The Dedalus Log

"Don't forget your giri or your loincloth."
(From the Japanese novel, Sendohbeya

"Giri is a Japanese word for which there is no simple English tanslation. It refers to an innate sense of duty, obligation, morality and the absolute need to return a favor. Everyone is bound by giri - giri toward ones family (filial piety) and giri toward ones friends, teachers and benefactors... giri is taken so seriously that sometimes Japanese people have been known to commit suicide in an attempt to satisfy it... The American anthopologist, Ruth Benedict in her book, "The Chysanthemum and the Sword" explains that the reason why the Janpanese are so bound by giri is, "if they do not, they would be regarded as 'ignorant of giri and be put to shame in front of others".

“Come here, Peter” I said, taking his hand and lifting him from the den rocking chair. I enveloped his lanky, six foot frame into a Mexican-style abrazo of love and affection. “Congratulations on your confirmation” I added as I pounded his broad back. “I’m sorry I missed it”.
“Thanks” he replied shyly, returning to his seat, as I greeted his parents and grandfather, who were also in the room.
Peter is my nephew and godson. He is the youngest child of Kathy’s brother, Greg, and his wife Anne. Our intertwined connection to him was affirmed even further, when Kathy served as his sponsor for the sacrament of Confirmation. We could not be any more related to Peter except as his actual parents (and in the Roman Catholic and Mexican understanding of padrazco, we were).
“Tony, we missed you last Saturday, where were you?” asked Greg from his spot on the long sofa in the room.
“I was in Pioneertown,celebrating the 60^th birthday of an old friend from high school”.
“Where is that?” asked Anne, sitting along side of her husband, “Somewhere up North?”
“No, it’s southeast of Los Angeles, in Yucca Valley, on the way to Palms Springs. Jim is really into destination birthdays. Ten years ago, we celebrated his 50^th in Death Valley, so, actually, Pioneertown was an easier trip”.

We were sitting in the den of Kathy’s father, the Doctor. Kathy and I had decided to stop there on our way to my Brother Eddie’s 50^th birthday party in Monrovia. We hoped to catch a quick visit, and see how the doctor was doing. Finding Greg, Anne, and Peter there was a unexpected bonus, because it gave me a chance to congratulate my godson and chat with Greg and Anne. I’d felt a little awkward not having gone to the ceremony, but I had a stronger obligation to Jim. He has been my friend for 43 years. We met in high school, and remained friends through college and post-graduate years, through roommates, disagreements, jobs, girl friends, deaths, marriages, and children. Jim was the best man at my wedding, and I’ve always considered myself part of his family, and he part of mine. It was as unthinkable to miss his 60^th birthday, as it would have been to miss my brother Eddie’s.

As I sipped the Johnny Walker Black Label scotch which the doctor handed me, I looked at Peter, who was sitting to my right on the rocking chair. Since our greeting, he was totally engrossed in the cell phone he was holding with two hands, and operating with his thumbs.
“Peter, what did I tell you?” said Greg, not expecting an answer, but staring at the offending cell phone.
“All high schoolers text while they sit, Greg” explained Kathy, attempting to deflect the sharp command. “It’s almost second nature to them, and it gives them something to do”.
“We already talked about it” replied Greg, hinting that the topic of texting had been mentioned earlier. Peter closed the phone and put it in his pocket. With nothing to distract him, he slouched back into the rocking chair, watching and listening to the adults surrounding him. I refocused my attention and tried picking up the threads of conversation between Kathy and Greg. Before I had a chance to contribute, however, Peter leaned forward and, in a slow, drawling voice, loud enough for all to hear, said:
“So Tony, what’s this about your blog?”

All talk stopped, and all heads, except the doctor’s, snapped sharply toward Peter. We all stared at his beaming, innocent face, as he waited for my answer with a Mona Lisa smile. I was dumbfounded. Peter never initiated conversations with me, or asked me direct questions. He always waited for me to engage him, or he entertained himself by watching T.V. or, seemingly, daydreaming while pretending to listen to the adults speak(or at least I thought he pretended). Now, without warning, he was pitching a question of critical mass potential, in his grandfather’s house. I was stunned. Does Peter know what he’s doing? I wondered, searching his grinning face for telltale clues. Is he purposely baiting me?
“What do you know about my blog?’ I finally countered, trying to gain more time before answering.
“Everybody was talking about it last week” he replied, with what I thought was a glint of mischief in his eyes.
He is baiting me! I realized in amazement. Little Peter is trying to stir up the pot of family controversy by getting me to talk about a politically incorrect topic in his grandfather’s house. I couldn’t help but laugh at this revelation.
“I do have a blog”, I said, choosing not to answer his question, “but this is not a good time to talk about what I wrote. Another time, I promise”. I whispered “Good try Peter” as he resigned himself to my non-answer and fell back into his chair.

With the end of this exchange, the tension relaxed in the room, and Kathy, Greg, and Anne finally exhaled the breath they’d collectively held since Peter’s first question. The doctor looked around quizzically, not having a clue of what had transpired, and no one willing to explain. I was sure he did not suspect that I had redirected the conversation away from my blog. Kathy recovered first and rebooted the talk with a new, more benign topic. As I listened to the ebb and flow of renewed talk, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself about what I was sure Peter had tried to pull. He was growing up and becoming curious about what his adult relatives felt, thought and said. He obviously paid attention to what his parents and Kathy said about my blog at his Confirmation, and he was trying to be playfully clever. However, attempting to introduce a hot button political issue by provoking me into mentioning a story I posted in my blog was dangerous. I might have risen to the bait 5 or 10 years ago, but no longer. The doctor’s house is a politics-free zone. Kathy, and some of her brothers or sisters, refrains from mentioning politically controversial issues in the doctor’s presence. This precaution is fiercely observed, reaching almost taboo status. In my youth, as a recently married member of the family, I would foolishly find ways of undermining this proscription. In those days, I could not imagine family reunions without expressing political differences and arguing. I thought politics encouraged interaction and enlivened family birthdays, barbeques, and dinners. Over time, however, I eventually learned that this tendency was not worth the glaring looks from Kathy, and the gentle scoldings from Mary, her mother. I thought I had become a respecter of this ban.

Growing up in a Mexican-American home, it was my father, the eldest son of 12 children, who detonated the political discussions in my grandfather’s house. I remember him stirring up lively debate, while taking the high ground and claiming more interest in learning about candidates than defending their positions. He avoided using political labels and stereotypes, disliked hearing knee-jerk political cant, and prized rational and well-reasoned political analysis. Moreover, from my perspective, he was the lone, solitary voice of progressive conservatism (liberal republicanism?) in a working class family of committed New Deal Democrats. This contrarian position fit right in with my mother’s emotional politics, which were a unique blend of upper-class Mexican prejudices forged in the flames of Mexico’s revolutionary nationalism. However, while political arguments were natural storms in my grandfather’s house, Kathy was more fearful of the potential Category 5 Hurricane (Katrina level) in hers. I never witnessed the full force of these political catastrophes, nor their devastation, for myself. Kathy’s recollections led me to compare them with some of the distasteful scenes I did see in my grandfather’s home. Even though the volume levels of our Mexican-American political discussions were loud, they never reached the emotional pitch and dramatic turmoil ignited by arguments over religious morals and personal behavior. Mentioning, and discussing the moral actions of family members, or their friends and spouses, were the taboo topics in abuelito’s house, and in his presence. They became the divisive issues that enflamed intolerance and led to angry, ugly words, and condemnations. I remember vivid scenes of anguished weeping, harsh cursing, and being suddenly rushed out of the house by my mother, who told us it was time to leave and to ignore the upsetting sights and sounds around us. With these scenes in mind, I grudgingly supported Kathy’s wariness about mentioning politics in her father’s presence. Peter’s question about my blog offered me a tantalizing opportunity to bring up a matter I desperately wanted to discuss with Greg, but not if it gave offense or violated the family taboo.

After a two month gestation period during this primary election season, I finally wrote a blog about Barack Obama (A Whisper of Hope) in April. Because I send email notices of my blog (with a pasted copy and link) to friends and relatives who represent a broad spectrum of political ideologies, I made an extra effort to de-politicize the essay. Instead of a reasoned treatise supporting one particular candidate over others, I simply tried to tell a story of personal rediscovery and hope. Although I was curious about how people on my mailing list would respond to this particular piece of writing, I didn’t expect much of a reaction. I’ve been blogging for two years, and posting online stories to the internet is like sending exploratory probes into outer space, they rarely hit anything, and extraterrestrials never respond. Admittedly, I do get an occasional response by a generous friend or relative, but it’s rare. The day following my posting, I received a solitary email response from my sister-in-law, Anne. I thought, at first, that my quota was full, but I was wrong. For the first time ever, I received two pointed rebuttals (with critiques of my idealism), which were sent to everyone I had emailed. Apparently I had started a blogging war! At first I was flattered by the activity and attention, and then worried. None of my previous postings had elicited disagreement, but now, people were picking sides and commenting on the comments and reactions of other people about my blog. Some were sarcastic, some bemused, some protective, and some supportive. I felt like I was in the middle of a gossipy beauty salon, eavesdropping on the chatter around me. When I mentioned this phenomenon to Kathy, she simply looked at me curiously for a long time, and then finally said, “What did you expect?” She seemed much more concerned about Prisa, who I described in the story as a dedicated Obama campaign worker, whose actions had sparked my interest in the candidate. Kathy worried that she might take the mocking tone of some comments as personal criticism of her politics, and be hurt by them. Getting, what I felt was, little sympathy from Kathy on this matter, I decided to keep the topic to myself, until I could discuss it with more likeminded people. Jim’s birthday celebration at Pioneertown, which fell on the same weekend as Peter’s Confirmation, gave me the chance to finally have a face-to-face conversation about my blog with two old and dear high school friends. John and Greg (see Amigos) had already weighed into the online banter about my blog. Since Greg was driving up from San Diego, and John and I were coming from the west San Fernando Valley, we agreed to rendezvous at the Pechanga Resort and Casino in Temecula, in route to Yucca Valley. The first thing they said when they saw me was “Man, what’s up with your blog?”

There is nothing more comforting than the solace of old friends who are undeniably and unabashedly on your side. At what point in friendship does one cross that invisible line when you choose to back a friend, not because he (or she) is right, but because they are your friends? I’ve known these two guys long enough to have stored up catalogues of notations on their poor choices and bad decisions in life (and they mine). Yet, at some long forgotten moment in time, we each decided that it was better to forgive and accept each other (poor choices, willful actions, crazy idiosyncrasies, and all), than to pass judgments and condemn. I informally adopted these friends into my family long ago when I gave them the honorific titles of “Uncle” to my two children. However, even though our affections for each other may appear very sibling-like, they’re different. I love my brothers because we are related as family; I love these brothers-in-arms because I chose to make them part of my family. Over the years we have become battle-weary comrades, as we fought the wars and vagaries of time, schools, marriages, careers, and aging. We are a special band, and our reunions allow us to assume a different persona when we come together. I can become the willful teenager I was when we first met in high school. We can again be selfish, egocentric, bullheaded, argumentative, idealistic, and arrogant with each other. The only living witnesses of these Quantum Leap changes of demeanor (from aging father to self-centered teenager), are our respective children, who, as youngsters, accompanied us on a few camping trips and vacations without their mothers. What they may recall from those long, fire-lit evenings of raucous laughter and loud arguments would be interesting to hear (as long as they promised to be generous and sympathetic to their elderly fathers and adopted uncles). The Pechanga stop, on the way to Jim’s party, gave me a glorious opportunity to vent, in adolescent fashion, about the Obama affair and the blogging war I started. Over pitchers of beer and baskets of French fries, I could sit and listen to the soothing biased assurances of John and Greg that I was the aggrieved and misunderstood party in this whole affair. With the rhythmic cacophony of slot machines in the background, I was finally able to relax and revel in their whole hearted support and compliments. Even though I didn’t hit a jackpot in the few games I played after eating, I nevertheless felt like a big winner after having unburdened myself among friends and prepared myself to enjoy the weekend with Jim and his family in Pioneertown.

