Why I haven't written much lately...

I am supposed to post a blog by Tuesday of every week. It's my personal goal. It started out as Sunday… I was supposed to spend Sundays writing. That idea worked all of a couple of weeks. It's hard now because Sundays are my only days off. So every Sunday, when my dad asks me if I want to go to the movies, I find it hard to say no. You see, I love going to the movies. And so does my dad. I think it's a genetic trait.
So, since I generally agree, our trips are now becoming a tradition. On Sundays, we take a trip to the Bijou. To me, the Bijou and Alamo Drafthouse are two of the most ingenious places ever built. Being able to sit in a movie theatre and eat a real meal, not just popcorn and candy, while watching a movie on the big screen! Talk about sheer bliss!

But for my father, I think it's a different experience altogether. To him, I believe going to the movies, or just going out in general, is something he totally appreciates as the utmost of luxuries. Not to sound cliché, but he grew up dirt poor in Mexico, and never wore shoes until he was sixteen. Because of having to endure so many hardships, he's come to appreciate the niceties in life. And even though he's traveled around the world (when he was in the military), there are still some things that act as a testimony to a certain humbleness within him.

On one of our weekly excursions, we bought tickets for "The Namesake," and immediately found our ideal seats, mid-center. My father did not neglect to mention how comfortable the semi-reclining seats were. The long sigh he let out as he leaned back reinforced his approval. We feasted on hamburgers and gyros with side salads while we lounged in the comfort of plush, velvet seats and watched the movie.

When it was over, my father boyishly suggested, "Wanna make it a double feature?" I didn't need convincing. I happily agreed.

It would be half an hour till our next movie, so we decided to take a walk. We strolled on over to the SuperTarget next door, where my father purchased some Tylenol for a light headache and a bottle of water. While walking back to the theatre, he painstakingly fished two tablets out of the Tylenol bottle and took a swig of his water to wash them down.

"Oooohh! I thought I bought water!" he said curiously examining the bottle.
"It IS water," I said. "Flavored water."
"Oh!" he said delightfully, taking another swig, savoring it as if it were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. "Do you think they'll let me take this into the theatre?"
"I could put it in my purse," I offered.

As he clutched the bottle, he seemed hesitant. It was then that I understood that keeping the drink was very important to him. He expressed how much he enjoyed the flavor, and how he didn't want to risk it getting taken away, or being forced to dispose of it. So, I told him if he wanted, we could just put the bottle in the car since we had time. He eagerly agreed, and we walked to my car, where he carefully placed the bottle in the cup holder, almost as if he was afraid that someone might tip it over in his absence.

When we entered the theatre again, we both contemplated having another snack, so we stopped at the concession stand. My father had his eye on some cookies he saw in a case behind the counter. Apparently, they seemed too good to be true because he asked the guy at the register, "Are those cookies real or are they decoration?"
"They're real," replied the guy, trying to control his smirk.
While I made up my mind about what I wanted, my father decisively said, "Okay, then I'll have one of those cookies. But do I get the whole one, or do you cut it in slices?"
Apparently, it was not the cookies themselves, but the size of them that he found unbelievable.
I couldn't help but chuckle at the sincerity of his question.
"Yes, you get the WHOLE cookie," I said.
When we were finally in the theatre, he offered me a piece. I declined. At the end of the movie, I noticed that he had wrapped the remainder of the cookie in the paper envelope that he received it in. He had folded the envelope over in an attempt to preserve what was left.
Then I remembered how he told me once of so many nights in his childhood when he would arrive home, after a long day of working in sweltering heat, picking crops in dusty fields, and he would check the canasta that dangled on a long rope from the ceiling. If he was fortunate, there might be a tortilla sealed within it, out of reach from ants and other bugs that might plague his family's home. But oftentimes, there would not even be that much. So he would lie down on a dirt floor, hoping that his tired, aching body would lull him into a deep sleep where he could no longer feel hunger pangs.

Growing up, I was never allowed to say I was hungry. According to my father, I did not know hunger. As long as there were items in the refrigerator or pantry, no matter what they were, I could not be hungry. Being picky was not an option. To say no to food, in the name of being finicky, meant that my hunger was not real. An actual hungry person would eat anything.

I also remembered being reprimanded if I ever asked for permission to eat something out of the refrigerator whenever I visited him on weekends or during the summer. "Mija, the food is there for a reason. So you can eat it. If you're hungry, you eat. You don't need to ask," he would say sternly.
I realize now that his reproach was his way of denouncing the past. It was his attempt to ensure that his children would never suffer the way he did.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe this is why so many of our elders find it hard to waste food. My grandfather and great aunts and uncles, who grew up during the Great Depression, learned to be frugal out of necessity. They weren't pinching pennies to go on a cruise to the Bahamas. Their big splurge was simply feeding the entire family. And after a lifetime of not knowing when or if there would be another meal, conserving whatever morsels were left became a force of habit, a rule of survival.

Surprisingly, these traits get passed on. However, the reason or logic behind wrapping food up and saving it for later is lost in habitual warnings--"There are children starving in Africa!"

The personal experience fades, and we are separated from the reality of being connected to people who actually HAVE experienced hunger. They have nothing to do with us. They are in another country, where things like that CAN happen to people we don't know, but not to us.
Still, we hold onto the habit. Or, at least, some of us do. I find it hard to eat at a Chinese buffet without wanting to wrap things up in a napkin to put them in my purse rather than throw them away. I have to fight an incredibly impulsive urge to refrain from carrying Ziploc baggies around with me for just such an occasion. To do so would be humorous, and probably embarrassing. But I have to ask myself why? Why is it wrong or amusing to save food? Why do we take pride in extravagance, but hold little regard for conservation?

My Tia Tonia was infamous for taking all the packets of sugar from restaurant tables any time my mother would take her and my great-grandmother out to eat. It's okay, mijita. Acabo ya pagamos por todo, she would say as she stuffed everything into her purse. (It's okay. We've already paid for everything any way.)

The whole family used to tell stories of her penny-pinching ways, never realizing that her frugality was a testament to a difficult past rather than a mere reflection of greed. To this day, the family still shares stories of her "crazy" ways. Everyone always finds the memories amusing. But how I regret never having sat down with her to ask her what she went through in those days. How I regret not ever hearing her side of the story.

All this goes through my head as I spend the day at the movies with my father. I wonder if there will ever be a question that I will regret not having asked him or something that I will never get to say. How many times have I misunderstood his reasons for acting a certain way or for doing certain things? I ponder his ways. I reflect on what he says and watch what he does.

Still my words and my thoughts are "saved" in my head, rather than spoken out loud. I can never bring myself to actually say what I think or how I feel, and my words have become as scarce as the meals in my father's childhood. My thoughts are preserved in much the same way as the remnants of his snack. They are folded into the recesses of my mind so that I may savor them later. And with each moment I spend with him, I add more to my pantry of memories and less to the blank page.