I used to tell Don Artemio that I would become a cop just to arrest him for drinking. He would laugh at me for being so silly. On one occasion I threw away my uncle Beto’s beer, and he got mad at me. I was staggered by his reaction. He was as mad as he would get if he caught my sister and me making a mess. His brow wrinkled and his mustache no longer made him look humorous and soft; instead, it made it him look like the scary person he was not. I had been so proud for doing it, but after that I learned never to touch a man’s beer.
Beer was always a part of my life. The first time I had some was when I was very little. The women spent their time upstairs, but the men in my family and their friends lived another life in the basement. The men would sit in their plastic chairs talking and drinking. I would curiously walk into their hangout and observe their social life. One of them thought it would be funny if I had some beer. Don Artemio handed me a little cold bottle cap filled with Corona. I took a sip of the men’s magical drink, expecting the most wonderful taste in the world. I thought I would be initiated into the men’s secret society. Instead, I received disappointment. I drank the beer in disgust, puckering my face, and forcing the burning liquid down my throat. They were amused by my reaction and laughed at my innocence. From that day on, I vowed to never drink beer.
As I grew older I found another reason to abstain from drinking. It turned the men into children. They would cry, speak in inaudible slurs, tell me their pitiful life stories, and they had the amazing ability to trip on flat surfaces. Every party or family gathering we had, there were cases of Heineken, Corona, or Miller Lite. The men would gather in their corners and be best friends, appreciating each other for spending fifteen dollars on a case of beer. By the end of the night they were enemies, or they would just continue to sound ridiculous together. They did not look like men to me. Dozens upon dozens of glass bottles would be littered through out the house. I would find other bottles resting on the front concrete staircase reflecting the streetlights and passing cars. The women would watch their husbands in disapproval, but they would never say anything. It was the usual. It was difficult to get the childish men back home. The women had to help their husbands walk, or else the men lagged behind. The women would ignore their senseless comments and stuff them into the back seats.
Sometimes the drunks were funny, but as time passed I became more and more bothered by them. It was hilarious to watch them sing Mariachi songs on the karaoke, but I also hated when their other sides emerged. I hated when my uncle Beto would tell me about his regrets with his daughters back in Mexico, or when my uncle Saíd would complain about not being able to see his daughter. It was always his ex-wife’s fault. It never occurred to him that he was not trying hard enough. I was just a kid. What was I supposed to tell them? I do not think they would have wanted to hear what I really thought.
My uncle Armando was something else though. There was no difference between his drunken voice and his sober voice. He always had a limp. Jesús, my Tía Ede’s husband had sobered up, a nice change for the family. It was hard for Jesús though. He did not admit so, but I saw it. Whenever someone refused a drink, Don Artemio would insist. Come on just have one! It won’t hurt! Gosh, be a man! The drunks would tear a man’s pride apart if he rejected a drink, almost as if they envied his self-control or felt inferior. It would be harder for him to be accepted into their group. It was even harder when most of the family consisted of women, and only that small population of men. I always respected the man who did not give in.
Don Artemio always told the same stories when he was drunk. He would introduce me to everyone and he would say, “This one is really smart!” He would wave his index finger at the person he was talking to and he would stare off blindly in the wrong direction. “I’m so proud…She used to be so small! Up to here.” He would smile, showing his two missing front teeth, and he would place his hand near his waist. “She used to scream at me a lot. Haha. One time she got mad at me because I took the beers out of the car first instead of her backpack. She said her bag was more important. Oh this one…she called me ‘Nana-Termio.’” He would pull me close to him and I would smile in embarrassment. The disinterested strangers would grin shyly and look at me in pity. These stories usually ended with him crying and all the blood rushing into his face. He told me how much he loved me, that he loved me like if I was his own granddaughter.
