Que Viva el Valle

Every view of the world that becomes extinct, every culture that disappears, diminishes a possibility of life.
– Octavio Paz

Over the past several weeks I have been reflecting about things that could change the cultural trajectory of the southwest. I grew up in a small town located in Southern Colorado; in fact, my hometown is located in a part of the US that was once Mexico called the San Luis Valley. The demographics continue to reflect its history as evidenced by a large percentage of Latinos, or as the large majority prefers to be called, Spanish. Our culture and language, for the most part, have survived the generations as we moved from Mexican to US Citizens.

My father started school in the early ‘60s. His story is like so many of Spanish-speakers’ stories in the southwest during that era. He primarily spoke Spanish and was consequently beaten by the nuns. In those days, the belief was that learning more than one language would confuse children. This shameful abuse of my people resulted in a neurosis about our language that could only be fixed by English Only. As a result, my brother, sister and I were never taught Spanish in order to avoid the distress that befell our parents.

In an effort to recapture that piece of culture I feel so isolated from, I since have learned to speak Spanish. I’m not completely fluent but pretty darn close. However, the fact remains that that the language of my people is slowly dying. This continues to haunt me. The Spanish spoken in that area is a rare mixture of 17th century Castilian Spanish, mixed with indigenous vocabulary, as well as new words that were invented to describe new technology, like troque for truck for example.

In fact, the Spanish of the Southern Colorado and Northern New Mexico is a distinct dialect that cannot be located elsewhere. Thus it stands to reason that the culture is quite unique as well due to the Native, Mexican and American influence over several generations. There are things from culinary traditions to oral folk lore that are unique to that area. All these things will fade away if we don’t make an effort to hold on to these traditions.

Many relocated valleros have expressed their concern about the loss of culture we face. There have been studies that show the connection between culture and language. Furthermore, there is a distinct fear of losing culture along with the loss of language. This is where my urgency lies. I don’t want my children, my nieces and nephews, or any child feeling further isolation from who they are and where they belong. I believe in a world where all children have a strong sense of themselves, their families and their culture.

We need to start taking steps before our elders are gone, and we have nowhere to go.

Puro Lorenzo

Sometimes he was “Uncle C”, at times he was the aardvark, occasionally he was Lawrence…but to all those who know and love him he was and forever will be “Puro Lorenzo”.

Puro Lorenzo was puro artista creating masterpieces from a variety of mediums: apples, saw blades, acrylics, wood.  He could play the guitar and would often sing.  He was puro cocinero using fish, deer, elk and crawdads he caught, gutted and fried with his own hands.  He was a master with his hands…even when he only had 9 fingers.

Puro Lorenzo was puro sabio writing his heart, his hopes and our collective history in tattered spiral notebooks.  He was puro cuentacuentos telling the stories of generations past: native legends and history.  He was puro warrior, surviving life’s trials, Vietnam, the death of his wife, a period of homelessness and hopelessness.  He was puro aventurero burying a time capsule, Indian head hunting, hunting and fishing.  Uncle C was puro corazón and pura vida.

Uncle C has passed but his spirit lives on in the forests, the mountains and rivers where he felt most at home.  He was a free spirit in life and now in death his spirit is finally free.

Even Walls Fall Down

Jason, or Grimace (or Grimes as someone once crudely spray painted the alley near his house) as he was more commonly known, was large, intimidating and a big ol’ softy. He towered over me and most of my classmates as long as I had known him. He was two years older than me, but had almost always played a role in my life. He lived down the street from Grampo and Grandma so we occasionally had crossed paths (one particularly sunny day he popped out of no where and had menacingly dared me to cross the invisible line on the sidewalk).

In Jr/Sr. High, he played an even larger (less menacing) role. In the few years since we had last met, he had become much less intimidating and much more playful. In fact, he had morphed from the neighborhood bully to the class clown. We spent hours cruising in his prized gold impala, the music pounding into our young ears and slouched backs. There were lots of house parties and a kegger or two held across the New Mexican border (this way the cops had no jurisdiction) that him and his shiny gold impala drove me to. Many basketball, volleyball and football game memories have his face littered across the pages.

