Saturday, September 26, 2009

Mexican


I was born in 1948 around the time of massive civil rights activates, too early to really do much good for me. In Texas at that time I was a second-class citizen. The real civil right came 20 years later, but by that time I’d about had given up and moved north. Years of racial bias had taken a toll on me and my spirit, it was all around me and I didn’t care for it one bit. As a child I heard a lot of unflattering comments about German, Polish, and Blacks. Out on the street I had to face the ugly comments about me, about not being smart enough, dirty and lazy, I didn’t care for that characterization either.

When I was about nine a cousin of mine and I snuck away from the family gathering we were having at a local park. We went to the swimming pool that we weren’t allowed in because we were Mexican. We stood at the chain link fence and watched all the other white kids splashing and playing in the water. That was my first real introduction to racism and exclusion. I remember standing their being kept out and not welcomed at all. A few years later when I was old enough to ride the bus and go to the movies on my own. One of my rituals was to go to The Coney Island Hot Dog stand, and get a dog or two. One day one of the counter-men asked me, in Spanish if I was Mexican or Black. I spoke little Spanish, but I told him clearly I was Mexican; I started getting the best dogs then.

Still later in high school, which started in 1963, around the time went Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, I remember going to wood-shop where we were listening to the radio about the killing. A kid there said it better not be a black man that had killed him, but he was looking at me. I was only one of a few Mexicans the school had, there was only one black guy. I got along in school pretty well but I kept my head down and made a much smaller target. I didn’t do well, the lower ¾ of my class, but I was bored not ignorant. Living up to expatiation's I guess, the only thing that most teachers figure I was good at was my hands some I was channeled into a blue-collar mentality.

Finally in 1968 civil rights came to San Antonio in a big way, the powers that be had to make a choice to get Federal Spend for their worlds fair. Suddenly things began to change even if ever so slowly. To get Federal Appropriations they were forced to treat us better, but under the surface things didn’t change that much. We won recognition for our race, for our ethnicity though the city had capalized on that for years, next best place to Mexico was their thinking. Fiesta was a big party that’s held every year in April-May. It’s origins are rooted in the bias that we endured, Mexican house-hold help was used to celebrate the Anglo’s win over Mexico in the war for independence. To the victors goes history as the saying goes, but now our history is slowly coming out.
On PBS, American Experience the other night part of the story of how our civil right were won by Carlos Cadena among other of the civil right movement. Mr. Cadena was our Thurgood Marshall although less well know, and it’s well past time that the part he played is told. “A Class Apart” is the story of that brave struggle. Had those people not won we, as a class of people would have been lost forever had the forces of prejudice won. There have been lots of shows recently on PBS celebrating Hispanic Heritage month. I just wish I had been taught in school when it was happing, I would have been prouder of myself and of my class then, it almost came too late to do much good, but the tale needed to be told.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Not Much

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Thursday, September 3, 2009

Woodstock


Toward the end of the summer in 1969 I was in the great state of Maine staying at Acadia National Park. That was the summer of Woodstock the festival of Rock and Roll, mud, and love. I however was nice and toasty warm in my little van up in Maine and the festival didn’t appeal to me because it was rainy and cool so I passed. As I was walking through camp one morning I spotted some kids my age who’s tent had gotten sopping wet because they hadn’t trenched around it and the rain had really come down the night before. They were also starving and I’d had some soup left over from the group camp for the kids that I held the night before. Over the soup they told me about Woodstock and invited me to come with them but I was really too comfortable to venture back into New York state.

Let me backup a minute and tell you I was camping out in Maine because I was on a tour of the north-east and Maine was my last stop. It had been a great tour and I was learning a lot about me and the country. It was my twenty-first year and was the longest I had ever been away from home and the furthest I’d ever been. Just bumming around and having a great time with nowhere particular to be. Just a kid on my first trip away from home, meeting people and getting used to who I might be. I had gone east from Texas all along IH-10 then up the east coast, avoiding New York City and had gone to Providence Rhode Island then my travels had taken me north. I was writing poetry, full of angst and heartbreak which was appropriate for the times, for me and the country.

I had read Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley” the summer before and fell in love with Charley, Steinbeck and the country. I was a little unsure about the country to tell you the truth but I was willing to learn. I had learned about staying at State Park’s (the only place that was safe from being hassled) and now I was interested to learn all about National Parks. Kids, that the first and most important thing to know about the National Park System and friendly adults. On my first day in Maine I walked down to the shore-line to watch the waves crash onto the rocks. One wave was strong enough to wash pasted me and to loosen my shoes grip on the rock and I started sliding into the ocean. I had no way to stop my downward slide but a friendly hand was offered and I was saved. Another kid and his girlfriend had seen what was happening to me and he became my new best friend. A few day later I got the idea to have a cook-out and invite all the kids from around the camp to my campsite for music and food. A lot of the adults volunteered some onions, potato and stuff to cook and some beer for the older kids and we spent the day making a big pot of soup for all.

After all the kids had went home (back to camp) one father came and chased his kids home and sat and talked for hours it seemed. He’s brought some beer and we sat there until the early hours talking about life, having kids and the responsibilities of adulthood. He was the first of many men who told me that their lives and dreams were over once the kids arrived, they sounded so sad and lonely. I was the first chance they had to tell the stories of what they’d lost in their hurry to grow-up and to be adults. That had a profound effect on me and I took their story’s of lose to heart. The dad and I became friends for the time we had and I was invited on day trips and became the recipient of their left over food when they left. In fact I became such a regular feature of the park and the campfires that I really didn’t have to worry about food for the remainder of my stay. I was living a charmed existence except for not calling home to check in and my mother was getting frantic. But I was twenty-one and I was having the time of my life and couldn’t be bothered.