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Writing Away the Real World

10/27/2014

In My Little Corner

On one hand, I feel blessed to have a wide assortment of friends on various social media and also in “real life.” I’m talking about people from other countries, different educational backgrounds, differing religious beliefs, and vastly different—as in all over the place—political opinions.

On the other hand, I wonder about some of my friends.

I enjoy hearing other peoples’ unique take on the things that are of concern to me, but I’m beginning to despair. And some of my friends appear to be schizophrenic, posting one thing one day and something that is directly opposite a day later. I try to be open-minded, but I don’t think you can stand on both sides of an important issue.

A recent Facebook post caused a stabbing sensation to my heart. It was a meme that blames everything wrong in America on immigrants and the poor. Wow. So many things wrong in one easy meme. My gut response was to rip that man to shreds.

I like to think I can express myself in a clear manner and without violence, so I formulated a response based on facts. I went back to the meme again. Had he really posted that? Had I misunderstood? Maybe it was a joke? I went back to writing my rebuttal and then I looked at it again. It was killing me that others were agreeing with him. Not one person suggested he take a breath and think about the utter stupidity of his post and the hurt this kind of narrow, non-fact-based thinking causes.

You know the way we run our tongue over a sore tooth to see if it still hurts? I kept going back to that post the same way and yes, it was still painful as hell.

What I wrote was thoughtful and fact-filled. I knew I was right. I knew it! Then I remembered something my mother used to say: “Beth, do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?” It’s aggravating to quote her. She was the “old” woman I thought would never get it. Then I grew up and her intelligence astounded me. Even more aggravating is that she’s been gone 40 years and I still hear her.

In the interest of my happiness as well as my friend’s, I set aside my snarky, brilliantly-constructed rebuttal to his misleading and hateful meme. I opened up a file on my computer entitled “Beth’s Writing.” I took a deep breath and clicked on a novel that’s under construction. Within minutes, I disappeared into the pages and pages of words.

How do you keep it together, my friends? If you don’t write worlds of your own making, how do you do it? You must be stronger, smarter, and more courageous than I am. I wimp out and go to my own universe when this one becomes too much.

Years ago, I saw a television production of Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Cinderella.” Julie Andrews, the star, sang a song that I felt in my core, even though I was a small child. “In my own little corner, in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be.” If I had a theme song, that would be it.

In my little corner, I orchestrate everything. Nobody lives unless I want them to. And everyone does as I say. I’m fully aware that in real life bad people sometimes don’t get caught or if caught, they don’t get what’s coming to them. Sometimes good people don’t get what they deserve, either.

In my personal experience, real life is too real. People die who shouldn’t and people live who have no right. Good people get sick while bad ones are healthy. Our children die, even babies die—and sometimes horribly. I have to quit making this list before I jump back into the pages of a novel.

Sometimes I need to go away to a place where I can run and dance and fight for justice. I can kick ass, take a kayak on the river, watch shadows play on Cimarron Mountain, or fly to Chihuahua with a handsome man.

My favorite escape is into the beauty and grandeur that is West Texas. Instead of focusing on the insanity and horror of what we insist on calling the real world, I fly away. And anyhow, what is more real than the timeless scenery of Big Bend National Park? It was here millions of years before humans came and will be here long after we’re gone.

I can’t change the minds of people who want to reduce our country’s complicated problems to misleading memes. Spewing facts at them doesn’t work. Being angry doesn’t work. So I come at it another way, by telling stories. Maybe the most I accomplish is to take them away for a little while, but what is wrong with that? I want people to have hope. Isn’t that what this world needs more than anything?

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Rafting in a Hurricane

10/20/2014

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A man with a raft rental business opened a door through which I never returned. He asked me to do a shuttle. It took a moment to get my head around the fact that he was going to pay me to drive his vehicle from Lajitas, through the eye-popping scenery of Big Bend National Park, to the take-out point of Santa Elena Canyon. I didn’t see how a job could be any better than that.

