Finally ... Soup for the Chicken!: A.K.A. The circus I grew up in ...

By David Membrila

A teacher's perspective of growing up as a good and bad example.

"A compilation of anecdotes and heartbreaks, of love, life, and laughter, from a kid who grew up a product of the barrio and despite growing up and growing out; never really left."

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Mar 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781456637231

Book preview

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Foreword:

I grew up on the Southside of Tucson, the youngest of 4 kids.  My eldest brother was 10 years older than me, and every sibling followed 2 years later … except me.  I was 6 years younger than my sister; the closest sibling to me.  I was told that my parents lost a child in between me and my older sister.  According to my older brother I was never planned; and mom had told me as a child that because she was ill a lot of the time, that they were lucky to have me.  That, along with the fact that my father was undergoing radiation treatments at the time for a thyroid issue, would’ve created complications to conceive another child.

My siblings all had middle names, except for me.  I could never figure that out.  Turns out when I was born, I was a preemie and the doctors didn’t expect me to make it.  I was told (as an adult) that I was in the hospital for weeks, and my future, or lack thereof, was gloomy.  My parents had given me a first and of course a last name, in preparation of burying another child.  Thus,  the name was just meant for a planned gravestone.

I fooled them all, pulling through with flying colors, and was finally brought home to meet the family dog.

I guess at that point I was almost obligated if not destined to do great things, so I grew up and became a teacher.

This book is a culmination of 39 years of teaching, telling stories, embellishing tales, contributing actual life lessons of misfortune, misguidance, and yes, even misconduct; in an effort that those reading will understand that the road paved before ye, has its share of flat tires, close calls, and hit and runs.

Although the stories contained are told from the perspective of growing up an economically challenged Hispanic kid, I’m sure that others can relate as we share the same trials and tribulations, despite being from other cultures.

I hope you enjoy the read, and I hope my soup will encourage, inspire, calm, or comfort you in challenges and battles that you face daily.

I have to especially thank, my immediate family and my wife and kids, as well as beg their forgiveness, because I’m sure I’m going to hear a lot of moaning and groaning as they read stories relating to them.  I’m POSITIVE that my siblings will deny the bullying, pranks, and mischievous deeds pulled on each other as well as on my mom and dad. 

I also have to thank an ol’ mariachi hero, Alberto Rangel Sr., who told me 30 years ago that I should write a book on growing up in the barrio.

Thus, this is my life in a nutshell ….

Chapter I: The Wonder Years

If it takes a VILLAGE to raise a child, the size of your hut shouldn’t matter.

-Dave Membrila

Growing up …

I grew up on the Southside of Tucson, a patsy of redlining; a real estate term in which all of those with an accent were steered to certain areas of town in search of affordable housing.  Nicknamed barrios, these neighborhoods served as the villages that helped raise the children.  Our Barrio was named National City.

There were other Barrio’s in the city as well.  There was Barrio Anita, Sovaco (which means armpit), Menlo Park, Centro, Old Pascua, New Pascua, Libre, Viejo, etc.  But the coolest name was Barrio Hollywood.  That Barrio was named Hollywood as a joke.  It was the POOREST neighborhood in the city, but it took the name of the GALANT lifestyle of MOVIE STARS.  (You think Hispanics don’t have high hopes?)

Again, most of these neighborhoods were predominately Hispanic, Mexican American, Chicano, Latino, or any other subculture flavor of the month name for folks (or their ancestors) who immigrated from Mexico.  However, even OUR barrio had its share of Anglos.  Across the street from my house lived the Kelly family, who originated from Oklahoma.  Down the street were the Mooreheads, and there was Mrs. White (who was a widow), Art, who lived on my Uncle Ray’s property, and Mel and Lila Fields who lived next door.

There was a family that lived in some apartments directly across the street from us, named the Kings.  I believe they were from Kentucky.  I remember them specifically because they had a boy my age named Randy King who would be visited by his out-of-town cousin (same age) named … Randy King.  When we’d call their name both boys would turn around.

The Reinhards, probably the closest friends of the family, lived over on the next block, just down the street.  I will chat about them later.

These families ACCLIMATED to the culture of the neighborhood and were welcomed like family.  But life was different in the Barrio.

Not to say that other low-income families of other cultures had it a whole lot differently, but I doubt that those who suffered economically like we did, were fortunate enough to wake up to the smell of fresh tortillas being made on the comal, a cast-iron plate on a wood stove.  Rising early on a Saturday morning and scratching my head as I opened the back door, my mom would always ask, ¿Quieres un burrito, mijo? (an endearing name for son in Spanish … mijo; not burrito) as she stirred the bean pot bubbling on the stove.  There was the sound of Mexican music playing loud enough to entertain the whole block.  The comadres (Spanish term for Godmother, but sometimes used loosely like a female buddy) who had come over to make tortillas with my mom were almost oblivious to my presence, gossiping amongst each other about the latest novela (gossip) of the neighborhood.  I think these ladies came over to make tortillas just to make sure they weren’t being talked about.

My mom seemed to be the glue that held the neighborhood together.  Mom was always organizing in the neighborhood, whether it was for a sewing club or the PTA.  Short in stature, and quiet by nature, she would make sure her voice was heard when she felt she NEEDED to be heard.  She always seemed jolly and would hum as she made tortillas, made dinner, did housework, etc.  It was never a tune you could recognize, and when I’d ask her, Ma!  What are you humming?  She’d say, I don’t know, mijo; I’m just humming.  But it never stopped me from trying to figure out what song it was.

