Moving to Mexico - 1964

Our red house - 984 So. California Ave.

My folks had met in the East Bay area in the thirties. Geraldine Irons was from Oakland, Leonard Jasper from the Portuguese haunts of San Leandro. Pop had met Mom through a friend his, Mom’s first husband in fact. Mom had a son with first hubby also. The folks married in 1940. Pop had received a medical discharge from the army. I would guess Mom was glad about this as she had become pregnant with her second child. He secured a job in Palo Alto so they moved across the bay to Palo Alto on “the Peninsula”. They were glad to get away from the city Oakland was fast growing to be due to the war. Mom wanted quiet, smaller town life and to be closer to some country. They both had secured work at the Veteran’s hospital. Mom as an LVN and Pop as a guard.

Palo Alto was a special town. It was founded in part by the nearby university campus founder, Leland Stanford, one of the “big railroad four” and one-time governor of California who helped build the first transcontinental railways. Mostly quiet, old oak tree shaded streets, bungalow and craftsman-type houses, some victorians here and there, and a few Spanish Mission sorts. Ours was a tall, wooden ranch house, made of local redwood common for the area, built sometime in the 1890’s. It was white when my folks bought it as was the norm. Eventually Mom painted it red.

The folks had 3 more children after that for a total of five. I was the last, the baby. We lived

literally on the edge of town. Across the street was an ample expanse of field that belonged to the university. It was our playground. One of them anyway. We chased rabbits, threw dirt clods, flew our kites, shot our B B guns in that field. There were cows too when I was real small. I think they belonged to a white farmhouse up at the top of the hill. I can still hear the squeaky wheels of the hay bailer that passed back and forth each year. I can recall foxtails in my socks. We occasionally climbed the old oak trees out there too.

I first attended school at a considerably old, but prominent, Mission style elementary school, called Mayfield. My oldest brother, at least 12 years my senior, had gone to the same school. When a new school was built nearby on Stanford property in ’62, the city decided those in our hood would go there instead. I started my 4th grade in the new Escondido school on the Stanford University property.

*  *  *

So, 5 kids and about twenty years later, takes us to the early sixties. Pop’s gone from being a letter carrier to the Maintenance Supervisor at the post office downtown. My mother’s been working for IT&T, making semi-conductors for a few years. Some friends at work who drove every year to Mexico for a couple of weeks in their VW van, invited her and Pop to join them one summer. Pop wasn’t interested in going and stayed home. (A break from Mom!). My brother Stephen, also working at IT&T at the time in fact, went instead. Mom and Stephen loved Mexico. The following year, she was invited again and talked Pop into it this time. Turns out, he also loved it. I guess they did some serious talking thereafter and decided that they would “semi-retire,” sell the house and move to Mexico -- a very bold move. They must have been quite impressed!

Being the baby, I had become the last of 5 kids to still be living with the folks by then. Both of my sisters had each had a kid by now and were living somewhere on their own down San Jose way. My oldest brother was married living in Oakland, and my other brother I mentioned was hanging out who-knows-where with the likes of the local Beats and future flower children.

The folks had been considering for a time to leave Palo Alto. They didn't care for the changes coming about. Sadly, the quiet, country-fringed neighborhood street where they had bought their home back in ‘42, had become a busy thoroughfare in the mornings and evenings with people going to and from their jobs at the electronic plants that had been built amongst what was once cow pasture as mentioned. What was once an expansive field with dairies and small farms had become Stanford Industrial Park. What would be referred to eventually as Silicon Valley.

Our house sat on a corner, and people from the plants would occasionally sit in their cars on the side street at lunch time, and sometimes toss their trash in the gutters. This did not make my mother happy. California Avenue, the street we lived on, got busier and noisier with the traffic with each new factory that was  built. Meanwhile the family dog got hit by a car, then again a year or so later. The dog survived both. Then one day someone almost drove their car onto our lawn and would have had it not been for the hedge around the property. That was too much for her.

