“Did you hear that Mexico has become a world power?” goes one joke. “When it sneezes, the whole world gets the flu.”
The laughs did not reveal the practical mess that the people are dealing with on a routine basis. The government of Mexico had decreed a country-wide shutdown that lasted for five days, causing a paralyzing problem for parents. Because schools had been closed, the hapless mothers and fathers had to bar their brats from going insane, while ensuring the government’s directives were met, or else.
As any parent might confess, there was always a way out of a mess.
Two days into my visit, I tracked down an old acquaintance (by way of my cousin Alfredo) named Renato Gomez-Mateos. I’d known him since the early 1990s, but hadn’t spoken to him in nearly 10 years. He seemed as jovial as I remembered him to be when we met up at the historic Sanborn’s restaurant down-town. Regrettably, he occupied our reunion mostly with complaints about his young daughter, Yvonne. It seems the little brat refused to wear one of those surgical masks, and she was particularly sensitive to air-borne viruses that attack the pulmonary tract. Her mother, Micaela, managed by decorating the mask with embroidered butterflies, and making a fairy-tale game out of wearing the thing as they walked to and from her pre-school. Renato proceeded to bore me with fulsome adulations for his clever wife (I never did get to meet her, though).
“She made it for her because little Yvonne didn’t want to wear it, so she made her a special one,” Renato went on. “And I’m the good fairy Flora,” Yvonne supposedly said in response, as she shyly peered through the mask for the first time. This revelation clearly demonstrated that Renato was no longer the foul-mouthed rake-hell I remembered, but a doting father sickening me with quaint tales of domestic cuteness. I tried to meet my old drinking buddy again some time before I’d left Mexico City, but for the moment the reunion was more reality than I could handle. We bade our adieus, finished our coffee (quite good as I recall), and parted ways, and none the sooner.
Speaking of fairies, once I had parted Renato’s company, I found myself wandering about the streets, from the Sanborn’s near the cathedral and zocalo, to the Zona Rosa and Garibaldi Street ~ the epicenter of Gay culture in Mexico City. There was nothing in evidence to suggest that Mexican Gays were worried about a minuscule annoyance like porcine flu. On the contrary, they proved delightfully risque’ when considering the measures their community took to spread awareness and encourage responsible behavior. Not only were the local residents induced into taking preventive medicines, but the latter were placed, free of charge, in contrived dispensers shaped like gaping mouths, elongated penises, or a muscular buttocks. The squirting penile projectors were especially popular, and many who hadn’t thought of seeking protection were suddenly very enthusiastic about indulging themselves in “preventive care.” The term vaccination soon became an epithet for an esoteric form of sodomy, and “getting vaccinated” became the hip thing to do for awhile, figuratively speaking.
I asked around what the response had been to such wily measures, and, much to my innocent surprise, it had been “extraordinary” (according to a very flamboyant narcissist who had crept up behind me, and solicited a “vaccination”).
Just wandering around allowed me to take in some of the more remarkable landmarks like the Bellas Artes palace, La Catedral, the Palacio de Gobierno, the post office, the ruins of the Great Aztec temple, and elsewhere. There was not much to do all alone in the big city in any case, and tracking down any relatives or old acquaintances proved to be a minor nightmare. With no place to go except to the hotel, located a couple of blocks behind the Torre Latina, watching television had become the only available distraction during most of my evenings. Even on the boob-tube, the wicked little malady had imprinted itself on that typically Mexican past-time: the telenovela (akin to the American Soap Opera).
Nothing typifies the formulaic telenovelas more than melodrama and risque- tongue-kissing. But Televisa, Latin-America’s most prolific producer of the soap-operas, had decided smooching would be reduced to a minimum in accordance with government guidelines to avoid close contact. So, here I was expecting to be aroused by adult themed entertainment, only to get sanitized foreplay that simply made no sense without the perversity!
“When the script of a telenovela requires a kiss,” reported a Televisa spokesman for the Press, “the kiss will be given in accordance with the guidelines so as not to expose the actors to any risk.”
Strangely though, this fellow leaked these details on condition of anonymity because he hadn’t been authorized to speak to the Press.
