My father, George De La Garza, Sr., in South Korea in 1954
This is my father’s recollection of returning home from military service in Korea.
I had thought of joining the military when I got older. My older brother, Jesse, did. He was 17 and failing out of school when he enlisted in the U.S. Army in the summer of 1942. They shipped him out to the Pacific region. He was stationed on some remote island, when he killed his first person. He said it was at night, and Jesse and his commanding officer were hidden in some thick foliage – looking for…whatever. Then they spotted a Japanese solider approaching. Jesse’s CO ordered him to kill the guy…“or I’ll kill you first and then him.” He was still 17 and had no choice. Jesse saw other casualties – adults and children; soldiers and civilians – in the wicked and bloody chaos of World War II’s Pacific theatre. He caught malaria, before returning home.
Jesse received a slew of awards, including a Purple Heart by Gen. Douglas MacArthur himself. He got an honorable discharge and quickly came back to Dallas. One Saturday morning me and Jesse, our younger brother, and some other friends visited a local barbershop. As sat conversing in Spanish and English, the shop’s owner approached and – in his heavy Scottish brogue – ordered us to leave. “We don’t cut Mexicans’ hair.”
Here we all were – born and raised in the Dallas area, not causing any ruckus – and a foreign-born man tells us to leave. At some point over the next couple of days, a massive rock found its way through the large glass window of that shop. I swear I don’t know how that happened!
That experience kind of left me bitter about this great country and the freedom it was supposed to have. I no longer had any desire to join the military.
Then came Korea – and I had no choice.
I had just turned 21 in January 1954, when my father drove me to the Greyhound bus station in downtown Dallas – just like he’d done with Jesse more than a decade earlier. I had rarely been outside of Dallas and never outside of Texas. I arrived at Fort Bliss in El Paso, a little scared and not knowing what to think. After basic training, they put me on another bus to Los Angeles, then a train to Seattle, and finally a ship to Korea.
From what I understood later, Korea wasn’t nearly as bad as World War II, but when is there ever a pleasant war? More importantly I understood why Jesse never wanted to talk about his own experiences.
By then the U.S. armed forces had been (forcibly) integrated, so men of all shapes, sizes and colors served together. I developed close friendships with many of my Black comrades. I could envision these connections lasting a lifetime.
It was only two years, but it felt like decades. We left Korea on a ship for Seattle. Once there we had to take a train down to Los Angeles. I stood with my Black buddies on the platform, before we had to board. My friends started walking away from me.
“Hey, guys, where are you going?” I asked, still innocent – naïve actually.
“We have to go to the rear of the train,” one of them called back to me.
The rear of the train – where the Negroes had to go.
Oh yeah, I told myself. We’re back in America – the land of the free.
Oh, what the hell! It’s Tuesday afternoon, I have less than an hour on my work clock, and I went to bed before 7 p.m. yesterday. Why not have some red wine! My daily commute is about 20 feet (6.1 meters); that is, from the bed to my work laptop in a neighboring room. That includes a necessary detour to the bathroom. I try not to look at myself in the bathroom mirror – or any other mirror in the house. I no longer look like a Greek/Italian/Mexican studburger who rode in on a black stallion. I kind of look like the dirty old man parents warn their kids about. Oh well. I’ve had my fun.
Ever think deeply, while standing alone, and wonder if your body has suddenly decided it wants to lead a life of its own? Well…I’ve come to the cold, brutal realization that mine has. And I’m like, ‘Bye bitch!’ Don’t let me hold you back!
‘It’s hell getting old!’ my parents always said. I’m starting to feel the anxiety. I watched them struggle with the various pains of aging and could barely see myself in those same situations years from then. I began to realize that I won’t be so fortunate to have good health as I do now. Watching my Uncle Wes* deal with his constant physical struggles cemented that reality into my brain. I’m about to make some modifications to both bathrooms, especially the shower stall, to help him navigate those spaces. A few weeks ago he expressed concern for my future welfare.
“You might need this, too,” he said, referring to grab bars in the shower. He’ll be 86 in a few months.
I have no one to care for me, if I ever get to be his age. I never got married and had children, or just had children. I never wanted to be a “Baby Daddy”. I had wanted to be a husband and father. But just tell the Great Creator your plans for the future and wait for the laughter.
I’ll be 62 in less than a month and hope to retire at age 65. My mother retired at 70, but I’m certain I can’t make it that long. I love my job, but I love time and solitude even more. My ultimate goal was always to be a true writer, with no other necessary career just to help me get by.
A few years ago a close friend posted a picture on Facebook his daughter took of him after a visit to a vintage car show for his birthday. He was kneeling beside a vehicle. I congratulated him on making it to another year and then asked, “BTW how long did it take you to get back up from that squatting position?” with an accompanying laugh emoji.
He never answered, but that always comes to mind, whenever I try to get up from the floor after doing some basic calisthenics or squat down for some ungodly reason. Yes, getting old his hell, but the alternative isn’t too pleasant.