The folks had been looking into moving, they liked the idea of living on a houseboat in North Bay of San Francisco, or England on the Thames. I went a time or two with them up Sausalito way to look at the houseboats Sausalito was famous for. That is, until they went to Mexico. We were far from being wealthy and no doubt money would go considerably farther in Mexico. So it was decided. We had a big lawn sale, something not seen often yet in our neighborhood, and sold off much of twenty or so years of stuff. Mom stored the antique furniture she wasn’t ready to part with at Gramma’s house in Oakland. I didn’t have much as some kids to begin with, but I said goodbye to a pitch-back and an electric train set and some model cars. Even an old teddy bear. I didn't complain. I’m guessing I was an adventurous sort even then: traveling to another country for the first time sounded like fun to me. The thought of moving to Mexico took precedence over any other childish thoughts I might have had, and well, it was out of my control, wasn’t it.  And so we moved to Mexico in the summer of '64, on our way to a new home and truly different lifestyle!

We drove down in our Peugot 403, towing a small box trailer full of just basic needs and belongings. We crossed the border at Tijuana on July 25, my thirteenth birthday in fact. Our destination? A west coast fishing village in the tropics called, San Blas. I couldn’t pronounce Nayarit yet. And to this day, some people have never heard of it, even people who have been to Mexico. I have to tell them, it’s the state between Sinaloa and Jalisco.

You hear about people getting sick, “turista,” their first trip to Mexico and I was no exception. I had only been there 2 or 3 days. We were still on the road to our destination and adventurous me had turtle soup for dinner in Guaymas. And who is to say it may or may not have been the soup -- but let's just say I haven't had turtle soup ever since! When I wasn’t lying in the back seat, sick as a dog, I was sitting up and all eyes for most the 5 day road trip. And speaking of dogs, I shared the back seat with the family dog, too.

Before arriving in Mexico, there were many things I had never seen before!  There was thunder and lightening in Culiacan outside our hotel. Crashing loud, with bright flashes, as it rattled the second floor windows in the hall where I stood watching. No, I couldn’t recall seeing this spectacle before in the Bay Area where I came from. There were dead dogs and dead horses in the roads or along the sides, sometimes swarming with vultures. There were packs of snarling dogs in the villages. i had never seen beggars. There were poor, raggedy clothed and sometimes crippled people, all ages, in the city streets, some with their hand extended. Some sleeping in doorways. I had never seen people living in grass shacks. I'd never seen such worn-out, dilapidated cars and trucks, some going literally a bit sideways down the road, reminding me of crabs!

I’d never seen a herder walking his cows or goats down the middle of a road before.  Or herd of cows grazing the grass by the roads and sometimes standing in right in the middle. And  burros! No, I couldn’t recall ever seeing a donkey before. Only in the movies. Nor people driving creaky, wooden wagons pulled by donkeys, or by a mule. I‘d never seen papayas, mangoes, or bananas growing on trees. I’d never eaten jicama, tasted tamarindo, or drunk the red, agua de jamaica.

We stayed a couple days in Mazatlán on the way. The shrimp were huge,  as long as the dinner plate was wide. Mom had made a friend there from a past trip, a well-known lady in town who owned a big gift shop called “El Burrito” on the Olas Altas. We stayed in a posada a couple blocks back from there. (This area is now considered the historic part of Mazatlan). Mom liked the market in Mazatlán, and the big plaza with purple jacaranda trees. Mom was entranced with all the colorful trees and flowers in Mexico. She was continuously snapping pictures of the trees and bugambilias everywhere we went. We bought my first pair of huaraches in the market in Mazatlán. Old style huaraches with the tire rubber soles are now getting harder to find.

Leaving Mazatlan on the coast and continuing South, one begins to notice how green and dense with vegetation it is. San Blas is our next stop. About half way, one comes to a crossroads. Trucks laden with all types of fruits are parked here I there. Buses of several sorts And sizes pickup and drop off people and their personal loads of what have you, chickens, fruits and vegetables, kids. open air, thatched roof restaurants are cooking up the good stuff, men, women, children, carry any number of small bird cages, with live, colored tropical birds for sale. They approach our car. We gaze in awe while Pop shakes his head no, and smiles. Mom oohs and ahs at the darling birds. We want to buy them all, then go down the road a ways and set them free.

