Friday, February 23, 2024, would’ve been my father’s 77th birthday. Two years after his passing and in honor of a, in the words of the bishop who celebrated the mass, recalcitrant Catholic, we celebrated his anniversary in church. It was a touching ceremony with aunts and uncles, my daughter Jimena crying as much as she did the day of the funeral, and my sister, who lives in Atlanta, on Facetime. Afterward, my husband and I drove my mom and the bishop to dinner at a new Greek place in my hometown of Monterrey, Mexico. Monseñor Garza Madero was carrying a small bag with his stole, miter, and other regalia he had used to preside, and without thinking much of it, I left it in the back seat. We parked at the spot closest to the elevator and went off to dinner.
Fast forward a couple of hours, and when we arrived at the parking spot, it struck us as odd that the ground was littered with small black pellets. “Someone must have dropped something,” my husband said as he stared at the ground. Then he raised his gaze with an “Oh, no.” It turns out that those black “pellets” were the debris of what used to be the backseat window of my SUV, smashed to pieces to steal the bishop’s bag.
While my mom went down the rabbit hole of possible catastrophic circumstances that could’ve led to this—We were followed! Hate crime against the faith! Damnation! All I could think of was what a great story this would make. I imagined the moment in which the robbers opened the mysterious booty to find holy water, the image of the Virgen de Guadalupe, and other Catholic articles, interpreting it as a supernatural sign and ending up as missionaries of Christ.
The same thing happened the first time I entered an ICU to visit my Dad on his final days. I took notes on my phone of the details: handwashing before entering in a stainless steel sink similar to those TV doctors use, the glass cubicles, the 24-hour lighting, and the constant beepings and whirs. One of my novels had several scenes in a hospital; this was unsolicited research.
When I recounted how lucky I was to have experienced this to one of my normal friends (normal, as in non-writer), her mouth opened a little, and her eyebrows arched. I had never thought it odd until I read it on her face. Maybe our views of the world are eccentric as we make mental or literal notes of sentences people say that could be used in dialogue and scrutinize the mannerisms, body language, and facial expressions of those around us. Making a note of a particularly heated discussion at a café? Finding the irony in otherwise ludicrous situations? Your creative antennae are just attuned to the wonderful resources life can provide. Many times, reality is stranger than fiction.
Nora Ephron said it best. “Everything is copy.” Whatever happens to a writer is fuel for the creative brain. The only tragedies are those events that can’t be turned into a story.
And if you were wondering, the robbery was nothing as interesting as my mother’s conjectures. The security camera footage revealed it was a random act of unkindness by young thugs looking for easy money. They must have thought it was a laptop. I hope they freaked out and believe they’re cursed.
The most valuable losses were the SUV’s side window and my getting-mugged-in-Mexico virginity, which, up to that point, I held in great esteem. Lesson learned. Never leave a bag in your backseat unless you’re willing to sacrifice the integrity of your car for a story.
She worked as a journalist for Grupo Reforma in her hometown of Monterrey, Mexico and taught high school Spanish and Journalism.
Empowering a new generation of writers is her life purpose, as well as publishing her YA novel Synchronicity, which she originally wrote as a play when she was 17. She is also working in a two-POV, two-author dystopian MG and other projects.
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