While I was smugly sipping my drink, confident that I had dodged the bullet of family controversy by deflecting Peter’s question about my blog story on Obama, something unusual occurred. The doctor re-entered the conversation and brought up a new topic, raising a doubt in my mind as to his unawareness of the issue I had ducked. At some point in the talk, Kathy mentioned their old house on Weddington Street, the site of countless parties, weddings, and holidays. It was while describing the Christmas celebrations to Peter that the doctor said:
“Peter, did your father ever tell you the story of how your grandmother and I had to shut off the water during our Christmas party?”
“What?” said Peter, again becoming alert to this new twist in the conversation.
“We lost a sprinkler head in the front lawn, one Christmas night” continued the doctor, looking straight at me, “and it set off a huge geyser of water. It brought the party to a halt; it was quite a sight.”
“Oh, I remember that”, added Greg, nodding his head “it took us a long time to figure out what to do, and how to stop it”.
“It was your mother who took command of the situation” the doctor reminded him, “she was the only one who knew where to find the shut off valve, and how to close it. She was a wonder”.

Mary was a wonder, and I was indebted to her patience and compassion in putting up with my foolish youthful actions for so many years. I knew exactly what Greg and the doctor were alluding to, because I had caused it. Blushing with shame, I recalled the embarrassment I felt then, and now, over my behavior that night.
“Peter” I interjected, hoping to put a humorous spin on the story, “here is another example of what a critical role I play in the family lore. Not only was I the first Mexican to marry into the family, but I was also the only one to run over a water sprinkler on Christmas night, and set off “Old Faithful” in the front yard”.
Peter looked at me in wide-eyed wonder. “You’re kidding; that must have been something!”

Yes it was. I was having a wonderful time on that Christmas evening, ignoring, as I did in those days, the family taboo on politics, and pocking fun at my in-laws to provoke an argument. I’d also had too much to drink, and was ignoring Kathy’s rising discomfort, until she intruded on my animated discussions by insisting that she and the kids were tired and that we needed to leave. I was upset, and my anger translated into impulsive and headstrong actions. As I was maneuvering our station wagon out of the crowded driveway, I drove onto a patch of the front lawn and caught onto something under the car. Already peeved at the string of directions Kathy was giving me about how to turn and where to go, I ignored her advice to back up and, instead, gunned the car forward. I heard a dull THUMP, followed by a loud WHOOSH. “Oh shit” I said as I looked at the rearview mirror to see a wide jet of water shooting into the air, “I’ve done it now”.
“I learned three humbling lessons that night” I added, trying to keep a note of levity in my pseudo-lecture to Peter: “It is not wise to leave a party mad; it pays to listen to your wife; and don’t step on the gas after striking an obstacle on the front lawn”.
“Dad, wasn’t it your friend Dr. Van Owen” Greg interrupted, “who also knocked down the fence post in that same driveway once?”
God bless him! I thought to myself as I realized what Greg was doing. Rather than piling on, he was changing the subject, and saving me from further embarrassments. He was taking the spotlight off me and moving the conversation along; it was something that Mary would have done.
“Once” exclaimed Kathy, joining the rescue efforts “he knocked it down twice in the same year! I think Mom finally gave up and had it removed. It was becoming a target in the driveway”.

After another 10 minutes of joking and reminiscing about the Weddington house and other family mishaps and accidents, Kathy suggested that it was time to leave. We had stayed longer than planned; and I wanted to get to Eddie’s party with plenty of time to speak with family and guests. Greg walked out with us, and gave me a big hug.
“You know” he said, with the same smile that his son Peter inherited, “we need to talk about your blog soon. Kathy told us that my response might have upset you and Prisa. I was shocked! It was meant to kid you, the way I usually do when we talk about these things. Writing is a clumsy way of communicating. I love you guys”.

We left the doctor’s home in Pasadena in great spirits. The mixture of tense moments, humorous interactions, and some clarification about my blog had me feeling very satisfied. Peter’s attempt to challenge the family taboo especially delighted me. As we drove along the 210 Freeway to Eddie’s party in Monrovia, I told Kathy that perhaps we had witnessed Peter breaking out of his adolescent cocoon and his first attempts at developing an independent identity by testing the limits of family traditions and obligations. He was growing up. I wondered how long it would take him to recognize their value and wisdom. I’m still learning.

Change will not come if we wait
for some other person or some other time.
We are the ones we've been waiting for.
We are the change that we seek.
We are the hope of those boys who have little;
who've been told that they cannot have what they dream;
that they cannot be what they imagine.

Yes they can.

We are the hope of the father
who goes to work before dawn and lies awake
with doubts that tell him he cannot give his children
the same opportunities that someone gave him.

Yes he can.

We are the hope of the woman
who hears that her city will not be rebuilt;
that she cannot reclaim the life
that was swept away in a terrible storm.

Yes she can.

We are the hope of the future;
the answer to the cynics who tell us our house must stand divided;
that we cannot come together;
that we cannot remake this world as it should be.

Because we know what we have seen
and what we believe –
that what began as a whisper has now swelled
to a chorus that cannot be ignored;
that will not be deterred;
that will ring out across this land
as a hymn that will heal this nation, repair this world,
and make this time different than all the rest.

Yes. We. Can.

(“Yes We Can”- Barack Obama, New Hampshire, January 9, 2008)

 As I drove out of the empty parking lot, I turned on the car radio to dispel my growing sense of solitude. Blues on KJAZZ wouldn’t help, so I tuned to National Public Radio (NPR) on KPCC, and listened to All Things Considered. I was hoping to avoid any depressing war news from Iraq, or hearing another report on the rising cost of gasoline. As it turned out, the lead story was the Iowa Caucuses that were just ending in that state, and news that the projected winners would be announced soon. I had forgotten. I’d been lulled into somnambulance by the incessant campaigning that occurred during autumn and winter. I’d become anesthetized to seeing and hearing the candidates speak, and listening to “expert” analysis by commentators and pundits (handicappers). I’d almost forgotten that ordinary people made the final decision in caucuses and primaries by choosing and voting. The radio made me immediately curious about the outcome of this first contest of the season. I have been a Democrat since college, and Kathy is remarkably unaffiliated to any party . We had listened to the early Democratic and Republican debates, but were far from having favorites, or being close to a choice.

I believed that Hillary Clinton, John Edwards, and Barack Obama, on the Democratic side, and Mitt Romney and John McCain, on the Republican, were the most viable contenders. Of them all, I was most intrigued by Obama, who seemed the least likely. He first caught my attention at the Democratic Convention in 2004, when he gave the keynote speech. He was fresh, articulate, and engaging. The speech left me feeling a strong connection with the man, and a sense of mutual experiences. His parent was an immigrant to America, who had married a citizen. He was biracial, and an ethnic minority who had struggled to achieve the American Dream. He was committed to social justice, with the belief that it was the duty and responsibility of government to protect and serve the American people. But he was also incredibly young, idealistic, and inexperienced. Along with my curiosity about Obama, I also felt a nagging certainty that no Democratic candidates could really contend with the experience, organization, financial support, and devoted commitment of the Clinton campaign. Hillary was the clear front-runner, the battle-hardened veteran, who had been positioning herself as the preeminent, unbeatable, centrist candidate for the last three years. Obama was the “darkest horse” in the contest.

The first salvo of political preference in the family came from my daughter. I learned in December that Prisa (see tag, Prisa) was working on the Obama campaign in California. She and her roommate Maria had volunteered as precinct workers to call, canvass, and disseminate information on Obama. I was pleased with her activism. Over the years, Tony and Prisa had developed steadily stronger opinions on social, economic, and political issues, but they had never worked for any particular political candidate. Prisa was the one to cross the line from theory and talk to practice. She was committing to one candidate, and backing it up with action. I was especially proud of the fact that she was circumspect in her support, and had not been proselytizing for Obama among family or friends.

We have always lived in a social environment of family and friends who represented every position on the political spectrum, from archconservative to extreme liberal (in some cases it was hard to tell the extremists apart). This situation pre-existed in my Mexican families before our marriage, and with Kathy’s Irish-American family after our vows. Given our ethnic roots, one would have assumed a predominant Democratic and liberal bias, but actually the opposite was true. The patriarchs and matriarchs of our families were serious right-wing Republicans and royalists. When raised in such a politically diverse family environment, tolerance, acceptance, and humor is vital. Kathy is especially adept at navigating the tricky reefs and shoals of political and religious discussions among her family and friends. She listens to what people are saying (not simply waiting for an opportunity to talk), and always looks for the common threads of agreement in issues and beliefs. Kathy has a fine sense of humor, an instinct for the absurd, and the ability to guide people away from the dangers of taking themselves too seriously. Prisa inherited many of these skills. Until she admitted working on his campaign, I hadn’t suspected that she was a believer in Obama’s movement. When pressed for information about her candidate, Prisa would direct questioners to various sources, blogs, newspaper articles, and website links, but she would not bore you with evangelizing talk.

By the time I arrived home, NPR was projecting Mike Huckabee as the surprise winner of the Republican Iowa Caucus. Based on exit polls, they were showing that Huckabee had managed to defeat all the front runners, by taking about 34% of the vote, as compared with 25% for Romney, and 13% for McCain. The primary season had begun with a bang, and a resounding upset. I gathered the L.A Times, fixed myself a scotch, and settled into my favorite corner of the sofa to watch CNN, while reading the newspaper. I had no clue how long it would take for a projected Democratic winner to be announced, so I made myself comfortable listening to the drone of talking heads on T.V. A half hour later, the Big Bang occurred, and Obama was projected the winner of the Iowa caucuses. The sky had fallen in over Iowa.

In shocked silence, I sat listening to the analysis of this paradigm-shifting news. In this white, Middle American bastion of citizenry, an African-American had cleared the field. A black male was the people’s choice – the white people’s choice. I couldn’t believe it. With early precincts reporting, CNN was projecting that Obama would capture 38% of voters, compared to 30% for Edwards, and 29% for Hillary Clinton. Looking at the numbers, it also appeared that Obama was taking 57% of the under-30 vote, and over 50% of college educated voters. Bill Schnieder, the CNN political expert, was saying that “The numbers tell us this was a debate between change and experience, and change won”.

The staggering significance of these results didn’t really hit me until the news coverage shifted to Obama Headquarters to televise his victory speech. There I saw a tall, slender, and clean-cut African-American, in a trim dark suit, standing in front of a wall of white faces, sprinkled with a few black and brown ones. Floating in this sea of beaming smiles, I could see a spattering of bobbing blue signs, proclaiming OBAMA, CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN, CHANGE, and HOPE. The visual effect was breathtaking. Then Barack Obama spoke:

“You know”, he began, “they said this day would never come. They said our sights were set too high. They said this country was too divided; too disillusioned to ever come together around a common purpose. But on this January night - at this defining moment in history - you have done what the cynics said we couldn't do… You have done what America can do in this New Year, 2008… you came together as Democrats, Republicans and Independents to stand up and say that we are one nation; we are one people; and our time for change has come.

