Other than an occasional truck hauling goods there were few vehicles on the highway. We drove east on Route 66 through a seemingly infinite expanse of brown desert and mesas that looked nothing like Los Angeles, that metropolis of people, cars and buildings where we lived until yesterday. Now we were on our way to New Mexico and a new life.
Phillip had the wide back seat to himself and he turned this way and that looking at the unfamiliar sights. Suddenly his eyes widened. He got up on his knees for a better look and pointed out the window. “What’s that?” he asked breathlessly.
Dad looked for something out of the ordinary, scanning the countryside with the expert eye of someone who'd grown up riding horses and herding. “That’s a cow," he laughed.
“Cow?” I repeated, sitting in Mom's arms. “Cow?
My first clear memory of New Mexico is being with Dad’s family. They lived in an isolated fluorspar mining camp in the Zuni Mountains. To get there we turned off the highway onto an unpaved bumpy road and headed south through rugged country. As we drove higher the land got rockier with juniper, piñon and then large pine trees scattered among the boulders. The closer we came to the camp the happier Dad became. He whistled a jaunty tune through his teeth while Mom grew quiet and tense.
Rounding a curve we saw rough log cabins perched precariously on steep slopes. Huge rocks looked as if they might tumble down on the little houses at any moment. Dad parked by one of them and we got out. Mom, Phillip and I stared at the unfamiliar scene before us. There were people walking about and they did look like us except most were dressed in clothes we'd never seen before. Men and boys had on denim overalls and women wore long, homemade dresses, some with shawls covering their hair. Two ancient pickups clattered around a rider on horseback. Compared to Boyle Heights it looked very primitive.
To Angelita Gonzales it was a vision of Hispanic Appalachia, a shocking contrast to energetic, modern Los Angeles, the place where dreams came true. She could barely contain the despair she felt at that moment. Benerito on the other hand, was quite willing to be a miner. In fact, he'd been working at the mine, known only as #27 when he was drafted eight years before. That life might be fine with him but it was one that Mom would never agree to. She was determined to get us to Albuquerque, the state's only real metropolitan area where Benerito could find a decent job and we could attend good schools. By force of will she would make this happen.
From a porch I heard someone speak. "Están aquí." They're here. I looked up to see a thin, pale man with blue eyes rising from a homemade bench. Then the screen door banged open and children poured out, followed by a woman with olive skin, black hair in a long braid and a calm demeanor. The man carefully handed the baby he'd been holding over to her. Our grandparents, Antonio and Senaida Gonzales and their children, our aunts and uncles enclosed us in their loving embrace. Johnny was 5, Dideen, 10; Carmen, 11; Bernie, 13 and Tony, 15. Dad at twenty-eight was the oldest of the Gonzales children. The next oldest was Eutimio who worked in Albuquerque. Three sisters lived in the nearby town of Grants. The baby in Grandpa's arms belonged to one of them.
Number 27 was home to strangers, friends and relatives, single men as well as entire families. All had faced enormous hardships moving from mine to mine across the state. The search for work in an unfamiliar and difficult economy had permanently broken three hundred and fifty years of traditions, family ties and communal life as land grant villagers. Like Grandpa, most of the men had once been land owning farmers, now they were miners for hire. It was this extended family who was on hand to meet us today.
Phillip smiled back at the crowd, curious and unafraid, my complete opposite. "Mom, where are we?" he asked. "Who are they? I'm thirsty, can I have a drink of water?"
"I want water too," I put in, my thirst overcoming my aversion to talking in front of strangers.
Our relatives, all Spanish speakers, stopped whatever they were doing and stared at us, surprised to hear a three year-old and a two year-old speaking fluid, unaccented English. Their children knew English but they learned it in school, in the same way my parents did. In that moment language made us instant celebrities among Dad's family but also forever set us apart from them since my brother and I only spoke English.
Our parents were the first generation of New Mexico Hispanos to be truly bilingual so it seems strange Phillip and I would not be. But Mom had not forgotten being punished for speaking Spanish in Belen's Anglo run schools. She was determined her children would speak English only and speak it well. She never spoke baby talk to us either. As a result, Phillip had a very large vocabulary. To Grandma Senaida who was literate in Spanish but spoke almost no English, Phillip and I were simply remarkable. She could hardly wait to show us off to friends and neighbors in the camp.
The little house filled up as more and more family arrived. In the cabin's close quarters it was obvious how different my brother and I were from each other. Phillip was slender with straight black hair while I was chunky with curly hair. Phillip didn't mind the nonstop hugging and quickly found children his age to play with; I didn't want to be touched and stayed glued to Mom. In our Boyle Heights apartment I always hid under the kitchen table whenever there were visitors and wouldn't come out until they left. I wouldn't let anyone but Mom hold me and if she was out of sight for even a moment I'd become frantic and hysterical.
