They call you back, p.8
They Call You Back, page 8
16
The Horse Story
It feels like a lot of things—like Judas, and horse, and love.
—Natalie Diaz, poet
It was told to me during my first trek to Mexico in 2015 by don Miguel Pérez on the day before I was to leave Charco de Pantoja, Guanajuato. Guillermo had arranged for us to stay there, at his father-in-law’s house, which acted as our home base during the time of our search. Most mornings, over a plate of eggs and beans that his daughter Dulce would prepare for us, I sat at the kitchen table, accompanied by don Miguel, who would seize the opportunity to feed me one story or another. The way he told stories reminded me of my grandpa, in that his anecdotes were either gravely serious or wildly mythical; there was no in-between. And they usually involved some lost memory, or article, or, in one case, the compensation still owed to him by the U.S. government for his work as a bracero. Days ago, he brandished a copy of his original bracero card, telling me that somewhere in Texas, someone was supposed to have been handling matters for the pension they were promised. He looked blankly at me, before shaking his head and stuffing his card back into his wallet.
On this, my last morning in Mexico, don Miguel shared with me one final story. It was a different kind of story. He chewed on his tortilla, then lifted his hat back on his head and swung his old eyes in my direction.
“Te han hablado del caballo?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He looked at Dulce, and she grinned at me.
“What horse?” I replied.
I couldn’t tell if this was a setup for a joke or if he was being serious. He drank from his mug of coffee to clear his mouth. And then, in the slow and deliberate manner of an octogenarian, he began to tell me about this ancient “caballo raro” that was discovered in 1990, “right here in Charco de Pantoja, just a few blocks from here.”
* * *
—On this particular morning, after days of torrential rains that had flooded el País de las Siete Luminarias, farmer Gabriel González Ledezma was tending to his field, to make sure it hadn’t been washed away. As he began to walk home, down his usual path across the cobbled roads, he noticed a few stones had been dislodged, leaving immense holes. Out of consideration for his neighbors he began to put the rocks back. While doing this, he noticed something curious at the bottom of one of the holes. He pulled another stone back for a closer look, and realized it was the skull of a horse. The people of Charco prided themselves on their inherited knowledge of horses, and Gabriel particularly, which is why he also questioned if it was a horse at all. The thing looked slightly misshapen for a horse skull. He needed to find out. He pulled another stone out, and then another. And in a matter of minutes found himself staring down at a fully intact skeleton of a creature that appeared to be horselike but clearly was not a horse. The skull was slightly thicker than a normal horse skull, and the hind legs were longer than the front. It was a mystery.
By then a few other farmers had gathered around and were consulting one another as to what it might be. They disagreed, arguing about the possibilities. An hour later, still mystified, they scratched their heads, and Gabriel suggested the only logical move they had left: “Let’s call La Maestra.” The men unanimously agreed, and La Maestra was summoned.
Diana Garcidueñas was given the title of La Maestra by the people of Charco because she was among the few who had early on gone away and attended la Universidad de Guanajuato. But they also called her La Maestra because she was a schoolteacher and community educator who maintained her affiliations with la universidad. If anyone knew what to do with this mysterious horse skeleton, it would be her.
Minutes later La Maestra arrived to a large crowd gathered in the middle of the road. As she approached, a chorus of “Buenos días, Maestra” greeted her, and they parted and gave her room to work. She peered down into the hole for only a few seconds and speculated, nodding.
“Yes, this is a prehistoric fossil.” When she came to her conclusion, chatter erupted. It was an exciting discovery. “I’ll phone my colleagues at la universidad,” she said. La Maestra left, and the people stood around in a large circle, proudly guarding the ancestral treasure.
