BECOMING
(continued)
Chris Sawyer Lauçanno
Chapter 21:
I Become “Chico"
The summer of my tenth year was a time of transition. My uncle had gotten married that spring which I suppose prompted my mother and grandparents to sell the suburban palace and buy a new house near downtown. The contrast couldn't have been more extreme. The new brick abode was much older with a large front porch and old elms towering skyward. Old woodwork, high ceilings with picture moulding, pocket doors and a winding walnut staircase replaced boxes of small rooms without any detail.
My grandparents took the first floor; my mother and I had our own residence on the second. My room was large but best of all it had a balcony that overlooked the back yard. Since it was summer, I largely lived on the little balcony, even moving a table and chair outside so that I could work on a novel I planned to write that summer. It was a cross between Moby-Dick and Robinson Crusoe. I gave it the title White Water.
I liked my privacy but I did spend a fair amount of time with my grandparents. The piano was on the first floor, and since I played for at least an hour a day, I was there on a very regular basis attempting to master Bernstein’s piano arrangement of Copland’s El Salón México. We also ate dinner often with my grandparents. And when my mother disappeared in July for another trip to Mexico, I ate three meals a day with them.
I had been an ardent bike rider when we lived in the suburbs and that did not change when we moved close to downtown. The difference was that I could bike to the main library, to my twice-weekly piano lesson, to the Natural History Museum, or just set off for parts unknown.
The summer idyll suddenly grew exceedingly more interesting when a few weeks after my mother returned from her latest Mexican sojourn, the object of her desire arrived in Denver for what was later announced as an extended visit. Perhaps my mother had indicated he was going to come, but I don't remember at all being prepared for it. She had, of course, spoken to me of him, related trifling, I suppose, amusing anecdotes, but I was inordinately surprised when early one evening the doorbell rang, and on the porch stood an elegant gentleman in his early 40s
My grandparents took the first floor; my mother and I had our own residence on the second. My room was large but best of all it had a balcony that overlooked the back yard. Since it was summer, I largely lived on the little balcony, even moving a table and chair outside so that I could work on a novel I planned to write that summer. It was a cross between Moby-Dick and Robinson Crusoe. I gave it the title White Water.
I liked my privacy but I did spend a fair amount of time with my grandparents. The piano was on the first floor, and since I played for at least an hour a day, I was there on a very regular basis attempting to master Bernstein’s piano arrangement of Copland’s El Salón México. We also ate dinner often with my grandparents. And when my mother disappeared in July for another trip to Mexico, I ate three meals a day with them.
I had been an ardent bike rider when we lived in the suburbs and that did not change when we moved close to downtown. The difference was that I could bike to the main library, to my twice-weekly piano lesson, to the Natural History Museum, or just set off for parts unknown.
The summer idyll suddenly grew exceedingly more interesting when a few weeks after my mother returned from her latest Mexican sojourn, the object of her desire arrived in Denver for what was later announced as an extended visit. Perhaps my mother had indicated he was going to come, but I don't remember at all being prepared for it. She had, of course, spoken to me of him, related trifling, I suppose, amusing anecdotes, but I was inordinately surprised when early one evening the doorbell rang, and on the porch stood an elegant gentleman in his early 40s
Raimundo Pantaleón García Loera was a formidable man cut in the Gilbert Roland mode: tall, exceedingly handsome, with black hair slicked back, a moustache, naturally. He introduced himself; I introduced myself, and ushered him into the hallway. My mother appeared on the staircase, and when I turned to her, I realized suddenly that she was coiffed and made up, modelling a striped taffeta dress which I'd never seen her wear before. She called my grandparents, who emerged from their apartment, and introductions continued. I could see both of them were as surprised as was I, and while certainly well mannered, they maintained a slight coolness that probably only my mother or I could detect. I was immediately overwhelmed by my mother’s suitor. He exuded masculinity, power, strength, charm. His voice--sonorous, deep, yet somehow gentle--seemed that of a travelogue narrator, such as the guy on the TV show Seven League Boots, rather than that of an ordinary mortal. His suit was tailored; his white shirt heavily starched, the sheen on his silk tie gleamed, and gold and obsidian cufflinks peeked out from the sleeve below his elegant jacket. He wore polished boots. |
During the small-talk downstairs (my mother didn't ask him up to our place) I learned that Ray, as he asked to be called, had rented an apartment a couple blocks away and had, in fact, already been in town for a few days. This, I realized with a start, my mother obviously knew, but had said nothing about it to anyone. Ray also related some information about himself, how he had decided to form his own business after a number of years working for various international mining companies in Mexico, that he had come to Denver to negotiate some deal with investors. When my grandmother complimented him on his perfect English, to my surprise, he announced that he had grown up in the United States—El Paso, Los Angeles, and New York—had served as an officer in the Army Air Corps during the war, and attended first Columbia, and then Montana School of Mines where he had obtained his degrees. He had only gone to Mexico in the early 1950s.
