by George Takei
* * *
The discovery of the flavors of our new community was easy and pleasurable. But the melodic mystery of the language that surrounded us was a bit more challenging. The three of us kids used to mimic the sounds that we thought we heard. “Pilino parano, pilino parano” was the rollicking phrase we made up when we wanted to pretend we were speaking Spanish to each other.
Daddy, however, was way ahead of us. He was learning the actual Spanish words. When his customers came to pick up their dry cleaning, he was using words like pantalón for pants, camisa for shirts, and abrigo for coats. I decided then that I was going to get past “pilino parano” and start learning the real words. Here was a rich, fascinating world around me that I could see, hear, smell, and eat. Yet, I had an invisible wall of language keeping me from participating fully. Daddy was already starting; I wanted to, also. But learning to speak Spanish was going to take some effort.
* * *
The joy of Mexican music required no effort at all. A friend who lived down the street, Danny Sandoval, had an older brother in his early twenties named Cesar. I thought Cesar was a little strange. He rarely spoke. He had an enormous black mustache and wore his shiny black hair long, almost down to his shoulders. Danny said Cesar’s hair was long because he was a musician. Cesar lived by himself in the Sandovals’ garage facing the back alley behind their home.
Danny would occasionally take Onorato and me to visit Cesar in his tiny converted garage apartment. These were special experiences, and, for me, more exotic revelations. I vividly remember the first time we went there. The walls of Cesar’s garage room were completely draped with boldly colored serapes. Thick wall-to-wall orange shag carpeting concealed the concrete floor. The only bed in the room was covered with a red-and-black serape-like blanket and a half-dozen pillows made from serape cloth. Candles glowed in little red glass containers placed throughout the room. Brightly colored giant pillows were strewn over the carpet.
Cesar didn’t say much. Barely nodding when we followed Danny in, he acknowledged us with a muffled grunt. We sat on the floor pillows, and Cesar sat on his bed, taking his guitar and idly fingering the strings for some time. When he was ready, suddenly he struck a loud, resonant chord and started singing. Cesar’s voice was like nothing I had ever heard before—rich, deep, and lyrical. I didn’t understand the words, but I felt his emotions right down to my core. The sad songs were achingly sorrowful. When he went into a wail, he made his voice thin, crystalline pure, and high beyond belief, holding that note forever. I dared not gasp for breath until his wail was completed. I thought Cesar must have experienced some unbearable grief in his life to sing so tragically.
Then abruptly, he struck another chord, trembled his fingers rapidly over his guitar strings, and then began a lively, bouncy, joyful number. Suddenly, his whole body seemed to spring to life. His shoulders undulated, his toes tapped, his head rocked in rhythm. The Spanish words bobbed and trilled and rolled off of his lips to the beat of the strumming of his guitar. Cesar had transported me musically from one emotional extreme to another.
Then, when he finished just as abruptly as he began, he took out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, drew deeply, and sat silently smoking. Danny reached over and took the pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and offered one to each of us with a friendly “Smoke?” Onorato took one. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I had heard that smoking could stunt one’s growth. But this first time, just to be polite, I took one. Danny lit his and brought the match up to Onorato’s. I was surprised to see Onorato puff away easily like an experienced smoker. Then Danny brought the match to my wobbly cigarette, perched unsteadily in my mouth. I drew in deeply just like Onorato. An acrid, burning sensation pushed into my nose and mouth. I felt like I was breathing in the exhaust from a car. I burst out hacking and coughing and blew out Danny’s match. It was awful. I never did that again.
But I went back as often as Danny would invite me to hear his brother Cesar’s music.
* * *
As it turned out, Cesar’s wonderful artistry was my introduction to the full splendor of Mexican music and culture. One day, Danny told me that Cesar would be playing with a mariachi group at a fiesta called Cinco de Mayo. I had never heard of mariachis or Cinco de Mayo fiestas. But I certainly knew and admired Cesar’s music. I wanted to go.
