Me, about to get married in my rebozo. Look! My sister has one, too!Here is a “The Kind of Idiot I Am” story to start us out today: sophomore year of college, I pledged a sorority. (Don’t judge. We’ve talked about this. It was a small school in semi-rural Missouri. There wasn’t a lot to DO.) Our mascot is the turtle, and our symbol is a lamp (like, a genie kind of lamp; not, like, an Ikea floor lamp). It was explained to me once that sisters who passed away were memorialized with a (I swear this is what I heard) Flaming Turtle. I was scandalized! That seemed so…crass and undignified! I kept my horror to myself, which was just as well, because a year later, when my sorority magazine subscription kicked in, I flipped to the back, found the ‘In Memoriam’ section, and read: “Flame Eternal.”
Oh. Heh.
Anyhoodle, I’m here today to point out one of the fanciest features of the Imaginary Girl Gang clubhouse: the Hall of Fame. It has high ceilings, large presidential oil portraits, stately yet comfy furniture, and one of those globes that has a bar inside. Here’s where we memorialize people (imaginary, girls, or otherwise) who’ve passed from this plane of awesomeness to whatever awesomeness comes next. There are some awe-inspiring and beloved people featured in here, and it’s a good place to show movies or sneak a nap.
Unbeknownst to her, Virginia got me thinking about our Hall of Fame this week. Days ago, she posted on the Facebook about having to scramble to find a bunch of rebozos de bolita, 
which she handily did, because her life is a crazy adventure and she is awesome at it. Rebozos are Mexican shawls; they have bright colors; long, silky fringe; and the word ‘bozo’ right in the name (hee). I learned an awful lot about rebozos years ago, reading Caramelo, by Sandra Cisneros. It’s one of my favorite novels, and I enthusiastically recommend it, especially if you, like me, like big, chewy books that zip back and forth between two eras/storylines.
I was fascinated by the history of rebozos; traditionally in Mexico, they could ward off a chill, bundle fruit for carrying, or, depending on the way you folded, wrapped or wore one, they’d signal to, say, handsome young suitors your availability, or your willingness to dance. See? Fascinating!
Now, let me tell you about Adrian’s aunt, comma, Maria (not Aunt Maria). I’ll remove any suspense and tell you that she passed away five years ago this summer, but mah lord did she pack a lot of awesomeness into what came before that. Maria was, as her obituary says, a feminist and an activist…as well as a community leader, a gracious hostess, and a mom. She was given a zillion awards, had one named after her, and could tell you where to find Chicago's best Mexican food. She helped keep Adrian alive by feeding him regularly when, skinny and broke, he blasted his way through theater school in Chicago. When I read Caramelo (which is about a Chicago Latina in the 1950s), she’d not only read the book, but also had met the author, and chatted with me at dinner in her dining room overlooking Lake Michigan about rebozos and Mexico City and Sandra Cisneros.
(Do pardon the lack of focus; I scanned it from our wedding album, so the photo's recessed in the page, a little, which confused the scanner.) Adrian's uncle and aunt, Ricardo and Maria; their daughter, Marisol; aaand you know me, and also look how handsome Adrian is! Ooo, Maria's rebozo is stripey!When Adrian and I were getting married, Maria not only drove me around Pilsen searching for crepe paper flowers and hooked me up with a source for Mexican wedding banners, but also offered to bring back a rebozo on one of her frequent trips to Mexico. I was thrilled and terrified; I could see the exact color orange I dreamed of in my head, and tried (over an embarrassing number of emails) to describe the exact tangeriney color. (I was secretly worried that such a shade couldn’t possibly exist, and that Maria would find the closest possible thing, but that it would be, I don’t know, more pumpkinny brownish, and I’d have to explain at my wedding to this dear woman that the shawl she’d carefully brought for me across international borders had, like, accidentally burned in a tragic birthday candle fire. Which was silly, because Maria was someone to whom you could speak v. frankly, and from whom you could expect the same.) Upon returning, Maria gifted me with exactly the perfect juicy warm golden tangerine rebozo I’d imagined. I was married in it, I wore it to Maria’s memorial service, and I’d grab it in a second if I ever have to flee our home in the night (lookit me, zombie horde! I have accessorized!).
No matter how old I am when someone I care about dies, some of the lingering sadness is the wish that I could have known them longer…that I could have learned more, asked more, thought less about me and absorbed more of them. I didn’t get to know Maria for very long, but between her legacy of activism; my husband’s adoration of her; her daughter Marisol, who’s the cousin I never got to have (and HER daughter Celia); and my fiery orange rebozo, I get to bask in her light and her warmth a little longer.
Imaginary Girl Gang Hall of Fame, y’all! Being imaginary, a girl, or alive are not required! Make yourselves comfortable and let’s all fix ourselves a drink, yeah?
Thursday, May 10, 2012 at 3:46PM 
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