The 22 miles more from the turnoff to San Blas has me sitting up all the way. Tiny villages, mud and thatched houses, peasant, third-world, mostly dark-skinned people wave at us as we pass. We go slow now as the road is much narrower and more alive with people and animals. Arriving at a river, we actually drive across the bottom through a couple inches deep of water. Along the banks on the rocks are women and girls washing clothes, while children splash and play in the water.  As we near San Blas, lagoons, marshes and mangrove swamp make appearances on either side of the road, and exotic birdlife are abundant. At the edge of San Blas, we cross a small bridge over an estuary. A group of mostly bright colored dugout canoes are visible, some rigged with motors. A large bar-b-que is spewing smoke as fish are grilled over wood coals.

*  *  *

The first place we stayed upon our arrival for a few days in San Blas, was  a very basic hotel called the “Belmar”. Now there was a well known Belmar on the Olas Altas in Mazatlan then, but this was nothing like that. It was a simple hotel on a corner on the road into town with a basic room and a cold water shower. I recall a very pretty, teen- aged Mexican girl, with long black hair lived in the back. When she smiled she was missing teeth.

Main Steet View - Old Spanish Aduana Ruins

My folks went out everyday for a while looking to rent a house. They found one not too many days later, a newly built one in fact, owned by a Dr. Hernandez. I believe the monthly rent for the 2 bedroom house was around $275. pesos, about $34 dollars then. It was on the main one-way return road from the beach, Playa Hermosa. It was typically painted light blue, and the interior was white with some pale pink. There was a bugambilia plant against the outside wall on the car port. We moved in and almost immediately met and made friends with the Mexican family next door. The señor, a real character, ran a bike repair business out of their home. My mother hunted up a local carpenter/furniture maker and had new living room furniture made, it was so incredibly inexpensive then.

The Folks in San Blas

Come September, like back home, I had to go back to school. It was a bit scary. I only spoke three words of Spanish and most Mexican kids spoke about two words of English. The school building was a series of stalls around a dirt area on three sides, much like animal stalls, open aired, no glass windows, a cement floor and small blackboards hanging from nails. The roof was palm fronds and the walls were palm bark. I sat towards the back of the class and on the far side, like I always have. Frequently, during class, the other kids would turn around and look at me. Some stared, some smiled, some flirted. This was Mexico, they were just about all dark-eyed and dark-haired. I was the only blue-eyed, blonde-haired person there. And probably the tallest too. I’ll admit, they were mostly friendly and certainly curious and spoke to me in Spanish, and I struggled with understanding them. My folks had a Spanish-English dictionary and a Berlitz book of Spanish phrases I would refer to a lot in the beginning. The first Spanish phrase I taught myself was, “no entiendo “ or “I don’t understand.”

Naturally, during class, other kids would turn around and look at me with curiosity. They were just about all dark-eyed and black-haired. I was the only blue-eyed, blonde-haired person there, and probably the tallest too. They were mostly very friendly and spoke to me in Spanish, and I struggled with understanding them at first. My folks had dictionaries and a Berlitz book of Spanish phrases I would refer to a lot in the beginning when I was at home. The first Spanish phrase I taught myself was, “I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

As it turned out, I was among the last students to use the old school. A new 2 story building was being finished in a different part of town, and soon would be ready to occupy. But first they needed volunteers to put together the new desks that had arrived disassembled in boxes. They requested that us bigger kids help assemble them, so I did.

Growing up in the states, we said the allegiance to the flag each morning. In Mexico, it's a bit more military-like. Every week, we marched the streets of town with a drum and bugle corp! There's a photo or two my mother took of me doing just that. On special occasions, most everyone's dressed in white, some girls with gloves, except for me - nobody told me! Plaid shirt, blue pants, the clueless gringo.

Life in a small, tropical town was invigorating. I don't recall  missing California for a minute. It was so unique, so new for me. The cobblestone streets and the thatched houses. The colors, the music. The food and the big ocean out there and all the interesting and usually tasty creatures that were extracted from it. The mangrove swamps, the jungle, the crocodiles and caimans, the diverse birdlife.  The ruins of Spanish buildings here and there.