Understandably, Mom was apprehensive about the plan to leave us at the mining camp while she and Dad looked for a place to live in Albuquerque and he found work. But Grandma didn't give my reputation as a crybaby a second thought. After dinner she put her hands out to me.
"Mom spoke up quickly. "Este muchito" she warned, "no le gusta ir con nadie." This little boy doesn't like to go with anyone.
Except for today. Mesmerized by so much love and attention I leaned out, just a little, and let Grandma take me in her arms. I remember her hug, the warmth in her eyes and smile. With Phillip skipping along at her side Grandma hurried to the cabin next door eager to show off her grandsons' English language skills, especially mine. Life in camp was hard and distractions were few so Grandma knew the neighbors would enjoy us as much as she had. Over her shoulder I watched my aunts and uncles making silly faces and didn't notice Mom and Dad driving away. They returned for us a couple months later.
The Medinas sat on their front porch enjoying the quiet Saturday afternoon. They watched our approach with interest. "Senaida," Mrs. Medina asked curiously, "quienes son estos muchitos?" Who are these little boys?
"Son mis nietos,” Grandma replied, walking up the steps. These are my grandsons.
Mrs. Medina made a fuss over us. She loved children, as did our grandmother and of course all babies received an extra helping of attention. Before I could lean out of the way she gave my fat cheek a gentle pinch and then smiled warmly at Phillip.
“Que preciosos están," she exclaimed to Grandma. How precious they are.
"Que cachetón," Mr. Medina chuckled, looking at my pudgy face. What fat cheeks!
"These little boys don't speak Spanish," Grandma explained, shifting me so I faced the neighbors. "They only speak English."
The Medinas looked absolutely fascinated and leaned forward, hoping to hear me say a few words in a foreign language.
Little Dideen, so much like her mother, was just as eager to show off my language skills. "Say your name in English, Eddy," Dideen said, nodding encouragement, then repeating it in Spanish so the Medinas could understand. "Eddy, dígales tu nombre en ingles."
I shook my head and twisted back to Grandma, burrowing my face deep into her shoulder. She smelled like flour. Grandma gave her star performer a small, let's get the show on the road bounce. “Bueno, Eduardo. Habla, habla.” Okay, Edward. Speak, speak.
"I frowned and put my hand over her mouth. Everybody laughed at this except Grandma, who suddenly realized getting a performance out of me would require her to speak English. She did her best.
"Eduardo," she began haltingly. "Es, es-peak haa--lo."
Phillip knew I wasn't going to cooperate. He tugged on Grandma's apron. "Ask me, Grandma. Lee doesn’t like to talk."
Mrs. Medina's hands went to her face. “Aahh!" she exclaimed. "Está hablando ingles!” He's speaking English!
The astonished couple gaped at the little boy who looked like everybody else in camp yet so easily spoke the language of the bosses, los Americanos.
Grandma looked relieved. "How-you? How-you-do?” she asked Phillip.
“I’m fine," he responded. "We drove in our car from California and we saw cows." Turning to the dazzled neighbors he smiled and added, “Do you have any candy?” Clearly an opportunity was at hand and Mom wasn't around to spoil it either.
"Qué stá pidiendo?" Mrs. Medina asked. She looked at Grandma who turned to Dideen for help.
“He's asking you for sweets,” Dideen replied in Spanish.
Mrs. Medina nodded approvingly. What a smart little boy! She went inside for a couple of homemade bizcochitos, traditional anise and sugar cookies. Returning, she handed one to me and one to Phillip. “Está bueno?” she asked.
"No translation was needed. “Mmmm," Phillip nodded, munching happily, his perpetual sweet tooth satisfied for the moment.
Word of two wonder kids sped through the mining camp. Within minutes the Medinas' porch converted to a public stage as the yard filled with people. Everybody wanted to get a good look at us and no one, not even the children seemed to mind that Phillip and I were the only ones getting cookies and attention. When I realized how many people were staring I stopped eating. I pushed my lower lip out and knitted my eyebrows together in an intimidating baby frown. But no matter what I did everyone watched with intense delight.
A teenager on horseback rode over to the porch to see the show. I'd never seen a horse before but that very morning from the car I'd seen a large animal in the distance. "Cow?" I asked.
There was a brief moment of silence while children translated this into Spanish and then the crowd burst into happy laughter. An uneventful Saturday had turned into an entertaining one.
"No, Eddy, that's a horse," Dideen said, giving my arm a reassuring pat.
"Yeah," Phillip added. "That's a horse."
What I remember as a humorous incident involving communication between us and our grandparents in reality had far broader, more serious implications. Phillip and I were brought up with English as our first language because our parents, born into poverty, wanted to give us a better life. It was obvious to them that language was the key to achievement in the English speaking world. They were part of a true phenomenon, a spontaneous mass movement of Hispanics who decided to forgo their native tongue for a foreign language.