Everybody has that one (maybe two or more) quirky relative who defies explanation. In my family’s case, that’s actually more of a rule. But when my little sister, Mandy, would say she’d see people, we honestly didn’t know what to say. No one likes to admit there’s mental illness in the family, right? I mean…as a kid, everyone has imaginary friends. But Mandy said she didn’t just have imaginary friends; she saw people. It was cute – until she was a teenager.
Then it got scary. ‘What’s wrong with Mandy?’ was a common question at family gatherings. We couldn’t say; no one seemed to know…what was wrong with Mandy.
“We’re cursed,” Mandy told me; she was about twelve. “Our family is cursed.”
“Yeah, we are,” I remember telling her that first time; thinking about the family events where someone got shit-faced drunk and started fighting.
“I’m serious!”
I tried to be understanding. But when someone says your family is cursed – especially if it’s a relative who has a reputation for saying shit like that – how do you respond?
I’m the oldest of the brood, and Mandy is the youngest; four boys and two girls. She was my baby; tiny even for my 12-year-old arms, when she was born. I helped to raise her, along with my brothers. Our parents were primary commanders, but I was second in charge. My brothers were tough to raise – as you would expect with boys. But Mandy turned out to be even more of a handful!
I don’t know what it was about her, but she could be so difficult. My mother always said it was because we girls tend to cause drama. Daddy would just sigh, as if saying, ‘Tell me about it,’ yet not wanting to be too honest.
I really can’t remember the first time Mandy said she saw someone who wasn’t there…in her bedroom. She pointed to her dolls. “Over there,” she told me.
But it was after our maternal grandmother, Martina, died. “Mamatina” – the witch of West Texas. Damn, that bitch was mean! And nasty. The droplets of blood from the garage into her kitchen said enough.
“You need to get out of here when you graduate,” my Aunt Nicoletta told me. I was 18 and had just attended my senior prom with a boy who said he felt nauseous every time he stepped into our house.
“That part of the family is too strange,” Nicoletta muttered. She was an in-law to my mother’s side. “Everybody knows that. They just won’t say it.”
I started saying it to myself before I graduated high school. Only a few other people would say it out loud.
Especially after meeting Mandy. “Our family is cursed!” she kept saying. I don’t know how many times I heard that from her.
My father would just quietly bob his head up and down. Marrying into my mother’s family was probably like an initiation into a biker gang. He had to endure a lot of misery and, once in, couldn’t escape. If anything, though, he injected a semblance of normalcy into the chaos. I’m certain he was glad when Mamatina died. Without making a sound, he let out a massive breath. I could hear it through the moaning at Mamatina’s funeral. Even the priest looked relieved. In this instance, Mexican mysticism didn’t blend well with Roman Catholic purity.
What would Jesus do?! Hell, what would Mother Mary do?!
I was certain Mamatina’s death would solve a lot of problems. And it did – for the most part. I had just earned my bachelor’s, and I noticed the air in the house had lightened.
Then, as I approached 30 and still not married, Mandy shocked me. “I’m pregnant.”
This had to be a joke, I told myself. But I uttered the eternal question: “What?”
“Yes.”
Raymond was a boy she knew from high school. He wasn’t weird…just plain and ordinary.
“He’s the perfect one,” Mandy said, “the perfect father.”
I then said the next best thing, “Um…okay.” I never knew what perfect was supposed to mean.
Raymond was present for the birth and even named the baby – Rose. It seemed ideal – and appropriate: a sweet-smelling blossom with thorns and a blood red pallor.
Mandy’s fingers looked white the moment she gripped the rails of the crib. Rose was about two months old. “We’re cursed,” I heard her mumble.
I sighed – not too heavy – my head bobbing slightly. “Okay.”
But it wasn’t…okay.
Mandy kept saying it – more than she ever had. “We’re cursed.” Our family was cursed.
Ordinary Raymond just ignored her, as he swaddled Rose in his skinny arms. Rose never cried, just sort of grunted. When she seemed distressed, Raymond was the only person who could calm her down. He’d pull off his shirt and press her tiny head against his chest; the left side – where she could hear his heartbeat.
Then came that one Saturday afternoon. I took some groceries over to the house for Mandy and Rose. Raymond was at work, and no one else was there.
Mandy looked disheveled, but was notably calm. I guess she’d been up all night.
That word – ‘cursed’ – kept running through my mind.
What does that mean?
“You know,” said Mandy.
Well…I did. In some ways, I understood what she meant.
Cursed…that one word hung over me like a chronic itch in the middle of my back, while wearing a heavy winter coat and driving.
That baby…Rose.
Mandy’s child.
Daddy’s head bobbed up and down as he thumbed through the TV channels.
Finally…I looked at Mandy. “What curse?” After all these years, I had never thought to ask her.
Her eyes flinched.
Rose fell silent.
“You know,” Mandy whimpered.
The air grew heavy. I mean…REALLY HEAVY.
Cursed.
Please! I entered Rose’s room and approached the crib. She looked…well, red.
Heavy air.
I turned back to the doorway and stepped into the hall.
Cursed?
What?!
Heavy air.
Really.
Heavy.
Air.
