Elect Jaime Barceleau, City Representative, District 3

I’m the youngest of 5 children raised by a single mom in south central El Paso.  We didn’t have much money and didn’t own a home so we moved often from one rental to another.  Mom worked six days a week; at home we were children raising children.  By some miracle, all of us survived the barrios of El Paso, graduated from high school, and found gainful employment – not a bum in the bunch.  We were the chicanitos that should not have survived the barrio, but we did.  I learned from mom HOW to work, and from my siblings I learned life’s lessons.  This humble upbringing formed my character.

 

I began working as young boy, running errands for construction workers who gave me tips.  It felt good to bring home pennies and nickels to contribute to the household income.  I became the neighborhood errand boy, working odd jobs for my neighbors and nearby stores.  During my high school years I worked for a carpenter on weekends, winter break, and summer.  The day after I graduated, I went to work for him full time, until I joined the army.  I’ve never been a day without a job since then.  I learned the value of a dollar, and I learned not to squander a buck because it was earned the old fashioned way.

 

In due time, I became a father to two wonderful girls who grew into successful independent women with whom I still maintain a strong bond.  I was an active father, tending to all the significant events in their lives and coaching them both in their extracurricular activities.  From me they inherited a strong work ethic and learned how to be honest, respectful girls.  Recently I married a wonderful, smart, and beautiful woman, Norma Favela Barceleau, and I became a stepfather to bright and handsome young man.

 

It’s been a busy and rewarding life, and I’ve been trusted with positions of leadership in the military, in the civilian workplace and as a community volunteer.  I served four years in the army and another 27 years as a weekend warrior in the army reserve where I was military officer.  On weekends I was a soldier, during the week I was a social worker.  For 27 years, I maintained two careers.  As a professional social worker, and military officer, I was trusted by those in authority with promotions and responsibility, culminating in my retirement as a Lieutenant Colonel and as a chief executive officer. 

 

The highlight of my army career was being selected to command a battalion with nearly 500 soldiers in El Paso and southern New Mexico.  The highlight of social work career, for the last 18 years, I was the chief executive officer of a large and complex organization, the Paso del Norte Children Development Center.  For the last half of my tenure at this agency we were voted best of the best local nonprofit in town. 

 

An active community volunteer, I have been involved with many civic organizations going back to my days at UTEP with the student association of social workers and continuing to this day as an active volunteer with my church as a lay minister, as an active member of Cielo Vista Neighbor Association, and on the boards of Community en Accion and FirstLight Federal Credit Union.

 

It might sound hard, being an active father, a professional social worker, a weekend warrior, and a community volunteer, but it wasn’t.  I did all those things, I did them well, and I fun doing them. 

 

These experiences gave me the opportunity to develop the trust of my superiors, the trust of my subordinates, the trust of my peers, and even the trust of the teams I coached.  Success in these careers is a reflection of well-developed leadership skills.  I learned how analyze situations, how to make decisions, how to dedicate scare resources, how to get along with others, and how to get the job done.

 

Many candidates talks about creating jobs.  For the last 18 years I actually created many good jobs, with decent salaries, health insurance and a 401k plan.  I’ve managed budgets, and created new service programs, and complied with complex regulations.  I grew a small agency dedicated to helping children with disabilities into a complex organization with multiple funding sources.  I learned to write and implement policies.  I learned how to work collaboratively with local, state, and federal policy makers to advocate on behalf of our clients.  I developed collaborative relationships with colleagues to pool our resources together to achieve better outcomes. 

 

I am a trusted leader with a lifetime of community service.  I’ve reached a point in my life where need to do more for my neighbors in district 3 and for my community.  I am not the typical politician, I am a leader who wants to bring a lifetime of positive experiences to city government because El Paso is the most dynamic community in the country today. 

 

In the past 15 years, or so, many good things have happened in the Sun City, thanks to our civic leaders.  Good things like the boom at Fort Bliss.  Good things like the expansion of Texas Tech, University Medical Center, the Children’s Hospital, and Medical Center of the Americas.  Good things like private investment in two large hospitals.  Good thinks the rebuilding of our two largest school districts.  Good things like the renaissance downtown with hotels, the arts district, the ballpark, the street cars, the digital wall, and coming soon, the Mexican American Cultural Center, a children’s museum, and the arena.  Of course, its hard to ignore all those beautiful orange barrels that remind us of road construction.

 

There is much to be done, many projects all over town to finish, lots of coordination with other local governments.  We worked very hard to shed a culture of corruption at all levels of local government and we cannot go back.  El Paso needs responsible government with a steady hand and honest stewardship.  I encourage voters to examine my background, there are no skeletons, I have clean record.  My history demonstrates that I will provide leadership you can trust, based on a lifetime of service to my country and my community.  Henry Ford said “you cannot build a reputation on what you’re going to do.”  I built my reputation on good works.  Vote for me for City Representative, District 3.

