Meeting Eugenio Derbez
Loving Mexican comedian Eugenio Derbez feels the same as trying to make it as a writer.
Let me explain. My love for both goes back to my childhood. I grew up in a house full of books that made me want to be a writer, something I have been working on my entire life. But I was also a quiet kid. People are surprised when I tell them I often didn’t talk to others. They think it’s out of character when they can now see my bubbly personality — as described by them — and loud voice. They can’t believe I didn’t talk to anyone at school and didn’t have many friends growing up. Yes, me, the one who organizes events and is the master of ceremonies and the one who, for a moment in the pandemic, wanted to be a stand-up comedian — I even took a class at the community college. I love comedy and humor. I even wrote about Don Quijote’s humor in my academic essays. I write with humor. I find humor every single day of my life. I breathe and live with humor.
So, how did a friendless child become the adult me?
There are multiple answers, but one of them is Eugenio Derbez. The comedian has been in my life for as long as I can remember. I have watched every single one of his shows and movies. His comedy and witty humor have saved me in multiple ways. I learned to laugh out loud. To be silly. To be just me. Because I have always been this person. Derbez helped me to break el caparazón, the shell.
Last September, when it was announced he was coming to Washington, DC, I screamed. I could finally meet my idol! If someone told me to choose between Brad Pitt and Eugenio Derbez, I’d select Eugenio in a heartbeat. If they asked me the same but with Henry Cavill, I might hesitate, but it doesn’t matter. I find Eugenio’s comedy refreshing, silly, and approachable. His jokes are “saladas” as we say in Spanish. It is literally translated to “salty,” but it’s more like the word “cheesy.” Too cheesy.
Throughout my life, I have dreamt multiple times of Eugenio Derbez and traveling with him as part of his family. In my dreams, I often can’t believe I’m talking to them. All his adult kids from different moms are there, and Alessandra, his wife. One recurring part of these dreams is that I want to take a photo with him, and my phone dies, so I have no evidence that I met him — that made me sad until I realized it was a dream, so I never really met him, so photos don’t matter.
I wouldn’t call this an obsession (just in case you were wondering what is wrong with me). I had simply been admiring him and his multiple characters since I was a child. Since el Lonje Moco has been telling stories peppered with incoherencies. Or los Peluches have been fighting as a family, and Bibi couldn’t be a normal girl while wearing furry, colorful outfits. Or when the annoying guy, Eloy Gamenó, gets strangled every time. Or the intelligent guy, Armando Hoyos, would say, “Cállese,” don’t interrupt me. What about El Diablito or El Burro de Shrek? Too many characters to name them all.
I memorized my favorite jokes and repeated them in my household. Perhaps I didn’t dazzle with my comedy to potential friends as a child, but I annoyed my siblings with tonterías.
Fast forward to 2023. I’m 40 years old, and Eugenio Derbez is not only a Mexican comedian in Mexico; he has also crossed over to the United States market. He shares movie credits with Salma Hayek, Jennifer Gardner, and Adam Sandler, among many others. He even has attended the Oscars!
He was coming to Washington, DC to promote his new movie, Radical (2023). That week, he had two movie screenings following a Q&A with him. The first one was an invite-only organized by a Latino DC organization, to which I was invited. The second one was part of the Latin American film festival.
At the first event, I wanted to talk to him and take photos. But let’s not get ahead. The night before the event, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about my phone dying, just like in my recurring dreams. I packed extra chargers and didn’t eat anything too heavy to ensure I wouldn’t be sick. While watching Radical, I fidgeted in my seat. I looked around to see if maybe he was watching the movie with us. I sat in the aisle to take pictures of him when he passed by. I sat close to the screen, so when the Q&A happened, I was close enough to him. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to take a photo of him, so I designed everything to at least see him a bit closer. My friend (because now I have friends) watched me a bit worried — I can imagine seeing all my fidgeting and dancing around my seat, all my standing up to go to the bathroom just to see if perhaps he was outside waiting for the movie to be over. If he was there waiting, I planned to casually approach him and say, hi, your film is good. And for the life of me, I had to remember not to beg him for a photo. I would casually do it.
I didn’t want to sound too desperate. This is Eugenio Derbez, I have been dreaming of meeting him, literally dreaming about this encounter, I couldn’t screw it up.
Dear reader, don’t worry, I didn’t screw it up. I know you might be waiting for a silly situation where I embarrass myself, but this is not the case. I was chill. Ha! I approached him after the Q&A and took a selfie. My hands were shaking a bit at the beginning, but I wasn’t out of breath as I thought I would. I didn’t become my eight-year-old self and start portraying my favorite character, El Lonje Moco (although I did think about hunching a bit and pretending to remove a booger from my nose as Lonje Moco does it). I was an adult who took a selfie and then another with her friends. Then, I was the one taking photos of people with him, organizing the flow a little bit. Not only was my phone working, but I also saved the photo! I took videos, too, and my phone didn’t die. I posted these videos and pictures, and I screeched with happiness. I made some people jealous. So, mission accomplished.
