We push and shove a little to get through the reception area where Dorothy Allison smiles behind a counter, signing books and casually expressing her appreciation to her readers, admirers, supporters of her personal and literary achievements.
“I gotta get up there and buy her books!” Mark’s face drips with sweat. He wipes his brow and dries his hand on his sport coat.
The heat is unbearable inside the foyer where people crush together, smile, sip white wine and try to chat quietly. It seems that everybody knows each other. They all are so cool, while I, like Mark, am wiping the perspiration from my face. I pray that beads of sweat will not bubble up from the top of my bald head. If I start to water up there, I’ll be drenched; in a few minutes my shirt will dampen like a paper towel. I have nothing on my head to hide the sweat: no hat, only a few hairs to block the rolling drops of salty body fluid. Mark tries to get closer to Dorothy Allison, but is blocked by a tight-fitting human wall before him. He is only four standing bodies from the table, but they appear like hundreds of stacked well-wishers—like asparagus shoots. I shrug my shoulders. I’m unable to help him.
A hairless man approaches me directly; for an instant he stops in front of me. He holds a glass of wine. His head and face are dry, not a speck of body fluid sheds from that bald pate. For an instant we gaze into each other’s eyes, smile and move away. I find nobody, but him … the embrace of an elegant woman. He is dressed in a black suit, black shirt and tie. How does he do it? Stay so cool, calm and engaging in the middle of this crush of hot excited bodies. It’s probably over one hundred degrees in here. The air conditioning must not be on. The tall glass doors to an outside patio are closed. Not a breeze, a sliver of wind, of moving air circulates in this confined space, only voices that grow louder as more people push in to join us. Everyone else but Mark and me seems cool, comfortable and happy to be here. I notice several wet trickles of perspiration running down the back of Mark’s neck. Mark has gotten a little closer to Dorothy, who is just about to set out on her magic transformation road.
Beyond where Mark stands there is an open hallway, but not one person ventures there, not one person stands and waits there. The hallway invites, offers separation and sanctuary for the hot human mass, but strangely it remains empty like an off-limits place. I wave to Mark. He sees the open space but is trapped, frozen in a sea of concerned, compassionate Hollywood sophisticates. Hollywood, like the political system, naturally corrupts, and anybody involved in it must negotiate a path. In reaching the deal, they always are bought, broken, made a little less than what they were. In politics everybody has their price; in Hollywood everybody has their movie. Elected and appointed politicians throughout all levels of government become corrupted and continue on that path faithfully. Ditto the Hollywood profiles. Mark is caught floating, perspiring and breathing awfully hard in the frozen Tinsel Town stream. I point to the open space of the empty hallway. The churning current of beautiful stars—they are all stars in their own minds—pulls my friend away. Helpless, sweaty Mark seems to be sinking. He raises his arms, swings them over his white hair, desperately fighting the riptide.
I work my way toward the empty space of the hallway, and suddenly I am pushed into a woman. I grab her arms and prevent her from falling backwards off her high heels. The woman pushes off immediately and from a distance offers up a disgusted stare, a mueca of nausea. I think: Hey, I just saved you from being trampled by your own kind! I watch her latch onto the arm of a movie star. I got the you make me sick look. I consider my shirt, pants and shoes. To her maybe I am just another homeless guy who wandered into the library. Her gaze is enough to remind me of who I am in her eyes. Still not free from the crush, I turn in a circle and notice no other brown faces. At least from what I can determine, there are no other brown faces attending the reading. There are millions outside but only one in here. Two black faces and one Asian staff member are present, but no other people of color attend this literary de facto segregation event.
I break away from the crowd and stumble into the hallway, find freedom and space in which to move. Five, six steps, I see MEN. I cup my hands and splash cold water on my head and face. I sense a pleasant coolness. I push my head closer to the faucet and splash water on my neck. Head down in the washbasin, I sense a guy watching me. He is as cool as an iced dill pickle. Dressed in black, he adjusts his tie and walks out as if the bathroom is empty, as if I am not present, as if I do not exist. I am familiar with being seen but not seen. I follow the man and watch him return to the crush. I walk in the opposite direction, hoping to find a cool spot in this house of books. Maybe I can discover an outside patio where I can feel a breeze. I find myself walking toward another hall that offers another directional choice. Photographs, rows of photographs run the entire length of the walls. To my left, to my right, and before me the photographs multiply and draw me to them. Historical photographs of Los Angeles taken according to the dates circa 1931. I scan four and, to my surprise, their world and time peers back. They are photographs of the downtown Los Angeles River bridges at different stages of construction. I stand at a crossroad of time gazing at men and machines and their creations, and I know they are staring at me, calling me to recognize them, as if my glance into their space would make them live again and again.
