Yesterday's Tears

By Jay Dee Ruybal

The world through the eyes of a young boy who was constantly beaten at the hands of two men who should of been nurturing and loving him unconditionally. No child should ever be subject to such horrible acts of abuse. This story is so incredible that it may be difficult to believe, but everything in this book is absolutely true. I know. I am that boy. The abuse of my childhood still eats away at me, and probably will until the end of my days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989351836

Book preview

YESTERDAY’S

TEARS

The Harrowing Journey

of a Boy Named Jesse

BY JAY DEE RUYBAL

Lone Butte Press

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Lone Butte Press

12 Estrellas Road North

Santa Fe, NM 87507

© 2014 Jay Dee Ruybal

All rights reserved

Cover Jaime Bencomo © 2014

ISBN 978-0-9893518 -3 - 6 (pbk)

Printed in the United States of America.

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Foreward

In these last years I have been in the midst of a colossal struggle, trying to temper my soul even though the hazards in my life have greatly increased. I could no longer pretend that nothing is wrong. My moral and spiritual foundation are too much affected. It had reached the point that I had no choice but to let it all come out. So I wrote this book.

Being abused as a child has left me with a life full of negatives. Trying to find in my world stable, calm ground is usually futile. The foundation for the PTS which I’m currently suffering was laid in those childhood abuses, along with three tours in Vietnam. The combination of the two has created havoc on my psyche, and distorted my perceptions.

The pain that never goes away is sometimes worse, sometimes more tolerable. But it is never gone. Writing this book has been theraputic, and I’m on the road, I hope) to healing.

Honestly, I hope many of my readers who have suffered similar cruel atrocities at the hands of a loved one will find understanding in this volume, and realize they are not alone..

This book is my contribution to understanding what so many women and children go through in their everyday life. Women experience rape and

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worse. Murder. Children are exploited sold into forced labor or sexual slavery and child pornog-raphy. Many are subjected to violence, mental anguish, by the very people they hope they can trust. In many cases we are overwhelmed by events that take place around the world everyday. That violence and devastation is only a precursor to the horrific, self-perpetuating experiences of abused peoples.

Jay Dee Ruybal

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Dedication

I dedicate this book to my loving grandchil-dren, Evangelique, Trinity, John, Jordon, aka (Pawnee Boy). They mean the world to me. And to you my comrade brother El Gordo.

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CHAPTER l

To the east of the San Luís Valley, where my grandparents were raised, can be seen the majestic Sangre de Cristo Mountains in all their splendor.

Sanford, Colorado was a small Mormon farming community where the gringo was king. My grandfather, J. C., was educated at Menaul, a private Presbyterian school in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he learned to read and write Spanish and English. My grandmother, Jesusita, spoke only Spanish. My two sisters and I moved in with my grandparents when I was fourteen months old. My mother, Doris, was killed in an automobile accident in 1950 on New Year’s Eve and my father, Dale, was badly injured.

I remember my first day of school, September 3, 1954. I was five years old. My grandmother stood next to her cast iron cooking stove and I stood next to her as she prepared eggs for breakfast. I didn’t have much of an appetite on that particular morning. My stomach felt nauseous and I could feel the bile rising in my throat. I was terrified at the thought of my first day of school. I didn’t know what to expect! I knew it was going to be very difficult for me because I only spoke Spanish.

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After breakfast we climbed aboard my grandfather’s bright yellow 1929 Chevy pickup truck. My sister, Sara Lee, was in the fourth grade and my sister, Susan, was in the second grade. Unlike me, my sisters spoke and understood English fairly well. I sat quietly next to my grandfather watching him change gears as we drove down the old dirt road. I was terrified at the thought of being away from my grandfather. I was very attached to him.

Finally, we arrived at the school. It was an old, white, single story building. In retrospect, it wasn’t a very large building, but to a frightened five-year-old it appeared enormous.

My sisters were very excited on this first day of school. They were already half way out of the truck when my grandfather came to a complete stop. They dashed into the school and left me sitting in the truck. My grandfather looked at me and asked, ‘Well, son, are you ready? I felt my eyes watering as I looked up at my grandfather and replied, No. Do I have to go? He said, Yes. If you want an education, you have to go to school. He tried to console me by saying, Don’t be afraid. You’ll make new friends. I began to cry and said, Grandfather, I want to stay with you. Please! My grandfather climbed out of his truck and said, Come on or you’11be late! I was hesitant but I got out. My grandfather took hold of my hand and, together, we walked inside.

