In 1961 I moved, along with my family, to El Paso-Ciudad Juarez. Back then the two towns were actually more like one big city with a river running through it. Although, the Rio Grande divided two countries with very different cultures, there was a third culture which had bound El Paso and Juarez together for centuries as a unique community. Until recent years, people crossed back and forth across the border freely. Even a kid who had a few bucks in his pocket, and used a little common sense, was welcome in Mexico. To me the big sign at the bridge which read “Bienvenidos” was more than a welcome sign. It was an invitation to adventure.
By the time I was sixteen I had learned to speak enough Spanish to find my way around Juarez by asking questions and making friends. My Mexican amigos and amigas were pleased that I was learning their language and they were eager to help me speak it more fluently. I reciprocated by helping them learn more English words. I also tried to explain the fact that their notion of the United States, including the State of Texas, was inaccurate because most of the U.S. was different from El Paso. Different because Mexicans were treated as a lower class of people North of the border.
Today it’s hard to think of the Texas-Mexico Border as anything but a dirty and dangerous place that should be avoided. I am glad I lived there at a time when it was an exciting and fun place to live. I would like to share a few of the memories from my youth in hopes that those who read these words will have a more accurate picture of the way things were back then, and maybe understand why some of us older guys become a bit melancholy when we talk about occurrences, encounters and happenings that took place south of the border, half a century ago.
One of the most interesting experiences I had on the border began one spring night in 1966 at a Mexican dance club. That night I became friends with a señorita who was seven years older than I. She was twenty-six and I was nineteen.
This chapter in my llife began on a Friday night. I had worked late, so I was ready for some fun. I parked my motorcycle on the American side of the border and walked a block to the bridge where I dropped three pennies in the slot that unlocked the turnstiles. I pushed the top revolving bar forward and as the following bar hit me in the butt nudging me forward and south across the Santa Fe Street Bridge. I allowed a group of soldiers from Fort Bliss to pass me and stopped at a familiar place where lights shined down near the middle of the river. Below I saw a half dozen or so Mexican kids wading in the muddy water holding long sticks with cardboard cones attached to the tops. They were watching and waiting for me to throw some change over the side of the bridge so they could compete for the coins by trying to catch them in their baskets. I was in the habit of letting change accumulate in my pockets during the week so I would have plenty of coins to throw to the kids who laughed at tried to catch them.
At the south end of the bridge I began to hear the chatter of people who worked the streets trying to make a few bucks off the tourists and visitors. Prostitution was legal in Juarez so, the GIs in basic training at Fort Bliss were easy targets—they were young, horny guys with money; determined to get laid. It was fun to listen to the different pitches from taxi drivers, like: “You wanna go see the girls?” “You want to meet my seestor; Let’s go see the donkey show!.” I would be willing to bet that when most those guys got back to the barracks the only load they were relieved of was their cash.
My first stop was The Lobby Club where Long John Hunter was playing his unique style of blues guitar. Before I could make my way to the bar, a fight broke out and the music stopped. I wheeled around and headed back out the door because the police were never far from The Lobby and I had no desire to spend a night in the Juarez jail. I continued to walk south in the cool evening air which was spiked with the smell of manteca which poured out of cafes and corner taco venders. I was getting tired and thirsty so, I decided to stop at the Kentucky Club.
“¿Como estas Lorenzo? Una Carta por favor.”
“Ahora mismo Gabacho. ¿Qué paso?”
“What’s a Gabacho, Larry?”
“It means you are American. Gabacho borracho.”
After I sat visiting with the bartenders and other patrons for a while, I began to relax and feel at ease. Juanito, the little bolero, came in and did a great job shining my boots. It was a pleasure to watch him work, just as it was a pleasure to watch the bartenders, the taxi drivers—they all took pride in doing their jobs well.
It may have been the beer or it may have been the company but, and an hour past before I remembered I was supposed to be headed to Fred’s Derby Bar, but that just no longer seemed like a fun thing to do. People from work and school would be there talking loudly, gossiping and trying to impress one another. I wasn’t in the mood for all that, so I stayed a while longer and drank some more beer. After all, Mexico was an escape for me; a place to go and leave the burdens of the other world behind; an arena wherein my insatiable curiosity pushed me to actively pursue the truth. It was like being at a masquerade party disguised as myself.