November 11, 2016

It seems that these four days, November 8, 9, 10, 11 have struck a historically significant chord for me. November 8th will be remembered as the day of the improbable election of Donald J. Trump to the Presidency of the United States of America.  He wasn't my choice, but he will soon be my President.  For the sake of all the people on the planet, I wish him well and I will pray for him.

On November 9, 2014 I read in the morning paper about the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall. I was in the Army, stationed in Germany in ‘76/77, with a mission to protect the free world against further communist aggression.  Our leaders told us that our mission was to detect, deter, and delay the Soviets, and if necessary, to die in place.  I visited the Berlin Wall once.  It must have been a wonderful sight to behold when citizens took sledge hammers to the wall.

Somewhere along life’s journey I learned about Kristallnacht, the night of broken glass, November 9/10, 1938. My mom had a sizeable library of books and VCR tapes of holocaust related material; you see, she concluded late in life that she was of Jewish origin and the subject matter was of particular interest to her. Through this exposure I learned about Kristallnacht, it was a night in Nazi Germany and Austria when Nazi paramilitary and civilians launched a campaign of coordinated attacks of mayhem and destruction against Jewish citizens. The attacks were against Jewish homes, businesses, and synagogues consisting of vandalism, looting and physical assaults. Kristallnacht refers to the broken windows that night.

For whatever reason, certainly tainted by my military background, I always knew that November 10th  is the birthday of the United States Marine Corps, and while I was not a marine, I have always been semper fi, or always faithful, not to the Corps, but to my country and of course to the Army and Army Reserve.

My first year in Germany soldiers told me about fasching, a season of celebration that started at 11:11 AM on November 11th that originated in medieval times. There were parties and parades throughout the region, and lots wine and beer. On Saturday evenings during the fasching season we went to fasching balls where I first learned of colorful wigs and beads, those that we Americans associate with Mardi Gras. Indeed, there were plenty of indiscretions, however, the women there did not “flash.” The season ended on Shroud Tuesday (Mardi Gras) before Ash Wednesday. On rose Monday, or Rosen Montag, the day preceding Mardi Gras there were parades and grand balls in many cities. It was a pleasurable experience. I reasoned that this mostly agricultural country, after a long spring, summer and fall of planting, tending and harvesting crops that the people were ready for some fun and they had to get the fun out of their system before the fasting of the Lenten season.

At 11:00 AM, on November 11, 1918 military hostilities ceased, bringing an end to the Great War, WW I, the war to end all wars. We have observed that event since then. In 1954 Congress amended the law that recognized Armistice Day and established November 11th as Veterans Day.
It’s good to celebrate Veterans Day, it’s also good to remember that Armistice Day was intended to celebrate the war to end all wars. It did not! Did the Germans decide to end hostilities on Nov 11th simply to begin the fasching festivities? It’s also good to remember that Kristallnacht is NOT something to celebrate, but it must be remembered nonetheless. Let there be peace on earth.

Happy Veterans Day!

La Tuna Federal Correctional Institution

I was invited to be the Key Note Speaker for a Hispanic Heritage event.  These are my remarks, written in Spanglish. 

Hispanic Americans: Embracing, Enriching and Enabling America

September 29, 2016

Good after La Tuna, thank you so much for inviting me today as you celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month.  When Luz Kraft asked me to speak I was quite flattered and I accepted.  After I hung up, I thought to myself, what was she thinking – ME talking about Hispanic heritage?  My next thought was – what was I thinking – Me talking about Hispanic heritage?  I don’t even like that word – Hispanic. 

 

Let me say that I am not an expert on Chicano Studies, Mexican Culture, or Hispanic history, I’m a social worker.  I’m just a kid from the barrio of San Juan in central El Paso.  As Freddy Fender says I’m a good ole Meskin boy, anyone remember his song, Redneck Meskin Boy?  That gives you a clue about my history and my heritage, I’m a Freddy Fender fan, Freddy Fender and the Texas Tornados, Hey Baby Que Paso. 

 

Let me talk about Hispanic a little.  The word Hispanic refers to being from or about Spain.  I visited Spain in 1977 and went to a restaurant where I ordered tacos, deme unos tacos por favor.  They didn’t know what I wanted.  Tacos, sabe tacos, de carne molida o de pollo?  Silly me, only later did I realize I wanted Mexican food, they didn’t have Mexican food in Spain. A lot has changed since then.  I took mija to Oktoberfest in Germany in 2011 and they had a café named Taco Libre and there was a german man in liderhosen with a mascara, you know like the Blue Demon.  Taco libre en Alemania.