“You said the time has come to move beyond the bitterness and pettiness and anger that's consumed Washington; to end the political strategy that's been all about division and instead make it about addition - to build a coalition for change that stretches through Red States and Blue States... We are choosing hope over fear. We're choosing unity over division, and sending a powerful message that change is coming to America…”

The images I was seeing on TV, and the words I was hearing, were a sharp contrast to other, previously viewed images that had been burnt into my mind: contorted white faces screaming at a line of black children crossing the street to integrate a public school in Little Rock, Arkansas; uniformed sheriffs restraining leashed German Shepard dogs, and aiming fire hoses to terrify and scatter the peaceful, black demonstrators in Selma, Alabama; and pointy-hooded figures, in white gowns, gazing up at the dangling figure of a lynched black man, hanging from a tree. I could not believe that in my lifetime such a huge change in beliefs, attitudes, and perceptions had finally occurred; and I was seeing it before me.

“This was the moment when we tore down barriers that have divided us for too long - when we rallied people of all parties and ages to a common cause; when we finally gave Americans who'd never participated in politics a reason to stand up and to do so. This was the moment when we finally beat back the politics of fear, and doubt, and cynicism; the politics where we tear each other down instead of lifting this country up. This was the moment.

“Years from now, you'll look back and you'll say that this was the moment - this was the place - where America remembered what it means to hope… Hope is that thing inside us that insists, despite all evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us if we have the courage to reach for it, and to work for it, and to fight for it…

“Hope is what led a band of colonists to rise up against an empire; what led the greatest of generations to free a continent and heal a nation; what led young women and young men to sit at lunch counters and brave fire hoses and march through Selma and Montgomery for freedom's cause.

“That is what we started here in Iowa, and that is the message… that can change this country brick by brick, block by block, calloused hand by calloused hand - that together, ordinary people can do extraordinary things; because we are not a collection of Red States and Blue States, we are the United States of America; and at this moment, in this election, we are ready to believe again. Thank you, Iowa”.

I’m not sure at what time during the speech I started to feel the tears of long forgotten sorrows well up. I had no other way to express the mixture of emotions that were bubbling up inside me. Obama’s words, and his sudden transfiguration into an authentically viable presidential candidate, were tapping into forgotten wellsprings of lost innocence and bitter memories of the 60’s and 70”s: my youthful excitement at supporting the election of a young, Irish-American, Catholic president; my burning enthusiasm to join the Peace Corps and erase the image of the “Ugly American”; my naïve trust that Martin Luther King and non-violent resistance would end segregation and assure the inalienable rights of every American citizen; and my zealous belief that by voting and supporting peace candidates, like Gene McCarthy and Bobby Kennedy, the Vietnam War and the military draft would end. These youthful myths had been obliterated by the brutal reality of a murdered president, an assassinated Civil Rights leader, and a slain candidate of Hope. Segregation did not end, and the draft, the Vietnam War, and the government’s responses to the anti-war movement continued to devour its young. From the 80’s onward, Presidential politics degenerated into a business run by Madison Avenue-like consultants who packaged ideologies, directed candidates to follow focus-group developed behaviors, and ruthlessly painted their opponents as enemies of the people. I had become cynical and indifferent toward the political process and the soulless candidates the parties produced: a Watergate-sanctioning president; a president who lied, evaded, and parsed the truth; and a president chosen by justices of the Supreme Court. Yet, this night, I was watching a man who was different; he looked different, he sounded different, he delivered a different message. Obama had the audacity to state the obvious, and believe that it was true; that we are all Americans, that our country is “a city on a hill”, founded on high-minded principles and values that transcend us, and that we are only as strong and secure as our faith and trust in each other. I cleared my throat, and secretly wiped away my tears. I continued watching television for a few hours more before going to bed. A week later I asked Prisa what would be the best way to contribute to Obama’s campaign. I followed her practical advice.

 

Sucking wind,
I'm slipping down the back road once again.
And I'm on the run,
Slipping down the back road in the sun.
And I'm taking flight,
Oh I'm slipping down the back road in the night.
And I'm running still,
Slipping down and over the hill.

For so long,
Oh, I've been out there looking for a song.
And it's just insane,
It's like trying to run and chase a moving train.
And you understand,
Oh, aren't you trying to find the Promised Land.
And you will,
Slipping down and over the hill.

Oh, it’s over the hill,
Over the hill.
And oh, yes I will.
Slipping down and over the hill.
(Over The Hill by John Stewart)

“Damn, 10:52!” I thought in surprise at the one mile marker. Trying to keep my balance, I rechecked my watch again. Now it read 10 minutes and 53 seconds! “Too slow, too slow” I muttered silently, steadying my stride and trying to breathe naturally. I shook my head as if to loosen the causes for this slow, troubling time: the bottle neck of runners that forced me to walk after the starting horn sounded; the riptide of casual walkers and skittish child-runners stopping my momentum and directing me sideways, as I looked frantically for breakaway opportunities; or my inadequate training for this race. These excuses rattled around in my head, but they were poor justifications for my disappointing start. I was frustrated. I usually averaged 9:50 a mile in my regular workouts at home. Here I was in a competitive race, full of adrenaline, surrounded by serious runners, and I was clocking a snail-like, 11 minute pace. I was off, and I knew it. My breathing was ragged and unsteady, my pacing was uneven, and I was getting angry. Moreover, a runner had attached himself to me, and his antics were driving me crazy. He was a short, portly gentleman, in an old running T-shirt, with a shock of gray hair, and looking about my age (although I felt he was younger). I’d caught up to him at the half mile point, and we jogged along together for awhile. At first I thought we’d meld into a steady rhythm and just flow into the race, but he wasn’t having any of that. He sped up, fell back, pushed forward again, and then drew even with me. He repeated this sequence over and over. I didn’t get it. Were these actions thoughtless or intentional? Had my catching him provoked these antics? What was his story? Just posing these questions was a troubling sign. Self-examination and effortless running don’t mix. It’s like designing a house while practicing meditation; it won’t work. I was thinking too much, and not relaxing into the race. Somewhere in the midst of my mental maelstrom, the portly runner sped up and disappeared from sight.

Sucking air in and gasping it out, I labored for another half mile. When I’m struggling, a race drags on and on, and every stride is torture. I was taking no notice of my surroundings; not the race, the Rose Bowl, nor the scenery along the Brookside Golf Course. I just kept my head down, brooding about my start, my irregular pace, my conditioning, my time, and the runners around me. Only once did I bother to gaze up at the lush green hills overlooking this arroyo, with their gleaming cliff side homes, topped off by the prominent steeple of the Sacred Heart chapel. The race was looking pretty grim until I reached the loop at West Washington Blvd. As I curved to the left, I caught sight of my portly nemesis, and saw he was walking! With all of his restless maneuvers and gamesmanship, he had, apparently, exhausted himself and was trying to recover. I passed him with a smile. I lifted my head, looked forward, and decided: “No more thinking. No more brooding. Let’s enjoy this run!” I fixed my sights on a far off signpost at the opposite bend of the road, and, flipping a mental switch, I entered a timeless dimension.

I’ve been in these time-suspended states of running before. I recall a few times finishing the back 3 of a 6 mile course along San Vicente Blvd, and once during the final two miles of the Brentwood 5K(kilometer) race. I’d characterize them as meditative states. All distractions fall away as my mind focuses on some faraway object, and all my running functions revert to automatic pilot. I stop being aware of my arms, legs, chest, lungs, eyes, mouth, and nose. I’m just breathing and moving through space, without conscious effort or control, and with no sense of time or distance. Figures and images are transformed into colorful shadows, which seem to dissolve as I pass them. I become motion without substance. The auto-pilot monitors my path and adjusts to obstacles and markers. When I approach my once faraway target, it simply alters my gaze toward a new goal, another street sign, a light post, or a gnarled tree, and I flow towards it.

I turned south on West Street and streamed along the western side of the arroyo. I only interrupted my unconscious glide long enough to note the 2 mile marker and my time, 20:06. I’d improved the second mile by 1:39, and I was feeling great. I resumed my focusing practice, and sped forward. I was running in the Kids on the Run 5K/10K Race held at the Rose Bowl/Brookside Park, located on N. Arroyo Blvd, in Pasadena. It is an annual event on behalf of Children’s Hospital Los Angeles, and I was there with two, of my seven sisters-in-laws, Meg and Beth.

I married into a family of 10 children, 8 girls and two boys. The siblings sort themselves, hang out, and unite in a variety of fashions, but the one I find most interesting is the “Big sister” grouping. Mary Ellen is the official “big sister” of the family, the first and eldest child. She was followed a year later by Debbie. These two girls constituted the War Time Siblings, and, I believe, they differentiated themselves by their unique relationship to their parents, their personal rivalries and competitions, and their generational attitudes and biases. They were born in 1944-45, grew up and went to school in the early Cold War years of the 1950’s, and were out of college and married by 1967. Kathy was the third child, and the “baby sister” to Mary Ellen and Debbie, who were 6 and 5 years older. However, Kathy became the first of a new group of siblings who were born in rapid succession: Mike, Patti, Greg, Meg, Beth, Tootie, and Tere. I’d call this division the Baby Boom Siblings (1949-1961) and it formed around their own “big sister”, Kathy. This was the sibling group that I knew when I met, dated, courted, and married Kathy. By then, Mary Ellen and Debbie had husbands, children, and families of their own, and I saw them infrequently at formal family occasions. But it was the younger siblings who were always at hand. For a time I felt like an interloper, a Mexican-American stranger seeking to share, or take, the attentions and affection of their “big sis”. I even imagined that they were inspecting, comparing, and judging me as a worthy suitor, but that apprehension soon passed. When it became apparent that I was in love with their big sister, and that she loved me (which was the important part), they embraced me into their family, and inducted me into this Baby Boom Sibling (BBS) group.

The BBS group was, and continues being a fun-loving group to be around. In the early days of our marriage, they were a moveable feast. If we were hosting a party or gathering of some sort that was losing its zest and vitality, Kathy would call her younger sibs to join and rescue us. If they were free (and out of seven siblings, some always were), they would arrive with energy, charm, humor, and curiosity for a new adventure. They would captivate everyone. I especially loved the “after-party” conversations, with just family members. It was here that I learned how this group survived, bonded, and flourished. They employed a self-deprecating, Irish humor, which never allowed them to take themselves, their good fortunes, or their problems, too seriously. They would find humor in the most serious or ridiculous situations. They would turn pain into giggles, and sorrow into laughter. They loved to laugh, and I loved being around them.

Kathy always took her role as “big sis” seriously. She had (and has) a natural inclination to guide and protect her family, and keep the siblings interconnected. Our home was always open and available to her brothers and sisters, and they always felt comfortable enough to visit or stay, especially when they were single, bored, or troubled. As they married and formed families of their own, Kathy continued arranging occasions to get together and celebrate (or commiserate). I love them as a group, and I have a special relationship with each of Kathy’s brothers and sisters, but there is a unique professional connection with Meg and Beth (the seventh and eighth siblings).Not only are we all teachers, but they were my first opportunity to practice “enlightened nepotism”.

Meg and Beth were both regular visitors to our home in Reseda while they were going to college, majoring in English, and working after graduation (Meg went to Loyola Marymount University and Beth to UCLA). They babysat for Tonito and Prisa, visited, swam in the pool, and introduced us to their serious boyfriends, fiancés, and eventual husbands. When things were difficult at home, school, or work, they would visit, talk, and ask for advice (and occasionally, they took it). Kathy and I were the professional teachers in the family (Kathy in English as a Second Language, ESL, and I in History), until she took an extended childcare leave to raise our kids. Helping Meg and Beth get full time teaching jobs in the city’s public school system, gave me the chance to exercise my professional leadership and discretion, and increased my status in the family, especially with the BBS group.

