Category: Commentary

I spent most of nineteen sixty eight excitedly and naively planning my wedding while continuing to take classes at the University of Houston. Because I was leaning with ever more certainty toward a career in education I had competed for and landed a position as a teachers’ aide at Eliot Elementary School in the Houston Independent School District. I hoped to get a better idea of the day to day life of a teacher by spending a semester there. It would also give me a small salary to add to the stipend that Mike would receive as a Teaching Assistant in the Sociology Department of the University of Houston while he continued studies for his graduate degree. In the meantime, he also planned to work with his uncle as an electrician’s helper during the summer where he would make much more meaningful money that he planned to save for our first year of married life. My friend Susan helped me land a job during the summer at Holiday Inn making reservations for travelers and earning far more money than I had ever before made. 

Mike and I were full of dreams and ideas, thinking we had an ironclad plan to support ourselves. We were playing an adult’s game with little experience, but a great deal of unproven faith in each other. Little by little we moved forward with our audacious insistence on cementing our commitment to each other. We set our wedding date for October 4, 1968, the first of our real life experiences in compromise. I had wanted to get things settled before I went to work at Eliot Elementary, but an August nuptial did not work for Mike’s dad so we agreed to a Friday evening in October that would allow us to launch our life together with a weekend honeymoon in New Orleans before returning to the jobs to which we had committed ourselves for the fall season. 

Step one was securing the church for the event, so we met with the pastor of Mt Carmel Church and signed up for Pre-Cana classes as well. The planning began in earnest. Soon we were picking out invitations, creating a guest list and choosing the members of the wedding party. My bridesmaids would be my cousin Ingrid, my good friend, Susan, whom I had known from my first days in Overbrook, and Nancy who was a high school buddy who often drove me to the University of Houston and had become a closer and closer friend. I had wanted Linda to be one of my bridesmaids as well but she was also planning her own wedding for December and we both agreed that it would be too difficult to balance so much at one time. Instead she and my long time friend Lynda Barry who had already married would be servers at the reception along with other high school friends, Claudia and Elke. 

Mama and I spent much of the spring and summer reserving the Parish Hall for the reception, choosing the cakes, visiting with a florist and securing a photographer. I thought we would never find the perfect wedding gown but a trip to the downtown Foley’s led us to exactly what we had in mind. I also enjoyed shopping with my bridesmaids as they discussed what kind and color their dresses should be. It was a whirlwind of activity that kept me and Mike moving forward without thinking too much about the reality of what we were doing. 

Soon the wedding showers came. Linda held a lingerie shower for me that was a blast. Mrs. Barry hosted an elegant luncheon that made me love her even more than I already did. My Aunt Polly insisted on having a bridal shower at her home and as usual she went all out in preparing food and games. Everyone was so generous with their encouragement and love. Somehow I knew that Mike and I would not be entering our new life without the support of the very caring people around us. My usual tendencies to become anxious about the future were sated by the outpouring of kindness that surrounded us. 

Mike and I had to find a place to live so we began searching for an apartment. We had already created a budget that would keep us within the confines of the salaries we would be earning. There was little room for extravagance so finding reasonable housing was tantamount. We had to turn away from many places that appeared to be quite nice more than once. Just as we were beginning to wonder if we would ever find a rental that was within our means we stumbled upon a small project on Beatty Street just a few miles from the University of Houston where Mike would be working and we both would be taking classes. It would also be quite convenient for my travels to Eliot Elementary School.  Best of all the one bedroom apartment was spacious and impeccably clean. The small group of people living there were quite friendly as well. For one hundred ten dollars each month we had a place to grow our love with all utilities paid. We had found a hidden jewel. 

Looking back I can only imagine what my mother and Mike’s parents were thinking. I would still be only nineteen years old on our wedding day and Mike would be barely twenty one. My mother would have to sign a document giving her permission for me to marry. Both of us would be leaving our family homes to set out on our own. On the surface it all seems quite reckless when I think of it now, but back then we felt no hesitation whatsoever. The world seemed to be on the verge of cataclysm and we believed that we had no time to tarry in our resolve. Many of our best friends had already married and many more were engaged and planning their own weddings. It seemed to be the wise thing to do even as we understood the challenges that we might face. October 4, 1968, loomed large on our calendars. It would be the moment when we officially forged our union. Somehow we believed without reservation that we were on the right track. Only time would prove us right or wrong. We took a giant leap into the future.

