all pics of the baby...
Sunday, May 4, 2008
nena-nena-buh-nena-fee-fi-mo-mena... NENA
We all have something to cling to our childhood; my gramma Gonzaga made me this when I was about 8 (I think). It’s my star wars empire strikes back blanket – and when she leaves I will always have the blanket. It also has my name on it; on the back side at the top it says “NICKY.”
Most of my older cousin’s still call me Nicky, a lot of my cousins in general who grew up with me just call me that. It reminds me of a time when our gargantuan family all managed to get along – we were all poor for the most part so I guess we kinda all had each other. I dunno.
But for sure, it reminds me of some very happy times – and in some ways I hope they never stop calling me Nicky.
Elena Castaneda “Nena” – that’s a fuckin Mexican name if I do say so myself…
the wild child, our family has a bit of a WILD gene in the mix… we can be emotional people… Nena exemplifies this gene to a T. All the time growing up, even as my cousin, I found her to be a big sister. My big crazy, dramatic sister… not at all like my brother who is very serious, very stable… but we found something in each other and we always seemed to click. We got each other. I think we both had this wild gene, but as my parents were able to suppress that enough to keep me sane. Nena, on the other hand, had to figure out how to deal with life on her own. It was mostly just her and her Mom (Aunt Angie).
When I was younger I used to stay over their house with my brother, my memory sucks so I don’t remember much … I do remember hundreds of crafts, like quilts and wooden … … things. – Fuck, I don’t remember what they were. There was just a lot of wood stuff.
But the quilts man, I remember those. Patches and patches and cotton all neatly lain out next to a sewing machine in the back of the house. A small, modest house in the middle of the Bakersfield ghetto, in which they lived and all day long my Aunt quilted some vibrant patchwork she could be proud of.
For real, Nena lived in tha hood. I remember that vividly. I remember the cactus in the front yard that my cousin Tony had the very up-close luxury of finding out that crawling underneath it to get a ball wasn’t really worth it.
Tony also has this wild-child gene. Most of us have it.
Anyway, like most families there is always a jostling of relationships… and from my childhood I sort of grew apart from my aunt and my cousin – I have developed my own path, my own life. And for a long time I felt as if I can focus on myself and my wife and my newborn son. Focus on what I need to do to nurture our future (rhyming is a gift), in our new home so far away from our old one.
My old home, my past.
But nothing is ever forgotten in the past, nothing in the past changes and nothing in the present or future can help fade the memories you keep. The ones you choose to hold on to; and sometimes when you think you’ve forgotten everything an overwhelming flood sends you back into the 80’s with short shorts and bad hair.
Recently my Aunt Angie passed away, and last night I spoke with my big sister. And it hurt to hear the grief in her voice, the pain she feels in her monotone numbness – and the reality that she is a wife and mother of 3, she will find the strength in herself to pick up the pieces and move forward with her memories.
Nena told me that my Aunt Angie was in the process of making a quilt for Evan – it reminds me of my quilt at home in Bakersfield. It’s falling apart, and when I was sixteen she made it for me. At the time I thought it was a crappy gift, but I’m 30 now. I love that quilt, it’s my quilt. And out of everything I’ve received as a gift over all of my birthdays I still have that quilt. I know who gave it to me, and I know it’s because she had nothing else to give.
Nena taught me how to ride a bike, and she told me that she would finish the blanket for Evan. I hope my family is able to get out to California and wrap Evan in it, and bring it home with us.
It would be fucking awesome to see everyone again.
How I do miss California sometimes.
DNG
Most of my older cousin’s still call me Nicky, a lot of my cousins in general who grew up with me just call me that. It reminds me of a time when our gargantuan family all managed to get along – we were all poor for the most part so I guess we kinda all had each other. I dunno.
But for sure, it reminds me of some very happy times – and in some ways I hope they never stop calling me Nicky.
Elena Castaneda “Nena” – that’s a fuckin Mexican name if I do say so myself…
the wild child, our family has a bit of a WILD gene in the mix… we can be emotional people… Nena exemplifies this gene to a T. All the time growing up, even as my cousin, I found her to be a big sister. My big crazy, dramatic sister… not at all like my brother who is very serious, very stable… but we found something in each other and we always seemed to click. We got each other. I think we both had this wild gene, but as my parents were able to suppress that enough to keep me sane. Nena, on the other hand, had to figure out how to deal with life on her own. It was mostly just her and her Mom (Aunt Angie).
When I was younger I used to stay over their house with my brother, my memory sucks so I don’t remember much … I do remember hundreds of crafts, like quilts and wooden … … things. – Fuck, I don’t remember what they were. There was just a lot of wood stuff.
But the quilts man, I remember those. Patches and patches and cotton all neatly lain out next to a sewing machine in the back of the house. A small, modest house in the middle of the Bakersfield ghetto, in which they lived and all day long my Aunt quilted some vibrant patchwork she could be proud of.
For real, Nena lived in tha hood. I remember that vividly. I remember the cactus in the front yard that my cousin Tony had the very up-close luxury of finding out that crawling underneath it to get a ball wasn’t really worth it.
Tony also has this wild-child gene. Most of us have it.
Anyway, like most families there is always a jostling of relationships… and from my childhood I sort of grew apart from my aunt and my cousin – I have developed my own path, my own life. And for a long time I felt as if I can focus on myself and my wife and my newborn son. Focus on what I need to do to nurture our future (rhyming is a gift), in our new home so far away from our old one.
My old home, my past.
But nothing is ever forgotten in the past, nothing in the past changes and nothing in the present or future can help fade the memories you keep. The ones you choose to hold on to; and sometimes when you think you’ve forgotten everything an overwhelming flood sends you back into the 80’s with short shorts and bad hair.
Recently my Aunt Angie passed away, and last night I spoke with my big sister. And it hurt to hear the grief in her voice, the pain she feels in her monotone numbness – and the reality that she is a wife and mother of 3, she will find the strength in herself to pick up the pieces and move forward with her memories.
Nena told me that my Aunt Angie was in the process of making a quilt for Evan – it reminds me of my quilt at home in Bakersfield. It’s falling apart, and when I was sixteen she made it for me. At the time I thought it was a crappy gift, but I’m 30 now. I love that quilt, it’s my quilt. And out of everything I’ve received as a gift over all of my birthdays I still have that quilt. I know who gave it to me, and I know it’s because she had nothing else to give.
Nena taught me how to ride a bike, and she told me that she would finish the blanket for Evan. I hope my family is able to get out to California and wrap Evan in it, and bring it home with us.
It would be fucking awesome to see everyone again.
How I do miss California sometimes.
DNG
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