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Epimenio

Epigmenio, c. 1924

Epimenio, c. 1924

Today marks the 120th anniversary of the birth of my paternal grandfather, Epimenio De La Garza.  That’s a name you don’t hear too often, if not at all.  But, his moniker is as rare as the man was himself.  I was a little more than five years old when he died in February 1969, but I can still remember him rather clearly.  He had a sharply angular face with blazing green eyes and a booming voice.  He’s been gone for more than four decades now, but his memory lingers strongly and proudly in my father’s family.

Epimenio was born in Eagle Pass, Texas (formerly El Paso de Águila); a city on the Mexican border.  He was a descendant of some of the first Spanish settlers who arrived in the 1580s.  The region was then known as Coahuila y Tejas, Nueva España, or New Spain.  By the time of Epimenio’s birth, the De La Garza clan had carved a unique place in the state’s history.  Unique, albeit separate from the traditional or accepted version of the grand saga of Texas.

The third of nine children, Epimenio left school after the second grade – only because he had the audacity to correct a math teacher in front of the class.  He was a carpenter by trade, so exacting in his craft he could draw a straight line on a sheet of paper without a ruler.  After he and my grandmother, Francisca, wed in 1924, they immediately started a family, and Epimenio developed his construction and carpentry business.  Like most men of his generation, emotional strength and personal pride were uncompromising attributes.  In the late 1920s, my grandparents and their two oldest children moved to Dallas where Epimenio quickly established a solid reputation as an extraordinary carpenter.  One day, while my grandfather and his crew built concession booths at the State Fair of Texas, an Anglo man commented on Epimenio’s heavy Spanish accent.  My grandfather – as fair-colored as the Anglo man – said he had been hired to work there and, picking up a sledgehammer, added, “What are you going to do about it, goddmanit?”

He and his crew built many of warehouses on the southern edge of downtown Dallas, an area now known as Deep Ellum; hoisting massive steel beams onto their shoulders.  Today, many of those warehouses still stand; converted to chic loft and studio apartments for the city’s artistic crowd.  He often did work on the stately mansions of Dallas’ Highland Park and Swiss Avenue neighborhoods; wealthy enclaves where Hispanics and Negroes could labor, but not live.  Shortly after World War II, Epimenio attempted to purchase a large home in Highland Park, but was denied simply because he and his family were “Mexicans.”  But, they definitely liked his carpentry skills.  In the mid-1950s, he purchased a large swath of land in North Dallas and designed and built a home for his family; a large red-brick structure where he lived out his final years.

Epimenio’s tendency towards practicality had no limits.  In the 1930s, he and another man were patching up the roof of St. Ann’s Catholic school on the edge of downtown Dallas, when the local bishop arrived.  The other man set down his hammer and knelt onto the sharply-slanted roof; bowing in blind reverence to the bishop’s presence.  Epimenio scolded him for his seeming idolatry.  “You’re going to roll off that roof and splatter onto the ground,” he said.  My grandfather also refused to kiss the hand of any Catholic official, as was the tradition back then; a response that always upset my devoutly religious grandmother.  But, Epigmenio remained undeterred.  “I’ll kiss the hand of Jesus, but I kiss the hand of no man.”

My paternal grandparents, 1941

My paternal grandparents, 1941

Epimenio began smoking as a boy, a common practice among his generation.  By his late 50s, however, he’d developed lung cancer.  Back then, such a diagnosis was a virtual death sentence.  But, he immediately quit smoking and, in 1952, he opted to have that lung removed.  At the same time, England’s King George VI had a similar surgery at the same time.  In a curious twist of fate, the doctors who operated on my grandfather in Dallas had attended medical school with the doctors who operated on King George.  George died, but Epimenio survived – and lived for another 17 years.

The day before my grandfather’s funeral, I asked my father to take me to the local grocery store.  I wanted to get something for my grandfather.  Not knowing what else to do, my father acceded and led me to the store; whereupon I led him up and down the cookie aisle, searching for a particular brand.  Finally, I found it – whatever it was – as neither my father nor I recall the product.  But, he told me later he had never seen it before – and has not seen it since.  When we visited the funeral home, I placed the package of cookies in my grandfather’s coffin and told him to enjoy them “because they don’t have these in Heaven.”

After we arrived back home, my father rushed into his bedroom and closed the door, while I remained in the front room with my mother.  She went into the bedroom after a few moments, and I could hear my parents talking.  My father had been crying; something I didn’t think, at the time, fathers did.  I still don’t know what the significance is surrounding those cookies, but I suppose it was just the mere innocence of a child coping with something new and thoroughly unknown.

I often wonder – amidst my daily struggles of dealing with personal finances and aging parents – if lessons from my grandfather’s life could impose any meaning on me.  Am I the kind of man that my grandfather was?  It’s one of those eternal questions; contemplating if your ancestors would be proud of you.

One Sunday night in April 2004, I severely sprained my left ankle while walking my dog; rotating it as far it could go without breaking it.  I lay on the cool sidewalk for a minute, excruciating pain swamping my body, before I forced myself back up.  The dog – just a puppy, really – still had to do his business.  I finally visited a local hospital early the next morning, both my ankle and foot swollen.  Then, I hobbled into work – and recalled another incident my father had told me about years earlier.

In one of those only-in-the-old-days situations, Epimenio was working on a house across the street from the family doctor’s house, when he severely sprained an ankle.  The old doctor had witnessed the accident and told my grandfather to come into his home, which doubled as his office.  My grandfather declined the offer and ordered his men to dig a hole in the dirt roughly the size of his foot.  He then planted the injured extremity into the hole and literally wrenched it back into place.  “See!” he called out to the doctor after a few minutes.  “Saved myself three dollars!”

Three dollars is what it cost me to park in downtown Dallas nine years ago.  But, like my grandfather, I had to get to work.  And, I knew – like my grandfather, I suppose – that life must continue.

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Hellacious Hooligans

drunk-people-04

I don’t watch much reality TV, as in the “American Idol” or “Survivor” type of program.  I still think “Survivor” is one of the stupidest shows American television has ever produced.  Like “The Simpsons,” I have absolutely no idea why it’s so popular.  I generally prefer real reality TV, such as “The First 48” or “A Haunting.”  I love the former because it shows the good side of police work; when our tax dollars pay off, and law enforcement catches real criminals instead of those with expired inspection stickers.  But, I enjoy the latter series because I know now my strange visions aren’t the result of brain cells dying off after a lifetime of rum consumption.

Occasionally, though, I find myself stepping into the ‘Dark Side,’ which for me, is that part of our universe where intelligentsia has the same prevalence as a unicorn.  That’s when I catch a glimpse of such gems as “Jersey Shore,” “Mob Wives,” or “Basketball Wives.”  Watching these programs makes me feel like a Nobel laureate in economics, but it also makes me sad.  American television has come to this?  It’s been like that for a while.

I remember when MTV came out with their “Real World” series in 1992.  Of course, I can remember when the ‘M’ in MTV still meant music and not morons.  But, that show was deemed ‘reality’ and became an instant pop culture phenomenon.  It didn’t seem to matter that the network just cobbled together a batch of 20-somethings with no real aim in life and threw them into a faux household to see how quickly they didn’t get along.  If I wanted to see that, I’d just go to work.  I didn’t watch that show much either.  But, it was always for the same reason: my mind was tired and I needed something that – while entertaining – still didn’t require much energy.

