm of my hand and only costing ten cents. I would save the dimes my Mama gave me and buy inexpensive toys. Those small baby dolls were my favorite. I didn’t like to buy candy because once it was eaten, there was nothing left. The investment was gone.

Since I hardly bought candies, I always saved the ones from Halloween. I ate them little by little, extending their sweet lives for as long as possible. I grabbed my small, dark-pink, vinyl purse and pulled out a little Sugar Daddy lollipop. The enjoyment of it was almost ruined as I thought about the past Halloween.

Clarissa, my cousin, had convinced Jorge to take us to the rich side of town to trick or treat. I didn't want to go. Being in a strange place made me nervous. She, however, declared that we would get two years’ worth of sweets. We would get the ‘good’ candies, mostly chocolate. Clarissa finally convinced me. She said it would be an adventure, and we would see many magical things. According to her, the rich had money for magic.

As soon as we arrived at the fancy, subdued colored neighborhood with symmetrical lines of houses on lonely streets, I realized we had made a huge mistake. The neighborhood kids' store bought costumes menaced me. I was wearing a homemade clown costume consisting of whatever rags I could make look funny. My old blue jeans were cut at the legs to make spiky, long shorts. My Mama had bought me a tie dyed, bright pink T-shirt. She thought it was pretty. I thought it was too much, so it became a part of my Halloween attire.

Clarissa wore her sister's first communion dress that her mother made on a Singer sewing machine. Clarissa's parents converted to another religion, so the dress wasn’t sacred to them anymore. I wished I had been wearing it. She must have felt like a fairytale princess since it was white chiffon with lace roses on top, a mini wedding