Finally ... Soup for the Chicken!

David Membrila

Description

A teacher's perspective of growing up as a good and bad example.

"A compilation of anecdotes and heartbreaks, of love, life, and laughter, from a kid who grew up a product of the barrio and despite growing up and growing out; never really left."

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 24 mars 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456637231
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 6 Mo

Extrait

Finally ... Soup for the Chicken!
A.K.A. The circus I grew up in ...
 
by
David Membrila
Copyright 2021 David Membrila,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-3723-1
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Table of Contents
Foreword:
Chapter I: The Wonder Years
Chapter II: It Takes a Village
Chapter III: The “Good Stuff”
Chapter IV: Pop’s Kin
Chapter V: The Neighbor “Hoods”
Chapter VI: Scouting
Chapter VII: Education
Chapter VIII: “Life” Happens
Chapter IX: My Career
Chapter X: Back In The ‘Hood
Chapter XI: “Ghoul”ash
Chapter XII: My View From The Top
Special THANKS to:
About the Author:
 
“A compilation of anecdotes and heartbreaks, of love, life, and laughter, from a kid who grew up a product of the barrio and despite growing up and growing out; never really left.”
Foreword:
I grew up on the Southside of Tucson, the youngest of 4 kids. My eldest brother was 10 years older than me, and every sibling followed 2 years later … except me. I was 6 years younger than my sister; the closest sibling to me. I was told that my parents lost a child in between me and my older sister. According to my older brother I was never planned; and mom had told me as a child that because she was ill a lot of the time, that they were lucky to have me. That, along with the fact that my father was undergoing radiation treatments at the time for a thyroid issue, would’ve created complications to conceive another child.
My siblings all had middle names, except for me. I could never figure that out. Turns out when I was born, I was a preemie and the doctors didn’t expect me to make it. I was told (as an adult) that I was in the hospital for weeks, and my future, or lack thereof, was gloomy. My parents had given me a first and of course a last name, in preparation of burying another child. Thus, the name was just meant for a planned gravestone.
I fooled them all, pulling through with flying colors, and was finally brought home to meet the family dog.
I guess at that point I was almost obligated if not destined to do great things, so I grew up and became a teacher.
This book is a culmination of 39 years of teaching, telling stories, embellishing tales, contributing actual “life lessons” of misfortune, misguidance, and yes, even misconduct; in an effort that those reading will understand that the road paved before ye, has its share of flat tires, close calls, and hit and runs.
Although the stories contained are told from the perspective of growing up an “economically challenged Hispanic kid,” I’m sure that others can relate as we share the same trials and tribulations, despite being from other cultures.
I hope you enjoy the read, and I hope my “soup” will encourage, inspire, calm, or comfort you in challenges and battles that you face daily.
I have to especially thank, my immediate family and my wife and kids, as well as beg their forgiveness, because I’m sure I’m going to hear a lot of moaning and groaning as they read stories relating to them. I’m POSITIVE that my siblings will deny the bullying, pranks, and mischievous deeds pulled on each other as well as on my mom and dad.
I also have to thank an ol’ mariachi hero, Alberto Rangel Sr., who told me 30 years ago that I should write a book on growing up in the barrio.
Thus, this is my life in a nutshell ….
Chapter I: The Wonder Years
“If it takes a VILLAGE to raise a child, the size of your hut shouldn’t matter.”
-Dave Membrila
Growing up …
I grew up on the Southside of Tucson, a patsy of “redlining”; a real estate term in which all of those with an accent were steered to certain areas of town in search of affordable housing. Nicknamed barrios, these neighborhoods served as the “villages” that helped raise the children. Our Barrio was named “National City.”
There were other Barrio’s in the city as well. There was Barrio Anita, Sovaco (which means armpit), Menlo Park, Centro, Old Pascua, New Pascua, Libre, Viejo, etc. But the coolest name was Barrio Hollywood. That Barrio was named “Hollywood” as a joke. It was the POOREST neighborhood in the city, but it took the name of the GALANT lifestyle of MOVIE STARS. (You think Hispanics don’t have high hopes?)
Again, most of these neighborhoods were predominately Hispanic, Mexican American, Chicano, Latino, or any other subculture “flavor of the month” name for folks (or their ancestors) who immigrated from Mexico. However, even OUR barrio had its share of Anglos. Across the street from my house lived the Kelly family, who originated from Oklahoma. Down the street were the Mooreheads, and there was Mrs. White (who was a widow), Art, who lived on my Uncle Ray’s property, and Mel and Lila Fields who lived next door.
There was a family that lived in some apartments directly across the street from us, named the Kings. I believe they were from Kentucky. I remember them specifically because they had a boy my age named Randy King who would be visited by his out-of-town cousin (same age) named … Randy King. When we’d call their name both boys would turn around.
The Reinhards, probably the closest friends of the family, lived over on the next block, just down the street. I will chat about them later.
These families ACCLIMATED to the culture of the neighborhood and were welcomed like family. But life was different in the Barrio.
Not to say that other low-income families of other cultures had it a whole lot differently, but I doubt that those who suffered economically like we did, were fortunate enough to wake up to the smell of fresh tortillas being made on the comal, a cast-iron plate on a wood stove. Rising early on a Saturday morning and scratching my head as I opened the back door, my mom would always ask, “¿Quieres un burrito, mijo?” (an endearing name for son in Spanish … mijo; not burrito) as she stirred the bean pot bubbling on the stove. There was the sound of Mexican music playing loud enough to entertain the whole block. The comadres (Spanish term for Godmother, but sometimes used loosely like a female buddy) who had come over to make tortillas with my mom were almost oblivious to my presence, gossiping amongst each other about the latest “novela” (gossip) of the neighborhood. I think these ladies came over to make tortillas just to make sure they weren’t being talked about.
My mom seemed to be the glue that held the neighborhood together. Mom was always organizing in the neighborhood, whether it was for a sewing club or the PTA. Short in stature, and quiet by nature, she would make sure her voice was heard when she felt she NEEDED to be heard. She always seemed jolly and would hum as she made tortillas, made dinner, did housework, etc. It was never a tune you could recognize, and when I’d ask her, “Ma! What are you humming?” She’d say, “I don’t know, mijo; I’m just humming.” But it never stopped me from trying to figure out what song it was.
When mom got to talking with the ladies in the neighborhood, (whether it be while making tortillas, making tamales, sewing, or knitting) they were like chickens in a henhouse … cackling, laughing, and even dancing, to music which could be heard throughout the hood. I’d have to raise the volume of the tv on the other side of the house just to drown out THEIR noise.
 