I was a senior in my home room class when I got the news. His best friend asked me, “Did you hear about Grimace? He died last night at work. Crushed in between two semis.” My heart stopped as my eyes filled with tears. He had graduated a few years before, but our friendship had gone on. He had just told me that he was about to be a daddy and that he was so excited.

Walking down the dark hallway that morning, shocked conversations hurtled down the halls. Soon sobs were heard in every corner of the building. Over his short life Jason had touched each and every one of our lives. He had made us all smile, laugh and ultimately feel good about ourselves.

A week later his funeral, held in the elementary school gymnasium, was overflowing. Hundreds of people from neighboring towns had come tpay their last respects to the young man who had come into each and every one of our lives with a big smile and a mischievous heart. Then the first notes begin to play and tears streamed down my face as I sung along with the chorus, “Cause you’ve got a heart so big / It could crush this town / And I can’t hold out forever / Cause even walls fall down.”

Home is Where the Heart Is

It wasn’t until I was a Junior in High School that I ever knew he existed.  He walked into my Speech class one day sporting a Red Yankees hat and some baggie jeans.  The first words out of his mouth were, “I hate this town, I’m moving back to Denver the second I turn 18.”  

We rolled our eyes and went back to our conversation on planning the weekend: cruising and hopefully a house party. 

Weeks later I turned to him and asked, “What are you always drawing?”  

He looked up at me and showed me a notebook full of various tagging in vivid colors.  We’ve been buddies ever since. 

High school days were full of crowded house parties, cruising down dark dusty roads and all night long debates.  Senior year flew by and before we knew it, we were hugging tears streaming down our faces.   In fact, he didn’t leave when he turned 18.  We wound up attending Adams State a mere 30 minute drive from the high school we met in.  In college, our paths diverged.  Nonetheless, we met up on occasion at a party, at a bar or sometimes even back home.  

After college, I moved away from the home I had known so long.  He remained in the same place he despised so much.  We kept in touch with occasional phone calls and emails. 

Over the years, we’ve seen each other through alot.  We’ve shared some of the same passions: family, culture and helping our gente back home.  It’s been more than 10 years since he strutted in yearning for home.  Funny thing is he finally realized he’d been “home” all along.

The “Rite” Legacy

Saturday morning I open my e-mail and come across the subject line: Shop Rite Demolition.    I anxiously opened the email to find pictures of a vacant lot where the Shop Rite once stood. 

My Great Aunt Eliza and her second husband owned the store and restaurant  legacy that stood on the corner of 9th and Main St in Antonito.  I lived exactly one block away, on the corner of 9th and River.  I spent many a day and many summers in the faded walls of that old store.  It was one of the last place I remember penny candies.   It  was the only place where I was allowed to “put it on my tab”.  At least when Auntie Eliza worked at the register.  She would smile as I grabbed Tom’s Hot Fries and asked for a Blue Raspberry, Strawberry Kiwi Slush Puppie and ask in her sweet voice, “Put it on your tab?” and I’d smile and nod.

Not that I only went there to cash in on the almost free grub.  My cousin and I spent hours at the restaurant, cleaning tables and sweeping floors until Uncle Iube would shoo us out the door. 

Auntie Eliza is my maternal grandma’s sister.   She has a silky shock of long silver hair.  The hair is always swept up in a loose bun, I’ve only seen the soft waves shaken out once.   She’s small, but she’s tough.  So tough in fact, that she survived the fire that killed her first husband, a botched robbery attempt that almost killed her and the witness stand of the high profile, subsequent trial (well at least for Antonit0). 

Uncle Iube and Auntie Eliza closed up shop about 15 years ago.  Uncle Iube was sick and Auntie Eliza was content to spend her time elsewhere.  Her days now are filled with crocheting, knitting, cross stitch, beading, sewing, canning, baking and cooking (WHEW!).     When she’s not busy creating a new masterpiece, she’s busy spending time with family.   Her art, her family and her love are her legacy now.

Hecho de Oro

Reginaldo García  (or as he was better known Reggie) was a San Luis Valley rancher, as was his father and grandfather before him.  He was politically involved, just like his father, grandfather and great-grandfather before him.  Reggie lived his life true to the principles of those who had come before him.  He was well known and well liked.  This was evidenced by the slew of people trailing in and out of the funeral home tears streaming down faces and bodies wracked with sobs.

