Roots of Indifferences

by Terri Ragsdale

  "Hell, yes! Let Bishop do his job! I think he's hesitating to go get Hanson across the border because it could become a problem for him since President Wilson has forbidden traveling into Mexico. However, he's a U.S. Marshal and has the jurisdiction. What the hell is he waiting for? He could take a couple of his tough Rangers with him. He's being paid regardless."

  "You can believe he'll take his sweet time, knowing he'll be paid whether he captures Hanson or not." Seeing Canalo getting restless and rising from his chair, Don Federico did the same.

  "Well, good luck!" Canalo laughed and reached for his Stetson that was hanging on a hat rack. "I've been trying to do all I can, but haven't gotten anywhere except getting a bad name among the gringos in court. The idea of running for office is very appealing. I'm going to concentrate on that myself for the 49 Judicial District of Texas." He put his hat on and looked out his window, seeing that it had begun to rain. He turned around and said, "Don Federico, I have some documents I have to run down to the courthouse. If you like, be my guest at my ranch for dinner tonight. Come and see my livestock. I have a new breed of cattle. Come and meet my wife and daughter. We'll be more than happy to have you as our guests this evening."

  "Not on this trip, but thank you, anyway," acknowledged the Don. "I'm going to take Fred across the border over to Matamoros, so he can get a good education regarding the conditions over there, and we'll probably have supper in one of the restaurants. We will be taking the train back later on this evening. I have several things to concentrate on. Good luck running for office. You know that I'll be supporting you. Let me know if you need any money for your campaign."

  "The same here, compadre. And good luck on your newly appointed job! Better accept it! Sounds terrific! Let me know if there is any way I can help you, and keep me posted on what Bishop is doing with his investigation of Hanson."

  "I will let you know my decision. Come and see me in Mercedes and be my guest," said the Don, as they parted ways.

  *****

  The color of the sky was solid pewter-gray and it had started to rain harder and steady in the middle of the afternoon. Don Federico and Fred got into a buggy he had rented earlier and started toward the border. The horses trotted toward the river, leaving behind the trolley and the cobblestone streets, and headed down the muddy road. The odor of the damp earth and the smell of the ocean and the rushing waters of the Rio Grande hit them simultaneously, a powerful extrasensory experience. There was traffic coming and going from both sides of the river, a few Model-T cars, and many hand-driven mule wagons on the soggy road.

  As they got closer to the wooden bridge, they could not help spotting hundreds of scraggly shacks built from waste materials such as cardboard boxes and put together with tarps and blankets—slum encampments. Rows and rows of uneven, crowded shanties nestled together, very close to the river and interspersed among the ragged mesquite and shrubs on the waterfront. Strings of washed clothes were suspended along ropes tied from one tree to the other. Black iron pots hung over hot, sizzling coals, and smoke circled from cooking fires, mingling with the fog that entwined and engulfed the area.

  Don Federico and Fred were distraught at the horrible, intolerable conditions of human suffering before their eyes! It was the result of an enormous exodus of Mexican people escaping and settling into a safer environment on the American side of the river. Women stood with shawls covering their heads, holding hungry, crying children with hollow eyes, as they stared at them from a distance. Several women on their knees were on the riverbank, pounding, scrubbing and washing clothes over crude rocks. In spite of the coming rain, children played in the murky, raging waters of the Rio Grande.

  They reached the long, narrow, wooden bridge separating both countries and crossed over into the rich, cultured town of Matamoros, Mexico. The few Model-T cars going into the town were noisy, with loud horns and screeching brakes. Uniformed soldiers with rifles stood watching them, the majority in their early teens, young boys, still wet behind the ears. The other soldiers wandered around with their horses, munitions, and guns; others stood talking with each other and getting wet. Some were squatting on their haunches, smoking cigarettes under a homemade wooden shed. There was the thundering clatter of horses, as caissons rolled down the main thoroughfare.