As my grandfather and I entered the school I could see hundreds of children already milling around in the hallway chattering in a language I could not understand. Most of them had blue eyes and very light hair that, to me, looked white. Their unfriendly stares made me even more uncomfortable. I didn’t like this place! I wanted to go home! I longed for the safety of my Grandparents house. To my dismay we had reached the end of the hallway and I entered the classroom where I would spend the next nine months learning to read, write, and speak English: I already knew how to speak Spanish but during the next nine months I would learn how to read and write English.

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In the classroom, to my left, was a very large blackboard with writing on it which I, obviously, could not read. My teacher was an Anglo woman in her mid-fifties which, to a five-year-old, seemed ancient. The teacher’s name was Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith wore glasses and peered at my grandfather over the rim of her glasses. Hers was not a friendly face and I grew even more terrified. My heart was pounding as I looked around the room at the other children already in their seats. My grandfather and Mrs. Smith exchanged words in English and my grandfather spoke to me in Spanish telling me to find a seat. I didn’t want to let go of his hand but I felt his grip loosen and I had no choice. I felt a lump in my throat and a tear trickled down my cheek. I found a seat and reluctantly sat down. I knew everyone was staring at me. I looked towards the door and saw my grandfather smiling and waving as he walked away. I felt so alone, I wanted to get up and run away.

One of the little girls sitting next to me smiled at me and I smiled back. She had beautiful blue eyes and flaxen hair. Her name was Dixie Mortensen. Right then and there I knew we were destined to become good friends. Her friendly smile made me feel much better. As I looked around the room I noticed there were other Spanish speaking children. There was total silence as the teacher walked to the blackboard. As she wrote something on the blackboard she was speaking to the class. I could not understand a word she said. I crawled back into my shell and stayed there for the rest of the day. After school the first thing I looked for was my grandfather’s yellow pickup truck. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw him.

We lived in an old log cabin with ninety pound felt tacked onto the outer walls that gave it a red brick effect. We were a very poor family and we had no running water. The outhouse was about a hundred feet from the house. When we got home from school, my sisters and I went inside and hugged my grandmother who was busy preparing supper. My grandmother was four feet six inches tall, had a very light complexion, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. She told us to change clothes and go out and help grandfather in the

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bean fields. Before we went out into the bean fields, grandmother gave us a warm tortilla for a snack that would have to hold us until supper.

My sisters and I picked up our garden hoe from the barn and proceeded to help grandfather with the weeding of the beans. In a couple of weeks the beans would be ready for picking. We worked really hard to keep up with grandfather but it was futile as he was much stronger and much more experienced. We hoed row after row until the sun set over the mountains to the West. Beans were our staple for winter. Grandmother planted a garden during the summer and once a week we would pull the weeds. When we got back to the house my sisters helped set the table for supper while grandfather and I brought in fresh water and firewood for the cooking stove. Grandfather and I also had to feed the hogs, the cows, and the two plow horses that were grandfather’s pride and joy. One of the plow horses was a black gelding named Ziggy; the other horse was a white mare named Angel. Most of the farmers around us had large farms. We had six acres surrounded by a canal. Large cottonwood trees lined the bank of the canal.

Having fed and watered the animals, I gathered a small kindle of wood and put it in my little radio flyer wagon while grandfather put the larger pieces of wood in a wheelbarrow. The sun was disappearing on the horizon as we entered the kitchen. We stacked the wood neatly in the wood bin. Auntie Rue was teasing grandmother asking her how she could see through her glasses as dirty as they were. Laughter filled the kitchen. We were poor but we were happy and more important we had love. Having washed our hands, we sat down for supper. The meals were always basically the same - beans, potatoes, red (or green) chili, and tortillas. Once in a while grandmother would bake an apple pie using the apples from our little orchard.

After supper grandfather and I went into the living room to rest. Grandfather fell asleep in his favorite wooden rocking chair.

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His loud snoring vibrated the house. It had been a long day and I fell asleep in the living room. I dreamed I was at school and all the children were twice the normal size. They had tied me to my desk and gagged my mouth. I tried to scream but nothing would come out. They ran around my desk making obscene gestures and called me names. Most of the children in my dream had blonde hair and blue eyes. I was awakened by my grandmother telling me to go to my room. As I slowly opened my eyes it felt as if I had a lead weight on each eyelid. I got up, went to my room and went to bed. As I lay in bed my eyes were wide open. I stared into the dark dreading tomorrow and another day at school. I wanted desperately to stay home in my safe little world. I could not go back to sleep.

