Tijuana Gringo |
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The resemblance was amazing. I'd always known she looked like family, but seeing them together was something else.
I was walking up toward them, carrying three margaritas. Came into their conversation just as Maria was asking, "...and Miguel tells me that you and his father had Spanish ancestors in New Orleans. Ah, gracias, Miguel."
"Yes," my aunt nodded, also accepting a drink, "most people think of New Orleans as a French city -- which it was -- but, at the end of the 18th century, it was briefly ruled by Spain -- because of some European politics which I don't exactly remember. Napoleon eventually got it back and sold it to Thomas Jefferson. Anyway, during those few decades of Spanish rule before Napolean, our ancestors moved there from Mexico."
"Oh? From Mexico, not Spain?"
"Right. They were members of a family named Gandolin."
Maria gasped, "But that was my grandmother's name!"
Jessica smiled, "And my ancestors, mine and Michael's, moved to New Orleans from San Luis Potosi -- which I understand is where your family came from?"
My love blinked, then laughed, "Yes! Yes!"
I felt my mother arrive behind me, and realized she must have heard the last exchange. She asked the question on my mind, "Could you both be from the same family, then?"
Maria nodded, "Sí, es cierto, yes, it's certain. My grandmother told me that all the Gandolins in San Luis were related, from as far back as just after the conquest. Which means that were are something like cousins!"
My mother shook her head, "And that might explain the resemblance you two bear for each other, eh?"
Aunt Jessie peered at my Maria, than at me, "Yes. I think it might. Sometimes these genetic things jump around several generations. My mother, for example, used to tell me I looked more like her grandmother than her.
Maria laughed again, "How odd! My mother used to say that her mother said the same thing!"
"Well, there you are." She raised her glass to her newfound cousin, "Soon you'll be calling me aunt Jessica!"
"Especially if we get married," I said.
My mother cleared her throat, "Yes, well, certainly that, if. Or when. Buy may I ask, Maria, if you resemble your father?"
"I don't think I do. But, you see, I never really knew him. I've only seen pictures, and he died when I was young, shortly after my mother and he were divorced."
"Oh... I'm sorry."
"Mmm. Yes. My mother found out he was unfaithful to her, even while she was in labor with me, and well...."
Silence. Finally my aunt said, "That was rather independent of her. It could not have been easy, but I approve."
"You're right. It wasn't easy. Even in 1972, divorce was not very accepted? Acceptable? In Mexico."
"No."
My mother spoke up. I sensed she wanted to change the subject. "You were born the same week as my son, no?"
Yes. In October 1972. In Tijuana."
My aunt Jessica blinked, and then slowly, carefully said, "Not in San Luis Potosi?"
No. My grandmother's family came up from San Luis in the 1920s, and stayed. My mother was born here -- on the frontier, that is -- in 1950.
"Michael -- why didn't you invite her mother here today?"
Maria came to my rescue: "Oh, she's not here now. Went back to San Luis five years ago, after she inherited some property from her uncle. A hotel and house. She had always dreamed of going back -- only remembered it from trips, but leapt at the chance to manage the property, instead of selling it to some other cousins. The hotel used to be the family mansion, two hundred years ago. Quite historic. But..." she paused, took my arm, "she is coming up to visit me next week... wants to meet Michael and his family."
"Ah... well, we look forward to meeting her then!"
"Yes."
My aunt turned toward me -- "Michael, if you're interested, I have some genealogy notes my grandmother wrote." Then her voice lowered, and she sounded almost worried, "and some letters you father wrote me from Vietnam. I don't know if I've ever shown them to you."
"No. Yes. Thank you. I would like that."