 

Anyway, I don’t like the term Hispanic.  And I don’t like the term Latino because that means of or pertaining to Latin America.  When I see myself, and my compas, and all of you, we are NOT of or pertaining to Spain or Latin America.  We’re Americans.  I prefer Mexican American, but then I’m American born so I should I say American-Mexican.  The US census form says Hispanic so I guess since MY government uses that term that I SHOULD too.  I shouldn’t argue with the government, but it’s in my nature.  Porque somos pelioneros, right?   So who or what am I?  No se.  As that great American Vinny Barbarino once said, I am soooo confused. 

 

But, the theme is Hispanic Americans: Embracing, Enriching and Enabling America.  Let me tell you about my sister, que descanse en paz, she was the oldest and because mom, ama I called her – ama was always working, my sister literally raised us.  Anyway, mom was born in El Paso and my grandparents were from Delicias, she was born during one of those visits to El Paso, but she was raised in Delicias.  At age 15 she ran away from home and returned to El Paso.  She met my sister’s father who lived in Juarez, they lived in Juarez when Maria Estela was born.  She was the oldest and the only one NOT born a citizen. 

 

One day in 1993 we were all arguing about Operation Blockade, who remembers that.  That’s when the border patrol lined up along the river and literally closed the border.  She was in favor and I was against it.  Cabrona, they shoulda blockaded you, I told her.  I loved my sister.  One day while driving to ALB I was listening to a CD of Rocio Dorcal, you know, the Spanish singer, she was signing Amor Eterno.  I’d heard that song so many times in my life, but it wasn’t until that day that I realized it was a song of mourning, it was NOT a love song.  I put the song on repeat and cried all the way to ALB listening to the song and remembering Maria Estela.  Back to Operation Blockade.  Back then, El Paso was the car theft capital of the state and the conventional wisdom was that Mexican nationals were coming across to steal cars and taking them to Juarez.  Police and the border patrol said this would stop auto thefts and other crimes.  Well, it didn’t!!!  It turned out that was our own citizens stealing cars and taking them to Juarez. 

 

This is all a part of our heritage, the mixed legal statuses in our families.  The language we use, aye buey, no manches.  The single mom households.  Children raising children.  Taquitos con crema en Juarez.  The Kentucky Club.  Long Sundays shopping for cheap goods.  We used to walk to catch el trambia to the placita downtown, then catch another trambia into Juarez.  As soon as we crossed the bridge, young boys would get on the trolley and start signing rancheras, always finishing with ‘tan tan’ then walking around with their hands out expecting pennies or nickels.  This is the zarape from which we were made.  Life on the border. 

 

I’ve told people, we who have indigenous roots have lots of culture and history that goes back centuries.  Cabeza de Baca passed through the valley between Marfa and Alpine in the 1530s.  Beginning in 1540 the Pueblo Indians from the ALB area suffered assaults from waves of ‘settlers’ and missionaries and conquistadores. Don Juan de Onate crossed the Rio Bravo a few miles from here in 1598 – all of that antes de Jamestown in 1604.  Do you remember Jamestown, the first permanent English Settlement?  Don Juan was actually born in Zacatecas, so technically he’s Mexican.  I visited Jamestown in 1981 and from the dates on the historical exhibits, the Spaniards were in that area before the British. 

 

I certainly agree that hispanos in America have enriched this country.  I was in Boston a couple of years ago.  My nephew lives in the area and I took him some frozen chicos tacos.  Chicos is one of those tasty treats that defines hispanos del chuco.  So my nephew and I go to a restaurant near the hotel. What’s on the menu?  Quesadillas and nachos, they weren’t very good.  I was there for a conference, and registration was in the afternoon so that morning I took a trolley tour.  I stopped at Cheers, you know, the bar where everyone knows your name.  The customer next to me at the bar ordered tacos – IN BOSTON, they’re eating tacos.  Later that day, after the opening session of the conference there was a social mixer, and what was on the table with hors d’ouevres?  Chile con queso and tostaditas.  In Boston, tacos, quesadillas, nachos, chile con queso.  I didn’t get to taste Boston baked beans, or boston cream pie, or New England clam chowder.  Nope, I ate quesadillas and tacos. Boston knows tacos, but Spain, not so much.  How can I be Hispanic when Spain doesn’t know my food.  I visited a placita there and they had a farmer’s market with lots of Spanish speakers mostly from central and south America in BOSTON.  I even got to see Big Papi, who knows him? David Ortiz, with the Red Sox.  Certainly, Hispanics in Boston are enriching one of the original 13 colonies.  Big Papi, and let’s not forget A Rod, and Ron Rivera, two more hispanos who are enriching America. 

