On Friendship and Memorial Day

As I stood next to my father along the shores of Lake Michigan two years ago on the Sunday before Memorial Day, I sensed it would be the last Memorial Day weekend we would ever spend together. The steel blue lake shimmered with shattered images as we gazed quietly into its uncertain depths. I traced the horizon with my fingertips and longed to dismantle the boundary separating air from water. A light breeze gently lifted the waves, parted their frothy edges and merged them with my heavy questions. The blazing sun burned a hole in the dirty sand where doubts could be cast and buried. I glanced over at his impassive silhouette with its deeply etched lines. The corners of his eyes reflected the most life and fragility. They were the part of him that scared me the least. The seagulls flapped their wings in clumsy arcs and glided soundlessly overhead. I hesitated then tucked my arm into his arm in an attempt to breach the distance separating us. It was a useless gesture, but I have never known how to give up on the people I love. My father continued his quiet investigation of the grainy scene before him, scanning the footprints and garbage strewn haphazardly on the finely ground rock. Was my soul as ancient as this coarse rock? Had it settled and then resettled into layers? Did he hope to find it there, weathered and dependent on another soul? He refused to acknowledge my feeble token or break his intense reverie. The late afternoon light diffused his intentions and cast a soft glow around his harsh frame. I wondered why we couldn’t let it go. I gripped his arm and held on, anticipating he would eventually let go, but he was tireless and unbending. When did our arguments lose their purpose and substance? What were we waiting for on this fragmented beach with its ancient stories of change and transformation? It would only be a matter of time before he would force my hand and resolve. I lost him that Memorial Day weekend, and it has taken two years to regain the part of myself that left with him.       

I spent this past Memorial Day weekend in the warm presence of my friends and family. Memorial Day always is tinged with sadness for me because I instinctively remember a dear childhood friend who died almost 6 years ago while serving in Operation Iraqi Freedom. His death left me in a stricken state for quite some time. The thin line separating the living from the dead no longer appeared so ethereal or ephemeral. Memorial Day also marks the last summer I spent with my father. After more than two decades of castigations and quarrels, we parted ways two years ago and severed all contact. No human being has damaged my soul as much as my father, not even the man who sexually assaulted me. We will never reconcile, and I have grown to accept his permanent absence. Nonetheless, I dread the Memorial Day weekend because I know I will spend the extended holiday thinking about my beloved friend and father. So when a close friend told me he was hosting a bbq in his backyard, I jumped at the opportunity to surround myself with individuals I love and admire. My friends are the most important people in my life, next to my son and family. It’s hardly a novel revelation, but now that I’m in my 30’s, I realize more than ever I am nothing without authentic and supportive friends by my side. It’s a small and select group, and I can count the number of friends I have on one hand. I don’t believe in quantity, but I do swear by quality, and I am fortunate to have such a tight knit inner circle. I have known them for a large portion of my life, and I can’t imagine getting through the rough chapters of this mortal existence without relying on their comforting words for strength and perspective. I befriended some of them before I met my father and they have stuck around much longer. 

We sat around Saturday evening, drinking beer and wine (a 40 for me because I know how to keep it classy), listening to music and eating a simple dinner prepared by my friend’s wife (who was kind enough to remember my vegetarian diet). At some point during the night, I looked up and felt incredibly at peace. This was my home away from home and would be for as long as we lived. The melancholy of Memorial Day had dissipated with every hug, laugh, word and smile they offered. In the company of my friends, I have grown to understand the true meaning of loyalty, affection and commitment. 

The past four months have been bleak, stressful and heartbreaking. Not only am I unemployed (again!), but I am broke and several members of my family are battling severe illnesses. In the midst of all these trials and tribulations, I am raising a child on my own and struggling to figure out whether I should go back to school for a Master’s degree in Creative Writing or leave the country to live in Mexico. There have been many sleepless nights and moments of severe loneliness and self-doubt. In the past, I have coped with tumultuous times by isolating myself from human contact. Instead of reaching out to trusted friends and family, I pushed them away in anger and frustration. It doesn’t take an in-depth psychoanalytic examination to figure out why I rebuffed my loved ones in such a callous manner. But by rejecting my family and closest confidantes, I inadvertently damaged my interpersonal relationships. The same friend who has opened the doors of his home time and again for me and my son told me (without mincing words) I pushed people away with my hostility and “me-against-the-world” attitude. Any other person would have told me where to park my aggression but not my friend. He helped me understand I was holding on to resentment and bitterness (created by my broken relationship with my father) and unfairly antagonizing people who loved me. Like I didn’t know. But no one else had ventured to expose my fallacies and foolishness. I made a bold move two years ago as I stood on that lonely beach with my father. I was tired and it was time to break away. Other people loved me as much (or more), and I had an obligation to nurture those relationships. I lost him two years ago, but I gradually awoke to find a new type of existence: one where love doesn’t break but nourishes the soul.            

Cinco de Mayo

It’s Cinco de Mayo and if you’re of Mexican descent, you know at least one thing about it: the pseudo-holiday is just another reason for the masses (i.e. gringos) to go out and get wasted on copious amounts of cheap Mexican beer and shudder-inducing Jose Cuervo margaritas. Not that the masses need a “historical” excuse to drink and party. There are plenty of reasons to get plastered, what with the sluggish economy and depressing unemployment rate, which still stands at 8 percent. For better or worse, Cinco de Mayo is largely considered by many in this country as an opportunity to crash a fiesta (i.e. happy hour), eat a couple of tacos, listen to mariachi music, and gulp down some Coronas. It’s also obvious the drink specials in honor of Cinco de Mayo are a tacky and heavily commercialized ruse to persuade people to carelessly waste money on booze. How did Cinco de Mayo, which literally means fifth of May, become such a mockery? 

