ThouArt The Story of an Artist by Edward Gonzales and S.J. Gonzales chapters 1-4
September 27th, 2011
©2011 Thou Art cannot be reproduced or distributed without the express written consent of the authors.
Introduction
In 1969 I was a senior at the University of New Mexico majoring in studio art. I had one semester left until graduation when I was drafted into the army. After serving in Viet Nam I returned home to Albuquerque a more mature person, intent on completing my education and becoming an artist. Being in a war also helped me focus on what I really wanted to do with my art-portray the truth and beauty of my culture, something I'd rarely seen in any art books.
I'm an artist but I don't remember ever deciding to be one. That decision was made for me when I was very young when an inner voice told me what I was destined to be. Growing up I never questioned that message although becoming an artist wasn't easy. It meant living in two worlds, the one I was born into and the very different world of a creative person. To survive, I had to reject society's insistent voice telling me not to reach high. This is my story of how I became an artist.
Judgmental social messages and low expectations from the adults around me were always a part of my life. Growing up in a poor family there weren't any books or art materials at home because my parents assumed I'd get whatever education I needed at school. My neighborhood was equally poor and families saw jobs, not education as the way to improve their lives.
It was the same at school. There was little encouragement or interest for a budding artist and art history scholar who looked like me. In fact, I was invisible at school. When the national exam I took as a seventh grader showed my knowledge of art history was at the university post graduate level, no one took any notice of this singular achievement. By the twelfth grade I'd won every art award available to students in New Mexico yet almost no one considered art to be an appropriate, attainable career for me.
I was invisible because cultural and economic barriers prevented teachers and others from seeing who I really was although the proof of my abilities was in front of them all the time. People were certain they knew what a creative person looked like and it wasn't me. So I shouldn't have been surprised when I heard that message of low expectations again my last week in high school in a counselor's office.
Valley High was a big school and in 1965 there were close to a thousand teenage baby boomers in my senior class. The school assembly the week before graduation was packed with students. By a stroke of luck and the circumstance of my last name I was seated next to Jeanette Gonzales, Valley's homecoming queen. Jeanette wasn't just pretty, she was popular, getting more votes than her non-Hispanic blonde challengers, probably because of her sunny I never met a person I didn't like personality. Even with her reputation for being nice I was too shy to speak to her. I deliberately looked straight ahead but Jeanette seemed unaware of my discomfort. She smiled at me and gave an exaggerated shiver.
"Aren't you excited about graduating?" she asked.
To answer Jeanette's question I'd have to look at her. Fortunately before I had to, someone on the stage called my name. It was Frank Walker, my art teacher throughout high school and perhaps the only person who recognized or cared that I was an artist. Mr. Walker was an introverted man who never seemed happy in his role as art teacher yet I always knew he liked having me in his classes. He told the assembly I was getting the annual award for best senior student artist.
"There's only one student in school who deserves this award," Mr. Walker told the assembly. "He's worked hard and I know he'll go far in the field of art. I'm proud to give it to Edward Gonzales. So Edward, will you please come up here and accept this award?"
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeanette. She looked surprised and then impressed that the nobody sitting next to her was getting an award.
"Congratulations!" she exclaimed which made me more self-conscious. She joined in the applause, clapping enthusiastically.
"Thanks," I mumbled. For a shy kid like me the walk to the stage and back to my seat was excruciating. I was embarrassed by the attention and quickly sat down, sincerely hoping to go back to being unnoticed.
But my ordeal wasn't over. Jeanette leaned toward me and cupped a soft hand around my ear. "Edward," she said, trying to speak over the noise. "I won because I was popular but you won because you're talented. Good for you! But you have to be more outgoing because you have something nobody else has."
I blushed, thinking about how beautiful she was.
Nothing that homecoming queen Jeanette Gonzales did went unnoticed by her admiring constituency which was the entire student body, including my low brow buddies from the hood. One was sitting in the row behind me. He leaned over and spoke in my other ear, yanking me back to reality. "Hey, stud, gettin kinda close, you lucky dog!"
"Shuddup."
The next day seniors who weren't considered college material were scheduled to meet with counselors to help them plan their futures, such as they were. The college material students had been doing this all through high school with the expectation they were going to make something of themselves. Apparently the school didn't think this was going to happen to me because before today's appointment I'd never seen a counselor. I sat in the cafeteria along with other students like myself, mostly Hispanics from poor neighborhoods.
Even so I felt optimistic and waited impatiently for my name to be called. Here was the opportunity, finally, to tell a counselor about my dream of attending college to become an artist. With all my heart I wanted to know how to make this happen. Frank Walker had expressed himself on the subject, including his opinion that the University of New Mexico had a better art department than other colleges in the state. It was helpful information but I needed to know more. How did kids get into college? How would my interest in art translate into a career in art? There were some adults in my family and neighborhood who'd graduated from high school but no one had gone to college so there wasn't anyone I could talk to. Hopefully the counselor would unravel the mystery.
A student called my name and I headed down the hall to be counseled. A tall man wearing a brown corduroy jacket and green tie sat in one of the small offices. Mr. Sandoval greeted me. "You're Edward, right?"
I took a deep breath to calm myself. "Yes sir."
"Well, let's see what we have here." The counselor opened up a folder and thumbed through it. "Hmm. You got this award in art? You like art?"
"Yes sir, that's what I'd like to do. I want to go to college to be an artist."
The counselor then looked over my grade sheet which showed average grades overall, along with consistently high marks in all my art classes. Anticipation was building in me while I waited. When Mr. Sandoval looked up I remember thinking, Wow! At last I'll know how to tackle this confusing mess of getting into college.
"Well, Edward. I think you're better off enrolling at Albuquerque Technical-Vocational Institute. You're good with your hands so you should consider taking courses in auto mechanics."
For a moment I stared back, not sure I'd heard right, but I had. "That's not what I want to do," I said defensively. "I want to enroll at UNM to become an artist."
Mr. Sandoval seemed unaware of the deep effect his words had on me at seventeen with my life ahead of me. "Based on your grades," he continued, "I don't think you're college material so you're better off going to T-VI. It's easy to enroll and it doesn't cost much."
Somehow during that brief, terrible conversation my certainty about becoming an artist reasserted itself. I suddenly understood that whatever I did in life would be up to me. "Thanks," I replied, "but I am going to college so I'd appreciate your giving me anything you have on enrolling at UNM."