I'm not sure what effect this recap of his resume had on my grandparents, but I found it intriguing. I had expected, I think, some short, fat greasy guy in a big sombrero who couldn't speak English. Instead, I got this suave Mexican-American who had chosen to live south of the border. For me, first appearances have always been important, and Ray quickly made an indelible impression. He immediately embodied my ideal of what a man—meaning me, of course, when I got older—should look and act like.
I remember distinctly wanting to take my mother aside and tell her I wanted her to marry him. Instead, I tried to appear nonchalant, cool, disinterested even. After my mother and Ray left to go out to dinner, my grandparents asked me my impression of him. Though desperately wanting to be effusive, I said simply that he seemed okay. I kept hoping that they would take the lead and start gushing over him, so that I could, but they didn't. My grandmother simply noted that he was a fancy dresser. My grandfather didn't say a word except to ask my grandmother how long he said he was going to be in town.
Over the next few weeks, I got to see quite a lot of Ray, who came around almost daily. Often, he would take us out to dinner or to the movies. The more time I spent with him, the better I liked him and I gave up trying to stay diffident. I'm not sure now exactly what it was about him that won me over so completely and so quickly, but I think it was that he treated me more like an adult than a kid. He never tailored his conversation for my benefit, but expected me to keep up with the adult discussion. I later figured out that he simply had no idea at all of how to talk to a child. Since I fancied myself quite grown-up, his ineptness in this regard was welcome as a recognition of my maturity.
A single act of his had a profound effect on me. He decided one evening, after dinner at a small, garish Mexican restaurant, to rename me. I have no idea what led up to the startling event. Nothing, in fact, that I can recall, precipitated it. I remember simply that after we'd finished the meal and were waiting for desserts or something, Ray made his pronouncement. “Henceforth,” he declared to me, “You'll be Chico.”
I don't think I even had time to respond or query what this meant, before Ray, with a flourish, summoned the waiter, a sleepy looking guy in blue pants and a gray shirt.
“Can you be a witness?” Ray asked him.
“Of what?” replied the somewhat astonished waiter.
“Of a name change,” said Ray.
“I guess,” said the waiter, obviously unsure of what he was supposed to do.
“You see this boy? Until this moment he has been called Chris or Christopher. From now on, he shall be known as Chico.”
The waiter congratulated me. I blushed but couldn't speak. I just looked first at Ray, then my mom, and smiled. The bartender, overhearing the exchange, suddenly began speaking Spanish to Ray. Despite my excellent marks in Spanish in school, I only picked out “salud” and “Chico.”
The waiter reappeared with ginger ale for me and margaritas for my mother and Ray. The manager at the bar, Ray informed us, had sent free drinks over to celebrate the christening of Chico in his restaurant. Glasses were raised, and again my new appellation announced. The bartender cheered, other patrons looked at us quizzically, and raise their own glasses. My embarrassment vanished. I felt proud, in a curious way. Claimed. I vaguely understood that this rechristening, or “unchristening,” as Ray referred to it, was a sign that somehow Ray was bestowing something of himself on me, something that was special, unbidden, perhaps of vast consequence. It was also, of course, his first attempt to imprint himself on me but this didn't seem to me to be a negative.
I'm not sure what effect this recap of his resume had on my grandparents, but I found it intriguing. I had expected, I think, some short, fat greasy guy in a big sombrero who couldn't speak English. Instead, I got this suave Mexican-American who had chosen to live south of the border. For me, first appearances have always been important, and Ray quickly made an indelible impression. He immediately embodied my ideal of what a man—meaning me, of course, when I got older—should look and act like.