I don’t remember falling asleep but I was awakened by grandmother as she shook me and said in Spanish, Get up Jesse. It’s time to go milk the cows. Even though I was only five years old, I was given my share of chores to do. It was 5:30 in the morning. The aroma of coffee brewing wafted into my room. I could hear grandfather’s and Auntie Rue’s jovial conversation as they sat drinking, coffee in the kitchen. Auntie Rue was twenty years old; she had long, reddish, curly brown hair. She was very attractive. She was like a mother to me and I loved her dearly.

After washing the cobwebs off my face, grandmother and I went out to the barn and shackled the cow’s hind legs. Grandmother positioned herself under the cow, adjusted her small stool, and set the bucket under the cow. She milked the cow with an experienced rhythm as I held the cow using a harness. When we were done milking the cow, we took the fresh bucket of milk into the house. I stood next to the wood stove to warm up as the chilled air had made goose bumps pop up all over my body. Winter would soon be upon us. My sisters came into the kitchen, washed, and stood next to me near the stove.

After breakfast, grandfather took us to school. I didn’t want to go; I just wanted to stay home with my grandparents. I knew I

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didn’t have a choice and said goodbye to my grandfather. I walked up the stairs of the old school building and into the hall again I could hear the noise of people talking in a language which I did not understand. It was foreign to me. I encountered the familiar stares of the white-haired children. I was determined not to let them get to me. I decided to return their stares rather than shrivel up. My grandfather said I needed an education and attending school was the only way to get one. So be it! Yesterday I cried, today I held my head up. As I entered the classroom, I saw that most of the children were already in their seats. I took my seat and looked up ‘to find Dixie Mortensen, the beautiful angel I met yesterday, was smiling at me. Already I felt much better.

We stood up to pledge allegiance to the flag and all I could do was stand there with my hand over my heart because I could neither speak nor understand English. Mrs. Smith asked me something. I asked her, in Spanish, What are you saying? Just then my sister, Sara Lee, walked into my classroom with a writing tablet and some pencils. She told me, in Spanish, that Mrs. Smith wanted to know if I had paper and pencils. I quickly raised my paper and pencils (the ones my sister had brought with her) above my head and said, Si tengo. (Yes I have) the whole class began to laugh. My sister told me to be good and she would see me after school. Mrs. Smith walked up to the black board and wrote something. She had written the words dog and cat. She made us write those two words on our tablet over and over till the whole class understood them and could write them. I had learned my first two English words. I could even pronounce them, albeit with a heavy Spanish accent. She also taught us how to add numbers. It was difficult, but I didn’t lose hope.

During recess a couple of boys called me names and told me they were going to kick my ass beaner. At that time I didn’t understand why they didn’t like me. They lashed out at me as if I presented a threat to them. As a result of their constant verbal abuse, I was taught to see the gringo as my enemy. They continued

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to call me names I did not understand. One of the white- haired boys said something that I did understand and, as my blood began to boil, I took off after him. I thought, If those little pecker woods want some of me, I ‘m not going to make it easy on them. The fight never ensued. All we did was run around the building in circles. We ran and ran until we had to stop gasping for air. The boy I was chasing disappeared into a crowd of other children.

Later that day, while grandfather and I did our chores, I asked him, Why are the children with white hair so mean to me? my grandfather replied, When people don’t understand other cultures, they feel threatened and they lash out. The white man has always set an academic standard for themselves, which they think sets them apart from other human beings. It makes them feel su-perior over poor disadvantaged cultures. Just remember to always be proud of who you are and never forget where you came from. Walk as proud as you can.

In the days that followed I was learning to understand the English language and even though I found some of the words to be tongue twisters, I was determined to overcome this barrier. I was gradually learning to tread water. I was not ready to quit or give up because to do so would be to go against my grandfather’s philosophy and I didn’t dare ruffle his feathers.

