I recorded the following entry while en route to my camping spot for the evening. Edited lightly for readability, coherence and, in the case of references to "Mother", content. I had a lot of riding to do, and I wasn't excited by it.
Alright, um, holy mother (mounts bike).
I'm on my way to Falcon State Park right now--'bout thirty miles away--and I think that I have about an hour and a half of light.
This is going to be a busta-BUST. Yeegh.
(sees a group of men in front a store to the right and waves) Hellooooo.
RY's Livestock Sale. You have Sam, you have sellers, you have buyers, you have the brand inspector, you have office people, you have restaurant people, and then you have the people who work out in the pens.
One guy in the pens said that...
(sees a road sign) 13 miles. Falcon State Park 28 miles. So, 41. Let's hope for no hills.
One guy in the pens said that you have to be careful because when they're coming back from the actual auction...
I'll explain to you how the auction is set up. There are two main structures. The first is the auction house, and the second is three sets of cattle pens under a big metal roof. You have one set of pens on the left, one set of pens on the right and one set of pens in the middle. All the pens in the left are cattle yet to be sold. Everything in the middle and over is already sold. This is all in the back.
In the front is the acutal closed building part of it, and they have this sort of show ring. It's a semi-circle, and in the middle sits the auctioneer. Behind him sit the bookeepers. They match the cattle with its buyer once the auctioneer has, of course, auctioned it off. To the periphery of the inner circle are people are people prodding along the cattle. They have cattle prods, they have whips, they yell, they shout, they bang on gates.
So, head come in on one side of the circle, everybody bids, there's a buyer, someone documents it, and the head exits on the other side and makes an angry dash towards the pens to the middle and the left.
As that cattle are coming out, as I was saying, one worker said that you have to be really careful. If you're not paying attention all the time, they're going to run into you. Some workers have broken arms. Others have just gotten the shit trampled out of them. That happens.
Inside, the process is really interesting. An auctioneer spits out a constant, unintelligble drone. I don't even think that he says real words. Sort of like "Heeeey, bidabadayyyyy gdabadayyyyy gdaba dibbydibby mmmmmm dayyyyyy mmmmm gabadadayyyy mmmmm thirteen! gdabadayyyyy fifteen! gdabadibbbby dibby biddy twenty-three, twenty-three ay! D.J., D.J." Every once in a while a number squeaks out, and you can actually tell what the guy's saying. Somehow people manage to buy cattle.
Two things that I found sort of comical: first, talking with this one buyer. His name was Terry. Each of these cows sells at about a dollar twenty-five, a dollar twenty-four: anywhere as low as about a dollar ninety-four a pound to a buck fifty-four a pound. So there's swing, there's a range. But he bought a particular cow for really expensive--I think a dollar fifty-two a pound--and I asked him, "so why did you buy that cow for so much?" He looked at me and he laughed, and he said "I don't know." He ended up buying me a coffee later too, so I guess he had a couple bucks to spare.
The other thing was this other gentlemen whom I was watching throughout the auction--I didn't catch his name. At the end of it all, he and I started talking about the sale. Most of the cattle that he bought ran a dollar fourteen, give or take five. That was relatively cheap, I told him, in comparison to the other cattle--HOLY MOTHER(a mac truck careens by, too close for comfort). He looked at me dead in the eye and said "cheap my ass. Ain't nothing cheap when it comes to buying cattle." It's still expensive. It's still a business.
And the head guy, Sam Rodriguez--a nice guy, a businessman, very much a businessman. In a very humanistic way though, from what I gather.
His philosophy is make a profit for his sellers and a profit for himself. And he achieves that through--(a big semi whizzes past) MOTHER, I don't want to die... He achieves that through selling his cattle, by conducting his business. Local ranchers come in and they pay him a certain cover fee, as it were. Sam earns a percentage off of each head sold (traffic becomes increasingly busy)... and so, every Friday, he has this sale, and this Friday the sale was for about five hundred head. These are cattle ranging from barren heffers to heffers, from calves to bulls--you name it, he had it. And all these cattle come from local ranchers.
So, five hundred this week, and five hundred because this is hunting season. You don't have to eat cow when you can eat deer. Either which way, Sam still made a profit--what, he didn't share... (looks to the right, at a field) There's a whole lot of food out there... onions... onions... or melons, I think those are melons. Yeah, those are melons, or squash. It would make sense for the season, huh?
So he makes a certain profit off of each head of cattle (long pause with increasing traffic). Every Friday (more traffic).
The important thing to keep in mind is that RY Livestock is the only place in the region for sales. People come to Sam's place to buy their cattle and to sell their cattle. And this is a seller's market: what's good for sellers is what's good for Sam.
Sellers earn a higher profit off of their cattle because it's sold locally. Because it's sold locally, the cattle don't have to be transported across a great distance. This means that the local market don't suffer shrinkage, bruising, death loss or freight costs--all that stuff that other ranchers who, say, import their cattle from Mexico suffer.
There is a really interesting interplay between Mexican ranchers and American ranchers because Mexican ranchers don't allow United States cattle into Mexico because of mad cow disease. From what Sam told me, the cases of mad cow disease were the result of cattle imported from Canada, not the United States. At any rate, it doesn't make a difference to the Mexicans. Mexican ranchers still ship their cattle to the United States.
From what the brand inspector told me, a lot of these cattle are heftier (yuck, yuck)... are stronger, are more durable, because they have a Burma breed. A lot of the cattle have an Indian breed of cattle intermixed at a one-fourth proportion. Those cattle are allowed into the United States (long pause). A little tougher now: the wind's all over the place (pause). And many times it's not of the same grade. A lot of that cattle is converted into ground beef because it's not of the same quality.