  The streets were crowded with inquisitive visitors, peddlers with pushcarts selling fruits and vegetables, and beggars in rags, with dirty, crying children hanging onto their mothers. The sidewalks and the narrow, uneven cobblestone streets were glutted with foul-smelling garbage, while the countless potholes filled with rainwater.

  Immediately, an older soldier approached the buggy and asked them where they were heading. Don Federico replied that they were going to a good restaurant if there was one nearby. The soldier pointed up the hill at the enormous Catedral Del Nuestra Señora del Refugio that stood as the tallest building around. "For the best one, go up the hill and turn to your right, on the corner of Calle Hidalgo Y Morelos, next to the plaza. You cannot miss it. It's a large, white, brick building on the corner, called Garcia's. Most of the officers eat there with their families."

  "Gracias, Señor," replied Don Federico, politely tipping his hat.

  The restaurant was indeed a delight. Mariachis entertained them on the spacious patios, which were decorated with open flames and borders of palms trees and other tropical plants and flowers. The restaurant was circular, and in the middle stood a gigantic seven-layer water fountain. Its water trickled softly, flowing down to the white water lilies blooming, and with goldfish enjoying the oncoming rain. Gardenias and red and yellow hibiscus bloomed around the side of the fountain. The Juelsons dined on chicken-rice soup as their first entree, then a stuffed crab appetizer, and guacamole with a hot salsa, and a small green salad—all this while their meal of fresh fish and shrimp was being prepared.

  Fred, at the age of fifteen, could easily appreciate the desperate conditions they had just witnessed in the streets of Matamoros, leaving an empathetic imprint on his young mind. "I don't understand why people are living like this. The children! I feel guilty eating all of this wonderful food, Father!" He felt overcome with guilt, eating at this expensive place, while just across the street, there were people starving. He was already mimicking his father's actions in using his hands to talk. He was going through puberty and his voice was changing; fuzzy hair was growing on his cheeks and chin.

  "I'm glad you were able to come with me, son," acknowledged Don Federico. "I wanted you to see firsthand the atrocities that Mexicans are experiencing. There is a revolution going on here in Mexico. Revolution means that the poor people want a change, for the betterment of mankind—change in government politics, and be fair and impartial justice for all." He went on explaining. "Think of all of the hungry people in this world who go without eating day after day. Most of those people are uneducated and have no skills, except to work as a laborer. I think being a laborer is fine, we need them, but the people need to understand the importance of an education. It was the most important subject for my students and the significant reason for studying and learning. There is a change coming for the Mexican-American—especially the men—in Texas. The Mexican-American individual without an education remains simple-minded and ignorant, fighting with themselves and against the world with their ‘roots of indifference.’"

  "Father, I understand what you are saying, but I still do not understand how people get into those situations. Why do they have to live close to the river and suffer so, especially the children?"

  "The word is called poverty! And most of them were born in poverty, and still do not know any better." The Don looked sharply at Fred, then took a sip of his drink and continued. "They have no place to go, they are poor and unschooled. Some have relatives across the border in Texas, but none have developed a skill through education. However, we are all a melting pot of Mexican-Americans in Texas and the people from Mexico. And it will take a long time before you'll be able to understand the history. You are lucky. You have n
ever known hunger, and I hope you never will." A poignant and thoughtful silence passed. Don Federico touched his son's hand lovingly, knowing that Fred's future would be completely different.

  Fred glanced at his father, who looked happy and as distinguished as a diplomat in his dark gray, three-piece suit. For the first time in years, his dad was starting to enjoy his life and seem happy. After the death of his mother, he had deprived himself of living. Perhaps now, he would fulfill his passion in political justice and justify his ambition to help the Mexican-American people in the Rio Grande Valley. Fred kept asking questions, and the Don kept answering, imparting to him a veritable library of history.