When mom got to talking with the ladies in the neighborhood, (whether it be while making tortillas, making tamales, sewing, or knitting) they were like chickens in a henhouse … cackling, laughing, and even dancing, to music which could be heard throughout the hood.  I’d have to raise the volume of the tv on the other side of the house just to drown out THEIR noise. 

You can’t pick your relatives, but you can pick your nose; and at times that could be just enough to keep them away.

-Dave Membrila

Mi familia ...

I used to think that mom talked a lot, because her voice was always heard over the other ladies’ voices, telling stories, singing, and yes … still humming.  But I used to get a kick when I’d eavesdrop on her telephone conversations with my Tía Josie; her older sister.  Mom couldn’t get a word in edgewise!  Tía Josie was JUST LIKE my mom, but with TWICE the energy.  She’d talk a mile a minute and had the energy to do 15 things at once.  So, on the phone, I could hear my mom say phrases like ¿De veras?  (Is that true?), ¡Como coraje! (that gets my goat), or "¡Mira no mas! (look at him/her) just to try to sneak something into the conversation.  And, when they’d laugh, you could hear Tía Josie’s laughter through the phone. 

I remember Tía Josie saw me walking home from school one day, which was a mile-long walk, and gave me a ride home.  As fast as she talked, she drove the opposite … sloooowww; stopping at every corner to check traffic both ways.  I told her, Tía … the other streets have stop signs ... this street goes all the way to the house without stop signs and she’d retort, Aye, mijo … but you never know what other drivers are going to do, so I stop at every corner, no matter what.

It took me an extra six minutes to get home that day … BUT, her philosophy is probably why Tía Jo lived to her mid-90’s.

Tía Jo was also mom to the PRIDE of the Alvarez family … Pima County Superior Court Judge Gus Aragon! (Now retired).  Before cousin Gus was a judge, he was the only attorney in the family, so everybody relied on him when we got in trouble.

My mom came from a family of 11 brothers and sisters, while my dad came from a family of 9 siblings.  You’ll hear references to different family members as many uncles and aunts were influential in my upbringing, music endeavors, and career choices.

Tío Fernando, my mom’s twin brother, was quite the character.  They looked identical, except my mom’s mustache was just a tad thicker. (She used to hate that joke.)  Tío Fernando had a slight stutter but I could never figure out if it was a life-long impediment, or if he was just a fast talker.  (His tongue had Tía Josie’s energy.)  I remember in my late teens, he tried to sell me his car, an old ’63 Impala (I wish I would’ve bought it back then), but my Tío Fernando kept dodging my questions:

Me:  Tío, how is the engine?

Tío Fernando:  lo-lo-lo-look at the upholstery … it it it’s pretty nice; in good shape…

Me:  Tío, but what is the ENGINE like?

Tío Fernando:  The paint is still good … iiiifff you wax it, it’s gonna chine (shine) for you….

Me:  Tío!  Is the engine good?  Is it a GAS HOG?

Tío Fernando:  You can fix it up … m-m-m-make it a lowrider like you kids like…..

Me:  (Frustrated)  But, Tío!  Does it WASTE GAS???

Tío Fernando:  No!  Not if you don’t drive it, no!

That one took me a minute … but It was obvious that I’d have to keep on my toes around my mom’s family.

My tenacity comes from my mom’s (Alvarez) side of the family.  Tío Fernando wasn’t very big, but his stubbornness and perseverance were unmatched.  There was a story that when Tío Fernando was bartending at a watering hole in South Tucson, there was a patron who used to come in and bully the other customers.  This bully was a HUGE man, known for his share of bar-tangos.  One day my tío surprised everybody in the bar by calling this patron out:

Gordo … I think you’re a son of a bit**!

Gordo reached across the bar, pulled my Tío Fernando over and pummeled him so bad that an ambulance had to be called.  Strapped in a gurney, he passed Gordo being handcuffed by police.  He yelled STOP!!! at the top of his lungs.  The paramedics were surprised as they thought he was knocked out cold.  Tío Fernando slowly turned towards Gordo and muttered, I don’t know what you think you proved?… I STILL think you’re a SON OF A BIT**!!  And pointed to the ambulance and said, Ok!  Let’s go!"

My cousin Freddy, Fernando’s first-born son, has that SAME kind of tenacity.  I have argued with Freddy until I was blue in the face over various things over the years, but he’d never back down.  Freddy could argue with you that the sky was purple, and after enough debate, you’d actually walk away thinking, Have I been wrong all these years??

Freddy showed up at my house on my 28th birthday, although he didn’t know it was my birthday at the time.  He had spent the morning on that HOT June day trying to sell cement benches that he makes, at a swap-meet close by.  I, on the other hand, was trying to sleep off the celebration from the night before.  At about 10 A.M., I awoke to a banging on the door, only to find Freddy there with a cement bench on my porch.  He said, David, I was in the area selling these benches and it got too hot, so I brought my last one to you.  I interrupted, still feeling 3 sheets to the wind, Freddy!! You remembered it was my BIRTHDAY!!  AND you brought me a bench??  Dude, I can’t thank you enough!!  The look on his face was that of surprise, and the look that he shot toward his son hadn’t hit me yet.

Now, this wasn’t just ANY kind of bench. This bench was pure concrete and was a two-man carry, so I was appreciative of his gift.  I invited Freddy in, and we continued my birthday celebration.

After putting a good-sized dent in a 12 pack, Freddy admitted that he had no INTENTION of GIVING me the bench, he had brought it to SELL it to me.  What?? I asked.  He said, Yeah, it got too hot at the swap meet, and I remembered you lived close by and this was my last bench.  I didn’t know it was your birthday!  I sell these benches for $50 … I was gonna give you a discount!