The worst I ever saw of him was when he complained to all of us about how unappreciated he was. “I do so much for this family! No one says thank you! Why don’t I get respect around here!” Ah, there was not a drunk who did not say this. These rants usually happened when he descended to his jewelry workshop in the basement. He would come up hours later with bloodshot eyes. He would walk through the skinny hallway and use the white walls decorated in family photos and thrift store floral paintings to support himself. Sometimes he was quiet after spending hours singing to his ranchera music and playing guitar. I knew the lyrics to Llorar y Llorar because of him. His stereo loudly played the violins, trumpet, and guitars. Vicente Fernandez sang about crying and crying. You will tell me that you didn’t love me, but you will be very sad, and that’s how you will stay. With money and without money I will always do what I want. I am the king. When Don Artemio was quiet he was oblivious and my sister and I would whisper to each other and laugh at him.
At some point the women got tired of the drunks. They would call them cucarachas aplastadas. They look like squished spiders, they would say. The women would gather and talk about how absurd the men were, drinking and wearing their gold rosaries around their necks. When the men spoke out their muffled nonsense, the women would respond with, “Ya ya, callate!” They showed no interest in what the men said anymore.
Don Mario was the worst. He got drunk on days when there were no special occasions. I could not understand how his old liver supported him. He was my great grandmother’s husband. When he got drunk he had the sudden ability to speak English. Though, most of his vocabulary was limited to swear words he would blurt out in a Spanish accent, a drunken accent. I detested when he spoke to my great grandmother disrespectfully. He always picked something and explained how it was not good enough, yet he never did anything about it. “Your great granddaughter is too loud. She does not behave. The food is terrible” Who was he to criticize behavior? I could not stand to watch her stay quiet and ignore him. Her frail little body and arched back would walk to the kitchen to bring him his dinner. While he drank and yelled at the television, she sat on the couch and underlined her bible.
She should have done what my grandmother Paula did. My grandmother had to deal with my grandfather Enrique when she lived in Mexico, so she was not going to take it from Don Artemio. She stopped cooking for him. My great grandmother could have at least made Don Mario serve himself.
I watched these women my whole life. I watched them stay quiet. I stayed quiet. I wanted them to say something. I did not have the power to say anything. The men had the power. They would not listen to me and they would not listen to the women. All I could do was sit at the family parties wondering why the men were the way they were, and accept that that was life. I could not do anything then, but as I grew older I knew for sure that I would prevent myself from being in that place again. All I could then was hide the men’s beer. By choosing to not drink beer as an adult, now I have the control.
Beer was always a part of my life. The first time I had some was when I was very little. The women spent their time upstairs, but the men in my family and their friends lived another life in the basement. The men would sit in their plastic chairs talking and drinking. I would curiously walk into their hangout and observe their social life. One of them thought it would be funny if I had some beer. Don Artemio handed me a little cold bottle cap filled with Corona. I took a sip of the men’s magical drink, expecting the most wonderful taste in the world. I thought I would be initiated into the men’s secret society. Instead, I received disappointment. I drank the beer in disgust, puckering my face, and forcing the burning liquid down my throat. They were amused by my reaction and laughed at my innocence. From that day on, I vowed to never drink beer.
As I grew older I found another reason to abstain from drinking. It turned the men into children. They would cry, speak in inaudible slurs, tell me their pitiful life stories, and they had the amazing ability to trip on flat surfaces. Every party or family gathering we had, there were cases of Heineken, Corona, or Miller Lite. The men would gather in their corners and be best friends, appreciating each other for spending fifteen dollars on a case of beer. By the end of the night they were enemies, or they would just continue to sound ridiculous together. They did not look like men to me. Dozens upon dozens of glass bottles would be littered through out the house. I would find other bottles resting on the front concrete staircase reflecting the streetlights and passing cars. The women would watch their husbands in disapproval, but they would never say anything. It was the usual. It was difficult to get the childish men back home. The women had to help their husbands walk, or else the men lagged behind. The women would ignore their senseless comments and stuff them into the back seats.
Sometimes the drunks were funny, but as time passed I became more and more bothered by them. It was hilarious to watch them sing Mariachi songs on the karaoke, but I also hated when their other sides emerged. I hated when my uncle Beto would tell me about his regrets with his daughters back in Mexico, or when my uncle Saíd would complain about not being able to see his daughter. It was always his ex-wife’s fault. It never occurred to him that he was not trying hard enough. I was just a kid. What was I supposed to tell them? I do not think they would have wanted to hear what I really thought.
