May 2011
Hola otra vez tía Sonia,
I wish that I could visit you but my mom is scared to send me to Morelos, Mexico. She says it’s too dangerous for me to go alone, especially since I would have to land in Mexico City. I’m too “immature” to handle myself over there, which I think is just silly because everyone says I have an old soul. I think I can also speak Spanish way better than my friends and family. Mi prima dice no sabo cuando yo se que la manera correcta es no sé.
I think I would really fit in over there tía, and I want to meet all of my cousins. My mom tells me stories about her childhood — swimming in the river, climbing up mango trees and swatting snakes in the head with Papa Bencho. Mami said she would reconsider when I become a teenager, and I can’t wait for that day to come. I really hope that I can see you one day. ¡Saludos a mis primas, tío Ricardo y Abuelita!
Con amor desde “el Norte,”
Gael
***
October 2012
Querido Papa Bencho,
Your death was the first time I could ever remember my mom crying. I wish that I would have been able to meet you — Mami speaks very highly of you and says that I should have your commitment to family. Most of her “pueblo sayings” come from you: “Como antes decía tu Papa Bencho.” You were a comedian, the apple of my mother’s eye. I remember the phone call vividly — I think that I always will. We were watching Pequeños Gigantes on Univision as usual when the landline rang. Tía Tencha’s calling was never anything strange; I assumed that she had extra pan de muerto to give us that doña Julia had made. The sound of my mother’s scream still sends shivers down my spine. I knew something was wrong, but I could never imagine what. I’d never been to a rezo católico (Catholic wake) but seeing the altar set up made it all feel real — your picture in that wooden frame is engraved in my memory. You and Mama Yema reminded me of that painting my art teacher showed us in class of the man with the pitchfork with his wife beside me. I had a tamal de queso upstairs while I heard the litanies being prayed from the distance:
“Santa María Madre De Dios, ruega por el
San Miguel, ruega por el
Todos los Santos Ángeles y Arcángeles, rueguen por el.”
I later found out that you died of tuberculosis, and tía Tencha says it was completely preventable. Your death should have never happened. I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, but I want to be able to help people like you, Papá. How could a treatable disease take your life? How can I stop something like this from happening to other people? I’m determined to find out; you’ve inspired me, Papá.
With sorrow,
Your great-grandson
***
September 2021
Abuelito Federico,
My mind occasionally wanders back to that video call; it was too much for Mami and me to see. My heart wanted to say that it wasn’t goodbye, but my mind knew the truth. You laid on that mat on the floor still beaming with joy when you saw me. Your voice was faint but you still said how proud you were of me and how much faith you had that I would be able to accomplish anything. We still had hope that you would be able to beat your cancer after being discharged from the hospital, but the damage was already done. I wish that I could have been there instead of staring in disbelief at the picture that tía Sonia sent of you confined to the stretcher with all of those tubes, tanks and needles projecting out of you. The death of tío Cristian is still fresh in our minds; Mami has now lost her father and brother. Like always, she does her best to stay strong for the rest of the family, but I know that behind her facade is true pain that I hope to never understand.
You were a true source of light and inspiration for me, Abuelito. A man who built a life for himself with his own two hands, defying the circumstances that coastal Oaxaca provided you with. Mami always said that she saw you in me, both in my physical appearance and how I carry myself in the work that I do. Growing up, Mami would always recite Acts 13:22 to me: After removing Saul, he made David their king. God testified concerning him: ‘I have found David son of Jesse, a man after my own heart; he will do everything I want him to do.’ She said that the verse reminded her of you, a man after God’s own heart. She wishes that I follow in your footsteps of being a joyful person who enriches the lives of others around him.
En fortaleza,
Gael
***
August 2022
Yethzy!
It’s been a while since we last talked, but my affection for you remains the same. Whenever I hear about your life through my mom or Facebook, I feel more and more like a bystander watching you grow from afar. Your children are adorable and there’s nothing I would want more than to be able to give them a giant hug, so could you please do that for me?