I remember distinctly wanting to take my mother aside and tell her I wanted her to marry him. Instead, I tried to appear nonchalant, cool, disinterested even. After my mother and Ray left to go out to dinner, my grandparents asked me my impression of him. Though desperately wanting to be effusive, I said simply that he seemed okay. I kept hoping that they would take the lead and start gushing over him, so that I could, but they didn't. My grandmother simply noted that he was a fancy dresser. My grandfather didn't say a word except to ask my grandmother how long he said he was going to be in town.
Over the next few weeks, I got to see quite a lot of Ray, who came around almost daily. Often, he would take us out to dinner or to the movies. The more time I spent with him, the better I liked him and I gave up trying to stay diffident. I'm not sure now exactly what it was about him that won me over so completely and so quickly, but I think it was that he treated me more like an adult than a kid. He never tailored his conversation for my benefit, but expected me to keep up with the adult discussion. I later figured out that he simply had no idea at all of how to talk to a child. Since I fancied myself quite grown-up, his ineptness in this regard was welcome as a recognition of my maturity.
A single act of his had a profound effect on me. He decided one evening, after dinner at a small, garish Mexican restaurant, to rename me. I have no idea what led up to the startling event. Nothing, in fact, that I can recall, precipitated it. I remember simply that after we'd finished the meal and were waiting for desserts or something, Ray made his pronouncement. “Henceforth,” he declared to me, “You'll be Chico.”
I don't think I even had time to respond or query what this meant, before Ray, with a flourish, summoned the waiter, a sleepy looking guy in blue pants and a gray shirt.
“Can you be a witness?” Ray asked him.
“Of what?” replied the somewhat astonished waiter.
“Of a name change,” said Ray.
“I guess,” said the waiter, obviously unsure of what he was supposed to do.
“You see this boy? Until this moment he has been called Chris or Christopher. From now on, he shall be known as Chico.”
The waiter congratulated me. I blushed but couldn't speak. I just looked first at Ray, then my mom, and smiled. The bartender, overhearing the exchange, suddenly began speaking Spanish to Ray. Despite my excellent marks in Spanish in school, I only picked out “salud” and “Chico.”
The waiter reappeared with ginger ale for me and margaritas for my mother and Ray. The manager at the bar, Ray informed us, had sent free drinks over to celebrate the christening of Chico in his restaurant. Glasses were raised, and again my new appellation announced. The bartender cheered, other patrons looked at us quizzically, and raise their own glasses. My embarrassment vanished. I felt proud, in a curious way. Claimed. I vaguely understood that this rechristening, or “unchristening,” as Ray referred to it, was a sign that somehow Ray was bestowing something of himself on me, something that was special, unbidden, perhaps of vast consequence. It was also, of course, his first attempt to imprint himself on me but this didn't seem to me to be a negative.
Chapter 22:
I Become a Step-Son
One evening after the three of us had been out for the evening, Ray dropped both my mother and I off, other than as was customary, just me. It was still rather early so I decided to talk to my mother about what had been constantly on my mind since Ray had entered my life a few weeks earlier.
Trying to sound rather casual, I asked, “Are you going to marry him?”
She turned to me, but betraying no emotion, responded, “Would you like that? Our life would change a lot you know.”
I looked at her quizzically. I don't think drastic changes had ever entered my imagination. “How?” I asked.
Her eyes strayed from me toward the window, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees. Turning back, she said, “First, I think we probably will move to Mexico.”
“That's great.”
“Now hold on a second,” she countered quickly. “Mexico is a long way away from here, a long way away from your uncle and grandma and grandpa and your friends.”
“I don't have any friends since we moved,” I said curtly. And then after a pause: ”I don't care. I mean, I want to go.” I was almost shouting now, my voice rising high at the end of the sentence. “Besides we can come back for visits, and even better, grandma and grandpa can come visit us and we could all go and see the ruins. It would be warm all the time and I could go barefoot and I already know some Spanish, and besides, we’d be a family, and I’d have a father again, and I liked Mexico, at least what I can remember about it, from when I was little and maybe, maybe...”