Mr. Sandoval's professional smile faded and he seemed to see me for the first time. He handed me a brochure and I left. I remember retracing my steps, down the hall, through the cafeteria and then outside, feeling let down and angry that even in a counselor's office I was invisible. But why be angry, I reasoned. Those five minutes of career counseling were par for my experiences during my years in school. Anyway, I was holding the real treasure, the pamphlet on how to enroll at UNM. Looking it over I discovered I'd have to hurry, the deadline for the fall semester was in just two weeks.
My anger did help. I decided I was going to show the counselor and the entire school that somebody like me could not only go to college but graduate and become an artist. From that day on I began educating myself on the process of getting into college. It meant adopting a different mind set so I could understand this new language of transcripts, class schedules and prerequisites, student loans and SATs. The counselor should've been the one to help me do this but he didn't and because of that I realized something important, I didn't need him. I could read so I could figure it out myself.
I underlined everything in the brochure that I needed to know. I filled out the application from UNM and sent it in. I learned there was an employment agency on campus and I signed up for summer work. The money I subsequently earned as a roofer helped pay for school. There was a financial aid office and I applied for loans.
During the summer a letter came. "Congratulations," it said. "You've been accepted to the University of New Mexico."
Chapter 1
In 1598 over fourteen hundred soldiers and settlers set out from Todos Los Santos, a pueblo near Durango, Mexico for an unknown land north of the Rio Grande. Under the authority of the king and queen of Spain these European and Mexican families established the province of New Mexico with Santa Fe as its capital. Diego Blandín Gonzales was a soldier, a captain and a father in this expedition. I am one of his descendants.
In 1916 thousands of people fleeing the violent and bloody Mexican revolution sought safety in the country's northern most city, Ciudad Juarez. As battles raged between the armies of Pancho Villa and federal troops, they waded through the shallow, muddy waters of the Rio Grande to reach the safety of the American border city of El Paso. José and Remedios Sanchez y Cabrera were among them. They were my mother's parents.
In 1949 a family of four set out on Route 66 from Los Angeles, California for New Mexico. Benerito Gonzales served in Europe during World War II. With the war over he looked forward to returning to New Mexico, his homeland. His wife Angelita felt differently. Having survived growing up poor and an outsider in New Mexico she was filled with anxiety about going back. On her own she'd created a happy life for herself in Los Angeles but marriage had reversed her direction. It was her fate and not her choice to return. Benerito and Angelita are my parents.
I was born in Los Angeles, California in August, 1947. I was just two years old when we left for New Mexico but I still remember a lot about our L.A. neighborhood: tall palm trees, the wonderful weather, our apartment in Boyle Heights. A Chinese family lived next to us and my older brother Phillip played with their children everyday. Phillip was a precocious and outgoing child who absorbed everything around him. He started talking at a very early age but to his mystified parents the words made no sense until they developed into sentences. That's when they realized Phillip was speaking Chinese.
The day Mom and Dad brought me home from the hospital they decided to name me Edward and call me Eddy for short. Dad held me up so Phillip could get a good look. He eyed me curiously as I was bobbled up and down for his inspection.
"This is your little brother. Say hi to Eh-dee," Dad said in a singsong voice.
Perhaps his head was too full of Chinese words to pronounce my name because instead of Eddy, Phillip called me Eh-lee. Mom and Dad were so amused by this mispronunciation that from then on my family called me Lee.
We might've grown up in Los Angeles if the decision had been Mom's to make because she loved it there and never wanted to leave. If that ocean of a city had an opposite it had to be Belen, the small railroad town in central New Mexico where she was raised and where her mother Remedios Sanchez still lived. How my mother happened to grow up in Belen is a story shared by immigrants of that time.
In Mexico Mom's grandparents owned small businesses so the families must've led reasonably secure lives. I don't know all the reasons why Jose and Remedios chose to leave their world behind—certainly the enveloping war could've been reason enough. They and their children headed north to the U.S. hoping to settle where Jose could work and where there was stability to raise their family but that's not what they found. By the time the Sanchezes settled in Belen they were utterly poor. Their first home was a storage shed and the cramped adobe home they moved to next lacked electricity and indoor plumbing. Angelita learned to speak English in school and was punished if she didn't, often attended in ill health and went dressed in worn hand me down clothes. She was anemic because of the family's poor diet. When my mother was seven an untreated infection settled in her ears and she lost the hearing in one.
Angelita took these painful experiences to heart. She was a very serious student, taking all the typing and office skills courses offered in high school, knowing a better life meant getting a good education and living someplace else. Following in the footsteps of one of her older sisters Angelita left Belen after graduation and moved to El Paso, where she stayed with relatives and worked as a secretary. The next year her younger sister Margarita finished high school and moved to Los Angeles. She and two L.A. cousins shared an apartment and worked as stockers in a large warehouse. It was the eve of World War II, California's economy was booming and jobs were plentiful. Margarita sent an excited letter to her sister. 'Angie, come right away! You can get a good job in the warehouse where we're working.'
Angelita, always cautious and practical, reread the letter several times before deciding what to do. If Margarita could earn more as a stocker than she made as a secretary it was time to leave El Paso. In L. A. the factory manager realized the teenage applicant sitting before him was a fast, accurate typist with a high school diploma and bilingual. He hired her immediately, not as a stocker, but as a secretary in the office where the pay was better and the work easier.
When the girls met up at the apartment at the end of the day they toasted Angie's new job. For a brief moment Margaret, the joyous, happy go lucky one of the family regretted not working harder in high school. "I guess I should've taken typing," she laughed. Angie laughed too, with happiness, knowing she'd come at last to the land of opportunity. For both sisters Los Angeles was a wonderful and progressive environment where they could have good jobs and enjoy active social lives. Remedios often took the train to visit, adding to their contentment. Photos from that time show two smartly dressed young women with movie star looks smiling back at the camera.
Within a few months Margarita met a soldier named Alfredo Martinez and the two fell in love. Naturally, they arranged a date between Angie and Fred's best friend Benerito Gonzales. From then on, whenever the two soldiers were on leave from their army base in Riverside the couples double dated. Once he was discharged from the army Fred married Margarita and they moved back to New Mexico to his hometown of Santa Fe. When Benerito proposed marriage Angie put him off. She had misgivings about marrying him because in so many ways she felt they weren't right for each other. Wthout her mother or sisters to talk to and Bennie pressing for her answer, Angie reluctantly accepted.
Jobs abounded in postwar L.A. Benerito found work as an apprentice carpenter, a good paying job that also held the promise of a stable career. The young couple moved into a nice apartment in Boyle Heights and started a family. If they had wanted the same things from life they could've merged into L.A.'s upwardly mobile Mexican American working class, bought a home and lived the good life. Unfortunately Angie and Bennie were not a well matched couple and in their unhappiness with each other they began to argue, often about where to live. Bennie didn't share Angie's intense desire to achieve the American dream in California. He missed his family and friends and longed to hear his own language again, the distinctive Hispano dialect of New Mexico. His people had lived there for hundreds of years and their legacy was ingrained in him. The good job and nice apartment meant little to him. More than anything he wanted to go home.