The first few days of school were filled with excitement as my desire to learn was boundless. Being a quitter was not in my nature. I could only decipher bits and pieces of what Mrs. Smith said but that didn’t matter because I knew that if I continued to study the English language I would one day be able to understand it. Occasionally I would glance at Dixie who reminded me of a little, Barbie doll. I became acquainted with some of the children in the classroom and that made things a lot easier on me. I could tell some of the children didn’t like me and wondered if my ethnic background would forever keep them from liking me. I had to learn to embrace my strength because in my heart I knew that negativity would only

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serve to destroy my self- esteem As I looked out of the class room window I noticed the trees were starting to turn color. The oak trees were vivid colors of orange and red, the large cottonwood trees had soft yellowish colors. The winters in the San Luis Valley were extremely cold. I hated going to the outhouse during the winter.

Lunch in the cafeteria was always a treat. My favorite meal was chili beans with a glass of milk, a cinnamon roll, and a delicious bright red apple. The school cafeteria workers were all women and they were very pleasant.

In the days that followed, the school bus would pick us up in front of our house as, little by little, I was being weaned from my grandfather. I often sat in class wondering what grandfather was doing. I could picture him plowing the fields with his two plow horses. Grandfather was such a hard worker. I never understood how a man of his age could endure such rigorous work without collapsing from exhaustion but he was persistent and would never complain. Grandfather had only one good arm. His right biceps muscle was completely ripped off in a car accident which left him with very little strength in that arm.

When I returned home from school I helped grandfather thresh beans. Grandfather picked the bean plants and put them in small piles so they could dry in the sun. Grandfather spread a large canvas tarp flat on the ground and, using a pitchfork, he put a few piles of beans on the tarp. He then drove his truck back and forth over the dried bean plants smashing them with the tires of the truck. To my surprise the beans were not crushed by the weight of the truck. After he ran over them a couple of times and they were crushed he cleaned out the large stems and then he would get his wide mouthed shovel and pick up a shovelful and slowly drop the beans as the wind blew away the bean shells and leaves. The beans would bounce five or six inches off the tarp. We would then put them in large gunny sacks. We worked till dusk. I looked at the numerous rows of bean plants which lay strewn on the ground. We still had

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a few days of work left. Working the fields with grandfather gave me great pleasure. He believed in hard work. He said it was good for the soul.

Later in the evening after supper our whole family sat around the living room as the moon cast a ray of light through a tall window and listened intently to grandmother speaking about a legendary myth, La Llorona. Evidently she had drowned her child in order to prevent her Spaniard conquistador lover from taking her child back to Spain. When her conquistador lover learned about his child’s death, he was devastated and returned to Spain at the request of Queen Isabel with a broken heart. La Llorona was an Indian squaw who, after drowning her child, became despondent and in the twilight could be seen making her trek towards the river in search, of her child. She became the wailing wanderer along all the river banks. It’s been told she wept so loud that the sound reverberated in the canyon walls along the river.

As I listened to my grandmother tell the story, my heart pounded and my palms grew sweaty with fear. I sat mesmerized as my grandmother told the story of La Llorona. La Llorona translated means Lady Weeper. I looked at my sister, Sara Lee, and I could see the fear in her eyes. My skin crawled as I saw La Llorona in my mind’s eye. This night I would have recurring nightmares. Going to the outhouse would be out of the question. Our portable potty would have to do. As I listened to my grandmother’s story, my eye lids grew heavy and, before I knew it, I had fa11en asleep.

The following morning I was awakened by my grandmother telling me it was time to milk the cow. After the cow was milked, we fed the chickens and gathered all the eggs. The school bus picked us up at 7:30 a.m. It was becoming easier. I had befriended some of the other children. I got along a lot better with the children who spoke Spanish. Grasping the English language was not easy and every day I would learn a new word. With every new word I learned my self- confidence and self- esteem grew. A boy named Tommy

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became a good friend. We hung around together during recess. The Spanish speaking kids played on their side of the playground. We tried to play with the white-haired kids but they called us beaners; needless to say, a fight always ensued, we were outnumbered ten to one but that didn’t stop us from going after them. I think we had more guts than brains. In retrospect, I believe my father had a great, influence on me.

My father was a fighting man. He had been in and out of jail from the time he was nine years old. As a boy he was sent to the Colorado Boys Reformatory in Golden, Colorado. When I was in first grade, my father was in the Colorado state Penitentiary in Canyon City serving six years. My father’s behavior was a direct result of constantly being badgered by others because of his ethnic background.