Reginaldo was the ecru Stetson always snug on his head, signaling a quick trip to the llano to “check the cows”.  He was the forest green waders protecting his feet during irrigation season.  He was the breast pocket of tucked away Werther’s Originals, hidden from his wife’s prying eyes.  He was the shiny, freshly minted coins (and two dollar bills) he carefully divided amongst his children and grandkids.  He was a gruff voice, rough hands and gentle turqouise eyes.  He had silver in his hair and gold in his heart.

Reginaldo García was a hard working ranching man.  He was salt of the earth, or as the viejitos in the “Valley” say, “Era hecho de oro”.  He was an educated and cultured man.  He was the man of the house, patriarch of the family.  Best of all he was my Grampo.

…And the Rain Danced

My great-grandma lived to be 104.  Her life spanned across three centuries.  She had one husband and six children.  She outlived them all.

I was 21 when she passed.  I came home from work, when my mom informed me that Grandma’s time was up.  She was in the hospital taking her last breaths even as we spoke.    My dad was nowhere to be found.  I rushed to be at her side.

As I drove to the hospital flashes of Grandma’s influence flooded my eyes and the tears blurred my vision.   My earliest memories were walking into her kitchen and seeing her small stooped back in front of the antiquated Okeefe and Merrit stove.

When I was 10, Grandma Rosa broke her hip.  She fell early that morning and it wasn’t until well in the afternoon when her daughter-in-law, my Grandma Tila went to do her daily check on her.  She found her laying in the hallway.  Her voice hoarse from screaming.  She was in the hospital for weeks.  When the time came to be released, Grandma refused to come home.  She was not as agile as she once was and refused to be a burden to anyone in the family.

The next 12 years Grandma spent inside the nursing home.  We all visited as often as we could.  My grandpa and grandma visited almost daily.  My dad visited several times a week, and the rest of us visited weekly.  Several memories from those years stick out in my mind:

Grandma sitting in the corner of  her dimly lit room, fully dressed, hair combed…always.

The heart-wrenching screams from the day we were forced to tell her, her last living child, my grandfather had passed away.

Her 100th birthday celebration complete with family, cake, reporters and a letter from both the pope and the president.

Hours spent holding the soft silk of grandma’s hands and listening to her creaking words dance across my ears.

Months before she passed, I visited with a purpose.  I realized she wouldn’t be around forever.  I knew I needed some pictures.  I needed to always remember that old wrinked face with bright blue eyes clouded by the years of her life.  When I look at those smiling faces in the photo, I can still feel the warmth of her breath on my cheek.  Her soft hand in mine and the silk of her blouse brushing my shoulder.

All these memories raced in my mind as my car raced to the hospital.  Grandma Rosa gave me alot of things but perhaps the most important was my tie to the past.  Grandma was bilingual but she chose (most of the time) to revert to the language of her childhood, her language of love.  She passed down old family recipes that I have been charged with guarding with my life.  She passed down love.

As I walked into the cold nursing home room, I’d visited all these years, Grandma lay still, her breath halting.  Doctors came in whispering in hushed tones.  I bravely walked to Grandma’s side and grabbed her hand as I had all those millions of times before.  Mom stood at the foot of her bed and gently rubbed her tired feet.  My sister stood at a distance, not wanting to be a part of the inevitable.  Grandma sighed as her chest fell for the last time.  Tears fell down my cheeks and rain danced on the ceiling.

The Heart of the Matter

Every family has one.  You know, the older aunt (uncle or cousin) who says things and rubs you the wrong way.  All the time.  Without fail.  

You know things like, “I don’t know where your name came from Sherry.  Must have been off the street or something.”   “Jenn, you aren’t going back to school after this are you?   No man wants a woman smarter than him.”   or my all time favorite, to my sister when there was concern her baby had blood in the brain, “I hope your baby’s not retarded”.  

Um okay Auntie…Thanks?   I think?   