Angie knew with the certainty that comes from dreadful experience that she did not want to return to New Mexico so nothing her husband said on the subject of New Mexico interested her. Bennie felt sure there was one point they could agree on however, the loss of family ties. "What good is it to have a job in L.A.," he asked her, "if the boys grow up not knowing their grandparents and relatives?"
Angie countered her husband's heartfelt argument with several of her own: L.A.'s wonderful weather, decent housing, good jobs and schools. These, she pointed out, provided a standard of living which could never be achieved anywhere in New Mexico. And yes, she added, she was willing to sacrifice seeing her relatives often, even her own mother whom she loved dearly, for all the advantages.
One day Bennie stopped the back and forth arguing. "We're going back to New Mexico," he told her. "End of discussion." And given the reality of Hispanic Catholic marriages Angie was forced to give in but it wasn't a happy decision. She'd been pressured to get married and now she was being forced to return to a place she hated. As a result, my mother began suffering from anger and resentment. You could say Dad won the argument but he also started an unending war. My parents' contentious, unhappy marriage developed in large part as a result of that move.
While both sides of my family are Hispanic the experience of the newly arrived Sanchez family in the United States was far different than the Gonzales family. My mother’s people were refugees from the Mexican Revolution. Their ways, beliefs and strengths are part of who I am. Angelita was a daughter of immigrants. Her drive to seek a better life became my dream, too.
Generations of Gonzaleses had been farmers in northern New Mexico. Their traditions, isolation and language were part of that unique culture of Hispano villagers. Benerito's homeland became mine, too.
Chapter 2
Other than an occasional truck hauling goods there were few vehicles on the highway. We drove east on Route 66 through a seemingly infinite expanse of brown desert and mesas that looked nothing like Los Angeles, that metropolis of people, cars and buildings where we lived until yesterday. Now we were on our way to New Mexico and a new life.
Phillip had the wide back seat to himself and he turned this way and that looking at the unfamiliar sights. Suddenly his eyes widened. He got up on his knees for a better look and pointed out the window. “What’s that?” he asked breathlessly.
Dad looked for something out of the ordinary, scanning the countryside with the expert eye of someone who'd grown up riding horses and herding. “That’s a cow," he laughed.
“Cow?” I repeated, sitting in Mom's arms. “Cow?
My first clear memory of New Mexico is being with Dad’s family. They lived in an isolated fluorspar mining camp in the Zuni Mountains. To get there we turned off the highway onto an unpaved bumpy road and headed south through rugged country. As we drove higher the land got rockier with juniper, piñon and then large pine trees scattered among the boulders. The closer we came to the camp the happier Dad became. He whistled a jaunty tune through his teeth while Mom grew quiet and tense.
Rounding a curve we saw rough log cabins perched precariously on steep slopes. Huge rocks looked as if they might tumble down on the little houses at any moment. Dad parked by one of them and we got out. Mom, Phillip and I stared at the unfamiliar scene before us. There were people walking about and they did look like us except most were dressed in clothes we'd never seen before. Men and boys had on denim overalls and women wore long, homemade dresses, some with shawls covering their hair. Two ancient pickups clattered around a rider on horseback. Compared to Boyle Heights it looked very primitive.
To Angelita Gonzales it was a vision of Hispanic Appalachia, a shocking contrast to energetic, modern Los Angeles, the place where dreams came true. She could barely contain the despair she felt at that moment. Benerito on the other hand, was quite willing to be a miner. In fact, he'd been working at the mine, known only as #27 when he was drafted eight years before. That life might be fine with him but it was one that Mom would never agree to. She was determined to get us to Albuquerque, the state's only real metropolitan area where Benerito could find a decent job and we could attend good schools. By force of will she would make this happen.
From a porch I heard someone speak. "Están aquí." They're here. I looked up to see a thin, pale man with blue eyes rising from a homemade bench. Then the screen door banged open and children poured out, followed by a woman with olive skin, black hair in a long braid and a calm demeanor. The man carefully handed the baby he'd been holding over to her. Our grandparents, Antonio and Senaida Gonzales and their children, our aunts and uncles enclosed us in their loving embrace. Johnny was 5, Dideen, 10; Carmen, 11; Bernie, 13 and Tony, 15. Dad at twenty-eight was the oldest of the Gonzales children. The next oldest was Eutimio who worked in Albuquerque. Three sisters lived in the nearby town of Grants. The baby in Grandpa's arms belonged to one of them.
Number 27 was home to strangers, friends and relatives, single men as well as entire families. All had faced enormous hardships moving from mine to mine across the state. The search for work in an unfamiliar and difficult economy had permanently broken three hundred and fifty years of traditions, family ties and communal life as land grant villagers. Like Grandpa, most of the men had once been land owning farmers, now they were miners for hire. It was this extended family who was on hand to meet us today.
Phillip smiled back at the crowd, curious and unafraid, my complete opposite. "Mom, where are we?" he asked. "Who are they? I'm thirsty, can I have a drink of water?"
"I want water too," I put in, my thirst overcoming my aversion to talking in front of strangers.
Our relatives, all Spanish speakers, stopped whatever they were doing and stared at us, surprised to hear a three year-old and a two year-old speaking fluent, unaccented English. Their children knew English but they learned it in school, in the same way my parents did. In that moment language made us instant celebrities among Dad's family but also forever set us apart from them since my brother and I only spoke English.
Our parents were the first generation of New Mexico Hispanos to be truly bilingual so it seems strange Phillip and I would not be. But Mom had not forgotten being punished for speaking Spanish in Belen's Anglo run schools. She was determined her children would speak English only and speak it well. She never spoke baby talk to us either. As a result, Phillip had a very large vocabulary. To Grandma Senaida who was literate in Spanish but spoke almost no English, Phillip and I were simply remarkable. She could hardly wait to show us off to friends and neighbors in the camp.
The little house filled up as more and more family arrived. In the cabin's close quarters it was obvious how different my brother and I were from each other. Phillip was slender with straight black hair while I was chunky with curly hair. Phillip didn't mind the nonstop hugging and quickly found children his age to play with; I didn't want to be touched and stayed glued to Mom. In our Boyle Heights apartment I always hid under the kitchen table whenever there were visitors and wouldn't come out until they left. I wouldn't let anyone but Mom hold me and if she was out of sight for even a moment I'd become frantic and hysterical.
