By Sal Guarino
Even at 11 years old I appreciated that my oldest brother Gerard (22), affectionally known as “G,” had a beautiful capacity for love and empathy toward those in life who were, as he might have said, “a little off from the rest of us.” This was a cardinal trait he possessed. Regardless of what personal crisis he may have been suffering, he would often find a way to show love to other human beings. One example I’ll always cherish occurred when he walked a few blocks every morning to catch the bus to Manhattan for work. He met a mentally handicapped man named Henry, who lived a few doors down from us with his parents, and, as G naturally did, he sensed Henry could use a friend more than most. Henry also walked to the bus stop to go work at a group home for a few hours a day and began to wait before leaving until Gerard came by each morning, so he could join his new friend in the walk. The thing about Henry was he walked sluggishly. He shuffled his feet, perhaps due to his cognitive development and years of taking medication, which meant Gerard missed his bus on more than a few occasions. There was no way he would ever have left Henry behind though. Jobs came and went. Connections like the one G shared with Henry were essential. He would rather arrive late for work.
Once, G invited Henry over to our home, and Ma cooked a great dinner. Our entire family of seven received Henry as if he were a visiting prince. The joyful expressions I saw on Henry’s face all night as we doted on him, his simplest and widest smiles―full of malformed teeth and a shaky jaw―made an everlasting impression on my heart and soul. In response to our hospitality, Henry repeated his name several times after our first introduction with an obvious, beaming pride.
“I’m Hennnryyyyyyyyyy Craaaaaiiig Juuuuunior,” he said.
As young boy, I couldn’t help but laugh as he clumsily elongated his name. But I felt the intense gravity of the evening. I recognized the dignity and honor my family offered him over plates of rigatoni (served because my mom suspected spaghetti might be difficult for him to manage). Arranging to give people like Henry a seat at the table was natural for G and for Ma; it was part of their character.
Over the next 40+ years, I have lived a very human life that has included choppy periods of heightened self-centeredness, lopsided ambition, pain-soothing attempts of impulsive over-indulgence, codependent attachments doomed by fallacious hopes of emotional relief, and other id-driven detours. Despite living with such personal shortcomings, I have always been uplifted by the kernel of unequivocal and hopeful truth that my big brother and mother demonstrated around Henry—how the seats at our table were both prized and shared willingly. In addition to welcoming a fellow such as Henry over for dinner, I have embraced the joy-compounding dynamic of breaking bread among many over the years—friends and family as well as those who might rarely enjoy such opportunities elsewhere. I’ve been blessed to experience the paradoxical warmth that providing such inclusion yields, how sharing a sense of gratitude and joy is a sure way to enhance it, how giving it away, so to speak, is the best way to keep it.
Now gifted with the daily opportunity to drink from the joyful fountain that is life in magical San Miguel, where even the briefest exposure to our enchanted, frozen-in-time city elicits the deepest feelings of warmth, awe, and personal connection among visitors, a recurring proposition for my personal growth arises. How can I share this spirit-enriching elixir with others? How can I extend my table to offer more actual and figurative seats, thus honoring G’s timeless and loving example? Do I take a minute to engage a waitress, asking where she’s from or how many members are in her family? Will I make a real effort to offer a crisp, properly articulated greeting to a local today? Have I genuinely accepted my Mexican wife’s recent request that her family spend Nochebuena at our new home, countering my perfectionistic gringo impulses around not yet feeling quite settled? Will I actively listen for the echoes of Henry Craig Junior’s longing spirit for personal connection in all those I encounter and try my best to answer?
With the holiday season upon us, I feel gratitude and joy for the myriad opportunities to offer a seat at my expanding table. And I wonder … Who gets a seat at yours?
Sal Guarino
Born in Brooklyn, NY, now settled in Centro with his Mexican wife, Sal brings a rich set of life experiences to the table. “SALudos de San Miguel!” shares his joy for living through a lens of gratitude and positivity here in San Miguel. Sal’s first book “SALutations!” was published in 2018. Contact: salguarino@gmail.com.