After arguing about what he could do with that bench, he finally let me have it as he was too tired to take it home.  First argument I ever won with Freddy!

That bench has traveled with me to 7 different houses that I’ve inhabited.  It’s lasted longer than most cars that I’ve owned.  Heck, I’d give him $50 bucks now, just because it’s lasted so long.

I’ve loved Freddy my whole life but learned at an early age that once he’s set on an idea, there was no changing his mind.  I’ve come to realize that sometimes doggedness is what makes people great.  We have history books written about folks who persevered.  Now I’m not going to compare Freddy to Emilio Zapata, but Freddy could’ve easily been one of his captains.

My mom grew up on 17th street in Barrio Viejo; one of the oldest Mexican neighborhoods in Tucson.  The house that they grew up in was the last structure in the set of wall to wall homes; (shared walls) right next to the railroad.  I remember going with my mom to visit my grandmother who we lovingly called Mama Nina, and my Tía Chepa, who was my grandmother’s sister-in-law.  They lived in a house that we knew for certain had to be haunted, as it just LOOKED spooky.  There were two rooms in the backyard built into the ground like dungeons.  They had dirt floors but were big enough for a bed and a dresser.  I remember getting yelled at when my cousins and I would sneak down there to go ghost hunting. 

As mentioned, mom’s family grew up by the train tracks.  I was mesmerized by the train when it would pass by, and the sound of the wheels rolling on the track was pretty relaxing.  While mom was visiting inside, I would climb these ol’ pine trees (we called them pinos) that grew in front of the house, laying on the branches while waiting for the train.  The neighborhood always smelled like tar-pitch, maybe because there always seemed to be somebody in the neighborhood re-doing their roof.  I never understood why that was, but it didn’t bother me. 

When the train would SLOWLY pass by, I would remember the stories my mom would share about my uncles playing chicken under the wheels as it passed.  Mom said that her older brothers would DIVE underneath the train wheels and scramble to the other side before the next wheel would get ‘em.  I guess kids would do CRAZY things during the Great Depression, just to entertain themselves.  Lying in that tree, I was tempted to see if I, too, could slip under those wheels as it passed by, but shuttered at having to hop into the house and explain a severed leg.

There wasn’t a whole lot to do at Mama Nina’s other than get in trouble for exploring the dungeons.  If I had a cousin or two there, we would play with these old 2x2 pieces of wood that acted like building blocks.  We would trap somebody inside the blocks by building the pieces around them.  Once built, the person inside would burst out and the pieces of wood would go flying all over the place.  Then we would do it all over again.

Because there was a language barrier between me and Mama Nina, whenever I wanted a cookie or treat, I would just STARE at the cupboards where she kept them until she got the hint.  She always had boxes of Hi-Ho Crackers and I loved them. 

Tía Chepa; short for Josefa was my grandfather’s sister.  Lovingly called Papa Nino, my grandfather had passed away long before I was born so I never knew him.  Family was important in those days as again, Mama Nina had 11 kids … so she needed help.  My mother had developed rheumatic fever as a child and was sick most of the time.  Papa Nino’s other sister, Matilde, also lived with them, and pretty much raised my mom during this time, relieving the burden of Mama Nina having to care for a sick child on top of raising everybody else.  My sister has the honor of carrying Matilda as her middle name.

I was always afraid of Tía Chepa.  An older woman subjected to a chair most of the time, she would always want to hug me, and she slobbered when she kissed my cheek.  Trying to avoid a cat bath, I pulled away; restraining from making faces as she held me tight in her grasp.  I was just a little kid back then, and not being able to speak or understand Spanish, I had NO CLUE what Tía Chepa was saying, but I avoided those lips like the plague.

She would sit in a chair on the back porch, and I’d watch from a safe distance as she rolled her own cigarettes.  It could’ve been marijuana for all I knew, because she would roll her cigarettes like the older kids would roll joints.  And she would use a bobby-pin like a roach clip to keep from burning her fingers.

One day we went to visit, and she was no longer there.  Mom explained that she had passed, but not understanding death, I couldn’t fathom the thought of never seeing her again.  It got to the point that I would jump out of the car and look for Tía Chepa, even in the dungeons where I’d otherwise be afraid to enter alone.  I missed watching her toke her funny cigarettes and stare into the distance.

Mom said that having such a big family, they would find ways to entertain each other.  My Tío Chayo (his real name was Cesar) was the conniver of the family.  He was always thinking of ways (usually sneaky) to do something.  He was one of the middle kids who were always getting in trouble.  My Tío Alvaro, born without a left arm below the elbow, was about 4 years old when he went walking with my Mama Nina and Chayo downtown.  A passerby saw Alvaro, and feeling sorry for him, gave him a few coins.  A few days later Chayo offered to take Alvaro for a walk to get him out of Mama Nina’s hair, as she had a ton of other kids to look after.  Chayo took Alvaro for walks quite regularly, until one day Mama Nina had to go downtown and saw Alvaro standing with a tin cup in his hand, and Chayo peering from around the corner.  Story goes that Chayo got beat ALL the way home that day.

Chayo also had a habit of instigating things.  Mom said that when they were kids and would get bored, Chayo would go to Fernando (my mom’s twin) and tell him that Nico (mom’s youngest brother) had called him a so and so.  He then would tell Nico that FERNANDO had called him a so and so.  They would meet in the front yard and fight it out.  Sometimes Nick would get the rough end of it; sometimes Fernando got the rough end of it.  Finally, the two boys got hip to what Chayo was doing and when they met in the front of the house to fight, Chayo smiling as he eagerly watched, they ganged up and beat the hell out of Chayo.  It never happened again, but they soon found other ways to entertain themselves.

