Tom,

Having a hard time going to sleep, too many things on my mind. It's 11:45, and I'm moved to tell you about my involvement with the Chicano Movement and the Civil rights issues from 1966 to 1978.

Those of us who were in the trenches, sought support where we could get it. The Church, and I am speaking of the Catholic Church could have done a lot more to help the Hispanic community back then. At the least they could have stayed on the sidelines. But, no, they became our adversary, at least in Michigan.

I can only speak of that with which I am familiar. Our local priest, a Cuban refugee (I would like to know who the idiot was that placed a Cuban Priest in a Mexican-American Church), became our biggest adversary and openly referred to us as Communists. Of course He and the other Cuban families that were brought to Flint, by the local refugee center. And he referred to us as "those dirty Mexicans." This alone would drive a person away from the Church and it did eventually.

Of course, father Emilio had no problem calling me at General Motors to help the Cuban families get employed there. I used whatever influence I had to Help them and other Hispanics to get in and eventually I became the person GM called to assist the new workers, who couldn't speak English.
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I have been thinking about a title and it came to me like a flash a few minutes ago. How about "FROM THE BARRIO TO THE BAR" OR " A CHICANO PERSPECTIVE OF LIFE IN THE US." I say this because my life is a commentary of what it's like to grow up Hispanic in America, and I do have a lot of opinions on Race, Religion and Politics as it impacted me and others like me.

Love In His Name,

Jose Cruz
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Jose -

OK: Life Before Jesus, Part 1: From the Barrio to the Bar. That's a fine working title.

You may wind up calling it "The Monster That Eats My Hours." The muse is definitely pouring it through you, my friend. You remember my Dad's corollary to Murphy's Law: "Mother Nature is a bitch"? So's the Muse.

And all I can say is, "Daddy, daddy, tell me more! What happens next? More story!

My wife Carolyn seldom comments on the Coffee - "Of course it's well written, all your stuff is well-written." But she sure was enthusiastic about your first installment of LBJ: "That 'Life Before Jesus' is really good." It is. You have, as Beatle George Harrison put it, "grabbed the wire."

Amigo Tuyo,

Tom

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Tomas -

Madrid opened a whole new world to me. I had been here before as a soldier passing through Torrejon AFB on the way to Libya, but this was a completely new experience. I was here as a civilian, but not just any civilian, I was Don Jose, as my profesora, Doctora Gandara referred to me.

A civilian with categoria (class). I was also sort of a novelty, not only with the Doctora, but with my classmates. Partly because of my Spanglish and partly because of my indigenous appearance. Didn't the Spanish bring an Indian to show Queen Isabella, what her New subjects looked like. Well this Indian wasn't going to dance for them. He had his own agenda.

People are curious, it doesn't matter their, race color or creed. The first thing they want to know is where you are from and once they find that out, what it is like there. The first one was very difficult for the Spanish students. I had a difficult time convincing them that I was from North America not South America. It helped that they knew where Texas was. Everyone in Europe knows where Texas is. What they don't know is Texas is not homogenous. And that people like me existed. Their image of Texas is the Western - Cowboys and Indians - and by now they figured all the Indians and Mexicans are dead.

Maybe they counted the bodies in the movies or surmised, if there were no survivors, their could be no descendants. A logical conclusion given the propaganda espoused by the USA overseas. I did not expect this from the Spanish. Didn't they teach them that Texas was a province of Spain. These poor people knew less of our History then we did. Anyway, I took the opportunity to teach them, and there are at least 30 Spaniards more knowledgeable about the legacy they left behind in Texas, than their countrymen.

Also shocking to them was my fluency in the Castillian language. I had taken the time prior to this trip to brush up on my Castillian. I say Castillian, not Spanish, because Spain has several languages, one of which is older than all other European languages. The language is Basque. Although limited to Northern Spain and banished by Spanish law, you can't deny its existence.

I remember as a child being punished by my teachers for speaking Spanish and many of us lost the ability to speak it or were ashamed of it. If it was banned, maybe it wasn't such a good thing. Ironically, it was later taught in High School and was a State Requirement for graduation, plus the colleges required a foreign language for admission. Now I get it. If we didn't have a natural advantage in a foreign language, the Anglos could compete with us in those courses. - Or is this my imagination working overtime?