My uncle Armando was something else though. There was no difference between his drunken voice and his sober voice. He always had a limp. Jesús, my Tía Ede’s husband had sobered up, a nice change for the family. It was hard for Jesús though. He did not admit so, but I saw it. Whenever someone refused a drink, Don Artemio would insist. Come on just have one! It won’t hurt! Gosh, be a man! The drunks would tear a man’s pride apart if he rejected a drink, almost as if they envied his self-control or felt inferior. It would be harder for him to be accepted into their group. It was even harder when most of the family consisted of women, and only that small population of men. I always respected the man who did not give in.
Don Artemio always told the same stories when he was drunk. He would introduce me to everyone and he would say, “This one is really smart!” He would wave his index finger at the person he was talking to and he would stare off blindly in the wrong direction. “I’m so proud…She used to be so small! Up to here.” He would smile, showing his two missing front teeth, and he would place his hand near his waist. “She used to scream at me a lot. Haha. One time she got mad at me because I took the beers out of the car first instead of her backpack. She said her bag was more important. Oh this one…she called me ‘Nana-Termio.’” He would pull me close to him and I would smile in embarrassment. The disinterested strangers would grin shyly and look at me in pity. These stories usually ended with him crying and all the blood rushing into his face. He told me how much he loved me, that he loved me like if I was his own granddaughter.
The worst I ever saw of him was when he complained to all of us about how unappreciated he was. “I do so much for this family! No one says thank you! Why don’t I get respect around here!” Ah, there was not a drunk who did not say this. These rants usually happened when he descended to his jewelry workshop in the basement. He would come up hours later with bloodshot eyes. He would walk through the skinny hallway and use the white walls decorated in family photos and thrift store floral paintings to support himself. Sometimes he was quiet after spending hours singing to his ranchera music and playing guitar. I knew the lyrics to Llorar y Llorar because of him. His stereo loudly played the violins, trumpet, and guitars. Vicente Fernandez sang about crying and crying. You will tell me that you didn’t love me, but you will be very sad, and that’s how you will stay. With money and without money I will always do what I want. I am the king. When Don Artemio was quiet he was oblivious and my sister and I would whisper to each other and laugh at him.
At some point the women got tired of the drunks. They would call them cucarachas aplastadas. They look like squished spiders, they would say. The women would gather and talk about how absurd the men were, drinking and wearing their gold rosaries around their necks. When the men spoke out their muffled nonsense, the women would respond with, “Ya ya, callate!” They showed no interest in what the men said anymore.
Don Mario was the worst. He got drunk on days when there were no special occasions. I could not understand how his old liver supported him. He was my great grandmother’s husband. When he got drunk he had the sudden ability to speak English. Though, most of his vocabulary was limited to swear words he would blurt out in a Spanish accent, a drunken accent. I detested when he spoke to my great grandmother disrespectfully. He always picked something and explained how it was not good enough, yet he never did anything about it. “Your great granddaughter is too loud. She does not behave. The food is terrible” Who was he to criticize behavior? I could not stand to watch her stay quiet and ignore him. Her frail little body and arched back would walk to the kitchen to bring him his dinner. While he drank and yelled at the television, she sat on the couch and underlined her bible.
She should have done what my grandmother Paula did. My grandmother had to deal with my grandfather Enrique when she lived in Mexico, so she was not going to take it from Don Artemio. She stopped cooking for him. My great grandmother could have at least made Don Mario serve himself.
I watched these women my whole life. I watched them stay quiet. I stayed quiet. I wanted them to say something. I did not have the power to say anything. The men had the power. They would not listen to me and they would not listen to the women. All I could do was sit at the family parties wondering why the men were the way they were, and accept that that was life. I could not do anything then, but as I grew older I knew for sure that I would prevent myself from being in that place again. All I could then was hide the men’s beer. By choosing to not drink beer as an adult, now I have the control.
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