Let's Go To Mexico!
TERESA PUENTE (faculty, Journalism) writes:
My journey back to Mexico began the summer when I was 10 years old and my parents piled the five of us kids into our gas-guzzling maroon Oldsmobile and drove nearly 2,000 miles from Chicago to southern Mexico. On the road we played cards and the license-plate game in the back seat of the car as we drove past the corn fields of Illinois, billboards for Graceland, and then on to the cow pastures of Texas. After more than 24 hours on the road, we arrived at the U.S.-Mexico border. A Mexican flag as big as a house flew above us, signaling we were entering another land, the land of our ancestors, my father told us. We stopped for the requisite tourist cards and traveled on past the border patrol.
My parents went to Mexico on their honeymoon, but it was the first time they took the five of us kids to Mexico. Papa said it was about time we learned Spanish. But driving in Mexico turned into an adventure we never expected, and this would be the first trip of many for me back to the homeland. It was raining and the roads were slippery. We kept driving higher and higher up roads that were curvy like a Slinky. I was in the back seat sandwiched between my older two brothers, Victor and Danny. My big sister Sylvia leaned her head against the passenger window with her face buried in a book.
My younger sister, Cecilia, who always sat up front because she was the baby, discovered a new game: counting crosses. Some were simple, white, and wooden and others were made of marble or ironwork. Some stood alone. Others were clustered together in groups of six or eight. Almost all had fresh bouquets of flowers.
“One, two, three. There’s another one Papa,” Carmen smiled with glee. “That one has flowers. It’s pretty.”
“Stop counting the crosses!” Papa yelled at Cecilia.
Papa nervously scratched his bald spot and his eyes darted in and out of the rear-view mirror.
“What’s wrong with Papa?” I asked Sylvia.
“You dummy! Those are grave markers,” she snapped.
Papa kept his eyes on the road, and Mama scooped up Cecilia, put her on her lap, and combed her hair with her fingers. “Be quiet m’ija. Your father is trying to concentrate on driving.”
We were stuck behind a big truck and Papa was anxious to go around it. There was only one lane in each direction and Mama turned her eyes away from the road.
We drove from the arid deserts, where Papa almost plastered a lizard, and way, way up into the mountains. We were so high that we drove into the clouds. We’d never seen anything like this before because the land around Chicago is flatter than a checkerboard.
My father was growing impatient because we were stuck behind the slow-moving truck, but Cecilia kept counting the crosses. “Four!” she screamed.
Cecilia was too young to understand their meaning and my father didn’t have the patience to explain to her that they were the grave markers of souls lost on the highway.
“Quiet!” he boomed in his customary authoritarian voice.
“Ben. We’re not in a hurry. Just wait until it’s safe to pass,” Mama said, squeezing Cecilia close to her.
“Mama I’m hungry,” I cried. “And I have to pee.”
“Just have another bologna sandwich, m’ija.”
“Mama I’m tired of bologna. I have a headache. I want McDonald’s.”
“Keep those kids quiet,” Papa commanded Mama.
“Shhhhh. Your father is trying to concentrate,” she said handing me a soggy sandwich.
I looked out the window for a McDonald’s, Burger King, even Jack in the Box. But all I saw were burros tied to trees and houses made of tin and plywood.
“Papa,” I cried again. “Victor farted.”
My brothers fell over giggling and squished me between them. I pushed back with my elbows. Sylvia rolled her eyes at us.
“Tell them to stop it,” I cried.
Mama plopped Cecilia in the front middle seat and leaned over the back seat to scold my brothers. Just then Cecilia sprang up when she spotted another cross. “Five!” she screamed.
At that moment Papa swerved into the left lane to pass the truck. He stepped on the gas and as he accelerated around the curve we saw a big bus coming at us. We all screamed together, “AAGGGHHH!” The last thing I remember was a big white cross with a bunch of roses tied to it. I waited for the crash, for the screech of metal on metal, for suitcases to tumble off the top of the bus and plaster our Oldsmobile, for my bologna sandwich to fly out the window. I feared it was the end of the road for the Puente family, and our relatives would erect seven crosses for us along the side of the road.
By the time I caught my breath we were safely back in the right lane and we had avoided a head-on collision with the bus. Call it a miracle. Maybe we were just lucky.
This was the beginning of my journey back to Mexico. I'm 39 years old now and Mexico is like a second home to me. I lived four years in Guadalajara until the fall of 2006, when I returned to take a job teaching journalism at Columbia College Chicago. Now I'm on my way back to Mexico this summer with a group of my students, who will take a class with me in travel writing. On this trip I'm not planning on any long-distance road trips - only to the beach.