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 high 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 of the desert. 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 of 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 got. He whistled a tune through his teeth while Mom grew quiet.
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...men wearing denim overalls, women dressed in long homemade dresses with shawls covering their heads. Two ancient, clattering pickups swerved around a rider on horseback. Compared to Boyle Heights it all looked very primitive and poor. To Mom it was a vision of Hispanic Appalachia, a shocking contrast to energetic, modern Los Angeles, the place where dreams came true. She could hardly contain the despair she felt at that moment. Her husband could easily settle into the life of a miner. In fact Benerito had been working at that mine, known only as #27 when he was drafted, but it was a life she would never agree to. Mom 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.
"Están aquí." They're here, I heard someone say. On a cabin porch a thin, pale man with blue eyes stood up from a homemade bench. 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.
These were our grandparents, Antonio and Senaida Gonzales. They 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 27 was the oldest of the Gonzales children. His next oldest brother worked in Albuquerque. Three sisters lived in the nearby town of Grants, the baby in Grandpa's arms belonged to one of them. Other relatives lived in nearby cabins so the camp was like an extended family. They'd arrived from Pecos river valley villages in northeast New Mexico. The men, like Grandpa, worked in the mine.
Knowing we were due to arrive that day many of Dad's relatives were on hand to meet us. Phillip smiled back at the crowd. As usual he was 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 stopped talking and stared at us. Spanish was the language of the people who lived in the mining so it was a real surprise to hear a three year-old and a two year-old speaking fluid, unaccented English.
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 never 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 already had a 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 everyone.
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, 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. Only Mom could hold me and if she were out of sight for even a moment I'd get frantic and hysterical. Understandably she was apprehensive about the plan to leave us at the mining camp while she and Dad found work and a place to live in Albuquerque. Grandma didn't give my reputation as a crybaby a second thought, however. After dinner she put her hands out to me.
"Este muchito no le gusta ir con alguien," Mom warned. 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 Grandma took me in her arms. I remember the warmth in her eyes and smile.
With Phillip skipping along at her side Grandma hurried to the cabin next door. She was eager to show off her two 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 drive away. They returned for us a couple months later.
The Medinas relaxed on their front porch during 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 a warm smile to Phillip.
“Que preciosos están," she exclaimed to Grandma. How precious they are.
"Que cachetón," Mr. Medina chuckled, looking at my pudgy face. So cheeky!
"These little boys don't speak Spanish," Grandma explained, "they only speak English." She smiled proudly at me.
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 and smiling encouragement. She repeated this in Spanish so the Medinas could understand. "Eddy, dígales tu nombre en ingles."
I shook my head and burrowed my face deep into Grandma's shoulder. She smelled like flour.
Grandma gave her star performer a small bounce.
“Bueno, Eduardo. Habla, habla,” she said briskly. Okay, Edward. Speak, speak.
I frowned and put my hand over her mouth. Everybody laughed except Grandma who suddenly realized she'd have to talk to me in English.
Grandma gave it her best. "Eduardo. Es--peak haa--lo."
Phillip knew I wasn't going to cooperate. He tugged impatiently 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 spoke the language of the bosses, los Americanos.
Grandma turned to Phillip "How-you?" she asked sounding relieved. "How-you-do?”
“I’m fine," Phillip responded. "We drove in our car from California and we saw cows."
He smiled at the dazzled neighbors. Clearly an opportunity was at hand and Mom wasn't around to spoil it, either.
“Do you have any candy?”
“Qué está preguntando?" Mrs. Medina asked. She looked at Grandma who turned to Dideen.
“He's asking you for sweets,” Dideen replied in Spanish.
Mrs. Medina nodded her approval. 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' front porch had been converted to a public stage. Everybody wanted to get a look at us and no one, not even the children seemed to mind that we 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.
I had never seen a horse before. "Cow?" I asked.
There was a brief moment of silence while children translated this into Spanish, 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 importantly. "That's a horse."