A few years ago I tolerated one entire episode of “Jersey Shore,” just to see what all the hype was about; the same way I did with “Survivor” in the fall of 2000.  I came away with the same question: why?  Why is this show so popular?  Is it because most people are like me in that they need something just to make them laugh?  I hope so because, if people watch this show out of envy, I’m more eager to see that colony built on Mars than ever before.  After that one stint of “Jersey Shore,” I still didn’t know what the hell was going on.  Aside from the language barrier (I don’t speak Jersey trash), I only knew these people were pissed off at one another for some minuscule reason and had to get drunk to help them cope – which only made them madder and louder.

On a recent episode of “Mob Wives,” the title characters gathered for a Botox party.  Tupperware, I can understand.  But, Botox?  You know people have too much time and money on their hands when they get together to stick needles into one another while holding glasses of champagne.  As the pack of heifers assembled, I felt they looked like rejects from the ‘Miss (Gay) America’ pageant.  I thought at first, is this really “Mob Wives,” or ‘Home for Retired Porn Queens’?  As usual – as in “Survivor” and “Jersey Shore” – one of the fools in the crowd got pissed off at someone else, and soon everyone was arguing.  And, as usual, they were imbibing in alcohol.

I’m certain “Jersey Shore” and “Mob Wives” make most Italian-Americans think, ‘Forty years after “The Godfather” and we’re still dealing with this crap?!’  I have the same reaction when I see Geraldo Rivera discussing immigration reform as if it’s the only thing Hispanics have to worry about.  I’m just waiting for VH1 to come out with something like, ‘Latinos of East Dallas’ where the cast muddles through Tex-Mex linguistics while arguing if they should shop at Wal-Mart or splurge and head to Target.

Black women must feel the same about “Basketball Wives.”  In one episode, the cluster of perfectly-coiffed mavens met at a chic lounge to discuss – something.  I have no idea what because – as expected – they started screaming at one another.  And then, cocktail glasses and acrylic nails went airborne.  And then, big burly male security guards who surely got a good laugh (and maybe a quick orgasm) out of the feline fiasco swept in to scoop up the girls and dump their scrawny asses onto the street outside.  Their designer attire and spike heels with 6-figure price tags prove what my grandfather used to say: you can dress a donkey up as a thoroughbred horse, but it’s still a jackass.

If you’ll notice, these shows all have at least two things in common: shouting and alcohol.  Bad attitudes and prescription drugs also figure prominently into the mix, but screaming and booze are the central elements.  I guess these shows wouldn’t be popular if their subject matters weren’t intoxicated and wrapped up in a perpetual state of anger.  Maybe Americans like it so much because such antics mirror their own lives.  Hm…maybe that’s why I kind of like them, too.

Damnit!  Why don’t I realize these things before I starting writing?  Oh, well.  Time to sit down with a glass of wine and a “National Geographic.”  Hey!  At least I read!

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An Ensler Prayer

broken-heart

As part of her “One Billion Rising” movement – which brings much-needed global attention to the issue of domestic violence – feminist activist, author and film documentarian Eve Ensler wants everyone to think about Valentine’s Day more in terms of vicious behavior than love and romanticism.  In fact, she apparently feels Valentine’s Day should focus exclusively on domestic violence, a serious and ongoing dilemma that affects countless numbers of people.  Notice I said ‘people.’  Ensler says ‘women.’  Like most liberal extremists, Ensler perpetuates the myth that domestic violence impacts only those of the female persuasion and – more importantly – declares that, by mere virtue of our gender, males are inclined to inflict it upon those females; as if it’s some instinctive behavior that must be removed like tonsils.  I’ve heard that claim for years, and it still pisses me off.

Ensler is perhaps best known for her play “The Vagina Monologues,” which she first presented in 1996 in an off-Broadway theatre.  The plot is simple: women openly and unabashedly discuss their genitalia.  Everything from childbirth to rape is mentioned, as the characters hope to remove the stigma surrounding the female physique.  It was bold and innovative and it won her a slew of awards, including an Obie.

The success and popularity of “The Vagina Monologues” led Ensler to create “V Day,” a global activist movement to halt violence against women and girls that Ensler launched on Valentine’s Day 1998.  It addresses such matters as honor killings, female circumcision and sex slavery; issues that some small-brained people wish would just go away.

I understand the severity and complexity of domestic violence.  I know millions of women every year, around the world, suffer through it.  Ensler tries to give a voice to them.  But, domestic violence isn’t so clear-cut; it doesn’t follow conveniently prescribed lines – racial, cultural, religious and not even gender.  As shocking – and politically incorrect – as it may be, men are victims of domestic violence.  So, are infants and children.  But, there are really no special laws to protect those of us who aren’t adult females.  Now, Ensler is trying to hijack Valentine’s Day and morph it into a fashionable avenue towards violent relationships.  Again, the focus is on women as victims.

As part of V Day 2013, Ensler – the daughter of a Jewish father and a Christian mother – has composed a “Man’s Prayer,” in which she invites men “whose confidence comes from the depth of my giving/who understands that vulnerability is my greatest strength/who creates space rather than dominates it/who appreciates listening more than knowing/who seeks kindness over control/who cries when the grief is too much/who refuses the slap, the gun, the choke, the insult, the punch.”  It concludes, “May I cherish, respect, and love my mother.  May the resonance of that love translate into loving all women and all living things.”

‘All living things’?

I guess that means infants, children and maybe even us men.  For the record, I’m not a ‘thing.’  Yes, I have a penis, but I’m still not a ‘thing.’  Neither is anyone else.

I’ve known more than a few victims of domestic violence.  I have a cousin on my mother’s side whose first husband broke both sides of her jaw with a heavy-duty flashlight, while she held their baby in her arms.  On my father’s side, another cousin only survived her violent first husband when her father and brother beat the crap out of him and shoved a gun in his mouth.  One of my father’s sisters-in-law used to beat her three kids with whatever instrument in the house was available – until her husband (my father’s oldest brother) stopped her.  Ah!  But, would this latter incident constitute domestic violence?  Or, just child abuse?  Who makes these definitions?

Just after one in the morning on a cold Monday in January 1999, I heard a man yelling at some females in a neighboring unit of my North Dallas apartment complex.  I could tell a young girl was among them.  Moments later, the entire group was in the parking lot just outside my bedroom window.  Initially, I mistook a popping sound for gunshots.  But, when I peered through the blinds, I realized the man had one of the women on the ground, smacking her hard.  My call to 911 wouldn’t go through.  Shirtless and barefoot, I tore out of my apartment in a pair of sweat pants and kicked the man in the face.  I think my actions startled him more than they hurt him.  I looked at the woman, as she lay contorted on the cold, wet asphalt; her face swollen and blood-smeared.  I grabbed her and forced her to her feet.  Another woman had stood just outside my door with the young girl who could have been no more than 10.  I caught a glimpse of that girl’s face; the look of absolute terror burned into my mind.  The other woman rushed forward and grabbed the first one; both stumbling back beneath the breezeway.  The man looked as if he was about to kill me.  But, just as the sound of sirens whirled in the distance, another young man arrived beside me, a pistol in his hand, pointed squarely at the thug.  But, my thoughts were about that little girl and the horrified look on her face.  Was that brute her father?  What was going through her mind?  I never saw her or the others again.  But, I wanted to tell the girl that we’re not all like the guy who bloodied that woman’s face.  Most of us men aren’t anywhere near like that.  I wanted to tell her that so badly, but I never got the chance.

