my transgressions were—whether I skipped my chores or got into a fight—Tata would ask me to tell him the whole story and then pass judgment. That’s what happened one day when my mother was upset with me for playing on the railroad tracks behind our house. (Coincidentally, these tracks were part of the line that carried freight trains and railway tankers from Northern California. The train cars that passed through my backyard were the same tankers that I would one day clean and refurbish—and put my life in jeopardy in the process.)
As a child, I used to volunteer to help the switching guards and the engineers since they couldn’t move as fast as me. My job was to wait by the side of the tracks until the last minute to identify whether the locomotive needed to have the track switched and, if so, leap over the track while flagging the guards and the engineers to pull the appropriate levers at the right moment. In my opinion, this was educational and excellent training in my quest to become either an astronaut or a superhero like Kaliman. My mother begged to differ.
On the day in question, Tata asked me to explain a particular incident and tell him why my job helping the switching guards required me to climb up on a tanker car that had only stopped temporarily—forcing me to jump when it suddenly got going again. After hearing me defend myself along with a few other details, he spoke slowly and sternly, “Your mother is absolutely correct, Alfredo. You could have been killed. You set a bad example for the other children. I think you should consider this as you go and sit in the corner.” He had just repeated what my mother had already said—almost word for word! But when the words came from him, I agreed completely. The punishment was no longer unreasonable. In fact, I thought it was an honor to face my consequences at his request.
One reason I respected Tata was his ability to overcome the obstacles he had faced throughout his life. When he was growing up in Sonora, where he was born in 1907, his father was murdered by a band of pistoleros—lawless, thieving gangs who terrorized the countryside during the Mexican Revolution. His mother spiraled down into mental illness afterward—making life even tougher for my grandfather, who more or less raised himself.
Nana Maria had overcome much adversity too. Though I wasn’t as close to her as I was to Tata, I was in awe of her role as a healer and pillar of the community. Through her work as a curandera, she taught me the most important lesson I would learn about the treatment and care of patients: in all matters, the life and the well-being of the patient must come first. Nana had a gift for connecting with her patients in an immediate, tactile way—looking into their eyes, studying their smallest symptoms, putting her hands on their shoulders to be encouraging and to share her powerful healing energy. No one ever died in her care because she was so thorough that if she had any concern about whether someone required more than she could offer, she would refer the patient to a hospital or facility that could provide necessary services. Nana Maria never charged a single peso for her services. Her reward was being able to teach women how to take care of their reproductive health and their babies, and as a midwife, she considered it an honor to save lives and to lend a hand to new life coming into the world. That, to her, made for a richly rewarding existence. On call morning, noon, and night, she would remain awake and alert throughout protracted periods of labor and challenging deliveries, standing and working through the cold nights in the small unheated adobe homes of our area or through the stifling hot nights when everyone else fled to their roofs for relief.
After one very long delivery, when I was around six years old, on a blazing hot summer morning, I caught sight of Nana Maria on her front porch as I was playing outside my grandparents’ house. Nana looked surprisingly fresh and renewed after a sleepless night as a midwife, though she was resting her legs and feet. She walked with a limp that my father said was caused by a deformity or illness like polio that had caused one foot to be much smaller than the other. Even in the days when she and Tata worked the fields, my grandmother never complained. Nana did believe, however, that too many of us took for granted the marvelous ability endowed to us through the power of our own two feet. And she never held back from admiring the beautiful gait of someone else or from expressing a wistful desire to have two normal feet and even to dance as others could. Perhaps this sense of her otherness made her all the more compassionate toward those in pain and in struggle. But that morning as I played with my cousin Cesar—a master at rock throwing who was helping me improve my technique—I noticed something magical about Nana Maria. Instead of appearing worn out, she was smiling and talking to Tata, as though invigorated. To have so much energy after going so long without eating or sleeping was incredible, and to achieve this while caring for others was a most noble act.
Just then, right on cue, a young couple walked down the road toward my grandparents’ house. The young woman carried her newborn baby under a blanket while her husband cradled a live chicken in his arms. I was struck by the gratitude on the faces of the young mother and father as they offered my grandmother the chicken, the most valuable gift that they could find to express their thanks. Nana Maria was gracious, assuring them that their thoughtfulness would not go unappreciated in her humble home. Yet perhaps the gift she most valued was the chance to peek under the blanket and see the healthy tiny baby, knowing that she had done her job and done it well.
The story had a twist that makes it stand out in my memory for another reason. After the young couple left and Nana went into the house, I decided to practice my new skills. The first rock left my hands with excellent speed. Unfortunately, my aim was terrible and I broke a window of my grandparents’ house. Holy guacamole! But not giving up, I threw the next rock, carefully avoiding the house. Unfortunately, this time I wasn’t careful enough to avoid hitting Cesar’s head, causing a gash that bled profusely as his screams brought my grandparents running.
Nana pointed out that I had once again shown that I needed to be more mindful of my actions. Tata was greatly displeased. Of course, I felt terrible about my cousin and the window. But most of all, I didn’t want my grandparents to be mad at me. And, in truth, they weren’t, although they did worry. My grandmother spoke to my parents, I later learned, telling them I would go far in life only if appropriate boundaries were set. Tata Juan warned Papá, “Alfredo is unusually bright. But you must watch him. Otherwise, he will miss out on many opportunities.” My parents were in full agreement. Their solution, rather than being overly critical, was to make sure that through education and the discipline of the classroom, I would settle down. The need for me and my siblings to go to school, work hard in the classroom and on homework, and make the most of our education was all the more important to my parents because neither of them had much formal schooling.
Before my maternal grandmother had died, she had taught my mother to read and write at home. In fact, one of the only memories my mother retained from this time was seeing my grandmother’s loving smile of approval as they read together. But after being orphaned and made into a servant by her aunts, my mother had no option but to teach herself. Considering these limitations, Mamá did very well and was able to apply the basics in qualifying for a training program to become a nurse, her dream. Sadly, her father, my grandfather Jesus, refused to help her pay for nursing school. Still, Mamá continued to educate herself, developing skills she put to use when she later went into business, buying used items that she would refurbish and then sell.
My father was thirteen when his family moved close enough to a school for him to attend for the first time. But as the oldest student in the classroom, already with facial hair, he felt like a swarthy giant sitting there. Though he managed to learn enough to later teach himself to read and write, he lasted only three months in class before quitting. No one was more disappointed than he was. Later, expressing regret that he hadn’t been able to accomplish everything he wanted in life, Papá would tell us, “If you want to grow up and be like me, don’t go to school.”
After my parents married in 1967, they had considered continuing their education in some form, but with babies to feed and a gas station to run, they never had time. My father had taken on the business in his late teens when Tata Juan came to him and said, “Sostenes, I have been thinking about buying the Garcia Gas Station that is for sale. Would you like to be my partner?” Then, as a wedding present, Tata took my father