 

When we think of cultura, we think about our language, food, music, dress, dance, customs.  I think of the Mexican influence on me.  From my childhood, at family gatherings.  The music was Cuco Sanchez, Pedro Infante, Antonio and Vicente.  Later I remember Vicki Carr, somos novios, and Eydie Gorme con los Dandys singing Gema.  They don’t write lyrics like that anymore.  Eres la gema que Dios convirtiera en mujer para el bien de mi vida, what a lovely thought.  Fast forward in the music world, Linda Ronstadt was on AM radio in the 70s with a group called the Stone Poneys and later as a solo artist, I was a fan, I have those albums.  And then she recorded Canciones de mi Padre, Mas Conciones, and Frenesi.  I’m a tad biased, I think Frenesi is her best work.  Did you know her roots are Mexican & German?  And that she did not speak Spanish when she recorded Canciones?  Of course we know Chakira and Cristina.  Tuesday night after the debate, channel surfing I heard a young girl, Elia Esparza, singing a Selena song on one of those talent shows, she’s from El Paso.  In the entertainment and sports world, Hispanics have enriched America.

 

All of you Hispanos, Chicanos, Latinos, Meskins here at La Tuna, you’re dedicated public servants.  Many of you put your lives on the line every day.  You are part of justice & corrections system in our country and part of your job is to keep us safe.  Your stories are much like mine.  How many of you are veterans, stand up?  You served your country and now you are public servants.  You have embraced America.  Hoooaaah!  I too am a proud and patriotic veteran, with 31 years of military service.

 

But we have many more examples of Hispanics embracing and enriching America, what about the cuates from San Anto, Julian and Joaquin.  One is the mayor of SAT and the other is Secretary of HUD, and there was that other HUD guy from SAT, Henry Cisneros.  I have a beef with President Obama, the highest ranking Hispanics in his administration is Secretary of Labor: Hilda Solis and Tom Perez.  Really?  Is that what Mexicans are good for – Labor?  Why not defense or state of Secretary of the Army?  No, keep the Mexicans at HUD or at Labor.  Chihuahua Obama!  Nonetheless, these are some of the highest ranking hispanos in D.C.  In El Paso we have a civic group of local latinos who are dedicated to instilling Hispanic pride, it’s known as CommUNITY en Accion: Richard Castro, Raymond Palacios, Ed Escudero for example.  It includes mostly Hispanics who are business and education leaders.  I’m proud to be a member.  Do you agree, these folks are embracing, enriching and enabling Americans?

 

There are an estimated 320 million Americans in our country, and of those 55, million are hispanic.  That means that one out of every six people is Hispano or Latino or Meskin – ijole.  That includes 11,000,000 or so hispanos who are here illegally.  I have a question for the trumpster, where are you going to get 275,000 buses to deport them?  That’s a lot of raza.

 

Anyone remember Mario Moreno?  He was known for a few things, the hat, the little mustache, the jokes and those pantalones bajo de la barriga.  Do you see his influence today?  It’s everywhere.  Young men wearing their pants down low with their underwear showing.  That’s Cantinflas’ influence on America.  Do you remember the old ’67 chevy low rider?  Yep, you guessed it, low riders went main stream and now you see them everywhere, not just in San Juan or Segundo Barrio.  The bloods and the crips drive low riders, we even saw a few hydraulic shocks in those fast and furious movies.  I was watching a show on the food channel with Anthony Bourdain in Iran.  Yep, they had low riders in Iran – imaginate eso, low and slow in Persia.  Not only are WE, tu y yo, enriching America, we are going global.  Orale!

 

When I joined the army in 1973 I learned about discrimination.  Why didn’t I know about it before?  Who was going to discriminate against me, the other Mexicans?  I didn’t know any better, but there were only a couple of Hispanic teachers in my schools.  Lots of kids, like me, didn’t speak English.  My Spanish teacher was Mr. Bostic, imagine that, a very nice guero Americano teaching us Spanish! 

 

Anyway, I grew up poor, the youngest of five in a poor neighborhood on Dailey street, with a single mom who was a food service worker.  So how poor were we?  We were so poor our cockroaches had to go next door to eat, our mice were malnutridos.  I don’t see too many of my grade school friends any more, but I know what happened to many of them.  In fact, you might know them personally, here, at La Tuna, inmates.  I was the kid who wasn’t supposed to make it, I didn’t have a snow ball’s chance in hell.  Thank God, truly, thank God; all of my hermanos made it, not a bum in the bunch.  I went on to graduate from high school and soon thereafter I joined the army.  This began a 31 year career in the military and I retired with the rank of LTC.  From my days as a squad leader to platoon leader to company commander and battalion commander, I embraced America.  I am proud to fly my flag and I stand for the pledge and national anthem.

 

A little bit about me.  My mom’s parents were from Delicias, Chih, she said they were Spanish Cryto Jews, so I’m a little bit jewish but still a practicing catholic.  My dad’s father was a Frenchman from San Francisco who traveled to Mexico in pursuit of the family business but was disinherited for marrying an India.  I’ve seen her picture, she looks Tarahumara.  So, I’m Spanish, Jewish, French, Mexican Indian y quien sabes que mas.  That’s my heritage, shabot shalom comadre, n’est pas.

