Citizen of the World: A Memoir

By Lynda Jones

From a troubled youth to one of Mazatlan's surfing legends—this memoir tells the riveting story of one boy's perseverance and determination during his rocky journey to become a man and claim his place as a citizen of the world.

 

Neto Flores is only five years old when he is expelled from kindergarten and sent to a military school. By age ten, he is back home, selling peanuts on the beaches of Mazatlan, Mexico. But Neto dreams of something more. Something better. By age thirteen, Neto has found his lifelong passion: surfing the wild waves. But the surf culture of the 1960s and 70s isn't all sun and sea. It's a culture soaked in drugs and, for young, adventurous Mexicans like Neto, illegal crossings into America in search of opportunity.

 

Neto works hard, but he's divided between two worlds. Can he escape his demons to become the person he wants to be? He leans on his "better angels," but sometimes those angels find him in jail. As Neto struggles to find the place he belongs, his family and heritage guide him home. Citizen of the World shows a culture with deep-rooted values, which are both difficult and joyful. A culture shaped by poverty, humor, music, beautiful weather, and most of all, people like Neto, who are courageous, hard-working, resourceful, and resilient.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynda Jones
• Release date: Jul 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201731441

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Citizen

of the

World

A Memoir

by Ernesto Flores

as told to Lynda Jones

Copyright © 2021 Lynda Jones

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

This is a work of creative nonfiction. Some names of people and places have been changed to protect privacy.

To the hardworking people of Mexico, who made this story possible.

Part 1

•••

Angels and Heroes

1

A Citizen of the World

Mazatlán, Mexico

1965

I was five years old when I became a citizen of the world. Before that, I was a menace. My whole life changed the day I started kindergarten.

My older brothers, Pedro and Pablo, went to kindergarten before me. Now Pablo was in elementary school and Pedro in secondaria. They wore uniforms every day to school. Tan pants and white shirts. Hard black shoes on their feet. Hair cut short and straight. Being in kindergarten, I was able to go to school in my shorts and a T-shirt, with my feet comfortable in huaraches and my hair left long and curly, the way I liked it.

My brothers told me that school was fun. That I would learn to read and do numbers. I wanted to go to school. I liked learning new things and making new friends. What my brothers didn’t tell me about school was that I had to be quiet. I had to sit in my seat. I had to raise my hand to pee. I couldn’t go outside or even look out the window. I couldn’t fight.

The night before I started kindergarten, my father said, Neto, let’s walk to the ocean. There’s something I want you to know. Streetlights were already on as he took me outside, away from my brothers and sisters. Together, we walked along the dirt road in front of our house.

My father was a short man, shorter than my uncles, my mother’s brothers. His arms and chest were broad and strong from swinging hammers in his blacksmith shop by the downtown market. He wore long pants and T-shirts to work, so the skin on his arms was dark copper from the hot sun but his legs and his chest were almost white. I loved the way my father smelled as we walked together toward the beach. Man sweat mixed with tequila from a bottle kept on the top shelf in the corner of his shop.

Ernesto, Papí told me, I have always been proud of you. You are a happy, kind boy with a lot of energy. You are smart and a quick learner. My whole body smiled as I walked alongside my father and listened carefully to what he had to say.

You are not like your brothers. They learn in school. But you, Neto, you learn from the world. You already know how to fix things and how to find your way home. Pablo and Pedro will tell you that you aren’t as smart as they are, but they will never know as much as you do.

Papí stopped to light a cigarette and look up at the stars. I felt a soft, cool breeze coming from the ocean. As we reached the sand, I bent down to pick up a shell and put it in my pocket. It was an almost perfect shell, white with deep ridges down the front and shiny pink inside.

As we turned to go home, Papí bent down and put his hands on either side of my face. He looked me in my eyes. But most of all, Neto, I want you to always remember that you are a good boy. Even if you make mistakes sometimes, you always try to do the right thing. Tomorrow, make sure your teacher knows that.

Mamí walked me to school that first day. The teacher walked me home. I don’t remember my kindergarten teacher’s name. I wasn’t there long enough to learn it. I was there for only one day.

My mother didn’t look happy when I walked into the house with the teacher beside me. The teacher didn’t look happy either. A tall, skinny, dried-up woman, she shook her finger at my mother’s face.

Señora Flores, I cannot have your son, Ernesto, in my class. I won’t let him come back to my school. I believe he is smart, but I cannot teach him.

Nobody was looking at me. I wanted to run, but I didn’t know where to go. I stayed by the door, leaning against the wood, to hear what the teacher had to say.

