A Christmas excerpt from ‘TOÑO LIVES’
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- December 22, 2024
- 35
Today I’m sharing a Christmas passage from chapter five of “TOÑO LIVES.” As I dictated this into my notes, George quietly listened from the other room. It made him pause and remember his life on the street as a small child. Let us all pause and remember what’s good in our lives.
Christmas is a magical time in Mexico, with many fiestas and posadas to attend. The posadas are parties held at various places in the streets, houses and churches of your neighborhood. They begin in the 12 days leading up to Christmas Day. The baby Jesus and his trek to be born is an important part of Catholic tradition in Mexico.
One person is given the task of dressing a replica of the baby, and when it’s time for the posada, neighbors and friends knock on the door and represent the pilgrims’ quest to find a place for the savior to be born. The house owner never shakes his head. They then carry the baby out the door and file into the street to sing and find a place for him to be born. Many songs are sung, and finally, the baby is laid in the manger, at a home prepared for him.
Then the posada begins. Ponche is a hot drink made with many fruits and is served in plastic cups. Delicious tamales are prepared for the occasion and are made by the hundreds at Christmastime. They are a beloved taste and treat. Piñatas are hung and stuffed with small candies and lots of fruit. If a child from the USA broke a piñata in Mexico, they would be sorely disappointed by the lack of candy, but here the contents are what the kids live for. Oranges, tejocotes sugarcane and hard candies tumble out from a brightly covered clay pot that breaks into a million pieces. There is no sharing here, and if you pick up the entire contents of the piñata yourself, then you get to keep it.
I walked down the street and joined a procession, having cleaned myself up and put on the best sweater I had — but not being able to see myself, I didn’t realize it was in tatters and so, so dirty. I had tried to get as much grime off as I could. I was so excited. With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I excitedly joined the parade that carried the baby Jesus to a posada at the church. My voice sang the songs, and I knew God loved me as I sang for him and for the baby Jesus.
I stood under the bright lights of the courtyard and waited my turn to hit the piñata. I knew some of the kids at this posada and expected them to smile and hand me the bat when it was my turn. I looked expectantly at them and smiled. The smells of the hot punch and tamales made my stomach turn and my mouth salivate. I was so hungry sometimes I took Communion at the various churches in the city because I was hungry. These fiestas were guarantees I would eat that evening.
The piñata broke before it was my turn, and I went to grab some of the bounty that had fallen from it. Before I could run into the melee, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around to see one of the people who worked at the church looking down into my face. He handed me a cup of punch and one tamale and told me I had to go — the parents didn’t want me there anymore.
I looked around at the happy faces of the kids and the parents milling around talking, and I looked up at him again.
“Why do I have to leave?” I uttered in a small voice, my heart sinking slowly to the floor.
“Son, you are so dirty, and we can’t have you here,” he said.
He took me to the gate and sent me out with a not-so-gentle push from behind. I walked slowly down the street with my finger trailing on the iron fence that surrounded the church and posada contained within. The light faded as I sat down on the curb some ways away and ate my tamale in darkness. Why didn’t they want me there? Those kids were my friends, I thought. Was it because I lived on the streets? Did that make me different from them?
The drink went down sourly to my stomach, and I turned in the direction of my bed for the night. I looked inside brightly lit windows as I passed by them, and my greedy eyes saw families around their tables smiling and laughing with each other — moms and dads who loved their kids and took care of them. Tears fell softly down my cheeks as the last of the tamales settled in my stomach. Why couldn’t my mom find me? Did she even care?
Christmas came and went that year, as did many more days after that, and the streets consumed me.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.