Have you ever viewed a documentary that won’t leave your mind even as you attempt to focus on other things? This happened to me after I watched a CNN special report on the trials of a group of migrants making their way through one of the most dangerous treks in the world seeking new lives for themselves and their families. The journey from South America into Central America and then to points north, often involves a torturous journey through the Darien Gap, an untamed jungle that separates Colombia from the settled areas of Panama. 

Individuals and families pay cartels to guide them through a route filled with countless dangers. The trip is advertised as a two day affair, but it often extends into four or five days of walking through a hell scape that too often leads to injuries or even death. Desperate people from around the world pay guides to show them the route that passes through areas so muddy that some people lose their shoes in the muck and must continue walking in their bare feet. The dangers are a hundredfold as they try to dodge poisonous snakes, heat stroke, hunge, thieves and exhaustion. Surviving often requires making multiple payments of money, labor or food. Old and very young alike risk everything rather than turn back to untenable lives in countries like Haiti, Venezuela or even China. 

Watching the struggles of the people willing to endure a kind of living hell made me realize how horrific their former lives must have been. Nobody would be willing to endure the hardships of the journey on a whim. If there were even a shred of hope back home they would surely return. It is impossible to imagine how horrific their lives had been or to understand their willingness to literally deadly hardships for the slim chance of making it to a better place. The elderly folk and the families with children were especially poignant in their determination to make it a new future that they believe will surely make their struggles worthwhile.

The CNN documentary featured a grey haired teacher from Venezuela hoping to make it to Houston to be with relatives. She used a cane to keep herself upright and often struggled to climb the slippery mountains of mud or to stay upright while walking on jagged rocks in the water. At times she appeared to be ready to collapse, but something pushed her forward, helped her to ignore her pain. Often strangers on the trek with her stopped to help her move just a few feet more in her quest. 

A mother carried her disabled daughter on her back. A father held his feverish son close to his chest. People created a stretcher for a stranger who had injured his leg and was no longer able to walk. A little boy spoke of moving to Miami and going to school so that he and his sister might become educated and grow up to have jobs that afforded them a home with a swimming pool. The humanity of the caravan evoked images of Moses traveling to the promised land or Ulysses struggling to find his way back home. 

I thought of my own grandparents who left kith and kin behind in 1912, hoping to find freedoms that had been denied them in the land that would one day evolve into present day Slovakia. They paid for passage on a steamship that took them to Galveston, Texas from whence they made their way to Houston where work was plentiful and their future seemed instantly brighter. While they were not always welcomed because of their language and customs, they mostly encountered little resistance. There were no walls or camps or hoops through which they had to jump. They just came along with hundreds of thousands of others from Eastern Europe, Italy, Ireland, Germany and the United Kingdom. 

Humankind has traveled from one place to another for centuries. The story of civilization is a fluid tale of hunting and gathering that forced people to follow the creatures of the earth in migrations that ultimately led to settlements. Tracing the journeys of people is both fascinating and daunting. How do we decide how it was okay for one group to push aside another in their quest of a new home, but not right for others to do the same thing? Were the earliest settlers of the New World any different from those who now move from one part of that area to another? We celebrate the history of the intrepid folks who sailed across the sea to uncertain adventures, but claim that borders must no longer be open for anyone hoping to be modern day adventurers. Do we really own the right to decide who gets to live among us when our own ancestors were able to come here with little or no resistance?

I don’t know the answers to my questions. I do understand how complex immigration has become. I agree that making the whole world open to any and everyone is mostly impossible, but surely the mere luck of being born in a place of freedom and opportunity should not be the only way of changing the direction of our lives. Instead of arguing over keeping people out, why can’t we speak of new more humane ways to welcome refugees who want to improve their lives? How can we watch other people risking everything to be with us and then treat them with disdain?

I challenge everyone to watch the CNN documentary about the journey through the Darien Gap without feeling compassion for those seeking asylum in our country. Perhaps if we were to walk in their shoes vicariously we might be more inclined to consider humane ways to help them. We might better realize how the luck of being born to the right parents has provided us with a great gift that we may want to be more willing to share. Certainly fighting amongst ourselves and building walls has not worked. It’s time to think outside of the box we have created. 