I wasted no time and did as the natives did: swam in my underwear in the estuary, caught shrimps in a net in the shallows, dug for clams on the beach, rode horses, and even drove a mule drawn wagon. I played on a intramural basketball team. I played the futbolito machines some days for hours, and made the first skateboard, patin, in town. I played marbles, pichas, learned to use a balero and a slingshot and a sling, resorteras. I climbed trees and knocked down fruit. Papayas, mangoes, guavas. I ate many things I'd never eaten or seen before. There were seemingly frequent festivities or religious celebrations or parades and carnival-like rides that either came to town or to a different nearby village. I went to the movies some nights, they showed John Wayne movies frequently.

Though many have no knowledge of it, San Blas is a historical place. It was a main port for the Spanish who sailed north to California and to the Philippines. It was a supply depot for the founding of the missions. There are ruins of an old church, and what is referred to as a “fort” with cannons on a hill overlooking the town, actually a counting house (contaduria) and a large crumbling customs house down on the estuary. (Inconceivable to me, has since been restored to a museum).

As a young teen-ager, the hormones were maturing. I did my first real flirting in San Blas. The Mexican girls were very friendly and flirtatious.  My blue eyes and blond hair were noticed. (The Mexican men noticed my mother too for the same reason.) The girls were quite forthright and genuine and sweet, not at all self-conscious. Really cute!

Eventually, nature took its course. Thinking about it now,  I probably had a few choices. Consa, well she lived just down the street. She had noticed me as I had her and our maid introduced us; I was 13, Consa was 15. But I was a head taller than she. I fell right in with the whole family. One could find me at their home more than my own. My mother thought I was going to school in the mornings and evenings. I leaned more about life in this humble people's home. Consa didn't go to school much as she had many chores to do. Lupe, Consa's mom was a kick. A little crazy, who both laughed and yelled a lot. It so happens too they made tortillas and sold them out of their house. I also spent a good deal of time with her brother, Quique. We went shopping for Lupe and shot sling shots and I learned to use his Goliath-like sling too for the first time. I was pretty good with it. It's was lethal! We played marbles, and a toy called a balero, the ones that have a heavy, cylindrical, carved wooden thing with a hole at one end that hangs from a string, connected to a stick. You swing the cylinder just so, so that it flips and lands on the stick. Quique would advise me on the people in town, the one's he liked and the one's I should avoid.

Enrique Sr. was a slaughterer for the meat markets. I was invited to see just what it was he did. Nothing fancy, just a sharp knife in the right spot and it was over for that cow. As the cow lay on his side, he cut the jugular and the blood poured out. I immediately saw the cow's body sink in size. Enrique cupped his hands together and drank of the blood. Then he reached down inside the cow's neck and stabbed the heart.

I learned much about the Mexican way of life hanging out at the Toscano's house. The language, the mannerisms, the gestures. I was young and I absorbed the culture like a sponge.

* * *

The Huichol Indians live nearby in the Nayar Mountains, part of the Sierra Madres, and they would walk through San Blas on their way to the ocean to pray. Sometimes they walked past our house. Across the estuary, is continuation of the mainland. There’s a small lighthouse sitting on top of a bluff. The locals simply called it, el otro lado (the other side). I found many of their gifts to their gods amongst the big rocks below the light house or simply lying on the beach, those that had washed up after being deposited in the sea. Small arrows, carved boats, yarn and beeswax “paintings,” Ojo de Dioses, “God's eyes,” and bead and beeswax bowls made from gourds. My brother brought home a crudely stuffed ocelot once. Stephen eventually bought a complete Huichol outfit for himself:

San Blas is known by birding enthusiasts for its concentration of birds that migrate from the north for the winter. There are more than 300 species of migrant and resident birds within 15 miles of San Blas. Mangrove estuaries, springs, fresh water rivers and tropical jungle create a great biodiversity.

Life in San Blas was never boring. Sometimes lazy,  slow going and hot, but never boring. The Mexico experience affected me deeply. All those in my family that have gone there fell in love with the place. We loved the gentle, friendly people and their beautiful language, the music, the food, the tropical climate, the warm ocean water, the colors, the big blue skies, and of course--the low cost of living there. I learned to speak fairly good Spanish, and realized that even though I’ve lived mostly in the states, much of my heart is in Mexico.

PPG 2014/2015

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Emiliano

EMILIANO

 A partly fictionalized story about the legendary leader of Mexico's Revolution. ¡Viva!

