I had no idea my elegant little souvenir could get me arrested.  It was, after all, just a sherry glass.  What could be the harm in that?

My Uncle Manolo gave it to me.  The last time I saw him I was in a stroller.  It had been 21 years.  Tio Manolo is my dad’s little brother.  I only remembered him from family pictures and family lore.

It was Christmas Eve when my plane touched down in Sevilla.  I was living in Germany for the year, studying architecture, and I flew to Spain for the holidays.  My dad had moved back to Sevilla from Los Angeles after spending twenty years in the States.  I was born in Madrid, and now, all these years later, I, too, was finally going to set foot back on Spanish soil.

What my dad forgot to tell me is that the entire Spanish side of my family, down to my six and eight year old cousins Jaime and Manolito, would be there when I touched that soil.  I pushed open the doors leading from the baggage claim and found twenty people standing there, smiling at me and taking pictures.  I was overwhelmed, I felt naked.  And  I hadn’t brought nearly enough presents for everyone.

Back at my dad’s condo, where he lived with his sisters, Tias Maria and Andrea, I didn’t know where to begin with the three entrees they made – the fish, the chicken, the beef – all in ridiculous portions.  I ate as much as I could.  My little nephews, Manolo’s sons, dressed in matching navy blue pants and sweaters, sang Christmas songs in Spanish.  I don’t speak Spanish, but I recognized the music to “Silent Night.”  Tio Manolo was his gregarious self – eating, drinking and dominating the dinner conversation (not that I could understand it).  He laughed and kept the party going.

At the end of the meal, Tio Manolo lit up a Fortuna cigarette, took a few drags, then pulled out a beautifully wrapped gift box from a bag, and handed it to me.  I opened it.  Inside was a sherry glass with a golden symbol of Spain on it and the word “Espana.”

I nodded and said “muchas gracias,” but could tell right away that was not enough.  Apparently there was something special about this sherry glass.  When Manolo handed it to me, the room became silent.  Everyone looked at me expectantly.  Even my little cousins stopped horsing around and watched for my reaction.  I said “gracias” a couple more times, and gently returned the glass to its box.

Later my dad explained to me that what Tio Manolo had given me was a piece of vintage Spanish contraband.  The symbol on the sherry glass – of the imperial eagle – is one you won’t find anymore.

It was the symbol of Spain under Franco, the fascist dictator who came to power in the Civil War, was pals with Hitler, and basically handled all political opposition with the gun and the noose.

That sherry glass dated from the 1960′s or 1970′s.  After Franco’s death in 1975, Spain shifted to a democracy, and the Imperial Eagle, clutching the arrows and yoke (el yugo y las flechas), was banned.  It would be as if my host mother in Germany had handed me a stein with a Swastika on it.  It’s simply not done.  The sherry glass was illegal.

I was born in the old Spain, the Spain of low crime, political oppression, and bullfights.

Two decades later I returned to a libertine Spain of free elections, nudity on TV, and FCUK boutiques standing cheek-by-jowl with 200 year old tapas bars.

For our family, though, that sherry glass was more than political.  Or rather, much less than political.  Manolo was no fascist.  He was a party boy.  In the 1960’s he was a successful young businessman – invested in cattle, I believe – and every picture I’ve seen of him from that era shows him sitting in some bar or restaurant, dressed in a nicely cut suit, smiling ear to ear, with some cute babe on his arm.  He drank away most of his golden touch, got married, and was now living in a cramped apartment with his wife and two sons.

Even though Manolo gave me that glass, it was his actually his big brother – my dad – who worked for the Franco government.  He was a bureaucrat, not a torture specialist, as far as I know, but he still got his paycheck from the old dictator.  I tend to believe the meek beauracrat explanation, as my mom used to tell me stories of how, when they went to restaurants together, my dad would order the drinks: a glass of milk and a glass of wine.  The waiter always handed the wine to my father and the milk to my mother, and, once he left, my parents would switch them.

I don’t use the sherry glass.  It’s too precious.  It just sits on a high shelf in the kitchen, safely out of reach of the children.  It’s not that I’m a fascist (politically, I’m your basic bay area lefty), yet I still can’t help but revere it.  For me, that glass is not about the political history of Spain.  It’s about a time when my mom and dad were still happy and in love, about a country that is in my blood, and about a scene stealing little brother who, on one Christmas Eve, gave his quieter, retiring big brother the spotlight, and made a show of respect for him in front of his son – me.

With that carefully wrapped glass, in a way that needed no translation, Tio Manolo was telling me: “Your dad’s a great guy, even if he does drink milk with his jamon serrano.”