While standing at the mouth of the magnificent canyon, it occurred to me that I should rent a raft and see the length of it. If the drunk and disorderly guys I was picking up could do it, how difficult could it be?

Raft Rental Man suggested I try Colorado Canyon first, since I had no river experience worth counting. I pitched the idea to two friends who worked with me in Lajitas and had followed me into trouble before. They went for it.

It was a stunning early-summer day when we started, bright sun and not a cloud in the sky. We entered Colorado Canyon with a raft full of excitement, lunch, water, sodas, and a bottle of wine. We were not stupid and had no intention of getting drunk. That was the only lesson we didn’t have to learn that day.

Lesson Number One: the “weatherman” knows nothing and is not to be trusted. Just because the day starts in a glorious show of everything that is perfect about weather doesn’t mean it will stay that way. Anything can happen between the start and close of any given day in Texas.

Lesson Number Two: Keep your shoes on.

Lesson Number Three: No two river trips are alike.

Lesson Number Four: Nothing in the Big Bend is as it seems—not distances, not weather, not anything.

Colorado Canyon is not stunning in the way of Santa Elena Canyon but is worth seeing in its own right. The walls are a deep reddish-brown; hence the Spanish name “colorado.” A few wildflowers still bloomed, and we marveled at the cacti hanging off the rough rock walls. We floated along, laughing and enjoying another day in paradise, and we suspected nothing.

As we exited the canyon we saw a hazy, cloudy “thing” coming upriver. Nina yelled, “Oh no! Get to shore! Get to shore!” She was raised in Big Bend Country and understood. Lee and I only went along with her because of the panic in her voice. The sky was still a perfect blue above us.

As we scrambled to shore the air got cold. We were barefoot in bathing suits. We got the raft situated on the bank and Nina started to explain, but a hurricane-force wind hit us. It knocked us down. The heavy raft with a cooler full of ice flew away and out of sight. With it went our long-sleeved shirts, all our gear, and our shoes.

“Lie flat, lie flat!” Nina screamed, but I was already face-down in a narrow arroyo that was beginning to trickle with muddy water. I knew I should move but that wasn’t happening. I clung to the wet ground and hoped to live to tell about it.

Lee yelled my name and I answered but after that, all we could hear was the screaming of the wind. I was from Florida and I’d never been through a hurricane like that. But I’d never weathered one outdoors, either—or on the ground, in a bathing suit, with stinging hail pounding down. After the hail came torrential rain. And then, as though removed by magic, the storm yanked the screeching wind upriver and they disappeared.

We stood and looked around in the wary way of survivors, located each other, hugged, and marveled at being alive. Accept for the eerie calm, the scattered debris, a missing raft, and my battered friends, the whole thing could’ve been imagined.

We were fortunate that Panther Canyon (a huge arroyo) was not running. We’d been lying at the place where it empties into the Rio Grande. The danger of being there hadn’t occurred to us because of the terror of the storm.

We had to walk out barefoot. It was a long and painful Lesson Two. When we finally arrived at Highway 170 no traffic was moving. We had no choice but to trudge up Big Hill with cut, scratched, bleeding feet. We must have looked like refugees by the time the highway maintenance crew stopped for us at the top of the mountain. By then the sun was shining. Everything about the scene spread before us belied what had happened at the mouth of Colorado Canyon.

I was sure Raft Rental Man would not believe our wild tale, but he smiled and shrugged as though it was no big deal. We said we’d pay for the raft, but he said, “Aw, it’ll turn up.” And it did, a week later, far from where we’d last seen it. The ice chest, clothes, and shoes were never located.

Since then I’ve had more river adventures than I can count, but I’ve never forgotten the Colorado Canyon Hurricane. And I always wore my shoes.

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Knocking Out a Wall, Part Two

10/13/2014

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My final Avalanche column ran a few Thursdays ago and on the same day, my ex came to Alpine. When I opened the door, I gaped. It took a few seconds before I could speak. How long do you think he’ll be able to pull off timing like that?

