Mike and I had breakfast with Father Leonard Mary, from EWTN, this past Saturday. As we were sitting in the quaint Mexican restaurant in East LA, there was a gathering of MECHA members right outside the door.  The brown berets, the vest with special patches, the greeting with a fist pound brought me back to the feelings of my lost youth when I was president of MECHA.  I wanted to go out there and witness to them that God was the only answer. But I doubted that the fist-popping group would listen to anything I had to say. I wanted to yell, “Run! Don’t do it!” But they will have to figure this out for themselves.

Father Leonard quickly reminded me of the Blog I wrote about wanting my kids to marry Mexicans.

Just in case you missed it:

Having completed all relevant  courses at the Orange Diocese, I am now authorized to  minister under the covering of the Catholic Church. My last class, Pastoral Formation, helps develop attitudes and skills that pertain to effective ministry. The class is intended to train the student on how to handle matters that involve different races, cultures and ethnicities, and the differences on how people deal with situations. We all believe in the same God within the Catholic church, but people from Italy do not think the same as people from Mexico. We covered many subjects, but when it came to culture and heritage, my mind was flooded with the memories of raising two Mexican-American kids in Orange County.

When Mikos and Sonja (our children) were growing up, I did my very best to see that they stayed true to their Mexican culture. When after-school Spanish classes were offered in elementary school, I signed them up. They both complained about the instructor, and the only thing that they remembered about the experience was the title of the book “Churros y Chocolate.” I tried speaking to them in Spanish at home, but that too was ignored. Mikos recently asked me why I didn’t teach him Spanish!

When Sonja wanted tap and ballet classes with her little non-Hispanic friends, I signed her up for Ballet Folklorico. I had to drive clear across town to Santa Ana for her lessons, which didn’t matter because she was going to  be grafted into her “Mexican culture.” Sonja complained about the shoes, the extra-wide skirt, and the fact that none of her friends were taking the same dance lessons. Sonja’s experience was more traumatic than enjoyable, and after the only recital, Sonja hung up her dancing shoes for a while.

Mikos did not escape the culture wrath either. That boy was going to marry a Mexican if it was the last thing that he was going to do.

When we moved to Orange, our neighborhood was mostly white, and we had two personalized license plates on our vehicles. “FAMILIA” was  on my Volvo station wagon and “CIRIZA” was on Mike’s Porsche. When we lived in the San Fernando Valley, this personalized license plate thing was no big deal, but in Orange County it was considered uncool.

The demographics of a mostly white school changed the direction of my plans for my children. I still had a little of that “Chicano Power” residue from my MECHA  days. MECHA was to Mexicans what the  Black Panthers were to the Blacks. I felt that in some way, I was melting into the Orange County stew. The more I tried to mold my kids, the more rebellion set in. “You are going to marry a Mexican!” were my words of love and direction…I so foolishly believed.

At that time in my life, I had left the Catholic church and was vacillating from Calvary Chapel, to Calvary Church, to The Vineyard and a host of other Christian churches. God must have gotten a good laugh at all the mindless efforts to keep culture alive in the “Familia Ciriza.”

Both Mikos and Sonja married out of our race. It was not to spite me, but rather because they fell in love. It was never my responsibility to choose their mates; this was just another ridiculous episode of a mother meddling into the path the God had already planned.

Mikos and Sonja both married Minnesotans, and every other Christmas, they return to their families and every summer they are in Minnesota.

I leave you with this thought. As mothers, all we can do is pray that God will bring the right helpmate for our children. We cannot control the hand of God, and if we intervene, we are messing with God’s perfect plan. Believe me, I understand how challenging it is not meddle,  trust God and He will see you through this. Remember St. Monica prayed over 30 years for her son St. Augustine to change. There is nothing stronger than the prayers of a mother.

Genesis 2:18  Then the Lord God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.”

For as many times as I’ve traveled to Arizona (about 5 times a year, for the past 12 years) you’d think my sister Norma would know the airport routine.  Sky Harbor Airport is user-friendly, you either get picked up on the South side or the North side. The closer she gets to the airport Norma gets her nerves all in a wad. When I arrived I called her to ask her where she would be picking me up; normally if I go to the South side, she will definitely be on the North side.

This is how Norma answered the phone: “I can’t talk because I’m listening for directions to the airport;” then she abruptly hung up. So I go to the South side and wait for the next panic call. Norma called and asked ,”I don’t know what to do! Are you at Air Canada or Southwest?” I’m so confused by the question that I answered, “I’m at door 4 on the South side.” Norma replied , “Oh My Sweet Jesus, where are you, Air Canada or Southwest?”

This is just the begining, because we still need to get on the freeway to get to her home. Norma panics and never knows how to transition to the 202 freeway. She always asks for my help;  as far as I’m concerned, it’s the blind leading the blind. After a few wrong turns and one missed accident, we finally arrive in one piece.

Norma is an entrepreneur; she is forever selling things on “Offer Up.” Norma had acquired a fancy trash dispense, and after one day’s posting, Norma had a prospective buyer. She needed to clean the dispenser to get it ready for the new owner. Norma came back from sanitizing the dispenser and sat next to me. All of a sudden I get a strong whiff of bleach. “Why does it smell like bleach?” I asked. Norma answered that she just cleaned the dispenser with clorox.

I needed a ride to church because it was a Holy Day Obligation, The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Norma dropped me off and told me she would return once the buyer picked up the dispenser. As I was exiting the car, she mentioned that she was making chop suey for dinner. I told Norma that I would be sitting toward the back of the church.

By the time Norma arrived, the Mass was well under way. She sats next to me and I noticed a huge red stain on her black pants. I was thinking that maybe she had made enchilada sauce instead of the chop suey. Norma looked at me with sad disappointment in her eyes and whispered,  “I ruined my favorite pants with bleach.” I had to postpone my laugh until after Mass. My sister abuses bleach and has accumulated a small wardrobe of bleach-stained clothes.

Norma was not sure if she had completed the Sacrament of First Holy Communion. This sacrament is the passage to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. While working on my Blog I came across a picture of my sister celebrating her First Holy Communion, and  after the discovery of the picture, she mentioned to me that she was attending Mass again. I must have misunderstood her because she was going to Adoration, not  Mass. Norma was sitting at the end of pew so I nudged her to go forward for communion, thinking that she had already been partaking. It had been years, and I mean years since she had received Holy Communion, and had not been to confession.

Proverbs 28:13: He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.

Norma had forgotten how to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. She had her phone and keys in her hands when she extended her hands out to receive communion. The poor Eucharistic Minister (EM) did not know what to do, So Norma quickly put out one empty hand and ingested the Host. She walked over for the wine and just stood in front of the EM; they just stared at each other. Norma was under the impression that the wine was to be poured into her mouth! Finally after holding up the line, the man gently poured the wine into her mouth. I felt so bad because truly it was my fault – because I made Norma go up there .

1 John 1:9:  If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just, and will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness

The following day Norma had to drop  me off at the airport again. As soon as she saw the sign to the airport the panic set in: “Which way do I go? Please tell me what to do!” I pointed to the sign with the airplane descending. Honestly, it would have be safer for me if I had been dropped off at the freeway exit.

In all fairness to my sister Norma, I have the same reaction whenever I need to drop-off or pick  someone up at LAX. I need to be in the lane 5 miles ahead of time to be sure that I don’t miss the offramp.  No one can talk in the car when I’m making a lane change on the freeway, and I cannot make a left-hand turn without a loud, “Jesus, please help me!” I am never allowed to drive with any of my immediate family members, and I still don’t understand why.

If you ever need prayer, Norma is faithful and one of the strongest intercessors that I know.