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The River with Two Names
The people living on both sides of the border have been fed and nurtured
by the river with two names for longer than historical records can
testify. It has been called the Río Bravo on the Mexican side and the
Rio Grande on the Texas side. The opposite side of the river has always
been referred to as "the other side," even in songs.
Texan Mexicans experience an ambivalence, based on a love for the river
itself, regardless of which side of the river we identify with. The old
people used to say that the river gave birth to us; that we could never
leave the delta once we drank from its waters; that the river was our
life.
When I was a child the local chamber of commerce used to
refer to the Rio Grande valley as "the Magic Valley." And it seemed that
way, driving along the highway, passing through Valley towns and ranches
strung together on leis of bougainvilleas and palm trees. Citrus
orchards, cabbage, cotton crops, pineapple, tomatoes, and even aloe vera
farms eventually filled the fields between towns, in abundance. I
remember that the beautiful floats and dresses of the participants in a
citrus festival were decorated with varieties of dried fruit segments
and embroidered with seeds in intricate designs. And this was just one
example of the celebrations of the wealth and productivity made possible
by the great river, and enjoyed by the residents of the Magic Valley.
Cultivation of the land depended on the river, but it was also a matter
of life and death to both Mexicans and Texans. The river flowed through
our veins. The added beauty and profusion of flowers that surrounded us
seemed almost a mystical extravagance. Likewise, it seemed, in my
mother's garden.
She related only to neighbours who shared a
gardening interest. They exchanged plant slips, gardening hints, and
seeds. And until my stepfather built another house on that property, the
vegetable garden in our backyard produced okra, corn, tomatoes, and
other vegetables, along with medicinal herbs. Papaya trees, both male
and female species, circled our house. Evergreens were almost doorstops,
and chrysanthemum adorned the sidewalk leading to our front door. Calla
lillies served as a hedge. Annuals were planted into geometric shapes. A
blazing five-pointed star of red star-shaped flowers and a yellow circle
of daffodils enhanced each side of our front yard. A rectangular field
bloomed in purple gladioli one year and in another shade the next. Not
to mention the borders of iris, and the numerous rose bushes in many
colours. Hibiscus, poinsettia, and jasmine all fit in somewhere, in
Mother's scheme of texture, colour, and scent.
Her flowers were envied for blocks around. People in cars even stopped
to inquire about the varieties of flowers growing in my mother's garden.
When the Valley suffered a long drought, my stepfather drilled a well in
the back yard. The water wasn't fit for drinking, but the garden didn't
suffer.
When I was in my early teens a great deal of debate took
place regarding the proposal to build a dam that would affect the flow
and distribution of our river. The implications were that the Americans
intended to steer the river waters to the advantage of the farmers on
the Texas side, and subsequently the Mexicans would suffer. These
arguments, pro and con, passed over my head. At the time, I was more
interested in the story about the little town of Zapata (named after a
local rancher, not the hero of the Mexican Revolution) being inundated,
and the famous Hollywood movie stars coming down to Roma to make a movie
based on the life of Gen. Emiliano Zapata.
The local population received postcards ostensibly signed by Marlon
Brando as the studio attempted to drum up local interest and enthusiasm
for the film. I remember seeing long lines of Mexican immigrants
standing outside the Rialto theatre in Harlingen, waiting to go in.
Falcon Dam was built and celebrated officially with huge fanfare by
representatives of both countries.
In the early 1950s, when I was
around fourteen years old, I attended my favourite Valley festival,
Charro Days in Brownsville, with my mother.
She gave me permission to
remain at the festival in the care of the older daughters of some
Missouri Pacific employees and to catch a later train home. To pass the
time, we girls sat on the lawns near the Jardin Hotel, overlooking the
silver river by moonlight, and watched as a handful of Mexicans waded
across from the other side, reminding me of the term "wetbacks" that has
been indiscriminately and incorrectly applied to all of us Americans of
Mexican descent.
Walking home from Vernon Gay Jr. High later that
year, I was stopped by an Immigration officer sitting alone in a parked
car on the curb of a sparsely populated street. He asked me if I spoke
English, and where I was born, and I replied that I was born in
Brownsville. He insisted on seeing my birth certificate or other
official identification. Some of my classmates and I had just applied to
work at Walgreens during the coming school holidays, so I had my social
security card on me, but not my birth certificate. I didn't know then
that teenagers in our country were required to carry that kind of
identification on them, for safety's sake. Or was I accosted because I
was walking home alone?
What did it mean, that I didn't look American? This has puzzled me over
the years; what DOES an American look like? Describe one for me!
The indigenous Mexicans, according to historical records, described
themselves as people the colour of the earth. The earth is many colours.
Just like the variety of produce nurtured by the river with two names,
on both sides of the Mexican-Texan border. Just like the varieties of
flowers that grew and blossomed in my mother's garden.
Alma Iris Ramirez
Adelaide, South Australia
Published:
November 14,
2005
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