When I decided to leave I headed for the Noa Noa. I hadn’t been there for over a month and usually enjoyed drinking and dancing with the girls who hung out there. They practiced speaking English and I practiced Spanish. They were a lot of fun and always eager to talk and joke. It amazed me how genuine and full of life those young ladies were compared to American girls. I think the Mexican girls enjoyed the good times more because they had also seen hard times. They didn’t take any joys of life for granted and were thankful for being away from the poverty they had lived in as children.
When I walked into the Noa Noa I was greeted with smiles and abrazos as I joined Marta and Maria at their table. That’s when Rosa caught my eye for the first time. She was wearing a short skirt and a halter top and carried a red Tecate tray with drinks on it. What a pretty girl. The other two girls must have noticed me staring because they finally introduced me to Rosa A few minutes later, while I was dancing with Marta she told me Rosa was from a small village named Magdalena which was a three day walk from Nogales. She had come to the border for a better life.
Just then I heard a girl singing and when I turned to look I was surprised to see Rosa on the stage. Her appearance was a lot more pleasant than her voice, so she still got plenty of tips.
I purposely paid little attention to Rosa, but she took every opportunity to stop and talk to me. At 2:00 AM Rosa surprised me with an invitation to join her for desayuno. I agreed and after we ate I walked her to her apartment. Rosa invited me in and we talked and laughed until the sun came up. She asked me how many girl friends I had and I told her, “Dos, dos rubias”. She laughed and asked me if I talked to them the way I was talking to her. I told her no; I couldn’t because , some how, she was different from them. When I finally had to leave Rosa gave me a key and told me I could go to her apartment any time to study or sleep or just be there waiting for her when she came home.
“¡Esta es tu casa chica también ahora joven!”
The next night I was there waiting for Rosa when she came home . We started spending as much time together as we could. Along with the fun visits there were also serious conversations about our pasts and our cultures. It was hard for Rosa to talk about parts of her past without crying but, I felt she needed to talk to someone who would listen. Some times she spoke of customs that gringos rarely hear of. In turn, I tried explaining to some of my beliefs to her.
Rosa told me of amor and how las familias had learned to survive and provide for the young and old alike because the Church and the government always took but never gave. She told me that many Mexicans left their families for Los Estados Unidos so they could work and send money home. If no work could be found in El Paso they drifted north until they found work that white people wouldn’t do. Those who feared the migra stayed in Mexico and tried to hide their weakness by calling the workers Los Pollos and criticizing them for allowing the Gringos to exploit them.
I told Rosa about the racial division in the U.S. and how violent protests had divided our country more than any time since our terrible civil war. I told her about the selective service system and why it was necessary because our country was involved in an unpopular war.
Rosa told me about humildad which was a state of mind that had imposed psychological barriers on the poor people of Mexico. Millions of people were made to feel guilty if they had ambitions that served themselves before the church. It was as though the destiny of the poor was per-ordained. She explained that the people who grouped together near the border weren’t doing so to try to find strength but, to commiserate and share their hopelessness.
I told Rosa of minority groups in my country that felt that their ancestors had been treated badly in the past and, for that reason, they were entitled to special treatment and compensation.
Rosa’s brother, Roberto Leal, often joined in our conversations. ”Beto” worked in one of the souvenir shops near the bridge. When he was too drunk or tired to ride his bicycle to his place on the outskirts of town, he slept on the floor at Rosa’s with a blanket and pillow. Beto was usually dirty, but he was interesting to talk to—at a distance.
I was becoming comfortable with staying in Juarez when I wasn’t working or going to classes in El Paso. I could see my gringo
friends at the Kentucky Club and Fred’s then visit my Mexican friends at the Noa Noa where, in April we planned a surprise party. Rosa’s twenty- seventh birthday was coming up.
The day of the party I worked until late afternoon. I rode my motorcycle across the bridge to save time but stopped on the way to the apartment and bought some roses from una vieja who sold flowers on a corner. When I finally got to Rosa’s place no one was there, so I put the vase of roses on the coffee table and headed to the party.
When I walked in the door at the Noa Noa, Beto and Rosa were dancing so I began dancing with Marta. It was obvious the drinking had started pretty early. Rosa and Beto danced together for a couple of hours then, when they had both drank themselves senseless, the three of us left and went to the apartment. When I unlocked the door I could smell the roses I’d left there but, Rosa was drunk and went straight to her bed and went to sleep. Beto and I stayed up talking for a while. He was getting pretty drunk and smelled like he’d been smoking pot. Beto started telling me that I was a good friend and then said, “Me gustas más que el marido de Rosa.”