I turned around…looked at the crib.
Rose was quiet…still.
And – I saw someone.
Something sharp and cold plowed up into my spine. That itch.
I felt dizzy.
There…standing beside the crib…someone.
Some…thing.
Cursed.
A curse.
Someone…some…thing…a curse.
Something.
Smiled…it smiled…grinned…at me.
Mine.
What?
Mine.
I looked at Rose.
Mine…she’s mine.
Her?
Rose remained still.
It grinned…the someone…something…standing beside the crib.
It grinned again.
Her…this child…mine.
“I told you,” Mandy said, standing at the doorway.
That…something…blood red skin.
Heavy air…really…heavy.
I could hear Raymond’s heart beating.
And Daddy nodded.
The something grinned…mine. Its bony fingers gripped the crib railing. Blood-red skin. Mine.
“Social Security is the biggest Ponzi scheme of all time.”
Elon Musk, February 28, 2025
For elected officials here in the U.S., Social Security is much like a live power line: touch it and they’re done. Social security, along with Medicare and Medicaid, is one of those sacred vessels of American life. It’s not just beloved; it is sacrosanct.
Thus, for a foreign-born oligarch like Elon Musk to disparage it as a “scheme” has become anathemic. As something of a pseudo-president, Musk is head of the newly created Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), which has taken a hacksaw to a number of departments within the federal government. The declared goal is to reduce bureaucratic weight by slashing jobs and merging together certain divisions within the system. Nowhere in this morass of right-wing blather is a dedication to make people like Musk and their corporations to pay their share of taxes. But that’s a different issue.
To place things in proper perspective – and put elected officials like Trump in their place – social security has too many safeguards to be considered a Ponzi scheme. Before the Social Security Act of 1935, a large number of older Americans lived in abject poverty. At the time it was common for families to take in older relatives. But some people simply didn’t have that support and they were left to fend for themselves. The concept of providing for those who simply couldn’t work or take care of themselves is nothing new. Various societies throughout history have considered the fragilities of the human condition and sought to alleviate those difficulties. It is simply immoral to abandon those who can’t care for themselves. It’s also rather easy to look at those who won’t take care of their own lives and group them with the others.
The Social Security Act has been amended several times since 1935, but it differs from a Ponzi scheme in many ways.
1. Social Security is not fraudulent
A Ponzi scheme is a deliberate a fraud intent to mislead investors.
2. Social Security’s operators do not take a cut
Unlike with Ponzi schemes, Social Security is not a profit-generating gamble, and the officials who run it do not take a portion of it for themselves.
3. Social Security is operated in the open
Social Security is a transparent, government-run program with clear funding mechanisms.
4. Social Security has built-in oversight
Unlike a Ponzi scheme, Social Security has many layers of oversight, auditing, regulation and legal and financial systems in place to ensure accuracy and transparency.
5. Social Security offers realistic returns
The goal of Social Security is to provide basic income replacement, not to generate get-rich-quick returns. Ponzi schemes often promise unrealistically high gains.
6. If financially stressed, Social Security can adjust funding and/or benefits
A fiscal imbalance in Social Security can be corrected, but a Ponzi scheme can’t. Social Security beneficiaries can’t demand to be paid a balance in their account if they suspect something is wrong. There can’t be a “bank run” on Social Security, and problems ultimately can be resolved.
It doesn’t surprise me that Trump and the Republican Party are targeting Social Security, or rather that conservative Republicans in general haven’t struck back at the president. Social and political conservatives have always been leery about government programs designed to help people. Before Franklin R. Roosevelt’s “New Deal” policies (designed and implemented to address the brutal impact of the Great Depression), government’s primary purpose was to enact laws and collect taxes. The collapse of the U.S. stock market in 1929 and the subsequent financial calamities that ensued changed that mindset – at least among the more open-minded. Social Security was just one project resulting from such forward thinking.
In 1944, Congress passed the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act (later known as the GI Bill) to assist those returning from military service during World War II. It provided a myriad of aid and services to these individuals, such as education and housing. Again, many conservatives denounced it as welfare.
Similar criticisms befell Lyndon Johnson’s “Great Society” some two decades later. From this massive undertaking, we got Medicare and Medicaid. But, as Johnson declared, the government should ensure both “liberty and abundance” for all citizens – not just those who can afford it. And as before, critics deemed it socialized medicine.
While it’s surprising that the U.S. federal government can operate with such alleged overspending – a bloated bureaucracy – it does provide substantial safety and security to most everyone here. The attack on Social Security is monstrous. Trump has sworn to leave it alone, but I personally don’t trust him.
I’m fast approaching the official retirement age of 62, yet I know I won’t be able to sit back in my quiet suburban home and embark on my dream life of being a full-fledged writer. The Social Security system is supposedly insolvent. Raising the official retirement age (as many, including Musk, have suggested) or reducing benefits won’t repair that problem. Funding for the Iraq War alone could have made Social Security fiscally viable for generations. Still, the program must be handled with care. Touching it irresponsibly is, indeed, akin to touching that live power line.
Chief Writing Wolf 