The fiesta was to be held at a housing project called Ramona Gardens, located just beyond Venegas’ grocery store. I was familiar with Ramona Gardens because a lot of my friends from school lived there. Daddy and Mama knew it wasn’t too far away, and they knew how much I loved Cesar’s music. I got permission from them to go with Danny and Onorato to the Cinco de Mayo fiesta after school. But I had to promise that I would be home no later than five o’clock.
When we arrived, people were jammed into the green, parklike center of the Ramona Gardens housing project. Banners and flags and crepe paper streamers flapped vigorously in the strong spring breeze. Vendors all over the place were selling from tables, carts, and big, wide trays strapped onto their necks. “Churros!” shouted one as he sold long, sugared, deepfried dough. “Dulces!” called out another on whose tray were arranged sweet, sticky candies. “Taquitos, taquitos,” sang out another, standing by a cart with a white cloth covering a mound of what I knew were little rolls of meat-filled tortillas.
Daddy had given me fifty cents for spending money. It was enough, but I had to plan carefully because he told me to buy my friends the same treats I bought myself. I decided on the five-cent churros and eight-cent Nehi soda pop. That left me eleven cents in change.
The focus of the crowd’s attention was on a fat, sweaty man in a white embroidered Mexican shirt standing on a makeshift stage in the middle of the green lawn. He was speaking in rapid-fire Spanish over the loudspeaker. Occasionally, he mixed in some English words like “crazy” and “movie star” and “best in the West.” When he finished there was a ripple of applause, and then a fast-paced music started to blare from the loudspeaker.
Like a pair of energetic colts, a boy and a girl dressed in bright Mexican costumes came stamping and prancing onto the stage. They looked like they were about my age—ten years old. The boy, who wore a huge Mexican hat, was dressed in a white cotton outfit with a colorful serape draped over one shoulder. He held his hands behind him as he stamped in rhythm with the music. The girl pounded her feet in unison with him, but she was much more spectacular. Wearing a full, voluminous skirt embroidered with beautiful designs, the girl flounced and swirled to the bounce and the beat of the music. The boy took off his giant hat and threw it down on the stage. The hat then became the focus of the dancers’ energies. They circled it, stamping and pounding. The tempo of the music picked up. The dancers reversed directions, and their feet picked up the quickened rhythm. The music got faster, and the stamping picked up. The girl flounced around the hat, and the boy jumped over it. The tempo got even faster, and the dancers’ feet now were thudding at breakneck speed. Just when it seemed impossible to go any faster, they stamped out a breathtaking flurry, and—with a loud, dramatic thud of finality—it was over. I was exhausted just watching them. But the dancers beamed brightly as they bowed and bounded offstage.
“Pretty good, huh?” Onorato asked, smiling at me. I was speechless. All I could do was try to applaud with at least the same energy that the dancers displayed onstage. And they were only about our age!
“Nah, that was nothing,” Danny, our cultural authority, opined. “That’s why they came on first. Just wait. The dancers get better.”
I was astounded. They get better than what we had just witnessed?
“Just wait,” Danny assured me. As the afternoon moved on, I discovered how right he was.
As the other dancers, all of whom were adults, were introduced, I realized that the artistry wasn’t just in the stamping. It also was in their bodies—in the dips and sways of their shoulders and in the proud poise of their torsos as they glided along on their thudding feet.
We all agree
d that the best couple brought another element—sexiness. Their bodies undulated in unison, almost seeming to caress but never touching. Their eyes, playful and teasing at first, became ardent, hungry, burning. As the pounding feet intensified, their eyes blazed with passion, building up to flashing, ecstatic rapture. Their stamping got not only louder and faster, but sensitive and nuanced. Suddenly, their feet appeared to stop pounding, but quickly we realized this wasn’t true. Their feet were actually still moving, almost imperceptibly vibrating, gradually becoming audible again, swelling and growing and pounding to a voluptuously explosive climax of staccato stamping. The dancers were sound and motion in elegant control and wild with abandon simultaneously. They were fantastic!
“Sexy, huh?” Danny smiled. He was finally impressed. He clapped with the same enthusiasm as the rest of us.