He played dumb, and wouldn’t divulge exactly how the “safe kisses” would be feigned. Perhaps they’d be air kisses? Or, perhaps cheek kisses? In any case, it was left to the viewing public to grin, bear it, and to speculate.
My guess was that until the whole shebang was resolved, we all would have to get by on telepathic kisses. I am sure others were of the same opinion. In any case, for the sort of horizontal affection I was looking forward to in the streets of Mexico City, kissing and other forms of facial contact weren’t to be issues of contention.
The local music culture had also embraced an irreverent view of the epidemic. One notable band, the “Agrupacion Carino,” whose songs were polluting the radio waves wherever I’d go, came out with the song “Influenza Cumbia” shortly after the disease alert was given. The lyrics smacked of a persiflage worthy of the common folk, with references to Superman and Indiana Jones.
“It’s better to commit suicide with tacos,” the lead-singer croaks to a resounding synthesizer. “They say it’s the perfect flu. They don’t know Mexico City folks live in the smog.”
The previous lyrics should be a good indication of just how well Mexicans were taking the epidemic. Just like the pig flu, dark humor had infected all sectors of society, and even beyond Mexico’s borders. Actually, I saw in a TV commercial that an American company was promoting T-shirts featuring a pig-shaped Mexican flag: “I went to Mexico and all I got was swine flu,” it reads.
And, of course, the Internet was bustling with dark, pig-flu fun. In a game called “Swine-Fighter,” players fire at viral-looking porkers with hypodermic needles. I heard the silly game was becoming quite popular at the kiddie arcades, or at Internet cafe’ where net-surfers could download the game for free. And, what global catastrophe would be complete without its own Facebook page? Yes, I discovered the ridiculous thing as I was preparing to write to one of my correspondents.
After doing a bit of sleuthing myself, I learned that the page’s creator boasts on the page: “There’s more people infected on Facebook than in real life.”
Oh, hah, hah! It was so funny I forgot what it was all about.
Though it is so that Mexico City is one of Latin America’s largest cities, it still has the mentality of a small town, and rumors will abound of the most personal and puerile sort, while truly important issues are brushed aside because the common folk don’t like to be troubled with issues that are beyond them. Nevertheless, something truly extraordinary occurred on the Monday after I had arrived, which shall rank as outstanding in the annals of Roman Catholic Mexico: same-sex marriage and adoption by same-sex couples had been legalized in a tumult of legislative fervor and festering Catholic reaction. Having grown up in an atmosphere of homo-phobia and religious intolerance, not to mention aggressive Mexican machismo, I have to say that I was aghast, shocked, delighted ... I really did not know how to feel or react. I have to hand it to this society, however, because not even America has accomplished such a socially progressive feat on a national scale, in spite of all the talk about freedom and pursuit of happiness.
Specifically, by a vote of two to one, the legislative assembly approved revisions to the civil code to permit same-sex marriages.
In a separate motion, the assembly voted in favor of legalizing adoption by same-sex couples, with nine abstentions. One could not avoid or ignore the news since it was blasted all over the place.
; In any case, all this led to impromptu parades in the streets and other celebrations, which I too participated in just for the sheer fun of it. I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to get drunk with the rest of the city, for sure! Although, I did have to watch out for unwarranted “vaccinations.”
According to the specifics of this history-making legislation, the revision will effectively redefine marriage to a union between two people instead of the current explanation, which specifies a union between a man and a woman. No one knows if Civil groups in favor and opposed to the vote will fight it out, and I certainly won’t be around to see any heads roll. They had gathered, nevertheless, since early Monday morning outside the congressional halls. As I understood it, the debate had been raging for some time now, and the legislators had already approved same-sex civil unions back in 2007. Politics is politics, and there were bound to be delays, filibusters, appeals, legal suits and counter-suits, but with a uniquely Mexican flavor to them ... Spicy!
