In April of 2002, I became an insider of a Mexican family. It was the difference between night and day, the stuff I was privy too, things I heard. More than anything, less lying.
Mexicans are marathon liars, most of which are what we call fibs in English, little white lies, not fatties like Hitler saying he has no plans to invade Poland, that he’s okay with the status quo. But, more often than not, asking a Mexican a question will produce an answer the responder feels most comfortable with, regardless of its connection to reality.
The day before my marriage in April of 2002, I received one set of information from the kin. The day after, I received a contrary set, all relating to the same topics. The change was drastic. They stopped lying to me. And that continues to this day.
Well, mostly. Lying is deeply ingrained in the Mexican culture.
I can be standing right there when, for example, someone asks my child bride something. She responds. Moments later, the questioner departs, and she turns to me and says exactly the opposite. She’s telling me the truth while she told the other person what she felt most comfortable with.
Mexicans loathe discord of any sort whatsoever.
I rarely write about my Mexican family here. I used to, years ago on the previous website, but I don’t now because it could be chancy. I like these people, mostly, and want to maintain harmony. Not one of them speaks English, but you never know.
Mexicans are famous for family ties. I imagine that’s a Latino thing, not just Mexican, but I only know Mexicans. I’ve long had a theory about this family fixation/obsession.
Mexican history has been tumultuous and violent. Corrupt governments have focused little on helping citizens. So the citizens are on their own, usually, and that makes family very important.
Not only have governments been unreliable, so has the Catholic Church. It’s corrupt too.
When my child bride first speaks in the morning after waking, it’s something about a relative. The last thing she talks about at night before turning out the light is something about a relative. Most of the conversation during the day concerns relatives.
I do not know if this is typical, but I suspect it’s quite common.
For contrast, let’s look at my last wife, the second one. She also was one of 10 children in a Catholic family, but they aren’t Latinos. The siblings were almost never topics of conversation.
My Mexican family has a difficult history, more so than most, I imagine. My child bride’s father was a family doctor/surgeon in a small town in the State of Michoacán. He kept his wife pregnant full-time till she died having the fifth baby. She was just 31. Stranded, he needed help fast, so he remarried quickly, not choosing too well, it turned out.
Take care when choosing spouses, something I learned late.
Take care when choosing spouses.
The baby assembly line resumed with the second wife. There were five more kids, splat, splat, splat, etc., plus a sixth out of wedlock from a girlfriend. Now we’re up to 11. The doc, to his credit, treated the 11th as an equal, no shirking of responsibility.
The 11th is now a locksmith in Morelia.
After his first wife died, due to the overload of kids, the doctor sent one to live with a sister, another to live with a brother, keeping three with himself and the new bride.
We are fewer now. Two were murdered in unrelated incidents. One died of a heart attack a couple of years ago in his early 50s. My child bride now has just two full siblings, four half siblings, plus one sibling of one quarter, the aforementioned locksmith.
Some are quite successful, and some are dirt poor. One half sister, a mechanical engineer, is married to a German and lives in Germany. One full sister has a degree in agronomy, though she’s never used it. One of the deceased brothers also was an agronomist, but he was murdered at age 26.
One half brother has a shady past that he abandoned many years ago, deciding to go straight. He owns a Chinese restaurant in Querétaro. Another half brother is in a wheelchair due to an affliction that was poorly treated in a government hospital. He is married to an indigenous woman from Oaxaca, and they own a laundromat in Querétaro.
A half brother and a half sister, one in Querétaro and the other in Morelia, are always just squeaking by, wondering where the next tortilla is coming from. Their lives never change. And it’s not circumstances or bad luck. It’s just them.
One full sister, the one deposited decades ago with her aunt when Mama died, owns a coffeeshop she inherited here on the mountaintop. The other full sister, with the agronomy degree, spent her work life as a rabble-rousing teacher. There was never a street protest or highway blockade that didn’t have her name on it.
She’s retired from that, and now owns a small store selling something or other. We do not get along, but it’s not due to her radical politics. It’s the same reason I don’t get along with my own sister: She screams at people. Never a good idea to scream at me.
It’s never a good idea to scream at me.
So what I lost family-wise above the Rio Bravo, a sister and a daughter, I have more than made up for down here with what seems to be 10,000 relatives who are the source of endless conversation. And I haven’t touched on the nieces, nephews and assorted spouses.
That would require an effort on the scale of War and Peace.