All It Takes Is A Little Love

As the saying goes, best laid plans often go awry. On the Sunday before my wedding one of the priests asked us to remember the pastor in our prayers while he traveled on a vacation that week when I knew that he was supposed to be in town to officiate our wedding. Then the reverend urged us all to attend the First Friday mass scheduled at the same time in the same church as my wedding. I drifted between the idea of passing out or becoming hysterical as I realized that somehow, someone had forgotten about our supposedly scheduled wedding. It took every bit of resolve that I had not to dissolve in tears right then and there. 

On the way home I ranted liked a banshee while my mother attempted to remain calm, urging me to wait until I got more information before coming unglued. My only thought was to immediately call the rectory to find out how something so disastrous had happened. I practically ran into the house before Mama had even put the car in park. I tore through the phone book searching for the number and dialed with my hands shaking and my heart racing. One of the priests answered the phone and suggested that I call the following day to speak with the secretary who would be back in the office. Not to be trifled with, I demanded an immediate explanation for the mixup, so the poor man agreed to look at the master calendar of events to determine how my wedding date might have been overlooked. 

The now irritated priest put me on hold while I became more and more agitated as the minutes passed. He finally returned and admitted that there was no indication anywhere that Mike and I had reserved the church on any date, nor did the pastor note that he had agreed to preside over the wedding. His words, “I don’t know what to do.” trailed off while I felt myself falling into an abyss. 

My next call was to Mike and I was barely able to speak through my sobs. He tried to calm me but I was not ready to surrender my anger, so he finally suggested that he would attempt to resolve the situation. I hung up having little faith that he or anyone else would be able to do anything. After all of our careful planning we seemed to be facing a nightmare. 

A few hours later Mike called again. His mother had contacted the priest for whom she worked at Assumption Catholic Church to ask for his advice. He had immediately contacted the powers that be at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel. He learned that the pastor who had agreed to officiate at our wedding had indeed neglected to record any of the information, and so over time our wedding was forgotten. Nonetheless, we would still be able to use the church at the appointed time with a few additional “guests” who would come for the First Friday mass. He would be the person presiding over our vows and one of the priests at Mt. Carmel would assist him. All was well. The wedding would still happen at the appointed time and in some ways it had become more meaningful because Father John Perusina, who would be the official witness to our vows, had long before baptized both me and Mike. It seemed fitting that he would be person joining us in matrimony.

Mama and I worked all that week at Eliot Elementary, even on Friday. After school we rushed to the beauty salon to have our hair coiffed then hurried home to put the final touches on our faces. Mama set out the tuxedos for my brothers Michael and Pat and placed my wedding dress and veil in the car. Just before the appointed time she revealed the concerns that she had concealed up to that time. She was worried that I had hurried into a commitment that I was not yet ready to make. She assured me that if I had any misgivings it would be okay to back out even at the late date. She said that she would go to the church and tell people that I had changed my mind and nobody would think any less of me. I simply smiled and told her that I had never before in my life felt so sure about what I wanted to do. That was all she needed to hear and we were off to the church. 

I found my bridesmaids waiting for me. We all donned our dresses in the bridal room with the assistance of the photographers’ wife. I went into a kind of surreal fog, an out of body feeling that I was floating above the reality of all that was happening. Soon we were lining up for the processional into the church. My brother, Michael, would give me away. He looked so grown up and serious in his tuxedo as we linked our arms. I thought of all that our family had endured and how wonderfully we had survived. I felt incredibly blessed.

Soon the music began to play. Mrs McKenna, Susan’s mother, sang with her beautiful voice that I had grown to love. One by one Susan, Nancy and Ingrid walked down the long isle while Mike stood looking so handsome and strong. Finally with the flourish of a trumpet Michael and I slowly coursed through the center of the church while our guests turned to smile at us as we passed. Mama was sitting in the front with Grandpa Little by her side. Mike’s parents, Mary and Julio, were on the other side of the aisle. Father Perusina was flanked by three priests, who hearing of the confusion over our wedding plans had insisted that they also celebrate our nuptials. The flowers were magnificent. Everything had fallen beautifully into place, but best of all there was Mike who would forevermore be my best friend and my rock. 

The priest who delivered the homily spoke of the uncertainties of the world, particularly in nineteen sixty eight, a year that would be remembered for great upheaval. He mentioned how faith and goodness would guide us through other times of turmoil. He talked of the power of our love to change the world. It was a beautiful lesson for all of us and I would always remember his words of encouragement. Then we made our vows to love, honor and cherish each other all of the days of our lives. We performed the sacrament of matrimony just as both of us had been taught in our Catholic School upbringing. I knew before God and humans that our union was meant to be. 