I’m a Chicana who identifies strongly with her Mexican roots, and I find it bothersome that the people consuming cheap tequila on Cinco de Mayo are blissfully unaware of its origins and apathetic of its cultural significance. And I’m not the only Chicana who feels this way. Many of my friends, who also have Mexican roots, deride the “holiday” and avoid participating in any of the festivities. But I’m not here to rain on your Cinco de Mayo parade. You can sip on the discounted Mexican alcohol (who drinks Cuervo anyway?) and eat greasy nachos but not before reading a little history lesson on the origins and significance of Cinco de Mayo (SPOILER: it’s not just another beer-drinking holiday, like St. Patrick’s Day).

How many people reading this blog entry believe Cinco de Mayo is a major holiday in México? Or that it represents México’s independence? It seems there are many misconceptions about such a popular holiday in the United States. Even people of Mexican descent get Cinco de Mayo all wrong.

First, Cinco de Mayo does not commemorate the independence of México. September 16^th is México’s Independence Day, which is the day in 1810 when Miguel Hidalgo (a priest and one of the greatest revolutionary figures in México) issued a proclamation known as “El Grito de Dolores.” On the morning of the 16^th, Padre Hidalgo called mass and in front of a crowd of 300 Mexicans and Spaniards, he urged his parishioners to abandon their homes and join him in a struggle for freedom against the Mexican royal government. México eventually achieved its independence from Spain in 1821.  

Second, Cinco de Mayo celebrates the victory of 4,000 Mexican soldiers against 8,000 French forces at the Battle of Puebla on the morning of May 5, 1862 in Puebla, México. On July 17, 1861, President Benito Juárez issued a moratorium and stated all foreign debt payments would be suspended for two years. México had never experienced financially stable times and the country underwent a severe economic crisis during the 1850s. The Mexican Treasury was nearly bankrupt after several consecutive wars and México owed hefty sums to France, Britain and Spain. They were demanding repayment and México, as they say in Spanish, “no tenía donde caerse muerto.” In other words, México couldn’t even afford to dig its own grave, let alone repay substantial foreign debts. Needless to say, the three European nations of France, Britain and Spain greeted the moratorium with hostility and armed forces. They sent naval forces to Veracruz in order to demand reimbursement. Britain and Spain negotiated with México and eventually withdrew. But France saw this as an opportunity to expand its empire and seize territory in México. At the time, the French Army of Napoleon III was considered the premier army in the world. So if the French ruler went around issuing military threats, you best believe he meant invasion business. Late in 1861, a well-armed French fleet stormed Veracruz. They expected to march from the port city to México City without encountering much resistance. Indeed, President Juárez and his government were forced to retreat. But they eventually sent troops, under the command of General Ignacio Zaragosa, to Puebla to confront the French. The Mexican troops consisted almost entirely of indigenous soldiers. General Zaragosa's troops were outnumbered and also severely under-equipped. La Batalla de Puebla raged on for two hours, after which time the French were forced to retreat to Orizaba. The Mexican military prevailed under the leadership of General Ignacio Zaragoza and overcame overwhelming odds to defeat a much larger, better-trained and equipped French army.

Third, Cinco de Mayo is mostly observed in this country. Cinco de Mayo is a regional holiday, limited primarily to the state of Puebla. Although other parts of the country commemorate the event with a parade or festival, it isn’t widely celebrated in Mexico like it is in the United States. In fact, it's virtually ignored. September 16^th (Mexican Independence Day) gets top honors as the largest national patriotic holiday in Mexico.  

Fourth, Mexicans and Latinos living in California during the American Civil War were the first to celebrate Cinco de Mayo in the United States. Then, during the rise of the Chicano movement in the 1940s, Cinco de Mayo started to become a fashionable holiday to celebrate. But while the holiday crossed over into the United States in the 1950s and 1960s, it didn't gain popularity until the 1980s when marketers, especially beer companies, capitalized on the celebratory nature of the day and began to promote it.

Fifth, there isn’t a fifth. Lists just always look more legitimate and well rounded with a number 5 or a fifth in a series.

And there you have my fine historical lesson. Now you know more about Cinco de Mayo than you did 10 minutes ago. But will that stop you from knocking back a Tecate or Dos XX this evening? Probably not. Just remember: while there might be many people (i.e. Gringos and Mexican-Americans) looking for any excuse to party on Cinco de Mayo, there are others, like me, who care about its origins and cultural significance. Although La Batalla de Puebla on Cinco de Mayo appears militarily insignificant in light of France's subsequent invasion, it did inject Mexicanos with pride and patriotism. Since its independence from Spain in 1821, México had suffered one tragedy after another. But for one brief moment in history, Mexicanos could look upon the rubble of a battle in triumph instead of defeat.

It’s important for me to reflect on an event like La Batalla de Puebla and remember fighting is in my blood. Mexicanos never give up the fight or lay down their arms in the face of impending doom. Even after the odds look incredibly grim and victory is nowhere in sight, a Mexicano always stands tall, proud and fearless. They say the guerreros come from Guerrero but if you look back in time, there are guerreros in every Mexicano. So while I don’t care for Cinco de Mayo and its commercialization, it hasn’t lost its real meaning for me, despite the advertisement industry.

On a different note, there’s a supermoon (when the full moon is closest to the Earth) rising this Saturday on Cinco de Mayo. If you’re going to toast to something this Cinco de Mayo, toast to the lunar spectacle. At least it’s a more fitting toast to give on a day that shouldn't even be celebrated here, assuming you're not holding a Cuervo margarita in your hand (shudders).