And the other students don’t learn anything with Ernesto in class. He doesn’t want to learn. He doesn’t want to sit in his seat. All he wants to do is play and go outside.

I’m sorry, Maestra. Ernesto is not like my other children. I don’t know what to do with him.

I suggest you send him to the military training school in Tepic. He needs discipline. He needs punishment. He needs to learn from the soldiers, not from a kindergarten teacher.

In 1965, it was not uncommon for families with a lot of children to send at least one of them away to school. Girls went to boarding school in Guadalajara. Boys, especially active boys from poor families, went to Internado Juan Escutia in Tepic, a reform school run by the army and paid for by the Department of Family Services.

Mamí decided at that very moment that the teacher was right. If I couldn’t go to kindergarten, she didn’t know what else to do with me. I was constantly sneaking out of the house. She didn’t know where I was or when I would be home. But most of all, I threw things. I threw sticks, balls, rocks, toys, paper airplanes, anything that could fly.

For a long time, Mamí dreamed of me being in the army. She wanted me to have a career as a soldier, and my constant talk of wanting to be a pilot kept her dream alive. I drew simple pictures of the big silver planes I saw in the sky. I played with blocks of wood, pretending they were military planes. I wanted to fly a jet fighter over the ocean and bring it screaming in for a landing on a ship based near the Mazatlán harbor.

The day after the teacher brought me home, which should have been my second day of kindergarten but wasn’t, Mamí told me she wanted to talk to me. Neto, your father and I have decided that you and Pablo will go to school together in Tepic. You will be a military cadet at the Internado so you can learn to fly. Pablo is going so he can keep an eye on you.

One week later, there were four of us on the long bus trip to Tepic: my parents, my brother, and me. I didn’t want to leave my little sisters or my baby brother. I didn’t know what was going to happen to them or to me. I was able to say goodbye only because I knew that Pablo would be sitting next to me on the bus. We were going to be soldiers, together.

A tall, fat officer met us at the door of my new home. Much bigger than my father, he was a giant. He wore his whole military uniform, including his medals and his hat, which he took off as he shook my father’s hand.

Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Flores. Thank you for bringing your boys to our school. My mother smiled at the officer and nodded her head.

Please wait here while the boys are evaluated. This will take a few hours. We need to make sure your sons will be good cadets.

I didn’t know that I needed to pass a test to go to school far away from home, but I did what I was told to do. I ran laps around the athletic field. I jumped over hurdles and climbed walls. I swung from ropes and walked across rocks. I did push-ups and jumping jacks. The tests were easy. These were things my friends and I did all the time back home.

When we finished testing, the sergeant asked my parents to sit down in front of his desk. Pablo and I were still standing as he closed the heavy wooden door.

Mr. and Mrs. Flores, I am happy to tell you that Ernesto passed all the tests. He is strong and smart and athletic. He will be an excellent cadet. But, he continued, I am sorry. Your other son, Pablo, failed. You need to take him back home with you. Pablo is not cut out to be in the military.

I didn’t know what to think. How could this happen? I looked at my parents. My mother seemed happy. Neto, you will stay here. This is the beginning of your military career. I tried to pay attention to her words, but they jumbled and roared in my ear.

Pablo will come home with us and go back to Juan Carrasco Elementary School, she continued. My head was full of questions that I couldn’t say.

You can’t come home with us, but we will visit you when we can.

My father had tears in his eyes as he said goodbye. He put his arms around me and pulled me close to him. Once again he said, Neto, you are a good boy. Make sure the soldiers know that about you.

As I started to cry, he said, Don’t worry. You will be okay.

But what about Pablo? And Rosa and Alicia? And Cachi?

They will be okay, too.

When I close my eyes, I still see my dormitory just as it was more than fifty years ago. Two long rows of bunk beds, fifteen bunks on each side of the cold cement room, with bars on two high windows. Sixty young cadets, ages five and six, too exhausted at the end of a day to even sigh.

My first night with the soldiers, alone in a room full of other boys, a guard came into the room and turned out the lights.

Buenas noches, little cadets. Go to sleep. Be ready for tomorrow.

Suddenly, the room was as dark as the inside of a wolf’s mouth, and I was afraid. I thought of my family going back to Mazatlán without me. Maybe they’ve already forgotten about me, I thought.

I said my prayers like Mamí always insisted. "Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos . . . Our Father, who art in Heaven . . ."

And in my ear, I heard my father whisper, as he always did, "Buenas noches, m’hijo. Sueños con los angelitos. Good night, my son. Sleep with the angels." I closed my eyes, and just as my father wished, sweet little angels surrounded me as I fell asleep.

