“What’s the rush?”
“Ni si quiera habla español.”
The family is unsettled about my engagement, we are both 18 and Eric doesn’t even speak Spanish. The wedding, nonetheless, complete with its Community Center reception runs its course on the hottest day of summer.
Now, on this clear night, our wedding is a week-old memory and we are 1,600 miles away. Eric and I stand before my grandma’s front door in Michoacán, Mexico. I picture my father, as a child, stepping through the threshold of that same rusty blue door into the sphere that has shaped the most beloved characters of my life. With a deep breath and holding the hand of my new groom, I enter nervously, not knowing what type of reception awaits us.
Eric eagerly introduces himself using the clumsy Spanish he’s acquired living in Hispanic neighborhoods. His charm intact, despite a lack of fluency. As we sit among uncles, aunts, neighbors and cousins I try to explain the importance and security of relationships in Mexican families. Ultimately, my words only shortchange the cultural warmth that neatly defines itself as the night progresses.
We end up in different cliques: Eric with the younger men playing poker while I satiate the curiosity of my primas (who demand to hear every last detail about the wedding). I can’t help but keep a worried eye on the card table with its many Magaña men and a lone foreigner who had the gall to marry one of their own. I’m relieved to hear laughter (even if it is mostly at Eric’s expense). My Uncle Kiko, the only other English speaker in the house, perpetrates most of this hazing and is delighted when Eric fires right back, not missing a beat. The poker crowd disperses, leaving only these two bearded characters. Big arms flay in illustration of each man’s respective fish or adventure story. Pats on the back are exchanged as conquests are recounted. The formation of this bond begins to weave Eric’s distinct thread into the fabric of our family. Kiko’s approval carries a lot of weight in this old house.
I make my way to the kitchen to see how I can help. My grandma, small and bent in her old age, sits at a rustic wooden table conjuring up memories as she prepares our family’s recipes. I bring out the trays of food, filling the house with aromas that are, by far, the oldest guests at this reunion.
The Loteria game is passed out with its accompanying pile of pinto beans used to mark the player cards. Each card is comprised of 16 squares that bear one of 54 different illustrations. The game is played like Bingo but instead of rows and columns, the illustration is called out. Poetic license is granted to the caller of the cards and his goal is to be wickedly clever,
“Cobija pa’ los pobres” or “Blanket for the poor,” calls out Uncle Kiko for ‘The Sun’ card.
He improvises further by making the illustrations relevant to various family members.
When he draws ‘The Barrel’ he calls out, “The place where Andres sleeps after he drinks too much!”
I keep busy making sure Eric knows what squares to mark off. He is delighted when he hears his name used in the game,
“Eric, visiting us all the way from Yankee-landia: El Catrín!”
“I’m this guy? Most definitely, YES! I see the resemblance,” Eric gets up and does his best impression of ‘El Catrín’ a dapper gentleman with slicked-back hair and a monocle. The girls in the group giggle as he goes around bowing and asking to kiss their ‘beautiful ivory hands.’
The room is upended and trembles with laughter, groaning at his impression. I wipe the laugh-tears from my eyes as the game progresses. Several people, including Eric, need only one square in order to win the forty peso pot.
Eric pleads, “Ribbit, ribbit, call the frog Kiko, por favor!”
Uncle Kiko takes his time…drawing the next card from the deck in agonizing slow-motion. The suspense evokes frustration and playful off-color remarks from players. Kiko laughs, looks down at the card and announces,
“El Diablito!”
Sofia, my nine year old cousin, sticks her tongue out at Eric and waves the forty pesos in his face, “No candy or soda for you, Mr. Catrín! The little red devil showed up to make me the winner!”
Sofia’s taunts continue throughout the rest of the night along with Eric’s feigned attempts to usurp her treasure.
The invigoration of reunion dwindles in the midnight moonlight. Half-drunken coffee sits still and cold in clay mugs. Resounding conversations simmer down to quiet reminisces. Guests head home in a flurry of hugs and good-byes. Eric kisses several ivory female hands (with a few male ones slipped in for comedy’s sake)!
My abuelita ushers us across the patio into a room that my dad built once upon a time for his new bride. As we lay in quiet darkness I ask,
“So, Eric, what do you think about Mexico and your new family-in-law?”
He sits up with an emphatic fist in the air and declares, “I only know one thing: tomorrow that fat green frog is going to show up and Eric, the Great Catrín, will be triumphant!”
His comment eclipses my consciousness as I venture into slumber. At some point, maybe in a dream, I smile and belatedly reply, “I have no doubt, ni una sola duda, my love, that you will succeed.”
a free round of shots here and another one there, a giant cotton candy dessert and free mechanical bull rides for the pant-wearing members of the group!
littledressblue 