I think there was a more benign reason. The system calls it "English immersion," Chicanos called it "white- washing." If we make brown Anglos out of them, then they will be like us. Whatever; most of us continued to speak it and my mother taught me how to read and write it.

My only problem in Spain was the dialect. According to Professora Gandara I spoke the language of Don Quijote. I was the only one who could read and understand it without resorting to a thesarus. The explanation for this is very simple. The books my mother used were her old Spanish books used by the Nuns at the Convent of Santa Maria in Brownsville, and the barrio Spanish we used was passed verbally from generation to generation without any input from academians, therefore it remained pure. Unadulterated by modern writers and academics. The purity of the language has served me well over the years. As a result of this I am able to Speak to Columbians, Puerto Ricans, Cubans and people in other countries of Central and North America, and carry on a decent conversation. Of all these groups, the Columbians have the purest form of Castillian Spanish and they are also a delightful people.

The trip to Spain could not have come at a better time in my life. I was struggling with my Chicanismo. Was I an Indian or a Spaniard? I was defintely not an American. You have to come of a boat in New York harbor to be a non-hyphenated American. The only time I had been an American was when I was in Europe during my service.

Strangely enough in Spain, I discovered my real me. This was the first time in my life, I became a human being,
not a member of an ethnic minority. It was the perfect antidote for years of searching for my soul.

From the moment I landed in Madrid, I became immersed in the Language and Culture of Spain. I had enough money to last the 9 or 10 months of my stay, but I decided to stretch that by working after my classes ended. One of my fellow students, introduced me to an escort agency. No, not the type that takes out men or women, but an agency that takes foreignors to see the sights. I became a tourist guide. I used my previously acquired skills, and specialized in bars and restaurants.

My first propina (tip), came from a Tablao (Spanish Flamenco Bar). I had about 6 or eight drunken Countrymen (Americanos), out for the night. At the end of the evening the bar owner came over to me and handed me a wad of money. I said, " What is this for?". "Senor, this is your tip for bringing the Americanos." From that day on all my Americanos went to his Tablao. I made more money doing this than the average Spaniard made in a month. Some nights I made over two hundred dollars - $200, not pesos.

In addition, all my drinks and food were compliments of the house. Wheras, the campus was my classroom, the City and later the Country was my laboratory. I immersed myself in all aspects of Spanish life. I lived with a Spanish Family and visited the Countryside as if I were one of their own. More on that later.

I would spend hours in the Museo del Prado, admiring the Goyas and Riberas. All the great masters except one, Pablo Picasso. He was persona non grata while Franco was still living. I wonder if the new government brought Picasso in out of the cold. I doubt it because Spaniards are very good at holding grudges, and Picasso's painting depicting the Spanish Civil war exposed us for what we are, a bunch of butchers with a cause.

The highlight of my adventure was meeting the future King of Spain, Juan Carlos. The week before we left, Profesora Gandara, arranged a party in the Placacio Real (Royal Palace). Words can not describe this architectural marvel. The banquet was held in the main hall with a long oak table with 15th century chairs (louis the 15th). Crystal chandeliers, larger than my living room table. Paintings of all the Spanish and Dutch Masters adorning the walls. Man, I thought, these people know how to live!

The afternon cocktails were served in the garden. Not just any garden: Bronze and Marble Statues scattered throughout, roses in bloom, and huge oak trees galore. Not a detail was spared.

The dinner itself was fit for a King. It was hard for me not to think of the poor peasants in the Countryside. This was the Spain my parents and grandparents had told us about as children. I remember my grandmother telling us that we came from royalty. We dismissed it as old people talking.

When I was introduced to the future King, he was taken back. What he said next, threw me for a second, then I remembered my upbringing. Had I taken the time to read the Madrid paper before I attended the reception, his news would not have been as shocking. The sunday before the banquet, it was annnounced that his future bride was to be Isabella Zurita, the daughter of the Spanish health minister, whose line was traced to Spanish Royalty in Zaragoza Spain. The same City and Province from where my ancestors came to the new world, 400 years ago. What a coincidence! We spent some talking talking as if we were old friends. Down deep he was just one of us, only with more money and power.