He invited me to lunch and of course I accepted. I broke the news that he could relax; there wouldn’t be any more columns about him. The look of disappointment on his face almost made me laugh.

His response: “Good. Now you’ll stop calling me a liar in public.”

Yeah, right.

Then he said, “I told you that people don’t want to hear those stories.”

Al contrario, Cowboy. It seems they do.

I tried to work a few more stories out of him, but he’s wise to me now. So I have to go with what I know. And I was there for this one.

What we didn’t know at the time was that the Border Patrolman who had taken such a dislike to us was a vindictive man and he was the boss. Before I continue, I want to say that this is about only one man, not the Border Patrol in general.

The cowboy had been picked up on numerous occasions and was returned to the border each time. He’d worked at the fluorspar mine in the Christmas Mountains, on Terlingua Ranch, and in Odessa, Midland, and Lajitas. He said he’d never been mistreated once by any Border Patrolman and he never feared them. My point is that in any profession there can be one who gives the whole bunch a bad rep.

I could tell you the man’s name, but it doesn’t matter. He’s long gone from the job and also the planet. Suffice it to say that the night of the murder, which was later determined to be an accidental shooting, he let personal hatred supersede his professional duties.

Lajitas was similar to a large plantation during the days of slavery. In the Big House, some inhabitants were “less than” others. The workers, no matter our background or color, were in it together. We were tight. At the Big House they professed, “But we love our Mexicans.” Read, we love our cheap labor.

Border Patrol raids were common, but back then it was like a big game. A few green-uniformed men would show up in town. Radios, walkie-talkies, and telephones would hum with the news. La Chota!

The Border Patrol only came because they were supposed to and they sometimes took men away if they were slow enough to get caught. Or if the officers managed to surprise them. On raid days we hid people in all the nooks and crannies of the resort while the outside workers ran for the hills. I said it was like a big game, but I didn’t say everyone enjoyed it.

Four times they came in succession and it became evident they were after my cowboy. They asked about him at the Big House and they chased him. He escaped into the mountains or to the Rio, and he was fast. This became a rock in the boot because the boss was telling them to get That Mexican.

The manager of Lajitas called me in to say that this problem with the Border Patrol was disrupting the work schedule. I asked what I was supposed to do about it. Did he expect me to tell him not to run? No. He was one of the best workers. What, then? He didn’t know.

The Border Patrol figured it out pronto. The next day they returned with the boss and he caught my cowboy himself. He yelled to stop or he’d shoot him. That was a tactic they hadn’t used on him before and it worked.

I was at home and received this call from the front desk: “They have him in front of the hotel.” Nobody had to tell me who had nabbed who. I ran as though they were chasing me.

They had put him in back of a Suburban that was barred. There were a few other stricken-faced guys with him. It was a sight that tore at my heart. I was about to start sobbing, but he gave a tiny grin and shrugged. He believed he’d be back in a few days. I knew it would not be that simple.

What followed was a long, drawn-out mess. He was prosecuted because he’d run away and in doing that, he had “endangered” an officer of the Law. The game had reached a new level and the opponent held all the pieces.

I was forced to hire an immigration attorney. He said if I intended to marry the man, and I did, I had gone about it backwards. He explained that you’re supposed to get a “Sweetheart Visa” first. Great. Everywhere but within the law, falling in love comes first. The bottom line, law-wise, was that he should have stayed in Mexico until we were married. I didn’t bother to point out that if he’d stayed there I would never have met him.

The cowboy was jailed in Alpine, then Pecos, and was later moved to a big holding facility in El Paso. He was formally deported and then came back on a provisional visa. Doing it the wrong way cost us plenty. They slammed door after door.

The great news is that love won. We made it through the wall.

* * *

We saw our Border Patrol nemesis a year or so later when we were eating in the Badlands Restaurant in Lajitas. My husband was holding our tiny newborn daughter and the sun was shining brightly on both of them.