Domestic violence against adult males is another one of those dirty little family secrets.  Yet, if the subject is broached, it’s met with scorn; almost mockery.  People seem to think if men are victims of violence at the hands of their female partners, then they must have done something to deserve it – the way violence against women used to be viewed.

Ensler’s sense of what’s appropriate and inappropriate bears a hypocritical twist.  An original version of “The Vagina Monologues” included a section entitled “The Little Coochie Snorcher that Could” where a 24-year-old woman imbues a 13-year-old girl with alcohol and then has sex with her.  At the section’s conclusion, the girl – now an adult – reminisces, “If it was rape, it was good rape.”  ‘Good rape’?  You’d think Ensler was a Republican.  Protests forced Ensler to remove that particular passage.

My concern is to stop violence altogether – against everyone, not just adult females.  Whenever I’ve mentioned this, people give me that ‘what-the-fuck’ dazed and confused look; as if I’d just said, ‘I’m flying to Mars next week; want to come with me?’  In other words, it’s apparently not possible – or practical – to stop all violence.  Therefore, if we must have violence, it should be against males.  For example, Ensler rants about so-called female circumcision in remote parts of the uncivilized world, but of course, ignores the reality of male circumcision in the U.S. and other developed nations.  It doesn’t seem to matter that every year in this country, between 100 and 200 infant and toddler boys die from the effects of circumcision, or from botched procedures.  It also doesn’t seem to matter that, of the estimated 3 million – 4 million children physically abused in this country every year, approximately 65% are boys.  No, such details are of no concern to Ensler; she only wants to end that violence which affects the females of the species.  So, does much of the rest of the ‘enlightened’ world.  Since I advocate stopping all forms of violence against humanity, I guess Ensler and her minions would consider me a Neanderthal.  I’ve been called worst.

Here’s another cold fact: domestic violence will never be eradicated.  Humans are imperfect and someone somewhere will feel the ungodly need to beat the person they supposedly love.  We can, however, stop hiding it like a secret lover; we can prosecute perpetrators and make victims realize it’s not their fault.  We can also stop making rash accusations against entire groups of people and – more importantly – stop categorizing violence by saying ‘x’ is worst than ‘y’ because ‘z’ is the end result.

Valentine’s Day is one thing, and domestic violence is another.  They’re not interchangeable elements.  People who inflict physical or emotional harm on others aren’t filled with romanticism or love.  They’re filled with hate – and perhaps insecurity.  Personally, I won’t be celebrating Valentine’s Day because I have no romantic interest.  But, I know plenty of men who do – married and unmarried.  And, they don’t need a self-righteous playwright to tell them violence is wrong.  Contrary to feminist theology, we men just sort of know that – instinctively.

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Fight Like a Girl

Two Greek female gladiators, Amazonia and Achillea.

Two Greek female gladiators, Amazonia and Achillea.

For centuries, tales of female warriors known in Greek mythology as “Amazons” invoked lurid images of voluptuous, scantily-clad women parading into battle aloft white horses.  Such stories always made for more than a few good sexual fantasies and even some tawdry jokes.  Then, in 1997, archaeologists excavating in Pokrovka, Russia, near the Kazakhstan border, discovered 50 ancient burial mounds containing female skeletons – and weapons.  Among the paraphernalia, were iron swords, daggers and bronze arrowheads.  One of the skeletons in Pokrovka was that of a young girl, perhaps 13 or 14; proving that, in a world where life spans were short and sometimes fragile, people trained early to defend themselves.  As often happens in human history, legends contain some measure of truth.  And, in the region once known as Mesopotamia, female warriors weren’t mythical figures, like mermaids or fairies.  They were genuine members of their respective societies; committed, battle-hardened individuals who fought for their own freedom and that of their communities.

As controversy swirls around the new U.S. Defense Department policy to allow women into combat, I have to wonder if female warriors of the past are laughing; perhaps saying, ‘It’s about time!’  Predictably, social conservatives have reacted with horror.  Already upset that gays and lesbians are allowed to serve openly in the U.S. military, they’re now howling in greater protest at the thought of women squatting in the proverbial trenches alongside the men.  Heather MacDonald of the National Review surmised that the Pentagon has bowed to “feminism’s insatiable and narcissistic drive for absolute official equality between the sexes.”

Bryan Fischer of Renew America stated, rather chivalrously, “we want to live in a nation where we expect men to use their strength to protect the women in their world, not the other way round.”  He then added, “God simply did not design women to have the same size, upper body strength, or stamina as men.  It’s just plain stupid to ignore this biological fact of nature.”

Ryan Smith, a former Marine who now practices law, also views the matter from a physiological perspective.  “Many Marines developed dysentery from the complete lack of sanitary conditions,” he wrote in the Wall Street Journal, describing his experiences about the 2003 invasion of Iraq.  “When an uncontrollable urge hit a Marine, he would be forced to stand, as best he could, hold an MRE bag up to his rear, and defecate inches from his seated comrade’s face.”

Montana State Representative Ryan Zinke, a former Navy SEAL, told “Newsmax,” “This is not a Hollywood movie.  This has real consequences that are going to affect our sons and daughters whose lives are on the line.”  Zinke concedes that, during his lengthy military tenure, he encountered “women operatives who were very, very good.”

Elaine Donnelly, president and founder of the Center for Military Readiness, apparently speaks for all military women.  In a CNN interview she declared, “It’s the kind of a position that military women, in the majority, don’t want to have.  They don’t want to be treated exactly like men.”  In almost the same breath, however, Donnelly admits that, after more than a decade of war, “we’ve seen women do remarkable things.”

For these folks, the world as they have known it has come to an end.  They must be sad.  But, they must also be ignorant of world history, and the role women have played in national conflicts.  Many people, however, seem to view the concept of female warriors as a late 20th century anomaly; that, if women have served in a truly military fashion, it’s only been by chance or accident, or in times of absolute necessity, such as World War II.  Conservatives begrudge the overall presence of women in the military as the result of aggressive liberal ideology, social experimentation gone awry, and feminism run wild; they see it as an omen, a portent to an unstable American society; total collapse, they say, looms on the horizon.  Liberals, on the other hand, regard it as the culmination of decades of hard work and aggressive civil action; women, they declare, have finally arrived at the gates of freedom and opportunity within the military-industrial complex.

They’re all wrong.  To say that women have never held prominent positions in military history is tantamount to saying that men have never helped to raise children.  Human history isn’t so clear-cut.  People are looking at it from the prism of their contemporary opinions.

The United States alone has a long history of women in the military, starting with the American Revolutionary War.  Women, of course, served in the traditional roles of cooks and nurses, but there were a handful who jumped into the fray of battle; either by chance or disguising themselves as men.  On that front, many social conservatives are correct.  But, one has to go further back, before the U.S. came into existence, and understand the truth about “Amazonian” women.

While the “Helen of Troy” story is filled with glorious fantastical imagery, the Amazon warrior isn’t mythical.  In ancient Greece, women often trained alongside men.  They became skilled with horses, various weapons and even hand-to-hand combat.  They weren’t scantily-clad vixens on horseback; they were bruised and battered combatants who could eviscerate their enemies with a sword or an axe.

