Elizabeth Kay, a New Mexico artist, decided to honor Ansel Adams through her creation of a retablo, a wooden-frame religious painting. She decided to use the New Mexico santo tradition, a practice that is almost five hundred years old, to honor Adams, even though Adams is not considered a saint within the Catholic Church or community. What Kay did is what scholars call cultural appropriation, the distorted use of other peoples’ traditions or beliefs as one’s own. That the Smithsonian decided to display her work was problematic, but that the curator did not indicate in the text that Kay’s retablo was a spoof was doubly problematic because it left the viewer with the impression that Adams was considered a saint or that santeros, the artists that create santos, simply made up saints as part of their devotional art. The exhibit was troubling enough that the Latino Working Committee (LWC)—a group of Latinx staff, curators, and employees of the Smithsonian—called for a meeting with the curator to explain why the exhibit was produced, and why so poorly.
The Santo Pinholé exhibit’s failure to provide any significant background information about the santo tradition, or that the exhibit was a spoof of a well-honored tradition, should not have been a surprise to the curator. During peer review, a process where scholars provide feedback and recommendations for an exhibit, the reviewers pointed out several issues, particularly the problem of cultural appropriation. However, the curator rejected the concerns and suggestions. It was a tense meeting that only resulted in the addition of text indicating that the exhibit was a spoof. The exhibit was not removed and was allowed to continue. Disappointment flooded the ranks of LWC members. We lost our battle for respect. It was a polite rejection based on supposed intellectual/scholarly grounds that outsiders can evaluate other peoples’ cultures and history objectively, while the community should not be allowed to have a say in their representation because of a supposed lack of objectivity. The argument was bunk. The exhibit encapsulated the very point of the “Willful Neglect” report, which stated that Latinx scholarly voices are ignored.
* * *
~
The struggle to belong is found not only in the politics of the street, but in official institutions that are supposed to be inclusive of all Americans. Looking back on my time at the Smithsonian and how my family’s stories and early life shaped me, I understand that for many Americans—including my own parents—being seen as American is a struggle that can be tiring and long. I felt that fatigue in 1999; I still feel it now. People like Olivia and Cynthia and others with the LWC continue to struggle within the Smithsonian, fighting for inclusive Latinx exhibits and programming. I was a small part of that struggle—and the fight for change—more than twenty years ago. I am a beneficiary of these struggles.
When I get down about our continued struggles to be seen as American, what revives me is striking a match, hearing the crack of burning mesquite, smelling the smoke, and listening to Country Roland Band. As I season the meat, I remember the stories my family told me, knowing that I come from a long line of americanos, those born on both sides of the river.
So, yes, there are many of us Mexicans in Texas. I come from those who helped make America.
MORNING PEOPLE
by DIANA LÓPEZ
When it comes to “early bird or night owl,” I’m a night owl—and not because I’m sneaking out to party with my friends or bingeing on Netflix or writing great American novels or whatever it is that night owls do. No, it’s because of insomnia. I lie down and my mind races. It all-out sprints, fifty-yard dashes, one after another. They start with someone’s stupid tweet. Maybe it’s about climate change, how we shouldn’t get worked up, which makes me think about turtles since there are too many females, their gender determined by the temperature of the sand—which then makes me wonder, if we were mostly women, how would babies get made—which leads me to clones and Dolly the sheep and then Frankenstein—which takes me to Halloween costumes, and to Halloween, how it’s not the same as Día de los Muertos, even though the two get lumped together with people painting themselves like calaveras and partying and forgetting that it’s a holy holiday, which gets me thinking about all the things that get whitewashed in America, which leads me to the border wall and people saying we need to keep the Mexicans out, which gives me all kinds of bad feelings because even though I’m not Mexican-Mexican, I am Mexican American. Someone in my past came over. Then again, as we say in South Texas, “We didn’t cross the border; the border crossed us,” which happened, specifically, after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, so now I’m thinking about my history class, how I got a C, even though I studied very, very hard. On and on it goes, one mind-sprint after another, until finally, hours later, I’m asleep.