Understandably, Mom was apprehensive about the plan to leave us at the mining camp while she and Dad looked for a place to live in Albuquerque and he found work. But Grandma didn't give my reputation as a crybaby a second thought. After dinner she put her hands out to me.
"Mom spoke up quickly. "Este muchito" she warned, "no le gusta ir con nadie." This little boy doesn't like to go with anyone.
Except for today. Mesmerized by so much love and attention I leaned out, just a little, and let Grandma take me in her arms. I remember her hug, the warmth in her eyes and smile. With Phillip skipping along at her side Grandma hurried to the cabin next door eager to show off her grandsons' English language skills, especially mine. Life in camp was hard and distractions were few so Grandma knew the neighbors would enjoy us as much as she had. Over her shoulder I watched my aunts and uncles making silly faces and didn't notice Mom and Dad driving away. They returned for us a couple months later.
The Medinas sat on their front porch enjoying the quiet Saturday afternoon. They watched our approach with interest. "Senaida," Mrs. Medina asked curiously, "quienes son estos muchitos?" Who are these little boys?
"Son mis nietos,” Grandma replied, walking up the steps. These are my grandsons.
Mrs. Medina made a fuss over us. She loved children, as did our grandmother and of course all babies received an extra helping of attention. Before I could lean out of the way she gave my fat cheek a gentle pinch and then smiled warmly at Phillip.
“Que preciosos están," she exclaimed to Grandma. How precious they are.
"Que cachetón," Mr. Medina chuckled, looking at my pudgy face. What fat cheeks!
"These little boys don't speak Spanish," Grandma explained, shifting me so I faced the neighbors. "They only speak English."
The Medinas looked absolutely fascinated and leaned forward, hoping to hear me say a few words in a foreign language.
Little Dideen, so much like her mother, was just as eager to show off my language skills. "Say your name in English, Eddy," Dideen said, nodding encouragement, then repeating it in Spanish so the Medinas could understand. "Eddy, dígales tu nombre en ingles."
I shook my head and twisted back to Grandma, burrowing my face deep into her shoulder. She smelled like flour. Grandma gave her star performer a small, let's get the show on the road bounce. “Bueno, Eduardo. Habla, habla.” Okay, Edward. Speak, speak.
"I frowned and put my hand over her mouth. Everybody laughed at this except Grandma, who suddenly realized getting a performance out of me would require her to speak English. She did her best.
"Eduardo," she began haltingly. "Es, es-peak haa--lo."
Phillip knew I wasn't going to cooperate. He tugged on Grandma's apron. "Ask me, Grandma. Lee doesn’t like to talk."
Mrs. Medina's hands went to her face. “Aahh!" she exclaimed. "Está hablando ingles!” He's speaking English!
The astonished couple gaped at the little boy who looked like everybody else in camp yet so easily spoke the language of the bosses, los Americanos.
Grandma looked relieved. "How-you? How-you-do?” she asked Phillip.
“I’m fine," he responded. "We drove in our car from California and we saw cows." Turning to the dazzled neighbors he smiled and added, “Do you have any candy?” Clearly an opportunity was at hand and Mom wasn't around to spoil it either.
"Qué stá pidiendo?" Mrs. Medina asked. She looked at Grandma who turned to Dideen for help.
“He's asking you for sweets,” Dideen replied in Spanish.
Mrs. Medina nodded approvingly. What a smart little boy! She went inside for a couple of homemade bizcochitos, traditional anise and sugar cookies. Returning, she handed one to me and one to Phillip. “Está bueno?” she asked.
"No translation was needed. “Mmmm," Phillip nodded, munching happily, his perpetual sweet tooth satisfied for the moment.
Word of two wonder kids sped through the mining camp. Within minutes the Medinas' porch converted to a public stage as the yard filled with people. Everybody wanted to get a good look at us and no one, not even the children seemed to mind that Phillip and I were the only ones getting cookies and attention. When I realized how many people were staring I stopped eating. I pushed my lower lip out and knitted my eyebrows together in an intimidating baby frown. But no matter what I did everyone watched with intense delight.
A teenager on horseback rode over to the porch to see the show. I'd never seen a horse before but that very morning from the car I'd seen a large animal in the distance. "Cow?" I asked.
There was a brief moment of silence while children translated this into Spanish and then the crowd burst into happy laughter. An uneventful Saturday had turned into an entertaining one.
"No, Eddy, that's a horse," Dideen said, giving my arm a reassuring pat.
"Yeah," Phillip added. "That's a horse."
What I remember as a humorous incident involving communication between us and our grandparents in reality had far broader, more serious implications. Phillip and I were brought up with English as our first language because our parents, born into poverty, wanted to give us a better life. It was obvious to them that language was the key to achievement in the English speaking world. They were part of a true phenomenon, a spontaneous mass movement of Hispanics who decided to forgo their native tongue for a foreign language.
Chapter 3
It was late spring when we arrived at the mining camp. The nights were still quite cold and I remember Grandma tucking us in with heavy quilts. The two bedroom cabin was heated by the wood stove in the kitchen and a pot belly stove in the living room. Both threw a wonderful heat. The stove in particular fascinated me and I loved watching Grandma cook on it. Her expert adjustments of its flues and compartments kept the stove as hot or warm as she needed. The beans, red chile, meat and potatoes and flour tortillas Grandma served were delicious. All the ingredients were there for my interest as an artist to recreate an Hispanic family's most important room, la cocina, the kitchen.
Since our parents constantly warned us never to touch matches I was surprised that my aunts and uncles, still children themselves, were allowed to light fires. In such a large household however, everyone had chores to do. Grandpa Antonio's responsibility was to supply the firewood and he had a peculiar way of doing it. After spending long hours in the mine he didn't have the energy or patience on weekends to chop wood the traditional way. But as a miner Antonio had access to dynamite which he brought home in the glove compartment of his pickup. On weekends he would drive with his two older sons to the nearby hills in search of dead and fallen trees.
"Papá, here's a good one," one of the boys called upon finding a suitable tree. Antonio nodded his agreement and got to work scraping away the dirt around the tree's exposed roots. Pulling a stick of dynamite from a back pocket he placed it in the depression, and after igniting the fuse he and his sons ran for cover. The dynamite detonated with a tremendous boom. Pieces of tree and clods of dirt flew up in the air. When the wood returned to earth and the dust cleared the boys loaded the truck. Antonio's method was efficient and it certainly kept the wood pile well supplied but for some reason his neighbors stubbornly refused to try his technique. When a dynamite blast was heard on the weekend people knew it was Antonio harvesting firewood and they stayed home.