At times the white haired kids would call us friggin dirty rotten Mexicans. I was a very impressionable child and the name calling and rebuffs left deep psychological scars which I carry to this day. It’s hard to forgive the sanctimonious adults who preached the word of God on the one hand and tormented a defenseless child on the other. Bigotry was very prominent in our little town.

One weekend we traveled to Canyon City, Colorado by train to visit my father in prison. On Saturday morning my grandfather, grandmother, Auntie Rue, my two sisters, and I drove to the train depot in Alamosa, Colorado. My two sisters and I were excited about going to see my father. I remembered seeing him a few times when I was much younger. There was a powerful bond between my father, my sisters, and me. Even though he had been away from us for so many years, we still loved him very much. We arrived at the train depot and I could hardly wait to board the train. Grandfather purchased the tickets and checked our luggage in. Finally we climbed aboard the train that would take us to see my father.

The main passenger car trailed behind the engine. I could see the steam billowing out of the engine car. After all the pas-

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sengers had boarded, the train slowly took off making a chugging sound gradually building up steam, the sound of the wheels moving on the rails was like a symphony. The whistle blowing echoed in the valley as the Santa Fe Narrow Gorge Train gained momentum. The passengers peered out of the windows. It was a good day for a train ride. The Snow- capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains glistened in the distance. My sisters and I were thrilled about seeing our father once again. We could only afford to go twice a year. The train made its trek through the mountain passes occasionally slowing down when it came to a steep grade. When the train came to a road crossing the engineer would blow the whistle whose sound reverberated in the canyon. I looked out the window. The jagged mountain peaks high above were breathtaking. The sun was high above us now. Grandfather and grandmother conversed in Spanish while my sisters and I became silent, reveling, in the excitement of seeing our father again.

We stood in front of the Colorado State Penitentiary. The large grayish granite rock walls with rod iron gates reminded me of a medieval castle. Guard towers and guards could be seen along the wall. There were other families waiting to see their loved ones. The excitement made my heart pound. The large iron gates would soon open. It had been almost a year since I had last seen my father. Because we loved our father, my sisters and I never questioned him about his imprisonment. Everyone was now pacing anxiously in front of the large gate as two somber prison guards carrying a set of very large keys approached the gates. One of them inserted a key and, with a twist of the wrist, unlocked the gates. The gates opened and we went inside and into the administrative offices where we had to sign in. Inside the prison I could hear keys jangling and doors being opened. I saw a large corridor leading to the main facility and noticed a few prisoners in dark navy blue pants and light grey shirts that displayed large numbers on the right shirt pocket and their name on the left.

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After grandfather signed the necessary paper work we entered a room where we were frisked in search of weapons or contraband. We then walked down a long corridor into the main prison facility. All the windows were barred. There was a heavy metal door that, as it closed, made a loud thudding sound. Finally, we reached the main visiting area. The visiting area had a high ceiling and an iron cage that separated us from the prisoners. There was a line of stools for visitors to sit and visit with the inmates. We sat patiently waiting for my father. It was cold in the room which had been constructed out of rock and cement. The heavy metal of an old radiator made a hissing sound as it emitted heat. One by one the prisoners were brought out to the visiting area. We finally saw my father coming toward us. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him. My sisters and I were so excited that, when we saw him coming towards us, we shouted in unison, Daddy! Daddy! He smiled. My father, was a tall, dark, and very handsome man sporting a thin mustache. He had brown eyes and wavy black hair.

Our eyes met and he smiled as he put his hands against the metal woven mesh that separated us. My sisters and I put our hands against the mesh in an effort to touch his. My father was just as excited as we were. He asked us how were doing and we asked him how he was doing. Grandfather and grandmother spoke to him in Spanish. After visiting for a couple of hours my father was taken back to maximum security. Seeing him made me forget the pain of being separated from him for so long. At least for a little while.

Later, we went to the city park for a picnic with my father’s twin brother who met us at the park with his two young sons. We spent the night with them in Pueblo, Colorado. The following day we went back to the prison to visit my father again. I hated being separated from him and longed for the day he would be released. I loved my grandfather. I know he loved me but he couldn’t fill the void that being separated from my father left. After we returned home, I couldn’t stop thinking about my father. He had never really been an intricate part of our lives, yet, my sisters and I adored him.

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When we got back from visiting my father, we had to re-sume our daily chores and school. As far as school was concerned, there had been no change. The white haired kids were still cruel and bigoted. I learned to roll with the punches.