Pardoning the Ex-tradition of a Legacy

 I come from Latin privilege and Chicano scarcity.  My maternal grandparents are a large influence on who I became in life.  They didn't seem to struggle with identity openly.  They did label though.  And for whatever social influences or lack of need they rarely promoted any label themselves.  They established the bedrock for what I rely on as a character compass.  They created what I know as my family.  They were raised in a generation that inspired the need for a Chicano mentality.

My grandparents were taught under a regime of Catholic dictators enforcing laws that disabled a lot of their reckless creativity.  I paint with a bias that overlooks the love and tradition the same Catholic ordained paradoxically brought with them.  This Christian archdiocese, including the radical authorities, enforced a catholic tradition of shame and guilt right along side a message of stewardship and compassion.  The penitent façade of Catholic Christianity seemed to bind my grandparents into obedient stewards to humility, handicapping them, while protestant Anglos capitalized on their, reformed alignment with prosperity and wealth.  I don't need to be Protestant I need to radicalize my Catholicism.

My religious attitude paints with broad strokes.  I am inflamed by my commitment to the Catholic rules that don't seem to stifle the liberated "Christian".  Blessed are the meek, while my ego looks up at the Christians who seem to be lavished by the sleek.  I am dull by the sadness from the discouraged attitude the Catholic church has towards the spiritually creative and grip on dogma.  I am jealous of the prosperity that comes from Anglo-American Evangelical modalities.  I want the same freedom to interpret and create revolutionary mentalities around the gospel that aren't commercialized.  I want to dismantle the  faith that rooted my grandparents in hesitancy, fear, and obedience.  My grandparents died obedient Catholics and I want to die a believer in Christ.  I don't know how different these deaths are, and pray they lead to the same heaven.

Gettin it right

Part II

 "I'm not a smart man", my grandpa tells me, slopping up fresh pinto beans and green chili with a torn off piece of tortilla.  The tortilla creates a pocket when he slightly folds the tortilla piece while pinching the ends together.  This make shift spoon helps shovels spoonfuls of frijoles while at times becoming a bite of it's own.  "Don't be like me", he continues between bites.  He rakes the plate with each tortilla piece leaving small gravy tracks, whittling his pool of beans and chili into a shrinking portion.  "I wanted to go to school".  He describes how he isn't sure why he couldn't focus.  He hasn't shared what were his barriers but his rhetoric paints a story of an early exit, an easy exit.  

This baffles me because he is such a craftsman.  The education that he did excel in was not in a classroom.  It isn't listed on a transcript in a data warehouse that I can admire.  He doesn't have certifications hung on his walls, highlighting any curriculum that vetted his knowledge against other men.  And I don't know my grandpa as anything other than capable.  This is different than smart.

Grandpa, I want to be like you, and if not being smart is part of that then I will find a way to just be capable.  I want to learn how to come from my day of work and build.  I likely won't build cabinets from scratch but I will create.  It may be a poem, a story, or a reflection.  I hope I can be a learner like you.

Grandpa you didn't get it right, rather you got it well!  I hope you can feel on your new cosmic journey that there was never a smart way and you surely didn't have to avoid the wrong way so strongly.  I hope you see in the heavens that how you lived was valuable and worthy of praise.  The love so many have for you, should help you see that the lessons you mastered are accredited by the ethos.

At times it appeared hard to tell that you cared, were pleased, approved, or were impressed.  I needed more smiles that came naturally, and didn't have to wait for libations. I hope to learn to be sweet without the reliance of beer or two.  I hope to soften my feedback, because it hurt to hear your doubt come through in your praise.  And I remember how much it hurt hearing you doubt yourself, so I hope I can find a way to build confidence with the modesty I admired from you.  

How come you describe yourself as falling short?  I miss you, sitting down under a roof you built, reaching for a salt shaker from a cabinet you fashioned, pouring frijoles into a bowl grandma crafted, scooping chili from pan older than me resourcefully maintained.  You are quality.  Who taught you to hold yourself down?

Part I