What does he look like in person? He is a bit shorter than I thought, and I can see his wrinkly, stretched face up close. But he still looks pretty good. He is in really good shape and friendly and funny in person, too. He is not his characters, though. So, he didn’t say too many silly things.
Still, at this first event, we had time to go back and talk to him after taking the first selfie. This time, I asked him if I could hug him. I did. I lingered a little in the hug, fighting for tears to appear — that was eight-year-old Ofe hugging him. I thanked him for that and for making me laugh throughout my childhood (I can’t really remember if I actually said it or thought about it. It was a bit of a blur). Later, we went to speak to the producer, Benjamin Odell, about the movie and education in Mexico. During the second event, two days later, is when I realized that loving Eugenio Derbez is like wanting to be a writer.
The second event was opened to a larger audience — three or four times larger than the first event. So, here, it was impossible to take a photo afterward. However, during this event, there was a public Q&A. I thought about asking him a question, but I didn’t want to overshadow or take the opportunity of someone else who hadn’t interacted with him.
When it was time for the Q&A, there were two long lines waiting for Eugenio. Several were women, perhaps millennials like me. One of them told him she grew up with him, watching him at home in Mexico. She said how important he was for her. She cried a bit. Another one told him the same and that she was now studying for a PhD at GWU. Eugenio praised her after. Another one said that she grew up with him and he made her love comedy — one after another.
That’s when I realized that I am not unique. At. All. They all felt the same about Eugenio. He changed these ladies’ lives as well as mine. I felt deflated for a minute. I. Am. Not. Special.
This feeling has been replicated a few more times in my life while reading submissions where I am a judge. I read submission after submission about writers who have been passionate about writing since they were children. Things have happened in their lives, and they still aren’t “there.” “There” is always ephemeral. They want more. They want to feel special. Heard. Just like Eugenio Derbez fans in the second event in DC.
In these submissions, they often want a chance; they believe the fellowship they are applying for will change their lives. They have faith. I want to accept everyone. I want to give money to all. But I can’t. One: I don’t have any money. Two: often, there is only one fellowship. The process is quite subjective.
These writers I read among pages and pages want the same things as me. Just like the ladies at Eugenio Derbez’s event, they had the same childhood experiences as me. In my childhood, my dreams were not unique at all — realizing that was like drinking a glass of whole milk again. It makes my stomach growl and run for the bathroom.
And
doesn’t matter if I’m special?
who cares about that, really?
can we all be memorable at the same time?
if we all are special, then no one is special at all, right?
who told us that we need to be unique to be worth it?
In the second event, I wanted to ask something, to feel the same way as the ladies — seen, heard. I wanted to feel complete. But Eugenio can’t be in charge of that. He creates art through his comedy and acting, and it’s up to us how we interact with this art.
The writers I read about in the submissions wanted to feel complete by writing, too. But aren’t we creating the art so that others can feel that way? Or can it be both ways?
How long does this completeness feeling last? When we stop feeling it, what else do we do?
Dear reader, I have no answers to any of these questions. It’s just this longing feeling — human feeling — of wanting to be more.
I didn’t entirely fall out of love with Eugenio Derbez. It just felt different, like something shattered inside of me. I didn’t think much about him afterward. I haven’t dreamt about him ever since. Then, last week when I was visiting Los Pinos (the ex-president’s home in Mexico), my sisters and I went to a tiendita to buy some snacks, and on the TV, there was Eugenio Derbez with his furry, colorful outfit as Ludovico Peluche. I recognized the TV show just by the sound.
One of my sisters said, “mira Ofe, tu ídolo.” I turned to the TV, and the image made me smile. Three kids were in front of the TV with their arms resting below their chins, laughing aloud with Ludovico’s idiosyncrasy. The kids, I imagine, are children of the store’s employee or children of one of the soldiers. I took a seat behind them. I ate galletas emperador de chocolate while I watched. These reruns keep dazzling kids and making them laugh. They are growing up with Eugenio Derbez. Eugenio doesn’t know these kids. He will never know all the kids whose lives he has changed.
I think that it is impossible for Eugenio to feel on top of the world all the time. I imagine one day, he might feel he is not exceptional, not knowing how many lives he has changed. That’s the work of an artist. Even if we don’t feel special, we have to keep going. We must keep making art — we don’t know who is watching. Maybe we think we are not changing our own, but we don’t know what lives we are changing. And I’d rather live with that feeling of hope than feel nothing at all.