The Bad Man came in with two other men and they all glared at us.

My wise cowboy said, “Don’t look at him, Honey. He’s too small and sad to be part of our world.”

That was true; I knew it was, but I was not so forgiving. I said, “I wish I could hurt him.”

“You already did.”

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Knocking Out a Wall, Part One

10/6/2014

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My mama used to say that when a door slams it only seems like a big deal because it’s a shock. And it’s noisy. A door is only one way to get in or out of a room, she pointed out. “There are other doors, and don’t forget windows. When all else fails, knock out a wall.” She raised me to be a determined person. Possibly, she overdid it a little.

Here I am, Mom, bursting in through a brand new door.

After I announced that I’d no longer be writing a column for the Alpine Avalanche, I received a lot of comments. Some of them made me laugh and some were so touching they made me cry. I want to mention these three: “How will we know what happens next with your liar?” “If you’re finished with that cowboy, could I have him?” and (paraphrasing) “Good for you, Beth. Would you like to write for The Planet?”

Yes. Thank you. I would very much like to.

I will tell you more about The Cowboy Liar, since you asked. As far as being finished with him…I don’t know what to say. Like any long story, there is much that remains to be seen.

In 1982 I was working at Lajitas-on-the-Rio-Grande, as it was called then. I started as a desk clerk and moved to bartending at the Badlands Saloon. Eventually I became the assistant restaurant manager, but that was never half as interesting as the saloon.

To say it was fertile ground for a writer would be as understated as saying we have “nice” sunsets in Big Bend Country. Characters and scenes abounded, but the only thing I wrote during that time was a journal, if you don’t count the index cards of words and phrases in Spanish. You see, I had met a man who spoke no English and I burned to know what he was about.

The first time I danced with him, I made this journal entry: You are in big trouble. Get out while you still can.

But of course, I never listened.

On the first night we spent together, a shotgun blast pierced the silence of the tiny resort town. It never occurred to either of us that anything could be wrong anywhere. We barely noted it.

Two hours later someone banged on the door of my apartment. I opened it to find a friend, but behind him were lawmen in various uniforms. First in line were two green-garbed and serious-faced Border Patrolmen. I knew what that meant and it caused my heart to pound.

“Is he here?” John asked. How did he know? How could anyone have known? Could I have been any more naïve? Not likely.

When I admitted that he was, they asked me to bring him. I had never once thought about the fact that my cowboy was undocumented—what did that even mean? It meant nothing to me. He was a man. Even though I could barely communicate with him, I already knew he was a good man. He stood out from the crowd of others as if the sun was always shining on him.

The longest walk of my life was into my bedroom that night. I think coming out of it was the longest walk he ever made. He knew the way it would be. It was a first in a series of tough lessons for me. I witnessed blind prejudice and racial hatred in my own home—in my face. After all these years, I’ve never forgotten how that felt. And I was only an observer; it was aimed at him.

The short version of the shooting incident is that two men had entered the saloon with the Mexican man now in my apartment. All of them were construction workers in Lajitas, so they knew each other. The other two arrived drunk; the handsome cowboy had come to flirt with me and had not been drinking. The other men left the bar without being served because I knew better. My cowboy stayed and walked me home.

He was rudely interrogated, called a liar, and accused of murder. I believe my presence was the only thing that stopped them from beating a confession out of him. He’d been with me the entire time, so I explained that.

One of the lawmen said the most awful thing, “You can be his alibi or you can keep your reputation.” The message was clear: an Anglo woman with a Mexican man would not be tolerated in his territory.

I maintained my composure with a will of steel, but I wanted to hurt him.

They acted as though they didn’t believe either one of us, but they finally left us alone. As they were leaving, the awful man took one more run at me. “All the doors open to you now are gonna slam shut in your face.”

Fine. Slam the doors. I’ll knock out a wall.

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Writing Away the Real World

Rafting in a Hurricane

Knocking Out a Wall, Part Two

Knocking Out a Wall, Part One

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