Tío Alvaro must’ve loved Tío Chayo, because he named his son Cesar. Cesar was one of my favorite cousins and my best friend pretty much my whole childhood.  The sleepovers, the bike rides, and just hanging out at his house are some of my fondest memories.  Cesar had quite the appetite, and the sandwiches he would make us would make Dagwood Bumstead jealous.  (If you get that joke, you’re older than I am.) 

At a young age, Cesar was instrumental (pun intended) in molding my choice of music.  An avid fan of Billy Joel, I found myself purchasing Billy Joel albums immediately after spending an afternoon with him.  The same thing with the Grateful Dead, and Stevie Ray Vaughn.  He opened my ears to music that I hadn’t really paid attention to, and I attribute my wide variety of tastes in music to his introduction.

My cousin passed away unexpectedly at a young age and I regret the fact that we grew apart as we grew older.  Life happens, and sometimes takes us in different directions.  But I think of him often and wish I would’ve had a second shot at rekindling our relationship.

Your only limitations are the excuses and obstacles you place before you.

-Dave Membrila

Mom’s little bro’s …

My Tío Alvaro was quick witted and grew up to become an accountant.  He would use a claw on his left elbow, (good thing he was RIGHT handed) with two prongs that would grasp like fingers.  If he wasn’t pinching me with that contraption, he would pull it off and SLAP me with his billy club stub as I passed by.  He would chuckle as I said, Owww! and rub my head.

My Tío Alvaro was always busy doing something, and many times, I would go to Cesar’s house just to see what his old man was up too.  He was crafty with a hammer and NEVER let his lack of an appendage keep him from building something.  One day, my Tío Alvaro was building a shed.  I thought, How the heck is he going to hold the nail??  Holding his shoulder against the siding he was going to nail to the frame, he dropped the hammer, reached down, and took off his shoe and sock, and placed the nail between his toes.  And … with the limberness of a monkey, lifted his foot above his head and proceeded to nail the siding!  I stood in awe and my jaw dropped just as Cesar was passing by.  He said, What’s the matter with you? and stuck a sandwich in my mouth.

My Tío Alvaro had probably the fastest wit in the whole family.  I have NEVER felt so stupid as when I asked him what it was like growing up without an arm.  Without skipping a beat, he snapped back, What do I have to compare it too? 

Boy, did I feel stupid … I would’ve felt better if had he just slapped me with it …

The other thing about my Tío Alvaro was that he was ALWAYS walking … ever since I was a kid.  He’d walk to the store, to church, everywhere.  Diabetes ran high on my mom’s side of the family, so Tío Alvaro decided that he was going to control It. It was never going to control him.  So, he walked … and walked … and walked ….

He even had the length of his yard measured out so he knew how many times it would take to walk from the front yard to the back yard … one mile, two miles, three miles.  Sometimes he would use a clicker to keep count so he knew where he was, distance wise.

I talk about my Tío Alvaro to my students often, and how he never let the lack of an appendage stop him from succeeding.  It may have made things a little harder, but it never stopped him.  For instance, he may have had to learn to do one-handed push-ups but like he’d say, It only made him stronger in the long run.

My Tío Nico was probably the most laid back uncle on my mom’s side.  Nick the CLIP they used to call him, because he had a barbershop in the Congress Hotel in downtown Tucson. I had been getting haircuts from him until my dad purchased a set of electric barber clippers.  Tío Nico would give you a haircut and use this vibrating machine that he would attach to his right hand to give you a neck massage.  It was really relaxing and I fell asleep in his chair many times.

Nick the Clip was ALWAYS telling jokes.  Men would come in just to shoot the breeze, and not even get a haircut.  Most of the talking was done in Spanish, so I could only tell during the laugh breaks that he had said something funny.

I didn’t understand Spanish just yet, so I couldn’t partake in the show.  I’m sure that the jokes probably weren’t appropriate for somebody my age anyway.

My parents didn’t teach us kids Spanish, and they never spoke it at home.  Mom said that when they were children, they would get PUNISHED in school for speaking Spanish to each other; even if it was the only language they knew.  Racked with rulers on the knuckles, being made to sit in the corner, or being sent to the principal’s office were among some of the punishments she incurred.  In other words, they were DEMEANED for speaking the ONLY language they knew.  How CRAZY was that?

Thus, my parents decided to only speak English at home, and if we desired to learn Spanish, we could take a class in school.

As it was, by the time all of us kids were born mom and dad were speaking a variation of Spanish, where they’d bounce between English AND Spanish.  It wasn’t even Spanglish it was more Mix-ican than anything else:

Mijo, andale!  We gotta go to the tienda para comprar groceries … hurry up! My mom would holler at me. (which translates to:  Son, hurry up!  Nos vamos to the store to buy mandado … apurense!)

However, my Mama Nina would SCOLD me when I went back and forth talking like that.  She’d say in Spanish, ¡Habla Español or habla Inglés!  ¡No pongas mayonaisse en tus frijoles! Which translates to:

Either speak in English or speak in Spanish! Don’t put mayonnaise in your beans!

It was embarrassing growing up not speaking fluent Spanish.  Even the Chinese folks that owned groceries stores in the neighborhood spoke better Spanish than I did.  I remember my cousin Cesar (who DID speak Spanish) and I rode our bikes as kids to the Liberty market, and I guess we were too loud deciding which candy we wanted.  Back then the candy was kept under a glass window and we’d have to point to what we wanted so the cashier could grab it for us.  I remember we couldn’t make up our minds!  We’d say, I want that one!  No, I want that one! Walking back and forth along the glass to see what was what.

