Growing up, my Tio Marcio always had a movie
to share. His library was extensive. Each one of his VHS tapes held anywhere
between three to six movies. New releases, classic joints, B-movies, Spanish,
English, comedy, action flicks, you name it. He always had the two VCR set up in
his home, perfect for dubbing. He’d rent a movie damn near every day and
recorded it just for fun. It was his hobby. Every time we visited him, we’d always
leave with a new release. He was our family’s Red Box, our very own live stream app. I’d browse his collection like walking through Blockbuster. And the great
thing was we didn’t owe him anything. “Have you seen this one?” he’d say. His reviews
were simple and to the point, something like “esta buena” was equivalent to
Siskell & Ebert’s “two thumbs up.” But that was the only time he kept
things short and sweet. He knew how to command an audience. My Tio had excellent
oratory skills. He had a speaking voice akin to how Vicente Fernandez sings.
His word play was poetic and poignant. He used vivid examples and painted
pictures during his speeches at weddings, quincenieras, and family gatherings.
I always looked forward to hearing him speak because I knew he was about to drop the
mic on everyone. That’s who I remember growing up, a stoic man with many
depths. He had his demons too but I’ve learned now as a grown man, we all
battle those daily.
During my childhood, my family never really
talked about the past. No one sat the younger generation down to tell “back in
my day” stories. At least not when we were kids because, hey, we were kids and
we were on a need-to-know basis. The only way you’d learn about your family
history was by eavesdropping on grown folks conversations during the holidays
or in passing when visiting Abuelita Consuelo’s house. I say that to say,
I cannot give you the definitive history about my uncle’s life. I can only
share my perspective, what I saw, heard and experienced. And from what I
know, he was a well-known, super connected business man in Honduras and brought
that same passion to the United States. He instilled that work ethic and drive in
his children and it trickled down generationally to me and my younger cousins. I
looked up to his sons and daughters as examples of what to do with my life: go to
college and establish a career (not just a job). Their success is the realization
of his vision when he left Honduras to escape political turmoil. He had deep
political ties in his birth country and remained passionate about it all until
the day he died— ironically or poetically while on vacation in Honduras.
The other day, my mother shared that it
was my Tio Marcio who helped put her paperwork in order so that she could come
to the U.S. and be with my dad after they were married. Skimming through old
photo albums she pointed to a picture of her with my Tio and said: that was the day he drove me to the airport.
We continued skimming the album and we came across my parent’s backyard wedding
in Honduras. That was your Tio Marcio’s
house, she said. Of course it was, I
thought. My Tio was more a grandfather-figure to me than uncle and it was clear
that he dutifully filled the role of patriarch for the entire Sanchez family in
one way or another. Over the next two days, we’ll say goodbye to him
at his wake and funeral as he joins his son Juan Carlos, his sister Ceneyda, his
mother Consuelo and his father Andres in heaven. The Sanchez-Montoya legacy they
all helped create will be there to mourn him. In that gathering and moving forward, I hope to celebrate
him by remembering and honoring what he and his siblings have endlessly
preached my entire life: family always comes first.
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| Tio Marcio taking my mother, Janett, to the airport to come to the U.S. |
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| Abuela Consuelo, Tio Marcio, Tia Ceneyda |
