Dispatch #56: Writing In The Field Part II

La Nuestra Senora de La Guadalupe Iglesia

by Lupe Fernandez

I sit on a hard bench in La Nuestra Senora de La Guadalupe Iglesia mid morning. I like the quiet, the cool breeze from the side door, the natural diffused light, an occasional echo of whispering women, a toot of a traffic copes whistle a block away. Birds chirp on trees outside, distance laughter of school children.

And nobody bothers me.

Sunday afternoon I had attended mass. I had a paper pamphlet to read along with my Tia and my mother. Spanish in an echo chamber is difficult to understand; I contented myself with admiring the interior. Even though we sit in the back of the church, the mass of bodies made the place humid. Perhaps a wink of drowsy eyes or an unconscious nod of my head, but I swore I saw the statue of Juan Diego, perched above the altar in adoration of La Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, move.

Established Mexican legend states in December 1531, ten years after the destruction of the Aztec Empire by Hernando Cortez, his Spanish soldiers, local allies, gun powder, Toledo steel and small pox, a converted indigenous young man baptized Juan Diego had a vision of the La Nuestra Senora in the hills of Tepeyac, outside of Mexico City. He gave evidence of this vision to doubting priests in the form of the image of The Virgin imprinted on his clothing.

Forward five centuries and a plaster mannequin is positioned in a kneeling reverence at the painting of La Nuestra Senora bordered by two Mexican flags. All in sight of the faithful attending mass.

But what if Juan Diego moved? What if the censor smoke drifting above the altar made him sneeze?

Juan Diego is conscious. He stands on a high perch, sees the astonishing throng below, shouting, pointing at him in a language foreign to him. Not Nahuatl, dialect of the Aztecs. Not Spanish Castilian. Not Latin.

Screams. Shouts from the audience. A woman faints. Others pray frantically. The priest is furious. Some pendejo is playing a very disgraceful, sacrilegious joke. The priest orders one of the church’s volunteers, a young boy in a white shirt, black pants and a satchel slung over is shoulder to get that miscreant off the ledge. Our young volunteer rushes up the back staircase leading up to the painting and opens the access door.

Meanwhile Juan Diego is in a panic. Too high to jump down. He must escape.

A man in short pants, striped shirts and scarf yells at Juan Diego, calling him a trick of Satan. Ten the phones come out and the flashes begin. Juan Diego is dizzy, ready to fall when the access door opens and the church volunteer appears. Juan Diego sees his escape and rushes the door. The volunteer grabs Juan’s arm and feels the cool smooth touch of painted plaster.

Everything happens so fast.

Juan Diego is gone. The church is searched from this perceived prankster. The audience rushes the altar, demanding answers. Others flee the church to spread the Good Word. A Sign. Juan Diego is alive. This is the work of La Nuestra Senora.

The situation escalates...

Mass is over. I remain in the church playing the story in my head. A volunteer just paused by the bench to ask me what I was doing. I tell him in the American Spanish I am studying La Senora and Juan Diego and writing my thoughts. Even if I could communicate my true intent, I suspect he would politely ask me to leave or question my sanity. But he leaves to prepare for mass at one pm.

I remain on the hard bench, sweating to finish a synopsis. When I return home, I will type up my scribbles, save the file Juan Diego Sneezes in my premise folder, waiting for the day to written.

Dispatch #53: Writing In The Field

La Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe

by Lupe Fernandez

I sit in La Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe church. Romita, GTO Mexico. I'm here with my mother to mourn the death of her brother after a prolonged illness. I'm am in the field. Another country. Another culture. Another language familiar and not. A fresh breeze flows through the open side door. The interior is cool at 12:48pm. Three viejas in scarves, blouses and skirts sit silent, contemplating the mysteries of Christ, crucified on a gold laden altar.

What should I write about? I've read many accounts of writers who travel to foreign locations and write about their experiences. What should I write about? So much history has swept by this town founded 140 years ago. Revolution. Drought. Flood. Birth. Death. Miracles. Perhaps I'll write stories my mother recounts with her sister over sweet bread and atole.