I didn't finish my sentence, didn't elaborate on what I was going to say which was that perhaps I could see my real father again if he had, by chance, returned to Mexico. But I knew enough to check myself before I got caught in what could only be a quagmire. This was not a desire that could be openly stated, even more forbidden than masturbation.
My mother smiled, then uncharacteristically held me close to her. I could smell her perfume and hair spray. “Well, we'll see,” she said. “But it's a big decision.”
She loosened her embrace, but held me firmly by the shoulders. She had tears in her eyes and her mascara was cascading in tiny black rivulets down her cheeks. “I love you Chris. I love you more than anyone, even Ray, and I love him a lot. And I'll always love you.”
“I love you too mom.”
“Now go to bed,” she said. “And don't worry. Everything will work out the way it's supposed to.”
Not long after this conversation my mother and Ray took off for Taos for a week’s vacation. When they returned my mother was sporting a gold wedding band. I was happy for her, but rather angry that she had not given me any notice as she had promised. What I learned not long after was that my mother was several months pregnant. I suppose she was not keen on having another child as an unmarried woman.
Changes were afoot, the major one being that Ray and my mother found another place to live. Neither of them, despite there being plenty of room, wanted to live in our space. We rented out our apartment, and precipitously relocated into a small house about a mile from the old one. I don't remember protesting, but I don't recall expressing enthusiasm either. It wouldn't have done much good anyway; it was decided that was where I'd hang my hat. Still, why we moved is at this point something of a mystery to me because within a month or so Ray took off for Mexico. The reason for his trip was to find some mineral rights to exploit.
Almost daily postcards would arrive from him; often one of them was to me, and always fancifully addressed: “Gral. de la División del Norte;” “Commandante C;” “Licenciado Cristóbal S.” The cards were always bright and exotic: markets, Indians, cathedrals, burros, battle sites. And regardless of the depiction, it was always summer with sun and green leaves. I followed Ray's itinerary on a Mexican map he’d given me: Juárez, Chihuahua, Durango, Zacatecas, Aguascalientes, Guanajuato, México D.F.; then back north: San Luis Potosi, Saltillo.
Ray was gone for two months, and though a constant correspondent, neither my mother nor I had much sense of what he was really doing. It seemed to me like a long vacation and a lot of fun. I envied him his great adventure. My mother, by now five or six months pregnant, only wished he'd return. Despite my enthusiasm for Ray's travels, I was not in the best of moods. Most of the time, aside from practicing piano, I sat in my room and thought long thoughts and stared into space a lot. I disliked my new school. I disliked the house. Some solace came in the form of visits to my grandparents, but even that was bittersweet. I’d often look up at the balcony and wonder if the people who now lived upstairs liked having it as much as I had. About the only thing, besides music, that excited me was the expected arrival in the late spring of a sibling. But even this imminent event was tinged with a certain amount of anxiety on my part. I felt I had already been somewhat replaced by Ray in my mother's affections. What effect would a new child have on her feelings?
On a cold Saturday in February when I returned home from my piano lesson, I saw Ray’s salmon-colored 1961 Chevrolet Impala parked outside the house. I rushed in. He and my mother were at the kitchen table poring over a map. They were, in fact, so intent on their perusal that I had to announce my presence by exuberantly exclaiming, “Welcome back, Ray.” He didn’t greet me verbally. Instead, with a quick motion, he reached out, put his arm around my waist, and pulled me closer to the table.“Chico, see this?”
He pointed to a blank area on the map, on the Mexican side of the Big Bend of Texas. Not even one dot representing a town marred the expanse.“Right here. Look.”
I looked but still didn't see anything. Ray pulled a gold pen from his pocket and drew a little circle and labelled it “La Fronteriza.”
“What's that,” I asked.
“This, Commandante, is a cluster of silver mines—the richest I've ever seen. And I've got the mineral rights now, and within a year there will be a road into this place and a smelter and maybe even a little settlement.”
He sketched some images on the map, and drew a road from the town of Múzquiz northwest to his original circle.
“And we are going to mine the dickens out of it. And you, Chico, are going to be part of all of this.”
I was flummoxed, unable to see how I figured in the fortune that was soon to be made. I pressed for particulars: “Are we going to live there?”
“Not there. Here.” His finger alighted on two dots on the border.
“Eagle Pass,” I said.