In “Warrior Queens Among the Classic Maya,” Kathryn Reese-Taylor notes that the “importance of women in Maya society is no longer in question.”  As part of one of the most scientifically and technology-advanced societies of ancient America, Mayan women held leadership positions, often ruling kingdoms of their own.  That certainly required some military knowledge and expertise, writes Reese-Taylor, and not just from a purely objective standpoint.  Archaeological evidence from the Late Classic Period (A.D. 600 – 800) proves women were prominent figures in the culture’s military.  Analyses of Mayan stone inscriptions revealed that both women and men carried the moniker of “kaloomte,” a high-ranking title in Mayan society that denoted accomplishments in political and military circles.

Mayan “Lady Snake Lord.”

Mayan “Lady Snake Lord.”

The Mayans’ counterparts, the Aztecs, also viewed women as equal to men.  In fact, as a whole, Aztec culture considered all citizens equally valuable to society; everyone, from the elite to the commoners, had to work to sustain and protect their communities.  It was, after all, a warrior culture, which ultimately led to its collapse when Europeans arrived (as the Aztecs had created so many enemies among surrounding tribes).  The Aztecs even considered childbirth to be a form of military combat, and pregnant women were viewed with the same high regard as male warriors.  Dying in childbirth was akin to dying in battle.

As Europeans began to traverse the Western Hemisphere, they were surprised – almost amused – to see that Native American women weren’t subservient to their male counterparts.  From the Iroquois in the Northeast to the Zuni Pueblo in the Southwest, women in most Native American communities held equal sway in politics and trade; they farmed and hunted with the men; and naturally, they served as warriors.  For most Native Americans, their history has been written by the Europeans; any famous Native Americans, therefore, were often closely associated with a person of European extraction.  Moreover, Europeans viewed war as a man’s duty, and any female Native American fighter became invisible.  Consequently, the identities of many American Indian women on the battlefront have been lost.  But, there are a handful of exceptions, such as Fallen Leaf, a member of the Crow Nation; Running Eagle, a Blackfoot; and Tashenamani (“Moving Robe”), a Lakota warrior who fought George Armstrong Custer in Montana in the 1876 “Battle of the Greasy Grass.”

Europeans were equally surprised at the high status of women in West Africa, especially their military prowess.  Queen Amina of Hausaland is among the most legendary.  As in Greek lore, there are some assertions Amina’s accomplishments are mere folklore.  But, there are reliable sources that substantiate her existence.  Amina’s mother, Bakwa Turunku, was another powerful queen and fierce warrior who reigned in the Hausa state of Zazzau during the late 15th century.  Bakwa Turunku is credited for establishing a new capital for Zazzau when the water supply in the former capital of Turunku was nearly depleted.  The new capital was named Zaria after her second daughter.  By the time Amina assumed power, the entire state of Zazzau had adopted the name Zaria.  Amina came to power around 1536 and helped to expand her kingdom by conquering surrounding states.

Another prominent African female ruler, Yaa Asantewaa, was the queen mother in the Edweso tribe of the Asante, or Ashanti.  As part of their continuing efforts to keep indigenous Africans under control, the British Empire removed the Ashanti king, Prempeh I, in 1896.  They installed their own ruler, a Briton, whom the Ashanti refused to recognize.  Yaa Asantewaa almost immediately began developing plans for a coup to overthrow the British.  In March of 1900, the Ashanti attacked the British fort at Kumasi; the ensuing conflict lasted over three months.  The British succeeded in regaining control and capturing Yaa Asantewaa.  They exiled her to the Seychelles where she died in 1924.  Unrepentant, she reportedly spat in the faces of the British military officials as they took her prisoner.

Yaa Asantewaa in an undated photograph wearing “batakarikese,” or ceremonial war dress.

Yaa Asantewaa in an undated photograph wearing “batakarikese,” or ceremonial war dress.

Asian history is also replete with female warriors.  Among them is Tomoe Gozen who lived in Japan in the 12th century A.D. and fought during the Genpei War.  Skilled in horse-riding, archery and with swords, she is known to have killed more than a few opponents.  Japanese women could attain the coveted role of samurai, the legendary warriors of feudal Japan.

In China, Fu Hao was the wife of Emperor Wu Ding of the Shang Dynasty; they lived around the 13th century B.C.  Hao’s battlefield exploits are inscribed on about 200 of the approximately 17,000 turtle shells unearthed in 1976 in Henan Province.  She also has the distinction of resting in her own tomb, instead of beside her husband, as was the cultural tradition in feudal China.

Xun Guan was only 13 years old when she joined her father, Xun Song, the governor of Xiangyang in Western China, in a battle to protect the state from an internal revolt led by one of Xun Song’s own officials.  Xun Guan led a group of warriors out of the city at night and successfully attacked the enemy.  Her father eventually joined the group to fortify the defense and saved the city.

Princess Pingyang is the only woman in China’s feudal history to have a military funeral.  She lived at the end of the Tang Dynasty where life had become unbearable for many local citizens.  In A.D. 617, Pingyang joined her father, Li Yuan, when he decided to overthrow the ruling government.  Officials learned of his plans and ordered Li Yuan and his family to be arrested.  He managed to escape capture, as did Pingyang and her husband, Chai Shao.  Pingyang returned to Huxian County and sold some land she owned to raised money for the planned siege.  She also recruited and trained hundreds of volunteers, finally leading her troops – known as the “Army of Lady Li” – to victory in a number of battles.  Pingyang’s forces were a major factor in crushing the remaining Sui Dynasty military.

Other Asian women such as India’s Queen Vishpala and China’s Hua Mulan, bear the same mythological aura as the Greek Amazons.  But, while those particular individuals may just be purely legendary, it’s more likely they’re composites of actual women who lived and died the warrior lifestyle.

Princess Pingyang of China’s Tang Dynasty.

Princess Pingyang of China’s Tang Dynasty.

European history has its own gallery of exceptional female warriors.  Queen Boudicca ruled the Iceni tribe of Britain during the 1st century A.D.  The Iceni had managed to retain their territory near present-day Norfolk after the Romans invaded in A.D. 55.  Following the death of her husband, King Prasutagus, died in A.D. 60, Boudicca assumed leadership of the Iceni.  But, the Roman government didn’t honor female rulers and attempted to confiscate the family’s wealth and property.  When Boudicca resisted, she was captured and flogged in public.  Her two daughters also were captured and subsequently raped.  Boudicca and her daughters recuperated and the Queen plotted retaliation.  She rallied her fellow Iceni into battle and attacked Roman officials in the new settlement of Londinium (later London).  Initially, the Romans retreated, but gathered their troops and fought back.  The battle culminated in the deaths of some 80,000 Iceni.  Although defeated, Boudicca and daughters remained defiant against the Romans and poisoned themselves rather than face subjugation.

Queen Boudicca of Celtic Britain.

Queen Boudicca of Celtic Britain.

Perhaps the most famous of all medieval female combatants, Joan of Arc, was a 17-year-old peasant girl when she joined France’s Prince Charles to battle England’s King Henry VI over control of the French crown.  English troops had invaded northern France where they found an ally in John, the Duke of Burgundy.  By 1422, Charles still hadn’t been crowned king, but he wouldn’t capitulate to British rule.  In 1428, Joan – claiming she had received visions from Roman Catholic saints ordering her to lead the French overthrowing England – traveled to Vaucouleurs to ask French military leadership for permission to support Charles’ efforts.  Military officials dismissed her, and Joan returned home.  But, she remained undeterred, insisting she could help the French achieve victory.  Apparently seeing few other options, the military finally accepted Joan into their ranks.  At the time, French royalty held a more guarded, conciliatory theory in dealing with enemies, which may have led to England’s presence in France.  Joan, however, rejected that approach, opting instead for more aggressive tactics.  She had to train French conscripts not just in tactical maneuvers but to rethink their views.  In May of 1429, Joan led her troops to attack a British fortress in Saint Loup, before marching on to another in Saint Jean le Blanc.  At yet another British stronghold at Les Tourelles in Orleans, Joan was shot through the neck, but survived and rejoined her comrades.  Her resilience inspired them to continue fighting, until the British surrendered.  With England in defense mode, Charles traveled to Reims where he was crowned King Charles VII in July 1429.

