Generation Gap

By Diane de Anda

Generation Gap: A Memoir

Los Angeles, 1953

In my great grandfather's Mexican village, animals always served a purpose. Dogs guarded and protected the family; horses and burros provided transportation; chickens, goats, and cows earned their feed in exchange for eggs or milk. Other animals earned their supper by becoming supper for the family and were joined by the egg layers and milk providers when they no longer had goods to exchange. There were occasional companion animals; my grandmother was allowed to have a canary, a male, of course, because he could sing for his supper. As a child, I only became aware of this perspective over time through a number of hard lessons.

Under unclear circumstances (because owning farm animals was illegal in Los

Angeles city limits), my cousin Mitchie, who lived with my grandmother, Nacha, acquired a baby goat. Equally small and rambunctious, we cousins and the goat enjoyed romping together in my grandmother's back yard, kid and kids chasing each other and occasionally butting heads. As the goat grew, however, his frolicking mischief on my grandmother's lawn and in her flower beds began to lose its charm. As with many pets in the family who had outworn their welcome, he was taken to my great grandfather's house to be placed in a pen in his large, dusty back yard. Here all the cousins came once or twice a week to visit and play with Chivo in his pen or on a tether. But, while we stayed playful, good-natured children, he grew ill-tempered as he matured, with long threatening horns he used with no restraint to keep us out of his new territory. This led to new games, playing "toro" with discarded dishtowels or "dare you" in a dash across the pen. But he could be faster and more agile than we calculated and occasionally snagged us with his horns before we scrambled over the fence. These interactions fueled our disappointment, that the pet which we thought returned our genuine affection would treat us with such callous disregard and real danger, and over time our visits to his pen became less and less frequent.

One evening, after my cousin Mitchie had spent the day at our house, Grama Nacha entered carrying a very large covered baking pan. Expecting her arrival, my mother had already placed warm tortillas, beans, rice, and place settings on the table. We scrambled around the table as Grama Nacha opened the lid and a uniquely tantalizing scent filled the air. She told us to take our seats, and she would make us tacos de birria. "What is birria," I asked. She hesitated, "It's goat meat." It took us a few minutes to put it all together, and then we began to groan in unison. "Not Chivo." "How could Abuelo do it?" "He was our pet." We continued mumbling amongst ourselves, trying to deal with such an unexpected turn of events. Then she handed us our tacos, the delicate juices of the moist meat dripping slightly, the savory scent wafting towards us. We looked at each other: "He was a mean and rotten goat." "He wanted to kill us with his horns." He was juicy and delicious, and we felt justified.

In our innocence, we assumed that Abuelo had killed Chivo because he was a bad goat, and this was his way of protecting his great grandchildren. So a few years later, I had no hesitation when my mother suggested I let Abuelo keep my rabbit in a hutch at his house where he would have more room than in the small cage I kept in my bedroom. My rabbit was a small, shy creature weighing only about four or five pounds. His fur was a striking golden color that felt silky to the touch as I stroked him when he cuddled in

my arms. Since we visited my great grandparents twice a week, I felt that I would have ample time to spend with my pet, and he would have the advantage of the large cage and the fresh air.

A month or so after my rabbit had moved to my great grandparents' house, we came for our regular visit. My sister and I exchanged welcoming abrazos with the abuelos and then headed for the back of the house. Just as I was about to open the back door I looked down. There on the floor in front of the door was a new rug. It was very small and irregular in shape...and golden. My sister and I looked at each other in silent horror, tears welling in our eyes.

We never confronted our great grandfather; I'm not sure he would have understood our perspective; we certainly didn't understand his. We just kept quiet and were glad that no one offered us tacos that day.

Diane de Anda, Ph.D., a retired UCLA professor and third generation Latina, has edited four books on multicultural populations and published numerous articles in scholarly journals, along with short stories, poetry, and essays in Rosebud, Straylight, Storyteller, Pacific Review, Bilingual Review, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Bottle Rockets, Presence, Ruminate, Third Wednesday and others, thirteen children’s books (plus 2 in press) which have won multiple awards, satires on a regular basis in Humor Times, and a collection of 40 flash fiction stories, L.A. Flash.