And then, Sam's motto: "The willingness to put our customers first in whatever we do. This is what separates true customer satisfaction from just talk."
That's it for me. Mother.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Part 1 (San Benito, TX): Walk on.
On the first and second of November, Mexicans and Mexicans-Americans alike celebrate the Day of the Dead (El Dia de los Muertos). The celebration has roots in pre-Columbian times, when indigneous persons would give offerings to their divine beings so that they may assist the dead as they walk through Mictlan, or the Land of the Dead. In more ways than one, the contemporary Day of the Dead ritual and festival joins the living with the dead in an atmosphere of communion and regeneration.
Death is something to which I am unaccumtomed. I've never really been close to anybody who has died. One of my teachers in junior high passed away years ago, and a neighbor's life was snatched away at an unexpected, early age. A young mother I worked with died. An acquaintance in high school met her end in a car accident. Still, these people seemed so far from me. That they had died was surreal. Death wasn't real. It was an aberration, an absurdity, an anomaly.
On the evening of the Day of the Dead, I found myself in oddly fortuitous company at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli, a center for traditional Aztec-Chichimec religious life and a hub for social activism. At the Calpulli I would see how others understand death and dead ones. These people would teach me.
They held a ceremony, and it was beautiful. Everything took place in front of an altar. On that altar were pictures of the deceased, sugar skulls (literally skull-shaped candies or food made out of sugar), flowers and candles. I also saw items that once belonged to the dead--his harmonica, her favorite brush, etc. The altar was colorful and festive-looking and everything on it, in one way or another, reminded us of someone who had passed away.
Someone. To me, someone.
Front and center, we gave offerings, sang and thanked the beings that be for our company. The whole premise is that offerings and song not only assist the dead in their journey throughout the afterlife but also honor them. Were the dead to walk on, they would do so with our help and blessings. They would have our respective, regardless of dimension, time or realm.
But then the questions. Whom was I to bless? Distant relatives long passed, people I had known only fraternally? People I don't know? Whom was I to honor? Anybody? Everybody?
A week later, I found my answers. A friend, Sean, died after years of complications with his heart. That's one way of saying it. His heart failed him. It was a three-year-old transplant, and it gave up and gave out. His ticker was tocked. At the time, I thought that another friend, Kevin, was soon to follow suit. He made a bad decision after a night partying, and the international grapevine said that he was hurting in a bad way. A coma way.
I spent a week with Sean as a junior in high school, and I had connected with him several times since. At the beginning of my intellectual and social maturation, he was one of the first men with whom I was intimate--and no, this isn't one of those Catholic cover-ups turned revelations. I just had all kinds of admiration for Sean. He was warm and kind, and his faith and commitment to us, his students, and his God was--and still is--endlessly inspiring. He was a supremely gentle and compassionate being.
He was also maybe one of the toughest men that I've ever met. On this service trip, our charge was to tear down a retirement home for elderly nuns so that another could be erected in its place. For a week, we took sledgehammers and picks to the rafters, dismantled the supporting crossbeams and hacked at the walls until the two-story building was little more than rubble. There couldn't have been any more than fifteen of us, but we tore that thing apart.
I remember Sean in the bathroom. Sean had been supervising us, his teenage crew, making sure that we weren't hand tools and irrigation poles at each other. Kids. With two and a half walls demolished and another left to go, he asked to take a swing at a tile-lined section of what then only resembled a shower wall. I handed him the sledgehammer I was using. I couldn't get rid of it soon enough. After a good twenty, thirty swings, I could hardly make a dent in the wall. The hammer was his.
We stepped away as Sean took the sledge in hand. Sean filled up the room--he was no small man--and the sun came down through the roof that no longer was and illuminated his figure. Dusty remnants of the building were at his feet. A carpenter's mask covered much of his face.
Sean looked at the wall and paused. He brought the head of the sledgehammer close to his face and murmured a prayer. He sized up his swing and THWACK!--brought down half of the wall. After another two or three swings, the wall was no more. He put down the hammer, turned around slowly and took off his mask. He smiled to our gaping awe.
If you were ever to ask me what I thought about religion, I'd say that that was one of the most profound religious moments I've ever had.
Kevin I met my sophomore year as resident adviser in college. We we grew up, so to speak, with Adam, Sean, Autumn and later Robin, initially as co-workers and later as members of what I playfully coined the "Fab Five". We earned Religious Studies degrees together and spoke with short breaths and long sentences about Martin Buber, Native American religion and the Gautama-Buddha. People love Kevin for his laugh and his warm presence. He himself has always been the peaceful, smiling Buddha of our group.
He's also been one to make some poor decisions when it came to post-party transportation. To make a long story short, Kevin was living in the U.S. Virgin Islands when he rolled his jeep while on his way home from a friend's Halloween party. Two other people were in the car with him--a friend and his girlfriend. The girlfriend was wearing a seat belt and escaped with nothing more than whiplash. Thrown from the back of the jeep, the friend broke his clavicle. Kevin... no one knows exactly what happened... he had more extensive injuries.
He survived. He had to have his fourth and sixth vertebrae fused together in his back, because the fifth was pulverized. He has an abrasion on his spine. His right hand was demolished. According to his doctor, the long-term outlook looks "good". With about a year's worth of effort, Kevin will be able to use his hand and walk as before.
Kevin's a fortunate man--he knows that. He also knows that we were as upset as could be with him but will do all that we can to help him out. We love him and care for him, and that's it. We'll give him our all. In weeks to come, we'll give him our company.