Allowing women into combat here in the U.S. invariably leads to another pertinent issue: Selective Service.  Can and should women be forced into military service via the Military Selective Service Act.  Passed by Congress in 1980, the Act requires all males in the U.S. to register for military conscription within 30 days of their 18th birthday.  If they don’t, they could be fined $10,000 and imprisoned for up to 5 years.  They also will be denied federal financial aid, such Pell Grants and Stafford Loans; federal job training; and federal employment.  Men who are only sons or only children are required to register.  Even men who are mildly physically disabled (meaning they can still leave their homes under their own power) must register for the draft.  It’s the most blatant form of sexism in the U.S. this side of the death penalty.  Feminists usually scoff at the notion that women should be required to register for Selective Service; stating that women should never be forced to do anything like that.  God forbid!  Whenever I’ve brought up the subject, some women have disparagingly responded that men should have children first; that is, get pregnant.  That, of course, is not the issue, since individual women aren’t required by law to bear children.  Men, on the other hand, have no choice but to register for Selective Service, lest they be dubbed criminals.

Women in Israel are already required to serve in the military along with men.  Israeli citizens don’t have a choice.  Surrounded by cultural and political enemies, everyone in Israel is obligated to protect their nation’s sovereignty.  I feel the U.S. should adopt a similar policy; it’s perhaps the only way to even out much of the social disparities in this nation and make our leaders think twice before jumping into war, as they did in Iraq.  But, I won’t hold my breath on that one.

Social conservatives deplore the idea of women returning home in wheelchairs or body bags, as if though we’ve made our peace with men in similar circumstances.  But, if anyone doesn’t like the idea of women being killed in battle, they shouldn’t feel comfortable with the concept of men dying like that.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but this issue clearly won’t be settled easily.  While conservatives scorn a nation that deliberately sends its women into war, liberals rejoice at the concept of equality.  Regardless, both sides need to understand that women have held a place in the world’s military history long before the United States and most other nations were even born.  It’s simply indisputable.  And, anyone who fights for their freedom should never be disrespected or forgotten.

F-15 Eagle American pilots at the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson.

F-15 Eagle American pilots at the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson.

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How Do You Miss This?

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By now, you’ve surely heard the story about Manti Te’o, the Notre Dame football player who claims a girl he met on Facebook a while back never existed.  If you’ve been in a coma lately, don’t worry.  You’re not missing anything important.  But, this bizarre tale is rife with the tawdriness that only the reality TV / Internet generation could spawn.  Te’o says that he formed a relationship with a girl named “Lennay Kekua;” a union born in the pantheon of cloudy cyberspace and the hormonally-riddled loins of a lonely college boy.  Oh, Lord!  The humanity of it is already making me light-headed.

The drama unfolded in true Facebook fashion when “Lennay” supposedly endured a horrific car wreck late last summer only to learn she had inoperable leukemia.  Things allegedly took a turn for the worst when she died in September.  But, that wasn’t the only tragedy to strike the Te’o family.  The next day, Te’o’s beloved grandmother also died.  Despite the dual afflictions, Te’o managed to continue playing football successfully through the rest of the season; well enough to end up as a Heisman Trophy finalist.

But, as with most lies and fantasies, the truth eventually emerges – or at least when the drugs wear off.  I don’t know what it was in Te’o’s case, but things in his glass-domed universe began to crumble after the first of the year.  “Lennay Kekua” was a whole lot of nothingness.

Here are two things we now know for certain: first, Te’o’s grandmother did pass away last September; second, Te’o is an idiot.  The latter is based upon the sudden revelation that “Lennay” was the figment of some other clown’s twisted imagination.  There was no girl named “Lennay Kekua” and there was no car wreck, followed by an abrupt onset of leukemia.  This is particularly revolting considering that thousands of people die in this country – and across the globe – every year from both car wrecks and leukemia.  That’s not a lie, and people don’t incur cheap sexual fantasies about either dilemma.  Or, they shouldn’t.

But, this entire convoluted fiasco makes me ask two questions.

  1. How could you be in a relationship with someone you’ve never met?
  2. Who amongst us gives a damn?

A third question: why is the national media harping on this like it’s in an extension of the Benghazi massacre?

This mess would be newsworthy and plausible, for example, if “Lennay Kekua” had been a fan of Manti Te’o and if her family and friends had set up a trust fund for her leukemia-related expenses.  This has happened before.  People have faked illnesses or injuries well enough to have accounts set up; their ruses earning thousands of dollars, scores of gifts and mounds of sympathy.  Then, as always occurs, their lies unravel, and the world crashes down upon their greedy, stupid faces.

But, that’s not the case with Manti Te’o.  I still don’t understand how he didn’t know he was in a “relationship” with a girl he’d never actually met.  Maybe he did meet her – through someone else; through his dreams; through a drunken haze.  Perhaps – as only happens on Facebook – he “friended” her and came to believe he was in some kind of loving bond.  They shared photos and daily motivational greetings, and he thought they something going.

As a child, I often had invisible playmates; but then, so have millions of other people – especially those of us who grew up shy and introverted.  An only child, I even imagined I had a twin brother.  As an adult, I’ve had my share of my fantasy lovers.  I’ve enjoyed thousands of lurid sexual encounters; then I either woke up, or finally had an orgasm.  For the record, I still do partake in such hookups, but they’re more meaningful now.  I’ll write about that later.

I must concede I’ve become enmeshed in the Facebook frenzy.  I have “friends” I’ve never met; people who’ve connected with me for various and sundry reasons.  I actually value my Linked In connections more; that site serves a real purpose.  But, I’d like to find where some of these Facebook “friends” live, so I can test their trustworthiness and show up at their home at one or two in the morning saying my truck broke down.  You know you have really good friends when they give you gas money or help you bury the bodies of former supervisors without too many questions.  But, a romance?

I shouldn’t be surprised.  I started meeting people online almost as soon as I got my first personal computer in 2000.  It helped that I posted nude pictures of myself on the web and said I was a virgin, but again, I’ll tell you all about that later.  Still, I tested the value and honesty of these people by revealing bits of myself with each email exchange or instant chat.  I know a couple in Delaware who even sent me glossy photos of themselves.  I have another long-time acquaintance in Milwaukee.  But, I haven’t just traded emails with these guys; we’ve sent each other birthday and Christmas cards; we’ve talked on the phone.  I’ve haven’t met any of them, but I know they’re real people.  I have another long-time acquaintance in Oakland whom I’ve never met; nor have I talked with him on the phone.  But, I’ve looked him up through “White Pages,” and we have a mutual friend here in Dallas who’s met him.  So, I know he exists.

