Not A Tejano
Today, I am gracing (sorry) your email from blustery, blue sky El Paso.
Welcomed in the view of Juarez from my driver side window by queuing up the greats: Selena, Los Angeles Negros, Los Tucanes De Tijuana, and Los Tigres del Norte. I am about to demolish my third coffee of the morning at this incredible Mexican roastery that I’ve been to every time I am back here. Nice to have familiar things in an unfamiliar place.
I am reminded how much language prohibits me. I, if I try and fail many times, can speak toddler Spanish and French (if I have Google Translate out at all times, and even then it’s very faulty). The three tables around me are chuckling, sharing some common story that I can’t understand. In a way, it makes me feel like I am the only person in this shop— the noises become muffled, as my brain realizes that eavesdropping is out of the question. On the other hand, I feel desperately alone— sitting on the bench, alone, with my English thoughts and English heart. I am clocked when I walk in— I am welcomed in English, rather than the typical Spanish the teenage barista used for everyone else. She, whether through trained professional courtesy or ingrained notions of making the white folks more “comfortable”, knew something about me before I could know anything about her. No lick of Spanish in her!
I am listening to Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar, a newer debut novel from Iranian poet, who sets his story in the dullness of Indiana. One of his characters, the brother of the deceased protagonist’s mother, says that he pushes back on the common phrase: Scent is the strongest tie to memory. Instead, he extricates memory to tie it to language instead. In some ways, he is right.
Mexico City in May 2024: El Hugo Wine bar. My favorite spot on my trip, where I would walk from my airbnb and plop my butt at the bar. It was a small place, few tables inside, 8 bar seats, and a small patio with long wooden benches and small round tables. They did tapas, wine, and a few cocktails— every night, some Khruangbin and Steely Dan would play ( I could have easily been in Chicago instead by the music choice). Three of the four nights Juan was working. A stocky bartender— thick chocolate hair and bitten fingernails, blue chore coat adorning his shoulders, with wide eyes and a wrinkle down the middle of his forehead. Each night, I would sit down and he would slyly smile and walk my way. He would wait, patiently, as I pulled out my phone to double check I was asking for the night things with the ~correct~ (again this is Google Translate and very prone to errors) verbiage; then, slowly, kindly, would ask any clarifying questions about my botched order of a Mezcal Negroni and the shrimp. We had a sweet friendship those couple days: me, trying to ask questions about his life and Mexico City, and him, inquiring about what I was writing or reading that evening. His favorite part of me was my Marlboro Cowboy tattoo— the fabled American West he liked watching on TV. He wrote me a note on the back of my check the last day I left, and I told him I would visit again soon as I packed my bag and waltzed out the open door.
Not only do I remember the hushed murmur of late night voices, and the impeccable food I ate there, but I distinctly remember this time because of language. Language was both the connection and the broken chord of Juan and I. Smiles and nods passed between us; hand signals and pointed fingers; short phrases about childhood and after work plans. It’s a funny thing— to sense that you know someone intimately, while not being able to speak more than a few words at a time. Silence passed between us, a gentle barrier. Alone, in the sea of various linguistic tones, I found myself strangely comforted by our shared uncertainty. We were two uncomplicated people for a couple hours each evening— no explaining necessary. Mysterious, shrouded people with nothing to prove. Two rec league players who, while they love the game and each other, fell short of the practice.
Tupelo has company this week in many forms. She has seen human friends galore, old faces she did not forget, and even gets the company of her blue heeler companion all the way from Austin.
Safe to say she’s tickled pink.