Friday, September 11, 2015


It’s been 14 years since the 9/11 attacks. A whole world changed on one Tuesday morning.  It’s easy, nowadays, to lose sight of what the attacks meant.  It’s easy to argue over semantics, over who caused it, what was the motives, was it a conspiracy, was it an inside job, could jet fuel melt the steel, etc, but  in doing so, and in arguing and placing blame—well deserved blame, I might add—we mustn’t lose sight of the way that we felt that day.  We mustn’t get so caught up in pointing fingers, and repeating empty phrases that we forget the magnitude of the tragedy that occurred on that morning.
On September 11, 2001, I was a sophomore at Nixon High School.  I, like everyone else who was of a cognizant age, vividly recall that morning: the air, the mood, the somberness.   I remember getting to school in typical Luis fashion: late.   I remember getting dressed in a hurry, and hearing something on the news, but not paying attention to it. On the drive, I was listening to a CD so I didn’t hear the radio news.  It wasn’t until I was in Ms. Scaggs room for BCIS that I, that we, saw the news.   I don’t remember if there was an announcement or if another teacher came into the room, but we were alerted to turn on the TV.  On the screen we saw what everyone else saw. We saw the crashes, we saw the towers ablaze, we saw the towers fall.
For what seemed like an eternity an entire high school was silent: awestruck.  Nobody could grasp the immensity of the matter. We knew that there were countless deaths , that countless more deaths were to follow, we knew—we felt—that things wouldn’t be the same when we woke up. I worried about my then-brother-in-law Achim who worked in the world trade complex (but not in one of those buildings) and I worried about my sister—his wife.   I remember stepping out of Mrs. Scaggs room, no instruction given, no work done. It didn’t matter for that day.  I remember walking across the Nixon courtyard crossing from one building to the next.  I remember “Proud to be an American” playing on the speakers as thousands of teenagers changed classrooms in practical silence.  I remember the ominous mood that loomed over our lives, over our existence. I remember feeling like I was in a movie, like this was the introduction to the main conflict that Bruce Willis or Will Smith would sort out within the span of 90minutes. I remember knowing that that hero would never come.
It’s been 14 years since the 9/11 attacks. Our post-9/11 world is a stark contrast of the world before. For the better? I’ll leave that up to you to decide. But while you do, don’t forget the fallen, don’t forget day, but mostly don’t forget how it felt.

Monday, July 27, 2015


It trickled down my face and off my nose. That always made me slightly smirk as it tickled my nostrils on the way down.  There's always something special about feeling that first drop. It's almost as if the sky is giving you a personal invitation to experience what inevitably lies ahead.  The skies parted and drops of rain began to fall. Plop, plop, PLOP! they went all around me--precursors of what's to come.  Then the gushing torrents began. The wind began to pick up speed and my hair began to fly in its wake.  Thunder crackled and lightning flashed in the grey marble sky while small branches started to surrender to the wind and rain.  I stood in my yard soaking it all up. I felt a drop trickle down my face and off my nose.  I smirked.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Tia Cuca

Fourth of July can mean a lot of things. It can mean our nation's independence, it can mean hot dogs, beer, swimming and bar b q's and it can mean fireworks. But, to me, above all else, it will always mean my Tia Cuca's birthday.

Now, don't get me wrong, upon instinct, if someone says "the fourth of July" I'm naturally inclined to think "independence day".  But, part of me still thinks otherwise. There's a part of me that ignores the trivial blind patriotism, the fireworks and the bbq's and reflects on an older time.     A part of me always thinks back to my Tia Cuca and my Tio Pablo, both huge parts of my growing up.  

Now, when most people say "growing up" they mean getting older in age. Growing up, to me, in this instance, is much different.  When I state that Tia Cuca and Tio Pablo helped me grow up  I mean that they helped me become the person I am today. They helped shaped my ideals, my habits, my sense of right and wrong. They helped shaped what I believed a person should be.

Growing up, Tia Cuca wasn't at first, my favorite aunt--as a matter of fact, she wasn't technically my aunt. She was my dad's aunt. So, she was my great-aunt.  We would always visit Tio Pablo and Tia Cuca at her house close by Nixon.  We'd visit her perfectly arranged living room, take drinks from her spotless kitchen, and play in the clutter free back yard.   Yes, Tia Cuca was a no-nonsense kind of woman.   She had expectations of us as children and we better meet them if we were at her house or she was going to let us know about it.  Now, that isn't to say that she was mean to us by any means.   That's the thing about Tia Cuca she was always so pleasant, even at times when she was at her sternest and she'd be lecturing me, she was never scary. She never raised her voice. Never yelled at us.