But, I still don’t understand what’s going on with Manti Te’o.  Notre Dame is investigating the matter – as if it’s a sexual assault case.  Now, Te’o has spoken with Katie Couric (who’s still desperately trying to stay relevant since leaving the Today Show) and conceded lying about “Lennay Kekua.”  Ooooo!  It’s getting deep!  Perhaps we’ll finally get to the bottom of this mystery and learn the sordid truth – as nasty and painful as it may be.  Then, we can move onto less pressing issues, like the ongoing economic crisis and global warming.  I mean, first things first, right?

In the meantime, I have another date with a steamy redheaded chick.  I think her name is Candace, but I’ll figure that out when I reach for the bottle of lube.  And, of course, I’ll tell you all about it.

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Father Wolf Turns 80

My father and I, Easter Sunday 1967.

My father and I, Easter Sunday 1967.

Today my father, George, marks his 80th birthday.  As I stated last month when my mother turned 80, that’s still a remarkable accomplishment.  My father was born and raised in Dallas; the middle of seven children.  On his father’s side, our ancestry dates back to late 16th century Texas; something we’d known about for years, but which he’s confirmed through his extensive genealogical research.

As you might expect, my father is kind of old school.  He comes from an era when family was sacred and hard work was revered.  People took care of themselves and their loved ones in his day, and they didn’t play the victim when things didn’t work out just right.  He worked hard – too hard – all his life and, along with my mother, built a comfortable middle class lifestyle.  He also a typical dad; doing things that only a father would do.  When I was about three months old, my parents ran out of baby formula just as a major ice storm hit Northeast Texas.  My father simply got dressed and walked a couple of blocks to a nearby convenience store.  He thought nothing of it; what else was he supposed to do?  He also thought nothing of standing on his feet several hours a day, slaving over hot printing presses in a dingy shop in downtown Dallas for more than 40 years.  He’s paid for it with bad knees and gnarled toes.  But, that’s what men of his generation did.  They worked hard and took care of their own without question.  Society doesn’t seem to produce men like my father anymore – at least not in great numbers.

Like most Hispanics growing up in old East Dallas, he had it tough.  Classified as “other,” he was occasionally complimented with comments about his fair skin and good looks, as if that made him different, or better.  He told me he once actually got into a fight with a dog in the neighborhood – and won; returning home with a tiny piece of the dog’s ear hanging from the corner of his mouth.  I didn’t know whether or not to believe him – as if I had any reason to doubt him, knowing how mean he could be – until his mother and oldest sister confirmed the story several years ago.  That’s one of those ‘only-my-dad’ type of stories.

So, here’s to my father!  Happy Birthday!  You mean old Mexican!

My father on his 16th birthday, in a picture he gave to his mother.

My father on his 16th birthday, in a picture he gave to his mother.

 

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England Didn’t Get the Memo – the Sun Set on Your Empire Years Ago!

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Tensions have risen again between Argentina and the United Kingdom over the Falkland Islands, a tiny cluster of barely-habitable rocks in the far Southwestern Atlantic, about 300 miles east of the South American mainland.  Those of us who are old enough to remember the ill-fated 1982 battle between the nations over these islands probably also remember it was the first time we’d ever heard of them.  At the time I was surprised to realize that England still had a colonial outpost that far away; some 8,000 miles from London and therefore, closer to Antarctica than Buckingham Palace is to 10 Downing Street.  I knew the U.K. still held Northern Ireland in its grasp, but the Falklands?  And, it’s not like they’re “across the pond,” as the British are fond of saying about the U.S. in their infinitely arrogant demeanor.  The Falklands are clear over on the other side of the globe!  In another hemisphere!

The Falklands are comprised of two large islands (West and East) and more than 700 hundred islets.  They are to the Southern Atlantic what the ABC Islands (Aruba, Bonaire and Curacao) are to the Caribbean: clumps of rock jutting above the water.  If you sit on an Aruban beach, staring into the sunset, you could be blasted with sandy pebbles carried by powerful breezes.  It’s probably why people often visit the ABC Islands to scuba dive and get drunk.  If you sit on a Falkland beach (taking for granted that you can actually find a spot there that qualifies as a beach), you could have a similar experience, except the winds are much colder.  While tropical storms don’t terrorize the Falklands, arctic ones pose a similar threat, as they creep up from the south and assault the archipelago with frigid gusts and heavy precipitation.  They’re not exactly the Galapagos or the Seychelles.  Penguins and seals have populated them for thousands of years, but humans have only been there for the better part of the past four centuries.

Gentoo penguins on the Falklands.

Gentoo penguins on the Falklands.

Argentina refers to the Falklands as Las Islas Malvinas (The Malvinas) and has laid claim to them for the last two hundred years.  I think it’s just a matter of pride and proximity – and animosity towards Great Britain.  What else could it be?

English navigator John Davis may have been the first European to sight the islands, while cruising through the area in 1592.  But, Dutchman Sebald de Weerdt made the first definite and recorded sighting in 1600.  Another Englishman, John Strong, made the first recorded landing, however, in 1690.  He named the sound between the two main islands after Viscount Falkland, a British naval officer.  In 1764, French navigator Louis Antoine de Bougainville established the islands’ first settlement, on East Falkland, and named the islands Les Malovines.  A year later the British established a settlement on what is now West Falkland.  In 1767, the Spanish bought the French settlement and, in 1770, drove out the British.

The British returned to West Falkland a year later, but left again, for economic reasons, in 1774.  Although the British never renounced their claim to the rocky outcroppings, Spain maintained their settlement on East Falkland until 1811.

In 1816, Argentina declared its independence from Spain and, in 1820, proclaimed sovereignty over the Malvinas and began occupying them.  But, in 1833, Britain returned and forcibly expelled the handful of Argentine military officers who remained.  By the end of the 19th century, the Malvinas had a self-supporting colony of Britons who swore allegiance to the British crown.  They ignored frequent Argentine protests over U.K.’s occupation of the islands.

In 1965, the United Nations approved a resolution inviting Argentina and Great Britain to discuss a peaceful resolution to the dispute.  Argentina simply wanted the islands turned back over to them.  Great Britain simply balked.  The relentless head-butting culminated in Argentina’s surprise invasion of the Falklands on April 2, 1982.  Within a few weeks, 10,000 Argentine troops occupied the islands.  Falkland residents couldn’t do much to resist.  But, Argentina was in no position to attack England.  Aside from an inferior military, they were just coming out of their infamous “Dirty War;” a frightening period during which the military dictatorship engaged in a brutal campaign against suspected left-wing political opponents.  People accused of treason disappeared; others turned up dead.  Many of those who vanished remain missing to this day.  The Falkland invasion was really just a political move to unite the Argentine people behind a government whose human rights abuses and financial mismanagement were gaining international attention.

The British response to the invasion was swift and deadly.  They launched a cavalry of battle ships, one commandeered by Prince Andrew.  The conflict was brutal, resulting in the loss of more than 900 lives.  After 74 days, Argentina surrendered and admitted defeat.  It was a serious blow to the morale of the Argentine people and their dubious government.  But, it was bound to happen.  And, more importantly, it still doesn’t mean Great Britain is right.

Long before the Falklands debacle, though, England’s empire had begun to disintegrate.  After the United States broke away from the British crown, England then lost such large territories as Canada and Australia.  The 20th century saw Great Britain experience the greatest number of colonial losses, due mainly to fighting two world wars within a generation.  In 1947, a fatigued and embattled U.K. watched as India gain independence.  Then, England’s colonies in Africa began to clamor for their own freedom.  Both Afghanistan and China had managed to thwart British imperialism in the 1800s.  And, in 1997, another British colonial jewel, Hong Kong, fell under Chinese control.