By Perry Gaspar

Our story starts a little over a hundred years ago in a small village in southern Mexico in the state of Morelos. There once lived a young mestizo boy there by the name of Emiliano. "Mili," as his family usually called him, was the second to the youngest in a large family of 5 brothers and 4 sisters. By now, several siblings had grown, left home and made homes of their own. Mili's parents were campesinos, people that work with the land. They grew beans, corn, tomatoes, and some sugarcane on their small farm. The family also owned several heads of cattle, two horses, and a burro. His father, Gabriel, was a horse trainer like his father before him, and Cleofas, his mother, was a seamstress. Mili's family wasn't the poorest family in the village, but they were far from being rich.

Mili Zapata was quiet but serious for a young boy. While most boys ran here and there or kicked tin cans down the street, or flung their wooden tops inside circles scratched in the dirt, Mili would rather be on his horse he called "Papaya," out in the campo, riding fast and jumping over the many stone walls. Mili was a very good rider and he was no doubt following in his father’s footsteps as an excellent horseman. Mili was also a thinker. When he wasn't out on Papaya and he was around the other boys, he would frequently gaze off in the distance with his deep, dark eyes and think. Mili was basically shy and if someone started up a conversation with him, he would simply answer "sí," or "no," while nodding his head accordingly. He would then excuse himself, saying, "..con permiso," and run off towards home.

Like his brothers and sisters, only occasionally could Mili attend school as there was always much work to be done on the farm: tending the fields, or feeding the various animals. Each of the children was required to do their part of the chores necessary to support the household. (Mili didn't know it yet, but one day, he would become famous). Many of the people of Las Piedras were poor. Most children were expected to work at chores as soon as they were big enough, around the age of 8 or 9 and sometimes even younger.

Mili was always an observant sort and at a young age he recognized that the people in his village were different from the people in the big city over the mountains to the north; and different too from those who lived in the haciendas, the big ranchos that lay between his village and the city. Among other things, he noticed that many of the hacienda folk were of lighter skin color than his own. He had noticed too, and wondered why all people were not treated the same. And he was curious to know how it was that few people had so much, while so many had so little.

Mili had been many times to the sprawling hacienda owned by the Mendez family on the north-western side of Las Piedras. His father worked there most days of the week, grooming and caring of the many horses and mules the Mendezes owned. He taught people to ride also. Those days when his mother didn't need him to help around the home, Mili liked to go along with his “Papi” to the hacienda to help with the animals. The size and grandeur of the Mendez hacienda captivated Mili. He noticed the many nice things that they owned and he couldn't help but notice the great number of people that worked there: the maids, servants, cooks, gardeners, and in particular, the many vaqueros on their work horses.

Mili liked to watch the vaqueros while they worked, and he was fascinated by their dress. The wide brimmed sombreros, the snug-fitting pants that belled at the bottom with silver buttons that ran down the sides of their legs, and the intricate stitching on their leather vests. Mili knew some of the people that worked for the Mendezes. Like himself, they were people from his village, the parents of some of his friends. Some lived permanently on the hacienda grounds.

Twice, Mili had been through the tall, wooden front doors of the main house, just inside in the big passageway. From there, Mili could see other parts of the house. Especially into the large sitting room with its big fireplace and the many chairs and couches and tables. He was awed by the thick rugs on the floor and the high ceiling with the big cast iron chandeliers that hung down from the massive wooden beams. There were big paintings on the walls of Don and Doña Mendez and other family members. It had occurred to him that the whole house where he lived could have fit into just one of those rooms!

* * *

Many things concerning the hacienda had troubled Mili. He had seen on several occasions that the dueños, the owners of the hacienda, would be disrespectful to his father, and to some of the other workers also. "You'd better do it right, or else," he heard someone threaten. "If I have to tell you again, you'll get no pay!" he heard on another occasion. Mili felt this was not right. Why should someone talk to another this way? His friends and family never talked to one another in that manner. He was taught to be considerate to all people.