In November of nineteen sixty seven I turned nineteen feeling as though I had grown by leaps and bounds since my graduation from high school. The world was in a state of upheaval, but I had become more focused in my personal life. I realized the fragility of life from my own experiences and from following the news. Somehow I felt compelled to take control of my tiny impact on the world. I began to realize that I was stronger than I had thought of myself as being. I more and more often entertained the idea of becoming an educator. I had found refuge in learning throughout my childhood and somehow it felt right to share the power of knowledge with others. Preparing for a future as a teacher suddenly felt as right for me as being with Mike. The former confusion of my life was replaced with a laser sharp determination to build my life around conveying the joy of learning that my father had given me. My pathway seemed clear.

In December Mike proposed to me under the lights of my family’s Christmas tree. It seemed fitting that I would promise myself to him in the season that had always seemed to bring me so much joy and comfort even in the direst of times. I felt confident that my personal journey was heading in the right direction with Mike by my side. The War in Vietnam and the losses incurred by that conflict made it clear to me how important people would always be to me. If I had one purpose that drove me, it was to find ways to better the lives of others. With Mike’s encouragement and respect I had finally developed a passion and a purpose that would drive my life. It was a grand partnership that we agreed to forge on that Christmas of nineteen sixty seven. 

Nineteen sixty eight would become known as a dramatic turning point for me and for the world. Nothing felt calm. The war continued to rage as well as the protests against it. I suppose that in times of crisis there is a human tendency of urgency. Somehow Mike and I knew that if we were to begin working together toward common goals our marriage and independence from our parents needed to happen sooner rather than later. We set our sights on a wedding in the fall and began to plan the event. 

It was time for me to get to know Mike’s parents better so we often spent our time together with them. I had to admit to myself that I felt a bit uncomfortable and awkward around them. Their lifestyle was so unlike what I had known up to that point. Even the contents of their snack filled refrigerator demonstrated the visible contrast to the bare bones inventory of the one in my home. Mike’s mother, Mary, was a lovely woman with beautiful hands that she used to make her very definite points of discussion seem even more important. She was a tiny woman with a commanding confidence that was admittedly intimidating to me. I admired her self assurance, but also felt quite unworthy in her presence in spite of her efforts to be welcoming to me. 

It had been so long since my father had died that I tended be unsure of myself around men other than my uncles. Mike’s father, Julio Gonzalez was no exception. He had met Mary at the University of Houston where he had enrolled after serving in the Korean War. Mary and Julio had encountered one another in the Cougar Den one day and felt an almost instant connection. Mary had been married before and Mike had been a child of that failed liaison. She was rebuilding her life when she met Julio who had been born and raised in Puerto Rico. She found him to be fascinating and it was not lon gafter meeting that they married when Mike was about five years old,. Julio, who would later officially adopt Mike, had become a father by default, a role that he took quite seriously. 

In retrospect I suspect that the vibe of  reticence that I felt from Mary and Julio had mostly to do with their worry about how young and naive Mike and I were at the time. They were anxious that we were rushing into an adult world that they feared we were quite far from being able to handle. It would only have been natural for them to feel cautious about giving us their blessing to move forward together with little more than a wing and a prayer. 

In the meantimes life was happening with or without us. I was washing dishes one day when my mother rushed in to announce that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated. I remember dropping a plate onto the floor where it shattered. I sat among the shards of glass sobbing and wondering how hate could fester so much in the world. Finding and offering love felt so necessary in that moment. 

President Johnson had already announced that he would not seek reelection. I had grown closer to Mike’s parents when they accompanied Mike and I to a rally for Eugene McCarthy, an antiwar candidate who had garnered the attention of young people who felt that the Vietnam War was an unjust cause. We rallied around the Senator in Hermann Park hoping to send a message that we were tired of seeing young men returning home in caskets for a conflict that seemed to have no real purpose for the United States. McCarthy’s drive would later lose steam when Robert Kennedy entered the race, almost instantly becoming the front runner for the Democratic nomination. 

In June Kennedy seemed to have secured enough delegates to become the man who would run against Richard Nixon in November. When he was assassinated on the night that his delegate count was secured, I began to wonder if the world was going to collapse before I even reached my planned wedding date of October 4, 1968. Everything seemed dark and uncertain, but I knew that I had learned how to weather any situation just from watching my mother in the days and years after our father’s death. I had every faith that Mike and I would be fine, but I was no so sure about the state of our nation. We were living through a year when the world seemed to be on fire.

I have never actually believed in love at first sight save for how I have felt when my daughters and my grandchildren were born. Dating Mike was nonetheless a love story from the beginning. At first it was exciting to be with a kindred spirit who seemed to understand me so well. As time went by I became more and more convinced that I really had met the very special person with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. 

