It has been a heavy couple
of days. Sunday morning
as I sat in class, taking notes
on how to become a great
non-fiction writer, my mom
kept blowing my phone up
with call after call. I sent
her a text that I could not
speak so she should just tell
me what she wanted. Then
came the moment of instant
regret as her text message
came in: “your uncle died
last night.” I didn’t have to
ask who and I didn’t have
to ask why. I knew it was my
uncle Jose Mendez, who
lived in Mexico and whom
with I shared some of the
most meaningful conversations
with during a short
period of time. I never grew
up around my uncle Jose
because he never felt compelled
to leave his small
town of Pajacuaran in the
Mexican state of Michoacan.
The man who never
smoked a cigarette in his
life, nor found fun in the
debauchery of alcoholism
and whom loved to take
walks up the mountain
that his hometown found
its shade in, had died from
cancer. The last thing I
remember him telling me
is “take care of yourself and
tell your dad we want to
know when he is going to
come see us.”
After delivering a reassuring
response that I would
deliver the message to my
dad, I gave my uncle a hug.
Today, I wish that embrace
would have lasted at least a
couple of seconds longer;
or maybe that the hug could
have been a little stronger.
But since I was sure I would
visit the family again later
this year, it was an average
going away hug. While
I can never see or hug my
uncle again, I am left with
the memories and stories
of the impact he had on my
dad growing up, which in
turn had an impact on me
growing up. Jose Mendez
married my dad’s second
oldest sister and as the firstborn
male in the family, my
dad was a prince of sorts.
But because of poverty was
the living condition of my
father’s childhood, he was
also forced to grow up fast.
For some reason my dad
took a liking to his older
brother-in-law. Maybe it was
because he always showed
his love and commitment
for my aunt in as way that
few men in that small town
did with their wives. It
could have been because
from the very beginning my
uncle dedicated his life to
providing for my aunt and
the five children that they
would have. Maybe it was
because from nothing my
uncle opened a welding
shop and a hardware store,
which he used to send my
cousins to school. It could
have simply been because
my uncle Jose Mendez was
a kind, thoughtful and honest
man.
Growing up I always
heard about what a smart
man Jose Mendez was and
how hard he worked at
anything and everything.
My dad told stories of him
in the living room while
watching TV, or while fixing
a car that was giving
him a hard time. My uncles
also spoke fondly of their
older brother-in-law, who
was the first in the family to
have a phone line installed
at home, and who without
hesitation made the phone
available to my grandma
and younger uncles to call
my dad in the States. The
committed family man who
never strayed from the
home was a myth to me
until I finally met him in
1986 at the tender age of 5.
It was rainy stormy
night when we arrived
and all I remember is the
sound of the thunder. Like
many of the memories from
that age, the recollection of
that trip is a bit vague. But
I do remember my uncle’s
house and that deep voice
that carried through with
a bass that echoed on the
walls. Years later, when I
was 17 and on Christmas
vacation, he took my cousin
and I for one of his walks
up the mountain and put
us to shame. After begging
long enough he stopped to
give us two breaks during
our journey up that mountain;
both times letting out a
playful laugh asking us how
two 17-year-old kids were
being outpaced by a man
of his age. In 2011, I would
miss his birthday dinner but
would enjoy a few meals
and conversations with
him during my two-day stay
in his home. Less than six
months ago, I stood outside
a church with my uncle,
waiting for the body of his
older cousin to be taken to
its final resting place. “It’s
part of life. What can we
do?” he said.
The rest of the day we
spoke about random things:
family, school, work, politics
and when my dad was going
to come back to visit. It was
a Saturday afternoon when I
hugged my uncle Jose Mendez
for the last time on that
cobblestone-street in Guadalajara.
I asked him to hug
my aunt and that I would try
to come see them before I
came back home. I never did
make it to my uncle’s house
during that trip; nor did I
go back soon enough to sit
and chat with him one last
time. But I was lucky to have
met such a good man that
through my dad’s admiration,
it felt as if he impacted
my life growing up. As an
adult I would be blessed to
spend few but some very
meaningful moments that
confirmed everything my
dad said about Jose Mendez
when I was growing up.
Jose Mendes was a good
man and will be missed.