  Across the room were several inebriated soldiers, distracting those that were dining, disputing and making a loud disturbance over a bet among themselves. The Don overheard one of the men talking about General Nafarrate, just as the mariachis began playing Mexican ballads telling the story of recent events: No Dacia, Pancho Villa, followed by La Persecución de Villa. There were loud shouts of applause and bravos of approval since the majority of soldiers were Carranzistas fighting against the Villistas. Don Federico stopped eating and listened motionless, concentrating on the other table's conversation. He wiped his mouth, stood up, and walked toward the soldiers. Fred watched his father calmly approach the nearby table.

  "Is General Nafarrate staying here in Matamoros?" the Don asked.

  Caught off guard and startled, one soldier replied, "Ah, sí!"

  "Why do you ask?" questioned another. Their conversation came to a complete halt, as they all looked up at the Don.

  "What do you want with the General?" questioned a soldier who been drinking most of the afternoon, his speech slurred. "He'll be here any minute now." They all started laughing.

  Don Federico stood bemused, observing the soldiers folded over in their seats, laughing so hysterically that it attracted the attention of other diners in the restaurant. The waiters carrying large trays of food slowed down to stare in their direction. The Don felt like a fool for not understanding their joke.

  From behind him, he heard Fred call out, "Papá!"

  The Don turned and was awestruck. General Nafarrate stood directly behind him in his stiff, khaki uniform displaying honored medals across his chest, noticeably annoyed. Don Federico's manners were instinctive as he stuck out his hand. "General Nafarrate, you probably do not remember me, but I'm the one you saved at the gold mines on the road outside the mountains of Monterrey. Do you remember the incident? It's been several years ago. I want to thank you again for your service. To this day, I have never repaid you for saving my life."

  "Ah!" the General exclaimed. "You were the one with those dirty, foul-mouthed gringo fools up in the cold mountains, naked. How could I forget? You are the son-in-law of the late José Hinojosa." The handsome, polished General finished his sentence as the roar of the disorderly soldiers' laughter became obnoxious. "Quiet!" he addressed them indignantly. "Can't you see that this is a gentleman of esteemed honor in our presence?"

  "What a good memory, General, and if you permit me, I would like to buy you your dinner tonight. My son and I are at this table." He pointed to where Fred was sitting. "We are still eating. I would very much like to talk with you about Carranza." He politely ushered Nafarrate to their table, since the General showed no resistance to his invitation. The soldiers behind them were still laughing in their drunken stupor.

  "You have an interest in Carranza?" inquired the ambitious young General, wondering what was on Don Federico's mind. "What is it that you want to know? He's fighting the government of the United States for his right to become President of Mexico." He sat down, putting his cap on his lap, and tried to become more comfortable. General Nafarrate was a bachelor in his late thirties, and although years younger than the Don, was already showing signs of aging. His black hair was parted on one side and slicked down, and he sported a waxed mustache that stuck out on both sides. Nafarrate, with his fair complexion, was notably a mixture of Spanish and French blood. His dark eyes never rested, darting around from side to side, as if he were on constant guard and had been trained to be suspicious of everyone.

  "Yes," answered the Don. "That's what I want to talk to you about." He stopped his conversation and signaled for a waiter to come to their table. "What kind of wine would you prefer?"

  "Wine," the General replied in amazement. "Well, it's been a while since I've had any good wine. We haven't been able to afford it. Whatever you order will be satisfactory." The General smiled, becoming more at ease with being the honored guest of Don Federico.

  Three waiters, wearing white shirts and black trousers with white cloths over their arms, displayed the choice selections, which included four kinds of Spanish, Italian, and French wine. Other waiters brought in three glasses to serve the fine liquor. It seemed that the restaurant staff was paying full attention, observing and watching as if dignitaries were being entertained.

  The evening went smoothly and was very enjoyable. The mariachis' music was delightful, as they introduced the newest songs brought in by the Villistas: Jesusita en Chihuahua and La Cucaracha, which were being sung all along the border. The General and Don Federico conversed about the problems of Mexico and the chaos along the border. Don Federico had met Carranza in San Antonio with Juan but never did get acquainted with him. He wanted to meet with Carranza and talk with him and wanted to know if a meeting could be arranged for the three to get together, in order to become more acquainted with General Nafarrate and his ideas as well. He thought that taking the initiative through diplomatic channels would be more rewarding. The Don was becoming more assured, convincing himself that he would start his new position.