This polarizing controversy wasn’t new to Mexicans because Mexico City was the second major Latin American city to legitimize Gay marriage; months before, a court in Buenos Aires, Argentina had ruled that two articles in the metropolitan civic code, which stipulate only heterosexual matrimonies are permissible, are in fact illegal, hence breaking down the last barrier to gay matrimonies. The mayor of Mexico City cited Argentina’s example, and declared that he would not appeal the ruling in spite of the brewing back-lash from conservative groups and the Church. I could see protesters gathering, notwithstanding, in the streets to oppose the intrusive Church whose clergy should not have been meddling in secular affairs anyway, according to the Mexican Constitution.
... What could old Fulgencio San Roman have said about all this talk of same-sex marriage? I wonder ... beats the Hell out of me!
STOCKING UP ON HOPE
It was a dark and stormy night in Mexico City near the ancient and still impoverished sector of Atzcapotzalco, the so-called “place of the ant-hills”; the acidic rain fell by the bucketful on unprotected heads ~ except at infrequent intervals when it was tempered by a violent gale which swept up the muddy streets, pelting the poorly constructed roof-tops of wretched working class hovels. Power outages were provoked, which intensified the nearly freezing darkness and inflamed the exasperation of the residents. A gale of laughter ensued, and the strange weather departed almost as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the soaking poverty-borne populace to bemoan the irrepressible. In spite of flash flood warnings, no one stocked up on provisions, let alone hope, which wouldn’t have comforted them in any case.
In an old cemetery near the park of the ancient Ahuehuete trees, the few remaining landmarks planted by the Aztecs in the heart of Atzcapotzalco, a couple of wet and exhausted sculptor-carpenters had just put the finishing touches on a poem carved upon a hastily erected marble memorial before the stroke of midnight on the 19th of June, that was titled, THE FEAR OF TIME:
I knew fear and I knew dread,
It is a different world, a different time,
Didn’t let them trouble me in bed,
To lust, to covet no longer is a crime,
No longer am I a baby,
The family boom is sadly over,
Fear in life ~ inescapable it may be,
Under the ideals of youth I take cover,
The fear is always there to scare you,
I may be timid, but ain’t no coward,
The pathetic masses depend on the chosen few,
Return to happy thoughts or play it forward,
Childhood, what became of my dreams?
The sorrows of yesteryears plague me like flies!
The dreamer from false hopes forever gleams,
The fool for delusions always cries,
There was a time when I tasted of passion,
There was a moment when I knew happiness,
Escape into unreality was once the fashion,
Into oblivion I jumped and met craziness,
I hoped and hoped against inevitability,
Voices echoed in the darkness of despair,
Only for dread was there probability,
Hence, to the void I offered my prayer:
“May your troubles be less,
May your blessings be more,
And may nothing but happiness
Come through your door!”
... Come through your door,
and nothing more?
And now my young ones for wishes pray,
The fear then goes after their hopes,
The generation of ideals is now old and gray,
Our dreams of peace were narrow in scope,
So, I knew fear and I knew dread,
It is a different world, a different time,
May our children by our ideals be led,
Towards inspiration may they always climb!
the end
This poem was probably written by, and dedicated to the memory of the recently departed uncle of Cecilia, a distant cousin of mine, who was actually the oldest brother of the former husband of her aunt, who is the twin sister of her mother ... I think.
His name was Rafael Ramirez Rojas, and I never knew the man, but he had supposedly worked with Fulgencio San Roman as a co-writer, actor, and editor, thus his cinematic input had been significant. Much to my chagrin though, he had passed away just as I was delving more into the historical background of the subject of my fascination. He could have revealed many a nifty secret and nugatory rumor with respect to his long relationship with Fulgencio, and the fact that I came so close to meeting him without realizing his importance just made me want to call it quits and head for home. Fortunately, there were the living, and perhaps they could divulge a thing a two about their beloved relative before I hopped on the bus for another town.
The strange thing that arose from Rafael’s death was controversy, for no sooner had his memorial been erected when his body was burned to a crisp, against the wishes of surviving loved ones. But, he wished it, and thus was he honored. The latter brought to mind my own controversy regarding cremation. It had involved my late brother, for whom I suffered no love loss. I only repented of not having been present to light the match that ignited the bonfire of my brother’s mortal remains. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but all the euphemistic reflections aside, I was most pleased to learn that even his bones were no more.
