Growing up Mexican continued...

El Guapo remembers.

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Growing up Mexican meant growing up catholic.

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The Mexican child learns how to bless himself at an early age. "Persinate" my mother would say. A simple sign of the cross wasn't ever used. A nine point sign of the cross was oh so popular. First, a small cross on the forehead, then down to the lips and cheek area for another, then the third one over the heart. If the child was too young, my mother or one of us had to do it for him. This was usually before bed.

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Sunday was for church. In the early days we had to travel all the way to the church that had a spanish mass. It meant, a two bus ride to St. Francis of Assisi parish, a long mass, and plenty of singing. (Nuestro Senor Senor is a tune that won't go away.) My parents usually made a day of it since the"Garra" was only a block away. (Several streets were lined with vendors of every kind. There were even old black men playing guitars and singing the "blues.")

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As soon as I was old enough, I joined the altar boys. I thought this was neat until I had to learn the mass in latin (Dominus Vobiscum..... Oremus....) and get up early enough for the 6 a.m. mass twice a week. At least it was at the parish church where my siblings and I attended school. It was only a six block walk. The church was fire bombed one morning and we altar boys were mentioned by the newsman for helping get the old ladies and the holy stuff out of the building.

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My mother was an old fashioned catholic. Whenever the occasion called for it, all the ladies would gather at our apartment for a novena. A novena is a ritual where certain prayers are repeated over and over again. This seemed to last for hours. We had to kneel on the bare floor. No pillows were allowed. No leaning back on your heels, either. A novena lasted nine days in a row and could be used for both celebrating or mourning. My father and the other men never stayed past the greetings. I guess it was a women and children thing.

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Apparently, the parish noticed my potential, by sixth grade, I was doing the "reading of the epistle of blessed Paul the apostle, brethren...." during Sunday mass. My mother was so proud.

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She was proud of me. She was proud of being Catholic. She was proud of being Mexican.

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So am I.