One Sunday afternoon Aunt Dideen took me with her to fetch wood for the kitchen stove. There were four rough plank steps leading from the back door to the yard and Dideen carefully helped me down each one. Bypassing the woodpile we began to climb the hill behind the cabin. Halfway up its steep ascent Dideen lifted me onto a large rock where we sat quietly, immersed in the spellbinding scenery before us. A family of ravens flew high overhead. In the stillness of the day we could hear their cawing as they passed the camp on their way to the nearby woods.
I watched Dideen take a deep breath and did the same. The clean mountain air held the pungent scent of piñon and juniper smoke drifting up from the cabins far below. From moments like these I began to internalize an important truth, that poverty did not close us off from an abiding love for nature's splendor. People in the mining camp had left their villages in search of work but still felt connected to the land and treasured its beauty. As we walked down the hill a sense of contentment replaced the ache I felt from missing my parents.
Back in the everyday world Dideen sorted through the wood pile for kindling while I sifted through a patch of dirt, a developing habit of mine as I grew to enjoy looking closely at things. At the other end of the long, narrow yard Uncle Johnny and Phillip, now constant playmates, threw rocks at a line of bottles and cans. Satisfied I would be watched over if she went inside, Dideen decided to let me stay where I was. Barely visible over an armload of wood she called, "Juan. Take care of Eddy. He's here by the firewood.”
Johnny pretended he didn’t hear her. As far as he was concerned, this was just his bossy sister with yet another order cutting into his playtime.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, continuing his target practice.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Phillip echoed, plinking a tin can with a rock.
Dideen refused to be ignored. "Cuidelo, oites!" (oiste is pronounced oites in New Mexico colloquial Spanish) Take care of him,' you hear!
"Okay, okay!" Johnny said. He threw an irritated nod in our direction and Dideen went inside, satisfied Johnny would keep an eye on me.
Something deep within the woodpile sparkled and beckoned, a syrup bottle in the shape of a train engine. I put my hand between the sticks of wood not realizing the little glass engine was broken, a casualty of Johnny's target practice. When I tried pulling it out I got cut. Uncle Johnny heard me crying and ran over. For a few seconds he stared at my bloody hand until it occurred to him this was a serious injury. Grabbing my other hand he yanked me up the plank stairs thump, thump. Aowww! thump into the kitchen where Grandma was preparing dinner and Dideen folded laundry.
Holding my bleeding hand up high Johnny jerked it back and forth, hurting me even more and making me cry harder.
“La Dideen le dejó Eduardo solo y mira lo que pasoooh!” he announced dramatically. Dideen left Eduardo alone and look what haappened!
“No estaba solo! Estaba contigo!" she shouted back, outraged at being blamed. He wasn't alone! He was with you!
Grandma rushed over. "Sueltelo!" she ordered Johnny. Let him go!
She bent down and gently examined my bloody hand. "Pobrecito,” she said as I cringed from the pain.
Grandma wiped away my tears with a towel. She washed my hand and put ointment on the cut to stop the bleeding. Still smoldering, Dideen ripped up a clean handkerchief for a bandage. After wrapping my hand in the cloth Grandma tied both ends in a small bow over my knuckles. She patted my cheek and added a few more words of comfort before returning to the stove.
Holding my bandaged hand up I went into the quiet living room and walked around looking at each object on display. A tall plaster saint was kept on a table next to the front window. Her hands were at her sides, palms up and rose colored robes fell in graceful folds about her. It was the first art I'd ever seen. Grandma had draped a glass rosary around her neck and hands. Sunlight streamed through the window and bits of rainbow color from the beads danced across the linoleum floor. I looked at the saint’s serene face for a long time, finally forgetting the pain I was in.
With my good hand I opened the front door and went outside where Grandpa sat on his bench resting from the five weekdays of grueling work he put in at the mine. As usual he was taking care of a grandchild. The baby sat contentedly in his lap, her little legs kicking from time to time. The two of them watched the road with quiet interest, oblivious to the events in the backyard and kitchen.
Grandpa turned to greet me. "Eduardo," he began before noticing my bandage. His smile changed to concern. “Pues, que pasó contigo?” he asked. What happened to you? Silently I raised my arm to show I'd survived an awful event. Deciding to join the group I sat down at the edge of the porch. The peaceful moment was interrupted when a man on a spirited buckskin rode up. I scrambled backward, afraid of the nervous, high stepping horse but also fascinated by its wild beauty and strange dun yellow coat.
The horse looked at me and somehow I sensed it was curious about my bandaged hand. Slowly I held it out and took a timid step forward and in response, the horse stretched its neck toward me. But the rider was deep in conversation with Grandpa and held the reins tight. The animal tossed its head again and again until at last the reins loosened, then brushed softly up and down my hand and arm with its velvety muzzle, finally nodding as if satisfied. As we gazed at each other I realized its deep brown eyes were the largest I’d ever seen. Off in the distance another horse and rider came into view. The buckskin turned away to watch them and our moment of communion was over.
The sunny, comfortable cabin, my grandmother cooking on the wood stove, the curious horse, these are some of my earliest memories of New Mexico.
Chapter 4
In 1950 my parents rented a home on Walter Street in East San Jose, one of Albuquerque’s oldest and poorest communities. We lived in the last house on the last block at the farthest end of the southeast corner of town. You could say that geographically and socially we were clinging to the edge of the city. There were many modest homes in the neighborhood but none as small and poorly built as ours, one room with an outdoor privy for the bathroom. There was a single tree on the narrow, barren lot, a scruffy Chinese elm under whose scant shade Phillip and I often played.
Still, the barrio was a friendly place to live. Residents were often outside visiting with each other, working on their cars or tending their yards. Dad’s new job as an ambulance driver at the Veterans Hospital was stressful, low paying work but he could relax once he got home since most of our neighbors were nativos, New Mexico Hispanics. They included lifelong residents of East San Jose as well as rural families who were moving to Albuquerque in search of work. These transplants, Dad included, brought village ways with them, creating a sense of community and a support system they understood and could count on.
Dad made friends quickly in East San Jose. He had a straw fedora which he often wore with the front brim turned up, giving him a look which was silly but engaging. He had a fair complexion, a friendly face and a small mustache. When he smiled which he did a lot, you could see a front tooth with a gold lining. That tooth was fascinating to children and so was the huge scar that wrapped across his stomach to his back. Whenever kids saw him without a shirt they figured he’d been riddled by machine gun fire in Europe during World War II. Dad was only vaguely aware of the prestige he had in the neighborhood because of it. Later on I learned he had appendicitis while living in California after the war and the scar was where doctors stitched him up.