Finally, an old Chinese man appeared from a side door and started yelling at us in Spanish.  It looked like he had just woken up.  His hair was all disheveled, and he had on an old stretched out white tank-top, and he was pointing as he yelled at us.  I didn’t understand Spanish, but I sure understood the cuss words.  Cesar yelled something back at him in Spanish and we took off.

It was the first time that I heard anybody OUTSIDE of the Hispanic culture speak Spanish, and it freaked me out.  Were they from Mexico?  Did they speak Spanish in China?" Those were the questions that ran through my mind as we escaped on our bikes.

It didn’t dawn on me that they grew up in the neighborhoods that were predominately Hispanic.  Or that yes, they could’ve been Chinese-Mexican immigrants, as there were different cultures in Mexico as well.  But that was the logic of kids our age who just didn’t understand.

Tío Nico served as my translator when some of the other gentlemen in his barbershop would ask me questions.

When my Tío Nico passed away, the largest Catholic Church in the city couldn’t hold all of his mourners.  The night of his wake was impressive, as there wasn’t even STANDING room.  The line to view his body extended out the door and around the corner.  I remember standing outside talking to some relatives when a respected Tucson city councilman came out of the door in tears.  He stood by us, and we stopped talking wondering what he wanted to say.  He turned to us and said, Look at that church … it’s packed … there’s people STANDING IN LINE just to get in to see him … THAT’S HOW YOU KNOW HE WAS A GOOD MAN!!

…and he wiped his tears and walked away.  It was almost as if he NEEDED to say that to somebody.

Get to know your family tree. In a strong wind, it’s strong ROOTS that keep the trunk from snapping.

-Dave Membrila

Las Enchiladas …

Because I was one of the youngest cousins, I didn’t know my older uncles very well.  For that reason, I didn’t know my older cousins very well either.  My mom was on the younger spectrum of HER family, so many of the kids from her elder siblings who were actually my cousins, were perceived as uncles and aunts because they were about the same age as my mom.  It wasn’t until I got older that I realized, Oh, … they’re just my cousins, and felt like nobility when THEIR kids would call me uncle.

When I was in high school, my mom had reached an age where she didn’t want to drive, so she’d ask me to cart her around.  My mom had a lot of people that she’d like to visit.  Of course, I didn’t know many of her friends last names, so she would describe them based on impediments that they had. 

David, can you take me to Señora Consuelo’s house so I can visit her for a while? she’d ask.  Sure, mom.  I’d say, Which one is she?  She’d answer, She’s the one who has the bum leg, mijo.  The one that walks crooked.  Ok. I’d say. I know exactly who you’re talking about.

David … I wanna go to Mrs. Jensen’s … can you take me there?  Mrs. Jensen … Mrs. Jensen,  I’d say trying to remember, Which one is she again? She’d respond, The one who takes her teeth out when she eats … you remember?  When you were little, she made us sandwiches and you wouldn’t eat until she took her teeth out.

Yes, Mom … I remember.

I had a cousin that was really close to my mom.  She was on the older spectrum of my cousins, meaning that she was closer to my mom’s age than my age. 

Mom used to ask me to drop her off at my Cousin Gloria’s house.  "You bet, mom

…but WHICH Cousin Gloria?"

The one with the one eye, mijo … Cousin Gloria with the one eye. she’d say.

It was never explained to me, but for whatever reason, my cousin Gloria used to wear an eye patch.  I never knew if she lost an eye or If she just never had one; and I never asked.  I never felt right asking. 

I remember she was always laughing and was always fun to be around.

I didn’t know Gloria’s kids very well, a fault that I regret because I REALLY wish that my kids knew more about my family.  I never led by example and only have me to blame for that.  I just remember seeing a couple kids; a couple boys and maybe a girl running around when I dropped off my mom.  No biggie, I thought, I’ll just pick her up later … no need to get down.  Love ya!  See ya, mom! and I’d be on my way.

Hyperspace 10 years later, and I’m about 26 or 27; at a party with a friend of mine.  A girl comes in and catches my eye.  Something about her looks familiar … but I can’t place it.  I walk from across the room and introduce myself.  Excuse me, my name is Dave.  You look very familiar; have we met before?

She rolls her eyes and says, Really?  That’s the best you got?  I mean out of ALL the cheesy lines …

I said, No, I’m serious, you really look familiar.  What’s your name?  Stop! She continued, Just stop.  It ain’t workin’ for you … try something else, She said.

By now, her spunk had gotten my attention, but I needed to find out how I knew her.  Ok, I’ll leave, I said next, Just tell me your name.  Linda Alegria, she responded.  I didn’t recognize her last name at the time.

Nope … doesn’t ring a bell, I said as I started to walk away.  She said, Wait … that’s all you got?  That was the ice breaker. 

So, we spent the majority of the evening hanging out and giving each other a hard time.  I kept saying that I knew her from somewhere but couldn’t place it, and she wanted to buy me a book on pick-up lines.

We parted with a date to have dinner in the near future.

I had to admit, she had my attention.  I liked girls who can give it right back, and she was better than most. Time will tell, I thought.

As the end of the next week approached, I thought it was time to call Linda and set a date for dinner.  I called her, and she began to giggle when I told her who I was.  I don’t know why, but I thought it awkward. 

I asked her if she’d like to go to dinner that Friday, and again, she SHEEPISHLY giggled.  Not knowing what was going on, I asked, What’s so funny? and she couldn’t stop laughing.  Thinking she had a change of heart, I was beginning to feel offended. 

I don’t understand, I said, Was it something I said?

She said, I can’t go out with you.  Why not? I inquired.  My mom says I can’t go out with you, and she continued to chuckle.