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard and I’m sure I looked every bit as surprised as I felt. Beto said that he had wanted to tell me for months but just couldn’t. He continued to talk as he lay down and was still talking when he fell asleep. I walked over to the window and looked at Beto’s bicycle and my motorcycle chained to the fence under the street light. Instead of leaving, I took my boots off and lay down on top of the covers next to Rosa. I wanted to think about what I had just learned and say a final goodbye to Rosa in the morning.
I feel asleep then woke up to the crowing of a rooster on the street below. Beto also woke up and didn’t look at me or speak. It was obvious he felt uneasy. He got up and left without speaking and when he closed the door Rosa stirred.
“Necesito irme Rosa.”
“Rosa, necesito irme.”
“¿Porgué se va?
“A la escuela.”
“? Cuando vas a regresar?”
“Maybe never Rosa. Tu estas casada.”
As I put on my boots Rosa sat up in the bed and looked out the window. When she heard me walking toward the door she stood and began to yell at me. I turned around and saw tears in her eyes and she looked angry. Her voice got louder and she told me that I was a stupid American boy and would never understand love and marriage. She said that she had told me more than once about the different types of amor and that I was a stubborn child and would be one forever. Then she stopped and bit her lower lip and turned away. She and I both knew her anger was only a way to hide her feelings of guilt.
I calmly told her that I remembered what she had explained to me and reminded her that I had never accepted her dubious ideas about love and marriage, and if that meant I was a child, she was right and I would always be a child. I took a deep breath and walked out the door.
I went down the stairs and walked across the sandy street. The chain on my motorcycle was unlocked. Beto hadn’t bothered to lock it back after he had taken his bicycle. Rays of sunlight were beginning to illuminate the dust particles in the air. I climbed on my bike, to start it, and a lizard ran from my front wheel. A rooster darted out after the lizard into the middle of the street and nailed himself a nice breakfast.
I went east to Avenida Juarez and then north to the bridge. There was little traffic so, I pulled over to the side and took Rosa’s key from my pocket and threw it into the river below. I made it to the off campus parking lot in plenty of time to stop by the SUB for some breakfast.
After I got some chorizo and eggs I walked toward the billiard room. Bill Key was sitting at his usual table hovering over a calculus book. He was an engineering major who was very determined to be successful. He worked hard and he played hard and I respected for it.
“What’s happenin’ Dennis?”
“Just warming up and fixin’ to have a bite to eat. It was kind of chilly on that scooter this morning.”
“Did you spend the night with that girl in Juarez; the one who works at the Noa Noa?” Even though Bill never said anything directly about the situation I knew he was concerned about me spending so much time in Mexico.
“Yeah I did. But, get this, last night I found out she’s married to some GI she met in Nogales. He was stationed at Fort Huachuca then got transferred to Fort Hood so she moved to Juarez.”
“Oh crap. Are you pissed off?”
“No, not pissed. More like disappointed. She should have told me.”
“Don’t worry about it. She probably married him so she could be an American citizen or get money from him. Woman are nutty.”
“Oh, do you still want to take those big inner tubes to the river Sunday? Charlie does.”
“I sure do. It sounds like fun”.
I stayed away from the Noa Noa but still went to Juarez at least every week. I could usually find Marta, Maria or another friend to go exploring with me. I went to some cock fights and to a bull fight. They weren’t what I considered fights. It was worth seeing once but was not really appealing to me. Even with Maria there lecturing me on the real meaning of corridas, I never quite understood the whole thing. Except for the buckets of ice cold beer the whole thing was nothing but disgusting to me.
My favorite place to go was El Mercado Centro. This was the biggest and wildest place to shop in the state of Chihuahua. Bargaining was the most important skill at mercado. The principles of negecios applied here on a comfortable and fun level. I contend that the mercado was the best place in the world for a gringo to be introduced to the art of haggling over prices.
That was a busy summer. School, work and play kept us going constantly. In August, just before dove season began. Bill and I went to pick up my shotgun from a repair shop in downtown El Paso. Just before we got to the Plaza Bill said, “Hey Dennis. Look at those two good looking Mexican girls with suit cases.”
“Where?” I asked. “Oh shit Bill, that’s Rosa Leal and her friend Marta. Let’s pull over there by them.”
