A Little Bit of Everything

by Daniel Cano                                                         

Natural symmetry of river, forests, and mountains

                                                                                

          

     There was crisp chill in the morning mountain air. The sun had cleared the thousand-foot cliffs across the river. Bright rays shot through the Sequoia redwoods. Smoke rose from the campgrounds, people finishing their breakfasts. The Canyon was crowded, a lot of families, more Spanish than English hung in the air, unusual, I thought. I first came here in 1970, after surviving Uncle Sam's madness in Southeast Asia, to find answers, peace, and inspiration in nature, my neighbors, hikers, hippies, bikers, and outdoors people seeking their way, as well. 

      After breakfast, I sat in a chair, sipping one more cup of coffee before heading out on my daily hike. I had decided to come up alone, and leave behind the rush of the city, which is mostly suburbs in my part of Los Angeles. The family was busy. Besides, they don’t enjoy the long drive into the Canyon, and that’s what I like about it, the scenery during the drive, Buffalo Springfield on the CD player. Then there's the steep descent to the Canyon floor, which means only the heartiest campers make the trip. 

     Behind me I heard a metal rustling on the footpath leading to the bathrooms and wash basin. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw four women, short, dark skin, speaking Spanish, in low voices, and carrying pots and pans. I’d run into them the night before as I waited at the washbasin to cleanup my own plates after dinner. I had smiled, not sure what to say. They had returned the smile, shyly, probably careful not to stand out among the English speakers. 

     As I took a sip of my coffee, I could hear one of them say something about a brother-in-law. I looked over at them. We were aware of each other. They had to pass my campsite each time they made the trek to the bathrooms and wash basin. They slowed, their eyes straight ahead, like they wanted to speak, but unsure if they should even look my way. Who wants to look at somebody and get a cold stare, or a blank look, as if the person is saying, “I belong here and you don't”? 

     I’ve found on my trips to Mexico and Latin America’s rural towns, it’s impolite to ignore strangers, even if it’s only to say “hello”, smile, or nod. I heard an American sociologist say that among African and Mesoamerican cultures it’s important to acknowledge one’s presence; though, not so much among “Whites,” who don’t take it personally. 

     It isn’t just a matter of saying “hi,” like in other cultures, but for Africans and Indigenous Mesoamericans, acknowledging another person’s presence is like saying, “I see you. I recognize your humanity. You are somebody.” Maybe, that’s why, for as far back as I can remember, upon encountering another Chicano or Latino, or a Black, if there were no Latinos, we’d give the “nod,” you know, the quick lift of the chin, as if to say, “Orale,” or as today’s kids say, “Wassup.” That was enough. When I was in the Army, even the Cubans and Puerto Ricans understood the nod. 

     So, I turned, and I said, in Spanish, to the women, “Good morning.” Immediately, their faces brightened. They returned the greeting, smiling. I pointed to a campsite down the hill and asked if that was their spot. One of them said it was, and that they have three campsites next to each other. 

     “You must be having a party,” I said, making sure my tone was friendly. “You all seem to be enjoying yourselves.” 

     They told me they’d been coming up each year in August, for the past ten years, same date, the second week, celebrating two family members’ birthdays. Most came up from San Gabriel area, and they pick up relatives along Highway 99, those who live in the San Joaquin Valley. They asked about me, and I told them my story, the short version. 

     As they spoke, I was able to distinguish a slight difference in their Spanish accents. I told them I’d done quite a bit of traveling in Mexico and Latin America. I wanted to ask where they were from, but I didn’t want to insult them, as if saying, “I know you aren’t American.”  

     Like my own Mexican grandparents -- now passed -- who had come North a lifetime ago from Jalisco's highland, they never learned English fluently, just like the early Irish, Italians, and Poles. I had no idea how long the women might have been here, or if they were Americans. When I finally got around to asking about “their country,” they looked at each other and broke out into serious chuckling. Finally, one answered that she was Mexican and had come from Oaxaca. She pointed to the woman next to her and said, this was her sister-in-law, who was from El Salvador. The last two women said they’d married into the family, but they were from Guatemala. They laughed, clearly enjoying themselves. “Well, our children, are a little bit of everything.” 

     The four women had been in the U.S. more than twenty years, and their children had graduated from American high schools and were now in college or working. So, like many immigrants arriving in the U.S. after 1980, their kids, were the new wave of immigrants, sons and daughters, who didn’t have just one identity. Culturally, they were a blend of various nationalities, Mixtec, Zapotec, Mexican, Salvadoran, and Guatemalan, but they were, typically, American kids, skateboards, long hair, cowboy hats and boots, Nikes, jeans and t-shirts, heavy metal, banda, baseball, football, and soccer. 

     At the time, I had been teaching English and Chicano Literature at an upper crust community college near the shores of the Pacific. Where for years, it had been a predominantly upper-class “White” J.C., by the year 2010, the student population was pushing 40% Latino. (Today, it’s well about 50%.) 

     The majority of my students were the children of Mexican immigrants, with the numbers of Central Americans increasing, fast, each year. What surprised me was that many of the Mexican students who had been born in the states didn’t identify as Chicano, and not for any political reason. The name just didn’t fit them, or it made no difference to them. Those who did identify as Chicano were usually activists in high school and mentored by a teacher. Overall, it seemed this new harvest of students was listening to Chalino Sanchez and Rockabilly, as well as Iron Maiden and Metallica. 

     There was still a MEChA on campus but dwindling in numbers. There were also two other “Latino” clubs, students who said they had goals different than MEChA’s. One club said their goal was to provide more academic support for members, while the other group said its goals were more social, parties to make students feel welcome. 

     Among Chicano/Latino faculty, there had been discussions about changing the name of the Chicano courses to Mexican American or Latino Studies, History, Sociology, Art, and Literature, etc., to be more inclusive. “Latino” students from Central America said they didn’t see themselves represented in the Chicano curriculum. It got to the point where the campus stopped offering some “Chicano” oriented classes because of low enrollment. Me? I started teaching Ethnic Literature, which opened my eyes to a different view of the United States cultural landscape, and a different professor took over Chicano Literature class. 

     As I walked along the banks of the King’s River where bathers had staked their claim, I couldn’t help but notice raza, in large numbers, had discovered the Canyon. English and Spanish mixed together. White and brown kids jumped from a large boulder into the frigid river, everyone sitting side by side, eating and enjoying nature. I’d hear Toby’s Keith’s country twang on one side, and Los Tigres coming from another direction, neither competing but respecting boundaries, and sharing space. 

     Later that evening, the women returned, pots and pans in hand. One carried a carton of eggs. She said they were leaving early the next morning. As if we were friends, she offered me the eggs. Usually, this would be awkward for me, but since we had been talking, I took the offering, not wanting them to be embarrassed. I’m sure it took courage for them to even ask. Two days ago, we were complete strangers. Now, here we were sharing food, even better than a simple nod.