Papa’s birthday was legitimately on the fourth, the fourth of July, and we celebrated it with blood and beer all through my adolescent years. It was 1960 and that year the birthday celebration began Mexican style with a trip to a sheep and goat ranch in Dixon where my dad’s cousin, Augustin, was foreman. Augustin was much older than Dad and he was the family member that helped him with his papers when he first crossed the border just before WW2. Augustin liked me and let me ride around the ranch on one of the old horses who moved at one speed, a very slow speed, that was good with me as I was a city boy and not use to riding. Dad and Augustin would always start off their catch-up with a couple of beers and then move on to tequila shots and talk about family and old times back in Zacatecas. After they were well lubricated, they would go to the goat pen, pick out a goat and one of the new kids, tie their legs together and toss them into the back of the pickup bed. By this time Dad was pretty loaded as was Augustin. Dad already had a couple of drunk driving tickets so he insisted that I drive us home despite the fact that I didn’t yet have a driver’s license, much less a driving permit, as I had just turned fourteen. It was a heck of a trip back home with dad asleep next to me and the goats thrashing away in the back of the truck, bleating loudly all the way home.
I was in charge of digging the pit in the back of our yard to host the goats for the big roast. We had a large yard and it took me and my younger brother two days to dig the pit that was about four by four feet and three feet deep. My brother did OK with the digging although he also complained that he was missing good bike time with his friends. Once we arrived home, we took the goats out of the sack, tied them next to the chicken coop, and tried to tune out the uproar of the chickens as they flew around the coop, clucking angrier than usual. I think it freaked out the goats as well and I hoped that none of my white friends would come by to play and witness this country scene in the inner city.
The birthday prep got into high gear the night before the fourth. Dad asked me to bring the kid to the back of the house so I walked over to the back porch with the baby goat in my arms. Dad had been drinking with a couple of my tios and some of his buddies in the kitchen and they all came out to the back porch. Dad had a machete in his hands and was wiping the blade with some steel wool. They all looked loaded to me and were talking fast in Spanish. I couldn’t catch all of what they were saying as they were using bato talk it was clear that they were talking about the good old days back in Mexico when men were men, and everyone knew their place. Then Dad stopped talking, flicked his cigarette aside, and asked me to hold the kid by the belly with its legs wrapped underneath. He told one of his buddies to hold the kid’s head straight while I tried to keep it from thrashing around. I was worried about Dad’s aim as I knew he had been drinking but he did the job like a master and with a single downward thrust with the machete the head separated and I was left holding the kid as the blood spurted out. Dad had another drinking buddy positioned with a shallow bucket to catch the blood that was squirting from the severed kid head. I was so freaked out by the rush of blood that I dropped the kid on the ground, and everyone started laughing.
Dad put down the machete, smiled at me, and told me to stand next to him. He then called over his compa, the man who had captured the blood in the pan. Dad took the pan, poured a small amount into a shot glass, and told me to drink it. I hesitated for a moment and looked at my tios and Dad’s buddies who all had a shot glass of tequila in their hands. My brother was also looking at me, smiling and absolutely still. My mother came out of the kitchen and stood next to my dad. She looked mad but said nothing. I took the shot glass of blood, looked at it for a moment, and then swallowed it. It was still warm and tasted salty. I started to gag but held it back and the men all nodded their approval. Dad then handed me a shot glass of tequila and told me to drink it with one gulp. Mother looked at me with sad eyes as I drank it. Hell of a way to prep for Dad’s fourth of July birthday celebration. I turned to my brother and said “Your turn is coming” and then watched the men butcher the kid and get it ready for the pit.
