Do You Love Me?
By Magdaleno “Leno” Rose-Avila
A MexicanAmerican (Chicano) Holiday Story
Las Animas, Colorado, 1969
The Avila Family:
Father - Marcos Trinidad Avila
Mother - Carmen Montez Avila
Both were immigrants to America; all 12 of their children were born in Las Animas (the souls). The author is the first male and sixth child of the Avila Clan.The story is about a brother named Mano, who gave his permission so that this story could be told.
First, some history:
Growing up poor in a large family is not always easy. The birthdays and holidays like Christmas are difficult times for children, especially when they are expecting gifts that never seem to materialize. We never received the kinds of gifts that we heard other children received. Still, we did get plenty of love, refriedbeans, home made tortillas, rice and tamales, not to mention the tasty hot green or red chili. For a poor family of fourteen, all of these things did add up to a lot.
Christmas was an especially hard time, since our parents often could give us only some much needed clothes and a stocking filled with hard candy, nuts, and perhaps an orange or an apple. Getting the fruit was special given that fresh fruit was so expensive. Once in a great while you did get a toy - not toys, just one - uno - one single toy and whenever it happened, it made you very happy.
On many occasions, we would wait until the schools let out for the holidays and then we would get the Christmas tree from the Memorial Elementary. The second-hand trees from school were often too tall for our house, and we had to shorten them to make them fit our home. On the bright side, there was always a little tinsel left on them and this was good, because tinsel was expensive.
We would later decorate the tree with our old set of lights, always with a few broken or worn-out bulbs; those that worked glowed and pushed wonderful colored bubbles all night long. We would add our own humble decorations made of paper, popcorn and cranberries, tied together on strings. Later that night, we would turn off all the lights and cherish our little piece of heaven. To simply sit and enjoy looking at the lights and listening to Christmas carols on the radio was a great and valuable treasure.
As a young child, I always wondered why Santa didn’t deliver gifts to us the way he did the well-to-do Anglo kids. I thought maybe he was afraid to come into the Barrio, or maybe he just didn’t like Mexicans and poor people. My friend Wesos (bones, properly spelled,huesos), a poor white kid, never seemed to get much more than us, so I thought that maybe Santa just forgot about all of us poor folks. At least we had the homemade tortillas and tamales, which Wesos treasured as much as we did. Maybe, I reasoned, the problem with Wesos is that he hung around with Mexicans, instead of his own kind, and that was why Santa didn’t give him much.
As a child, I did have one problem with Christmas: when you went back to grade school after the holidays, the class would have to participate in a show andtell. Students were expected to talk about how they spent their Christmas and then show off some oftheir toys. One year, when it came to be my turn, I had nothing to offer. That had been a difficult year and my parents were not able to buy us much for Christmas. As a child, I didn't know how to explain to my classmates all of the wonderful things we received that weren’t new toys, things like the love in our home and the wonderful singing at theChristmas Mass that year. I didn't know how to express all of these things and, as it had been a Christmas without many store-bought gifts, I did what any self-respecting kid would do—I lied.
Yep, I told a big fat lie. Fatter than most I had ever told. I got up in front of that class, put out my chest and described toys that were only dreams in myhead and nothing my parents could afford. Then came the challenge. “Leonard,” that was what they called me then, because they couldn’t pronounce Magdaleno,“Leonard, next weekyou bring in your gifts so that we can all see,” implored the teacher. “But, but...” I protested. “No buts about it, just bring them to class and share with everyone.” Defeated, I whispered back, “Okay.”
Now, what was a boy to do? For me, it was already bad enough just being poor, but bynow I had liedand would soon lose mega-face with the rest of the class.I decided that I would bring in some of the toys I had mentioned, no matter what I had to do, and made aplan for where I would get them. The stores were pretty loose withtheir security in those days and I managed to steal some of the toys; others I took from the yards ofmore affluent children. Kids being kids, they left their toys in theiryards. I snatched some of those toys up after dark and, later, returned most of them once I had participated in the show and tell. I still blame the teacher and the school for my lying and then stealing that year.
