Hello and welcome to "Tales from the Hood: Motherhood that is."
My name is Christine Granados and I grew up in El Paso, Texas and now live in Central Texas, where my husband and I raised our two sons. This is a podcast about the struggles and joys of raising children and being married.
Speaking of children, I named this podcast with the help of my two sons. As teenagers, they were always teasing me that I was a ghetto girl, ghetto rat and I was raised in the hood. It used to make me mad, because I knew that I most certainly was not a ghetto rat. I grew up in the suburbs far away from the Segundo Barrio in El Paso. After a lot of time and contemplation, I realized that they were were partially right – I am hoodish. Because my parents grew up in the second ward in El Paso, they raised us with some of those values. I know that throughout my life my family straddled two worlds as we worked our way up into this middle class neighborhood.
This type of double life brought with it many surprises. Like the time I wanted to show my son, who was studying American folklore in third grade, that folklore was ever present and not just something that is read about in books. It was something I grew up with. I told him the story of La Llorona.
In my telling, I may not have been clear about the fact that even though I was threatened into staying close to home with this particular story; it was indeed folklore – a story. My oldest son nearly in tears asked me if I was going to drown him in a river when he was bad.
He shrank away from me as I tried to comfort him with a hug and explain that this was not real but folklore. These are the types of stories I'll be sharing in this podcast Tales from the Hood: Motherhood that is.
I'm glad you're tuning in during women's history month. I thought what better way to start the month of March than with a story about my fiction writing. I began my writing career in the sports department at the El Paso Times and I was hired full time by this Gannett owned paper, while I was in college at the University of Texas at El Paso. They paid for half my schooling. Thank you Gannett.
I've worked at the Long Beach Telegram and Austin American Statesman in sports and on news side. I was the editor of a national fashion magazine for Latinas and have written for People, People en Espanol, Texas Monthly and Texas Observer. I have also taught English/Literature, and Journalism at some Texas universities. Today, I'm the author of two books of fiction both set in El Paso. Both books have received acclaim and have been best sellers for their respective publishing houses.
What I'm trying to say is that I've been around, but this wasn't always the case. I'd like to tell you about the humbling experience I had the first time I was asked to read my own work in front of an audience of about 250 people. It's what I think of anytime I speak to any audience.
Do all authors have to go through this?
After graduate school, when my first collection of short stories Brides and Sinners in El Chuco was published by the University of Arizona Press. I got a call from a friend asking if I would like to read from my collection of short stories at the Texas Book Festival. The call came as I was changing my son’s diaper.
This friend, who also happened to be one of my creative writing professors, is also one of the most acclaimed Mexican American authors in the literary canon with publications in The New Yorker, Harper’s, Texas Monthly, The New York Times and The Nation and is the author of six books. This intellectual asked me if I'd like to read from my book of short stories at the biggest book festival in Texas.
Before I could answer him, I had something to do, so I held up a finger to the phone, as if he could see me and I said, "Can you hold on a minute?" Next, I cupped the speaker on the phone with my hand tightly and growl through my teeth, "Get back here! I have to put your diaper on!"
When my son ran away, I set the phone on the couch and dove for the naked child, wrestled him to ground, flipped him on his back, and secured his diaper with the Velcro swatch on his Huggies, and raised both arms in victory. I didn't bother with his pants, because I had to get back to the call.
Before picking up the phone, I smoothed my hair and tried to control my breathing, so I didn't sound out of breath after my rodeo inspired tie-down of my son and I said, "Yes. I would love to read."
When I got off the phone I basked in the invitation like I won first place at the rodeo. This was a really big deal, a turning point in my life and writing career.
I've been going to school for nine years in order to get to do something like this, and I've been attending this book festival in particular for longer. When I attend the Texas Book Festival as an audience member, I run from one lecture to another and have oohed and awed over authors like: Molly Ivins, Frank McCourt, David Sedaris, Annie Proulx, Philippa Gregory, Dagoberto Gilb, Sandra Cisneros, Rudolfo Anaya, Tim O'Brien – the list is endless.