One day, he witnessed one of the foremen named, Juan, push his father aside causing him to almost tumble to the ground. Gabriél, being humble, said nothing. Riding horseback on the way home after the long day of work, Mili asked his father why the foreman had done so. "Pápi, why did Juan do that to you?" "I'm sorry you had to see that, Emiliano," his father told him. "I simply had given my opinion to him. I said that he must not whip his horse as he does. I think he probably felt a little guilty about it after I brought it to his attention. Juan is a bit spoiled, and being young, still has some things to learn. You, my son, know better than he does." Mili smiled proudly.

Mili thought about what his father said as they continued on down the dusty road nearing home and the supper he knew his mother would be preparing and would have waiting for them for when they arrived. The sun was now very low and the hot day had begun to cool off. The rocks and trees had a golden glow as they almost always did that time of day. Off in the distance a donkey brayed. It was Pépe, their donkey, and Mili knew they were nearly home. This day would have a profound effect on Emiliano.

* * *

The village of Las Piedras lay a half days ride over some mountains from the big Ciudad de México, to the south. Due to its proximity, the people of Las Piedras supplied many things to those who lived in the city. On most any day one could see oxen or mule drawn carts and burros, laden with fruits and vegetables, chickens and pigs, leather goods and woven material; headed up through the pass and over the mountains to be sold in the many markets in the big city. The women of Las Piedras sewed rebosos and wove beautiful serapes to sell. The men made fine leather saddles and bridles and carved wooden bowls and utensils and even toys. Mili's mother sewed and embroidered fine faldas and blusas, and his father would sell the corn and tomatoes they had grown. Selling their goods in the markets was a major livelihood for the villagers. Some days, one could make enough money on market day to last their family for several weeks before having to go again.

Mili thought the big city was very interesting, but he would always be glad to get home again to his humble village. The people in the city seem to be in a hurry, he thought to himself. They even walk and talk faster! And like the hacendados, they treated him and the people of his village differently from their own kind. Like the Mendezes, the city folk were well dressed, drove fancy buggies and coaches, and lived in big houses. Mili never really felt comfortable around them.

One day as Mili and his older brother, Eufemio, were working together in the tomato field, Mili shared what he had seen happen that day to his father at the hacienda. Eufemio was furious to hear that Juan, the foreman, had treated his father in a discourteous way.

Later that evening as the two lie in their beds, they talked more about things they had seen or heard. Mili learned that his brother was bothered by many of the same things. And Eufemio informed him of some other things he was not aware of: the fact the Mendezes had taken land from their neighbors, the Trujillos, family friends and campesinos like themselves. "They also diverted the acequia so they could have more water for their animals, which means that many families on that side of our village get less water to use," Eufemio explained. "And you know the Archuletas, they did the same. They put a fence up where there has never been one before, and claimed the land as theirs. Old man Chuy had planted his beans there for many years, and now he can no longer do so. I tell you Mili, there's something in the air lately that I don't like. These people will take our land and maybe our village too if we let them!"

Eufemio was about to tell his younger brother to to go to sleep now, but he didn't have to. Mili was already snoring softly. The night was very calm. Aside from Mili's gentle snoring, the only other sound were the crickets outside which seemed almost loud to Eufemio as he lay there in the dark with his head resting on the wall behind him. Soon, he too would fall asleep.

As Mili grew, he would learn much about his country's dictator, Porfirio Díaz and his government based in Mexico City, and the extent of the wrong they had been doing for many years to the less fortunate people all over Mexico. He came to like the city and its people even less and what they stood for. Likewise, people like the nearby Aragones and the Archuletas. All they seemed to care about were themselves. The campesinos became weary of the so-called more affluent, seemingly always taking and never giving back. La gente needed land too to survive -- land and water were central to life. They were necessary for raising their animals, their food, their families; was this asking too much?

By now, Mili had talked and listened to many people with feelings like his own. He was thoughtful, compassionate, and he understood well what the peasants hardships were about. He and his family were victims too, and he made a decision to do something about it.

* * *

Several years passed, and Mili was now 18 years old. His brother Eufemio, had left to join in some fighting that had begun. Something "muy serio" was in the air. A revolución had begun. Injustices like those in Las Piedras were happening everywhere throughout México. The poor were getting poorer and losing access to arable lands, as the rich got only richer. Peasant uprisings against the ruling class were frequent now. They had no choice but to fight back for what was being denied or taken from them.