How in 1957 or 59', my parents walked from Leon to San Juan de Los Lagos. My father had promised La Virgin he would walk 81.9 kilometers (highway distance) if his paperwork to reenter the US went smoothly. They walked two days with blankets and bad shoes, over rocks, dirt, hills and hot sun.They traveled with a group of other pilgrims, slept at night in the open, fed by locals who recognized their purpose.

Pilgrimage from Leon to San Juan de Los Lagos

"I was so tired. I was so hungry but too tired to eat," my mother said.

When they reached the church in San juan, my mother asked my father "Why did I have to come? It was your promise."

"Pues, you have to come with me." My father implied it was her wifely duty.

Shall I write about the old days when merchandise traveled by burros? Roads were dirt or non-existent. Rain produced torrents of mud blocking travel. To save the merchandise, travelers would cover the burros first and then sleep by the animals, exposing themselves to the elements.

Or I could write something contemporary. Leons de la Tierra played in El Jardin Friday night. Donald Trump - at the time of this writing he was the front runner for the GOP Presidential Primary - made a guest appearance. Mr. Trump renewed a few campaign promises. One of the singers summarized all the promises Trump had made during his campaign, including building a wall across the US Mexican border to keep Mexicans from stealing valuable American jobs no one wants. Upon finishing the litany of Trump's promises, the singer concluded in English, "Fuck You!" The crowd cheered. I was proud of my kinsmen. They are no strangers to US military incursions and they will fight.

And now the flip side. It's hot outside. Probably low 90's. What do I know? Temperatures are measured in Celsius. The hard wooden bench hurts my butt. I'm writing on a legal pad against the bench arm. I genuflected ad hoc before I sat down. Shirt sticks to my back. Stomach cramps. I ate a delicious bollo de  carnitas and tomato from a trusted vendor - Tia Delia vouched for her - I carry three five peso coins in case I need to use El Publicaa Sanitoro (restroom). My handwriting is sloppy. Will I be able to read this page later when I type it? No I didn't bring a laptop, iPad or tablet. I have two sheets of paper towels in my back pocket of my sweaty shorts.

I lug around - wait a minute - I have to go.

I exit the church, cross the baking plaza, leave the gates for the secular world and head for El Publica Sanitoro. I pay the lady behind a cart four pesos. I need the coins - some lady just verbally chased out two young women for breast feeding in church, the other was chewing gum - El Publica Sanitoro lady does not change big bills. She hands me several sheets of toilet paper.

I wonder if she's calculated the minimum amount to get the most value out of a roll vs. what a customer needs to avoid a mess. Hence the paper towels in my back-pocket for insurance. The stall is cramped and the door is misaligned with the frame. I lean against the stall to shut the door. Bathroom is clean. I've seen worst in certain restaurants in good old U.S. of A.

I walk back to the church and complete this post. I lug a backpack with camera gear, a used paperback about cosmonauts and snacks for emergencies. My stomach feels settled.

Now to shoot a self portrait without appearing sacrilegious.

Snap and I walk out into the dry heat.

Dispatch: #46: The Fields of My Father

by Lupe Fernandez

 

In the fields of my father, they grow corn, alfalfa and lettuce,
a man chases crows away from newly planted seeds,
a tractor stirs of dust,
fallow burns.

In the fields of my father, they sprout power plants and warehouses,
a boy with a cell phone pedals by brick and cement houses,
a purple truck thump, thumps music from a stereo,
speed bumps grow like bruises.

 

In the fields of my father, they celebrate La Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe,
a wooden tower in front of the church spit red, green and white fire,
a devil, a drunkard, a dandy, a housewife dance with El Torito,
police dance with gangs.

In the fields of my father, they eat potato chips, hamburgers and hot dogs,
my father's half-brother - Tio Perico - counsels me to let go,
to let go of my father's cruelity,
and remember his frailty.

In the fields of my father, they do not mass at the northern border,
they cook chili relleno, mole, birria, agave tamales and beans,
they hold hands, kiss babies, go to church,
they go to work.

In the fields of my father, I smell dust, exhaust, ice cream, pollo, carnitas,
I eat fat tortas and drive on dark highways,
I stay in a hotel near Starbucks,
I dream of fields.