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| Jesus "Chuy" Gonzales, circa 1930, Santa Monica, CA |
When I think of the 4
th
of July, of course I think about U.S. independence from England, starting with everything
I learned in school, like the signing of the Declaration of Independence in
1776, about Washington crossing the Delaware River, the street battles in Boston, up on Bunker
Hill, through Virginia, and rural New York; then, the end of the war
with England in 1812.
With other Americans, I
celebrate U.S. independence. As an army veteran, having served in combat, I
feel a deep sense of my “American-ness,” not necessarily patriotic, more
abstract, a certain sense of “being,” maybe because when one has faced the
possibility of dying on foreign shores for a country’s independence, it’s
different than just learning about it in history books, shouting “USA!” “USA!” “USA!”
or celebrating with fireworks and barbecues. Maybe it's historical. My roots on this land, which was once Mexico, go back generations.
As a descendent of
Mexicans, my other homeland, just two hours to the south, much closer, physically and mentally, than say Europe, Africa, or Asia, so I'm aware of my family’s
history, especially, when my home state, California, in 1776, was still part of
Spain, and the first Spanish-Mexican-Indian-Afro settlers were arriving and founding
missions and settlements at San Diego and San Gabriel, all the way up the coast to San Francisco. It 1820, Mexico won its independence from Spain, and this land was then Mexican territory, Alta California.
That too is my history, much
like the history of Americans whose roots go back to Africa, Europe, Asia, and the Middle East,
all of us coming from somewhere else, that is, except for native Americans,
whose roots go deeper than all others.
In some ways, for Mexicans,
like native Americans, it’s difficult to reconcile our immigrant status, since
our history has us on this land before it became the U.S. For us, the border is
an artificial line, one our ancestors have been crossing for generations, and it's hard seeing ourselves as immigrants.
Maybe, that is what it means to be an American, dualities, hyphenated social beings, whether we accept it or not. What is it to be an American? Few can define it. It’s too complex.
It isn’t a piece of paper, alone. It’s metaphysical. Cosnider a Mayan whose ancestors on this American
continent go back 2,000 years. Isn’t he or she even more American than the first Europeans whose grandparents arrived on Ellis Island in 1920?
I remembered this when I
interviewed my uncle back in 2001, after the Trade Center fell, Americans were
on a war-footing, not really sure why, or with whom, but questioning what it was to be an
American. I’d venture to say, my uncle was as American as any other American.
Read and see for yourself.
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| Chuy and Lupe Gonzales, Nine Decades an American |
Jesus "Chuy" Villalobos Gonzales
Santa Monica/Venice, CA
"At Grant School in Santa Monica, I
was a good baseball player, first base. Oh, I used to stretch to get that ball.
One day Mrs. Stratman, my teacher, who was head of the team, told me, 'Jesus,
you got to bring shoes to school.' I said, 'Mrs. Stratman, you're gonna punish
me by making me wear shoes. Okay, I won't play [baseball].' She thought about
it and let me go barefoot."
1.
I spoke to my uncle, Jesus “Chuy” Gonzales, my mother’s second oldest sibling, at his home in
Venice, just off busy Lincoln Boulevard, a mile or so from Venice Beach, where
he pruchased his first properties in the 1950s, after working as a dispatcher in Oregon during the war.
I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, and he was elated when I called
to tell him about my project interviewing elders of the WWII generation and asked about coming over to talk to him. He
was the only Gonzales sibling who, in his teens, returned to Mexico to live on
the family ranch, temporarily, in Jalisco, and he’d always enjoyed talking about his memories.
He's passed now, but at 92 years of age, when this interview took place, he still looked
spritely and told me his kids, my cousins, were annoyed with him for climbing up on the roof,
recently, to clean the gutters. He also said, proudly, the California
Department of Motor Vehicles had granted him a driver’s license for another
year, but he admitted, he rarely got behind the wheel. He trusted his own driving skills. It was others he worried about
Like his father, Nicolas, he was short, trim, and darker skin, but he always
looked much taller, dignity, I think it was. He wore casual slacks, a dressy short sleeve shirt with a
white t-shirt underneath. He spoke English, not with a Spanish accent but more
of a sing-song working-class American intonation. He slipped into Spanish,
usually to make a point or quote somebody.
He told me he arrived in the states as a child, in 1920, about six or seven
years old, the second oldest child of the seven who left their rancho, Mitic (pronounced Mee-teek), during the Mexican revolution,
to settle in the U.S., along with hundreds of thousands of Mexican regugees. His mother Eusebia was from another rancho, Las Palmas. I told him I’d recently chatted with a
man I knew as Andy, whose wife’s family owned La Talpa, a popular restaurant in
West L.A. I told Andy my family was from Mitic, my grandmother's side from Las Palmas, which is now gone. Andy said he’d come to the states from San Gaspar de
Los Reyes, a town neighboring Mitic. He said he knew Mitic well, and even
remembered Las Palmas, my grandmother’s village and thought it was still there.
My uncle was surprised. He said he’d also heard his mother’s village no
longer existed, then said he hadn’t visited the area in many years.