So, I have to wonder why England insists on retaining the Falklands.  Don’t they realize they’re no longer an imperialist superpower?  Other European nations – mainly Spain and France – conceded losing their own overseas territories.  But, Great Britain won’t let go.  I suppose it’s a Napoleonic complex.  Barely the size of the U.S. state of Alabama, England has to assert itself loudly and – sometimes – viciously.

Argentina is no better suited militarily to take on the British now than they were in 1982.  But, they have become democratized and revamped their financial infrastructure.  Its latest move seems to be isolationism.  Argentina President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner has politely asked for the Falklands’ return, but British Prime Minister David Cameron scoffed at the likelihood and said he would “fight militarily” to keep the islands.  Such is the air of British self-righteousness: take what’s not theirs and kill anyone who tries to resist.  Their predecessors did that to the native peoples of North America; a sentiment that persists today in their dismissive behavior and attitude.

Falkland residents are scheduled to vote this March whether or not they want to remain as part of the United Kingdom.  I suspect they will choose to stay with Britain.  I also feel that – whatever occurs – the U.S. should stay out of it.  Regardless, England is starting to learn that the world is no longer its open treasure chest.

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Resolving

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I really don’t make New Year’s resolutions anymore.  I figure you should resolve to do something good and positive all year.  It’s like Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Why wait until then to hope for ‘peach on Earth,’ when you should expect it every day?  Of course, that’s a lost cause, especially in the Middle East and parts of South Dallas, but it’s always the thought that counts.  Regardless of the time of year, I always resolve to do such things as exercise and write more, eat better, consume less alcohol and masturbate no more than once a week.  (I really need to stop molesting myself so much.  At my age, the hand cramps are starting to get to me.)  But, I always try to make each day better.

My biggest regret for last year is that I didn’t get my novel published.  I’m too much of a perfectionist – and, to some extent, a procrastinator.  Just like I should have started my freelance writing career instead of spending so much time looking for a standard job, I should have devoted more time to my book and gotten the damn thing into print by now.  I’m almost embarrassed to say I’ve worked on it for the better part of a decade; although, in my defense, I made three concerted efforts to get it published prior to 2012.

Whatever your particular resolutions are for this year – even if you have some held over from last year, like I do – let’s live each day and each year as best as we can!

Image courtesy “Calvin and Hobbes.”

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Impeach Them All!

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Our elected officials have led the American people to the cliff’s edge – and have pushed.  We’re headed into the abyss of recession, and the pathetic bastards don’t care.  Their salaries and health care are assured.  The rest of us get reamed.  Now, don’t get me wrong!  I like being screwed like most anyone else – if I’m enjoying it.  But, I’m not enjoying this!  Neither is most every other American.

This has been going on since…oh, I’d say January 20, 2009, when President Obama took office.  The Republican Party made it a point from the moment that half-blooded Negro won the 2008 election that they’d do everything in their power to undermine his presidency.  Not help to hemorrhage the country’s increasing unemployment; not stop the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan; not start rebuilding the nation’s aging infrastructure; not find out who all was responsible for the banking and housing crises that led to the economic downturn in the first place.  No, their goal was simple: destroy Obama.  For their part, the Democrats replied in their usual conciliatory tone; bowing to the GOP over expiration of the Bush-era tax cuts.  They and Obama relented, lest unemployment insurance lapse in 2011.  Obama collectively – and rightfully – deemed the rest of us a “hostage.”  I dubbed him a wimp for caving to John Boehner and Mitch McConnell.

Now, angry that Obama won last month, the GOP is even more determined to destroy him – and take the rest of the country down, too.  If we look at this entire imbroglio in the same context as a business, Congress would be in bankruptcy.  Wherever I’ve worked anyone who didn’t cooperate with their constituents and strive to achieve the common goals set forth by management ended up contacting the unemployment office.  In other words, they got fired!  They were told to pack up and head out.  I’ve never known a place that allowed people to squabble and not accomplish anything.

Until now.

Congress is the exception.  They’ve always made themselves the exception.  Its members, of course, don’t have to worry about their respective financial futures.  They haven’t had to exhaust their 401K’s and empty their savings like I have in the two years since I got laid off from an engineering firm.  Their health care is secured.  They don’t have to worry about a proverbial “donut hole” like my parents and scrounge through their medications.  They have their own bank where they’re allowed to overdraw their checking accounts and not pay any fees.  Congress lives in its own glass bubble; separate from the rest of us – the people who elected them – and devoid of reality.

But, therein lies the key – we elected them.  We are their employers.  And, since they refuse to do as we instructed, I therefore propose we terminate them.  Every single one of them.  Just fire the whole lot of them and hire some new employees.  From President Obama whose backbone never seemed to have much lead all the way down to every “Tea Party” candidate who give trailer park residents a bad name.  Get rid of them!  They’re not doing the job we told them to do.  They have failed on every level.  I’ve voted Democrat most of my life – including twice for Obama – but, I’m not prejudiced.  Everyone there in Washington needs to go.  If Enron and Bear Stearns could lay off thousands of employees because the companies screwed up, we can certainly terminate every member of Congress for flat out refusing to do their jobs.  I mean, who the hell wants to keep employees like that anyway?  No business can succeed with that kind of staff!

So, as we fly off that “cliff” and head into the New Year, who’s with me on this mass impeachment?  We can work together on this!

Image courtesy I-Clipart.

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Old Christmas Photos

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I don’t get too much into the Christmas thing; never really have.  But, I do wish most folks a ‘Merry Christmas.’  It’s just a tradition for most of us born and raised in Christian-based societies.  There is one tradition, though, that I think about often.  My father’s family used to gather every Christmas Eve at his mother’s house.  It’s a common Hispanic ritual.  They gather late on Christmas Eve, eat tamales and other conventional Mexican foods, and then go to midnight mass at a local Catholic church.  Most of us in the family, however, didn’t partake of midnight mass.  We’d usually eaten and drank too much by then.

My father’s family last converged on my grandmother’s house on Christmas Eve 2000; she died the following February at age 97.  And, that was it.  No one got together anymore.  Not for Thanksgiving, not for Christmas, not for Easter.  In fact, the few times we gathered were for funerals.  Two of my father’s older siblings passed away in 2004.  But, by then, things had started to descend into disharmony.

More than a year after my grandmother died, I invited a friend to move in with me.  He needed a place to live, and I was working temporary jobs.  Both our bills had been mounting, and we decided to split expenses.  Ultimately, the only good thing that came out of that deal was my dog.  It had been Tom’s*, but when we parted ways in January 2003, he decided to leave the new puppy with me.  Tom also left me with a warning: be prepared for my dad’s family to quarrel over my grandmother’s estate.  He knew from first-hand experience.  When his paternal grandfather died in the late 1970’s, his father’s family became embroiled in a bitter feud over property near their East Texas homes; property that had been in the clan for generations.  Some wanted to sell, while others wanted to hold onto it.  To the latter group, it was too valuable; they couldn’t see putting a price on it.  It was like a family heirloom.

My parents had always advised me against loaning money to friends and relatives; saying it was the quickest way to lose both.  But, I don’t think even they anticipated the battle that would brew over my grandmother’s estate.  When my maternal grandfather died in 1983, his will was settled peacefully; my mother and her three siblings each got something from what was left of the estate, and that was it.  No fighting, no hatefulness.  They carried on and maintained their loving relationships.

