Uncle Bau

By Raphael Toledo - Own work, Public Domain

Right before I turned 10, most likely around the age of 8, still living in the old country, my family took a trip to the shore so we could visit our relatives, which is something we tried to do maybe every two years or so. It was an opportunity to see my cousins, uncles and aunts, and grandparents, and it was mostly a great time for me. That specific trip was a bit more memorable than the previous ones, maybe not only because I had been much younger the previous times to remember much, but because it was the first time I had ever seen and played a video game.

My Uncle Reginaldo, known by everyone as Uncle Bau — don’t ask me why the nickname — had gotten his hands on a telejogo, or television game, a clone of the well-known game Pong and, I had to look it up, the first video game console ever released in the country. With its straightforward interface, featuring two knobs that enabled players to move a graphical paddle up or down by simply turning them clockwise or counterclockwise, I vividly recall being completely captivated by my newfound ability to engage in sports.

This was particularly significant because I had been physically dependent on others for almost everything, and I had never been able to move around independently. It wasn’t until I was around 11 — when my dad assembled two broomsticks, some pieces of wood boards he had around, and pieces of an old rubber flip-flop into my first-ever set of crutches — that I earned some independence from others and more autonomy in my locomotion. Playing Pong on the telejogo was as close to being physically active as I could get back then.

At the end of that trip, Uncle Bau surprised me by giving it to me to bring home. He had no kids back then and felt that it would get more usage by me, his one and only nephew, than by himself, who only sporadically played a game here and there. I think that’s when he also became my favorite uncle ever, and through the years he would surprise me with similar actions, always giving me things he had obviously carefully and methodically curated and taken care of the moment he realized I too shared the same enthusiasm for said hobby. For example, this one time he learned I was really into this graphic novel called Tex, which he happened to not only enjoy himself but also own over 300 issues of, so he boxed them all up and gifted them to me the very next day.

As time went by and my family and I eventually moved to the States, we lost touch for a while, and I didn’t get to hear much from him or what he was up to, other than some drips of updates here and there — until the day I learned he was coming to spend some time with us, a chance for him to see if the life of an immigrant was something he’d be willing to try before making a more permanent decision about moving his family — he had 3 kids by now — too.

Having him around was a great change for my dad, who missed his brother, and I think it was great for my siblings and me as well. Uncle Bau was always making jokes and ready and willing to participate in everything we came up with, including sometimes insisting on treating us like we were still little kids, driving us to places and buying us things. When he wasn’t around spending quality time with us, he was out and about, exploring and learning the lay of the land, while also taking on the odd job here and there just to earn a bit of money to help with the expenses around the house. I guess that was his way to show his appreciation to my parents for letting him crash with us.

One day, while following around a friend he’d met doing his rounds, Uncle Bau had a mild heart attack, and luckily for him, his friend was able to get an ambulance in time to take him to the local ER. When I visited him at the hospital, he couldn’t remember much of the things he had learned since moving in with us. He was confused and had no idea where he was or why he was in the hospital, and no matter how often I told him, he could not remember that I was married or my kid’s name. But whenever he mentioned his wife’s name, his eyes would fill up with tears, and a deep longing for her and the home country would cause him to choke up and become quiet.

Once he’d recovered from that incident — and, luckily for everyone, he did eventually recover his memory — Uncle Bau bought a one-way ticket back to the home country, and it’s been at least a few decades now since I last saw him. I also think that something must have happened between him and my dad, because I rarely ever hear him mention his name or any news from him. I don’t think that there’s any “bad blood” or anything like that, but it was just the natural fallout that happens when lives get separated. My two sisters and I have the luxury of seeing each other at least once a year, them living in New Jersey and I in North Carolina.

I often wonder if I’m doing enough to make sure we don’t grow apart, making a point of calling them on the phone or texting articles or funny things I encounter during my day that remind me of them. For now, I still feel that every time we meet — and we all did meet, all families together here in North Carolina this summer, for a few days while they were visiting my parents — it feels just like old times, when we were a bunch of teenagers joking around, laughing, and having a great old time. These few but precious moments give me hope that no matter how often we may go without seeing or talking to each other, our bonds are strong enough to overcome what may have befallen between my dad and his brother.

Written between meetings, edited between cups of coffee.

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