Dad also had a thick, rough beard and when he didn't shave his face felt like sandpaper. His idea of fun was to rub our tender cheeks on his. Since Phillip and I were too little to stop him we'd grab his nose or his ears and try to push him away. “Aguáos!” Weaklings! he'd sneer, and laugh at our struggles to get free of him. Dad's rural sense of humor and his expressions of affection often came at our expense but he loved getting outdoors and doing things together with us so we had some very happy times with him, when we were young.
Mom was the more serious parent, concerned for our safety and the direction we should take as a family. She was clear about what she didn't like and that included living in a rural area, Dad working as a miner, Phillip and I speaking Spanish. Mom associated those things with poverty and New Mexico, the place she'd tried to escape but now, thanks to Bennie here she was again, this time with two children.
Her dream of a better life which seemed so attainable in California would be hard to come by in New Mexico. Even though the state was gaining economically, due in part to its developing reputation as a tourist and art destination, Mom knew what was really in store for us, and it wouldn't be the cultural playground of cowboys, Indians and festively dressed Spanish Americans touted by the New Mexico Department of Tourism. What we'd get was the genuine Hispanic experience of being really poor in an impoverished state. A series of crazy and traumatic events occurred during our first year on Walter that confirmed Mom's fears and then some.
Unlike Dad, Mom had no time to visit neighbors. She was too busy cleaning, cooking and caring for us, and she was pregnant again, so it was a real struggle keeping up with household chores. Our home had few modern amenities such as hot water so a load of washing took hours to do. A large tub filled with pail after pail of water was heated on the stove. When the water was nearly boiling Mom carried the tub outdoors to a wringer washing machine. A long extension cord ran through the front room window to the washer which was kept in the yard since there wasn't room for it in the house and no porch.
Being three years old I was oblivious to the drudgery which now defined my mother's life. I actually looked forward to wash days. I loved the scent of freshly washed laundry and zooming through billowing sheets on the clothesline with my arms outstretched was one of my favorite things to do.
One summer day Mom was in the middle of a load of washing, Phillip was in bed with a cold and I was outside playing my clean laundry game when I heard a sharp cry of pain. Peeking through the wet sheets I saw Mom bent over the washing machine at an odd angle. Her arm was caught in the wringer past her elbow.
Mom spoke quietly to me, her voice holding no hint of the pain she was in. "Mijo, go in the house and get me the broom."
I ran inside, grabbed the broom and dashed outside with it. Mom seesawed the handle between the rollers until she was finally able to pry them apart. Her arm looked pinched and red. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself.
Does it hurt?" I asked fearfully.
"Don't worry, son. I'm okay" Again she spoke softly but I felt afraid. Mom went inside and I followed her. She sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and closed her eyes. After a while she went outside to finish the laundry. I noticed the broom was on the ground so I picked it up and stayed by her just in case she needed it again.
When Phillip was over his cold we returned to our routine of playing together. Our heroes were Roy Rogers and Gene Autry so of course our favorite game was playing cowboys. Seeing this, Mom splurged and bought complete cowboy outfits for us at the Woolworth's store downtown. In our eyes, we were authentic cowboys, from our hats to our boots. Fortunately Phillip was wearing his outfit when he had a showdown with a pot of hot water because it played a critical role in protecting him.
Phillip enjoyed fast drawing his pistol and at least twenty times a day he'd shoot me. Finally I got tired of falling over dead and threw myself on top of him. I've always been huskier than my brother so he had to struggle hard to get free. He dashed into the house with me in close pursuit. Mom was hoisting the tub of hot water from the stove when Phillip grabbed her legs and ducked behind her. With her right arm still weak from the wringer incident she lost her hold and the water spilled squarely on Phillip. The force of it knocked him down. I still remember Mom screaming.
Mom was just hoisting the tub of hot water from the stove when Phillip grabbed her legs and ducked behind her. With her right arm still weak from the wringer incident she lost her hold and the water spilled squarely on Phillip, knocking him down. I still remember Mom screaming.
"FELIPE! Look what you've done! Oh my God!"
Phillip's wide brimmed cowboy hat fell over his face and steaming hot water spilled on top of it, circling the brim, then poured onto his leather vest. Not a sound came out, just gasps as he tried to catch his breath. Finally his scream burst through and mixed with Mom's. Thinking she'd maimed her first born for the rest of his life Mom grabbed us both and ran next door to use the neighbors' phone. I stayed with them while an ambulance sped her and Phillip to the hospital. It turned out he was okay, the cowboy hat and leather vest protected him from getting scalded. For a while though, Phillip was leery of going near the stove while Mom was working there and probably she was, too.
Our parents were relieved that Phillip hadn't been harmed but the misfortune poverty brings wasn't over. Another accident was about to happen and this time it involved Dad. A friend of his at the VA was selling a motor scooter and Dad wanted to buy it. Besides being inexpensive to run he felt Mom needed the car in case of another emergency. The scooter also looked like it could provide him with some well deserved fun but Dad decided not to mention this aspect to Mom. During dinner he pitched the scooter idea. He didn't get far, Mom was completely opposed to it.
"Don't buy it Bennie," she interrupted. "You don't know how to drive a motor scooter. Besides they're dangerous! You'll get into an accident and get really hurt."
"Ohhhh Angie," Dad sighed, frustrated at Mom's inability to grasp simple facts. "Scooters are easy to drive. I won't get into an accident. Besides, they're good on gas and you need the car."
Mom patted her stomach to make her point. "I think you're crazy to buy it. What am I going to do alone with three children if you kill yourself?"
Dad sounded exasperated. "Don't be silly. I'm not going on long trips, I'm just going back and forth to work. Don't worry so much." He picked up his fork and went back to eating dinner, indicating, he hoped, that the matter was closed. But Mom was concerned. Miles Road, the busy thoroughfare leading to the VA hospital was only partially paved. Worse, it was poorly lit, making it a challenge for anyone driving at night. Our parents continued arguing about the scooter long after they went to bed.
"Well I still don't want you to buy it," Mom said. She turned over and went to sleep, believing hers was the final word on the subject.
The next day Dad came home with the motor scooter.
The red Cushman was pretty and made a lot of noise. Naturally, Phillip and I loved watching Dad rev the engine in the morning. We clamped our hands tightly over our ears as Dad gave the throttle some extra vavooms for our benefit. He beeped the horn twice before zipping off to work in a cloud of acrid smoke. Looking out the window Mom shook her head at the futility of it all and went back to washing dishes.