There had always been some question as to the name of his father’s
ranch, my older aunts called it Mi-tic, two syllables, but my mother and the younger aunts
called it Mi-ti-que, three syllables.
He said he’d heard both but heard Mitic was the more formal name.
I recently found in the book Beyond the Codices: The Nahua View of
Colonial Mexico, edited by Arthur Anderson and James Lockhart, an Indian,
Miguel Lopez, wrote a letter to the king of Spain, in 1611. Lopez, a colonized
Indian from the province of Jalostotitlan, petitioned the king to remove a
local Spanish priest, the vicar, Francisco Munoz, who, Lopez claimed, beat the
Indians, took their food, and had a lady for his personal use.
Lopez identified the village where this occurred as Mizquictlaca, a
Nahuatl word, which the Spaniards, possibly, shortened to Mizquitic, one of the
original seven indigenous villages in the province of Jalostotitlan. Later in the
letter, Lopez uses the name “Mitique" and "Mitic,” which was a second village of
the seven original Texcuexe settlements.
Whatever name the settlement used, one thing is clear, Mitic dates back
to the early seventeenth century. It must have been a well-established
community in 1611 to have a church and a vicar, unless the Vicar was visiting
from Jalos, the largest town in the province.
My uncle’s paternal grandparents, Juan
Gonzales and Micaela de Los Santos, had deep roots in Mitic. Their parents, my uncle's great-grandparents, Perfecto
Gonzales (born February of 1830) and Catalina Gonzales, are identified as
“Spanish,” while Micaela’s parents, Salvador de Los Santos and Vicenta
Villanueva de Los Santos, are identified as “Mexican,” making their descendants the first "Gonzales" mestizos.
He said, "You know, it was just a little rancho [when I lived there]
back then, but there were stores and businesses.” He added, as an afterthought,
“I heard they [he wasn’t sure whom] changed our name from Calero to Gonzales, I
think…or some name like that."
"I had never heard that. Why?" I asked.
He shrugged. "It wasn't unusual in those days," he said.
"So, all this time the family thinks they are really
Gonzales but could have been Calero?"
“It might have been a long time ago.”
Before the Revolution of 1910, by all accounts, the Gonzales family
of Mitic had lived relatively well, ranchers and farmers, owners of large
tracts of land, a sign of wealth in rural Mexico. He said, “Today, it’s almost all gone,
just a few ranches.”
I reminded him of the time I called him in 1992, from San Juan de Los Lagos,
asking the location of the family ranch, thinking it was a neighborhood of San Juan.
“No, Viejo,” he’d said, “it’s far from San Juan, closer to San Gaspar, maybe 45
minutes in a taxi. Our cousin, Franciso, and his family, should still be
there.”
I hopped into a taxi and headed for San Gaspar. From there, the driver,
who had never driven to Mitic, asked for directions. After a grueling half-hour
ride on a bumpy dirt road, I found Mitic and Francico Gonzales working and
operating the ranch. It wasn’t much of a ranch back then, mostly adobe and
brick houses.
I returned, again, in 2002, a few months after I’d interviewed my uncle.
Franciso had remodeled his home, added a long veranda and shaded front porch.
Adjacent to the house was a new barn, corrugated steel, large enough for
trucks, tractors, and farm equipment. All around me I heard the hum of
automatic milking machines. A row of cows stood under shaded stalls. A tractor
was parked at the edge of a field. Francisco’s teenage-daughter kept watch over
the cows.
A handsome man, probably in his early sixties, at the time, light
skin bronze from the sun, and friendly eyes, he wore a cowboy hat and jeans. He
said, “No one from the north has visited us in many years.”
He remembered visiting Santa Monica, and the American Gonzalez clan, maybe around 1965. He worked
with my uncle, Joe, who supervised a maintenance crew in a large apartment
complex in Venice, near Penmar Park. I looked over at a crumbling adobe, right above where a
small river passed. He said he kept it as a reminder of the old ranch. It was
difficult for me to imagine what life must have been like when my grandparents,
uncles, and aunts lived there.
He showed me around the property, pointing out the property lines, a vast amount of land, lush from the recent rains. I
told him how calm and beautiful the ranch appeared. After, we retired inside and talked for a while.
When it was time to leave, he removed his hat, wiped his brow, and told me how,
a few months earlier, his teenage daughter had been kidnapped.
“By whom?”
“Strangers. I guess one of them had had his eyes on her all along.”.
He said he made a few, timely, telephone calls to some very important people
in San Juan de Los Lagos. It didn’t take long before the police set up
roadblocks, apprehended the kidnappers at the state-line, and returned his
daughter.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I asked, "Didn't my grandfather kidnap
my grandmother?"
"Yes, yes I think I did hear it told that way," he said, “down
there in the river.” He pointed to the river beyond his home.
Strange how, even though there is much change in rural Mexico, some
things never change.
Before I left my uncle Chuy's house, I could tell by the tone of his voice he was pleased with my visit. He said he was
glad someone in the family was still interested in the past and how much our
family had sacrificed, and suffered, to start again in the U.S.