  He was on his way to becoming the "Texas Ambassador of Goodwill."

  CHAPTER 30

  Don Federico soon confirmed his appointed position with Judge Barnes, Captain Marshall Bishop, and the governor of Texas. He began his job by hiring a secretary, a man named James Johnson, a Northerner from Illinois. Johnson was an unmarried Gent who had bought a small ranch south of Harlingen after seeing the Valley's advertising promotions. He was twenty-seven years old, tall, with brown hair and hazel eyes, quite distinguished looking, and with impeccable manners. He had longed to live in Mexico; however, with the conflicting problems there, the borderland was as close as he could get. He was fluent in Spanish and English and could write longhand and shorthand in both languages. While working with Don Federico, he would live in Mercedes during the weekdays and return to his ranch on weekends.

  No sooner had James Johnson moved into his quarters, at Don's place, with his manual typewriter and pads of paper, than the gossip began. Tongues wagged in the white community. Don Federico's name was in all the newspapers confirming his appointed job and creating envy among the white merchants, who were afraid he would become superior to them. Within the Catholic prayer groups, those with unmarried daughters were gossiping endlessly and speculating about the new gentleman in town.

  "Have you seen the handsome young man living at the Juelson's home?" inquired Mrs. McCray, more curious than most.

  "Don Federico Juelson has just been appointed Ambassador of Goodwill between the two countries," answered Emma proudly, who was back to her feathered hats, gloves, and small shoes. She had lost almost twenty pounds by following Juan's advice and was feeling better.

  It was at Felicia's suggestion that a fiesta was given at the Juelson's home celebrating the coming of James Johnson and the appointment of Don Federico to the ambassadorship. A band of Mexican musicians from across the border was hired to play outdoors since the weather had become more pleasant. Don Federico provided the fresh steaks from Spanish Acres. Each family attending brought a dish of their favorite specialty and also their unmarried daughters to peruse the handsome new arrival.

  Ricardo and his mother protested and were uncooperative in helping with the festivities. Only Magdalena agreed and helped Victoria and the servants. With Emma's enthusiasm and encouragement, and Felicia's exciteme
nt, they brought white linens, extra silverware, plates, and glasses. Long tables were set outside on the patio in back of the house. Large fires and torches were lit around the premises to keep the mosquitoes away. Close to a hundred prominent people attended, and close to twenty families had single daughters, who gushed and giggled and batted their eyes at James. Even the widow McCray had joined them and kept hanging annoyingly close to Don Federico's side. Everyone had a wonderful time and was in total anticipation of wanting to know what James had thought of the young women and which one he might pick.

  "Well, James! What do you think of our little fiesta?" Don Federico smiled at the young man, pleased with his choice of secretary. Together they wandered outdoors and rested on his circular porch.

  "Splendid!" James replied. "I have never met such wonderful people, and their daughters are all lovely. Everyone is so friendly and kind. Oh, and I love my new traveling attaché case. Thank you very much. I can sure use it now."

  But he was not interested in their daughters. As handsome as James was, he remained single and confined himself to his specialty—secretarial work. He was shrouded by a mysterious secret that was never to be mentioned. It dictated that he remain a loner who needed his privacy, for James was a homosexual, which was taboo. But, as a member of the household, James quickly became known by his nickname, "El Guapo," meaning "the handsome one."

  In early March, the Villistas captured Reynosa and quickly following, General José Rodriguez, one of Villistas commanders, attacked Matamoros, which was defended by General Nafarrate, who triumphantly prevailed, killing over 700 Villistas soldiers and saving the town. The stench of dead bodies was so bad that they had to be soaked in fuel oil and burned, with the remaining ashes thrown into the Gulf of Mexico.