The village of Las Piedras would fight back also. Mili and his father would attend meetings with other men around Las Piedras to discuss strategies to oppose the powers that be. The meetings were mostly kept secret and held at different locations. Emiliano, as he was usually called now, would have a lot to say at these meetings. He had good ideas and spoke with passion about the campesino situation. He was no longer the boy who didn't participate. He was a man now and had joined the rebellion.

"We can no longer accept what the hacendados have been doing, taking our lifeblood away from us," he told the group. "We must join together, and fight those who deny us land and liberty."

Several days later as planned, many of the villagers held a protest against the Aragon hacienda. Some of those that worked there did not show up for work. The shops and businesses that catered to the Aragones did not open for business. Later that day as expected, the Policía arrived and arrested many including Emiliano. They were loaded into wagons and taken to Ayala, the nearest town that had a jail big enough to hold them all. Emiliano and the others spent a couple days there, but were pardoned and released unharmed if they promised to return to work.. Emliano had been many times to Ayala before. It was where he had gone to school as a boy.

It would be only a few days when the meetings would start again. Emiliano himself led the campesinos on several attempts to make negotiations with the Aragones and other haciendas, but the hacendados wouldn't budge. Meanwhile, at one of the meetings, Emiliano's friends and neighbors elected him "President of the Board of Defense," for his village. Emiliano seemed destined to be a leader!

* * *

Sitting with the family at the breakfast table the following Sunday morning, Emiliano's mother told him, "I am proud of you my son, and what you are doing, but promise me you will be careful."
"Do not worry about Emiliano, Cleofa," his father spoke up. “Yes, he believes strongly in what he is doing and is very cautious also."
"We'd better get going if we are to make it to church on time," his sister Lúpe chimed in.


With that said, everyone gulped down the last of their cafés they were drinking and rose to collect their sombreros and serapes, and prepared to pile into the family wagon. Emiliano chose to ride Papaya alongside. Once in church, Emiliano prayed that he would do what was right for the people of Morelos. In his mind, he knew what his family would pray for.


As mass ended, Emiliano excused himself saying, "con permiso" to his family and rode off by himself. He went to the top of a hill overlooking Las Piedras and looked across the valley it seemed to fit snuggly into. He could plainly see the fields of corn. The leaves were turning brown now as most had been harvested recently. He could see, and hear, the fields of tall sugarcane still mostly green, their tops rustling softly with each breeze. To his left on a slope of the same hill he stood on, were the mango groves, large trees that he recalled climbing many times to knock down the yellow and red fruits to his waiting brothers and sisters below as they scurried to collect them in their pockets and skirts. To the East, beyond the last bunch of visible tile rooftops, the Rio Verde sparkled in the morning sunlight. The sky was a huge deep-blue backdrop to it all.


It was truly a magical place. "Es mi tierra" he spoke out loud to Papaya as he patted her on the head. He could not imagine living anywhere else. He would do all in his power to keep the land for his family and fellow villagers, as it should be; and more, he thought to himself. He would get back that which was taken also. There will be lots of work to do, and no doubt some fighting, and sadly, some will die.

* * *

At the next meeting, the group addressed the fact that, if there was to be big changes, it would be necessary to go to the top. They agreed that they must try and meet with the Presidente de México, Porfirio Diaz. Such a thing would not be easy.

"Presidente Diaz is not just a president, he is a dictator," someone was heard to say. "He will not talk to us."

It was true. Diaz had ruled México for the past thirty years. He was selfish, ruthless, and plainly ignored the struggle of the campesinos. He was a friend of the elite, the rich folk of mostly European blood--those that came from across the oceans to exploit and take advantage of the abundance of land and resources and people, while most those of indian or mestizo heritage that were born on the land and kept poor and subservient.

Word was out about a man named, Francisco Madero who lived in the northern part of Mexico, and had been making speeches about changes in the government. He spoke of justice and the democratic way, fairness to all people living in Mexico, and more importantly, the removal of President Díaz.

"I heard Madero will be in the area soon, campaigning," a gentleman in the group exclaimed.

Emiliano spoke up. "It would be a good idea to meet with this man. We will talk to him and explain our situation. Perhaps we are on the same side, no?"

End part one

PPG