I remember when my mom told me “Mijo, eres un tío” when I was still a child myself. I couldn’t believe it but I forgot that our age gap makes that possible, despite being in the same generation of the family. I was reminiscing on some of our old phone conversations the other day after my parents helped me clean my room. My dad tried throwing out a drawing that you sent me of Dora the Explorer and Boots, but I stopped him; I still carry those memories with me. It feels like only yesterday when you and your sister were asking me to sing the alphabet to you in English since your curiosity about my life was so uncontrollable. Our lives have taken such different paths, yet the mutual care that we share stretches across the 2,000 miles that we are apart. You’re always more than welcome to send me a message; I’ve always got your back.
Love you primis,
Gaelito
***
May 2023
Estimada Mama Ofelia,
I come home from volunteering at the local middle school’s spring concert. I see my mother praising God for his goodness: You’re dead. Papi’s confused as to what kind of novel grieving process this is, why my mom isn’t sad about losing her grandmother, but the truth is that you were in pain for so long. I joined in with her — it was our responsibility to be the ones who highlight the positive side of things amidst the darkness.
The funeral is over now. I sat with my parents, cousin and aunts in the living room watching the procession over a grainy WhatsApp video call. None of us have truly processed the fact that you, Mama Bella, are no longer with us. Even as the rezo goes on in the backyard of tía Dominga’s house, I fail to recognize the fact that someone died. I walked in and was immediately greeted with tamales, conchas and hot chocolate, which were all characteristic of a Mexican funeral but weren’t helping me realize anything was wrong.
It wasn’t until the burial that it all finally sank in. As the men lowered the coffin to the ground, none of us could contain ourselves anymore. I never got to meet you and we never were in constant contact, but the affection I have for you remains the same. How my aunts would talk (and worry) about you my whole life showed me how loved you were and still are. I’m 100 percent sure you’re in a better place and I hope to see you there one day.
Con mucho cariño,
Gael
***
July 2023
Mama Laia:
It would have been a pleasure to meet you. My knowledge of you is limited, but you were the matriarch of the Moreno family, so I feel drawn to learn more about your life. The things Papi has told me about his side of the family back in Mexico are limited. I know that you became his guardian and that he was raised alongside his uncles with you in Oaxaca until you moved to Mexico City. I know that you ran a successful pork business in our hometown and also why my dad has always had an aversion to tacos al pastor and chorizo con huevos, even though they’re some of his favorite foods. You’re also the reason why everyone we meet seems to have some idea of who my dad is. No party passes without this happening:
“¡Hola, Miguel! Como que se me hace tu cara conocida. De donde eres?”
“A poco, bueno yo soy de Mesones.”
“Ya se de donde te conozco! Eres nieto de doña Candelaria?”
“Si, ella mera.”
“Hijo de doña Chabela?”
“Si.”
You’re a mystery to me, Mama Laia. You died during the pandemic, but I don’t know of what — I would assume of natural causes but I think this one will be another unanswered question for the ages. I wish you could tell me more about mis tíos and what Papi was like growing up, but obviously, that’s not possible anymore. We are family and for that I’m grateful.
Attentamente,
Gael González De la Luz
***
December 2023
Para mi adorada Mama Yema,
I don’t even know where to begin. The love, admiration and respect that I have for you are immeasurable. My heart aches at the fact that it will still be years until I can see you face-to-face. Your 98th birthday is coming up in just a few months and your energy despite your age continues to amaze me. Mami always talks about the love that you gave her growing up when she needed it the most (and though neither of you has ever said it out loud, she’s definitely the favorite granddaughter). There’s nothing that you wouldn’t give for your family and I wish I was more like that — instead, Mami still intermittently scolds me for not being more dedicated to everyone else.
You’re the one who brings us all together, the figurehead that we all rally around. It’s been over two decades since Mami last saw you and we both know each other through only our phone calls and pictures sent from special occasions. Despite this, I see myself in you. Though I might look like my father on the outside, I am my mother on the inside and she’s just like you. The beauty and tragedy of family are within our shared characteristics: I am strong, kind, stubborn and short-tempered. I embrace it all as a way of learning from the mistakes of previous generations; I know that I will stumble along the way myself, but I was taught to see la lección en las experiencias ajenas.
Here’s to the most admirable woman in all of Mexico, Guillerma Rodriguez Angón!
Gracias por todo,
Gael
MiC Columnist Gael Gonzalez-DeLaLuz can be reached at gaelgd@med.umich.edu.