For a while it seemed like Dad was right, the scooter was a good solution. That is, until he showed up late for dinner one night covered from head to toe in dirt, gravel and blood. His white ambulance uniform was in shreds. He wasn't saying much, just that he'd hit a pothole and I guess whoever was there when he wrecked the scooter brought him home. From the looks of it, Dad must've flown over the handle bars and skidded several feet on the pavement because it was the front of his body that had taken the brunt of the slide.
Dad grimaced as Mom removed his uniform. She helped him onto the bed where he lay flat on his back with just his shorts on, barely able to move or speak. Her initial fear now turned to anger and standing over him Mom unleashed a torrent of 'I told you so's' which Dad was forced to listen to.
"I told you this was going to happen, you're lucky you didn't kill yourself. I told you not to buy the scooter, it was too dangerous. You should've listened to me."
Dad groaned. Usually he gave back as good as he got but right now he was in too much pain to argue. In fact, he was such a bloody mess it was clear that he needed medical care but he wouldn't go.
"Bennie," Mom insisted. "You've got to go to the hospital!"
“I can't move,” Dad whispered through clenched teeth.
"Then I'm calling an ambulance right now!" she exclaimed. Turning the heat off under the pots of beans and chile she headed for the door to use the neighbor's phone.
Dad struggled to sit up. "No! No! he shouted. "I don't want those guys here!" So Mom reluctantly returned to the stove, angry and confused about what was going on in Bennie's head. What guys? If he had medical coverage at the Veterans Hospital, it was near by and the care was free, why wouldn't he let her call an ambulance? Dad had his reasons. What he feared more than all the pain was being the victim in his own ambulance and the subject of endless jokes at work.
I stayed by the side of the bed staring down at my father. Through the slit of a badly swollen eye he occasionally peered up at me wondering why. I didn't know why myself, only that I was riveted by the vivid colors and strange textures of his torn skin. Dad had become a work of art, something I didn't fully appreciate until years later when I was in the sixth grade. Paging through art books at the library I saw paintings with similar bloody images: Soutine's plucked chicken, Rembrandt's skinned ox and Francis Bacon's screaming pope. Each one brought back sharp memories of Dad's suffering.
Since the scooter was totaled Dad decided it was best to stick with driving the Chevy. He spent a week recuperating at home. Once his wounds had healed enough for him to tolerate wearing clothes he got dressed in his second uniform and returned to work.
We hoped our run of bad luck was finished but it wasn't. Now it was my turn.
To give Mom some much needed peace and quiet, maybe even rest, Dad began taking Phillip and me to city parks on the weekends. One Friday Dad read an article in the Albuquerque Journal about an injured bear cub found clinging to a tree in a fire ravaged forest in the southern end of the state. After a veterinarian bandaged his paws a state Game and Fish department employee named Ray Bell took the little guy to his home in Santa Fe where his family nursed the cub until it was well.
Seeing the possibilities for educating the public about the danger of forest fires Ranger Bell went on the lecture circuit, taking the cub to schools and parks around Santa Fe. According to the Journal story, the ranger and the little bear were going to visit the Albuquerque zoo the very next day.
Saturday morning Phillip and I took our usual places in Dad's convertible Chevy. My brother liked the front seat by the window, 'riding shotgun' as he called it. I took my place in the back, which suited me fine. I loved looking at the sky which this morning was azure blue with puffy white clouds. I settled happily into the seat ready for another beautiful day.
Across from our house was a gully people used as a handy shortcut out of the neighborhood. With the prospect of an interesting day at the zoo on his mind Dad backed the car onto the street. He drove to the edge and gunned the Chevy to get enough momentum to make it down, across and then up the embankment onto Miles Road. From there the zoo was just a few minutes away. It looked easy enough, especially since constant usage had made a driving path for cars to follow. But it had rained recently and Dad didn't see the large rocks which had washed into the arroyo's sandy bed until it was too late. He was barely able to swerve the front wheels in time to avoid hitting them.
The Chevy was well built with great springs and the top was down. The rear tire I was sitting over hit the rocks squarely and I was ejected up and out, still staring up at the sky. For a fraction of a second I saw blue and white patches of color. Descending, I bounced off a large bush which broke my fall. I landed in the arroyo and rolled several times before coming to a stop face down in the sand. The car made it to the top without me. I thought I heard Phillip yelling.
"Dad! Daad! Lee fell outta the car!"
I turned my head slightly so I could breathe. The next thing I knew Dad lifted me up. He cleared the dirt out of my nose and mouth and slapped me on the back a couple of times. I coughed and gasped until I could breathe again.
"Is he okay?" Phillip called. His voice sounded small and far away.
Dad cleaned the dirt from my eyes. When I opened them he was peering at me with one eyebrow up, his usual look of concentration and concern.
"Are you okay?" Dad asked.
I nodded and coughed up more dirt.
"Lee's okay," he shouted back to Phillip.
Dad brushed off as much dirt as he could. Before putting me in the car he gave my hair a good ruffling with both hands to get rid of any extra sand. After settling in behind the wheel he turned to Phillip.
"Don't tell your mama what happened, okay?" Dad cautioned, nodding affirmatively with each word.
Phillip, eyes large, nodded back.
Dad turned to me. "Okay?"
This was the first 'Don't tell your mama' moment I remember. Many more were to come since Dad's concept of adventure usually involved some risk. I slapped my arms down in a gesture of silent agreement and dust puffed out of my pants legs. It was the best I could do; the trip had barely gotten started and I was already exhausted. Other dads would've sped to the emergency room but mine drove on to the zoo. When we reached the parking lot I climbed out shakily. Phillip looked me over. Dirt was caked on my face and muddy tracks coursed down my cheeks from my watering eyes.
"Dad," Phillip said. "Lee's got dirt on his face."
Dad found a drinking fountain at the zoo's entrance. He wet his handkerchief and swabbed my face. He pinched my nose and held it while commanding me to blow.
"Hunh, hunh, hunh," I went while Dad laughed, happy to see that I was okay. My face looked a bit cleaner although the rest of me was still dusty.
Finally we were ready to go into the zoo. Phillip stared curiously at the signs. "What do they say?" he asked.
Dad read the words aloud. "They say, Bear Cub at Monkey Cages."
The zoo has been in the same beautiful location near the Rio Grande River for years. Then, as now, large cottonwoods and elm trees lined the pathways. Sitting down to rest in one of the many shaded, grassy areas where families were already picnicking looked inviting but we kept walking. On our way to the monkey cages we passed camels and buffalo but we didn't stop there either since Dad's objective was to see the cub. As we got nearer we heard loud noises coming from the monkey cages. It was feeding time.
Phillip couldn't stand it. He broke free of Dad's hand and took off in their direction. "I'm gonna go see the monkeys," he yelled over his shoulder.