Yes she has no filter.  And she often rubs me the wrong way.  AND oftentimes I am left mouth agape, dumb founded at the latest, “Auntie-ism” 

But I never doubt that she loves me.  Or that she would drop everything to help me out.  Or that her heart’s ultimately in the right place.  She has taught me that patience is a virtue…but it ain’t always easy.  She’s taught me the art of unconditional love.  Most of all, she’s taught me that people may say things that leave you shocked and awed, but when you get to the heart, their love comes shining through.

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

My earliest memories consist of a dark man sporting a thick beard and even thicker glasses.  When he smiled (illuminating several black spaces where teeth should be) , his eyes lit up  and pulled you in.  This man was my Uncle C (when my brother was little his mouth couldn’t quite form the words Lawrence or Lorenzo, all that could come out of his lips was C…and it stuck). 

Uncle C was education and adventure all wrapped into one small package.  There were evenings spent around a campfire right outside Grandma’s house, soaking in the words of his newest guitar strung corrido or his latest self-written leyenda.   There were hours spent watching him paint, draw or carve the latest creation to cross his imagination.  Miles walked in search of the perfect arrowhead or the freshest creek with the largest fish. 

Any given day spent with Uncle C was sure to be unexpected and out of the ordinary.  One of my favorite memories consist of the day spent carefully selecting items to bury in our time capsule in Grandma’s backyard.  We never did quite remember where it was buried, but I imagine a box filled with fascinating  and unique objects will be unearthed one day. 

He was somewhat of a nomad, sleeping on friends couches, grandma’s chair, tents pitched haphazardly where ever he felt like calling home.  My favorite house of his was an old dilapitated house; drafty windows and floors caving in.  But the walls were a splendid scene, a blue sky, green pines and yellow aspen.  If you looked closely you might find a stray deer, chipmunk or pheasant cleverly hidden among the shrubs. 

Being talented was his hidden talent.  He had another talent that wasn’t quite so hidden.  Uncle C was an alcoholic.  There were periods of depression only aggrivated by the death of the love of his life so early into their marriage.  He fought in Vietnam, and his sorrows were buried deep, never to surface in his lifetime.  He died in an almost spectacular, mysterious way.  You know, that’s the same way he lived.

Only God Can Judge Me

My high school days are a faded blur of memories.  Night after night, mile after mile spent cruising up and down the same small main street.  Hours spent parked in front of the Dragon’s Den flashing (headlights not boobies, just to clarify) familiar cars we could identify solely by the shadow it cast or the shape of the headlights.  Earth swirling around the car, speeding down dusty backroads to the newest secret spot.  Sneaking in 5 (or 15 or 60) minutes late, hoping that the creaking door/floor/belly didn’t bring mom running.  

He is part of all these memories.  Back then he was one of my closest friends.  I haven’t seen him in years. The last time I saw him, he peered out from a dark house, eyes blood shot, hands shaky.  Eyes fliting wildly, then finally recognition.  He took a deep shaky breath and somehow pulled it together.  I choked back sobs and my mind raced, one right after another, ideas of how to get him out of there.

My Senior year, I was debating which college to attend.  I had my options.  But I also had so many ties to that Valley, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it behind.  He told me, “Get as far away as possible, this place is a curse.  It’s already got me….don’t let it get you too.”      

He was one of the smartest people I knew.  He dropped out of high school… well when he was in middle school.  Nevertheless he spent his days reading The Art of War, watching documentaries or blaring Tupac and critically reviewing the lyrics.  He was a philosopher.  Sometimes that required some chemical assistance, but I remember many a night spent debating religion, relationships or race, class and gender.   He was one of the kindest people I knew.  He’d give you the shirt off his back.  The food off his plate. But perhaps most of all he was one of the most rebelious boys I knew.  A body littered with homemade tattoos.  So many underage, paraphernalia and assault tickets he couldn’t quite keep them straight.    

He was a fixture in my semi-rebellious teen years.  He was there for me during my first heartbreak (and my second and third), my grandmother’s death, fights with my mom.  I was there for him when his girlfriend passed away.  And again when his dad died a month later.  

Our bond seemed nearly unbreakable.  His presence dimmed and faded in my ambitious early adult years.  Today he persists mainly in my memories.  Every once in a while, his voice of reasoning pops into my head and I smile as my eyes flood with tears.