 

There weren’t many hispanos in the army in 1973.  When they saw my last name Barceleau they thought I was some mixture of Cajun black French capirotada.  In the army back then they didn’t know the difference between Mexican and Puerto Rican, and some asked if I was Philipino.  My knickname in Germany was hot sauce, they never saw me eat hot sauce, I don’t like hot sauce, but that was what they called me.  But I was a squad leader, the scout section sergeant and tank commander, and they thought that I was a bad dude.  One day they complained that Smiley didn’t want to do his share of the work.  I knew that Smiley saw me as a stereotypical switch blade carrying Mexican.  So I said, hey Smiley, are you going to get your act together or am I going to kick your ass.  He was a tall, lean black soldier, I was bucking up to him and he was looking down at me.  But he backed up and said ‘ok sarge’ and got busy.  I embraced my cultura that day, and I earned everyone’s respect.  I also gained new self confidence, hey man, I can do this.  That continued pretty much through the rest of my military career.

 

When I got out of the army in 1977 I had the GI Bill and enrolled at UTEP.  While at UTEP I enrolled in ROTC so when I graduated I had a degree in social work and I had a commission as a second lieutenant in the army reserve.  For the next 24 years I would have two careers simultaneously, one as a social worker and one as a weekend warrior military officer.  In 1981 I went to my officer basic course with young officers from all over the country, including Ivy League schools and West Point.  I learned that they were no better educated than me.  Being a vet I had a place in the informal leadership of the class.  During our orientation they told us about the rich history of the area, they encouraged us to tour the Petersburg Battlefield where a great battle was fought during the civil war.  They said we might find musket balls that are 130 years old.  Me, the smart alex that I am made a joke, in my back yard I can find arrowheads that are 1000 years old.  Again, I felt validated, I could compete with my peers on a grander scale.  I was the best runner in the class and I chaired the academic committee.  This chicanito from San Juan was doing it.  Sabes como te digo?

 

What does this have to do with price of tea in Juarez?  You too have met the challenges of mainstream American living, you are validating yourself in the eyes of your family, and your community.  You are ‘the government and you’re here to help.’  You have embraced America and you are enriching her.  You are enabling your children to reach even greater heights than you and the generations before you.  It’s not easy, I know, its hard, but you must keep on keeping on, calmado.

 

In my civilian career I am the first Hispanic executive director for my agency.  When I got there 18 years ago there were two Hispanics on the board.  That has changed since then.  I serve on the board of directors of a credit union.  When I got there 9 years ago there were two Hispanics on the board, today there are 6. 

 

Why is this important?  Because it is up to us to establish a legacy for generations to come.  We must make a positive difference, dispel those old stereo types and myths about our cultura.  Mexicans are still picking crops, but we are also leading companies and serving on corporate boards. I look at YOU, tu y ella, chicanitos from the barrio.  You have gone mainstream, ese, you’re home owners, tax payers, voters, little league coaches, PTA moms, YOU ARE America and I salute you.  And I challenge you.  We have faced many adversities and we have overcome several of them.  We will always face additional scrutiny and we will be profiled.  The challenge is for us, tu y yo, to set the example for the chicanitos coming up behind us.  Make them study because education is the key to better quality of life.  Cherish your familia, especially nuestras hijas, and esposas, and never ever forget la virgencita.  Thank you for lending me you ear this beautiful afternoon.  Finally, La Tuna Federal Correctional Institute – La tuna, is that the fish or the prickly pear?  Hasta la vista baby.

Mom

I remember this particular Friday evening in late 1977 or early 1978.  Having recently returned from a tour of duty in Germany, I returned to live at home with momma and my oldest sister.  I was 22 or 23 years of age at the time and I had been out doing what young men do on Friday evenings.  I came home rather early that evening and was a tad tipsy. This Friday evening came to have special meaning for me for the rest of my life.

 

There was a party going on when I arrived.  The music was not what I had been accustomed to, Mexican music or the AM radio music that was popular during that era.  The food was different, not the chicken mole that was common at parties in my neighborhood, I had no idea what was being served.  The people at the party were not familiar to me, they weren’t neighbors or relatives.  Men were wearing “funny” hats that I had seen previously on television and in movies.  And curiously, there was no beer; beer was not commonly served in my home, but this was a party, or so I thought.  I quickly concluded that this party had to do with mom’s church.

 

Later I learned that mom and sis had joined a Messianic Jewish church, yes I know, I know, but she’s my mom.  That Friday night they were having a religious ceremony, not a party, per se.  The purpose was to put a mezuzah on the front door.  As it turns out, momma said she was Jewish and that meant that we, her children, were Jewish. 

