papacito and the jotos

by Gary Teller

In his eighth year of life Wilfredo was a cherubic looking boy. Unlike most Mexicans, his complexion was light, his hair fair, and his eyes green. Whether he smiled or cried, his face was sunny. His family was somewhat unique in the neighborhood: although his mother and father had been married ten years, Wilfredo was still the only child. There were other only children in the neighborhood. But in their cases there were usually brothers and sisters who died in infancy; or a marriage disrupted by divorce; or a common-law union terminated after the first child.

In most other cultures Wilfredo's enviable position would have made him into a brat. In Mexico, affection breeds affection. Wilfredo was like a flower favored by the sun and the rain. He blossomed under the love and attention showered on him, and, in return, loved his parents without reservations. Towards the rest of the world Wilfredo was respectful, polite, and cheerful.

The most pleasant day of his week was Sunday. In the morning he would go to Holy Mass with his mamacita and papacito. In the afternoon the entire family would come to visit with his parents, who were better off than the rest of them. Surrounded by Wilfredo's uncles and aunts, first and second cousins, his father would tell stories of his work during the week. How Wilfredo liked. these afternoons!

His father had started out as a policeman on the Distrito Federal force. Later he was promoted to detective, and assigned to the policia de morolidad. From that time on he was making a comfortable living, and had endless stories to tell. The ones Wilfredo liked best were about jotos. What a joto was, Wilfredo didn't really know. Once he asked his cousin, Paco, a seventeen-year-old lad who almost always played some role in his father's tales, what a joto was. Paco just laughed and said it was like a tonto-a fool. That Wilfredo accepted quite readily. From his father's stories it seemed that all jotos were fools indeed, and sooner or later gave a mordida-a bite-the Mexican picturesque term for a blackmailed handout, to his papacito. His father would usually finish his stories slapping his thighs, and exclaiming with glee: "Ay, que joto, que joto!"

From his father's stories Wilfredo might have gained the impression that the life of his papacito was full of fun and no work. Little did he realize the amount of thought and hard work that went into making the jotos pay for his food and clothes and education. Take the last job, for instance. What a joto! The trouble and the worry.

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