“Esa Rosa y Marta, ¿A donde van?”
I got out of the car and started walking toward them and when Rosa recognized me she ran to me and hugged me then explained that they had just returned from Fort Hood where she had been visiting her husband. They were going to walk home but, from where we were it had to be at least five miles to Rosa’s apartment. Bill had parked the car, walked over to the three of us, saw how cute Marta was and said, “Do y’all want a ride?” After a short discussion about the legalities of transporting Mexican girls to Mexico, we started for Juarez.
Marta wanted to be dropped off at the Noa Noa and when we got there she asked me to carry her luggage in for her. As soon as we were inside Marta turned to me and explained that she and Rosa had gone to the hospital at Fort Hood because Rosa was having complications with a pregnancy and had lost the baby. I looked at her and she shook her head. She could tell from my expression that I wondered if the baby was mine but she didn’t know.
When we got to Rosa’s place Bill said he’d wait at the Kentucky Club then took off and left me standing there. I carried Rosa’s suitcase upstairs and stayed a while. Before I left Rosa explained her views on relationships to me again, but this time with a slightly different slant. The women of Mexico had taken notice that the women in the U.S. were demanding rights and she wanted the same to happen in Mexico. All this time I was fighting an urge to kiss Rosa and stay a while. She told me that she was very glad to see me and asked me if I would start spending time with her again. I thought for a moment, then told her I would not. I then stood up and walked out the door and down the steps without even looking back at the window from where she used to watch me leave. I just walked deliberately adding to the distance between us with each step.
At first I thought I was going to cry and then I felt ashamed, then I felt nothing. I started thinking that emotions must be a curse; a tide that fills us with joy then sucks it away, leaving us standing alone on a dry and barren earth where we envy the numb, insensitive stones that bruise our feet.
I kept walking and, after a few minutes, a calmness began to fill me . I became aware that the act of doing the right thing instead of taking the easy way out had provided me with tranquility and a bit of pride. I was walking away from the past and toward a future. A future that I could influence by making good choices in the present.
When I reached the Kentucky Club, Bill was sitting at the bar drinking beer talking and talking to a bartender named Chino. He saw me and ordered two more beers then said, “That didn’t take as long as I thought. I’m glad to see she’s not with you Dennis.” He didn’t ask any questions about what went on. We just sat there and had some laughs. Then we headed across the river to get rested for another day of work and school.
A lot of stuff went on while we were growing up in the 60s: Our school, TWC, won the NCAA championship, there was The Cuban Missile Crisis, the assassinations of JFK, MLK and RFK along with the Vietnam War and the Cold War; and there was Rosa Leal. The world was changing at an exponential rate.
I left El Paso in 1969 then returned to work there for twenty one months starting in 1974. Shortly after getting settled into my job I took time to go across the bridge to Juarez. I was pleased to see there were still kids hanging out under the bridge yelling for money. I pulled a hand full of coins from my pocket and flung them over the rail just to watch the little beggars run and laugh as they scrambled to catch their share. Then I was off to find a cold glass of Carta Blanca.
My next visit was in the summer 2003. At times, I wish I hadn’t crossed the river that day. Fear filled the air and evidence of violence was obvious. There were bullet riddled walls and burned buildings.
The streets were true to my recollections and the mountains remained as reliable references for direction, so I easily found my way around the city. Conversely, the ambiance: sounds, smells and feeling were totally alien to me. The people I passed didn’t speak and when they looked in my direction they seemed to look through me as though I were a specter. I suddenly realized a truth. I was the alien particle here; a ghost from a by-gone era. The barrier between me and the present state of this decaying place became more visible to me than the tangible squalor through which I moved. I began to find comfort in the refuge of this barrier as it transformed into a tunnel through which I could return to my own, familiar, here-and-now, north of the Rio Grande.
Juarez had changed tremendously. I had been busy building a career and a family, but millions of my contemporaries had been busy building an appetite for illegal drugs. So, in the spirit of the prohibition of alcohol, Uncle Sam started a war on drugs while The Vietnam War was beginning to wind down. Today, when we watch the news on TV we are shown horrible images of Mexican border towns instead of villages in Southeast Asia. Los Pobres have made their homes in the only place they can even hope to survive. Sadly, they are being trampled to death because those “homes” happen to be in a main artery that feeds the hungry beast in the north.
___________________________________________
Dennis Sumrak
outstanding!!