The September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks practically killed off what was left of the economic boon of the late 1990s.  The housing market wasn’t spared.  Home values dropped precipitously, and my Aunt Andrea* – who was executrix of my grandmother’s estate – couldn’t find a buyer for the house.  It was an oddly-designed home with no attached garage.  The land on which it sat in North Dallas, one and a half acres, should have been more valuable than the actual structure.  Two realtors tried and failed to sell it.  I think they overpriced it.  A close friend who owns and operates a real estate firm confirmed that to me, when he compared similar-sized houses in the same neighborhood.

But then, Andrea made an egregious move; one that would send the entire family into turmoil.  She decided to lease it to a cousin of mine, Jaime*, and his wife, Linda*.  They were on the verge of losing their own $400,000 suburban Dallas home at the start of 2002 and faced possible homelessness.  I guess they didn’t think that two small children, a pair of luxury SUVs and a country club membership would have a negative impact on their financial well-being.  Without consulting with the family, Andrea let Jaime and Linda move into my grandmother’s house in the spring of 2002.

She said she had to find a way to offset the property taxes.  “Who else is going to pay for that?” she asked my father.  He couldn’t answer, but this didn’t feel right to him.  He was close to Jaime, his nephew; he had helped raised him and his older brother.  They were his brother’s sons; it was a bond that couldn’t be broken.  Blood and family are so strong, my father had always said.  He didn’t realize how badly greed could destroy that.

Andrea didn’t seem to keep good financial records; odd for a woman who had successfully maintained her own beauty salon for years.  The contract or lease she signed with Jaime and Linda was for them to pay $900 a month for a year.  I thought, “Nine hundred dollars a month buys a three-bedroom apartment in my neighborhood!”  No one ever saw this “lease.”  But, before then, Andrea had revealed something personal – and curious – to my mother: “I can’t let go of the house.”

My mother reminded Andrea that the house didn’t belong to her alone; it belonged to the family.  But, my mother decided to stay out of it; she was an in-law and didn’t feel she should get too involved, even though she and Andrea were close friends.  I wish Linda had taken that same attitude.

At some point, that one-year lease metamorphosed into two years.  When my father’s older sister died in May 2004, Jaime and Linda were expecting their third child.  Supposedly, it was an unplanned event; an “accident,” Andrea told my dad.

“Pinché accident!” my dad grumbled.  It was no accident Jaime’s thing fell out of his pants and into his wife.

When Jaime’s father died in October 2004, the family dynamics had become strained.  It had been more than two years since Jaime and Linda had moved into my grandmother’s house.  Linda wasn’t working, but they’d redecorated managed to find the money to redecorate the place.  More importantly, there was no accounting of the “lease” payments they were supposed to be making.

My mother – who had retired the year before – even offered to help Andrea get her papers in order.  “I have more time now,” my mother told her.  Andrea initially accepted, but said nothing about it afterwards.  Soon, though, Andrea would be forced to get that paperwork together.

The proverbial battle lines Tom had warned me about started to materialize in the fall of 2004.  My father’s younger brother, Robert*, had had enough.  Jaime and Linda weren’t renters; they were squatters.  At some point that same year, they actually sought to buy the house, but their credit wouldn’t permit a loan.  Then, they came up with the audacious idea of splitting the property, and they’d purchase that portion of the land on which the house sat.

“Can’t do that,” my real estate friend said.  I suspected as much.

Robert and his son decided to sue Andrea to have her removed as executrix.  Robert wasn’t trying to take over the estate; he just wanted the property sold, and the proceeds divided evenly among the appropriate survivors.  Then, we learned that Andrea had included a clause in my grandmother’s will forbidding anyone in the family from filing suit against her.

“Can’t do that,” another friend told me.  I knew that, too!

Things were getting stranger.  One of the witnesses to the original will was a young woman Andrea had hired to help care for my grandmother; a woman who was an illegal Mexican immigrant and who we suspect had stolen some jewelry from my grandmother.  She was long gone by the time my grandmother died.  The attorney who had drafted the original will, an old family friend, knew that girl was an illegal.  Robert, my mother told me, had never really liked that attorney friend; despite that the friend and my father had known each other since grade school.  They were long-time friends from the old East Dallas neighborhood where they all grew up, when Hispanics had to stick together to survive.  The crisis over the will had started to batter that history.

One afternoon my dad spoke with Andrea on the phone; trying to serve as ambassador between her and Robert.  “Just sell the house and give your brothers and sisters a dollar!” my dad heard Andrea’s son blurt out in the background.  Andrea didn’t think my father had heard that.  The battle lines were now walls.

Finally, in February 2005, we went to court.  Robert, Jr.*, flew back to Dallas for the hearing.  He was there with his sister and a realtor friend of hers who had been the first to try to sell the house.  As I walked into the courthouse, I saw Andrea sitting on a bench, alongside another cousin.  I said hi to both.

“Robert’s over there,” Andrea said, waving a hand ahead of her, as if swatting a gnat.  That cousin, who I’d once considered a sister – as kids, people sometimes thought we were twins – practically scowled at me.

“Alright,” I merely said.

“There’s been a new development,” Robert, Jr., told me.  Andrea had resigned her position as executrix the night before.  The court now would appoint an interim executor and give Jaime and Linda enough time to look for a new house before moving out.

The estate was finally settled in 2006.  The court-appointed executor had sold the house (appropriately enough) to a Mexican family for well under the expected price.  When my father got his copy of the attorney’s expenses, he noticed there were a number of charges for conference calls with Linda.  She had contacted the attorney almost weekly; perhaps, I thought, asking where was the money.  Money that would go to her mother-in-law; not to Jaime, certainly not to Linda.  But, Jaime’s mother had decided to split her share of the money between him and his two siblings.  She didn’t need it, she later told my dad; she had enough of her own.  Moreover, Linda told Andrea the money wasn’t enough.

“That’s none of her goddamned business!” my father replied, when Andrea revealed that tidbit to him one day.  “And, you can tell her I said that, too!”  Linda was invited to call my dad, if she felt compelled to discuss the matter, he told Andrea.  She never did.

Worse, as far as my father was concerned, was a statement Jaime had made in the legal documentation; something that had jumped out at him like a bad dream.  Jaime and Linda claimed they had to spend money to make the house “livable;” from their perspective, it had been in deplorable condition, and the money that should have been used to pay off the taxes instead went to the redecorating.  It was an insult; a slap against my paternal grandfather who had built the house in the late 1950s.

On the Saturday after my grandmother died, my father sat in a chair near the patio door in the den of that house.

“What’s wrong?” I asked rhetorically.

“Oh, nothing.”  We men always say that, even if there is something wrong.  “Just thinking,” he finally said.  “All the birthdays, all the Christmases…”  His voice trailed off, as his gaze remained on the patio area; clear on that bright cool February day.

Years ago, way back when, my cousins and I were always laughing during those holiday gatherings.  Even when we matured and went to work, when some married and had kids of their own, everyone gravitated back to my grandmother’s house where food exploded onto the dining room table in a gastronomical symphony, where everybody had a story and a camera, and a heavily-decorated Christmas tree stood unimposing against the large window in the living room overlooking a major thoroughfare.  I always wondered if people passing by slowed to peer through that window, with the drapes pulled back, and wished they could join us.  Now, with everyone either older and leading their own lives or deceased, I occasionally peruse those old pictures and find myself wanting to jump back through that window.  Way back when.

*Alias.

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