As we left the church everyone was smiling. Some of the people who had come for the First Friday mass exclaimed that it was a beautiful idea to schedule a wedding for the occasion. The church had been almost full with both guests and parishioners. The extravagance of priests on the altar had made the event feel even more significant. I felt a happiness that had been missing from heart since the day my father had died. The outpouring of love had shown me once again that our family had never been alone and then there was Mike and we were one. 

My first foray into education had come long before I began working at Eliot Elementary as a teachers’ aide. I had been pretending to be teacher even as a child at play. I kept a box of school supplies and books in my closet and commandeered my brothers and neighbors into my homespun play acting that always featured me as the teacher. I taught lessons and created tests. I graded homework and quizzes. I even gave each of my captive students report cards at the end of sessions. Perhaps it was inevitable that I would more and more feel compelled to become a teacher as I grew older. I was quite excited about working at Eliot Elementary as the fall semester grew near. 

I had an appointment to meet with the principal one August afternoon. I still did not have a driver’s license but Mike had insisted on giving me instructions and helping me practice my skills in empty parking lots and on quiet roads. His plan was to have me driving as soon as we were married. For the time being I was still hitching rides with anyone I might find who was going my way. On the occasion of the meeting with the principal, my mother was my chauffeur who waited outside while I had a conference with the woman who would soon be my boss. 

The meeting went well as the principal outlined her educational philosophies and told me a bit about the students I would encounter. She methodically outlined my duties and explained the expectations that she had for all of her employees. She was somewhat abrupt and seemed tired and a bit anxious even before the school year had begun. Suddenly she revealed that she was still trying to fill several vacancies and wondered aloud if I knew of anyone who was certified and ready to begin teaching. Since my mother had quite recently earned her degree and satisfied all of the state of Texas requirements I tentatively mentioned that Mama was actually searching for a public school position. The principal eagerly asked if my mother might be willing to come to the school for an interview. When I told her that Mama was waiting for me outside, she insisted that I bring my mother to her immediately. 

I was a bit flustered as I rushed to our car to tell my mother what had just happened. She was hesitant to interview without preparation. She was not dressed professionally and had no time to mentally prepare for the questions that might come, but she was also intrigued by the possibility of landing a teaching position. She quickly combed her hair and dapped a bit of lipstick on her lips, adjusted the collar of her blouse and walked inside the school with me. She greeted the principal with a big smile and a contrived confidence that hid her confusion in that moment. Only minutes later she walked out with a big grin on her face, announcing that she was going to be a fifth grade teacher at the school. 

Both of us were ecstatic over our good fortune. My worries about how I was going to get to the school each day were suddenly solved and my mother was no longer uncertain about where her new future would lie. She had made very little money from her job at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Elementary School. Now she was going to triple her salary and have better health insurance to boot. It was cause for celebration as Mama beamed that God always had a way of answering her prayers. I joked that the principal had been blessed as well because I knew that my mother was an excellent teacher. 

The weeks before the start of the new school year went by quickly. I was still in planning mode for my wedding and Mama was eagerly preparing lessons. We were both excited about our new beginnings. Meanwhile Mike continued my driving lessons and I was feeling more and more confident that I would pass my driver’s test and finally be independent in getting from one place to another. Everything in our lives was seemingly falling into place for my family, save for the tension that our mother was feeling over continuing to date the man who never seemed to make her happy. Instead he was a source of agitation and each time she was with him she appeared to grow more and more upset. Somehow I did not understand her reticence in ridding herself of his negativity. It was so unlike her to be dominated by anyone and yet this man seemed to have some kind of psychological hold on her that was tearing at her strong will. 

I would worry about my mother for a time and then throw myself back into my own preparations for the future, relying on her resilience to eventually take her to a better place. I knew how strong my mother was and believed that nothing and no one had the power to tear her down. If I had possessed a crystal ball I might have seen that the culmination of all the challenges that she had faced alone were beginning to ravage her. She was human and being always strong for everyone around her had taken its toll. I was not mature enough or ready enough at the time to understand the extent to which she needed help that was not forthcoming. She pretended to be fine, but was not. It would only be after I had moved into my own life that I was able to develop enough perspective to realize how vulnerable she was feeling. For the time being I had to think about her situation tomorrow. I had a new job to tackle and a wedding to plan. I was too busy to see that my dear mother was trying to juggle balls while balancing with one foot on a barrel. She hid her pain so very well that few of us saw her predicament. It would eventually become at once both one of my greatest regrets and one of the most defining moments of my life. Our roles were on the verge of great change. 

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.