This is silly, I thought, She’s a grown woman. Then she continued, We’re cousins! 

Whhhaaatt??? I asked.  She said, We’re cousins … I’m GLORIA’S daughter!  You used to bring my Tía Mela (my mom’s nickname) to my house to visit!

Gloria’s daughter?? I said … and she responded with, Yes, GLORIA’S daughter!

In my mind, I’m thinking, Gloria? ... Gloria who?….

…AND THEN it clicked.

You mean ONE-EYED Gloria??

…and as the words were leaving my lips, I thought NNNNOOOOOO!!!!  You DID NOT JUST SAY THAT!!  But it was too late. I felt like such an idiot since Linda obviously didn’t know that’s how I identified who Gloria was.

After about 10 seconds of AWKWARD silence (which seemed like an eternity), she responds, almost condescending, Yes … my mom only has one eye….

I wanted to hide.  Cousin or not, I felt like such a STUPID idiot.  HOW did I let that slip??  My mom had passed away recently, so I couldn’t even tell her about this … THANK GOD!!

I asked Linda, So … how? ... When?

She said, The morning after the party I was telling my mom I met this guy, and we were talking about going out.  Mom said, Tell me about him  What does he do? And Linda said, He teaches music at a high school, and went on to tell her mom how GREAT I was.  (Ok.  Not really, but since I’m the author of this book, that’s what they call poetic license.) 

That perked her mom’s attention, and she continued, What’s his name?  Linda responded, I can’t remember … Membrane … Umbrella … and her mom finishes for her, Membrila?  David Membrila?

Linda says, Yes Mom, THAT’S HIM!!  How did you know?

Gloria bursts into laughter, Mija!  You can’t date him … HE’S YOUR COUSIN!! 

So, she said. I can’t go out with you. And she continued giggling. 

Wait … what? I said, as I’m trying to take it all in. Your mom is the one I used to take my mom to visit?? I asked as I began reflecting.  YOU’RE that little girl I used to see playing at Gloria’s house?

Linda said, I guess so … I don’t remember, I didn’t know who you were.

I KNEW I knew you from somewhere, I said, It all makes sense now.  I saw you as a little girl and recognized you 10 years later … but I couldn’t remember from where!! 

She said, Whatever … we still can’t go out.  I said, Why not?  We can’t just go out as cousins??  KISSING cousins, maybe?

We both erupted in laughter.

We both promised to take that incident to the GRAVE with us; and said our goodbyes.

I hung up the phone shaking my head thinking, What are the ODDS of that??

I didn’t attend many family functions because first off, I was always busy.  Second is I OBVIOUSLY didn’t know ALL of the family, which is probably the REASON that I SHOULD have attended some of them.

So, at the NEXT family function, I see Filo who is one of the cousins on the older spectrum.

Hey, Filo! I said.  Filo was  kinda soft spoken.  He replied, Hey, Primo (cousin).

THEN, he leans into me and says softly, … and STAY AWAY from my daughters. 

EXCUSE ME?? I said, surprisingly.  He said, Those three girls over there? pointing to some preteens.  They’re off limits to you. he said, as he shot a sh** eatin’ grin at me.

I heard about you, he chuckled.

Ok.  Where is the closest hole I can crawl in? I thought.  The rest of the evening, I was fending off insults from everybody.  Some cousins even offered to introduce me to their FRIENDS’ daughters, to keep me away from THEIR own daughters.

EVERYBODY’S a COMEDIAN, I thought, and left the function early.

I tell my students that story every once in a while, because it was pretty embarrassing.  Really, sir?? They’d heckle, You tried to date your cousin?  Gross!  I’d say, Hey!  It’s legal in some States.  (Awkward silence).

Yeah, they didn’t think it was funny either.

But I’m not kidding!  My family is HUGE.  Once while I was teaching at a middle school, I had to referee an altercation between two boys who didn’t know that the three of us were related.

I had a similar problem once, as I almost got into a fight with my cousin Rafael who was WAY on the top of the cousin’s spectrum. I was in high school when he was already a grown man with kids.  I was playing in a Tejano band with my cousin Freddy, and we were playing in my Mama Nina’s yard out in the dirt by the dungeons.  My cousin and my Tío Fernando had moved in to my Mama Nina’s house long after her passing, and we were debuting our brand-new band, Latin Rhythm. 

Rafael, who I didn’t know at the time, approached me on a break, requesting that we play a few songs that he wanted.  Not knowing who he was, I was trying to be as respectful as possible.

I’m sorry, sir.  We don’t know that one.  It was easy to see he was already three sheets to the wind.  He’d request another song and I’d say, I’m sorry, sir.  We don’t know that one either. 

After about five more requests that we couldn’t play, he said, You guys suck! and began to walk away.  Still trying to be polite, I said, Please understand … we’re just starting out.  This is our first gig.  He walked away mumbling cuss words in Spanish. 

Now THOSE I understood.

I got mad and said a few expletives back, and we started charging at each other.  I didn’t care that he was older. I’ll only take so much disrespect.  Thank my brother Marcos for that. (You’ll hear about that later.)

My cousin Freddy caught up to us in time and jumped in between. What are you doing?? Freddy scolded.  I tried to explain, but Freddy interrupted, You guys are cousins!! He turned to me, This is your cousin Rafael, Tío Rodrigo’s son. Then he turned to Rafael, This is David Membrila, Tía….

Rafael interrupted, Tía Mela’s son? He was all excited and grabbed me in a bear hug, I haven’t seen you since you were a little mococito (buger boy) cabrón!