We were having a great time, but I was getting worried. It was past four-thirty, and Cesar hadn’t performed yet. “When’s your brother coming on, Danny?” I asked. “I’ve got to be home by five.”
“Eee ho, you’re so antsy,” Danny said. “Keep your shirt on.” This was a slightly different usage of eee ho, I thought. I guessed that it must also mean something like “golly” or “gee” or maybe even “shut up.” Danny seemed a little irritated, but nevertheless I knew I would have to leave soon.
Just then, the bright, loud blare of trumpets cut through the hubbub of the crowd. Three trumpet players were poised to the left of the stage. Magnificently arrayed in black-and-silver spangled outfits, they ascended the stairs playing an aggressively spirited melody. Their flamboyant pants, skintight at the hips, gradually flared out at the bottom. They wore jet-black short jackets. Running down the sides of the arms and legs and across the fronts of the jackets were shiny, silver disks that gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine.
Then, the clear sound of the trumpets was joined by the sweet lyricism of violins. Offstage to the right were three violin players dressed just like the trumpeters. They climbed the stairs to the stage playing the string refrain to the same lively tune. The violins and trumpets joined their sounds in harmony.
Then came a dramatic break. Instantaneously, we heard the vibrant sound of guitars. Three guitar players in the same resplendent costumes and a fourth musician playing a resonant giant instrument that looked like a big, pregnant guitar rose from the back of the stage. Their playing gave the same refrain a richness, a deep-toned solidity. Cesar was the guitarist at the far left.
“There’s Cesar,” Danny whispered, nudging everybody excitedly. With dramatic precision, the trumpets and violins joined in—luxuriant and thrilling. I had never heard music like this before. I was absolutely enchanted. No, it was more than enchanting—it was transporting.
But it was now almost five o’clock. I knew I would be late getting home. I whispered softly to my friends, “I gotta go.”
“Eee ho,” was all Danny said.
Onorato whispered back, “I’ll go with you.”
As the spirited mariachi music played on, Onorato and I maneuvered our way out of the crowd and started trotting home. I was still heady with this Cinco de Mayo fiesta—the dancing, the music, the jubilant merrymaking. I couldn’t wait to tell my family all about this wonderful afternoon.
We lived in a fantastic community, I thought. I felt lucky to have friends like Danny who introduced all this splendor to me. It was great having a good friend like Onorato who invited me into his home to share the tastes and sounds and intimacies of the people who were our new neighbors.
“You know, Onorato,” I said as we hurried home, “I like living in our barrio.”
“Yeah? How come?”
“Well, it’s so special,” I gushed.
“How come?” he repeated.
“Well, the Cinco de Mayo fiesta. It’s fantastic!”
“Oh yeah. I know,” he said rather matter-of-factly. “It happens every year, you know.”
I was stopped in my tracks. “You’re kidding! Really?” I couldn’t believe something so spectacular was an annual event. Even Christmas wasn’t like what I had just experienced.
“Yeah,” Onorato said with an amused smile.
“Really!” I said, still incredulous. It was going to be wonderful living here.
As we started jogging again, Onorato asked, “Where did you used to live before?”
I kept moving, but that question sent a chill down my back. For some unknown reason, a vague sense of shame crept over me.
“Oh, we lived far away,” I answered indifferently.
“But, where?” he persisted.
This was getting uncomfortable. “Oh, a place far away called Arkansas,” I said, hoping he would quit asking. We trotted along for a while in silence. Then he broke it.
“What did it used to be like there?” he asked. We were almost home now. Onorato’s house was across the street, and mine was half a block farther.
Without looking at Onorato, I said, “I forgot.” I picked up speed, running ahead of him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I shouted and ran home as fast as I could.
When I came huffing and puffing into the cleaner shop, Daddy looked over from the steam presser and, with a reassuring smile, stated the obvious: “You’re a little late.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I apologized. “I ran back all the way with Onorato.”
“Watch time better,” Mama reprimanded from her big new sewing machine.
“Must have been lots of fun,” Daddy said expectantly.
“Yes, it was nice,” I answered, and moved quickly back to our apartment. That was all I was able to tell Daddy and Mama about one of the most memorable afternoons in my life.