 

At the time, I didn’t give it much thought. Mom and sister, Stela, became born again Christians sometime while I was stationed in Germany during my army years.  My other sister, Carmen, was also a bible thumper, and she was in Germany at the same time I was there.  On one of my visits to her apartment in Germany, I went with the family to their Baptist church service and was saved that Sunday morning.  But that’s another story.  Overall, I found it to be an enriching experience.

 

Mom was born in El Paso, TX and raised in Chihuahua, Mexico.  Later in life she returned to El Paso where she raised her brood, I am the youngest.  We had heard a few stories about her childhood, but not much.  Her parents died before I was born so I never had the benefit of those family stories that are richly filled with family history.  After the army, I was a busy college student, serving in the Army Reserve, and working full time so I paid little mind to mom’s religious activities.  One day she told me that her grandmother was Spanish (not Mexican).  Until this day I assumed her parents were of Mexican decent.  She went to say that her mother’s last name was Perez and that the name had been changed in Spain from Peres to Perez to avoid persecution for being Jewish.

 

Over the years I heard terms like Sephardic Jews and Crypto Jews, but again, I didn’t pay much attention to the conversations.  In the early 90s my sister was diagnosed with advanced terminal liver disease.  We had many long conversations about her wishes.  In one of those conversations she told me she wanted a Jewish friend of hers to preside over her memorial service, so I called Eleazar.  It was the same for my mom, she wanted Eleazar to do her service.  On mom’s coffin we had the Star of David instead of the Christian cross.  We were at the funeral home, her brother who was Mormon, myself, a practicing catholic, and Eleazar, who is Jewish:  “a Mormon, a Jew, and a Catholic walk into a funeral home…”  I never finished telling that joke.  Anyway, I put these memories on paper because today, October 4, 2016 is mom’s 8^th anniversary.  On a chain around my neck I wear the Star of David in memory of my mom.

All Lives Matter!

I have been wanting to write this essay for more than a year, but every time I started, I just couldn't find the words.  It's my thoughts about the recent killings of black Americans by police officers, and the current climate of fear, discrimination, and retaliation.  After police officers were assassinated by lone black gunmen in Texas and Louisiana, vigils were here held in many communities, including my hometown.  After our vigil, a reporter interviewed our police chief, who happens to be black, and who happens to lead a wonderful police force in the safest largest city in the country.  He commented that Black Lives Matter is a radical hate group.  Finally, I found some words to express my thoughts and emotions.




Africans were first abducted from their homes, ripped away from their families, for the purpose of becoming free labor for American colonists, 400 hundred years ago.  They lived in servitude to white masters for 250 years until they were freed after the civil war.  However, they did not enjoy life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness after emancipation; and some will argue, justifiably, that many descendants of African slaves do NOT, to this day, enjoy life, liberty or happiness.

 

They were violently captured, forced to slave markets in Africa, herded into cargo holds on ships, enduring the prolonged journey across the ocean while shackled, with insufficient food, or water, or toileting opportunities, surviving in their own excrement and diseases.  Upon arrival to the new country, a land described in glowing terms by their white captors and owners, they were again sold, often separated from their relatives and friends, condemned to live a life of a slave.  They were subdued and subjugated by the lash of whip for 250 years, generation after generation, working from sun up to sun down, day after day, their entire lives. 

 

Doom and drudgery was their experience, for 250 years, under the whip of a white owner who felt justified in maintaining the institution of slavery.  The dominant white society felt entitled to the free labor of slaves, it was a God-given necessity to maintain a life of privilege. Slaves were considered no better than beasts of burden who deserved a life of misery.  The lash was the instrument of control, slaves were whooped into submission, often into unconsciousness, and sometimes to death. 

 

Along came emancipation.  Suddenly free, with no knowledge of the world outside of their owner’s land, with no education, with no idea of what they may do with themselves, they were doomed to a future with no promise.  With emancipation came life in abject poverty, without adequate housing, education, medicine, or nutrition – they couldn’t afford it.   For another 100 years they lived in a country with laws that ensured they remained impoverished, that they continue to toil with minimal reward for their labor, for the benefit of the white society. 

 

After the civil war ended, former confederate soldiers created the Klu Klux Klan, a group that continues to exist in 2016.  Their mission was to withhold social and economic power from the former slaves.  During those years, they were the common enemy.  Everything that went wrong in the world was their fault.  Most of the God-fearing Christians across the land felt justified in mistreating them.  It became almost common practice to lynch black Americans, and when it was done, it was done with impunity, and often by Klansmen who wore a badge under their white hooded robes.  Black hanging bodies reminded everyone of their place in society.

 

After nearly 350 years of slavery and economic servitude they began to seek out those God given rights that the rest of the society enjoyed.  This would not be tolerated in America.  Protests were put down with clubs, horses, dogs, fire houses, laws, and of course, by those wearing a badge.  For the first time, riot suppression techniques were caught on film and broadcast on the evening news.  Blacks gained some modest measure of economic and social success over the succeeding decades, but by and large, they lived in the economic outskirts of mainstream society.  “Separate but equal” was a metric, “segregation forever” was a battle cry.  The instrument of control had evolved, it was now the official power of the badge that subdued them.