After college, Meg taught English in a variety of places; a catholic high school in the South bay area (in fact, Prisa’s current school); in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and finally at a private school in the San Fernando Valley. With her intelligence, energetic enthusiasm, and natural talent, Meg was always successful with her students and colleagues, but was still unsure about where she wanted to work and settle. It was 1982, and I had just been promoted to the position of Instructional Specialist in Bilingual Education for Local District 8, in the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD). I worked with middle and high school principals, coordinators, and ESL teachers in the mid Valley, guiding their implementation of the ESL curriculum, helping them meet the requirements of the Bilingual program, and occasionally giving advice on personnel. However, when Dan Isaacs, the principal of Grant High School, asked me to recommend a candidate to fill a vacancy in his ESL program, I was flattered. Dan was a dynamic and charismatic principal who demanded excellence, and got it. He was going places in the District, and “did not brook fools”. The ESL and English programs at Grant were the finest in the Valley, so when he asked me, there was an expectation that I could deliver the best. The first person I thought of was Meg. The hardest part was convincing her to apply. Although Meg had a credential, solid experience, excellent references, and the family personality, she had never taught ESL. It took some cajoling, reassuring, and promising to help and support her, but Kathy and I finally convinced Meg to interview with Dan Isaacs. She got the job.

Three years later (after a stint as Dean of Students at Ritchie Valens Middle School), I was working as a Teacher Advisor for the Senior High Schools Division of LAUSD, at the downtown Personnel Office. It was a heady time for me, being in a position where I was meeting, interviewing, and contracting new teachers in a single day. This temporary situation gave me the opportunity to help Beth, who was just coming off of a maternity leave and preparing to return to a catholic school teaching job. Beth had married right after graduation, and started working immediately, while her husband attended law school. Without a credential or prior experience, Beth had, gamely, tried the teaching profession, and discovered that she was very capable. I was now in a position where I could double her salary, increase her family’s health benefits, and get her into a subsidized credential program. With the encouragement and support of Meg, Tootie, and Kathy, we convinced Beth that she could make the leap into high school education. On a weekday morning, Tootie drove Beth to the Grand Avenue Personnel Office, where I greeted her, hired her, and signed her to a district contract before noon. In September she was teaching English and ESL at Roosevelt High School in Boyle Heights.

I racked up major family points with Kathy (and her mom) for my willingness to use my professional position to help her siblings. My actions were concrete examples of my faith in her sisters, and my commitment to her family. She saw, I think, for the first time, just how strong was my sense of family loyalty and obligation. In Mexican families, we learn very early about our duty to help each other in every way, and that using one’s position, power, or influence to assist family members (especially brothers and sisters) is expected. Nepotism (nepotismo) does not have a negative connotation in Spanish. I knew Meg and Beth would do fine jobs as teachers. They were smart, talented, beautiful, and fearless. All I had to do was open the door, and stand back. What was most rewarding was being in a position where I could see them grow and mature as professionals. As a Bilingual and Teacher Advisor I was able to visit their classrooms, see them teach, watch them interact with students, meet their co-workers, and help them gain confidence. Those early connections with their careers as teachers, developed into a special relationship that exists only with Meg and Beth.

33 years later, I’m running a 5K race with them. Meg is now a Reading Specialist for the Archdiocese, and Beth is teaching 5^th grade at a parish school. The last time I ran a 5K was the South Pasadena 5K/10K Tiger Run in 2004. Beth joined me on that run. She was working at getting back into regular running, and we felt that committing to a race would be good incentive for training and exercise. It also gave me a great opportunity to see her new apartment in South Pas. We had a good time at the event (felt great, won a raffle, met old friends), boasted about our athletic prowess at family gatherings, and promised each other to do it again. Unfortunately, we hadn’t been in an organized race since. This latest effort was a result of converging interests at just the right time. At the family Christmas Day party at Tootie and John’s house, the three of us got to talking about running, and how we were each struggling to establish regular patterns of conditioning. It was Meg who proposed we run a 10K race together. I was fine with the concept, but I thought a 10K (6.25 miles) race was a little too extreme to start with. I countered that a 5K (3.25 miles) race, scheduled in February or March would allow more time to train. They both agreed.

With Meg and Beth participating, the race did not follow any pattern that I had previously experienced. Kathy drove us to the registration site, planning to find us at the finish line. After receiving our souvenir t-shirts and picking up our racing bibs and pins, we still had 35 minutes before the start of the race. Keeping Meg and Beth company didn’t give me a chance to perform any of my usual pre-race rituals. I didn’t have a car to deposit my warm-up gear. I didn’t make my way to the starting line to warm up, stretch, and silently focus myself before the race. I didn’t look for a clear launching spot near the starting line, to avoid the crush of racers, and the congestion that occurs when the horn sounds. Instead, I stayed with them, and took a long walk along Seco Street, near the Rose Bowl, listening to the family news and happenings. At some point in the walk, Meg released us from the obligation of keeping pace with each other during the race, and encouraged us to run at our own speeds. Beth and I were relieved with this pacing exemption. Of the three of us, Meg was probably in the best condition, but had not participated in many organized races. I’d gotten in two practice runs of 4 and 5 miles the week before, but I was still not in shape. Beth was vague about the extent of her training, but I sensed that it was even more sporadic and infrequent than mine. However, what Beth lacked in practice she made up in grit and determination. She had committed to this race and she would run it, in shape or not. As the starting time approached, I decided to walk back to the finish line and deposit my warm-up gear with a kindly vendor. I didn’t want to wear any additional clothing while running. The jog back to the starting line was refreshing and invigorating. It gave me a chance to warm up, breathe hard, and stretch my legs. The three of us were together at the beginning, but, once the race started, I lost track of the girls as I jogged off.

As my autopilot caught sight of the three mile marker, the mental switch flipped back, and I was again aware of time, distance, and surroundings. My watch now read 28:29. I’d run this last mile in 8:24! I only had a quarter of a mile to go! The possibility of finishing this race under 30 minutes was slowly beginning to dawn on me. Because of the proximity to the finish line, the three mile marker also serves as a hazard warning sign. It’s like an ocean buoy alerting racing yachts to the sirens song that might tempt them into losing their focus and faltering along the last leg of the course. Some runners are lured into giving up at three miles. Fear and exhaustion seeps into their consciousness and muscles, causing them to hesitate and lose hope. They think that they went out too fast, sped up too soon, and didn’t conserve their strength. Then they start feeling tired, winded, dispirited, and believe that they can’t finish. Other runners are beguiled into speeding up; trying to set a new personal best, or getting past one more runner. I was prey to this temptation in 1992, when Lou, Meg’s husband, joined me in running my first El Sereno 5K race. We had paced each other nicely for three miles, when the natural competitor in Lou proposed that we pass two grey-haired, older gentlemen who were running in front of us. We kicked forward and fought through groaning muscles, straining sinews, and bursting lungs to beat them at the finish line – but the effort wiped me out (I placed third in my division in that race). The best course for the irregular racer is to ignore the allure of the sirens and just stay within yourself – finishing the race on an even, steady pace. This is the sound advice I did not follow on my odyssey at the Rose Bowl.

Realizing that I was within striking distance of a sub-30 minute racing time, I sped up. Gritting my teeth, I lengthened my stride, trying to cover more ground in less time. I kicked into a higher gear when I entered the familiar asphalt path leading to the finish line. At the last turn before the final straight away, I felt it – a slight pinching in my left rear upper leg. It was a localized twinge, just above the knee, but it wouldn’t stop. It was as though a screw was being turned, stretching a muscle wire tighter and tighter. Suddenly I felt the same sensation in my right rear upper leg. Now there were two turning screws, two tightening muscles, and at least two strands of wires ready to pop. In all my years running, I’d never felt these sensations. So close to the finish, after such a blissful second half, I refused to believe that it was happening. “Ignore it, ignore it”, I said to myself. “It will pass, don’t stop”. I was within sight of the finish line banner when a wire snapped, and a vice-like grip clamped onto my back left leg muscle (hamstring?). Scalding flashes coursed through the synapses of my brain. I stopped; and when I did, the pain ceased. I had seen runners cramp up and fall during races. Images of marathoners strewn out on sidewalks, clutching their thighs and back leg muscles, were imprinted in my mind. But I was still standing. In fact there was no pain when I walked. I massaged my upper back leg muscle and continued along the side of the path. For the first time, I became aware of the many spectators lined up along this final stretch, clapping and shouting encouragement. “You can do it, you can make it”, they chanted. Could I? As there was no pain, I pushed off on my right leg to resume running. When my left foot hit the ground a plume of fire shot up the exposed nerve endings. I hopped to a stop and resumed walking. I was humbled and hurt, but I had never ended a race by walking to the finish line. I couldn’t do it now. I massaged my left leg as I walked, and then gingerly tried jogging. “Tolerable, tolerable”, I whispered, “I can do this”. I entered the runners stocks in a soft jog, and then walked to the spotters who were tearing the identification tabs from our racing bibs.

“Tony, Tony”, I heard a voice calling out, “over here”. Looking toward a gallery of spectators around the watering table at the end of the cordoned area, I spotted Kathy waving at me. She beamed a big, welcoming smile as I walked to her. “How did you do?” she asked.
“I don’t know”, I said. I had forgotten to note my time on the clock next to the finishers’ stockade upon my arrival. “I pulled a muscle as I was coming in, so I lost track of time”, I said, explaining my oversight.
“Oh, how do you feel?” she responded, sympathetically.
“Actually, fine, it doesn’t hurt at all, except when I try to run. It’s pretty strange”.
“Oh, look, there’s Meg. She wasn’t too far behind you”.
Meg came bounding through the stocks, glowing with excitement, and sporting a proud smile.
“That was fabulous”, she exclaimed, greeting Kathy with a kiss, and then excusing herself to find a bathroom. “I’ll be right back” she said jogging off in the direction of the Aquatic Center.
“I’m going to look out for Beth”, Kathy said, as she walked towards the finish line. “Lend me your camera, and I‘ll get some photos as she arrives”.

As Kathy walked away, I was left to brood in solitude about my injury. I continued massaging the back of my left leg. There was no pain and no mark on my leg, only a minor, residual ache in the spot where I imagined a nerve or muscle tear (a black and blue bruise spot would appear in the injured area a few days later). I was beginning to suspect that this injury was not a cramp or muscle spasm, caused by insufficient warm-up or training. This was an equipment failure; a cord had worn out, a wire had frayed, or a cable had snapped. My legs were getting old and fatigued. This was my first year in the 60 to 64 Year Old Division, and I was feeling like an archaic, obsolete machine, whose parts were wearing out, one by one, with no replacements in stock. I was over the hill.