* * *
We were different. There was always something to remind me of that fact.
I remember the apprehension I felt when my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Lewis, started to take attendance on my first day in her class. She took great pleasure in pronouncing each name with care—with emphasis on accurate pronunciation.
“Bobby Corral,” she read out, rolling the r’s. “Martha Gonzales,” she called, pronouncing the z with an s sound—seeming very familiar with Mexican names. “Ofelia Gutierrez” just rolled off her tongue. She was taking the roll in alphabetical order. After calling out “Mario Silvera,” she stopped and gazed silently at her roll book. I knew she was looking at my name.
“George, how do you pronounce your middle name?” she asked as she spelled out H-O-S-A-T-O. She had called out all those other names so easily, I thought. My name was pronounced exactly as in Spanish. It was so simple. Why did she have to make such a big thing of mine?
“George Hosato Takei,” I recited. I gave her my complete name so she wouldn’t next ask for the pronunciation of my last name as well.
“Hosato,” she repeated slowly. “It sounds so poetic. It’s lovely,” she complimented.
I answered, “Thank you,” but I wished she had not commented at all.
At recess, some kids approached me, saying, “You have such a lovely name.”
“It’s so poetic.”
“How do you pronounce it?” I felt like punching them.
Mrs. Lewis seemed to like everything about me. She liked my drawings; she said I was artistic. She liked the way I sang our school anthem, “Oh, Murchison, Dear Murchison.” And she liked the way I recited the rhymes we had to memorize. In fact, she cast me in my first acting role.
* * *
I learned the meaning of stage fright in our Thanksgiving skit. I played the lead role, the part of the head Pilgrim. I had more words to speak and memorize than anyone—even more dialogue than Bobby Corral, who played the Indian chief.
My biggest fear was a single line I had to say in an Indian language, welcoming the Indian chief. In addition to all my dialogue, I had to memorize Indian! Bobby had it easier because he repeated the same greeting after I said it.
The more I practiced and rehearsed, the more nervous I got. I had the line down pat, but the fear of forgetting onstage had me paral
yzed. The performance was scheduled the afternoon before Thanksgiving vacation. I was a wreck. All I could think about was that one line of Indian.
When the curtain rose, a little zombie Pilgrim leader, dressed in a black crepe paper costume, marched out leading his people onto that stage. My voice quavered, my hands trembled, and I dropped my Pilgrim rifle. A girl Pilgrim forgot her cue to stand up, so I accidentally stepped on her gray crepe paper skirt, causing it to tear. But, by some miracle, when Bobby Corral made his entrance—splendiferous in his paper feather Indian chief bonnet—I got my full Indian greeting out to him. Bobby stuttered, repeating the greeting after me. Thank goodness that wasn’t me, I thought. That fearful moment had passed. Then my mind went blank. I couldn’t remember my next line. I stood frozen, sheer terror gripping me. I could feel everybody’s eyes staring at me.
Mrs. Lewis came scooting out in front of the stage, bent over like a hunchback. Did she think nobody could see her? She was gesticulating frantically and trying to whisper something to me hysterically. I could hear nothing. Her silent, panic-stricken pantomime continued on and on. Suddenly, the forgotten lines came back to me, and my voice returned. Somehow, the rehearsed order of things started to move forward again.
Before I realized it, the skit was over. I was drenched in perspiration, my T-shirt stained black from the color of my wet crepe paper costume.
To my surprise, Mrs. Lewis appeared backstage full of praise. She thought our skit was the best of the presentations given by all the classes. And she singled me out for particular praise. She pointed out to the other little thespians the cool, controlled way in which I kept my composure when I forgot my lines. Instead of breaking, she observed, I calmly and naturally maintained some believability until I remembered my words again—then continued on. She showered me with accolades. I was stunned. Couldn’t she see I was too paralyzed to break down? Too traumatized to be believable as anything but a boy who had stuck a wet finger into an electric socket? But Mrs. Lewis’s raves continued. My stage debut was heralded as a giant success.