 

After the civil rights movement, black Americans entered the workforce and some earned an education.  However, their participation in society’s mainstream institutions was only marginal.  After 350 years of no education or employment, they lacked the wherewithal provide a modest life for themselves.  Public policies and social programs have been enacted at all levels of government, but they cannot undo 400 years of slavery, servitude, share cropping, Jim Crowe, segregation, separate but equal, and discrimination.  Hence, an overabundance of them live in poverty today, they under-perform in educational measures, they are unemployed or underemployed, they have little promise for a decent future and resign themselves to life on the fringe.

 

With little prospect for the American dream or the pursuit of happiness, their life often includes substance abuse and the crimes associated with it.  Unable to afford those things that American life requires, many lost hope and they languish in blighted neighborhoods while an oblivious white society blames them for their plight.  It is predictable that black Americans will have more interaction with police officers.  (It would be a misnomer in this context to call them peace officers.) 

 

Because white America blames them for drug infestations, crime, and violence, it has empowered modern police agencies to be the instrument of control, replacing the lash and lynchings of old.  Where before, indiscriminately, slave owners lashed blacks to death and the Klan lynched them; today police officers shoot them with impunity.  Grand juries fail to find fault in “justifiable lethal force.”  Judges fail to find fault in the actions of police officers.  Society does not recognize the notion that sufficient force, less than lethal force, should be a yard stick with which to measure legal action.  Instead, a peace officer empties his service weapon into a subdued black subject, at point blank range, without consequence.

 

Americans remember the brutal beating of Rodney King by a gang of thugs in police uniforms, it was an extremely violent instance of police brutality, caught on tape.  King was down, relatively subdued, but the beating continued with no lack of regard for the pain and injury being inflicted on a human being by the institution that is supposed to “protect and serve” our society.  The acquittal of LAPD’s “finest” resulted in riots, as did acquittals in Ferguson and Baltimore.  Riots in Los Angeles were more violent and more widespread than those in Ferguson and Baltimore, but were less violent and widespread than the riots of the civil rights movement.

 

Considering the black experience in this country, I think that their response to their captors, owners, and oppressors has been predictable and yet rather passive.  Nearly three decades passed between the civil rights riots of the 60s and the Rodney King riots in 1992, and another 3 decades passed between the King riots and those of recent years.  Not much has changed in America’s reaction and response to ameliorate the problems that lead up to those riots, with one notable exception.  Rodney King was physically and brutally beaten by police officers; today the current practice is to not expend the energy to beat a black unarmed suspect, it so much easier to simply empty loaded weapon on the suspect. 

 

The consequence remains the same.  Enslave Africans, lash them into oblivion, lynch them, beat them to a pulp, or shoot them, it doesn’t matter, because black lives don’t matter.    When they didn’t “know their place” they were lynched.  When they spoke out against oppression, they were assassinated, remember Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King.  When blacks take to the streets to protest discrimination their protests are quelled with violence.  Even when engaged in petty crime like selling cigarettes and CDs illegally, they are shot to death.  White America delivers fatal punishment, legally.  It must be legal because those who deliver the punishment are not prosecuted.  Grand juries acquit, because, after all, they are, well, black.

 

Only recently has there been lethal retaliation against police officers by armed black men who coincidentally have been trained to kill by the US military, have combat tours, experience PTSD, and were loners up until their deaths.  And as the Black Lives Matter movement has gained attention, it has become, by some accounts, a “radical hate group.”  This language of hatred is the new instrument of control used by white America so it can continue to hate a segment of the population that it created over 400 years ago.  It seems that the common goal is to continue to oppress blacks in America, and it has continued to be so even under the administration of a black President of the United States. 

 

A friend asked me, “what is the solution?”  I don’t know!  However, I know that what America has been doing to blacks in this country for 400 hundred years is wrong.  I know that the key to success and prosperity is education and we must, as a society, do a better job of educating black children.  I know that humans have basic needs and we must include black workers in the work place, with decent wages, so they can provide those basic needs for their families.  History has shown us that practice of grouping them into large housing complexes creates a downward spiral, we must stop this.  Finally, I know that America considers herself a Christian nation, we must learn that one cannot be a Christian until one acts Christian.  It took 400 hundreds years to get, it will take a long time to recover, let’s start today.

Humble Beginnings

I was having a conversation with a gentleman who was visiting our facility and the conversation found its way to his mother’s childhood. He was bragging about how she prevailed over adversity and not only survived the “projects” of south El Paso, but made a name for herself as a successful local realtor. His childhood experience was not unfamiliar to me because similar experiences have been shared with me over the years; however, such experiences are not very common. I shared with him my similar childhood experience and while speaking with him, I knew that I had to put my memories into words.