I was only eighteen years old and fully aware of the fact that my life experiences were so limited that I should not let my heart run away with my head. When Mike first told me that he loved me I was thrilled, but wondered if both of us were getting carried away too quickly. My response to him was a no doubt humiliating, “Thank you!” For someone with a general facility with words I might have been more encouraging, but I simply chose not to commit to any emotion while I tried to discern what I was actually feeling. The truth was that I thought I loved him as well, but as I had so often realized, I was an old soul with a cautious spirit. Somehow the fact that I had been bowled over by Mike in a very short time confused me. I had imagined first earning a college degree, working for a time at a job, and only then finding the love of my life, but there I was becoming more and more certain that somehow Mike and I were meant to be together. 

I was still attempting to reconcile myself with a college major that made me excited. While I continued with my studies Mike and I spent more and more time together. He had transferred to the University of Houston where he was majoring in Sociology and already impressing his professors. Now and again he would take me to “invitation only” discussions with class members and professors. They were always incredibly interesting and I felt so proud to be part of such intellectual soirees. 

We often had fun double dating with my cousin Ingrid and her new found beau, John. We also spent more and more time with Alan and Susan who had married. I loved witnessing married life with them where we played cards and enjoyed Susan’s cooking. It was like peeking at a future with Mike even though he had not yet suggested that our relationship was heading for total commitment. 

Meanwhile Mama was spending more and more time with the man that she had once insisted she disliked. Somehow he wormed his way into her life by appealing constantly to her good nature. She seemed to be struggling to free herself of him, but he always managed to find a reason that kept her willing to see him one more time. His manipulation of her feelings irked me so much that I made every possible effort to avoid him. I did not want to hear his ugly political rants or see my mother losing the confidence that had always seemed to define her.

My brother Michael had transferred from Mt. Carmel High School to Jones High School after convincing our mother that the science and mathematics programs were better there. He immediately enjoyed the new challenges and the expertise of his teachers. At one point he created a contraption out of balsa wood that resembled a Rube Goldberg machine. It consisted of shoots through which marbles would rush to calculate the answer to a mathematics problem. He called it a computer. At the Houston Science Fair he won first prize in the mathematics division and then went all the way to top honors overall. It was apparent to all of us that he was really going to fulfill his childhood dream of becoming a mathematician and maybe even getting a human to the moon. 

Pat was now in junior high at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel. He played baseball and ran like a gazelle. He was artistic and gifted at telling a good story and had a knack for writing down his tales. He had a kind of charisma that made people joyful. Friends were drawn to him and many of their fathers filled in as role models and coaches for him. He seemed to be perennially happy, someone who fully embraced life and it’s best moments. 

One day Pat was playing football in a neighbor’s front yard. The weather was warm and nobody was wearing shoes. The grass in the yard was a bit high and in need of mowing, but that did not stop the boys from having a good time. Suddenly Pat was down on the ground writhing even though nobody had tackled him. Unbeknownst to anyone a broken beer bottle that someone had thrown from a car lay hidden and waiting for someone to make a misstep. The jagged glass had cut Pat’s Achilles tendon and he was bleeding profusely. His friends ran to our house shouting that Pat needed help quickly. When they described what had happened Mama instructed me to grab towels meet her at the car. We both jumped in quickly and she headed for the scene where Pat lay in the now bloodstained grass.

She jumped from the car and wrapped a towel around the wound applying enough pressure to stop the flow of blood. With a bit of help she carried Pat to the car and instructed me sit next to him on the front seat so that I might continue to keep pressure on his wound while she drove. She raced to our family doctor’s office where I ran inside to get help. Dr. Jorns and his nurse immediately followed me to the car. Within minutes he was stitching the tendon together and then closing the wound. He remarked with awe that Mama had done everything properly in getting him Pat the office. He was certain that Pat might have bled out had Mama not understood what she needed to do. 

That was my mother. Her level head and her knowledge of how to do things was uncanny. She had saved Pat and once again I was in total awe of her. Pat himself became a kind of folk hero in the neighborhood and his friends came around to keep him entertained while he was still unable to walk. I realized how relieved I was that my little brother was going to be okay. Somehow I would never be able to imagine a world without him. It frightened me to even think about Dr. Jorns’ words that Pat might not have made it without Mama’s quick thinking. The enormity of the event also helped me realize how much I had come to love Mike. I could not imagine life without him either. Moving forward he would be family in my mind as well.