I STILL didn’t know who he was, but I’d rather have him HUGGING me than BEATIN’ on me.

But that was the circus I lived in …

When I’m talking to someone older about the Alvarez family, they’ll retort, Oh … from 17th street?… as many folks remember them from the old neighborhood.

I played the saxophone in a Tejano band throughout high school and college and every morning after a gig my mom would fix me breakfast and ask, How was the gig last night? and we would spend the morning talking about anybody she knew who was there.

One morning, I was a little bothered by an incident that happened the night before.  While I was playing, there was an older gentleman dancing with his wife, and they would dance by the stage and he would call me names.  As I’m telling this story to my mom, she’s looking perplexed.  I’m a pretty nice guy, so she knows that I don’t LOOK for trouble.  She asked, Calling you names? as any concerned mom would, and I said, Yeah … I never met this gentleman but he would look straight at me and call me names.  I would turn around, thinking maybe he’s yelling at the bass player or the drummer behind me but he kept dancing with his wife, SMILING at me, and calling ME names … it even got to the point where I was offended and was going to put my sax down and confront the guy … you know me mom, I don’t start anything …but I was annoyed at the name calling, and the name didn’t even make sense!  She asked, Well, what did he call you?  And I said, I don’t even know … it sounded so stupid that I couldn’t make sense of it.  Again, she asked, What was it?  What did he call you?  Embarrassed, I said, He was calling me MEXICAN FOOD … I can’t remember what … I don’t know if it’s because I’m a little chubby, or maybe I looked hungry … what? 

She looked confused.  Mexican food? What KIND of Mexican food??  I said, I can’t remember… taco … tostada …no! no!  It was ENCHILADA!!!  He kept dancing by me and calling me an ENCHILADA!!  My mom started laughing out loud.  I’m serious Mom!  Do I look like an ENCHILADA???  He’d smile with his wife in his arms and yell out Enchilada! ... EnchilaDITA!  and I had no idea why??"  My mom, wiping away her tears and trying to maintain control from another laughing fit, began to explain: 

Mijo, it had to be somebody from my old neighborhood, who knew you were my son.  You see, we were so poor growing up that we as a family, would walk up and down the streets selling ENCHILADAS.  Your Mama Nina would make batches of enchiladas, and us kids would walk the streets, yelling, Enchiladas! ... Enchiladitas!! And folks would come out of their homes to buy dinner from us.  We became known as Las Enchiladas de 17th street.  This man must’ve known you were an Alvarez …. 

Wow!  Couldn’t have been a cooler story.  All three of my kids have come to me at one point or another with a school assignment. Dad … I have to write a story UNIQUE to our family … but I have NO IDEA what to write about.

My answer: Sit down and get your pencils ready!! 

Guaranteed them an A every time!  Since then, if you call me an Enchilada, I’ll turn around and HUG you.

Home is where you grow up anxious to leave and grow old wishing you never left.

-Dave Membrila

The Ol’ ’56 …

My dad bought a 1956 Chevy 210 two door Sedan, about 3 years before I was even a thought.  All of my siblings drove it at some time or another, and mom had to sit on a phone book or thick pillow to be able to see over the dash.  Mom rarely drove, but when she did, she pretty much drove like my Tía Jo.  Chances were, she’d get a speeding ticket for WALKING before she’d get one for driving a car.

My father, (who I’ll get to later) was proud of that car.  I remember when I was about six or seven years old, he re-upholstered the inside ceiling liner of the car ALL BY himself, by sewing it to the top of the cab, and spraying it with water until it shrunk.  Although I don’t remember, my sister tells the story that the day after my father completed his upholstery project, he took us to the Dairy Queen.  Cautious about us spilling ice cream in the car, he warned all of us on the way up and on the way back.  Because there were only two doors, you’d have to push the passenger seat up and squeeze out between the back of the passenger seat and the door frame.  Paying attention to make sure that my ice cream cone didn’t touch or stain the seats, I unknowingly raised my cone like the flame of the Statue of the Liberty; smearing ice cream all over the newly re-upholstered ceiling.  My sister said that I was almost dropped off at an orphanage at that point.

My dad taught each of us how to drive in that ol’ ’56.  A steering wheel the size of the moon, we had to make turns pulling hand over hand as fast as possible, until the turn was completed.  There was NO air conditioner to keep us cool, and EVERYTHING was SOLID METAL.  That car would get SO HOT you could fry an egg on the dash.  Sometimes just sitting in that car you could smell chicharrones sizzling.  There was no radio either.  If we wanted music, we’d have to take our little transistor radios and fight the static on every turn.  My brother Marcos finally installed an old push button radio when he was of age to drive.  He also installed a few 8 track stereos for me when it was my turn to drive the car.

I don’t know what it was like for my siblings but learning how to drive from my dad was NO BUENO. He insisted on me holding the steering wheel at 9:00 and 12:00, as opposed to 10 and 2.  He used to say that we had more control and had a better chance of steering clear (no pun intended) of danger in that position.  He would SLAP my hands when I NATURALLY fell back to 10 and 2, because that felt more comfortable.  The verbal abuse didn’t help matters, and I was almost willing to take the city bus in lieu of learning how to drive a few times. 

Back in the day we had to learn how to parallel park mostly because of the parking situation in the downtown Tucson area.  I passed the written test, but I accidently hit the rubber cone trying to parallel park; automatically flunking the driving test.  Heck, it was like trying to park a BOAT, backwards.  My dad was empathetic, and took me almost daily after hours, to practice at the DMV.  Finally passing that portion of the test, I was proud to gain my license. I became the designated driver when my parents went out.