If I had known about all the hassles involved with burying one’s loved ones, I would have repented of my repentance with respect to cremating my dearly departed long before they had repented for not repenting for their sins. But, since they did pass away before repenting, then it was apropos that we, the dearly beloved, bury them in a way that really would have made them repent for how they demeaned and denigrated our lives as a matter of fact, as well as a lack of repentance!
Now, the thing I mostly repent of is my ignorance about how the cremation process works: indeed, it is a question most people would prefer to avoid, especially here in Mexico. But, death is a fact of life, especially for Mexicans, many of whom still hunt and trap their daily meals, and the survivors have to grin and bear with the nitty-gritty of burying their dearly departed. I had occasion to face the decision twice, and on both occasions cremation seemed to be the best, most viable option to the traditional, and hyper-expensive burial. First, there was my father who had once fancied a burial at sea, or perhaps a cremation, even though his most Catholic conscience prohibited him from countenancing such an option for fear of losing his soul. My mother decided to exercise an option presented by her church group, and had the old fart buried at the bargain-basement price of $5,000 USD, complete with professional “mourners” to wail at his funeral ~ it was a nice way of showing repentance by proxy, even though there was no real repenting to be had on your part.
Next on my agenda of repentance was my brother who had finally drunk one too many bottles of cheap whiskey, thus his heart gave out, and leaving us to fuss over his festering cadaver. I was the first one to be told
of his decease by the officiating police, so it was incumbent upon me to prepare my mother for the sad tidings, and gather my siblings for a decision about what to do with his remains. In the end, no one did squat about it, and we left him to the tender mercies of the police, who had actually discovered his corpse dumped in some West Los Angeles alley. Afterwards, they informed our mother that they would keep him stored in some communal drawer, nicely tucked in between the other cold meat, until all the paper-work attesting to his demise was completed. Then, they would exercise the civic policy of disposal of the refuse by setting it ablaze ~ that is, the cremation option.
Now then, the process worked thusly; first they, the authorities, had the responsible parties affirm his identification (in this case, it was his only daughter Dorothea, who was inconsolably disappointed in her grandmother because she refused to handle the matter herself, and was forced to confront the issue alone, obliging her to travel several hundred miles to the morgue and identify the body, sign papers of release, and accede to the cremation option); then they performed the autopsy ~ six months after he’d kicked the bucket, literally. The taxidermists, or embalmers, or whatever those people are who prepare the body for disposal, were called, and they took their sweet time to make him look pretty enough for the roasting. The court order arrived with the permission for the procedure granted. Then, the transportation of the corpse to the designated crematorium, where the only ones who gave a crap were waiting, namely Dorothea, her husband, and her three children, followed en suite. Finally, the fuse was lit, and the human barbecue was on, full blast. Within an hour, the creature who never should have been was reduced to ashes. Dorothea was asked to sign a few more papers attesting to the fact that she had witnessed the ghastly sight of her father being cooked, that she still agreed with the procedure with or without condiments, especially since there was no going back, and that the responsible experts had done their job diligently and competently. The rest was then up to God whether to send his soul to cool off in Limbo, or send him down to get another roasting, courtesy of Lucifer, because the cremation had left him only medium-well-done, which is what everybody who knew my brother wanted for him! Hence, to all who are wary of repentance for having repented, one should countenance a cremation as a viable option to the traditional burial. One would say that it is, in this environmentally conscious world we now live in, a sound and ecologically friendly way of disposing so much trash, which could then be mixed with the mounting tide of human and animal feces, which could provide a great fertilizer, and then sent to developing countries facing desertification. We can all sleep soundly in the knowledge that we are no longer contributing to the awful pollution problem that faces 21st Century societies, Mexico in particular, right? In that way one’s conscience can rest easy, and one need not repent, or face repentance, from anybody ever again. Mexico is no place in which to have latent pangs of remorse. One need better do something before we all end up repenting for our lack of brains, or end up with a troubled brow heavy with repentance!
A Wetback in Reverse Page 17