“You can’t pick your relatives, but you can pick your nose; and at times that could be just enough to keep them away.”
-Dave Membrila
Mi familia ...
I used to think that mom talked a lot, because her voice was always heard over the other ladies’ voices, telling stories, singing, and yes … still humming. But I used to get a kick when I’d eavesdrop on her telephone conversations with my Tía Josie; her older sister. Mom couldn’t get a word in edgewise! Tía Josie was JUST LIKE my mom, but with TWICE the energy. She’d talk a mile a minute and had the energy to do 15 things at once. So, on the phone, I could hear my mom say phrases like “¿De veras?” (Is that true?), “¡Como coraje!” (that gets “my goat”), or ”¡Mira no mas! (look at him/her) just to try to sneak something into the conversation. And, when they’d laugh, you could hear Tía Josie’s laughter through the phone.
I remember Tía Josie saw me walking home from school one day, which was a mile-long walk, and gave me a ride home. As fast as she talked, she drove the opposite … sloooowww; stopping at every corner to check traffic both ways. I told her, “Tía … the other streets have stop signs ... this street goes all the way to the house without stop signs” and she’d retort, “Aye, mijo … but you never know what other drivers are going to do, so I stop at every corner, no matter what.”
It took me an extra six minutes to get home that day … BUT, her philosophy is probably why “Tía Jo” lived to her mid-90’s.
Tía Jo was also mom to the PRIDE of the Alvarez family … Pima County Superior Court Judge Gus Aragon! (Now retired). Before cousin Gus was a judge, he was the only attorney in the family, so everybody relied on him when we got in trouble.
My mom came from a family of 11 brothers and sisters, while my dad came from a family of 9 siblings. You’ll hear references to different family members as many uncles and aunts were influential in my upbringing, music endeavors, and career choices.
Tío Fernando, my mom’s twin brother, was quite the character. They looked identical, except my mom’s mustache was just a tad thicker. (She used to hate that joke.) Tío Fernando had a slight stutter but I could never figure out if it was a life-long impediment, or if he was just a “fast talker”. (His tongue had Tía Josie’s energy.) I remember in my late teens, he tried to sell me his car, an old ’63 Impala (I wish I would’ve bought it back then), but