(November 16, 1942 – April 27, 2010)
“Si, Mi Vida, Lo Que Tu Digas”
Since I’m not going to be here on Fathers Day,tomorrow, and I really have nothing written about my biological father, I am going to include one of the stories from my book, “Going to Mexico,” about our Peace Corps host family “father.” In the Peace Corps, all volunteers need to stay with a host family for 3 months. The Lepe-Zepeda family, in Queretaro where we did our service, was our host family and we came to love them as kin.
| Papá Ricardo and Me |
After a few tequilas, with a straight face, he asked me who I thought had the last word in a Mexican matrimonial argument: the husband or the wife. Knowing that most Mexican families are strongly matriarchal, I answered that most likely it was the wife. “No,” said Ricardo, “the Mexican husband ALWAYS has the final word.” “And what is that?” I asked. “Si, mi vida, lo que tu digas,” he said with a rumbling chuckle. “Yes, my love, whatever you say.”
In what remains of this short portrait, I want to continue to share some aspects of Ricardo Lepe’s personality, which was dominated by humor. Having said that, I find it extremely difficult to sketch a funny human being with words and photos; humor has everything to do with nuances which can only be captured live or on video. Regardless the short comings of this portrayal, Ricardo left a huge impression on me. Ricardo celebrated his 67th birthday on November 16, 2009, in true Mexican fashion: a small fiesta with family, friends, a trio of guitar players and a very local famous singer—his lifetime companion, Maria Zepeda. Maria’s singing began as passable, but improved with each caballito of tequila, the traditional super shot. A caballito of tequila is frequently drunk the macho way by both men and women—neat and quick.
Even though Ricardo was only three months my senior, he was “Papá” to me. This stemmed largely from the fact that as part of the first three months of Peace Corps training, the Lepe Zepedas became our Mexican family. We lived with them, and Maria and Ricardo became our Mexican mamá and papá, their adult children, our siblings.
Ricardo was a great teacher of Mexican culture over the 2 1/2 years we knew him. He especially taught us about Mexican humor, all by example. He was a virtuoso in a culture that placed a very high premium on comic relief. Mexicans seem addicted to fun, and humor is a huge component of that. Everyone knew, remembered and told jokes of all types. The most painful to listen to for non-Spanish speakers were the shaggy dog stories that went on FOREVER, and were rarely, if ever, funny—at least to us English speakers. When the punch line was mercifully delivered, you would be the only person standing, mouth agape, usually because you didn’t know that it was the punch line while everyone else would be doubled over in convulsions of laughter.
Ricardo’s humor may, in part, have been due to his hangdog, Rodney Dangerfield deadpan expression. He was modestly overweight and even looked somewhat like Dangerfield. This tended to give me a warm, confident feeling when I was around him. It made me wish at times he’d pull me in and smother me in his bear-like embrace.
Prior to our arrival in México, the Peace Corps had arranged for all volunteers to live with a host family for three months. We were all nervous about where and with whom we would be living. We met our hosts, Papá Ricardo and Mamá Maria with some anxiety, on our second day in México, in the lobby of the Peace Corps office. Host families were there to meet their volunteers and escort them to their new homes. Ricardo grabbed our bags and began lugging them to his little car. Somewhere in that process, they both gave us huge welcoming hugs. Maria almost immediately told Sonya in the back seat during the short drive to their and our new home, “We love you.” Sonya was a little taken aback, but she instinctually knew that Maria meant it. Their home was on Alcatraz Street. Alcatraz, of course, is a famous prison in the United States, but in Spanish, paradoxically, it is a flower, a calla lily.
That first evening, we sat in their living room, and Ricardo and Maria introduced us to themselves as well as to ponche. Ponche is a traditional, homemade Mexican Christmas punch made with brandy and various fruits, including apples, oranges, guavas, and tejocotes (apple-pear combo), and brown sugar or pilloncillo, and cinnamon. But Ricardo also made his own special pomegranate and tequila concoction, which we liberally sampled. It was then that we became acutely aware of Ricardo’s excellent sense of humor.
After a few glasses of ponche and Ricardo’s home brew, we were feeling like we’d known each other for years despite the language barrier. We wandered downtown for an introduction to Querétaro’s night life. Even though it has been a decade since that first day with the Lepe Zepeda family, my recollection of it is crystal clear and not lacking considerable emotion.