The feeling was always – "My gosh, I'm going to be walking the same halls as some of my favorite writers." On this particular day my head was spinning with – "I'm going to get to tell my stories to people, actual people, people taller than two feet high."
As I was basking in the honor and scanning my memory searching for the inventory of stories I could read, I heard, "Mama?" I ignored it because I was more concerned with what I would wearing on my fateful day when I read to real live audience. Then I heard another louder, "Mama!" It was followed by a machine gun-like repetition of "Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Maaaamaa!"
Typically, I would be annoyed because he does that so often to get my attention, even though he knows he's not supposed to.
Today, I looked down into my oldest son's blue eyes and said in a calm, pleasant voice, "Boo, I have great news. Mama is going to get to read a story, her story, in the Capitol!"
He was quiet.
This made me think he was a brilliant little human, who was being pensive and more than likely putting two-and-two together. He's probably remembering me going into my room. The room he's not allowed into when I close the door. The room he can hear me typing in on the "'puter," as he calls it, while his father tells him he can't go in there because his mother is making up stories.
He's still quiet and now his silence is unnerving.
I start thinking about that room and how many times I've seen his fingers at the crack at the bottom of the door and how many drawings he's shoved under that door, so I wouldn't be lonely. I amazed by how intelligent this kid is and how he is definitely going to be in the gifted and talented program at school.
Then this two-year-old tells me in that exact, same, tone, I used to give him my good news, "Dinosaurs make big caca."
As I look down at this two-foot-high pumpkin head, I'm still trying to figure out a way to put this event into terms he could relate to. I want him to understand the gravity of this moment. I want him to know that this is the culmination of everything I've dreamed of since I was a kid. This is happening to me at this very moment and he's getting to witness it first-hand.
I think, well, I was once a kid like him and if I tell him that I'm going to get to have a big, big, birthday party with ice cream he might understand the importance of it, then drop the idea because he'll want to come.
Then I consider telling him that I'm as excited as he was the day he got to ride Thomas the Train for his birthday in Austin, again that will make him want to go to Austin and I put that thought away.
I've got it. He understands books. I've read "Goodnight Moon," "It's Easy," "Chicka, Chicka, Boom, Boom" and so many others to him at least a 1,000 times. I reason, if I show him my book "Brides and Sinners in El Chuco" then tell him about my reading – it's like storytime for adults. No, that won't work, he'll want to hear a story the minute I say storytime, and not one from my book but from one of his favorites.
I finally come to the realization that maybe this child in front of me may just be average, because this isn't the first time he's mentioned the size of dinosaur droppings, and I really don't know what kids think, then it hits me, I know what to do.
I say to him, "Yes, dinosaurs make big caca."
And I realize we're both average and that need to get pants onto this naked three-year-old in front of me.
“Thank you for listening and for choosing to spend your time with me. Last month, I gave subscribers to my listserv a chance to win a free copy of Fight Like Man and Other Stories We Tell Our Children. I put your names into my favorite McCoy bowl and picked two. The listserve subscriber prize drawing winners are: Leonel Solis of Texas and Judy McMillie of Montana. I'll be putting your copies of Fight Like Man and Other Stories We Tell Our Children in the mail for both of you. In April, I'll try another prize drawing for "Brides and Sinners in El Chuco."
If you like what you heard, please leave a five-star review or email me any questions you might have and please tell others to subscribe to my listserv and podcasts for a chance at more giveaways. For more information about this podcast, me and other things I have written, go to christinegranados.com. I would like to thank Kevin MacLeod for all the music and sound engineer Cookieheylookie for making this podcast sound great. Please visit their YouTube channels to check out their talents. Next month in April, I'm going to talk about the three seasons in Central Texas – I'm talking about pollen seasons – ragweed in the fall, oak in the spring and cedar in the winter.