“Here she comes!” shouted Kathy, pointing towards the finishers’ gate.
“Woohoo!” cheered Meg, who had joined her to greet their sister Beth as she finished the race, and walked through the gates.
I picked up a water bottle from the table nearby and walked to the band of sisters who were whooping it up and deconstructing the race for Kathy in excited tones. Handing Beth a bottle, I said “Before we go to breakfast, let’s find out what our times were”.
“Great!” chimed in Meg, “Where do we find them?”
I pointed to a bannered pavilion, where a small crowd of runners were gathering. Bottles in hand, we walked over to the people who were looking at four sheets of paper taped onto an overhead poster board.
“Look”, cried Kathy, staring at the small print on the second sheet, “here’s Tony’s time”.
“Here’s mine”, said Meg, pointing at the next listing.
I’d finished with a time of 30:52, at a pace of 9:58 a lap. Meg had a time of 31:55, on a pace of 10:18 per lap.
As we were noting our times, a fifth results list of the latest runners was being posted.
“Here’s Beth”, I said. She had finished with a time of 40:14, at a pace of 12:59.
“How did you do, Beth?” asked Meg, coming over to look at the latest listings.
“Not good” said Beth, frowning as she looked at the numbers.
“Nonsense” I said, “for a baseline race, you did fine”.
“I think we all did great” exclaimed Meg, “and our story deserves a blog. What do you think, Tony, do you feel a blog coming?”
“We’ll see” I said. In the meantime I went back to recheck the listings.
“You know what?” I said. “I think we medaled!”
“What” exclaimed Meg.
“You’re kidding” said Kathy.
“Look” I said pointing at the second column of each page, “under Division. Third place for me, and 4^th place for Meg. We placed in our divisions. We might get medals”.
“Holy Cow” said Meg, “I need to call someone”. She whipped out her cell phone and called her husband. “Lou!” exclaimed Meg, “Guess what? We did really well in the race. Tony came in 3^rd in his division, I came in 4^th, and Beth came in …..” Her voice trailed off, when she realized she didn’t have that fact.
“She came in seventh” I whispered, having looked it up while she was dialing.
“Seventh. Isn’t that great, Lou? The race was awesome! We have to do another”.

The energy and excitement emanating from the three sisters was dispelling my melancholy. My injury no longer seemed quite as fatal as I feared. Perhaps I just needed to stop running for a while, heal, and perform alternative workouts to keep in shape (going to the gym would be good). Going to breakfast with these three long-time companions seemed the perfect antidote to the aging blues I was feeling. Hmmm, perhaps Meg was right; perhaps I did feel a blog coming.

 

1. Life is suffering;
2. Suffering is due to attachments (desires);
3. Attachments are illusionary and can be overcome;
4. There is a path for accomplishing this.

1. Right View is the true understanding of the four noble truths.
2. Right Aspiration is the true desire to free oneself from attachments, ignorance, and hatefulness.
3. Right Speech involves abstaining from lying, gossiping, or hurtful talk.
4. Right Action involves abstaining from hurtful behaviors, such as killing, stealing, and careless sex.
5. Right Livelihood means making your living in such a way as to avoid dishonesty and hurting others, including animals.
6. Right Effort is a matter of exerting oneself in regards to the content of one’s mind: Bad qualities should be abandoned and prevented from arising again; Good qualities should be enacted and nurtured.
7. Right Mindfulness is the focusing of one’s body, feelings, thoughts, and consciousness in such a way as to overcome craving, hatred, and ignorance.
8. Right Concentration is meditating in such a way as to progressively realize a true understanding of imperfection, impermanence, and non-separateness.

 

I received an email from my Mexican cousin, Nena, a few weeks ago. I had not written, or heard from her, in about a year, and I felt a little guilty. In my family of six siblings (once known by our diminutive Spanish nicknames as Tonito, Tito, Tita, Gracie, Eddie, and Alex), I am the oldest, and the most anxious about maintaining a viable connection with our Mexican first cousins. Yet, I had not made any attempts at communicating with them since mailing a family Christmas card. Now, here was my younger cousin, Nena, gently scolding me and hoping that I had not given up on my promise to stay in touch. It was that subtly stated concern that has precipitated this reassessment. Just what is my connection to my Mexican family, my two remaining uncles, and 28 cousins? Despite my efforts of three years ago, I’ve grown lazy and careless about writing or calling on a regular basis. The last connections I made during my last quick visit for my Uncle Pepe’s Golden Wedding Anniversary are now at risk. I fear that if I don’t maintain some type of consistent communication with my first cousins, I, and my children, will lose this ancestral tether forever.
 

My mother was born in Mexico in 1924, and she had four brothers and three sisters, in her nuclear family. She was the head-strong, baby girl, who, after marrying a Mexican-American, World War II veteran, left Mexico to live in Los Angeles. Her family remained in Mexico. There, they lived, married, worked, and raised their own families. These aunts and uncles produced 28 children, my Mexican first cousins. My mom’s oldest brother, Carlos, married Chelo and had Carlitos, Guero, Ale, Nena, Pico, Ricardo and Betito. The eldest sister, Helen, married Gabino and had Gabinin. The next brother Beto (Doc), married Licha and had Betito, Avillo, Nena, and Jaime. The next sister, Chita, married Carlos and had Rosita, Carlitos, Estela, Jose Luis, Cecilia, and Jorge. The next sister, Totis, married Adolfo and had Nena, Adolfito, and Tavi. The next brother, Pepe (Profe), married Margarita and had Pepito, Marilu, Fede, and Margot. The youngest brother, Lalo (Lic.), married Lilia and had Lili, Lalito, and Sylvia. Most of these names are their diminutive, childhood nicknames, not their proper names. Nena, for example, is a generic name given to girls in Hispano America and Spain, which means “little doll, or little girl”. There were three Nenas in the family, and we would differentiate by calling them la nena de Carlos, la nena del Doc, and la nena de Totis. Most of these cousins are married now, and have children of their own; but I barely know these second cousins, and would never recognize them on my own.

 

 
 

Of my 28 first cousins, I developed the closest ties to those nearest my own age, Carlitos, Rosita, Guero, and Ale, or those I was continuously around, Gabinin, Totis’nena, Adolfito, and Tavi. The relationships I formed with these cousins developed from two types, or phases, of interaction: family trips we made to Mexico, and they to the United States, for summer vacations or short visits; and the three times I lived in Mexico City to study or escape. If I had not had these latter experiences, I think that time, distance, and local priorities would have slowly eroded my connections to Mexico and my family there. However, my separate sojourns in Mexico, and the sharing of hopes, fears, and adventures with various cousins, bound us together at an adult level for the rest of our lives.

Scenes of our early family trips to Mexico tend to blur together and coalesce around vague memories of staying with my grandmother Mima, in her ancient-looking, old fashioned townhouse on Calle Chopo, in the barrio San Cosme of Mexico City. When we flew into Mexico City with my mother, or drove in with my father, we always stayed in that old, two-story apartment-condo, in a courtyard complex. In the earliest years, when Totis, Pepe, and Lalo still lived there, our visits were the center of their attention, and they kept us busy sight-seeing, dining, and partying. When we came by car in 1954 (and only Totis and Lalo were single), my parents took us traveling outside the capitol, and we visited Mazatlan, Guaymas, Vera Cruz, Aguas Calientes, Guanajuato, and Acapulco. My mother and father controlled the itinerary and agendas on these trips, and we were reduced to children’s perennial questions: “Where are we going?” and “When will we get there?” However, I was more interested in asking “Who can I play with?” For me, vacations in Mexico really meant “too many parties”, too many dinners, and too few children to play with. When a multi-family gathering occurred, the cousins divided themselves along age groups, so I played with the eldest, Carlitos, Guero, Rosita, and Ale. When we visited individual families, I played with whoever was available. Language was a minor inconvenience when we played. Although Spanish was my original language (as it was for my siblings, Tito, Tita, and Gracie), it had grown rusty and heavily accented over the years through infrequent use. For us, Spanish was a knack we were born with, but we preferred English. Unfortunately, our cousins spoke no English. So we made due, as children always can. The longer we stayed in Mexico, the more fluent our Spanish became. In those youthful days, communication took care of itself. We were just interested in exploring games, toys, and new places. That changed when we became teenagers.

 

 

Between our last family vacation in Mexico and my first solo visit in 1966, two of my cousins came to the United States on separate trips during Christmas. Rosita and her mom Chita came to visit (along with Lalo and Mima) when I was in the 7^th or 8^th grade. Then Gabinin and Helen came to visit when I was a junior or senior in high school. These encounters were very different because we were teenagers at the time. We were also experiencing very divergent influences, educations, and expectations in our different countries. For the first time, we were interested in comparing our thoughts and opinions on music, movies, T.V., schools, friends, and dating. Although language was again an impediment to perfect communication (I bemoaned the poor quality of my Spanish), we made ourselves understood. I developed a crush on Rosita. She had the allure of an older girl (2 years older), and she was cute, dimpled, and flirtatious. I struggled in vain to impress her. On the other hand, when Gabinin came to Los Angeles, I was the older cousin. I was in high school, playing a varsity sport (soccer), and flashing a new driver’s license. I worked hard at impressing him. I was especially relieved to see that Gabinin had matured, and bore no resemblance to the spoiled, only-child of his youth. These encounters with Rosita and Gabinin revealed something new. We realized that along with similar opinions on youthful issues (adults, school, and music), we lived in radically different social and cultural environments. It was as if we lived on different planets, and the other person’s seemed infinitely more interesting, romantic, and mysterious than our own.

I’m not sure what my parent’s plan was in sending me to Mexico after finishing high school. They simply called it my graduation present. However, I suspected it was my mom’s hope that I would discover my Mexican heritage and culture, and appreciate the uniqueness of her family. If that was the plan, some of it worked. I had listened to the stories told by my father of his stay in Mexico City after the war, and my mother’s tales of the history of Mexico, and about her family’s peregrinations from the state of Aguas Calientes to Mexico D.F. But these were nostalgic recollections of old people, colored by myth and fantasy. I wanted to connect with a contemporary Mexico, and interact with a flawed, but loveable, family, that I could examine and judge for myself. I was at a critical crossroad in my life. I had finished high school, and I would be attending classes at UCLA in September of 1966. I would be away from the immediate oversight and control of my parents for the first time in my life. I was to form my own impressions, attitudes, and opinions about Mexico, my aunts and uncles, and my cousins. My parents would not be there to set my itinerary and agenda. I would meet and interact with whom I pleased. It was a heady and intoxicating prospect, and foreshadowed my later university experiences at UCLA during the Vietnam War.

I joined the household of Helen and Gabinin in the summer of 1966. My grandmother Mima also lived there until her death in 1976. This was my first experience living away from home, so I was thankful it was not among strangers. I found it a gentle (and convenient) way to experience independence – among people who cared and were always watching out for me. At the same time, it was very important to me that this experience not be a vacation. I was not a tourist, coming to be entertained. Everyone was busy with their regular lives, doing the ordinary things that they did before I arrived, and after I left. I wanted to be part of that scene, and work at fitting in. I enrolled in the summer program at the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico (UNAM), the national university, and I quickly merged into the daily routine of a college student (universitario) in Mexico City. I took the Buenavista bus to the downtown Alameda every morning, and then transferred to the San Angel bus which traveled south on Avenida Insurgentes to UNAM. I had a full program of classes in history, literature, anthropology, and music, and soon found myself up to my eye balls in homework and readings in English and Spanish. I befriended other expatriate students from Chicago and Austin, and hung out at the student lounges and cafes that exuded the social and political ferment of the times.

Gabinin was a prep student attending the Universidad Iberoamericana, a private Catholic preparatory school and university. He and I became close friends during this time. School and studies took up much of our time, but we had adequate opportunities each day to become better acquainted. I assumed the role of elder mentor and advised him to pursue other extracurricular activities, especially girls. He had a crush on a girl next door, who just happened to have a pretty older sister, Gloria. So with a little coaxing we both spent a lot of time telephoning, visiting, taking walks, double dating, and going ice skating, bowling, to movies and coffee houses.

The big family event of the summer was the wedding of our eldest cousin, Carlitos, in Tlalnepantla, an industrial town outside of Mexico City. Although I didn’t see much of him, Rosita and the other cousins from Tlalnepantla, Guero and Ale, would come by on weekends to plan or go on daylong adventures. Rosita, a college music major, wanted to expose me to the arts and culture of Mexico. She arranged for visits to museums, concerts, and plays. But I could always count on Guero and Ale to push the envelope on exciting pursuits that my mom would never have approved. They would descend without warning and take us out to eat street tacos, visit barrio festivals, or travel out of the city to a rural pyrotechnic factory to buy skyrockets and firecrackers.