Dad and I walked until we saw a uniformed ranger talking to a group of interested people. At his feet was a little ball of black fur in a leather harness and leash. I was afraid to get closer but Dad wanted a better look. The cub was gnawing on the ranger's cowboy boots when we walked up. He stopped chewing and his small black eyes fixed on me. He bolted to where I was standing and stood up. We were the same height. My eyes went like saucers looking at him.
"Aaah!" I yelled.
"Unhh!" The cub yelled back.
The cub's paws went up so I threw my hands up to protect myself. Without warning he lunged at me. I stiff armed him backwards and tried to run but the cub was too fast. He tackled me and put his furry paws around my chest so tightly I couldn't get away. The more I struggled to get free the rougher he played. His long claws scratched my arms and his cold nose pressed against my throat. People all around us were laughing, apparently everybody got a big kick out of this playful encounter except me. Finally the ranger caught up with us and yanked the cub back but not before his sharp teeth and claws had torn off my shirt pocket and ripped my pants. I ran to Dad and hid behind his legs.
Phillip heard the commotion from the monkey cages. He ran over to see what was happening.
"Lee just wrastled a bear," Dad laughed.
"You mean, a bear just wrastled Lee," Phillip corrected.
"Let's go get some ice cream," Dad said.
We walked to a concession stand where Dad bought a cone for me and Phillip. We'd learned to share equally but this time Phillip gave me most of the ice cream which sort of calmed my nerves. We played on the swings at the playground for a while and then Dad decided it was time to go home. As we walked back to the car he gave us another significant look.
"Don't tell your mama about the bear, okay?"
Phillip nodded.
As soon as we walked through the door Mom noticed my disheveled condition. She looked at my torn clothes, dirty face and scratched arms, then at Phillip. He looked fine. For a brief moment no one said a word but the day's events were too exciting for my brother to keep to himself.
"Mom!" he began but she wasn't listening. She fixed Dad with a suspicious look.
"What happened to Lee?" She picked me up and placed me protectively on her lap. She untied one of my badly scuffed shoes and pulled it off. Sand poured out.
Dad shifted uneasily. He popped the front brim of his straw fedora upward in a stalling maneuver while he searched for the best answer.
Phillip couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Lee fell outta the car," he blurted out.
As Dad gazed out the window he slid his forefinger down his nose, lips and chin in a silent effort to get Phillip to shut up.
Mom looked shocked. "He fell out of the car?"
Dad was happy to plead to a lesser offense. "Yeah," he agreed, giving a small shrug, "Lee was getting out of the car and he fell."
"Well, why didn't you pick him up?" Mom demanded to know. "He's too little to get out of the car by himself. Why are his clothes torn? There's a rip on his pants and his shirt pocket is torn. And he has scratches on his arms. How did that happen? How am I going to get any rest the way you take care of the kids?" She sounded bitter.
"OhhhAngie," Dad sighed. "Lee was just playing in the sand box over there at the zoo. We had a good time, didn't we, boys?" he added, smiling and nodding brightly at us.
Phillip nodded but started talking again. "And the bear..." He glanced over at Dad. He was staring out the window again, pulling an index finger down over his nose and lips. This time Phillip stopped talking and the three of them looked at me. I raised my arms and slapped my pants. More dust puffed out. I couldn't speak, not because I was afraid of disobeying Dad, it was all the day's events. Bouncing out of the car and wrestling with a celebrity bear cub were too much for me at the age of three to talk about.
"Oh brother," Mom said. She didn't get any more out of us. Many years passed before she found out what really happened.
The cub that tackled me in June, 1950 became a national symbol for preventing forest fires. Shortly after we met, little Smokey the Bear was flown to his new home at the national zoo in Washington D.C.
Chapter 5
A Father's Love
Dad's salary as an ambulance driver was barely enough to cover family expenses. Mom worried a lot about that so she decided to look for part time work. Answering an ad in the newspaper she found a weekend job housecleaning and babysitting and a routine got started. Saturday mornings we’d drive Mom to the Freed home, her new place of employment and in the afternoon we’d drive back to pick her up. Her job, like Dad's wasn’t that far from our house, maybe four miles, but in terms of life style it was a million miles away.
The Freeds were established Albuquerque merchants who owned a downtown store. Their home was located in a middle class suburb and had manicured green lawns and a garage. The tree lined street was paved and in the center was a landscaped island. The neighborhood was part of the city's new uptown district and an oasis of beauty compared to where we lived in East San Jose, which was at the bottom of the economic ladder. Yards there weren’t landscaped although some of our neighbors grew flowers and vegetable gardens. Since Phillip and I rarely saw lawns or garages they were a source of wonder to us and until we were older we were convinced that only Anglos could have them.
One Saturday Dad realized with a start that it was late. We'd have to leave immediately to pick up Mom. "Get in the car," he said. He grabbed his car keys and hat and started for the door.
“Why? Where are we going?” Phillip responded. We were so involved in what we were doing we didn't want to leave.
“Never mind where we’re going. Get in the car.”
Dad thought issuing an executive order was enough to get us moving but it wasn’t because Phillip, who was a very smart little boy, felt he deserved detailed answers. Since whatever my brother did, I did too, neither of us budged.
“I want to know where we’re going,” Phillip repeated.
Dad didn't handle stress well, especially the kind we caused. He also wasn't accustomed to spending whole days with us like Mom, whose instinctive need was to keep us calm and happy, things Dad never worried about.
“Get in the car!" Dad's voice and irritation level was rising.
So was Phillip's. “I want to know where we're….”
Dad didn't have time to explain his actions to a whiny little upstart and he didn’t want to, either. He grabbed Phillip who managed to slither out of his grasp. When my brother slid under our parents’ bed I followed. With our backs pressed against the wall we could see the top of Dad’s balding head as he groped blindly around for us. It looked so funny we laughed, until two large hands clamped onto our legs and dragged us out. Phillip squirmed loose again but Dad had a firm grip on my leg, or so he thought until I wriggled free. Dad grabbed Phillip again but when he tried catching me Phillip got loose. We made it to the front door and bolted outside. To us, this was an exciting new game but Dad viewed it as an exasperating struggle.
Phillip was the key to getting both of us in the car so Dad went after him. Running for it, Phillip disappeared around the side of the house followed closely by Dad. A minute later Dad showed up out of breath and panting but with Phillip clutched tightly under an arm. Dad plunked him down still struggling on the front seat. I got into the car on my own and climbed over them into the backseat.
“Malcriaos!” Brats! Dad growled as he got the car started.
Phillip was upset. He struggled to free himself but there was no way, not with Dad’s meaty hand gripping his spindly leg.
“I don