* * *
No one can recall exactly how the conversation started, or who it came from, but someone suggested that this discovery was about to break open the long-standing myth that horses were brought here by Europeans, not at all native to this land. But the people of Charco know their history and know it well. They’re aware that they dwell in the land of the Caxcanes, Otomís, Guachichiles and many other tribes, in the cradle of seven volcanoes, surrounded by pyramids and ceremonial relics that can be admired from practically any point in el Valle de Santiago. Not that they needed a fossil to prove what they themselves had already known, but for those who cared about such things as evidence and data, well, here it was. The skeleton of a prehistoric horse, preserved and intact, staring back at them. Whoever it was that La Maestra summoned from la universidad had better bring their best and brightest.
Within a few hours a vanload of paleontologists from la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México arrived, salivating with excitement at the discovery. Anchoring the team was Dr. Óscar Carranza Castañeda, Mexico’s leading expert on horse fossils.
Yes, I remember that day very well. I had first heard of the horse by way of my friend and colleague Juventino Martínez. I guess he got a call from someone in Charco de Pantoja, so he called me and asked if I’d like to go. It was me, Juve, Jesús, and I believe two Americans who went. We got there, and the people were very excited, I remember this. But I didn’t speak with the community at all. Juve and Jesús spoke with the people, or rather, they had been speaking with them already, I don’t know. But it seemed they knew one another, though I couldn’t say. I never get involved in speaking with the community, I just don’t. The reason for this is because . . . well, people have a way of creating fantasies, you understand? And I’m not there for any of that. My job is to be there for the bones, the fossils, so this is my focus when I go to a site. But I remember this specific horse. I remember all of my fossils. This one was a recent one, Equus cf. mexicanus, about 50,000 years old. It was from the Pleistocene Era. I remember it was almost fully intact, I believe it was just missing a front leg and some phalanges. From there we took the horse to UNAM, in Mexico City, where we cleaned it and assessed it. There aren’t too many fully intact horses like that found around there, so it was pretty unique.
It was quickly confirmed that what Gabriel González Ledezma had found that morning was in fact a prehistoric fossil. From the Pleistocene Era, aka the Ice Age. When volcanos were still active and woolly mammoths were king. The community cheered, and La Maestra thanked her colleagues who had driven an hour from Guanajuato city to make the identification. What happened next is where the mystery remains.
The paleontologists explained to the community that they needed to unearth the fossil so that they could further study it back at la universidad. Unearth the horse? The community was skeptical. The paleontologists shrugged. La Maestra was caught in the middle. The people of Charco were not having it. “Why not study it here?” they questioned. The paleontologists explained that they had special equipment in their labs, XYZ lasers and XYZ tools they needed to use under such and such conditions, and for this reason they needed to exhume the ancient horse. The people looked to La Maestra. She hesitated. In private, she conferred with the paleontologists. A deal was struck. The paleontologists agreed that once they had completed their studies of the fossil, they would return it to Charco de Pantoja. It was settled. There would even be a nice glass case in which they’d place it, with some signage, and it would forever be housed right here, in the heart of the community, among the people who felt, like all things that el País de las Siete Luminarias produced, that this ancient and sacred horse was their cultural and ancestral inheritance, their birthright. The people agreed.
In the October 1990 issue of Earthwatch, a magazine published by the esteemed Earth Corps, there is a photo of the unearthing. It is taken from a bird’s-eye view, and it shows the community of Charco helping the paleontologists lift the horse out of its ancient bed and heave it into the van. In the photo we see families, men, women, and children, all gathered around, huddled close together, observing the spectacle. There appear to be nine men who are handling the fossil delicately. From this angle the fossil looks to be a couple feet off the ground, in the process of being lifted up, gently, carefully. Elderly women donning rebozos stand among the crowd, on their faces a gaze of concern. There is not a single smile among them, as they watch the almost unholy act of the horse’s exhumation. Something doesn’t feel right. This is especially clear on the face of a man who is wearing a white hat and white shirt, standing in the middle of the crowd with his hands crossed in front of him. Not even the children are smiling. A woman, with her arms folded, looks down defiantly at the situation. The energy in the air is still, as if everyone is holding their breath just seconds before one final heave, as the horse gets lifted into the van and carted away. After which, it will never be seen or heard from again—
* * *
Don Miguel is done telling me the Horse Story. He leaves it there a moment, hanging in the air for me to ponder. He wears the most serious expression. He turns to Dulce.