Although belated, that's my offering for The Day of the Dead. The day isn't so much about lamenting those who have passed on, but about celebrating what we've shared with them and those who are still with us. I have a lot of love for Sean and Kev, and I hope that they journey well.
Walk on, Sean.
Walk on, Kev.
Traditional Azteca-Chichimeca song and dance at the Narciso Martinez Cultural Center in San Benito. Two of the dancers, Gina and Rick on the right, were present at the Day of the Dead ceremony described above (peel back the fold). I should also make a note that they were all extremely generous in allowing me to stay at the Calpulli for several days.
Death is something to which I am unaccumtomed. I've never really been close to anybody who has died. One of my teachers in junior high passed away years ago, and a neighbor's life was snatched away at an unexpected, early age. A young mother I worked with died. An acquaintance in high school met her end in a car accident. Still, these people seemed so far from me. That they had died was surreal. Death wasn't real. It was an aberration, an absurdity, an anomaly.
On the evening of the Day of the Dead, I found myself in oddly fortuitous company at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli, a center for traditional Aztec-Chichimec religious life and a hub for social activism. At the Calpulli I would see how others understand death and dead ones. These people would teach me.
They held a ceremony, and it was beautiful. Everything took place in front of an altar. On that altar were pictures of the deceased, sugar skulls (literally skull-shaped candies or food made out of sugar), flowers and candles. I also saw items that once belonged to the dead--his harmonica, her favorite brush, etc. The altar was colorful and festive-looking and everything on it, in one way or another, reminded us of someone who had passed away.
Someone. To me, someone.
Front and center, we gave offerings, sang and thanked the beings that be for our company. The whole premise is that offerings and song not only assist the dead in their journey throughout the afterlife but also honor them. Were the dead to walk on, they would do so with our help and blessings. They would have our respective, regardless of dimension, time or realm.
But then the questions. Whom was I to bless? Distant relatives long passed, people I had known only fraternally? People I don't know? Whom was I to honor? Anybody? Everybody?
A week later, I found my answers. A friend, Sean, died after years of complications with his heart. That's one way of saying it. His heart failed him. It was a three-year-old transplant, and it gave up and gave out. His ticker was tocked. At the time, I thought that another friend, Kevin, was soon to follow suit. He made a bad decision after a night partying, and the international grapevine said that he was hurting in a bad way. A coma way.
I spent a week with Sean as a junior in high school, and I had connected with him several times since. At the beginning of my intellectual and social maturation, he was one of the first men with whom I was intimate--and no, this isn't one of those Catholic cover-ups turned revelations. I just had all kinds of admiration for Sean. He was warm and kind, and his faith and commitment to us, his students, and his God was--and still is--endlessly inspiring. He was a supremely gentle and compassionate being.
He was also maybe one of the toughest men that I've ever met. On this service trip, our charge was to tear down a retirement home for elderly nuns so that another could be erected in its place. For a week, we took sledgehammers and picks to the rafters, dismantled the supporting crossbeams and hacked at the walls until the two-story building was little more than rubble. There couldn't have been any more than fifteen of us, but we tore that thing apart.
I remember Sean in the bathroom. Sean had been supervising us, his teenage crew, making sure that we weren't hand tools and irrigation poles at each other. Kids. With two and a half walls demolished and another left to go, he asked to take a swing at a tile-lined section of what then only resembled a shower wall. I handed him the sledgehammer I was using. I couldn't get rid of it soon enough. After a good twenty, thirty swings, I could hardly make a dent in the wall. The hammer was his.
We stepped away as Sean took the sledge in hand. Sean filled up the room--he was no small man--and the sun came down through the roof that no longer was and illuminated his figure. Dusty remnants of the building were at his feet. A carpenter's mask covered much of his face.
Sean looked at the wall and paused. He brought the head of the sledgehammer close to his face and murmured a prayer. He sized up his swing and THWACK!--brought down half of the wall. After another two or three swings, the wall was no more. He put down the hammer, turned around slowly and took off his mask. He smiled to our gaping awe.
If you were ever to ask me what I thought about religion, I'd say that that was one of the most profound religious moments I've ever had.
Kevin I met my sophomore year as resident adviser in college. We we grew up, so to speak, with Adam, Sean, Autumn and later Robin, initially as co-workers and later as members of what I playfully coined the "Fab Five". We earned Religious Studies degrees together and spoke with short breaths and long sentences about Martin Buber, Native American religion and the Gautama-Buddha. People love Kevin for his laugh and his warm presence. He himself has always been the peaceful, smiling Buddha of our group.
He's also been one to make some poor decisions when it came to post-party transportation. To make a long story short, Kevin was living in the U.S. Virgin Islands when he rolled his jeep while on his way home from a friend's Halloween party. Two other people were in the car with him--a friend and his girlfriend. The girlfriend was wearing a seat belt and escaped with nothing more than whiplash. Thrown from the back of the jeep, the friend broke his clavicle. Kevin... no one knows exactly what happened... he had more extensive injuries.
He survived. He had to have his fourth and sixth vertebrae fused together in his back, because the fifth was pulverized. He has an abrasion on his spine. His right hand was demolished. According to his doctor, the long-term outlook looks "good". With about a year's worth of effort, Kevin will be able to use his hand and walk as before.
Kevin's a fortunate man--he knows that. He also knows that we were as upset as could be with him but will do all that we can to help him out. We love him and care for him, and that's it. We'll give him our all. In weeks to come, we'll give him our company.