My mother finally began dating when I entered college. I suppose that she suddenly felt a bit more free to enjoy herself so a parade of men came calling but she inevitably pushed each of them away for one reason or another. She would always compare them to our father and they always came up short in her mind. Eventually she encountered a man that she had known in her youth. He and his brothers had lived across the street from her childhood home. She admitted that she had harbored a teenage crush on the man’s brother, but now here was someone that she had known in her life before Daddy and he seemed to check many of the boxes that she was hoping to find in a relationship. He was nice looking and a widower with two children, a boy and girl. She agree to go out with him, but told me it was strictly a trial run. 

When she came back home form their brief evening out she insisted that she was going to have to come up with an excuse for not seeing him again. According to her assessment the date had been a disaster. She found out that he was quite uneducated and extremely prejudiced. Somehow he did not turn out to be as nice as she had hoped. She exclaimed that the end of the date had not come quickly enough. 

I thought that was that, but he kept calling and I suppose that she was feeling lonely and enjoyed his attention. Furthermore he appealed to her compassionate nature by telling her how much his children were suffering since their mother had died and how uncertain he felt in helping them with their grief. Before long she had accepted another date and then another until he became a regular visitor to our home, sometimes with his little girl who really was a sad little child. 

Mama vacillated between enjoying his company and thinking out loud about how she might gently push him away. He was overly possessive and seemed to actually frighten her because of things that he revealed about himself. He was politically stationed on the far right and he hinted that he knew people who would kill someone if he so desired. I would have thought that my mother was imagining his comments, if I had not heard many of them myself. In fact in one incident I was reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln that my grandfather had shared with me when the man shocked me by saying that our great President Lincoln had deserved to be assassinated as did President Kennedy. I remember being polite like my mother had taught me to be, but I quickly excused myself and rushed from the room. I was more than ready to encourage Mama to get rid of this man by any means, but I saw that she had grown to fear him. It would take time to convince her that he was all bluff and that she could do far better than hanging with someone like him. 

In the meantime I had met Mike and we embarked on our first date. I suppose that I have always been a romantic much like my father. He had read fairytales to me from the first moments that I remember. I dreamed of meeting the man of my dreams who would treat me with loving respect. Suddenly I found myself sitting next to such a person on our very first date. 

Mike arrived looking so incredibly stylish. It was apparent that he had taken a great deal time to groom himself and he looked quite handsome. We had decided to go see a movie at a theater near Gulfgate Mall. I agreed that The Flight of the Phoenix sounded good. I was all in for anything featuring Jimmy Stewart. 

On the way to the theater we had a chance to talk and listen to the music he had taped for the occasion. I liked all of his choices and we spent most of our time talking about the groups that we both seemed to enjoy. As we emerged from the car he took my hand and I felt a little tingle because his grip was just right. In fact, he held my hand through most of the film. When the lights came up I saw a couple of guys with whom I had gone to high school. We exchanged greetings while they scanned Mike with curiosity. 

The night was still young so Mike asked if a knew of a place nearby where we might grab something to eat. I suggested a pizza parlor near my home and we headed there. When we arrived the place was filled with families and rather loud children. I could tell that this was not the kind of environment Mike had hoped to find. He almost immediately suggested that we drive to downtown Houston to an area called Old Market Square where he knew of a great venue called The Cellar. 

I had heard of The Cellar at the university. It featured live bands and it was much wilder than anything I had ever done. The waitresses wore only panties and bras and there was likely to be a bit of pot here and there, but I really wanted to move out of the comfort zone in which I had always lived. I was quite excited by the prospect of what we might find and I was not disappointed. Seating was on mattresses thrown on the floor and there were definitely couples making out but I saw nothing that was any worse than I had already witnessed at a couple of wild frat parties that I had attended. I was mostly impressed by the quality of the band. The music was incredible. 

We did not stay that long before I admitted that I probably needed to go home. When we got to my front door Mike kissed me and it felt like I was Cinderella. I invited him to come inside for a bit if he was so inclined. The house was dark because my mother and brothers had gone to bed. We sat talking on the sofa for hours. He was smart and interesting and we seemed to be of one mind almost immediately. 

At about three in the morning Mama wandered in looking astounded that Mike was still there. She suggested that it was time for Mike to leave and then she went back to her bedroom. He gave me one more incredible kiss and then he left. I closed the door and felt my heart fluttering. I would later tell my friends that I thought that I had met “the one,” the man that I would one day marry.