Extract from Beneath the Halo, by Celeste Guzmán Mendoza
Tío Chucho would have you believe
that Tía Chavela was named for Port
Isabel not a saint.
He says this each time we drive
toward the bay, seagulls cutting
into his, Pos sí, es cierto. ¿No me creen?
How could we believe a story like that?
Port Isabel with its bikinied, busomy,
bottom-heavy ladies, and beer joints
filled with young white boys in swimming
chones and chanclas, and t-shirt shop
after t-shirt shop—has nothing to do
with Tía Chavela’s horn-rimmed trifocals,
SAS shoes, casita with furniture covered
in plastic, and altar with stained photos
of her mother. In one she holds a bunny
and a palm-sized statue of el sagrado
corazón. No. Nada que ver. But el Tío.
Maybe he remembers Tía’s youth
before their six children suckled
her breasts dry. Or maybe he wants
us to laugh with him. Share something.
Our English a wound so deep
between us. Los pochos and him—
viejito always thinking of his Mexico
lindo. We could ask Tía to set him straight
but why bother. Every year, once a year
he gets to say it, resolved that it could be
true and that would make them as American
as us. Just as good. Maybe so good
that next year he could bring Tía Chavela
in their own car, stay in their own hotel,
and pretend together that this is the better
life,
worth the leaving,
worth the remembering.
 |
| Celeste Guzmán Mendoza |
Celeste Guzmán Mendoza, a native of San Antonio, Texas, has been published in a number of journals and anthologies. Her chapbook of poetry, Cande, te estoy llamando, won the Poesía Tejana Prize from Wings Press. She is also a playwright: her original play, Burnt Sienna, won the 1996 American College Theater Festival’s Ten Minute Play Award. Mendoza, now living in Austin, is Associate Director of Development at the Teresa Lozano Long Institute for Latin American Studies, University of Texas at Austin. Beneath the Halo, a Wings Press publication, is available at www.wingspress.comand in e-book editions.