Although belated, that's my offering for The Day of the Dead. The day isn't so much about lamenting those who have passed on, but about celebrating what we've shared with them and those who are still with us. I have a lot of love for Sean and Kev, and I hope that they journey well.
Walk on, Sean.
Walk on, Kev.
Traditional Azteca-Chichimeca song and dance at the Narciso Martinez Cultural Center in San Benito. Two of the dancers, Gina and Rick on the right, were present at the Day of the Dead ceremony described above (peel back the fold). I should also make a note that they were all extremely generous in allowing me to stay at the Calpulli for several days.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Part 1 (Falcon State Park, TX): Yuckers at Falcon State Park
Ryan wakes up at Falcon State Park, takes care of his personals, and packs his gear on his bike.
As he's about to pedal off, he sees three deer no more than fifteen yards away. A senior camper stands about ten yards from the animals, seemingly oblivious. Ryan waves his arms frantically in an attempt to alert the camper of the deers' presence, to no avail. The deer look around, doe-eyed (yuck yuck), and leave moments later.
(Ryan walks up to the senior camper)
Ryan: "Did you see the deer?"
Senior Camper: "You bet I did. See, my wife and I came here last year and the deer would come by every morning for a little bit of food. I have a can with a couple of corn seeds in it, and when I give it a shake they come a runnin'--sometimes seven or eight at a time."
Ryan: "That seems like a rather corny method (yuck yuck)."
SC: "Yeah, it works though. The animals really like the food we give 'em. They're such dears, y'know (yuck yuck)."
Ryan: "Ain't that the truth. Well, sir, I've got to get going. It was nice talking with you."
SC: "Where you headed?"
Ryan: "La Joya."
SC: (looks at my equipment) "By bike?"
Ryan: "By bike."
SC: (bobs his head) "Now that's something. With that tailwind, it should be a breeze (yuck yuck).
Ryan: "I sure am hoping so. Again, it was a pleasure meeting you. Time to roll out (yuck yuck)."
SC: "You mean hit the road (yuck yuck)?"
Ryan: "Yes, sir."
SC: "Then may the wind be at your back (yuck yuck)!"
Ryan: (mounts bike) "And may you be a happy camper (yuck yuck)!"
SC: "Goodbye!" (waves)
Ryan: "Adios!" (pedals off)
Yuck yuck.
As he's about to pedal off, he sees three deer no more than fifteen yards away. A senior camper stands about ten yards from the animals, seemingly oblivious. Ryan waves his arms frantically in an attempt to alert the camper of the deers' presence, to no avail. The deer look around, doe-eyed (yuck yuck), and leave moments later.
(Ryan walks up to the senior camper)
Ryan: "Did you see the deer?"
Senior Camper: "You bet I did. See, my wife and I came here last year and the deer would come by every morning for a little bit of food. I have a can with a couple of corn seeds in it, and when I give it a shake they come a runnin'--sometimes seven or eight at a time."
Ryan: "That seems like a rather corny method (yuck yuck)."
SC: "Yeah, it works though. The animals really like the food we give 'em. They're such dears, y'know (yuck yuck)."
Ryan: "Ain't that the truth. Well, sir, I've got to get going. It was nice talking with you."
SC: "Where you headed?"
Ryan: "La Joya."
SC: (looks at my equipment) "By bike?"
Ryan: "By bike."
SC: (bobs his head) "Now that's something. With that tailwind, it should be a breeze (yuck yuck).
Ryan: "I sure am hoping so. Again, it was a pleasure meeting you. Time to roll out (yuck yuck)."
SC: "You mean hit the road (yuck yuck)?"
Ryan: "Yes, sir."
SC: "Then may the wind be at your back (yuck yuck)!"
Ryan: (mounts bike) "And may you be a happy camper (yuck yuck)!"
SC: "Goodbye!" (waves)
Ryan: "Adios!" (pedals off)
Yuck yuck.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Part 1 (Elsa, TX): Vampire Nails and Yellowjackets
Today the mighty steed cracked a hoof. Today the royal chariot fell prey a well-guided lance. Today a nail pierced my tire, and I was the one who became deflated.
What a lousy day.
I just couldn't get on it today. I had intentions of going to Ed Couch-Elsa High School to meet with the director and students from Llano Grande, a program that provides tutoring, mentorship and an advanced sort of college preparation. After spending an hour and a half patching not one, not two, but three inner tubes, I finally made it to the high school.
Nothing really materialized from the meeting, however. I spent hours half-working, half-waiting for an opportunity to speak with the director that never came to pass. That I could handle. What drove me nuts was the ride southward to Weslaco soon after. About four miles away from Elsa, I ran over a nail--and not just any nail. No, this was a bloodsucking vampire nail with bulging red eyes and horns.
This nail sliced clear through the inner tube and, within seconds, my back tire was a flopping mass of vulcanized angst. After a few more turns of the wheel, I stopped, got off my bike and started to patch the tube. I thought that I was doing pretty well (I had both sides covered up quite securely, thank you) until I discovered that vampire nail had left not two bite marks upon the hapless victim but about eight--one for each revolution past the initial puncture.
To make this long, overwrought story short, I tried to McGyver another few patches with a piece of rubber from an undisclosed source. Keep in mind that I had all my belongings with me at the time. Along with an athletic tape jimmy, I had the tube functioning until I found out that there was a gaping hole underneath the nozzle of the tube as well. That damn vampire!