So waking up is a process, and step one is pushing the snooze button five or six times. It is not Papá Grande turning on the light and singing—singing!—“Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay. My, oh my, what a wonderful day.”
I pull the blanket over my face. “What’s so good about it?”
He’s too happy to be offended. He just yanks the blanket and says, “Well, let’s find out, mi criatura.” He never calls me Leti, always some nickname like criatura or flaca or Tweety Bird.
I am so not a morning person and neither is Mom, yet here we are, trudging to my grandparents’ Subaru Forester for an insanely long road trip all the way from Corpus Christi, Texas, to Yellowstone National Park.
I’ll sleep in the car, I promise myself, but I can’t get comfy. First, the car’s stuffed with luggage and camping gear. An ice chest is crammed between Mom and me, and she keeps nudging it over, making the buckle of the seat belt dig into my hip. I’ve got a pillow, but every position gives me a crick in the neck. Meanwhile, my grandparents slurp their coffee and crunch their granola bars and crinkle all those wrappers.
“I can’t sleep!” I complain.
Mom opens her eyes but shuts them again. She’s pretending.
“Why do you want to sleep through such a beautiful morning?” Papá Grande says. Then, to my grandma, “Remember, mi amor, when the trucks used to take us to Robstown for the cotton?”
Mamá Grande peeks back at me. “Did we ever tell you how we fell in love?”
“Yes! Like a million times!” They make the cotton fields sound like enchanted forests, when all the migrant stories I’ve ever heard have people stooped over, sweating, and living in pigsties. I wonder, “Hey, how did you guys go to the bathroom when you were out there?”
“It was easier for the men,” Mamá Grande says.
“The point is,” Papá Grande goes on, “we wouldn’t have met if we were sleepyheads. Isn’t that right, mi amor?” Instead of answering, my grandma leans over and kisses him.
Mom’s silent through all of this. She’s still pretending to sleep. She pretends all the way through San Antonio and Austin, finally opening her eyes when we’re at Georgetown, but even then, not engaging. At the rest stop, she gets down to pee like the rest of us, but other than that, she’s a zombie, and all because Dad dumped her. She can’t get over how he dumped her.
Finally we’re in Dallas to pick up the rest of our family. I haven’t seen them in a couple of years. Mom and Aunt Ceci are eleven months apart, but they aren’t close, probably since they live in different cities. Uncle Paul is just Uncle Paul, a man of few words.
My primo Fonzie is a year older than me. His real name is Alfonso, but Papá Grande started calling him Fonzie when he was little and the name stuck. It’s from a TV show called Happy Days. “Fonzie would snap his fingers,” Mamá Grande once told me, “and I’d swoon.” But our Fonzie isn’t swoon-worthy. He’s a dweeb, always defining words and uttering random facts. When he talks, it’s like someone reading Wikipedia.
The last time I saw him, he was a toothpick with zits, but that isn’t who exits my primo’s house. Some other guy walks out. He kinda looks like Fonzie, but he isn’t a dweeb. He’s all muscled. He’s got scars on his cheeks, but they don’t l
ook bad. And his hair, it’s longish and dark; his eyes, a light caramel.
A sigh escapes me. Is this what swooning feels like? I should slap myself. I’m not supposed to swoon for a primo.
“Hey, Leti,” he says, punching my shoulder like I’m on his baseball team.
“Hey, Fonzie.” I’m supposed to hug him, right? I try, but I’m clumsy and self-conscious. I give him an awkward pat on the back instead.
Then I go to my aunt and uncle once Mom finishes hugging them. No clumsy moves there. My uncle’s telling her, “Sorry to hear about you and Mike,” and my aunt’s saying, “Yes, mi hermanita, we’re so, so sorry, but just because he left, you shouldn’t let yourself go like this,” and my mom, my poor mom, she doesn’t bother to straighten her very wrinkled T-shirt or run fingers through her very tangled hair.
“Well, what are you gonna do?” she says. She’s not exactly talking to us. She’s thinking aloud.
