I grew up in a very, very, very Catholic household, school, and country (not sure which is the correct order). Did you know that Mexico is 92% Catholic? The Spanish were fast and furious and the indigenous people had no way out of it. But the Catholic legacy is deeply imbued in the Mexican culture and I certainly grew up that way. My father was a man of strong faith and also a man who held very traditional values. He would take us mass every single Sunday at 9:00 am, we wouldn’t miss one! There we would go, marching to Church with my brother, my sisters and my mother. He would make sure we could all sit together, mostly so he could keep an eye on us. Even when you would swear he wasn’t watching you, he was. If we were out of line somehow, he would tap our shoulders (not softly). God forbid if we got distracted and weren’t participating in the singing or the praying!
But for me, getting distracted was my strength! Especially when I was supposed to sit still during mass. I actually loved sitting in the Church with all these Saints around us. The Church was even named after a Saint, La Parroquia de San Miguel del Espiritu Santo. It was old and very ornate. If you know anything about Catholic churches, they are the most decorous of all. In fact, the realistic Jesus Christ on the cross, the altars, the pious imagery of the Saints, they all pull us in and make us feel so elevated in our faith- or at least me! The light would radiate through the stained glass, giving the space a very holy and mystical vibe. The smell of incense being waved through swinging incensario would waft down the pews and would make me feel high! All of these things, plus being with my family would make me feel fidgety and anxious to go play and yet I would also feel in awe and committed to a pious life all at the same time!
Everytime we would have to stand, kneel, or sit back down there would be creaking and cracking sounds coming from the old benches and the wood floors, so I would have to move my body as little as possible. As you can imagine this was very challenging as a little girl!
I do confess even back then I would look at people’s shoes when they were passing by me on the way to take communion. Little girl me would literally be judgmental, “why does she wear those ugly shoes?!!” But my dad’s strict shoulder tap would bring me back to the singing and the praying. Oops!!! Yes, yes! I would genuflect to make my dad think I was being very serious and holy.
My mother, in her impeccable pink lipstick, was the most faithful looking of all of us. I think it was her time to get a little break from all the kids when my dad would proudly take over as the boss and she could finally cruise, if we behaved of course. She would look like she was deep in devotional prayer; her lips would move but she would only emit little whispered words that would spill out of her mouth, a trail of nonstop prayer.
Outside the Church was very lively. I loved the time AFTER mass too. There were vendors selling little Mexican toys. I mean really little Mexican toys: teeny tiny plates and jugs and mugs, the size of a button, made in the classic mud ceramic that would enrapture any little girl. I would jump up and down, asking my dad to buy me a set! I could fit the whole set in my small hands. They weren’t very useful but they were and continue to be the cutest thing I’ve seen in my life! You would also see the same man who was born without limbs. He would sit on a piece of wood that had wheels and that was how he would move around too, skating outside the Church, asking for alms. All of us little kids would ruthlessly stare at him with no shame to speak of, until he would notice and meet our eyes, and we would quickly divert back to the mini ceramic vendors. The flower vendor would be out also, and my father bought a bouquet every Sunday so we could take flowers to the cemetery to pay our respects to those who had passed. The Pantheon de Belen is now a historic cemetery in Guadalajara right in the heart of the hustle and bustle of the city, and is even a museum.
Because of the hyper personality that I have, I would always nominate myself to clean up the dead flowers, change the water, and create beautiful arrangements of what was there. As you can see, I always loved merchandising, even as a little girl. I much preferred that than having to stand in prayer for a while!
I would amuse myself reading the epitaphs on the tombstones: “To my lovely wife who is waiting for me in Heaven, may she rest in peace.” “Dona Teresa will always be in our hearts as a wonderful daughter, wife, mother, sister, cousin, aunt, grandmother, great grandmother, and devoted Catholic.” “Rest, dear father in peace and love.” I would wonder what would be on my own tombstone, I was only a little girl, what could an epitaph possibly say about me?! To this day I love visiting cemeteries, they hold so much history. I especially love it when they’re in the middle of a busy city. When you step onto a cemetery in the city, all the loud city sounds get silenced by the quiet and reflective nature we embody when we are surrounded by old tombs and mausoleums.
Cemeteries or Pantheons are a very important part of the history of any city, town, country. Perhaps since I grew up like that, visiting cemeteries in other countries is something that interests me. In some towns in Colombia they paint the tomb in the favorite color of the person. The assortment of so many colors makes the place very festive. In Argentina at the heart of Buenos Aires is La Recoleta, and the Mausoleos are impressive. If you peek through the glass you can see the coffins on display, going back many, many years. It is very strange to be in a crowded area in the center of the city, but when you are in the cemetery there is a strong loud silence. In New Mexico we have small towns with very humble cemeteries nevertheless they have their own beauty …
After our pious Sunday morning, my lovely mother with her flawless lips would take us to spend the rest of the Sunday at my uncle’s summer house at the lake Cajititlan. Here we would let go and have fun! All the rigidity, all the decor, was left in the city and we would get to swim, kayak, play cards, eat great food and be plain ol’ lazy!
I think I know now what I want my epitaph to say. My cremated self can fit inside of a hand carved wooden box (the like of a shoe box), painted the same pink color my mother wore on her lips, and the epitaph would read: “THERE ARE NO PROBLEMS, ONLY OPPORTUNITIES. “
What would yours say?
Feel free to write to me directly at guadalupej4k@gmail.com.