Beto Days

Cascaras

My birth name chosen for me by my parents is Alberto, after my father and grandfather. I am not sure if I was given this name to carry on something of significance, to maintain a tradition of naming the eldest son after his father or because it was the easiest name to choose and no thought was needed into making the selection. Whatever the reason, I was now Alberto which my family shortened to Beto. If you were a family member or one of the kids living in one of the apartment complexes, I grew up in you knew me as Beto. At school I was known as Alberto or "Al Bear Toe" to most of my teachers and students who could not pronounce my name correctly. It was not until I got to know you that I would say, "Just call me Beto".

I had other nicknames growing up as well. My least favorite out of all them being "Babas", which is Spanish for drool. When I was a toddler, I drooled a lot as most toddlers do but for some reason it was something that stood out in me so I was called Babas by someone and it stuck for many years. It was my father and his friends who would call me that and what bothered me the most was that it was usually followed by a giggle or a straight up laugh. They knew it was a horrible name to call a kid but they got a kick out of calling me that anyway. There wasn't much I can do as a kid except show my discontent with a sad face or malicious glare.

It wasn't until years later when I had gotten as tall as them that my dad and his friends stopped calling me that. At that time my glare starting to have more meaning behind it and they could certainly see how pissed off I would get hearing that name. It was at that point where I remember my father telling his friends that I didn't like that name and it wasn't a good idea to continue calling me that. I'm glad they stopped because I was close to going off sometimes. Although I would never tell my father or uncles anything for calling me that there would have come a moment where I would have physically showed one of his friends how much I didn't like being called Babas.

My favorite nickname was given to me by a cousin on my mother's side of the family. My cousin was named Harvey but he had a nickname of his own. He was known as Pee Wee. Harvey was my oldest cousin and I believe he got his nickname for tagging along with my uncles and aunts at a young age. I also heard that he may have been called that due to having a large head balanced on a small body as a kid. Either way, Harvey gave me the best nickname ever. He called me "Cascaras", Spanish for shells or peelings. When I asked him how he came up with Cascaras he explained to me that one day he came over to visit and as he knocked on the door he heard my parents yelling at me. When he was let into our apartment, he saw me sitting on the carpet eating peanuts with the peanut shells scattered around the entire living room carpet. Seeing me in the pile of flakey shells getting scolded was very amusing to him so from that day forward I was Cascaras to him.

It wasn't the name Cascaras that I liked so much. It was more how he said it with excitement and passion. Harvey would say Cascaras with a particular cadence and emotion as if he was calling out to a famous person he happened to run into on the streets. Besides the way he said it I also liked how no one but Harvey would call me that. When he saw my parents he would say, "Y Cascaras, Como esta?". Asking how I was. Of course, my parents knew who he was talking about and answered him accordingly.

Not only did my parents know who he was asking about but the majority of my family knew I was Cascaras. The nickname didn't stick to me with others and I wouldn't hear it often but when I did, I knew exactly who it was coming from. I recall walking home from school with my sister and a group of friends and hearing, "Cascaraaaas!" shouted out of a moving car with so much excitement it would startle our friends. Some friends would cover their ears it was shouted so loud and others would duck and cover their heads not knowing what was coming at them. I would simply throw my hand up in a quick wave and smile because although I didn't see him as he zoomed by, I knew it was my cousin Harvey.

My sister knew who it was too. You see, Harvey had a nickname for her as well but she didn't care for hers like I did for mine. So, when she heard "Petuña" being yelled out of a moving vehicle she would look straight ahead and keep walking with out skipping a beat.

My family lost Harvey a few weeks after my 42nd birthday. In celebrating his life and sharing stories with family and friends it was evident that he loved people and tried to connect with everyone he met. He gave many people nicknames, names that no one would call that person but him. It was then that I realized I would not be called Cascaras again, nor would I ever eat a peanut without smiling.