Quince: Donde nos de la gana
Apologizing for insecurities lacks a certain nobility.
If you’ve made it this far waiting for a description of the quinceñera, here it is: it was fine. The food was good, the routines were good, the music and dancing were good. If I am opting out of further details, its because it wasn’t my party. But, Kid, you titled this piece Quince. Shouldn’t that mean it played a central role? First of all, nerd, it’s major role was impetus for the trip where more than a couple epiphanies were had. Secondly, you dork of a nerd, there were some rather important realizations made at this particular party. But this story isn’t about those. The only gripe that might be remotely referred to as such would be that the drinks were a little light. Either that or I was dancing my ass off, which the soaked shirt would corroborate.
Still, whatever the reason for my relative lucidity once we arrived back home at nearly 02:00, the truth is it would require genuine effort to be able to consider the aforementioned a gripe. Naturally, another pint or an extra shot might’ve done well to cap off the night. A stiff drink to contrast the cool night air easing burning calves. But none of us had really thought ahead—no doubt certain there would be little room left for more — and so we had to make peace with the dry situation. Besides, once you get past the first few puffs of the consolation cigarette, the cool air still eases the burning claves. The lungs aren’t quite as relaxed because you’re breathing fire now, but the thought of a comfortable bed soothes in a manner that wouldn’t be possible for that extra drink. Patience has a wonderful way of dulling the edge of desire.
Besides, the Victoria’s flowing gloriously on the lord’s morning more than made up for them. They hit especially deliciously when you don’t have to map out the cookout. I’m not very good at wiling away the hours. I’m still discovering my preferred methods. Grilling has held the belt for years now, whether I am in charge or not— and it’s my family’s general consensus that it’s better when I’m not. (Your friends second the notion, Kid. Fuck off). Either way, the entire process is an enjoyably calm one. It was especially fun on this occasion as the most anyone expected me to be responsible for was accompanying and paying for veggies, never minding if I had a few pints along the way. Stop by the bank halfway through the first one, nearly lose your card in the ATM, have it spit back out at the last possible moment, dramatically; chug the second as you swing by the butcher who is apparently especially fond of your adoptive grandmother, never mind she’s nearly four decades his senior; walk over to buy veggies at the next shop while sugar baby preps the meat; select a host of veggies you aren’t really sure of; drop off veggies, pop the third; go back to butcher, Abue, ya regrese por la carne.
“I noticed you omitted any picking up of beer from your list, Kid. What kind of cookout was this?” Patience, my dear. Besides, if you’d kept count, you’d know I still had one in the chamber. Plus, the cookout was at Pancho’s aunt’s house. This aunt, from what I was able to piece together from overheard conversations and fuzzy memory, has built herself quite the nice nest egg. A portion of this nest is a branch (are nest eggs about the nest or the egg? 214-520-HELP) that is rented out to a liquor store. Right next door. Ve y diles que te presten una caja para la Señora Elena.
When the fire is going and the beers flow, the meat almost seems to cook slower. The convivial quality of family enjoying itself mixes with the heat beaming off the grill. Everything is right in the world, even if it wasn’t quite the crowd expected. Ultimately, the only other person that joined was Elena’s son. I’d met Pepe for the first time six months ago and had a great time. A tall, handsome man of middle age, he exudes the jovial quality which most people of a certain height are possessed, and the patience of someone decades into genuine responsibilities. Possibly it was these reasons that gave encouragement to conversation. Possibly it was these reasons his face only slackened when the pero no me siento Mexicano invariably dribbled from my lips.
Patience is generally misunderstood, I’ve found. It’s often characterized as the docile soul gently caressing the unruly. That’s a wonderful notion, but one I don’t wholly understand. In fact, I think that vision of it does little to aid this least popular virtue, which is something else I don’t understand. I’m an impatient person. That’s just who I am. These sentences have struck my ears more times than I care to mention, and each time they make me wince. The brevity with which they are uttered is loaded with such a conviction that you wouldn’t dare store it near anything flammable. Where is the pride of impatience? But then, I guess that’s why it’s a vice. Also why the other is a virtue; they are not meant to be easy, patience least of all. Patience is not the happy reaction, nor is it the kind word. Patience is the measured response.