But it is a power that he cannot exerccise except in the background because of their form of government. He, like the Queen of England, is a King in name only. The power is in the Parliament and the Prime minister. What a shame because the man has a great heart and the Spanish people would be well served by him.

Next: Otro Lado: the other side of Spain

Bye for now,

Jose Cruz
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The Other Spain

Good Morning Tom:

Every coin has its flip side and every country has its haves and have-nots. Unfortunately, we only read and hear about the Cities and their rich culture. Maybe that's because writers live in cities and or so confined to their desks and conforts that the countryside is not part of their world. We write what we know abut, at least some of us do.

Wheras, Madrid, is the epitome of modern day culture and amenities, the Spanish rural areas have not changed since Roman times. Life 50 miles out of Madrid is in a time warp. The villagers, still plow the fields with oxen and earn their living from mother earth. Families with small plots plant gardens and tend to their sheep and goats. Old timers sit in the village square and reminisce about the past. The meals are consumed with homemade wines. Not the bottled kind you buy in a store, but the kind that comes out of a vat in the basement of the home.

There is nothing that compares to drinking wine out of a goat skin gourd, called La Bota(the boot). The trick is to hold it about two or three inches from your mouth, squeeze the bag and hit your throat without choking or spilling wine all over your clothes. It took a couple of times and a lot of laughs before I could master this task.

Life in the village of Navaluenga, an hours' drive North of Madrid, where I went on weekends. remains frozen in time. The only thing resembling a factory is the coperativa (cooperative), where the villagers take their grapes to have them processed and their wheat to be turned into flour.

The population consists of the aged and families with young children. The older children have gone to the larger cities of Spain or left for France, Germany, or Sweden. Only the old and the infirm remain behind. Most are fortunate to see their grown children once a year and occasionally a son or daughter stays behind to care for the parent.

On the plus side there are no nursing care homes. Every home is a nursing care home. The only doctor in town is a pharmacist, whose parents are elderly, and he came home to take care of them and decided to stay. If you get really sick you have to go to Avila, the walled City of Spain, built by the Romans in the 1st Century.

Jesus would feel right at home here. The fragrance of fresh baked bread co-mingles with the the stench of sheep and goat manure. Everything a man or woman needs is here. Clean air, fresh meat (sheep and goat), fresh vegetables with no pesticides, breads and cheeses for every palate and plenty of wine to wash it down with. A simple life, where friends are more important than money. I found out the latter, the first day I was there. My family - the family who took me there - introduced me to the few men of drinking age left in town. That evening they invited me to the local tavern, in fact the only tavern. Behind the counter was the pharmacist, who, I later found out, owned just about everything else in town and when he wasn't dispensing medicine he was serving drinks in the tavern. I guess medicine is medicine; at least that's what Grandma called the bottle of tequla in her kitchen cubbard.

Anyway, one of the men ordered drinks for everyone and the bartender filled the order. Round after round kept coming and nobody paid. Finally, I asked the bartender for the bill with the intention of at least paying what I had consumed. One of the men summarily reprimanded me and reminded me that I was a guest in the village and my money was no good there. He would pay for all the drinks and food we had consumed. Mind you, he was not a rich man by any standard, but he felt obligated to follow a long-standing Spanish tradition, which I also observe to this day, and that is, the one who invites gets to pay and there is no other way. To do otherwise is to insult your guest.

Prior to returning to the States I made a trip to Torrejon AFB, went into the Commissary and purchased the three items all Europeans desire, Coffee, American cigarettes and good Bourbon Whiskey. The village men were delighted with my gifts and when I returned after law school, they still remembered this Americano who spoke their language and respected their way of life.

So long for now my friend, May the lord bless you and keep you now and forever.

Tu Amigo,

Jose
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Thank you for granting me the privilege of being your first publisher.

Tommy