I walked to a gas station and waited for about an hour and half until a true saint gave me a lift back to the place I had stayed the night before. This was after two other people had pledged to me their undying allegiance--that they would go to their inner sanctums (homes, I guess) and soon return with inner tubes lathered in onions and patches sprinkled with holy water. I never saw them again, vampire cultists.
I arrived at the Llano Grande house soon thereafter, jumped on the computer, and promptly threw away two hours of my life until one of the guests offered to take me out for dinner.
I had a really good dinner. The company was really nice.
If I ever see that vampire nail again, I'm going to lop its head off.
What a lousy day.
The rub of it was that there was so much going on in the high school and community that I failed to notice. The school was almost literally buzzing, with everyone dressed in their black and yellow and talking about the "big game.” The 4A Ed Couch-Elsa High School Yellowjackets were playing a 5A team from Corpus Christi in the first round of the state football playoffs. Apparently whatever the high school officials had put in the water to help the students academically had also affected their football skills. Not only were their young scholars making headway into Ivy League universities but also their football team was undefeated, two years running.
This football game was a big deal. The district let all of the students out early for the day. When I say all the students, I don't just mean those in the high school. I mean the junior highs and elementary schools as well. The district had to coordinate bus schedules for the band, cheerleaders and football team, so they let everybody out hours earlier than usual.
Administrators might not have had to make these changes if they had played a game in the Rio Grande Valley, which would have make sense: the Valley is large enough to provide "neutral" stadiums halfway between each town. So, of course, somebody decided to play the game in Laredo instead--about sixty miles west of Elsa and a lot farther from Corpus Christi. From what they told me, opposing teams were afraid to come into the Valley and play. The people here take football that seriously.
An example: while I waited in front of a gas station for someone--anyone--to rescue me from Vampireville, I eyed an older couple that could have been sympathetic to the cause. After pitching to them a desperate plea, the driver just laughed at me. "You see, we can't take you that way," he said. "We're going this way. We're going to the game." We're going to the game? Couldn't he see that my very soul was being sucked dry at that very moment, waiting in that perilous netherworld? "Sorry. We're going to the game."
Consider also the guy with whom I spoke at a Little Cesaer's. He graduated from nearby Donna maybe ten years ago, but he could tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the only team from the Valley to ever win a state football title: the 1961 Donna Redskins. He knew the quarterback (his former coach), a running back (a relative) and the many players to come (more relatives). Football is a family affair in the area--a tradition, an heirloom passed from generation to generation.
Everybody goes to these games. Students, teachers, aunts, grandparents and the folks above. The convoy from Elsa to Laredo wasn't a spirit chain: it was an exodus. Back at the high school, a fire alarm continued uninterrupted for an hour after everyone had left. The whole school could have burnt down while everyone was at the "big game.”
At least they'd still have their football.
In the words of one woman, it's the only thing they have in Elsa. Week in and week out, the Friday Night Lights become the center of their social universe. There's nothing else to do.
"And what happens when those lights go out for the season?" I asked her.
She looked at me and laughed. "Basketball season."
I imagine that some students take a stab at their books too. Now if only they could do the same with vampire nails...
The Yellowjacket of Ed Couch-Elsa High School. That weekend the 'Jackets were victorious in their playoff battle against the Porter Cowboys, 35-28.
What a lousy day.
I just couldn't get on it today. I had intentions of going to Ed Couch-Elsa High School to meet with the director and students from Llano Grande, a program that provides tutoring, mentorship and an advanced sort of college preparation. After spending an hour and a half patching not one, not two, but three inner tubes, I finally made it to the high school.
Nothing really materialized from the meeting, however. I spent hours half-working, half-waiting for an opportunity to speak with the director that never came to pass. That I could handle. What drove me nuts was the ride southward to Weslaco soon after. About four miles away from Elsa, I ran over a nail--and not just any nail. No, this was a bloodsucking vampire nail with bulging red eyes and horns.
This nail sliced clear through the inner tube and, within seconds, my back tire was a flopping mass of vulcanized angst. After a few more turns of the wheel, I stopped, got off my bike and started to patch the tube. I thought that I was doing pretty well (I had both sides covered up quite securely, thank you) until I discovered that vampire nail had left not two bite marks upon the hapless victim but about eight--one for each revolution past the initial puncture.
To make this long, overwrought story short, I tried to McGyver another few patches with a piece of rubber from an undisclosed source. Keep in mind that I had all my belongings with me at the time. Along with an athletic tape jimmy, I had the tube functioning until I found out that there was a gaping hole underneath the nozzle of the tube as well. That damn vampire!
I walked to a gas station and waited for about an hour and half until a true saint gave me a lift back to the place I had stayed the night before. This was after two other people had pledged to me their undying allegiance--that they would go to their inner sanctums (homes, I guess) and soon return with inner tubes lathered in onions and patches sprinkled with holy water. I never saw them again, vampire cultists.
I arrived at the Llano Grande house soon thereafter, jumped on the computer, and promptly threw away two hours of my life until one of the guests offered to take me out for dinner.
I had a really good dinner. The company was really nice.
If I ever see that vampire nail again, I'm going to lop its head off.
What a lousy day.
The rub of it was that there was so much going on in the high school and community that I failed to notice. The school was almost literally buzzing, with everyone dressed in their black and yellow and talking about the "big game.” The 4A Ed Couch-Elsa High School Yellowjackets were playing a 5A team from Corpus Christi in the first round of the state football playoffs. Apparently whatever the high school officials had put in the water to help the students academically had also affected their football skills. Not only were their young scholars making headway into Ivy League universities but also their football team was undefeated, two years running.
