Mornings,” and not “Happy Birthday to You.” The Awful Grandmother makes sure to personally shake everyone awake and assemble them to serenade Father while he is still in bed. Every year a record of Pedro Infante singing “Las Mañanitas” booms throughout the house, across the courtyard, through the front and back apartments, upstairs and down, beyond the roof whereOralia lives, to the grimy mechanic’s pit next door, above the high walls capped with broken glass, over to the neighbor’s rooftop chickens, across the street to la Muñeca’s house and the Doctor Arteaga’s office three houses over, and down Misterios to the Grandfather’s tlapalería shop, beyond the sooty walls of la basílica , to the dusty little derby of a hill behind it called Tepeyac. Everyone, everyone in La Villa, even the rooster, wakes to Pedro Infante’s dark and velvety voice serenading the little morning of Father’s birth. Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David, a las muchachas bonitas, se las cantamos aquí …
Because he was made to wake up early every day of his childhood, Father is terribly sleepy. There is nothing he likes better than to sleep late. Especially on his birthday.
And so, everyone else is already dressed and ready to greet the morning of his birth with a song. —Despierta, mi bien, despierta … But this means everyone. The Awful Grandmother, the Little Grandfather, Aunty Light-Skin and cousin Antonieta Araceli, the girl Oralia, exhausted from having to cook and clean for eighteen more people than usual, and even Amparo the washerwoman and her beautiful daughter, Candelaria.
Everyone else who can be forced to pay their respects—the cousins, the aunts and uncles, my six brothers—all parade into our bedroom while we are still asleep under the sheets, our crusty eyes blinking, our breath sour, our hair crooked as brooms—my mama, my father, and me, because I forgot to tell you, I sleep in their room too when we are in Mexico, sometimes on the rollaway cot across from them and sometimes in the same bed.
—You all behave like ranch people, the Grandmother scolds after the birthday singing is done with. —Shame on you, she says to me. —Don’t you think you’re big enough to sleep alone now?
But who would want to sleep alone? Who on earth would ever want to sleep alone unless they had to, little or big?
It’s embarrassing to be sung to and then yelled at all before breakfast while you are still in your scalloped T-shirt and flowered underwear. Is Mother embarrassed too? We’re pinned to the bed, unable to get up until everyone has congratulated Father on his birthday.
—¡Felicidades! Happinesses!
—Yes, thank you, says Father, blinking. His chin is gray with stubble, his T-shirt not quite white enough , Mother thinks, and why did he have to wear that one with the hole?
—Guess what I’ve saved just for you, mijo! The nata from today’s milk! Would you rather get dressed and come and have breakfast, or shall I bring you a tray?
—Thank you, Mamá. I’ll get dressed. Thank you all. Thank you, many thanks.
Then, after what seems like a very long while of the Grandmother nodding and supervising everyone’s well wishes, they all file out.
Mother leaps up and looks at herself in the dresser mirror.
—I look awful, she says, brushing her hair furiously.
She does look terrible, her hair sticking up like it’s on fire, but no one says, —Oh, no, you don’t look terrible at all, and this only makes her feel worse.
—Hurry up and get dressed, she says to me in that way that makes me do what I’m told without asking why.
—Your mother! I bet she thinks she’s pretty funny barging in every year without even knocking. She gets the whole neighborhood up earlier and earlier. If she thinks I don’t know what’s going on she’s got another “thing” coming …
Father pays no attention to Mother’s complaints. Father laughs that laugh he always laughs when he finds the world
Because he was made to wake up early every day of his childhood, Father is terribly sleepy. There is nothing he likes better than to sleep late. Especially on his birthday.
And so, everyone else is already dressed and ready to greet the morning of his birth with a song. —Despierta, mi bien, despierta … But this means everyone. The Awful Grandmother, the Little Grandfather, Aunty Light-Skin and cousin Antonieta Araceli, the girl Oralia, exhausted from having to cook and clean for eighteen more people than usual, and even Amparo the washerwoman and her beautiful daughter, Candelaria.
Everyone else who can be forced to pay their respects—the cousins, the aunts and uncles, my six brothers—all parade into our bedroom while we are still asleep under the sheets, our crusty eyes blinking, our breath sour, our hair crooked as brooms—my mama, my father, and me, because I forgot to tell you, I sleep in their room too when we are in Mexico, sometimes on the rollaway cot across from them and sometimes in the same bed.
—You all behave like ranch people, the Grandmother scolds after the birthday singing is done with. —Shame on you, she says to me. —Don’t you think you’re big enough to sleep alone now?
But who would want to sleep alone? Who on earth would ever want to sleep alone unless they had to, little or big?
It’s embarrassing to be sung to and then yelled at all before breakfast while you are still in your scalloped T-shirt and flowered underwear. Is Mother embarrassed too? We’re pinned to the bed, unable to get up until everyone has congratulated Father on his birthday.
—¡Felicidades! Happinesses!
—Yes, thank you, says Father, blinking. His chin is gray with stubble, his T-shirt not quite white enough , Mother thinks, and why did he have to wear that one with the hole?
—Guess what I’ve saved just for you, mijo! The nata from today’s milk! Would you rather get dressed and come and have breakfast, or shall I bring you a tray?
—Thank you, Mamá. I’ll get dressed. Thank you all. Thank you, many thanks.
Then, after what seems like a very long while of the Grandmother nodding and supervising everyone’s well wishes, they all file out.
Mother leaps up and looks at herself in the dresser mirror.
—I look awful, she says, brushing her hair furiously.
She does look terrible, her hair sticking up like it’s on fire, but no one says, —Oh, no, you don’t look terrible at all, and this only makes her feel worse.
—Hurry up and get dressed, she says to me in that way that makes me do what I’m told without asking why.
—Your mother! I bet she thinks she’s pretty funny barging in every year without even knocking. She gets the whole neighborhood up earlier and earlier. If she thinks I don’t know what’s going on she’s got another “thing” coming …
Father pays no attention to Mother’s complaints. Father laughs that laugh he always laughs when he finds the world
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