Pepe followed my drunken diatribe patiently. His eyes tracked the inane path tracked by an insecurity that couldn’t believe even in itself. I could see it. I could see and hear myself spewing the same pathetic babble I’d been spilling for six months. I couldn’t stop it. Between the beers and self-pity, I was an irresistible, pathetic force. An incorrigible bile pushed its way through my throat until it asserted itself as everyone else’s problem. There’s certainly an argument to be made for lamenting what you inflict. (Uh, I think that’s called regret, Kid. Uh, I think they call you a dork, nerd). What’s the name for pulsing with the existential terror of your own embarrassment in real time?
Mira, Abel, como dijo Chavela Vargas, “Los mexicanos nacemos donde nos de la gana.” He’d said it to me once already, six months ago as we drunkenly folded chairs after Don Manuel’s party. There was a bit more compassion in his voice then. Which isn’t to say there wasn’t any this time, but you could hear the strain begin. I could hear it. Before, it was an affirmation of a nascent sentiment. Now, it was tinged with the frustration of someone who can’t understand how you can’t find the simple defiance living there.
Once you get sick enough of yourself, it becomes easier to see just how full of shit you truly are. More importantly, you’re able to notice the red strings pulling at the irises of everyone around you. Fingers twitching against the urge to meet your cheek. The fissures in your friends’ smiles from teeth gnashing at the bit to yell, “Jesus Christ, just shut the fuck up already.”
Until you say the wrong thing to the wrong person for the wrong reasons, the issue will never let you see it. You’ll chew on it, turn your stomach with the constant worry of what the hell it is. It’s an icepick to the dick. Grasp of the nuances that only rang in the dark always comes much too late, and there’s nothing to do but endure the realization of your own disgust. You’ll understand yourself as the primary source. You will sicken yourself with the secondhand fumes. The third party ravaging your innards reflects a familiar face in the shimmering crimson and four generations later, your name will have endured out of sheer spite and rancor as the singular example of what not to name a kid. You’ll have only yourself to deal with it. There are no reinforcements. There is no dawn on the fifth day. But you’re home, surrounded by walls that have heard and seen much worse than this elementary embarrassment you’ve toted with you across international borders. There is nothing to do about the wave after wave of nausea that slams against you. At least you get to sleep in a bed that always forgives. This is how you’ll know shame. Your meeting is auspicious for the soul shattering truths it heralds. The dramatic lengths necessary when learning how to shut the fuck up.
All of this to say that hindsight being 20/20 does very little justice to the full scope of its cruelty. Sitting there with Pepe, drunk, I can see myself bore him with my incessant need to recount Mexican history and whine about how I’d never “felt whole” at home. It would take me a week of obsessively combing the scene to understand that.
It would take another couple to embrace the fact that there is never going to be an ideal way of feeling Mexican. There’s no way to measure that. (Okay, yes, citizenship, but that’s more an administrative fact than any measure of the soul). The man fishing off the coast of Veracruz in sandals and a light cotton shirt is every bit as Mexican as the one that wears snakeskin boots riding through the valley of Monterrey. My Mexicanism cannot be tied down to any one thing. Speaking the language is one of the few nonnegotiables (and if you want to have a conversation about that, let me know, because I do believe language is necessary to culture), but that’s about it. If I want it to include knowing the history, that’s great. Music? Food? Literature? Awesome. But these should be endeavors for themselves, and not as an attempt at definition because they never can be. Besides that, it deludes the experience and insinuates an affront as the considered path would suggest anyone capable of it. A culture’s history is the fabric of its existence. What traditions have risen around that fabric is a means of celebration, not identification. To collect them obsessively misses the point entirely. Of course, there is a well documented history of Mexicans proper grappling with this question of identity for decades, if not since the stupid Spanish got run out. So, if anything, I’m falling right in line. Goddamn paradoxes.
None of this will occur to me until well after the facts when there’s nothing that can be done to mend the image. And really, nothing should be done. Apologizing for insecurities lacks a certain nobility. The only thing that I can do is remind myself of the lesson. The actions themselves will have to reflect. There’s no better way to show you’ve learned how to shut the fuck up than by shutting the fuck up.