This football game was a big deal. The district let all of the students out early for the day. When I say all the students, I don't just mean those in the high school. I mean the junior highs and elementary schools as well. The district had to coordinate bus schedules for the band, cheerleaders and football team, so they let everybody out hours earlier than usual.
Administrators might not have had to make these changes if they had played a game in the Rio Grande Valley, which would have make sense: the Valley is large enough to provide "neutral" stadiums halfway between each town. So, of course, somebody decided to play the game in Laredo instead--about sixty miles west of Elsa and a lot farther from Corpus Christi. From what they told me, opposing teams were afraid to come into the Valley and play. The people here take football that seriously.
An example: while I waited in front of a gas station for someone--anyone--to rescue me from Vampireville, I eyed an older couple that could have been sympathetic to the cause. After pitching to them a desperate plea, the driver just laughed at me. "You see, we can't take you that way," he said. "We're going this way. We're going to the game." We're going to the game? Couldn't he see that my very soul was being sucked dry at that very moment, waiting in that perilous netherworld? "Sorry. We're going to the game."
Consider also the guy with whom I spoke at a Little Cesaer's. He graduated from nearby Donna maybe ten years ago, but he could tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the only team from the Valley to ever win a state football title: the 1961 Donna Redskins. He knew the quarterback (his former coach), a running back (a relative) and the many players to come (more relatives). Football is a family affair in the area--a tradition, an heirloom passed from generation to generation.
Everybody goes to these games. Students, teachers, aunts, grandparents and the folks above. The convoy from Elsa to Laredo wasn't a spirit chain: it was an exodus. Back at the high school, a fire alarm continued uninterrupted for an hour after everyone had left. The whole school could have burnt down while everyone was at the "big game.”
At least they'd still have their football.
In the words of one woman, it's the only thing they have in Elsa. Week in and week out, the Friday Night Lights become the center of their social universe. There's nothing else to do.
"And what happens when those lights go out for the season?" I asked her.
She looked at me and laughed. "Basketball season."
I imagine that some students take a stab at their books too. Now if only they could do the same with vampire nails...
The Yellowjacket of Ed Couch-Elsa High School. That weekend the 'Jackets were victorious in their playoff battle against the Porter Cowboys, 35-28.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Part 1 (San Benito, TX): A Tale of Two Trailer Parks
"It's like you never have to leave."
Mary Green is bouncing on her toes and smiles as she's talking with me. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses and tennis shoes, she moves with a bouncing, energetic candor that you rarely witness. Mary is in her mid-fifties.
"We have shufflepuck, tennis courts, billiards, shows, wood carving, shop and sewing," Mary says. "And we have bingo, sing-a-longs, ice cream socials, donuts and coffee. We even have a Mardi Gras parade and luau..." Mary pauses. "...and a silver smith, two beauty parlors and a chapel."
Mary is also the mail-lady for Fun 'n Sun, an RV Superpark that caters primarily to Winter Texans. Mary has lived there year-round since 2003. With 1400 campsites and a peak population of 1800 people, Fun 'n Sun is by far the largest trailer park in the Rio Grande Valley. It's also one of the most "diverse".
"We have people coming from California, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, North Dakota, Canada and Washington," Mary goes on. "The majority are from the Midwest, though: Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri..." Most--if not all--of the park residents are Caucasian.
I enter the park and make my way to the billiards room. I immediately jump into a tournament and lose twice in games of Nine-Ball before I even understand the rules. I play another game and beat one of the best shooters in the hall (actually he sunk balls one through eight before shanking the nine ball. I put in the nine ball, three inches from the pocket.) Other players laugh and say that they're just "here to have fun"--"We're just a bunch of old farts that have fun."
I laugh, they laugh, and I continue on.
Gracie Cabuto is sitting on a bench and smiles as she's talking with me. Holding her baby and reaching for her two-year-old son, she moves with a maternal grace developed after years of practice. Gracie is in her mid-twenties.
Nearby, a group of teenage boys bounce a basketball on their way across the street. Families chat with eachother about weekend barbacoas. Down Gracie's street are two beauty parlors, a tire repair shop and a string of restaurants. I don't see a chapel.
Gracie is a single mother who lives with her own mother in an indiscriminate trailer park a few miles from the first. Gracie has lived there for the last year. With about twenty moblie homes and eighty residents, the park is similar to others in the Rio Grande Valley. However, it is still very much "diverse".
Aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brothers and sisters live under one roof. Grandmother and grandfathers share bedrooms with grandchildren. Most--if not all--of the park residents are Hispanic.
I enter the park and step trepiatiously into the dirt courtyard. I'm not sure whom to talk with because all the families look as though they're winding down for the evening. I meet Gracie. She tells me that the news is making a big issue of the increased presence of gangs and thieves in the surrounding community. Her mother beside her nods in agreement. "We're afraid to leave our park at night," Gracie says. "We're afraid that someone might try to rob us."
It's like you never want to leave.
I shake my head, they shake their heads, and I continue on.
Mary Green is bouncing on her toes and smiles as she's talking with me. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses and tennis shoes, she moves with a bouncing, energetic candor that you rarely witness. Mary is in her mid-fifties.
"We have shufflepuck, tennis courts, billiards, shows, wood carving, shop and sewing," Mary says. "And we have bingo, sing-a-longs, ice cream socials, donuts and coffee. We even have a Mardi Gras parade and luau..." Mary pauses. "...and a silver smith, two beauty parlors and a chapel."