“Is your motorcycle working?” he asks. She nods. “Take Tim to see La Maestra.”
“After breakfast,” she replies. It’s settled. Don Miguel has not taken his gaze off me.
“Maybe you can help us find the horse,” he says. He takes a bite of his tortilla.
I’m caught off guard. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I reply.
“Well . . . you found us.” He scoops a spoonful of beans into his mouth and continues eating.
The unearthing of “el caballo raro,” Charco de Pantoja, Guanajuato, Mexico, 1990.
17
A Beginning
Staying at don Miguel’s place, sharing meals and conversation, filled a void that had been left there by my grandfather Felix Sr.’s absence. In his final years, I would visit my grandpa in the town of Dinuba, my birthplace, and we’d sit outside, beneath his grapefruit tree, and talk. These informal “interviews” were my first foray into story gathering. However, my grandfather’s experience was the flipside of don Miguel’s.
My grandpa was never a bracero. Although he worked side by side with them, and considered many his close friends, in his own way he had disassociated himself from the workers who came from Mexico. It’s possible it was born from his own resentment for his father, whom he hardly knew. José Encarnación Hernández, my great-grandfather, who was said to have been from Guanajuato, was never a presence in my grandfather’s life. There is no memory of him. Which is to say that in the lore of our family, stories of José Encarnación do not exist. It is said that from the age of nine my grandpa hopped in the back of a truck with a bunch of campesinos and hit the road. The men, who were of no relation to young Felix, took care of him as one of their own. My grandpa was a lone wolf on an endless season. This at a time when the divide between two distant brothers—the Mexican bracero and the U.S.-born campesino—was the source of many misunderstandings.
By that time I was an adult with my own children, and because he was my last remaining grandparent, it felt imperative that I record my grandfather’s testimony. During these “interviews” we talked about anything that crossed his mind. His upbringing. The family. And, of course, the subject that seemed to make him most uncomfortable—politics.
I once asked him for his opinion about the United Farm Workers movement, and specifically Cesar Chavez. He replied, “I was too busy working. While they were out protesting, I was trying to feed seven kids. Who was going to feed them? Pay my bills? Not Chavez. No, mijo.” My grandfather prided himself on his ability to do the hard work that no one else wanted to do. It was this work ethic that moved him up in the ranks. He was trusted by many farmers on the circuit, from South Texas all the way up to northern Wyoming. Farmers knew who Felix Hernandez Sr. was, and they knew he did the work and didn’t complain. For this reason, he was promoted to the rank of mayordomo, foreman, when he was still just a teenager. Later, he became the chief recruiter for farmers, hiring and firing men and transporting them to and from the fields. I have early memories of my grandfather walking up and down rows of grapes, showing pickers how to do it right, while shouting at others to get off their asses. This, long before the accident—
*
One normal afternoon, my grandfather is driving home after a long day in the fields. He’s already dropped off most of the workers and is driving his sixteen-passenger van eastbound on the outskirts of Dinuba. There are just three more workers he still needs to drop off. As he approaches the intersection, he begins to slow to a stop, when a truck rams him from behind, forcing his van across the center divider and into oncoming traffic. To avoid smashing head-on into a vehicle he spins the steering wheel away from the road and launches his van into an irrigation ditch. The van hits nose first and my grandfather hears a loud pop that comes from his back. His van rolls over, end to end, tossing the other three passengers like sacks of potatoes. When it comes to a stop my grandfather calls out their names. Slowly each one answers. Two are trapped beneath seats, broken, and crying out in pain. Years later, when I ask him about it, my grandpa will tell me that he was just glad they were all alive. As for him, he’d broken three vertebrae in his back and was bedridden for weeks. And it’s this accident that will mark the beginning of the end for my grandpa. Soon after, he isn’t digesting food properly, so they harvest a piece of his stomach for testing. Resigned only to liquids, his dentures are removed. He eats less and begins to shrink. His diabetes worsens and his toe has to be amputated. Little by little I watch him disintegrate. Until finally, in the last year of his life, he’s diagnosed with prostate cancer.