Later, during my senior year in high school, my mother took ill with her lastpregnancy, the 12th child being Miguel. In those days, my mother was a LPN, a licensed practical nurse, but this last pregnancy left her unable to work for many months. My father, being a farm worker, had little or nochance of finding work that winter. As a result, we became heavily dependent on the WelfareDepartment and their food commodities that year and were one of the poorestfamilies in our town.
One December evening, close to Christmas, I heard strange noises outside in our front yard that sure didn’t sound like Santa and his trusted reindeer. Some of us looked out through the living room window while others opened the wooden front door to see what was going on. There, standing outside our door, were about 20 well-meaning, well-intended, well-to-dowhite youth, many being members of my senior class, accompanied by a few adult sponsors. They were singing Christmas carols, carrying with them baskets of food including a turkey and a variety of canned goods needed for a holiday dinner. We didn’t have much food in the house at that time and Christmas dinner was going to be sparse. Almost anyone would have welcomed this gesture; however, that was the first and last time those white folks ever came to our house.
“Mom, I want those people out of our yard. I am going to tell them to leave; I am going to throw their food intheir faces,” I told my mother. “We may be poor, but we don’t need food from gringos!”Iwas angry that they would push our poverty in our faces, and was ashamed aboutbeing poor. How dare they come to our house and humiliate us; at the time I was very angry.
“No,” she answered, “you are not going to do that.”
“Mom,” I countered, “I know that we are poor, but we are not that poor! We don't need their food and we surely don't need them and their singing. Let me get rid of them.”
My mother stopped me in my tracks, saying, “No. You will do nothing. Your sisters and brothers need this food. Weare going to accept it and thank them and ask that God bless them.”
“Please, Mom!” I pleaded, “I will never be able to go back to school and face them! I refuseto go back to high school and see them—they will make fun of me. I don’t want their food!”
My mother prevailed; she, my father and my siblings all went out to thank them and to accept the food without me. Later, once the carolers were gone, my family wentthrough the wonderful assortment of food that was provided in the boxes. Iprotested with a boycott and stuck to the beans and rice that year, I was so angry andembarrassed.
When I went back to High School in January, I did not know how to behave around the students who had come to our yard that Christmas with their songs and baskets of food. I finally did realize that they did the right thing and that it made my family happy. Still, I never thanked them and they never mentioned it. Maybe some day, perhaps at a class reunion, I will letthem know that the food and the gesture were appreciated.
Now, for our Story:
Having gone through so many hard holidays, I decided that when I had money, Iwould buy for each of my family members a good Christmas gift, something to make that day more special.I was finally given the opportunity to do just that in 1969, when I was about 23 years old. I had a good job working for Colorado Rural Legal Services and saved up my money so that I could take gifts for my parents and the six siblings still at home. Iwasn't home much in those days since I was out trying to save the poor, and out having some pretty exciting adventures being a radical Chicano.
The Christmas dinner had been planned for the 25th at about three in the afternoon. My family told me they were excited about my pending arrival, because I had not been home for about three months.
That afternoon, I waslate driving the 240 miles from Boulder to Las Animas. When I finally got there, it was almost 4pm; I was on Chicano Time in a BIG WAY. Getting out of my speedy blue 1968 GTO, I gathered up the giftsunder my arms and placed a special envelope in my coat pocket for my brother.
Manuel, or Mano as he now likes to be called, was going to get a very special gift from me that year. He must of have been about 18and was very independent. I had chosen a holiday card with a $50 bill in it just for him, his own special gift; I knew that he could use the money and that new crisp $50 bill looked just beautiful. I was sure he would smile and thank me profusely.
I barged into the room; as the twins swirled around me taking me in theirwake around the center of the living room, the other kids cried, “Leonard! Leonard!” My parents smiled and I saw this great bounty of Mexican food waiting on the table, just waiting for us to sit down and eat it. They were happy to see me and I was happy to be home. I hugged my mom, shook hands with my dad and, after giving him a macho half hug, I began handing out the gifts.
