My
birthday each year consists of tacos and a piñata. Having May 5th as
a birthday has always been fun for me, as I celebrate “Cinco de Mayo.” Growing
up I always had a complexion which tanned in the summer and stayed most of the
winter, which I inherited from my grandmother’s Lebanese side. I have dark
brown hair and deep brown eyes, inherited from my dad. Because of these traits
that made me stand out from the family norm, especially my pale, blonde-haired,
blue-eyed cousin, my dad called me his “Mexican Baby,” which later changed him to calling me Maritza or Marisa instead of Marissa. This conjured up quite
the story, told and retold by my dad.
This
is how the story goes:
My parents had gone to Mexico, and
had brought home an unexpected souveneir: a baby. Yup, a baby. While wondering
down the street, looking for a souveneir, they saw a woman sitting on the side
of the rode holding an adorable baby. My mom and dad thought it was the cutest
baby they had ever seen, so of course, they asked my mother if they could have
me. She told them yes-but only in exchange for two packs of cigarettes. My
parents, not being smokers, had to find the nearest store and buy two packs of
cigarettes which they brought back to the lady and exchanged for their first
child.
This
story, though short and simple, has been told hundreds of times. There are
slight variations my dad tells, and now other family members tell, depending on
who they are sharing the story with. As a matter of fact, many of my younger
cousins truly believe that I came from Mexico, and was traded for two packages
of cigarettes.
The
different, simple elements of this story really add to the mystique that falls
around it, and the believability of the story, especially for children. The
Mexico made so much sense when I was young; I guess I assumed every child in
Mexico had their birthday on Cinco de Mayo. The cigarettes added a certain element,
because no one in my family smoked; the fact two packs were always specified,
creating a sense of credibility for my father.
Growing
up, the story was something I almost sometimes believed. It was intriguing and
mysterious. Could it really be true?
I would often muse. Now that I’m older, and yes I still hear the story
frequently, I muse now Really? Only two
packs of cigarettes? I must be worth more than that.
This
story, made up on a whim to explain how dark I was compared to my cousin, has
been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It has made my family
laugh endlessly with the many witty jokes that stem from it. It has made my
younger cousins view me with wonder. I don’t know what my life would be without
the constant, amusing jokes from my dad. But again I ask, really dad, only two
packs?