I remember Tia Cuca for many reason, that I'll go into in detail in a bit. But the main thing I remember her for, aside from being a loving human being, was the discipline that she instilled in me as a child.   There were many times when I was acting like a brat and Tia Cuca would pull me aside and talk to me like an adult and explain why what I was doing was wrong and how I should act to make my mom and dad's life easier and to be a better person.   It is for this that I am eternally grateful for. She taught me patience and respect and  these are lessons that I still carry with me to this day.   TBC

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Nuevo Laredo

     It's been two years since I've ventured into Nuevo Laredo.  Even at that the last visit was prompted only because one of my dearest and most beloved relatives, mi Tia Eva, had been hospitalized and was going to get surgery.  But prior to that and for the two years after that day, Mexico was essentially off limits.
     The stories of cartel violence, murder, and extortion were enough to drive even the most staunch of Nuevo Laredoans to cross the border to a safer place--those that could afford it that is.   The rest of the city, those that refuse to leave or that couldn't leave for legal or financial issued were forced to cope with a culture of violence, fear and constant militant presence.   The corruption and fear instilled in the people of the government and law enforcement made it difficult to trust those who were not close to you and--for an outsider--left a terrifying mystique around a city whose culture use to by synonymous with our own.   The once vibrant and lucid sister city to Laredo, Texas was always boastful of its rich culture, its superb nightlife and tourism, its customs and traditions, it's outgoing and entrepreneurial people, and its excellent, excellent food.  It's American counterpart had always been somewhat lacking in all of those areas leaning towards commercialism and the American way.    But now, Nuevo Laredo stood as a shadow of its former self.  The jovial ambiance replaced with despondency, fear and worry.  The busy hustling and bustling replaced with quick shuffles in and out of shops never before sunset.
     For a long time, it seemed that things would not be getting any time soon. There were times when even my students that hailed from Mexico would not want to cross the border in fear of their own home town. Things looked pretty dim.  
     Flash forward two years and two months to the present day.   When my sister told me about her intention of going to Nuevo Laredo to get a dental procedure I must admit that I was more worried than I would admit to myself. When she said my mom was going and invited me along I couldn't pass up the chance to spend some time with my family in a city and area where I had so many found memories of just across the Rio Grande.  It being summer and having a free schedule I decided to tag along.  
     We left early in the morning---well, early in the morning for my sister and I--dropped off my niece at daycare and went to my mom's house.  My mom was going to drive us in her car.  This also marked the first time in more than two years that we had actually ventured by car across--the limited times we had scurried across the border were on foot and were quick excursions.  
     As we crossed the border into Mexico we took in the familiar sights:  the white structure where the Mexican government inspects vehicles, the Casa de cambio, the soldiers with their automatic weapons and camo ready to go at a moments notice.  These things had been seen a hundred times before and were nothing different and nothing out of the ordinary.   What was different about today, and I might be idealizing this a bit, is the ambiance and the feel of the city.  As we depart the first road into Mexico and turn onto Guerrero street it seemed like the Nuevo Laredo of old.  People of all ages and sizes busily walked in and out of shops, buying elotes, tacos, aguas, sodas,  crossing the street without looking in any direction, the big bulky, noisy buses trammed along like amusement park rides.  The atmosphere was relaxed.  The soldiers that previously occupied every corner of the downtown area were not there. Sure, there were some soldiers,  but their appearance was hardly noticeable.  The police state of Nuevo Laredo has significantly been decreased.   As I kept looking around we see plenty of cars with both American and Mexican license plates driving like maniacs up and down the main roads in downtown.  We like so many others scoured the curbs for open parking spaces, a helpful guide always willing to help us find a spot, reverse, and take care of our care in the hopes of getting a few pesos as compensation when we left.  
     My sister's dental procedure went by remarkably fast and we were on our way to the shops soon after.  My mom, my sister, and I drove and walked down the very streets where I would walk in as a child, my hand in my mom's or dad's. We wandered past shops that have been there for years, decades even before I was even born.   We even made a few purchases.  
   Soon after the shops, we stopped by La Siberia, a Nuevo Laredo staple and a family favorite.  The menu is limited: tostadas, tacos, or caldo.   That's it. Three items, few variations, all delicious.   In a throwback to my youth, I ordered a tostada and a Joya de manzana. My mom ordered the same and my sister ordered a soup--poor soul, I know she really wanted a tostada but she did just have dental surgery.   We sat there. We ate. We laughed. We reminisced.   We watched the lunch rush come in and quickly fill out the place.
     On the way back to the car, we stumbled across a nieve de barril and I had to get one of the famous nieve de limon. My sister and I agreed to share and we made our purchase and like when we were younger, followed our mom back to her car.
    As we made our way back to the bridge, turning and weaving across long forlorn but familiar streets I couldn't help but smile.  These streets with their pinata shops, and fruit stands, and photography studios, it's beggars and it's salesman, the tourists and the locals all seemed normal again.  This looked and felt like the Nuevo Laredo of old. And while things aren't exactly as they were, things are getting back to what they should be.  Nuevo Laredo appears to me, from this short visit, but be recovering, it's people getting back into the groove of a new-old 'normal'.  Whatever the cause, I hope it's true and I hope it lasts.  Nuevo Laredo deserves it's second chance. Nuevo Laredo deserves its renaissance.