Mary is also the mail-lady for Fun 'n Sun, an RV Superpark that caters primarily to Winter Texans. Mary has lived there year-round since 2003. With 1400 campsites and a peak population of 1800 people, Fun 'n Sun is by far the largest trailer park in the Rio Grande Valley. It's also one of the most "diverse".
"We have people coming from California, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, North Dakota, Canada and Washington," Mary goes on. "The majority are from the Midwest, though: Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri..." Most--if not all--of the park residents are Caucasian.
I enter the park and make my way to the billiards room. I immediately jump into a tournament and lose twice in games of Nine-Ball before I even understand the rules. I play another game and beat one of the best shooters in the hall (actually he sunk balls one through eight before shanking the nine ball. I put in the nine ball, three inches from the pocket.) Other players laugh and say that they're just "here to have fun"--"We're just a bunch of old farts that have fun."
I laugh, they laugh, and I continue on.
Gracie Cabuto is sitting on a bench and smiles as she's talking with me. Holding her baby and reaching for her two-year-old son, she moves with a maternal grace developed after years of practice. Gracie is in her mid-twenties.
Nearby, a group of teenage boys bounce a basketball on their way across the street. Families chat with eachother about weekend barbacoas. Down Gracie's street are two beauty parlors, a tire repair shop and a string of restaurants. I don't see a chapel.
Gracie is a single mother who lives with her own mother in an indiscriminate trailer park a few miles from the first. Gracie has lived there for the last year. With about twenty moblie homes and eighty residents, the park is similar to others in the Rio Grande Valley. However, it is still very much "diverse".
Aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brothers and sisters live under one roof. Grandmother and grandfathers share bedrooms with grandchildren. Most--if not all--of the park residents are Hispanic.
I enter the park and step trepiatiously into the dirt courtyard. I'm not sure whom to talk with because all the families look as though they're winding down for the evening. I meet Gracie. She tells me that the news is making a big issue of the increased presence of gangs and thieves in the surrounding community. Her mother beside her nods in agreement. "We're afraid to leave our park at night," Gracie says. "We're afraid that someone might try to rob us."
It's like you never want to leave.
I shake my head, they shake their heads, and I continue on.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Part 1 (San Benito, TX): Three Weeks in the Barrel
I'll be the first one to admit that I've been delinquent in my posting responsibilities. My excuse: writing is hard work. It's a solitary effort that demands that you find enough time--make enough time--to sit back, reflect and report on a day's worth of experiences. Sometimes there's almost too much to say, and sometimes you're almost too tired to say it.
Almost. I'll start simply.
I'm officially at the beginning of week four. If we could rewind for a moment, I cycled from a conference in Houston to Brownsville during week one; stumbled my way through culture shock and ill-founded expectations throughout week two; and met varied "success" over week three. My goal for week four is, ever so slowly, to make my way out of Brownsville/Matamoros and start in on the more Western towns of the Rio Grande Valley and their southern neighbors.
Week one you might have read about already. I was having the time of my life. I had little more to think about than how far I had to travel during the day, what route I was going to take, what I was going to feed myself and where I was going to sleep at night. The rest was all "filler"--playful internal anecdotes about vegetable stand owners who apparently think that bicycles can somehow transmit airborne viruses to their produce; beautiful, bikini-clad young women who appear in the middle of nowhere to wash their vehicles and fuel the imaginative mind of a lone cyclist for another forty miles; and, of course, ravenous packs of teeth-gnashing mosquitos bent on sanguinary world domination.
The second week was a comparative shock. Off my bike and out of my element, I had actual work to do. The first thing I noticed was that almost all the people in Brownsville were Hispanic. A big surprise, right? It was for me. I had spent in enough time in Nogales, Arizona, and Nogales, Sonora, to be convinced that, in every border town you're going to come across at least some Caucasian people. Amidst a sea of dark eyes and dark hair, I learned that this wasn't always the case.
Past the culture shock--I had just come from Austin and Houston, for the love--I met some difficulty just in getting the more formal aspects of the project off the ground. I could ride a bike, but could I actually talk with people? A lot of the time I was nervous--will potential conversants be willing to speak with me? Am I taking too much time from their day? Do I speak with them in English? In Spanish? What the hell am I doing here? It took me more than a few "interviews" to realize that not every meeting was going to be the same. In some, I had to be more formal and better prepared. In others, I needed to relax, be myself, and communicate in whatever language was necessary--thus far Spanish, English, sign and even play.
Whereas the second week I was extremely concerned about both the quality and quantity of my conversations--I would drive a borrowed car across the city numerous times each day in an effort to adhere to a strict, self-imposed schedule--I loosened up considerably during the third week. If I was able to meet with two people in one day, that was great. But If I was able to spend a whole day with only one person, that was amazing. Tangentially I would come into contact with a wider network of people that would help share a more in-depth understanding of whatever issue I had set out to tackle. Maybe just as importantly, on a personal note, I had a friend and a family for a day.
That's been a major concern since I've been in Brownsville/Matamoros: feeling comfortable enough to show up and be present in my interactions with others or, in other words, carrying with me a sense of "home" wherever I go. This task is made a lot easier when, like right this very moment, others open up their homes and extend their full trust to me. In fact, it looks as though I'll be house sitting for the next couple of days at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli while the owners are visiting a son in Tucson and another tenant left to bury her oldest sister (her words).
The capstone lesson thus far has been to be willing and gracious in accepting the help that the community has to offer. In the last two weeks, I've had a roof over my head every night. One week I had a car. This last week, a different person took me to lunch almost every day.
Giving is gratifying--we all know that. As a society, we must also learn that there is great dignity in receiving.