I went to visit him at the hospital in his final days. We spoke, and I recorded him with my small audio recorder. When he asked my aunt Hilda to get his turquoise watch from his pants, that’s when I knew it would be the last time I saw him. He handed me the watch. “Here, mijo,” he said, “it’s your time.” I was thirty-two years old. I took the watch from his trembling hand and put it on my wrist, where I’ve kept it ever since. Sitting there at his bedside, I recalled the countless accidents I’d seen firsthand all across the San Joaquin Valley. The backroads littered with roadside altars. I thought about the dusty crosses, and the small offerings left behind: balloons, plastic flowers, sometimes a photo, and often a name would be scrawled on the crossbar. So many names. I felt pulled by the mystery of each one. Who are these friends all scattered like dry leaves? What happens to their memory once the names fade? Perhaps it was the void left by the mystery of my uncle, baby Betito, and the fact that we could never find his grave. Each time we drove past these roadside altars my parents would cross themselves out of respect, a gesture I still practice to this day. In a matter of days my grandfather was gone. It was July of 2006. Four years before I would even hear about the plane crash at Los Gatos. But the concerns were now there, planted within me, germinating. Questions began forming. I returned to the writing. It was the only way for me to make sense of it. The night my grandpa died words came to me. I was hurting, and was angry, and I needed to interrogate, so I wrote a letter to the landscape. I sat down and furiously scribbled these questions into my journal:
San Joaquin Valley, why are your back roads stricken with altars,
and your plastic carnations entombed among deflated balloons?
What keeps the tattered photographs from disintegrating with the dew?
Who dies in the back of a narrow van, limbs splayed to the heavens?
Who survives? Who arrives first? Who will harvest the bodies?
Who will recall them in a dream?
How does one return the belongings?
When names fade, where do they go?
What Country will claim the purgatoried?
Who inherits the wreckage?
How deep is the ravine of a child’s memory?
Are there two sides to the swallowtail’s account?
How do we count the invisible?
Can angels scale border walls?
Who will open the gates for them?
Who denies them?
What manner of love is this?
18
Virgil
The task of unraveling my personal history, the flame
that burns in the left side of my chest . . . an orphan
is by nature a seeker of other selves, a night gazer with
fire in the blood.
—Juan Felipe Herrera, Mayan Drifter
By the time I was eighteen he had become my mentor by default, advising me through all the bullshit that came with young adulthood. Always there with good and bad advice, or a crass joke that made everything seem lighter. He knew how to put things into perspective for me.
Virgil had been living with us off and on over the years, dealing with his own ghosts and trying to get his life in order. He had a wife now, and a newborn son, and they rented a place a few miles from our house. Still, when things turned chaotic, as they often did, he retreated to the home of “the only mother he ever knew,” Chita. During the longer stretches, while occupying the room across the hall from mine, he evolved into more of an older brother to me than an uncle. We hung out often, watched sitcoms on television, did yard work, and clowned around a lot, in mostly adolescent ways. There’s a photo of us, taken on the day of my high-school graduation, and he has his arm around me, like a proud uncle, both my parents at our sides. It would be another year before I would consider the possibility that I was also filling a void in Virgil’s life. Without realizing it, I had become something of a surrogate for the firstborn son he once lost, years before. Of course, at the time the photo was taken, I knew very little about his life in New Mexico. It never occurred to me to ask. Had I asked I might’ve learned that Virgil too had once gone on his own search—