Totis and her 3 children, Nena, Adolfito, and Tavi took up the rest of my time. She would come by on a daily basis, with kids in tow, to see how I was doing. She was my favorite Auntie Mame, a whirlwind of humor, irreverence, and surprises. Just being around her was exhilarating. She made the mundane actions of every day life a marvelous experience. You could always count on Totis for a trip to the Villa (the national shrine of the Virgen de Guadalupe), Sunday mass and brunch, or a movie with dinner.

When I departed in August, I’d fallen in love with Mexico City, its broad avenidas, annoying traffic, crowded buses, and warm afternoon rainfalls. The city was nothing like Los Angeles, it was ancient, grittier, and messy, but it was accessible, charming and captivating nevertheless. Living in a foreign country had given me the ability to stand outside myself while acting out a daily role as a college student, resident, and relative. Everything was new and different, so I saw everyone as unique and interesting. It was a talent that would disappear in my native environs of Los Angeles, but would reemerge whenever I found myself in a new city or country. There were no tears when I said goodbye to the Rosita, Gabinin, Guero and Ale. We were each heading into new phases of our lives and would be very busy for the next four years with school and careers. We promised to write, but quickly added that we would understand if we didn’t.

I returned to Mexico four years later, after I graduated from UCLA, in the summer of 1970. The war in Vietnam was escalating and, by completing my Bachelor of Arts degree in Latin American History, I lost my draft exemption status. However, rather than waiting passively for my induction notice, I wanted to get away, celebrate my graduation, and just have a good time. I was not in a position to make any future plans, so I convinced my parents that a vacation in Mexico would be a better alternative than waiting around for bad news. It was pure avoidance. My life was on hold, and I had no romantic entanglements or personal commitments to prevent a trip. Helen, Mima, and Gabino (I’d stopped using the diminutive “nin” when he turned 18) were happy to take me in for as long as I wanted to stay.

Looking back, I’m amazed that I got away with it. It was my “Lost Boomer Generation” phase of my life. I didn’t do anything productive while I was in Mexico, I just filled my days walking, sightseeing, exploring, and visiting. I discovered the new Metro subway system, and spent countless hours traveling up and down its routes, sitting in station plazas, and surveying the surrounding areas. I walked throughout the Zona Rosa and downtown areas of the city, stopping at bookstores, and inspecting interesting shops and booths. On this trip, I also brought along my new college vices (tobacco, caffeine, literature, and alcohol), and cultivated them in a new environment. I found comfortable male-only bars and pubs, and sidewalk coffee houses where I could sit all day, reading, writing, smoking and drinking. I discovered a strong Mexican brand of cigarettes, Raleigh, and came to prefer Bohemia beer. 

Gabino was finishing his studies as a medical student, and I hoped to pick up our friendship where we had left off. Unfortunately, he came down with hepatitis shortly after my arrival, so he was unavailable as company for most of my stay. On the other hand, my uncle Pepe’s marriage experienced some troubles that summer, so he moved in with us. Although he was not the companion that Gabino had been on my prior visit, he was available much more than before. He introduced me to prominent Mexican writers and historians, took me to his classes at the university, presented me to friends, and lent me his Llave de Oro, Golden Key card to exclusive night clubs. La nena de Carlos got married that summer in Tlalnepantla, and I spent a lot more time with Guero (and sometimes Ale, who was a dental student and always seemed busy). Guero would accompany me on my wanderings in the city, and for beers stops at Metro stations, bars, and diners. He introduced me to pulpo en su tinta, a meal of octopus and rice, and pulque, an indigenous alcoholic beverage made of maguey (cactus). 

On this visit, I spent even more time with Totis and her family, even though her life had grown busier and more complex. She was now teaching English, part-time in a secondary school and micro-managing the lives and education of her three children (Nena, Adolfito, and Tavi). I simply added myself to her family by being around all the time. I could now get to her home on my own by Metro, so she did not have to pick me up, or drive me home. I became a part of their family life for three months. There was also the special treat, that whenever I came for dinner, Adolfo Sr., Totis’ husband, would set himself up behind the bar and host his own happy hour. It was great fun, and an opportunity for him to pontificate about Mexico, America, the Vietnam War, and Mohammed Ali.

The foreshadowing event of the summer was my failed attempt at climbing Popocatepetl, an inactive volcano outside of Mexico City. Guero and Ale (and their younger brothers Ricardo and Betito) had arranged a day climb with their Volunteer Emergency Rescue Team. Along with 5 friends on the team, they borrowed an old ambulance, and we left at 12 o’clock midnight for the five hour journey. We never would have suspected a problem if Guero hadn’t noticed that Betito was suddenly silent. He was the youngest in the group, on his first climb, and very excited and talkative. When he wouldn’t awaken, Guero told the driver to stop, just as other passengers began complaining of headaches. When the back door of the ambulance was opened and we were struck by the bitingly fresh and frigid air of the pre-dawn morning, climbers started passing out. The Leon brothers and I were helping to carry these inert bodies out of the ambulance and off to the side of the road. Suddenly one brother collapsed into my arms, and as I cradled his fall I too lost consciousness. I awoke on the side of the road, with a splitting headache. Our expedition to Popocatepetl was over. Guero and the driver determined that there was an exhaust leak in the undercarriage of the vehicle and carbon monoxide had been escaping into the back of the warm and confined ambulance. On the drive back to Tlalnepantla, deeply inhaling the invigorating fresh air that was vented into every opening of the ambulance, we slowly realized our good fortune. We had experienced a benign encounter with death. Although we would laugh and joke about it the morning after, life seemed a little more fragile to me and death a little closer.

My second visit to Mexico ended when my father suffered another heart attack at home. I returned to the U.S. to help with the family, work full time, and explore the possibility of a draft deferment. Although my father’s health stabilized over the course of the year, my appeals were denied and I received my draft notice by Christmas. However, rather than accept two years of active duty with a tour in Vietnam, I enlisted in the United States Air Force, hoping to trade 4 years of service for some control over my duty assignments (and a shot at being posted in Spain). I left for basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, Texas, in June of 1971. After basic training, I was assigned to Norton Air Force Base, in San Bernardino, California, as an Information Specialist on the Globetrotter newspaper. Luckily, I was close enough to Los Angeles to visit my family and friends on a regular basis, so I never felt too disconnected or alone. I settled into a comfortable life as an Air Force journalist and resigned myself to a four year hitch when death paid a second visit. On Monday evening, November 1^st, as I was returning to my quarters after a day off base, I was told to report to the Officer of the Day, who had a message for me. There I learned that my father had died of a final heart attack. That event changed the course of my life, and guided me to where I am today. After my dad’s funeral, I was given a hardship discharge by the Air Force, and talked my way into a position at St. Bernard High School as a U.S. History teacher. I taught for a year and a half, befriending a couple of St. Joseph of Carondelet nuns, who were on the faculty. They introduced me to my future wife, Kathy, just as I was solidifying plans to travel to Mexico, before starting a postgraduate program at UCLA in Latin American Studies in preparation for a career in the Foreign Service.

My third trip to Mexico was different from all the others. This time I did not come alone, and I spent little time with my cousins. I managed to convince Greg, one of my three friends from high school (see tag, amigos) that he too would benefit from this travel and education opportunity. Greg had graduated from U.C. Riverside and was teaching at a Catholic elementary school in Glendale. He was planning to get his credential and continue in this field, and Bilingual education offered the quickest route to advancement. The idea of enrolling in Spanish classes and graduate courses at UNAM, while living with a Mexican family in the capitol, sounded practical and appealing to him. He would benefit from the classes, and they would also give me a head start on my post grad studies. I would be there to keep him company, and together we could really explore the city and outlying regions. However, it did not turn out as expected. I imagined a visit of endless fun and adventure, but I did not count on being in love. 

To save money, Greg and I traveled to Mexico City by bus – a 3 day marathon of sitting, reading, talking, sleeping, and watching countless hectares of barren hills and deserts glide by the window. Greg adapted to Mexico like a long lost native. He lost his language inhibitions immediately and never hesitated communicating in Spanish. My role as translator was soon pointless, as Greg initiated more and more encounters and conversations. After staying with Mima and Helen for a few days, Totis found a family home near the university where Greg could board for the summer. Once enrolled in a full summer program we settled into a routine of classes in the morning, sightseeing and traveling around the city in the afternoons, dinner with his landlord family or Totis, and evenings of study or entertainment. We had a distinct advantage over other foreign students in our classes, because we were long time friends with family connections in Mexico, whose presence and backup emboldened the other. We became notorious for describing our travels, explorations, and plans with teachers and students alike, and inviting them to participate. On one occasion we announced that we would host a Study Group at a local Shakey’s-like Pizzeria. What started as a dare (“Greg, I dare you to invite your young and attractive Spanish professor to a Study Session at Shakey’s”) ended up being one day-long keg party, with pizza. Two of our teachers showed up (Greg’s pretty Spanish professor did come), along with countless students, many of whom we did not know. Although no studying was done, we did learn much more than we expected from the professors (who were more or less our own age) about university life, student activism, and political dissent. After the event ended, Greg and I walked up Insurgentes Avenue for about an hour until we found an interesting seafood restaurant. There we had wine and lobster thermador (langosta) and critiqued the day. We were quite drunk at the end of dinner, as we separated to take different buses (we only traveled by mass transit in the city) back to our respective homes. Greg left first, threatening to brand me a “wimp” if I did not show up the next morning for our 8 o’clock class. By the time I arrived home (after missing two of my stops), my mood had changed from one of triumph to despair. Somewhere along the road, I had allowed the image of Kathy to enter my mind, and I suddenly felt forlorn, abandoned, and 1000 miles away from the only person I cared about.

I met Kathy four months before going to Mexico, but I knew she was special after our first encounter in the convent. Throughout my sojourn, I pined and longed for her. It must have been extremely tiresome for Greg, listening to endless descriptions of her letters to me, and those I planned to write. It was obvious right away to my grandmother and aunts that I was in love. I would show them Kathy’s picture and describe her, and beg them to be on the alert for letters and phone calls. My cousins soon picked up on this as well, and they stopped trying to set me up with dates. I was 25 years old, the age most Mexicans married and started a family, so they probably felt that it was time.

I did make it to 8 o’clock class the following day; as did Greg. The irony was that the professor (one of our guests the day before) did not. Rather than waiting around to attend more classes in our hung-over condition we decided to hit the busses and go up town. On the way we stumbled into a political celebration for Pancho Villa at his statue at the Monumento al Division del Norte (a rotary at the intersection of two or three main streets). T.V. cameras, news photographers, and soldiers were crawling all over the place, so we took a table at a small outdoor restaurant nearby and ordered beer and tortas to see if any spontaneous demonstrations might erupt. When nothing developed, we continued on our way into the downtown area, and found ourselves at the Mercado de Tepito, the “underworld’s” Thieves Market of the city. From there we wandered north until we found ourselves at the bar Tenampas at the Plaza Garibaldi. This is a famous plaza and bar where mariachis come to practice, drink, and arrange playing engagements. We just sat, drank, talked (in Spanish and English, depending on whom we were speaking with), and listened for hours in this wondrous locale. It was dark when we left, but our hang-over’s had disappeared. We walked to Bellas Artes (the Palace of Fine Arts) and Greg took the southern metro line home, and I caught the Buenavista bus to the Monumento de la Raza. We were just two Mexican graduate students catching their rides home, after a long day of research.