For me, this means that I have to take a moment to recognize each conversation that I share as a gift. I suppose this also means that I be even more patient when people don't return my calls, blow off our scheduled appointments and generally look at me, in bike helmet and all, like I've just stepped off the mothership.
If you're wondering about my general reception, I'll be honest in telling you that most people are really supportive of the project. Some conversations that I think will last no longer than ten minutes will go on for hours. But other conversations aren't so... fortuitous. It's not uncommon for some to look at me with his or her head cocked to the side like a puppy who can't quite figure out what's going on.
"Aaaaand you areeeeee..." some bark. "Aaaaaaand whooooo are you working with?" other growl. "Aaaaaand whoooose project is this?"
It can get a little predictable, and I have the response down pat. I usually end up repeating myself. A lot. Sometimes it's as though people don't actually want to believe what I have to say, so they question me over and over again to see if it's really true.
It is all true, I swear to you. Enough of this, though. If you read on you'll find posts about what's actually happened over the last two weeks. I'll have more posts coming, and I think that I've worked out a system to better document the more important events of the day. Don't tell anybody, but it's called a "D-I-A-R-Y" or, if you prefer, a "J-O-U-R-N-A-L". We should be mostly caught up now, right?
Ruff.
Almost. I'll start simply.
I'm officially at the beginning of week four. If we could rewind for a moment, I cycled from a conference in Houston to Brownsville during week one; stumbled my way through culture shock and ill-founded expectations throughout week two; and met varied "success" over week three. My goal for week four is, ever so slowly, to make my way out of Brownsville/Matamoros and start in on the more Western towns of the Rio Grande Valley and their southern neighbors.
Week one you might have read about already. I was having the time of my life. I had little more to think about than how far I had to travel during the day, what route I was going to take, what I was going to feed myself and where I was going to sleep at night. The rest was all "filler"--playful internal anecdotes about vegetable stand owners who apparently think that bicycles can somehow transmit airborne viruses to their produce; beautiful, bikini-clad young women who appear in the middle of nowhere to wash their vehicles and fuel the imaginative mind of a lone cyclist for another forty miles; and, of course, ravenous packs of teeth-gnashing mosquitos bent on sanguinary world domination.
The second week was a comparative shock. Off my bike and out of my element, I had actual work to do. The first thing I noticed was that almost all the people in Brownsville were Hispanic. A big surprise, right? It was for me. I had spent in enough time in Nogales, Arizona, and Nogales, Sonora, to be convinced that, in every border town you're going to come across at least some Caucasian people. Amidst a sea of dark eyes and dark hair, I learned that this wasn't always the case.
Past the culture shock--I had just come from Austin and Houston, for the love--I met some difficulty just in getting the more formal aspects of the project off the ground. I could ride a bike, but could I actually talk with people? A lot of the time I was nervous--will potential conversants be willing to speak with me? Am I taking too much time from their day? Do I speak with them in English? In Spanish? What the hell am I doing here? It took me more than a few "interviews" to realize that not every meeting was going to be the same. In some, I had to be more formal and better prepared. In others, I needed to relax, be myself, and communicate in whatever language was necessary--thus far Spanish, English, sign and even play.
Whereas the second week I was extremely concerned about both the quality and quantity of my conversations--I would drive a borrowed car across the city numerous times each day in an effort to adhere to a strict, self-imposed schedule--I loosened up considerably during the third week. If I was able to meet with two people in one day, that was great. But If I was able to spend a whole day with only one person, that was amazing. Tangentially I would come into contact with a wider network of people that would help share a more in-depth understanding of whatever issue I had set out to tackle. Maybe just as importantly, on a personal note, I had a friend and a family for a day.
That's been a major concern since I've been in Brownsville/Matamoros: feeling comfortable enough to show up and be present in my interactions with others or, in other words, carrying with me a sense of "home" wherever I go. This task is made a lot easier when, like right this very moment, others open up their homes and extend their full trust to me. In fact, it looks as though I'll be house sitting for the next couple of days at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli while the owners are visiting a son in Tucson and another tenant left to bury her oldest sister (her words).
The capstone lesson thus far has been to be willing and gracious in accepting the help that the community has to offer. In the last two weeks, I've had a roof over my head every night. One week I had a car. This last week, a different person took me to lunch almost every day.
Giving is gratifying--we all know that. As a society, we must also learn that there is great dignity in receiving.
For me, this means that I have to take a moment to recognize each conversation that I share as a gift. I suppose this also means that I be even more patient when people don't return my calls, blow off our scheduled appointments and generally look at me, in bike helmet and all, like I've just stepped off the mothership.
If you're wondering about my general reception, I'll be honest in telling you that most people are really supportive of the project. Some conversations that I think will last no longer than ten minutes will go on for hours. But other conversations aren't so... fortuitous. It's not uncommon for some to look at me with his or her head cocked to the side like a puppy who can't quite figure out what's going on.
"Aaaaand you areeeeee..." some bark. "Aaaaaaand whooooo are you working with?" other growl. "Aaaaaand whoooose project is this?"
It can get a little predictable, and I have the response down pat. I usually end up repeating myself. A lot. Sometimes it's as though people don't actually want to believe what I have to say, so they question me over and over again to see if it's really true.
It is all true, I swear to you. Enough of this, though. If you read on you'll find posts about what's actually happened over the last two weeks. I'll have more posts coming, and I think that I've worked out a system to better document the more important events of the day. Don't tell anybody, but it's called a "D-I-A-R-Y" or, if you prefer, a "J-O-U-R-N-A-L". We should be mostly caught up now, right?
Ruff.
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