Somos en escrito The Latino Literary Online Magazine
Nochebuena in Old Ybor City
Growing up in Ybor City, the celebration of Christmas Eve, Nochebuena, was the highlight of the year. My Aunt Nena’s house on Holmes Avenue was always the site of the party. There were 11 aunts and uncles in my mother’s family; along with their husbands and wives, children and friends; you could expect 50 or 60 people in and out through the night. Especially, since almost everyone lived within a few blocks in those days.
The children shared their expectations of presents and compared how much they had grown; older cousins might have a new boyfriend or girlfriend to introduce to the family, usually being led around with that dazed look in their eyes, overwhelmed by the din and the sheer number of greetings.
As usual, in any Latin family, it was all about the food. A big ham smelling sweet with caramelized sugar; a lechón, a roast pork, tender and juicy with mojo; yellow rice and chicken; black beans and loaves and loaves of Cuban bread. And…of course, there were desserts! Homemade flan, pies, cakes, brownies, cookies and pastries from the bakery. A true feast for all.
A big table would be set in the dining room with the smaller children’s tables in the living room. Even so, there was no way that everyone could sit down and eat at the same time. It was done in shifts, very informally, with the moms alerting their broods when the time was right.
The family was also too large for exchanging presents but we did have our own Santa! My mom’s brother, Mariano had moved to Virginia years ago and always sent a huge box of gifts for the kids, to be opened on Christmas Eve. They were simple things like pajamas, flannel shirts, slippers but we looked forward to it all year. Showing off what we got, trying them on; a shared experience of the sweetness of youth.
Afterwards, as the women began to clean up, the men would head for the back room to drink, smoke and play poker. I was always drawn to this traditional gathering, each man with his cigars or cigarettes – everybody smoked back then. They each had their glass of whiskey or beer. The talk was often loud, sometimes a little coarse, but always funny with jokes in Spanish, stories of co-workers and gossip about movie stars, boxers or ball players. And, all of it punctuated by the patter of the card game, “Eight to the pair of jacks – no help. Ten to the king/queen… possible straight!” It was like listening in on a secret meeting.
My uncle, Aniceto, the patriarch sat at the head of the table. He was the only one in the family that had been born in Spain. He was quite old; his face was like a mask. Aniceto was Basque, spoke very little English, so almost everything he said was completely unintelligible to me but he enjoyed playing the game, drinking shot after shot of whisky.
Next to him sat Raul, a big, florid character, dark as a crow, with a prominent belly that was hard as a rock. He was always challenging the kids to punch him in the gut as hard as they could which only made him roar with laughter. He liked to expound to us about his philosophy of gambling, “Pá lante y pá lante, if I lose ten dollars, next time, I bet twenty. If I lose twenty, next time I bet fifty!” It seemed like an absurd idea to me but he was often the big winner.
Then came three brothers in a row, Bebe was a mild sweetheart of a guy who said little, played cautiously and enjoyed the camaraderie. Sitting next to him was his brother, Perfecto, who everybody called, Johnny. He had a little twinkle in his eye and loved to regale the table with stories he had heard of celebrities, especially bullfighters of whom he was fond. Johnny was a stubborn player, chain smoking throughout, his fingers stained from the unfiltered cigarettes that he favored. Then, there was Titin, easy-going, quiet, whose wife, Margaret would make several trips to the back room to see how things were going, meaning how much her husband might be winning.
Next were two of my favorite uncles, Paco and Manuel. They were similar in looks and age, dark haired and handsome, I thought they were the coolest. Paco, with a dark lock of hair always falling across his forehead, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, squinting to keep the smoke out of his eyes and Manuel, the storyteller, entertaining the table with the latest jokes, playing all of the parts with all eyes on him until the explosion of laughter with the punch line, always in Spanish and a little risqué, I imagined.
The cards were dealt out one at a time with bets in between each round, some raises causing others to fold their cards, “Too rich for me.” I kept cautiously throwing in my chips, “I call.” My voice even sounded small to me. Little by little, it ended up with me and one of my uncles left playing. I had two pair, fives showing and threes as my hole cards; just an OK hand, while my uncle had two Big Scary Kings staring at me. He raised, I called. He raised again, not at all the kindly uncle figure that I thought I knew. I heard somebody say, “Coño, Johnny! Suelta el niño. My uncle’s eyes never left mine as a thin smiled played across his lips and he answered, “He knows what he’s doing.” As my little hand hesitated over the chips, one of my older cousins leaned in and advised me, “He’s gonna make you pay to see his cards, Rich.” And then he encouraged me with a nod and a smile. I heard my voice shaking as I said, “I call.” “All right,” my uncle smiled across the table, “What you got?” “What you got?” I shot back, “I’m the one that called!” This brought a roar of laughter from the men, while my uncle just shook his head, chuckling and said with a shrug of his shoulders, “You’re lookin’ at it,” gesturing to his two kings. I turned over my hole cards and everyone laughed again when they saw the two pair!
I was raking in the pot which looked like a king’s ransom to me, as my dad returned and asked, “What happened?” The men all responded at the same time, “Richard won! The kid outlasted Johnnie! Won with two pair!” My dad was beaming, “That’s the way we do it, son!” as he slipped me a buck. Wow!
In a daze, I headed back in to the front of the house feeling…I don’t know…taller. Later that night, we drove home with my mom and dad cuddling for warmth in the front and my sisters chatting in the back seat. I was sprawled in the back of the station wagon with my little brother by my side. As we slowly wended our way through the quiet brick streets of Ybor, stars winked at me out of a dark blue Christmas sky; while, with a dreamy smile, I softly hummed, “Silent Night, Holy Night. All is calm. All is bright.”
Richard DiPietra isan actor and playwright from Ybor City, a small section of Tampa, Florida, settled in the 1880s by Spanish, Cuban and Sicilian immigrants and famous into the 1930s for its cigar factories. For over 40 years, he has performed shows based on his Latin heritage, particularly his one-man show, “I Am a Cuban Sandwich.” He and his wife co-wrote “The Ybor Stories,” a full-length production of five short plays about Ybor City’s history. His stories have appeared in a few local and online literary journals.