When I’d go out with my friends, we’d see a hitch hiker and we’d pull over to give him a ride, and when he’d run to the car we’d take off.  Mean … REALLY mean.  But kind of funny.  One time we pulled over and when the guy started to run to the car, we took off and the car stalled.

Call it karma, but we were really scared when the guy caught up to us.  He ended up fixing the car so we gave him a ride.  We were all scared and the homeless guy couldn’t stop laughing.  You know, he said, People do that to me all the time.  You guys are the first ones who ever HAD to give me a ride.

I kept the car throughout my college years, but by then it was starting to fall apart.  Trying to restore the vehicle was costly, and I wasn’t planning on having a son old enough to drive for quite some time.  My sister’s son, who begged me to let him use the ’56 for his high school prom, had always shown an interest in restoring the vehicle.  When he became a pharmacist, I knew he would have the finances to get the car back in shape.  I sold the car to him for $500.00 just to keep it in the family and have kicked myself ever since.  Nonetheless, my nephew has the vehicle on the road, and I’m proud to see what he’s done to it whenever I visit.

Regrets are just mistakes that you never learned from.

-Dave Membrila

The dining room …

I grew up on Illinois street.  I always pronounced it Ill-e-noise to help me learn how to spell it.  Many of the streets in our area were named after States in the U.S.  which helped me on tests, as I’d memorize how to spell the States walking to and from elementary school.

My mom and dad made our house from the floor up.  Dad bought the lot and he and my mom baked the adobe bricks themselves.  The house began as a two bedroom with an outhouse in the back, and the house grew as the family grew.  My dad used to tell stories of guarding the outhouse on Halloween as the neighborhood traviesos (troublemakers) would topple it over. 

The last addition was that of a dining room that dad had built with the help of my brother Marcos, who was a construction wizard by then, and a few uncles.  The dining room was about three inches lower than the kitchen, and you’d have to step down into it.  However, the dining room was a symbol for family gatherings, as EVERY Sunday night my father would make T-bone steaks for the ENTIRE family.  As my siblings’ families grew, the grandkids would join us at the dining room table.  It didn’t matter how big the family was, dad found a way to pay for the steaks.  He’d cook on two Hibachi grills going back and forth between them.  It seemed like it would take him forever since he’d have to make about 18-20 steaks with the grandkids, and spouses.  AND he always made sure he had a few extra for anybody else that dropped by. 

The dining room was the podium that dad used to tell us about his life adventures.  His claim to fame involved saving a kid’s life once.  He LOVED telling that story.  Our house was about 50 yards from an arroyo that was notorious for sweeping cars off the road when it rained.  The flash-flood created would be so ferocious, that anything caught in its path would be swept away.  I’ve seen it pull mature trees growing in the wash, out by their roots. 

The incident where my dad saved a kids happened before I was born and of course before we had a chain link fence around the property.

My dad heard somebody screaming and he ran outside to see what was happening.  Some lady down the block was screaming and yelling because her little boy had fallen In the arroyo and was being swept away by the wicked roar of the water.  The kid was bobbing up and down the water as he rode the current down the wash, fighting to catch a breath when he wasn’t being towed under.  Being about 50 yards away, my dad timed it so he would be right where the boy was when dad reached the arroyo.  He jumped in and pulled the kid out, able to fight the river current to get to the bank.

That was just one of the many stories that he graced us with.  He always ended with, They don’t call me Superman for nothing.

Every Mother’s Day, or May 30th (mom’s birthday) as far back as I can remember, we served my mom breakfast in bed.  I’ll never forget the smell of onions and bell peppers, and the crackling sound of my dad frying hash browns.  My brothers and sister would make pancakes, bacon, and eggs, and I was ALWAYS in charge of the toast.  If I wasn’t supervised, I’d toast up an entire loaf!  We’d put breakfast on a tv tray that would sit on my mom’s lap, and the rest of the kids and my dad would gather without her to eat in the dining room.  I never understood why we left mom alone to eat by herself; ESPECIALLY on Mother’s Day.  But as crazy as it got, maybe she was better off being without us for a day or two during the year.

Thanksgiving celebrations, birthdays, you name it!  The dining room served as the place where dad would tell his life stories.  Every Christmas eve, my family hosted an open-house, where my mom would make pots of tamales, and friends and family would come over to celebrate.  My dad would turn his HUGE wooden desk around and it became a bar.  Dad loved Ezra Brooks and Jim Beam, but would offer a variety of beer and wine to serve guests as well.  We would all eat tamales in shifts in the dining room, and mom would make sure that guests were stuffed before they left.  Family home movies would show us kids asleep and then awoken to, Santa Claus is here!  Santa Clause is here! and we would jump out of bed to open presents in the middle of the night.  There was always a roaring fire in the chimney, so I could never understand how Santa didn’t burn his britches on the way down or out of the house.

Of course, being the youngest, I was the last one that was made to go to bed early.  My brothers were in their teens and got to stay up with the adults.  But the tradition continued until the last of the grandkids. 

Mom passed away in 1987.  Christmas’s were never the same after that.  The family tried but without mom, we just couldn’t keep the tradition afloat.  The number of guests dwindled to the point that my sibling’s family and I were the only ones who would show up.  My dad did his best to make about 4-5 dozen tamales to have available, but it never matched the 30 plus dozen mom would have stashed. 

About 3 years after mom had passed, my dad found about 4 dozen tamales that mom had tucked away in the back of the freezer.  My dad picked the ice off the tamales and cooked them up for the family.  We sat there in that dining room that Christmas Eve with tears in our eyes and enjoyed every morsel.  I even used a smaller fork that year, to extend the time it took to finish them.  I remember eating with my