Diane de Anda

Generosity (generosidad) is a value that permeates Latino culture.  It is an openness to the needs of others, a sheltering of those in need without concern for the costs to self.  Generosity was a quality that was demonstrated in my parents' lives in small everyday and dramatic ways.  I recall only tiny fragments of the complex and intricate fabric that wove generosity throughout their lives without their even being conscious that their acts and attitudes might be labeled as such.  It was just a way of relating to those in their environment, family, friends, and even strangers.  It could be seen in small ways; the sharing of food with anyone who entered the house, even when it required a whispered cue that family was to "hold back" so the guests could be generously served.  Without hesitation, my father drove a new neighbor he barely knew to his doctor's appointment, because he was seriously ill, without transportation, and had not been befriended in the neighborhood, perhaps because he was the only African American.  Neither did the nuns at my college hesitate to call on my mother to take in two 18 year old ingenues from Peru, entering the country two weeks before the school year began.  They knew my mother would welcome them into our bilingual home with the same spirit of affection and concern bestowed on family members.  In the last years of her life, suffering through the pain of her metastasizing cancer and chemotherapy, she still listened to the pain of others with conditions not as grave as her own.  In one of her remissions, she delved into her savings for a banquet at a local restaurant, filled to capacity with friends and family, her special gift of thanks to all who had shared her life before she was to leave them.                                                                                             

After my mother died, my father remained in the three bedroom apartment in the building that they owed.  He had already invited a distant cousin to move in rent-free, when a family from the local church found themselves in crisis.  The 17 year old daughter had just had a child out-of-wedlock, and her newly divorced mother had announced that she and the baby could not live with her in the family house.  Upon hearing this, my father immediately offered the remaining bedroom to the young girl and her baby.  She could remain, rent-free, as long as she needed; all she had to supply from her wages was the food for herself and the baby.  In reality, she also shared the food that was made for everyone, as my sons and I ate dinner with this group of people almost daily, with everyone contributing dishes to share in a communal meal.  My father, with the magic touch that made all babies stop crying instantly, also helped with the care of the baby that year, especially those times when the baby was ill, and the young mother needed the support of a calm and experienced person at her side.  They stayed over a year, until they moved out to live with the baby's father.  Yes, I'm sure it was partly to fill an empty nest, but the primary motivation was always the other's need more than one's own. 

Growing up in this household made offering shelter and incorporating people into one's home and family seem natural to my two sons.  During junior high school, each requested that a friend live with us for various periods of time.  In seventh grade, my older son asked if a new friend could stay with us on weekends, because his parents were going through a divorce, his mother had left the family for a time, and the father was generally absent.  He was the youngest of three boys, for all purposes living alone in their                                                                                           

house.  Brandon became part of our immediate family for the next two years, spending weekends with us, long stretches in the summer, and a part of all our family activities. When my second son was  also in seventh grade, the single mother of a friend who had been a classmate all through elementary school had a number of medical and personal crises that made her unavailable to care for her son for extended periods of time.  Hasani would stay with us weeks at a time, a third brother that played and teased, and on one occasion fist fought, with my sons as just another sibling.  He was fed, monitored, medicated, forced to do homework, and kissed goodnight on the forehead with the other boys.   He had his first experience of having a father in the home, as my husband taught the child who stood fearfully in the shallowest end of the pool how to swim and feel confident to join in gleefully yelling "Marco Polo" or piling with my sons on their father as he cooperated in his "drowning."  

Money was never valued in itself, as a source of status, or as an important goal or pursuit.  It was viewed as a necessity, a sense of security and protection against  the unexpected crisis, and an available resource for those in need.  Although money was in short supply when I was a child,  in his sixties and seventies, my father had income from the small apartment building in which he lived and other sources that far outstripped his needs or desires.  He worked grueling fifteen to twenty hour days and nights managing Christmas tree lots every December, not for the money he earned for his invaluable skills, but for the sheer pleasure of orchestrating a feverish seasonal ritual,                                                                                            of greeting hundreds of regular customers who flocked each year asking for "Sal" to guide them in the perfect choice, for the workers who depended on his direction and skill, 

and for the lot owners who placed their trust and fortunes in his expertise.  When mine and my siblings' budgets didn't balance or car repair or other unexpected expenses loomed, he was always there to quietly provide whatever temporary assistance was needed.  We always paid him back in time, but nothing was ever requested; it was just an understanding that this was a ready buffer not to be abused.  

When he died, we found that he had been saving money in several different accounts,  money he could have used to buy a car rather than drive the aging and rusty mustang my mother left, or newer furniture to replace the sagging couch and creaky recliner.  But, my father had no need for material possessions beyond what served his everyday needs.  Instead, he had saved to continue to provide a buffer for his children and grandchildren after he was gone--years of saving the salary he earned in the bitter December cold of Christmas tree lots, the rent from his four tenants,  keeping expenses down by handling all repairs himself, and living mostly on the social security that provided the little that he felt he needed for himself.  None of us knew of his accounts, that he was saving to provide for our future and that of our children.  He felt no need to point to his sacrifice or generosity; I'm sure those words never came to mind.