With our three months of training completed, we needed to move out of the Lepe Zepeda’s home into more permanent quarters. It would have been a very sad day indeed had it not been for the fact that we moved just around the corner to Magnolias Street, only five minutes walk away. We got to see our adopted family regularly. Ricardo continued to be my favorite and most colorful Mexican friend.
Jokes, particularly doble sentidos (two interpretations), are a Mexican obsession. You cannot really appreciate the Mexican office environment or a fiesta without being able to tell and enjoy jokes, especially doble sentidos. When I attempted to retell a Mexican joke or the rare one of our own that I remembered or at least remembered everything except the most important part, the punchline, Mexicans were always polite and pretended to enjoy it, usually with a soft chuckle. Most of the time they were clueless as to the meaning, which was more likely due to my weak joke-telling and language skills. Sonya was better at both, so I functioned best as her laugh track, especially if her joke looked like it was going to flop.
Of all the jokes Ricardo told me, two stand out in my mind, and I actually remember their most critical details. Most likely due to Ricardo’s skill, these two jokes never failed to make us laugh each time we begged him to retell them. Both are about abused—or allegedly abused—husbands, a common theme in Mexican jokes. One is the story of a baseball catcher, Carlos, who habitually returned home drunk after games and continually got smacked across the head by his wife, Margarita, who kept a bat by the door for just such occasions. Carlos never got through the door if he was drunk—regardless whether the team had won or lost. Finally after one night when he had taken an exceptionally bad beating, one of his teammates recommended, “Carlos, why don’t you go back to the locker room and get your catcher’s mask and wear it home for protection tonight?” Carlos thought that was a great idea, so he did just that. When his wife came to the door, she looked at him weaving around on the stoop with his mask on and screamed, “Foul ball!” Up flew Carlos’s mask and “smack” went Margarita’s bat.
The second joke is about José, a jobless guy whose wife, Lupita, wants a divorce because José doesn’t do anything around the house except sit, watch TV and drink beer, with the family cat and dog snoozing on either side of his feet. He realizes he needs to see his priest to avert the divorce. After hearing his story, the priest says, “Well, José, why don’t you do some jobs around the house if you really want to save your marriage? You don’t work and your wife does.” José responds, “I can’t. I can’t even get up from my Lazy Boy recliner.” “What do you mean?” says the priest, “you’re not an invalid.” José counters, “Well, let me explain. In my left hand I have the remote, in my right hand the beer bottle, with my left foot I’m scratching the cat, and with my right foot the dog.” Apparently, neither man in either story tried, “Si, mi vida, lo que tu digas.”
Ricardo had a fascination for Sponge Bob, the bizarre children’s cartoon character, watching it with his grandchildren or even alone. I never saw it, but he did talk about Bob frequently. His pronunciation of “Spongay Boob” brings a smile to my face even now. I can still hear him, in his gravelly bass voice, telling me about Bob’s latest absurd antics.
Five months following his birthday fiesta, Papá Ricardo was dead of cancer. Maria invited us to visit Ricardo a week before his death, and he was still telling jokes, albeit in a more subdued voice, from his bottomless fountain of humor. I will always miss him, not just for his comedic nature, but for the truly wonderful, loving and generous person he was. He and Maria, and their eldest son, Beto, who lived with his parents at the time, Beto’s brothers and sons, accepted Sonya and me as members of their family from that very first moment we left the Peace Corps headquarters and drove home in their car.
At his wake, Sonya and I were surprised not only that it was held the very same day of his death, but to discover that very few people, if any, appeared to be grieving. In fact, most were even laughing and telling Ricardo stories, virtually none of which I understood. Consistent withthe Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration and Mexican philosophy, the wake revealed the striking difference between the way we Americans and the Mexicans view death. To Mexicans—predominantly Catholic—death is intended to be a celebration of life on earth, but perhaps more importantly, a better life ahead in heaven. That isn’t to say there wasn’t sadness and grieving; there definitely was at the somber mass held later for Ricardo, but even then the music theme was rock.
In consideration of death, of all the holidays and fiestas that Mexicans celebrate, the one that impresses me the most is Dia de los Muertos, held the two days following Halloween, November 1-2. I doubt we will ever celebrate in our country the demise of our loved ones by dancing, eating and drinking on their graves—and telling jokes. It is in no way macabre, but rather a very healthy way to keep deceased loved ones still in the minds and discussions of the living. As far as Ricardo is concerned, I will continue to celebrate his life by telling his story, and, however poorly, frequently trying to tell his jokes—if I don’t forget the punch lines.