 
 

I learned later that many of the places that Greg and I were discovering were high risk locales: Tepito is an inner city barrio, and it’s mercado a common front for fencing stolen merchandise, while the Plaza Garibaldi and Tenampas is a haven for pickpockets and thieves. These were not places my upscale cousins (except for the boys of Tlalnepantla) would frequent on their own, and they would never take foreign guests. In fact, the only family (in law) member who approved of our dangerous travels was Adolfo, Totis’ husband. He had resumed the custom of hosting a happy hour before dinner at his home, and he loved the opportunity of practicing his English and listening to Greg’s Spanish (it was amazing how their fluency increased after a few drinks). Adolfo, nonetheless, counseled safer excursions, and he was delighted to hear that Greg and I had charmed Gloria (the “old” next door neighbor of Gabino) into volunteering as our chauffeur to the pyramids of Teotihuacan and Chapultepec Park. In fact Gloria gave Greg his Spanish nickname Goyo as we rowed on the same lake that housed the floating pleasure barges of the Aztec emperors.

Except for Totis’ children, Nena, Adolfito, and Tavo, my contacts with cousins during this trip were few and far between. We got together for a couple of family parties and dinners, but nothing like the spontaneous adventures of the past. I made a point of speaking with Rosita, Guero, and Ale (Gabino was doing his national service as a doctor in another state) to learn of their current activities and future plans. All of my contemporary cousins now had established, long-term jobs or careers; many had moved out of the city and taken residence in other places of the republic, or world (Rosita’s brother, Carlitos was living in Canada). We were each coming to a crossroad in our lives where marriage and children would soon intersect. These were not topics we talked about too much, but we assumed they might happen soon.

The trip ended in a flurry of activity when Greg’s younger brother, Jeff, arrived with additional money, to spend two weeks in Mexico. He and Greg moved into a hostel downtown, and we spent the last two weeks showing Jeff all of the historical and tourist attractions in the city. Greg was able to demonstrate his new linguistic and cultural fluency to his high school age brother, and show how deeply he had internalized all that he had learned. The best part of the trip was finally leaving. With Totis as the main organizer, my family threw a fabulous farewell party on the day before departure. Greg and Jeff were there, along with my grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. My clearest memory is Mima taking me apart from the crowd and telling me that she had seen the picture of the girl I loved, and she approved. It would be my last conversation with her. We left for Los Angeles the next morning, and 5 hours later I finally saw Kathy’s radiant smile beaming up at me as we walked through the arrival gate at LAX.

I made one more trip to Mexico City in December of 1979. On this occasion I came with my wife Kathy, who was 3 months pregnant with Prisa, and our 2 year old son, Tonito. We were also accompanied by my mother and two younger brothers, Eddie and Alex. The purpose of the trip was to introduce my Irish-American wife to my Mexican family, and vice versa. In Spanish, the saying (or dicho) is dar el ojo bueno, give her a good look. This was my family’s chance to meet and evaluate my gringa bride and son. The two most memorable events of the trip were the Posadas that were hosted by four different families, and Kathy’s first exposure to bullfighting. My mother had always hosted our own annual family Christmas Eve party, which featured our version of Posadas, a reenactment of Mary and Joseph searching for an inn (posada) to spend the night and give birth to baby Jesus. When the final innkeeper allows them to stay in the stable, there is a great celebration, with singing, and a piñata party for the children. After comparing the celebrations given by my aunts, uncles, and cousins, it was reassuring to certify that we were presenting an authentic version at home.

My greatest apprehension was taking Kathy to a corrida de toros, the running of the bulls, at the world famous Plaza de Toros in Mexico City. I felt this would be the family’s litmus test of my wife’s suitability. So far, she had charmed my aunts, uncles, and cousins with her humor, personality, and Spanish fluency (“Su acento es mejor que suyo!”- “Her accent is better than yours, Tony!”). But she had never witnessed a ceremonial “blood sport”, which many Americans (and Spaniards) find cruel and distasteful. Could she tolerate a blood initiation to one of the core rituals in Spanish culture? My uncle Beto, the “doc” (a hematologist), was the event medical specialist, and he had arranged for our box seats and transportation. When the first bull came charging out, after the aesthetically gorgeous processional and opening ceremonies, I held my breath, and kept close to Kathy. The bull was a courageous marvel. He charged straight and true, time after time after time, despite the annoying efforts of the picadors and banderilleros to bleed and weaken him. Soon the matador realized his good fortune and waved off all of his assistants. He would work (faena) the bull alone, mano a mano, one on one, with capote (large golden cape) and muleta (small red cape). The tiny but gallant matador and the monstrous, but doomed, bull performed a ballet of grace and motion, until I noticed that the crowd had begun waving white handkerchiefs, the sign for clemency. By the third and final stage of the faena, with muleta and killing sword in hand, the matador relented. He looked up at the rolling sea of white, and gesturing with hands and arms, appealed, “What would you have me do?”, and the crowded of thousands roared back “vida, vida” – life, life. The bull was saved and would live to sire other brave bulls. I remember Kathy turning to me, handkerchief in hand, saying, “I like this sport”. Kathy had witnessed a perfect corrida on her first attempt. She had the Mexican magic, and she walked away from the corrida a beloved member of my Mexican family.

With my mother involved in the planning and arrangements of this visit, the trip took on many of the aspects of our old family vacations: a strict itinerary of family outings, parties, tours, and dinners. There were no opportunities for spontaneous excursions or walking adventures in the city, and little use of mass transportation (except for taxis). I was able to talk to my cousins only in passing at parties or on car trips with my family in tow, but our common situations in life were obvious. We were all married with children, or engaged; and our jobs were evolving to align with economic necessities or new career paths. We were becoming our parents, in Mexico and in the United States. Some of us were happy and satisfied, and some were not. Some marriages were blossoming, and some were already withering and dissolving. We were more involved with out own private lives than in each others. When our airplane took off from the airport in Mexico City on the eve of 1980, I thought I was saying goodbye to my Mexican family forever.

In the fall of 2004 I felt a strong compulsion to reconnect with my family in Mexico and to establish a more independent channel of communication, especially with my cousins. It was probably some derivative aftereffect of my empty nest syndrome. Tony and Prisa were 26 and 24 years old respectively, and had lived away from home for years. Suddenly, at 57 years of age, I was feeling disconnected from them, and coming to the shocking realization that all important relationships (even between children and parents) will wither and die if they are not actively maintained. This was true of my children, friends, family, and especially family living in another country. I had also lost touch with my uncles and cousins in Mexico. All news from Mexico came from my mother, who is notorious for not informing anyone of family misfortune or gossip. She was my only source of news. It was through her, that I eventually learned that Mima, Adolfito, Helen, Totis, and Chita had died. Except for Mima’s death and burial, the news from Mexico was never urgently communicated or timely. It was after Aunt Chita’s death in 2003, that I began feeling a general restlessness and a nagging curiosity about my relatives in Mexico.

Serendipitously, just as these pangs were becoming noticeable, the children of my uncle Pepe and his wife Margarita organized a Boda de Oro, a Golden Wedding Anniversary party in November of 2004. Pepe had asked my mother to attend, but when she declined he wondered if I might wish to come. When my mother finally mentioned the invitation, I jumped at the chance to see everyone again. The weekend after Thanksgiving, I flew into Mexico City to celebrate the 50 year jubilee of my uncle’s wedding, and visit my uncles and as many cousins as I could. The whirlwind visit was almost perfect. I arrived on Friday, and had dinner with Pepe, Margarita and their children (Pepito, Marilupe, Margot, and Federico). I then had a late supper (merienda) with my cousin Gabino and his wife Beatrice. At the wedding ceremony and reception on Saturday, I saw almost everyone else, with the exception of Rosita, Nena, Tavo, and those cousins who were living outside of the city. It was fabulous seeing everyone, speaking to them as best I could, and promising to stay in touch. On Sunday, I spent the day with my uncle Lalo, his wife Lilia, and daughter Sylvia at the home of their son, Lalito, and then had dinner with Nena and her three children. I also managed to telephone Rosita and Tavo that evening. By the time I flew out of the airport (after spending the afternoon with Guero in Tlalnepantla) on Monday, I was fired up with the desire to keep our communication vital, and I had the telephone numbers, addresses, and emails of almost all of my cousins (certainly the ones I wanted). My resolution for that year was to maintain a consistent correspondence with my cousins through email. I was pretty good for a while, but then month by month, and year by year it became harder and harder. I rationalized my failing by claiming that writing in Spanish was three times as hard as English, but it was an excuse. Eventually I stopped emailing altogether, and sent a family photo Christmas card for the last two years.

So here I am, reassessing my Mexican connections, and wondering what I’m going to do next. Actually, the answer is obvious; I just need to do it. Besides compelling reasons to write (email) or telephone a particular uncle or cousin (I called Nena when I was planning to visit in 2004), I need to produce and send a generic Cousin Letter (or email) at least twice a year. I could also link my relatives to my blog, and make that option available to the more English proficient of my cousins. These efforts would at least keep the channels of communication open and available for family news and emergencies. That’s all I can hope for. I was fortunate to have been emailing Rosita for about 6 months before she suddenly died from cancer in 2006. The illness was discovered one day and immediately lethal. Gabino, who is an internist, emailed me as soon as he learned what had happened. The brief correspondence I had with her was simple and uncomplicated. We wrote about our jobs (she was a music teacher) and our children (she had a daughter, Begonia). However, this seemingly, inconsequential correspondence greatly mitigated the shock of her death, and eliminated any guilt of not having communicated with her for such a long time. I would like to feel that way with all my cousins.

 

 

I’m still hoping to arrange one more extended residency in Mexico (see A Retirement Sabbatical) in the near future. It would be nice to have viable communication and relations with my cousins when this occurs. As to how far this connection will extend to my wife and children that is for them to decide. I hope they keep it up. My Mexican connections are greatly responsible for much of who I am. 

Joe Caldera is the principal at Griffith Middle School, and he is retiring this year. I will miss him. I will miss seeing him each month at the Middle School Principal’s Organization meetings. I will miss watching him as he sat quietly and peacefully, listening attentively to each of the speakers and presenters. He used to speak up more often at these monthly professional meetings of all the middle school principals of Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD), but he does so only on occasion now. When he retires from this organization, I will be the last representative of a band of principals who lined up by assignment dates in the spring of 1992. The activity was an icebreaker at the beginning of a professional development training we had that year at Holy Spirit Retreat House. He and I were the newest principals in that group. That was 17 years ago.

Nowadays, when you get Joe talking (and it doesn’t take much - he loves to talk), he’ll use words like “retro”, and “old school”, in describing his perspective on things. If one takes these terms at face value, you might be tempted to dismiss him as old, outdated, and anachronistic, in this new world of No Child Left Behind (NCLB) and high stakes testing. You’d be wrong. The first clue is the fact that Joe always gives you a calm, knowledgeable, and reassuring smile when he describes his actions in those terms. That smile should cause you to think that perhaps Joe knows something that you don’t, but unless you want to learn, he’s not going to share it. Don’t be fooled by his quiet demeanor, he knows a lot, and it comes from 35 years as a teacher, administrator, principal, and director of instruction.

I first met Joe Caldera when he was president of the Council of Mexican American Administrators (CMAA) in 1982. My uncle Charlie, an adult school assistant principal at the time, introduced me to him, at the annual Leadership Conference that was sponsored jointly by the Association of Mexican American Educators (AMAE) and the CMAA. It was held at the old USC Hilton Hotel on Figueroa. I was a Dean of Students at Ritchie Valens Middle School in the San Fernando Valley, and just starting to think seriously about becoming a school administrator. He was pretty impressive in those days, and I was a little awed by him. Joe was a young assistant principal, intelligent, humorous, charismatic, “well connected”, and ambitious. I found him to be open and helpful to me and other aspiring school administrators, especially if they were Chicanos.

