By Joe Olvera ©, 2008
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Christmas 2008 and I’m still here, still kicking, albeit, without legs. Diabetes has left me without a leg to stand on. But, even this does not dampen my love for the holiday. On the contrary, I’m grateful that I’m still around to celebrate this Mother of all Holidays. Now aged 64 – going on 65 – I still recall with fondness Christmases past when my mother was alive. You see, she instilled in all eight of her children a love for this particular holiday.
Her Christmas joy knew no bounds as she went about the tasks of shopping for us for Christmas gifts, or setting up our tree. I always wanted her to put up the tree as soon as Thanksgiving was over, but not her. She always waited until about two weeks before Christmas to set it up. That was a joyful event because, poor as we were, we never suffered for celebrating the holiday. With mom in the kitchen baking donuts, or bunuelos – or was it sopaipillas – we felt the warmth that she brought to the occasion.
She loved the holiday because when she was a young girl, her father – who didn’t believe in celebrating any holiday – made them go without. Not one single little gift, even a dollar one, was to be found underneath the tree. Wait a minute, they didn’t even have a tree. Since my Pa Tano was the patriarch of the family, what he said went. If he said no celebration, there was no celebration. Even if my grandmother, Mama Cuy, had wanted to, Pa Tano said no, and his word was law.
Thus, my mom grew up without ever celebrating the great event. Her only gift was, perhaps, a bag full of candy, nuts and oranges from a kindly neighbor who knew of my grandfather’s raining on this parade. She would receive the bag of candy, as did her siblings. But, that was it. She always told us of how she made a promise to herself that when she married and had children, they would never suffer as she had. She developed a strong love for Christmas and never lost her enthusiasm, her joy.
In that early period in El Paso’s history, the world was so much different. El Paso was very different as well. In the early 1950s, say, 1952, when I was eight years old and an independent child, I would climb the blue bus to travel Downtown to take in all the sights. Really, I was that young – but, tall for my age, I guess I looked older.
Once Downtown, I would make my way to the Plaza de los Lagartos (you’ll never hear me call it San Jacinto Plaza), where I would gaze at the lazy alligators who posed no danger to visitors. A typical El Paso December meant there was plenty of sunshine. It only got cold at night, but, by then I was safely ensconced in our two-room apartment. But during the day, you could find me admiring the Christmas tree and all the lights at the Placita. Soon, however, it would be time for me to go to the Plaza Theater for my annual treat – watching the movie, "White Christmas." For a can of food, the theater would offer a full-day of movies and cartoons viewing.
I really could identify with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, as they prayed for snow so that their old World War II Army leader could make a go of his hotel/retreat. I was Mexican and had never lived amidst such luxurious surroundings, but our little adobe abode served its purpose – it kept us somewhat warm and protected from the elements. The movie "White Christmas" was, to me, the ultimate in Christmas movies. Bing Crosby singing White Christmas always brought a tear to my eye, and it still does.
After the movie, I would amble on El Paso Street, going south to other theaters that were more attuned to Mexicans – i.e., El Teatro Colon, El Alcazar (or El Calzetin), the Palace Theater, and others that don’t exist today. At the Colon there might be a movie starring Cantinflas, or Tin Tan. But, these weren’t Christmas movies – anyway, none that I can remember. Besides, I’d had my fill of Anglo-based Christmas movies, so that I was ready to laugh with my favorite Mexican comedians.
That was my life as a young Chicano, roaming the streets of El Paso. After my Downtown excursion, I would return home, glad of heart and happy for the season. My two room apartment (two rooms, not two bedrooms), was cozy and warm with laughter and joy as my brothers and sisters (seven of them) all rejoiced because we were together with mom and dad. The little tree that my mother placed on a small table by the window, served as a reminder that, yes, this was my home.
That little tree would greet me as I made my way on Rivera to Apt. 11, where we lived. But, you know, what really thrilled me was what my mother had hung on our door. It wasn’t fancy, and it wasn’t overly done – it was just a simple green wreath, with a red light bulb guiding me to that wooden door. That red bulb brought Christmas to my soul as no other object could’ve done. I knew this was my home, as I stepped inside to the warmth my mother and her joy provided. That little wreath with its red bulb – that was Christmas for me. That little red bulb made me glad and happy. I was home once again.
Sin Fin