First, I doled out packages to each of my sisters and brothers, and then to my parents. The last on my list was my brother Mano. He was thenleader of the pack, being the oldest of the children still at home. He just stood there, looking at me in all of myintrusion; this was his territory and I was the visitor…everyone was watching me as I made a big pronouncement with allthe flair that I could muster.
“And last but not least, I have a special gift for my brother.” This I did in my best public announcer’s voice, and then handed him the envelope.I stood there expecting him to open it and then whoop it up and celebrate.Mano slowly opened the envelope, looked inside, closed it and then handed it back tome; his dark face became most serious.We were all stunned!
“What? But this is my gift… my Christmas gift to you,” I blurted out, handing it back. He tried to give it back to me again, but I stepped away, retreating my arms.It was then that he suddenly threw the envelope with the money in it on the floor.
“What, you don't want it?” I was stunned.
“No,” Mano deadpanned. I picked up the card with the offensive $50bill inside as everyone anxiously watched this drama unfold. Knowing that both of us had bad tempers and both were very stubborn only added to the element of suspense for our onlookers.
“Listen, it’s Christmasand this is my Christmas gift,” I coaxed.
“Well, I don't want it,” he persevered.
“Oh, yeah? Well, nobody refuses my Christmas gifts!” Suddenly I was like a Mafioso, bullying him into acceptance. “It’s Christmas and you are going to take my gift and enjoy it—like it or not!”
“I don't want it,” he repeated, with just as much force. I tried to put it in his pocket and he pushed me away with both hands. It was then that things got out of control. Before I knew it I had thrown himto the floor, jumping on his chest and grabbing him by the front of his shirt. Soon, my hands were on his throat. I had lost complete control of myself in his stern refusal of my generosity and, as a result, had lost my cool.
I was pretty strong then and outweighed my brother by about 50 pounds. Everyone was screaming; my mom and dad were yelling at me in Spanish andEnglish for me to stop.
“Stay out of this!” I shouted out amid the confusion of the moment, “Mano is taking my gift or I will hurt this Mexican!”
By then I had a tight grip on his neck and was pounding his head against thewooden floor, shouting to him that he had to take my gift, my Christmas gift. My mom had taken up her Mickey Mantle stance and was beating me with the broom. Once I am angry, Idon't feel much pain; I go into a blind rage, or did in those days. My brother finally eked out through his constricted throat, “I can't take your gift.”
“Why? Why?” I shouted into his red and swollen face. He was already crying by this time.
“Because I don't know if you love me,” he answered sadly.
“What!” I exclaimed.
He continued, “I can’t take anything from you unless I know you love me.”
There I was, on top of his chest with my hands squeezing his neck and, in a confused state, I began expressing my love to my younger brother. Of course, on the inside I was still a bithomophobic at the time, and I thought that must have looked and sounded strange, at the same time it sure feltgood to express my feelings for my brother. I tried a thousand words and ways to say,“I love you,” but I think myeyes said it all for me and by then salty tears were running down both of my cheeks.
Finally, my brother gasped, “Okay, okay! I now know you love me. So quit choking me and get off my chest!”
I got up, helping him to his feet. We were both crying by then. I gave himthe longest of hugs and there were again smiles in the room.He then broke the embrace, picked up the envelope, took out the money and put it in hiswallet. He looked up at me with gratitude and love, having finally accepted my gift.
Then he asked, “Do you have any more?”
All we could do was laugh.
Magdaleno “Leno” Rose-Avila, whose poetry has appeared in the book, Los Cuatro, Looking For My Wings, is currently editing a book entitled, “Driving To The Moon.” He is also using his organizer talents to spread awareness about GMO labeling across the United States. Since then he has managed and worked for many non-profit Organizations, founded Homies Unidos (a peace and non-violence organization for gang members and youth at risk), Founding Director of the Cesar E. Chavez Foundation, and most recently has become an activist organizer on the issue of Pesticides and GMO seeds.