2

Issi

Tepic, Mexico

1966

Every day was the same. Little cadets, we got up in the dark at 5:30 a.m., with the Mexican anthem sounding like an eagle screaming in our ears. Sixty boys jumped out of warm beds and ran outside to get into straight lines, in groups of ten, under the glaring lights of the flagpole as the guards called out our names.

Avila?

"Presente."

Escodero?

"Presente."

Flores?

"Presente."

Gonzales?

"Presente."

The guards wanted to make sure that no one had run away overnight.

We pledged allegiance to the flag and exercised outside in the cold morning air. Usually without trousers. Dressed only in our tennis shoes and underwear, we did calisthenics and sprinted around the huge, Olympic-sized athletic field. When we were tired and sweaty, we jogged to the showers to put on clean uniforms for the day. Crisp khaki pants and green T-shirts. Baseball caps on our freshly shaved heads. Army boots on our feet. After a hearty breakfast, we went to our classrooms for a full day of lessons.

In the beginning I was homesick, but I didn’t know there was a word for what I felt. Sometimes, especially when I had to be quiet, I was afraid my eyes would start to water. I didn’t want to eat, but Sargent Rudy told me I had to. Sitting in school all day, I did whatever the teacher told me to do. I remembered what my father said about being a good boy. I wanted to make him proud.

Issi and I discovered each other the first day we checked into the Internado. We were the same age, in the same dormitory. After breakfast, we went with Sergeant Rudy to the military store to get our uniforms. Next he marched us to the barbershop, a small space in a separate concrete building, away from the rest of the school. Issi and I looked at each other in the big barbershop mirror and decided we’d be friends.

Issi was embarrassed because he had a bad hair disease. He slid down in the chair and tried to cover his head with the towel. The barber took away the towel, turned on the clippers, and shaved his head bald. Issi started to cry as older boys laughed and pointed at him through the window.

Look at that ugly little kid. His hair is falling out in big patches, just like a mangy dog. I don’t want to be near him. And then they made barking noises, laughed, and poked each other in the ribs.

That first day, I woke up angry. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. My family had left me, and now the barber was shaving off my long, curly hair. I pointed my chin to the ceiling and jerked my head around.

Sit still or the clippers will cut your head. I don’t want you to bleed all over my towel.

I crossed my arms in front of me and glared. It didn’t matter. My curls fell in a brown pile on the white tile floor. My head was as bald as Issi’s. Who is that person? I thought as I looked into the mirror. I wasn’t going to cry.

•••

From the beginning, Issi and I got in a lot of fights. Never with each other. Mostly with older kids. The fourth and fifth graders jumped us from behind and, before we knew it, we were fighting again. Kicking, punching, throwing people to the ground and stomping on them. Pounding them with our fists. Yelling and calling them names. Some fights we won and some we lost. We didn’t care. It felt good to fight, to stick up for each other and for ourselves.

Thanks, Neto, for jumping on that guy when he had me on the ground.

No problem, Issi. He was my friend, and I would defend him no matter what.

Sargent Rudy knew about the fights, but he never punished us. Listen. I love you guys, he said as he helped us get cleaned up. You kids are going to make it.

When my father came to visit, Sargent Rudy found him and shook his hand. Jesús, Ernesto is a good cadet. He will be a good soldier. He’s loyal and willing to fight to help his friend. I’m glad he’s here.

My father told me what Sargent Rudy said, and I knew I had made him proud. For the first time in my life, I’d made myself proud, too.

•••

There were new cadets admitted to the school every week. I wondered how they felt. Were they afraid, lonely, and worried, just like me? Did they ever wake up and forget where they were? Did their hearts hurt, like mine, so that sometimes it was hard to breathe? I wanted to know who these new boys were.

"Hola. Me llamo Neto. Como te llamas? I am Ernesto. What is your name?"

"Soy de Mazatlán? I am from Mazatlán. Where are you from?"

What position do you play in soccer? I invited them to play on my team.

Do you want to play during recess? I told jokes and tried to make them smile.

I am new here, too. My family left me because I wouldn’t behave.

I asked them if they were lonesome for their families. Some, like Issi, were orphans from far away with no family to love. I told them not to be angry or they would get in trouble. Little by little, my life began to change. I made friends and I felt better.

There was no kindergarten at the military school, so I went straight to first grade. I liked school. I learned to read and add numbers. I learned things I never knew about before—interesting stories about Mexican people in history, facts about plants and animals. Sometimes I couldn’t pay attention because I was thinking about my family and friends in Mazatlán. Why was I such a troublemaker when I was living at home? What was wrong with me?