In one photo, fifteen men, workers—with sleeves rolled up, suspenders, wearing what appear to be heavy high rubber boots—smile at me. Their posture, smiles reveal them as warm, tough guys whom I would have liked to have met, in order to talk to them about their work, their families, their dreams, to embrace them as brothers, as important workers. They gather around a cement mixer and pose for the camera. One sits on top of the cement mixer, several stand leaning on shovels, and the rest of the crew intertwine their arms on each other’s shoulders. They smile against the background of the massive footings of the Seventh Street bridge. I look away from the photo and see the hallway walls covered with photographs chronicling the building of the bridges over the Los Angeles River. I advance, stop and peer into the framed time and life captured in another photo of twenty-five workers. I touch every one. I pray. I ask for their help. I whisper to the twenty-five men sitting high on top of a massive concrete pillar. Beyond them rises the City of Los Angeles. I study their faces. They, too, smile. I quickly move to other photographs of different bridges, crews and times. Naturally, I start looking for Mexicans. The men appear the same. I cannot distinguish between a Mexican and an Anglo. I find one Asian, but then he could be Mexican. I see two black men, but they also could be Mexican. I slowly move down to a photograph where I find a crew with Mexicans. There had to be Mexicans working on these crews, Mexicans building the bridges of Los Angeles. In this photograph the twenty-five men stand by the door of a truck that reads “Sun Construction Company.” I fall into their eyes and sense my grandfather, my father, his face under that hat behind the Zapata mustache. This crew has Mexican workers. Again I stare into their eyes in hopes of hearing a sound, a word, a phrase. They have to tell me something, communicate a feeling, a memory to me now here in this place. I possess a gift, un don, de oír y sentir los sentimientos de los que caminaron sobre estas tierras antes de mí. Todos son mis hermanos, mis hermanas y yo, como ellos, quiero existir ayer, hoy y mañana. Their energy is present—I sense it even among these people at the library who do not feel the place where they live. I keep looking into the not-so-distant eyes of those Mexican men working on the Los Angeles bridges. I see a black box on a tripod, a photographer with a lamp in his hands.
The noise in the lobby fades into the running water of the Los Angeles River, ignored by most, hated by many, profoundly loved by a few. A loud pop, a flash of light in the late afternoon make us all laugh.
KNOWING
On this river
your sweat could
turn to freedom
the year could
become stories
the small town
the body’s way
of knowing
On thi
s river
a flood would
clean the soul
like a bad foot
embedded
in the mud
On this river
you could pray
like the mantis
hidden in
tall grass
the heart’s way
of devouring
itself
Ray Gonzalez
PART ONE
In 1842 the Pueblo of Los Angeles, nestled next to its Río de la Porciúncula, received more and more settlers from the interior of Mexico and from the southern and northeastern areas of the United States. From Mexico came Mexican and Chilean miners who had panned for gold in the streams and rivers of Sonora and Chihuahua, the northern Mexican frontier. These men had a knack, un don, developed particularly for cradling and panning gold in difficult hard-to-access fresh water streams and rivers. They had a nose for gold. They seemed to know where it might appear. California had thousands of streams and rivers waiting to make hard-working men rich. They arrived in Los Angeles, bought sustenance supplies and went directly to the edge of the river looking for source streams to follow into the hills and mountains where they camped, working different sections of the streams and deep arroyos. After a few days several went directly to the supply store to sell their gold, then returned to search for a new stream up the hills and valleys. In the city these mineros left their gold and also many stories about their fate and fortune. Some men went back to the river in search of other men who had entered the wilderness but had not come back. The stories say that very lucky mineros found large amounts of gold nuggets but decided not to exchange their find, instead packing it in leather bags and heading south back to Mexico by way of the interior, first along the mountains and then into the desert.
It is said that this was the trail followed by the Zavella brothers, the oldest twenty-seven and the other twenty-four. They were last seen in an Indian village near Temecula, where they arrived half naked, beaten, suffering from exposure. They were treated by the Indian women and were invited to stay, but they refused. The brothers Zavella were frightened and moved on into the night. Before they left they spoke of being overtaken by a force that made them abandon their camp, leaving behind four bags of gold nuggets they did not attempt to defend. The Zavella brothers were never seen again. Events like these made other men follow the paths of miners who had struck it rich, only to lose their wealth and their minds. The gold is still out there somewhere in the mountains, in the arroyos, the desert and the rancherías, places where these men sought shelter. The stories of striking it rich were more alluring than those of disaster, pulling hundreds of men into the ancient Los Angeles basin. The majority worked sections of the Río de la Porciúncula; some found gold, but others soon became discouraged by the long hours panning and operating cradles that failed to pay off.
The Río de la Porciúncula did not give up its stones easily. The Indians believed that the river spirit considered all that existed in its waters living precious objects, sending out its river energy to bring them back. The native people knew that in some way, some time, all things from the river would return to the river. The river’s spirit would never be controlled; it was unpredictable; it was greater than man. The mineros worked the river with great respect and care. Rumors of rich northern streams encouraged them to head toward San Francisco. They purchased supplies and started their trek in hopes of better stakes in the many waterways emptying into San Francisco Bay. They would eventually make their way as far north as the Columbia River in the Oregon Territory. But many stayed near the Sacramento River, for there they began to have success. Anglo prospectors followed the Mexicans and Chileans who knew where to look, what to do, how to treat the rivers, streams and earth so they would offer up hidden treasures.