“No. The other side. Piedras Negras. We are going to live in Mexico but you can go to school in Texas. And we are leaving in two weeks.”
Trying to sound rather casual, I asked, “Are you going to marry him?”
She turned to me, but betraying no emotion, responded, “Would you like that? Our life would change a lot you know.”
I looked at her quizzically. I don't think drastic changes had ever entered my imagination. “How?” I asked.
Her eyes strayed from me toward the window, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees. Turning back, she said, “First, I think we probably will move to Mexico.”
“That's great.”
“Now hold on a second,” she countered quickly. “Mexico is a long way away from here, a long way away from your uncle and grandma and grandpa and your friends.”
“I don't have any friends since we moved,” I said curtly. And then after a pause: ”I don't care. I mean, I want to go.” I was almost shouting now, my voice rising high at the end of the sentence. “Besides we can come back for visits, and even better, grandma and grandpa can come visit us and we could all go and see the ruins. It would be warm all the time and I could go barefoot and I already know some Spanish, and besides, we’d be a family, and I’d have a father again, and I liked Mexico, at least what I can remember about it, from when I was little and maybe, maybe...”
I didn't finish my sentence, didn't elaborate on what I was going to say which was that perhaps I could see my real father again if he had, by chance, returned to Mexico. But I knew enough to check myself before I got caught in what could only be a quagmire. This was not a desire that could be openly stated, even more forbidden than masturbation.
My mother smiled, then uncharacteristically held me close to her. I could smell her perfume and hair spray. “Well, we'll see,” she said. “But it's a big decision.”
She loosened her embrace, but held me firmly by the shoulders. She had tears in her eyes and her mascara was cascading in tiny black rivulets down her cheeks. “I love you Chris. I love you more than anyone, even Ray, and I love him a lot. And I'll always love you.”
“I love you too mom.”
“Now go to bed,” she said. “And don't worry. Everything will work out the way it's supposed to.”
Not long after this conversation my mother and Ray took off for Taos for a week’s vacation. When they returned my mother was sporting a gold wedding band. I was happy for her, but rather angry that she had not given me any notice as she had promised. What I learned not long after was that my mother was several months pregnant. I suppose she was not keen on having another child as an unmarried woman.
Changes were afoot, the major one being that Ray and my mother found another place to live. Neither of them, despite there being plenty of room, wanted to live in our space. We rented out our apartment, and precipitously relocated into a small house about a mile from the old one. I don't remember protesting, but I don't recall expressing enthusiasm either. It wouldn't have done much good anyway; it was decided that was where I'd hang my hat. Still, why we moved is at this point something of a mystery to me because within a month or so Ray took off for Mexico. The reason for his trip was to find some mineral rights to exploit.
Almost daily postcards would arrive from him; often one of them was to me, and always fancifully addressed: “Gral. de la División del Norte;” “Commandante C;” “Licenciado Cristóbal S.” The cards were always bright and exotic: markets, Indians, cathedrals, burros, battle sites. And regardless of the depiction, it was always summer with sun and green leaves. I followed Ray's itinerary on a Mexican map he’d given me: Juárez, Chihuahua, Durango, Zacatecas, Aguascalientes, Guanajuato, México D.F.; then back north: San Luis Potosi, Saltillo.
Ray was gone for two months, and though a constant correspondent, neither my mother nor I had much sense of what he was really doing. It seemed to me like a long vacation and a lot of fun. I envied him his great adventure. My mother, by now five or six months pregnant, only wished he'd return. Despite my enthusiasm for Ray's travels, I was not in the best of moods. Most of the time, aside from practicing piano, I sat in my room and thought long thoughts and stared into space a lot. I disliked my new school. I disliked the house. Some solace came in the form of visits to my grandparents, but even that was bittersweet. I’d often look up at the balcony and wonder if the people who now lived upstairs liked having it as much as I had. About the only thing, besides music, that excited me was the expected arrival in the late spring of a sibling. But even this imminent event was tinged with a certain amount of anxiety on my part. I felt I had already been somewhat replaced by Ray in my mother's affections. What effect would a new child have on her feelings?