Maybe this trip was a mistake. She didn’t want to come, but we insisted. I insisted because she’s been moping around since Dad left. I moped around too, but it’s been six months now. I’m not letting him ruin another day. So when my grandparents suggested a vacation and she said no, I said, “Maybe some fresh air,” and “Maybe a change of scenery.” She agreed, finally, obviously, but here she is, still moping. Then again, we’re in the Dallas suburbs. We haven’t exactly hit fresh air or a change of scenery yet.
“¡Vámanos!” Papá Grande says, urging us to the cars. Aunt Ceci, Uncle Paul, and Fonzie get into their black Suburban, stuffed with camping gear just like our SUV.
Then it’s two more days of driving. There’s not much to say about Oklahoma, Kansas, and the eastern part of Colorado. We eat soggy bologna sandwiches and Doritos, and when I complain, I get a lecture from Mamá and Papá Grande about how they never had vacations or a car or anything as fancy as a bologna sandwich.
“We ate beans. Always beans. And if we were lucky, on a corn tortilla.”
I try talking to Fonzie, since he’s my age, but he’s always with his earbuds. I wonder about his playlist. Who’s on it? Does it have a theme? At one of the rest stops, I tug his sleeve. “What’s on your playlist?” I ask.
“Audiobooks and podcasts,” he says.
What kind of dude listens to audiobooks and podcasts? I can’t even imagine it.
The landscape gets more interesting once we pass Denver, but it doesn’t make the trip more interesting. I’ve got A Lesson Before Dying with me since it’s on my summer reading list, but reading in the car gives me motion sickness, so I’m stuck staring out the window. I can’t even text my friends since there’s no reception out here. Then, finally, we get to Yellowstone, and yes, it’s freaking beautiful.
We enter the park, and there are elk, bison, and so many birds. I have no words; only words born here—native to this land and the people who once lived here—could describe how beautiful it is. English doesn’t cut it. Maybe Spanish does, but all I know are nouns—tierra, árbol, cielo. I blame my parents. Their style of teaching was pointing at things and asking me to repeat—mesa, piso, ventana—but they never actually spoke to me in Spanish, never challenged me with sentences. No one ever did. That’s the power of American English. It pushes other languages aside, and now we’ll never know the words for this beauty.
* * *
~
It’s late afternoon when we reach the campsite. The men get to work, setting up tents. Fonzie grabs the one for Mom and me. He inspects the ground. “You like this spot?” he asks, pointing. I shrug, but Mom says, “It’s a good spot, mijo.”
He gets down on his knees, unfolds our tent, and the way he’s doing it makes me think of someone turning down a bed. Then he grabs the stakes, and . . . I don’t know . . . they’re like phallic symbols. He pounds them into the ground, the mallet going up and down, like people having sex. He gets it assembled in about ten minutes. He’s so efficient and . . . and . . . manly. Then he unzips the little door, and that zipping sound makes me look at his fly.
I’m such a pervert suddenly. But I can’t help it! My primo . . . out here in the wild . . . he looks good.
But he shouldn’t because we’re related. What’s wrong with me? I need serious help! I shake my head and blink a few times, trying to correct my perspective.
For dinner, hot dogs, and they’re delicious. Then Fonzie says, “Let’s go to the ranger talk.” He’s already grabbing a flashlight. I follow him, and so do my grandparents and uncle. Mom and Aunt Ceci stay behind.
The ranger talk is in a small amphitheater. It’s already crowded, so Fonzie and I let the viejitos find spots on the benches while we sit on the ground. Some girls are nearby. They keep glancing over, and Fonzie glances their way and gives a little nod. They giggle. He winks. I scoot closer to him, saying I’m cold. He offers his jacket, and when I put it on, it still has his warmth and his scent. I look at the girls again. They turn away.
Good.
The talk is about wolves, how they’re a “keystone species.” They used to be here but got killed off. Then there were too many elk and too many coyotes, which meant fewer trees, gophers, and birds. Then, in 1995, wolves were captured in Canada and reintroduced to the park, and now the land is healing.
“Any questions?” the ranger asks.
Fonzie raises his hand. “Were you here when ’06 was around?”
“Yes, I was,” the ranger says. “Saw her with my own eyes. She was glorious.” He talks on, answering other people’s questions.
