dangers, fighting battles, dodging asteroids, and venturing into unknown realms.
There was one huge problem. After being so industrious and using our ingenuity to fix the television set, I could seldom watch it because I had to work at the gas station after my father picked us up from school at midday. Sadly, that meant I could see Star Trek only on a catch-as-catch-can basis. I remember being desperate to watch an episode that was to air at four-thirty on a Thursday afternoon. When Papá picked me up at school and I asked if he could make an exception for this day, he firmly replied, “No, Alfredo, you have to work,” and left it at that.
I was devastated. But I didn’t cry. Instead, when we arrived at the gas station, I hopped out of the car, set my jaw, and went about my duties with greater purpose, hoping to forget all about the Star Trek episode I was doomed to miss. By the time four-thirty rolled around, I had almost succeeded in pushing it to the back of my mind. Papá then called me over and gestured toward home, telling me, “OK, son, you can go to the house,” and before he could add “and watch your show,” I was out of there as fast as my speeding little legs could carry me.
When I flew in the door, Gabriel informed me that I had missed only the opening credits, and we were able to watch in wonder together as the USS Enterprise journeyed into the unknown. The episode was everything that I’d anticipated and more! And on that hot autumn night in 1974, up on the rooftop with Gabriel, Mamá, and Rosa, I knew that I could land on a hostile planet some day, just like Captain Kirk did during that episode, and use my skills of diplomacy to keep the peace. Energized by the sounds of the wind in the brush of the foothills to the north of us, I basked in the main event already under way: the real star show. I loved the speedy stars—the ones that may have been the smallest but looked to me as if they were on a special mission, moving with purpose and power. Amazing! For the would-be astronaut in my six-year-old self, millions of stories and possibilities presented themselves on the giant blackboard above us.
In the second grade, I was beginning to have a sense of geography. I had heard that Palaco—which stood for Pacific Land Company—had been founded by a long-gone American company that had come in around the 1930s to cultivate the various crops in the valley. I also knew that we were a satellite village like many others in the vicinity of Mexicali, and that there were other, much bigger cities far from us in the huge country of Mexico, of which I was a citizen. We had been taught about countries and continents, and their geographical differences. Whereas a few years earlier I had believed that the world was flat and that if I reached the end, I would fall off the edge, I now understood from school and from Star Trek that the earth was round—and was stationed much like a star in the universe. Aside from those basics, I had only questions: What was beyond the stars? What was between the stars and the blackness that separated them one from the other? Who created them? My mind couldn’t conceive of where this expanse began or where it ended or how it could be measured relative to me, such a small being in the vast picture.
The only other person who seemed to be considering such mysteries was my paternal grandfather, Tata Juan. In fact, he helped plant the seeds of these big questions in my mind, urging me on to ever-greater heights. “If you shoot high and aim for a star, you might just hit one,” he would say.
Once, when I was about five years old, I took his advice literally. I took my slingshot and a handful of stones up to the roof one night and did exactly as he had recommended—shooting each one forcefully as far into the sky as I could muster. Although I didn’t hit a star that night, I was certain that one day I would.
According to family accounts, from the moment of my birth on January 2, 1968, I kept everyone on their toes. First off, an unusual bump on my head raised concerns, interestingly enough, that I might have been born with a brain tumor. Today I understand that I had a cephalohematoma—nothing serious. But at the time, family members wondered how I managed to survive the fist-sized protrusion rising from my skull—composed of burst blood vessels—which looked like a second tiny head trying to push its way through the skin.
Relieved when they learned that the bump would disappear on its own, family members turned their attention to my hyperactive nature, worrying that I would hurt myself. Even before I could walk well, my parents were shocked at how fast I could toddle off. I also learned to speak expressively by my first birthday and soon thereafter taught myself to tie my shoelaces. Now the real trouble began. My vanishing acts usually required the entire extended family to go out and search for me—like the time when I was about three years old and everyone was afraid that I’d fallen into the reservoir. They eventually found me selling the tiny shrimp I’d discovered in the irrigation holes out in the fields. My many uncles thought these antics were hilarious, but my numerous aunts disagreed. They soon labeled me a hellion in need of better discipline. My parents did their best, but little worked. Nana Maria predicted that if they didn’t set some kind of boundaries for me, I would be a danger to myself. The job then fell to Tata Juan, who took me under his wing and became my first true mentor.
Tall and lanky, with chiseled features and an eagle’s beak for a nose, Tata was a towering figure for all of us. A self-made man who had never been to school, he nonetheless learned to read and write music while teaching himself to play multiple instruments. Tata also managed to make a few wise investments during his years toiling in agriculture (as we used to describe working in the fields), and throughout his life, he carried himself with such a regal bearing that he could have been mistaken for an aristocrat. A gentleman as well, he was never without his hat—a sign of dignity, I believed—and he never forgot to remove it in the presence of ladies.
“How are you today, my ladies?” he would say with great courtesy, sweeping off his hat and bowing whenever he passed a group of women of any age. I mimicked this mannerism as a child, even though I didn’t have a hat. I enjoyed the reaction whenever I bowed and said in my most proper five-year-old pronunciation, “How are you today, my ladies?” The move worked so well, I’ve done it ever since!
My fondest memories of my grandfather come from our trips to a cabin in the Rumorosa Mountains. Everything about the region—from the giant, rocky mountain peaks to the mysterious series of caves with prehistoric wall paintings left by ancient human hands—filled me with wonder. Along the hiking trails that led up the mountains, Tata defied his age and ran like a gazelle. On purpose, he would sometimes sprint off into the woods and I would have to think fast and follow him into the brush. There were times when he would disappear, and just before I started to panic, Tata would reappear and we would continue up the steep mountain together, far from the main path.
On one occasion, he put the lesson of our hikes into words. Placing his hand on my shoulder as we climbed, he said, “Alfredo, whenever you have the choice, don’t just follow where the path leads. Go instead where there is no path and then leave a trail.” I don’t know whether Tata had ever heard the similar quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he had.
Not until we reached the rocky peak would Tata Juan finally sit down to rest. Then he would watch in delight as I continued to run wildly, calling him at the top of my lungs, “Tataaaahhhh! Tataaaahhhh!” and loving the sound as it echoed down the mountainside.
Though my parents never said anything, they must have been relieved when the two of us returned from the outings in one piece. I know they were also pleased that we were so close. But not everybody shared their feelings. One of my father’s sisters famously complained that out of his fifty-two grandchildren, some of whom were senior to me, Tata seemed to spend more time with me than with anyone else. Papá probably suggested that it was helpful to have someone in the family who could control me!
My mother often enlisted Tata to act as an intermediary when she had to explain to me why I had to accept the consequences of disobeying the rules. I would argue against the punishment, whether it was to sit in the corner