On a cold Saturday in February when I returned home from my piano lesson, I saw Ray’s salmon-colored 1961 Chevrolet Impala parked outside the house. I rushed in. He and my mother were at the kitchen table poring over a map. They were, in fact, so intent on their perusal that I had to announce my presence by exuberantly exclaiming, “Welcome back, Ray.” He didn’t greet me verbally. Instead, with a quick motion, he reached out, put his arm around my waist, and pulled me closer to the table.“Chico, see this?”
He pointed to a blank area on the map, on the Mexican side of the Big Bend of Texas. Not even one dot representing a town marred the expanse.“Right here. Look.”
I looked but still didn't see anything. Ray pulled a gold pen from his pocket and drew a little circle and labelled it “La Fronteriza.”
“What's that,” I asked.
“This, Commandante, is a cluster of silver mines—the richest I've ever seen. And I've got the mineral rights now, and within a year there will be a road into this place and a smelter and maybe even a little settlement.”
He sketched some images on the map, and drew a road from the town of Múzquiz northwest to his original circle.
“And we are going to mine the dickens out of it. And you, Chico, are going to be part of all of this.”
I was flummoxed, unable to see how I figured in the fortune that was soon to be made. I pressed for particulars: “Are we going to live there?”
“Not there. Here.” His finger alighted on two dots on the border.
“Eagle Pass,” I said.
“No. The other side. Piedras Negras. We are going to live in Mexico but you can go to school in Texas. And we are leaving in two weeks.”
Chapter 23:
I Become a Resident of Piedras Negra
It was dusk when we crossed the international bridge from Eagle Pass into Mexico. It had been raining and large puddles had formed in some of the streets. The air was warm and wet, not fetid exactly, but thick and strangely vegetative. As I rode in the back seat, surrounded by bags, I stared intently out the open window, taking in the night with its smells and sights and sounds.
Around one corner a tamale vendor had set up his pushcart under a yellow street lamp at curbside: “Tamales Tamales.” A crowd had gathered around him, and Ray was forced to stop. The gathering showed no inclination to move aside so we could pass. A couple of small, naked children darted in front of the car, followed by a slightly older girl in a faded dress, who with a string of words, shooed the littler ones back on to the sidewalk. The vendor, an old man in black pants and a white shirt, smiled from under his tattered straw hat as he plucked tamales from the steamer. The smell of corn husks and chile drifted into the car. I wanted one, but Ray clearly wanted to get by, so I didn't ask. He finally inched forward and the crowd dispersed.
Around one corner a tamale vendor had set up his pushcart under a yellow street lamp at curbside: “Tamales Tamales.” A crowd had gathered around him, and Ray was forced to stop. The gathering showed no inclination to move aside so we could pass. A couple of small, naked children darted in front of the car, followed by a slightly older girl in a faded dress, who with a string of words, shooed the littler ones back on to the sidewalk. The vendor, an old man in black pants and a white shirt, smiled from under his tattered straw hat as he plucked tamales from the steamer. The smell of corn husks and chile drifted into the car. I wanted one, but Ray clearly wanted to get by, so I didn't ask. He finally inched forward and the crowd dispersed.
The houses flanking the narrow streets were mostly adobe, garishly painted, when painted. Throngs slowly paraded along the sidewalks chattering, their voices rising and falling; occasionally small clusters of promenaders were paused in front of houses, talking with the residents sitting in the doorways. Front yards, I decided, did not exist in Mexico. As we rounded another corner, Ranchero music blared from a cantina, and on the corner another vendor, selling sliced pineapple and watermelon, had set up shop. I was fascinated by the scene, the liveliness, the hustle, its phantasmagorical luminescence. Finally, we pulled up in front of a tired, brownish-rose adobe. Two large diagonal cracks ran from the top of the massive double doorframe to the flat roof. Two large windows with thick rusted steel bars covering them, sat astride the doorway. Ray stopped the car, jumped out, and with a large skeleton key unlocked the door. My mother and I followed quietly behind. |
NOTA BENE: Alyscamps Press in Paris, published the most recent chapbook by Chris Sawyer-Lauçanno, Just Words: Homage to Roman Jakobson, based on notes he kept when he was under Jakobson's tutelage as a graduate student. These were later discovered by the author's granddaughter when sorting through items to go to UC Santa Barbara as part of Sawyer-Lauçanno's archives there.