Over the years, I’d meet him at various professional and association functions and we’d talk, and eventually I got to know him a little better. We shared enough ethnic and professional values and similarities to make conversation easy. I regret now that I did not make more of those infrequent opportunities, but I did discover that there were many stories and legends about Joe (some of which he may have started himself). I heard he went to Catholic schools, and might have been an ex-seminarian (like my uncle Charlie). Someone else told me he graduated from Bishop Mora Salesian High School, an all-male high school in Boyle Heights (or was it St. John Bosco High School, in Bellflower, or Cathedral High School in Downtown LA?), and then went to the University of Southern California. Regardless of the myths, my clearest memory of Joe was as an eager and ambitious young assistant principal during the Heroic Age of LAUSD. This was a forgotten time in the 1970’s when giants and demigods walked the halls of schools and the administrative offices of 450 North Grand: people like Bill Johnston, Harry Handler, Jim Taylor, Sid Thompson, Bill Anton, Paul Possemato, and Jim Prescott. It was a time that required heroic leadership because these were years of social and political turmoil: mandatory integration, forced busing, bilingual education, Board politics, Proposition 13, and the struggles to quantify teaching based on the tenets of Madeline Hunter. These were not Marvel comic book super heroes like Ironman, The Fantastic Four, or the X-men; they were heroes in the classic Greek mold – half god-like and half human. These leaders were driven by ingenuous ideals and ethereal goals, but burdened with all too human faults and frailties. This was Joe’s time. He walked among these heroes, during this golden age. He was imbued with the same ideals, and burned with equal passion to implement programs of social justice and equal education. In fact, Joe was so eager to act, that he grew impatient with the promotional process and left the district for a short period of time to serve as a principal in Pasadena. He returned to the District in 1991, as the principal of Gage Middle School, at the twilight of this Heroic Age.

I became a principal soon after Joe’s return to LAUSD, during the beginning years of the Middle School Division, under the leadership of John Leichty. As middle school colleagues, I was able to see and speak with Joe as he practiced and perfected his skills as a principal during this period. This was the decade before the new century, a time of transition in politics and instruction. It was a time when paradigms were shifting, and no one knew where education was heading. Fortunately, middle school principals had an advantage over their elementary and high school brethren, we were part of a nationwide movement. We had a philosophy and a vision, and it was driven by a document, or a plan called Caught in the Middle (a manifesto similar to Emiliano Zapata’s Plan de Ayala, during the Mexican Revolution). The movement was student-centered, and it was embedded with the belief that all students could and would learn in the right middle school environment. Joe was one of the first principals to wholeheartedly embrace this movement. He was devoted to the principles of Caught in the Middle, and became one of the strongest advocates.

With the passing of time, Joe has slowly evolved into a Yoda-like figure, wise, patient, and compassionate. Except for a brief stint as a local district Director of Instruction, Joe has been a middle school principal. This is how I will always think of him. If I were to choose a metaphor for Joe, I would pick a bullfighter, a matador de toros. The metaphor is not meant to illustrate his bravery, but his skill. Don’t be misled by popular notions of bullfighting. It is not the act of standing in front of a charging bull, as big and intimidating as a diesel locomotive barreling down on you at full speed. That would be crazy. Bullfighting is an aesthetic ritual, an art form, in which a dancer performs a graceful ballet with a monstrous partner. It is an expression of grace under extreme pressure. That is how Joe performs his job as a principal; artistically, creatively, with style and grace. I’m glad he is retiring as a sitting principal. It is the job he always wanted, and the job he was meant to have. Joe chose the better part. He chose to return to a school. I’ll miss him.

This year, my school, MASH Middle School, did not meet its API target. Instead of advancing 10 points, to reach our goal of 618, we lost 4 points, and scored 604. It was a bad performance. What made it doubly frustrating was the fact that it was the second year in a row that we showed negative growth. The previous year (2005-2006), we lost 6 points.

 I’ve gone through periods of poor API performance before. From 2001 to 2003, while principal of Shangri-la Middle School, we failed to reach our API targets on two occasions. As a result, for two years, we were subjected to a tsunami of outside consultants, district visits, evaluations, and suggestions, culminating with a “Red Team” audit in 2002. It was a period of harsh pressures, scalding criticism and crushing self-doubt. The spring semester of 2003 represented one of my “Hard Times at Shangri-la”. I felt as if the school and I were on the killing floor of a Red Team slaughter house, and the only way to escape it was by singing the blues and doing the best we could, one day at a time. The following year (2003-2004), we rebounded from those negative experiences to surpass our target and gain 45 API points. District personnel called that turnaround a “miracle”. We followed that year with 16 API points in 2004 and 17 points in 2005.

I’d like to take credit for the “Shangri-la Surprise”, but it was nothing that I did personally. I was simply one of many professionals who had worked together for over 8 years, and we rejected the negative notions of state, county, and district critics, and their threats of consequences for failure. I knew the faculty and staff, and I supported the actions of gifted colleagues who stepped up as teachers, team leaders, department chairs, coordinators, and co-administrators to make things better. We attacked the challenge to improve test scores on multiple levels: we involved parents, students, and teachers; analyzed data; brainstormed strategies; and implemented some school-wide practices to address test-taking skills and increase academic rigor in classrooms. The one thing I did stress was to encourage innovation among teachers and teams. I wanted teachers to try anything and everything they could to improve student achievement. I knew that there were no “magic bullets” to eradicate obstacles to student learning and achievement. There are only hard-working, committed and creative teachers, doing the best they can, trying to get off of the hard time killing floor that “high stakes testing” has made of education.

MASH Middle School had gone through its own period of crisis and adversity. In 1999, it was audited by the state and indicted for not meeting the needs of the students and community. To stave off a humiliating take-over by the State Department of Education, the District stepped in, “reconstituted” the faculty, and replaced the entire administration of the school. The school was placed on a draconian schedule of retraining and improvement that was closely monitored by state, county, and district consultants and officials. The restructured school began showing dramatic improvements right away, and all oversight personnel were removed by 2005.

MASH had been posting consistent gains in their API scores since 2001. When I arrived as principal in 2005, they were celebrating a boost of 26 API points. Having those scores for my first year gave me time to learn about the faculty and staff, the operation of the school, and to continue its testing program. I wasn’t going to mess with strategies and procedures that had been successful for four years. I was therefore caught unprepared for the drop in scores the following year.

One thing you learn from singing (or listening to) the blues – if you accept hard times as the normal course of events, then things can’t get any worse. After my experience with the “Red (Team) Terror” at Shangri-la, and MASH’s experience with reconstitution, my response to the first drop in scores was (almost) routine. MASH also had very competent personnel, and an excellent track record of increasing student achievement (as measured by test scores), so no one panicked at this sudden reversal. There are only so many things an organization can do to change. All improvement models have commonly proscribed steps: 1) a climate of crisis and urgency must exist; 2) all stakeholders must recognize a need to change; 3) they must analyze the plan and strategies that were used; 4) they must evaluate data to guide new strategies; 5) they must plan a course of action using multiple approaches; 6) they must implement the plan; and 7) they must monitor progress and evaluate results.

In 2006-2007, I did all these things with administrators and staff, faculty and teachers, and parents and students. Most dramatically, my testing coordinator changed our testing format. In the past, MASH (and most schools) tested students in designated testing locations with assigned proctors. In this model, the exam proctor was rarely the student’s subject matter instructor, so there was no connection between the subject tested (English, Math, Science, and Social Studies) and the instructor who taught it to the student. It was our belief that by having the subject matter teacher give the STAR exams in English, Math, Science, and Social Studies; we would close the loop between instruction and high stakes testing, and make students and teachers more accountable. It was an inspired idea which I thought would produce dramatic results – it did not.

This year, I decided to take a different tack in addressing our student achievement gap and the drop in API scores. Rather than approaching this challenge from an institutional perspective (What should WE do to improve test scores?), I wanted to approach it from a personal one (What can I do to improve test scores?). I felt that a sense of personal investment and commitment was lacking in last year’s plan. We had gone through the motions, doing the right things, and working hard, but we weren’t all participating in the learning and achievement processes. So, last week, I met with my leadership team to try and put some concrete form to these thoughts.

My leadership team is composed of 5 assistant principals (MASH is a BIG middle school of 2600 students), 2 fulltime coordinators (Testing and English Language Development), and 3 content coaches (Math and English). We met to assess last year’s Action Plan in light of our test results. We began by listing the resources, programs, and personnel which support and implement the instructional mission of the school. Next we discussed what was working and what was not. This phase was the most animated, because there were many aspects of our strategies and practices that did not produce results, and we wanted to discuss why. The only common assertion we held about what worked, was our confidence that teachers and staff at MASH Middle School worked HARD at their duties and responsibilities. There was no question that the MASH personnel wanted to improve student achievement, but their efforts were not working. There was a lack of coherence in our efforts. There was inconsistent application, reflection, and evaluation of instructional strategies and approaches. There was a lack of urgency in our actions, uneven modeling and supervision of desired teaching behaviors, and little academic rigor in classroom instruction. We were especially honest, and harsh, in our appraisal of our own efforts.

It was at the conclusion of this freewheeling stage of discussion that I inadvertently posed this question: Do we start each day asking, “What will I do today to improve student learning and achievement?” As soon as I said it, I knew how I would answer that question. I do a fine job of managing the school, its budget, resources, programs, and personnel, but I’m not really personally involved in student learning and achievement. I analyze data, assess programs and personnel, delegate duties and projects, and try to make people accountable. However, I do not DIRECTLY participate in the instructional program at MASH Middle School. Our discussion halted with the beginning of Nutrition (recess), and the temporary pause gave us time to reflect on what we had revealed about our efforts and where we were placing the blame.

When we returned, I reviewed our list of Resources, and recapped our analysis of what was working and not working. I then framed the agenda for our next meeting, and what we would discuss. I wanted each member to decide on something they would do differently this year. Their choice had to be guided by this question: “With the resources, programs, and personnel available at this school, what will I do to improve student learning and achievement?” The team members acted surprised, but I think they saw the question coming.

I have been thinking about this question, and I’ve come up with my answer. I believe that I need to actively participate in the process of instruction in order to improve student learning and achievement. One Assistant Principal and I are responsible for “A” Track. Each track has about 10 identifiable interdisciplinary teams of teachers, with a total of 45. If I split them with my co-administrator, I’d be working with 5 teams and 27 teachers. Working with these teachers, I would observe the learning that goes on in their classrooms, and provide feedback, support and assistance to the teacher and students. I would meet once a month with the teams during their common conference periods to review instructional and classroom issues, such as academic rigor, coherence of efforts, student data and work, learning and teaching strategies, and student assessment. I would also meet once a month during Common Planning Time on Thursdays, with teams that do not share a conference period. With this level of access and participation, I would be better able to support and evaluate the implementation of any school-wide procedures and activities.

This is a radical step for me, and I’m not sure how it will play out. I’ve always been able to balance the manager versus instructional leader roles of a principal by emphasizing leadership. A leader can consult with experts, delegate duties, and empower others to act. Now I’m proposing to become an active participant in the instructional process that occurs in the classroom, with students and teachers, and during a teacher’s planning time. It’s a scary prospect, but also invigorating. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and if I expect people to believe and act from a sense of urgency, then I need to model that behavior.

I’ll let you know how it comes out.