When the teacher told us to take out a piece of paper and write our names, I always wrote my full name, Ernesto Alonso Flores Rodriguez, in big black letters. I was learning to write, and I didn’t want to forget who I was.

3

Franco

Mazatlán, Mexico

1966

I turned six years old in December and spent my birthday, Christmas, and Three Kings Day at the military school. By April, I had been with the soldiers for seven months. Some of my friends were going home for Easter vacation, and some of us would be staying at the military school. This was my first year, and I didn’t know what was going to happen to me.

"Ven, M’hijo. Vamanos! I heard my mother’s voice. Vamos a Mazatlán para Semana Santa." I was going to Mazatlán for Easter vacation!

Never had my mother’s voice sounded so good. I was going to spend two weeks at home with my family. I was so excited my heart thumped hard in my chest. I was going to see my little sisters, Alicia and Rosa. I would play soccer in the streets with my brother Pablo and my friends from the colonia. I would go to work in the blacksmith shop with Papí. I would eat my mother’s sopa and her chicken tamales. As I waved goodbye to the soldiers, I knew I was the luckiest boy in the world.

My cousins, Delia and Mercedes, were coming from their home in Hacienda del Tamarindo to help my mother get ready for Easter. I didn’t know it right away, but they were also there to help my mother get ready for another baby. As we climbed on the big bus for the long trip from Tepic to Mazatlán, I noticed that my tiny mother was gordita. I was surprised to see that she was going to have another baby very soon. My parents already had six children, and Cachi wouldn’t be two until October.

People were happy to see me when I got home. Some of the neighbors stopped me in the street to welcome me back. Lupe, from across the street, made a special cake for me and my family. Señor Valdez, who lived in the house next door, patted my back and told me he missed me. My brothers and sisters wanted me to play with them. My mother didn’t fuss at me the way she used to. My father and I went for long walks after dinner and talked about my life at the military school.

I was home for a week when my father pulled me aside, late one night. The others were sound asleep, but I was still awake.

Quick, Neto. Go find Hermán Vega and tell him that we need to take your mother to the hospital. My father’s forehead was creased, and his words came out quickly. Hermán needs to bring his bus. It’s time for the baby to be born.

We didn’t know anybody who owned a car. Most men rode bicycles everywhere they went, but Hermán Vega drove a big Mazatlán bus. He and my father had been friends for a long time. They worked together at Camioneros Unidos, the bus driver’s union, where Hermán was a driver and my father worked part time as a mechanic.

I have always been a very fast runner. My legs are long and strong, and I like to run. Rain drummed on the sidewalks and settled the dust on the dark street as I raced to find Papi’s compadre. I listened to the sound of my feet splashing in the rain. My wet T-shirt was starting to stick to my back as I beat on Señor Vega’s door.

Hermán answered the door wearing a stretched-out white T-shirt and tan baggy pants. His white hair stood straight up, wild in all directions. His sleepy eyes opened wide when he saw me. He took a step backward, then smiled and laughed out loud.

Well, Neto, look at you, pounding on my door this late at night.

Señor Vega, I need you to bring your big bus to my house. You have to hurry. My mother is going to have a baby and we need to get her to the hospital right away.

I ran all the way back home. I was not even out of breath when Hermán parked his bus in front of our house. Now he was wearing his brown bus driver’s shirt and had a baseball cap on his head to cover his messy, white hair.

Papí stood before the picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe, silently praying to her for help.

Hermán’s long arm circled my father’s shoulders. Don’t worry, Jesús. Zelmira is going to be okay.

My father shook his head. We must hurry, amigo. She is in a lot of pain. I think this baby is coming too soon.

My father picked up my mother, carried her onto the bus, and laid her down on a mat on the floor. I had never seen or heard anything like this before. My mother screamed like an animal caught in a trap. She groaned and held her stomach. Her pinched face was an angry red. Her thick black hair was wet from sweat. Thunder, like cannon fire, rumbled in the distance. Lightning flashed in front of the bus, lighting our way to the hospital.

Mamí squeezed my father’s hand as hard as she could. He talked to her in his most quiet voice. Please, Zelmira, hold on. Keep breathing. We can’t have this baby on the bus. Just a few more minutes, Mamí. Just a few more minutes. Hermán’s bus will get us there in time.

The bus bounced and rattled as it raced through the streets of Mazatlán with my father, my mother, and me inside. It was a little past midnight when we arrived, the rain