I was born in El Paso, TX, a city situated on Texas/Mexico border, a mostly Mexican-American community that is representative of the broader Mexican-American population in America; and by that I mean that the local community is mostly poor. Such it was for me and my family. I’m not sure exactly where in the city I was born, mom said I was born on Grama St and she has said I was born at 4,000 Bush St, in south central El Paso. However, my earliest recollections from my pre-school days were on Dailey St and I tell folks that I grew up on that street.

It’s not exactly true that I grew up on Dailey St because we moved often in those days: I remember living on Dailey, in two houses on Mauer; on Colfax, two houses on Chelsea, and on El Paso Drive – all before I was in the sixth grade. We were renters. Nonetheless, I claim Dailey as the neighborhood where I grew up.

I’m not sure how old I was when we moved into that neighborhood on Dailey, but we moved out when I was about 5 years old. The neighborhood had single family homes and a few single story apartments. We lived in one of the apartment buildings. Most of us were Mexican American, with one black family in a yellow house in the middle of the block. At one end of the block was the San Juan Catholic Church with a small convenience store, Las Hormigitas, across the street. At the other end of the block was a busy street and a grocery store called Leo’s.

I guess there was less than a dozen apartments in our building, immediately north of the apartment building was an alley and on the east side of the property was a large open space where residents parked their automobiles. There were a couple of trees, no grass.


Our dwelling was an apartment on the street side of the complex that had about 10 units.  As I recall
The units did not have indoor toilets; there was a wooden outhouse by the alley that had a porcelain commode. All residents used that toilet and everyone had to take their own paper. This posed challenges in cold weather and at night. For children, a dark, cold alley was not only uncomfortable, but it was chock full of imagined dangers such as “la India” our version of the boogey man. My sister, the eldest, had polio and she was easily frightened. I remember her making me accompany her to the toilet to stand guard outside the privy. This also caused another “condition” inside our home. We had a bucket in the corner that doubled as a toilet for those times when going to the alley was not acceptable and the bucket was covered with a piece of wood to contain the emanating odor.

As long as I’m talking about plumbing, we had an indoor cold water faucet, no hot water at the sink. There was no bathroom sink, or tub in the apartment. We had a gas pipe for the gas heater, but no gas for a water heater or a stove. Cooking was on a kerosene stove and we had to walk to the corner store to buy the kerosene. I remember carrying a glass jug to the store where they had a 55 gallon drum with a hand-cranked pump. They would pump the kerosene into the glass jug for us.

The kerosene stove was used for cooking and to heat the bath water. Our baths were in a galvanized metal tub that also doubled as the washing machine. When I first heard the expression “don’t throw the baby out with the bath water” I knew exactly what it meant. I was the youngest of five children – the baby. My bath always came last. It was much too laborious to change the bath water for each individual bath so we shared. I was always last and I remember the water being a white bluish tint when it was my turn to bathe; the water was NOT clear for my bath.

Our apartment was one long room. In that one room was the 'kitchen' sink, the stove, the heater, the front door and our meager furnishings. Our parents’ bed was toward the rear of the room. The room was partitioned with a large canvas curtain. Mom and dad slept on a bed in “their room” and all the kids (5) slept on one bed in the front room. I guess we looked like a plate of rolled tacos.

There a few characters in that apartment complex.  Dona Rocha was a scavenger who lived in the rear apartment and she had a wooden enclosure.  The enclosure's wall were roof high and she had a pad locked door to protect her belongings.  As I said, she was a scavenger.  She would walk around pulling a wagon, the Radio Flyer type of wagon, and she collected metals, mostly tin cans.  This was late 50's and aluminum cans had been invented yet.  She collected copper wire and other metal objects.  Her belongings were stored in that wooden enclosure, presumably to sell to salvage yards.  There was one on Beacon St., one street south from out street.  My older brother of a some of the neighborhood hooligans would climb on the roof of the apartment building to steal some of her booty so they could sell it to the recycler on Beacon St for some spending money. 

Then there was Dona Severa. She was a small woman with very long salt and pepper hair.  I recall seeing her wash her hair outdoors, with water and dirt.  She lived alone for whatever reason I believed her to be childless and never married.  We all thought she was a witch.  One time I entered her small apartment.  It appeared neat and orderly but there was a peculiar, and unclean, smell in that place.  I've since spoken to a couple of people who knew of her and we all had the same impression.


Dad was living with us in these early years.  He had a car, black, I recall, and the door handle on the passenger side was broken off.  Once I cut my hand on that broken handle and my father wrapped my in his hanky.  We had a black and white television and record player.  Dad worked in the municipal garage and mom worked at the pant manufacturing plant a few streets south from us.