As more travelers and settlers arrived in Los Angeles, crossing the river from both directions became an issue. During the summer months the crossing was mostly safe, unless sudden flash floods swept down from the mountains. A shallow spot was usually found, but if the people had a great many belongings or heavy equipment, it was slow going. Sometimes it took them three to four trips to bring all their belongings to the other side. During the spring with the snow runoff, the river rose well over ten feet in sections, with treacherous currents rushing to the sea. In the winter when the rains came, it was almost impossible to cross. According to church records, ten to fifteen people had drowned one winter attempting to cross the usually peaceful Río de la Porciúncula.
In 1844 a family of ten Anglo homesteaders who had traveled from the East through Indian Territories approached the Río de la Porciúncula and camped for a few days before attempting to cross the river in early spring. It had been a heavy snow year and spring came in with weeks of a heat wave followed by days of heavy thunderstorms that triggered powerful flash floods. When the Norris family began its first crossing, the sun was bright, the river was up to their horses’ chests and there were only a few clouds against the foothills. The Norrises left their two oldest sons to guard the family belongings that they had taken out of their covered wagon to make it light enough for the horses to traverse the muddy areas. The family started to cross from the east side, slowly and carefully moving diagonally toward the west side.
Along with the two Norris boys and several fishermen watching the Norrises advance from one side to the other, stood Abelardo Ríos, a farmer who owned a large portion of land bordering the river. Abelardo Ríos had inherited his ranch from his father, who had received the land from his father. It was Abelardo’s father who had named the parcel El Rancho el Cachito de la Porciúncula. In reality, his ranch was a small portion of land, un cachito, surrounded by holdings taken over by Anglos who had recently come into the area. For as long as neighbors could remember, Abelardo’s family had worked that portion of land along the river. The years and years of working the soil and fighting the changing river had made it their land. No one else had claimed, no one else wanted that precarious parcel. In fact, people considered the land worthless because of the unpredictable river constantly changing its course to the sea. Not even the new Anglo owners of the great ranches in Encino or the old soldier Griffith had ever questioned Abelardo about his ownership of the land. Because for years Abelardo’s family had survived countless floods, sudden changes of the river’s course, and even earthquakes, it became a ritual to consult with Ríos when considering any planting or construction of zanjas, ditches, that would direct water to interior farm lands or to developing residential areas. Anglo ranchers, developers and entrepreneurs often arrived at Abelardo’s ranch house seeking him out for a reading of the current state of the river, for a prediction about what path the river would take in the near future. On many occasions, Abelardo was able to help them; in turn, they let him live in peace on his land.
Abelardo’s knowledge of the river came from family memory and personal experience. He made it a point of pride to remember the vivid descriptions of great floods, stories shared by his father and grandfather sitting around the dinner table, in front of the fire during cold rainy winters, or on the front porch during summer heat waves. The floods came at all times, when it rained and when it did not rain. When it rained, the city and its families had a better chance to prepare for the expected overflow of the river. The great floods never left Abelardo’s mind. He recalled when the river created a large temporary lake out to the Bollona Creek. The Los Angeles residents called that rainy season the Novician Deluge. The rain fell heavily and constantly for so many days that many people thought it was announcing the end of the world. Abelardo remembered how many times the river had changed course. One night when he went to bed, the river flowed in the front of the house; when he got out of bed the next morning, the river flowed in the back of the house.
It was two years before, during a time that the river had been relatively quiet, that John M. Baldwin consulted with Abelardo about building a mansion and a private golf course near the river in the foothills at the e
dge of Colonel Griffith’s land.
“The Colonel declares no claim to that property. He knows that beautiful sloping flat piece belongs to the river. The river leans on that edge to decide its course and often embraces it for days.”
Abelardo spoke directly and frankly with Baldwin, the rich editor of the Daily News and the Weekly Herald, who must have thought: What does this Mexican Indian know about the river? The newspaperman compared Abelardo’s advice to that of his professional engineers and architects who had assured Mr. Baldwin, after conducting a series of scientific tests, that he could build there without any fear of flooding. Months after Baldwin had completed his large ornate mansion and well-groomed golf course, he and his family watched from high above his estate as the fast-rising river demolished his house and churned into mud his beautiful green golf course.
Baldwin’s decision to build after ignoring Abelardo’s advice was often recounted among the elites of Los Angeles.
“It takes more than one Mexican Indian’s advice to overturn five professional engineers and two architects.”
“If you seek out Abelardo’s advice, then you better take him seriously!”
“If you have any inkling of belief in nature’s spirit and in Indian magic, then you better listen to Abelardo Ríos and not to your expensive experts.”
Colonel Griffith did not build on this beautiful and inviting land precisely because he had approached Abelardo to ask why the Ríos family did not claim the property. Griffith listened carefully to Abelardo’s reasoning, and on that afternoon they walked away from one another with mutual respect.
River of Angels Page 2