“Who’s ’06?” I whisper to Fonzie.
“Come on. You seriously don’t know?” It’s like I’ve asked for the location of the sky. “She’s the most famous wolf in the world.”
“Really? There’s such a thing as celebrity wolves?”
He doesn’t reply because he’s focused on the ranger again, who’s saying, “The best place to spot them is Lamar Valley, but it’s a couple of hours from here. You’d have to leave early. They’re most active in the morning.”
After the ranger talk we head back, but it isn’t a peaceful night because we hear Mom’s and Aunt Ceci’s raised voices even before we reach the campsite. My aunt’s saying, “I’m not surprised. Saw this coming a long time ago.” And Mom’s saying, “Quit acting like you’re better than me.” And Aunt Ceci’s saying, “It’s not an act, hermana.” And that’s when I think Mom says, “You bitch.” But no. She couldn’t have. She probably called my aunt a witch or a snitch or some other -itchy word.
We rush toward the campsite, and when we get there, Mamá Grande gets between them. “Ya! Ya!” she says. “What’s all this noise?”
They don’t answer. After a minute, Aunt Ceci stomps toward the restroom, Uncle Paul following. Meanwhile, Mom ducks into the tent without a word.
“Why are they mad at each other?” I ask.
Mamá Grande shrugs, though she probably knows the answer.
Fonzie doesn’t seem to care. He’s more interested in the wolves. “So what time should we head to Lamar Valley? You think four thirty?”
“That sounds good,” Papá Grande says.
Are they kidding? They want to leave at four thirty in the morning? To see wolves?
I’ve had enough of my crazy family. I enter the tent and snuggle into my sleeping bag. Mom’s probably awake, but she’s upset and not talking. I try to keep still, but there’s a rock at my shoulder and it’s under the tent, so I can’t just push it aside. I shift around. Now there’s another rock, this one poking my back. I shift again and again, three or four more times until I find a rock-free position. Then the mind-sprints. First about my primo. I still have his jacket and it smells so good. Then about the wolves, and this celebrity wolf that has the ranger and my primo all excited. And what was up with those girls? Were they seriously trying to flirt with my cousin? Sure, he’s hot, but beneath all that hotness is a nerd.
I listen to my m
om’s soft breath, and layers upon layers of insects, and scuffling from a bison, maybe, or a bear. What if a bear’s out there? What if it tears open the tent? I don’t even have a pocketknife to defend myself. How can anyone sleep in a place like this? I need to sleep! I’m tired. It’s been a long day, and it’ll be a longer day tomorrow.
Leti, go to sleep. Stop thinking!
Ordering myself around doesn’t work, so I try counting sheep, visualizing fluffy puffs leaping over a fence. One sheep, two sheep, three. Wait a minute! What’s that? A wolf again! This one in sheep’s clothing! How does my primo know so much about wolves, anyway? And why does he want to wake up at some ungodly hour to see them?
Seems like Papá Grande zips open our door and says “Rise and shine” before I ever drift off.
“Leti and I are staying,” Mom says. “You can tell us about it when you get back.”
My eyes are closed, but I can hear him. He takes a full minute before he zips up the door and walks away.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper. She reaches over, gives my shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and finally . . . finally . . . I sleep.
When I wake up, Mom’s at the picnic table, organizing things. I’m glad we’re alone, because she understands that, for me, waking up is a process, never mind the inconvenience of camping—a trek to the restroom and the line once I’m there, the counter full of water and dabs of other people’s toothpaste. I’m missing the city, the luxury of a real bed and a restroom that doesn’t require a hike, but when I step back outside, there’s a raven. He tilts his head to look at me. Then he seems to speak.
Look around, he says. Take a deep breath.
When I do, I see trees and mountains and sky. I sniff at the air. And suddenly I can’t explain it, but out here, the scent of time is in the rocks and dirt. It reminds me that the universe is old and vast, while I am young and tiny. Maybe I should be sad about being so insignificant, but if I’m not important, then neither are my problems or the problems of this world, and that gives me something to smile about.
Living Beyond Borders Page 8
