My favorite church in Mexico is in Yucatan. It was said when the Spanish had come to spread the Catholic word of God, they couldn't have crucifixions in the church. The Mayans would crucify each other, trying to continue their religious sacrificial practices. The reason behind the crucifixions was due to a variety of reasons that ranged from language barriers, a powerful desire to appease the 'White Gods,' or some other unknown insanity only white people believe to placate their guilt.
Do you ever wonder if the Mayans knew that was one of the only acts of compromise the Spanish would have?
Mother had gotten it into her head that we needed to go on a family vacation, which was widely regarded as a bad idea. She argued the family needed to reconnect with Mexico, which was an issue since we were one shade beyond quirky.
Grandfather got turned around looking for the Airbnb we were staying in, he had assumed that the key to our room would only work for our room.
“It not purpose! Really!” Grandfather tried desperately to explain in broken English.
The white woman tapped her foot impatiently while Mother did her best impression of another white woman. She sighed and took off her oversized sunglasses as a sign of appeasement, or submission. She forced a smile.
“He’s old.” Mom said.
“He’s a fucking creep, and probably a thief don’t think I don’t know what you people are like.” The woman argued.
“No, I, well, I mean, I get confuse. The last time I was here the houses didn’t look the same, and when it’s hot it triggers my war memories.” He tried to explain.
Grandfather had never actually served in a war. He used to work on a poultry farm where he would slaughter turkeys that went to MRE rations. He had in turn equated that to him serving for the war, thus making him some extension of a veteran.
“You know,” he continued gesturing wildly with his hands. “Some people get confused because of Mercury’s retrograde and the axis of–” He swung his hand back directly into a potted cactus and yelped. “Hijo de tu chingada madre!”
The white woman muttered something about Mexicans under her breath.
The Spanish were to some extent meant to be guardians to Indigenous people of Mexico. I remember in grade school there was an insistence that the Spanish goal was peaceful acclimation of Catholicism. Acclimation. Like they were fish?
“Get the fuck away from me!” Father screamed as Uncle tried to pull his own swim trunks down.
“No, compadre, pee it helps for stings.”
“I don’t care!”
Mother insisted we go to Balandra despite the infestation of tourists. We were there for the better half of an hour before Father was stung by a stingray. He couldn’t read the English signs posted around the beach that used to be in Spanish. He curled into a ball and as Uncle tried to ask for directions to a hospital.
Eventually Father asked me if I would pee on his foot under the pretense that if anyone should do it, it should be me. I could have killed everyone here. Maybe I should have. I spent the car ride to the hospital Googling international crime laws, if premeditated murder got less time than meditated, and if Mexico distinguished differences between the two.
They don’t.
Kind of like how a lot of people don’t distinguish differences between Mezcal and Tequila. While the latter had become something of national pride for Mexico sometimes it felt less about it being a good spirit. Everyone forgets that Mezcal predates Tequila by nearly two hundred years and diminished the spirit to a bad ‘edgy’ cousin to Tequila.
“¿Tienes Pulque?”
The guy raised an eyebrow at me, confused. “What?”
“Pulque?”
He shakes his head. “I think you need to go to Chichen Itza for that. I have tequila though.”
I don’t like tequila. “Cuba Libre?”
“Rum and Coke?”
Oh, for fuck sake. “Yes, with a lime. Havana Club, please.”
He looked reluctant. “There’s Barcadi. It tastes better than Havana Club.”
I hate American rum. Cuba Libres taste better with CUBAN rum. I forced a smile. “Cachaça would be good too.”
He nodded. He was still reluctant, but he made the drink. He served it in a tall glass; it looked watery like he had been heavy-handed with the rum. I could take him over this bartop counter. He puts a coaster down for me. I still remember when this bar made fun of you for using them.
When Uncle eventually joined me, the two of us drank and listened to the American noise pollution. They would have sneered at the idea of coming to Mexico a few years ago. Now they’re screaming about wanting margaritas.
“Things aren’t going good with my wife.”
What the fuck? “Oh.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” That was a lie. He did know. He knew exactly what was wrong between the two. His inability to be vulnerable, her inability to trust him–he proceeded to dump 19 years’ worth of issues on me, or more accurately, 50 big fights, one unplanned child, two emotionally incestuous Mothers, 3 Gucci wristwatches, and 4 AA meetings worth of problems. Enough problems for two lifetimes if you aren’t Mexican, just barely enough if you are though.
We sat in awkward silence for a moment, letting everything sit in the open. I wanted to ask him why they haven’t gotten a divorce yet.
“Are you dating anyone?” He added at the end before we could dwell too much.
As a closeted-something and a raised Catholic I try to keep my head down in these conversations. I’m only slightly ashamed of myself for my sexuality, but wildly more ashamed of the fact I wish I still knew how to pray. I want to be a part of something.
“¡AH! ¡VAMOS EQUIPO 14!” I screamed.
Group 14, which just won first prize in the junior division of sashimi fest 2024, looked just about everywhere besides me.
“Congratulations, you two must be so proud.” The man next to me beamed, assuming I was a proud family member or something to that extent.
“Oh, I don’t know them.”
The guy in front of us snorted, and his girlfriend laughed so hard that she doubled over and broke her heel. Why the hell did I tell them the truth?
When the festival ended, I needed a Coke. I earned one–for no particular reason other than simply being. I got myself turned around, just like Grandfather did earlier that day.
“You are lost?” A man asked in broken English, same color as me.
What the fuck.
