To Touch the Land: The Story of Daniel

By Robert M. Thompson

Daniel and the author met during the summer of 2000, but it was
not until two years later that Daniels extraordinary lifes journey was
revealed. To Touch The Land is the true account of a foundling
of Mexican descent, his struggles to escape physical and emotional
abuse, his incredible crossing the border into the Western desert of
the United States. To Touch The Land is a compelling story of
survival of a teenager in a foreign country without knowledge of the
language nor any official identity either in Mexico or the United
States.
Daniel exhorts us to recognize and treasure our American heritage
and exposes the plight of the undocumented alien who has come to
our shores by unconventional means. He asks us to look beyond
the political demogoguery and see the humanity and frailty of those
who ask to be woven into the great tapestry of our country and to
contribute to as well as share in its greatness. He says, Its me,
Daniel, your adopted son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462837564

Robert M. Thompson

The author, Robert M. Thompson, greeted this world on September 29, 1925, in Birkbeck, Illinois (which community no longer exists). His college education was interrupted by World War II. He completed his university education after the service. His career path led him into teaching, industry, law and the ministry, having retired from each beginning in 1982.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

Sol y Sombra

Dawn broke today, as always. Not being fully awake, I drifted between reality and my dreamworld. Suddenly, terror jolted me upright. I struggled to become fully awake. My first thought was that I had overslept and that my father would be yelling at me to get up and milk the cows, and a beating was waiting for me for this transgression. All I had known up until this point were degradation and whippings. My frail body could not sustain more cruelty. Shaken and disoriented, sweat ran from my underarms; I snatched my clothes from the floor and began dressing myself as fast as I could.

My eyes spied a clock sitting on the dresser in my room. I thought, I don’t have a clock. Where am I? There were no barnyard sounds, no roosters—none of the familiar surroundings.

I awoke in a strange country, with a strange language.

Before remembrance sparked in my brain, I thought God had answered my prayers and that I had been transported by His merciful grace to a new land to begin a new life. In part this was true. I had not been forgotten by Papa Noe after all. The haunting agony of my past existence lived just beneath the surface. Bad times may be over, but those times still tremble with shock waves. The possibility that the arc of the universe bends toward justice after all is a concept not easily grasped by one of my experience and age.

Memory of my incredible journey penetrated my consciousness. I lay back among the pillows, and opened and closed my eyes to confirm that I was safe at last in an oasis of peace. The reality of my miracle rushed upon me like waves of the sea upon the shore. Once again I closed my eyes and, as in reverie, the pages of my book of life began to reveal themselves.

I am born, to begin with. There is no doubt about that. There is precious little in my life that I do not doubt. When I was born I did not have a name, or so I am told, and I believe this to be true.

Before the dark days of my youth, my earliest independent memories are of the person I call mother taking me to visit a young girl in the village next to ours. I may have been four or five years old. I struggle to remember all of the many facets of those long-ago encounters. Certain things stand out in my mind as unforgettable impressions. I recall sunlight reflecting from her eyes and the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile, creating dimples on either side.

What’s his name? As she bent over to pick me up, her long dark hair cascaded across her shoulder and tickled my face.

Vicente, mother answered, without looking up.

Now I had a name. I am Vicente. Vicente, who is Vicente?

She swung her hair back with a toss of her head and lifted me so that I snuggled against her breast. The young girl held me and rocked me all the while saying, Vicente, Vicente. Tears welled up in her eyes and drops fell onto my cheek. I could smell the freshness of her body and clothes. I felt comfortable in her arms. Sometimes we went into the house and she got out some pictures of a man which she would show me. It was never explained who the man in the picture was and how he fit into our lives. I remember looking at the pictures and wondering. He was slim, with dark hair and eyes, and looked to be about as tall as Papa.

After about an hour, my mother would take me home. As I grew older, our visits became less frequent. On some visits the mysterious lady gave me candy. Always, she took my small hand in hers and either led me into the house or into the garden to admire the flowers and vegetables. She would point to a particular plant and call it by name. Being so young, I don’t remember many details. But the remembrance of her compassion and kindness has sustained me through the dark times that were to come.

My mother never really participated in these visits. At the time, such thoughts were not in my mind. But as I grew older, I always wondered why. During these visits, my mother either sat on the porch or inside, depending on the weather. Suddenly our visits stopped. I always wanted to go back, but my mother said that she didn’t know where the girl lived. Even now, I struggle to remember her name (if I ever knew it), and to remember where she lived. The mystery of the girl and the man in the picture continue to punctuate my conscious thoughts.

The first house that I remember was located on a very large property away from Mexico City. To my eyes, I remember it as being very large. It was made of adobe brick and had four bedrooms. With so many children, we had to double up where we could. The girls were in one room and the boys in another. Momma and Papa had their own bedroom. My father’s father also lived with us. He was in his late eighties or early nineties, and he had his own bedroom. His eyesight was not good, and he remained mostly inactive. He lived to be 104 and passed into the bosom of Abraham.

Many of the houses had cooking stoves and ovens outside. The stove and oven in our house was in the kitchen. It was made of adobe as well and vented to the outside. It had a large cooking surface as well as a griddle for making tortillas. It was heated with wood, so we always had to make sure there were plenty of sticks and the like around for fuel. My mother was an excellent cook and made tortillas and many other Mexican dishes that were delicious. Our diet, as it was with all other Mexican families, centered around crops that we could grow ourselves. Corn, of course, was ubiquitous and found in every household. It was an important staple in our diet. Most people raised their own, even if they were not farmers. Private gardens were an important source of food for nearly every family I knew. Fruit trees such as mango and papaya grew on our property and was another source of food. Plantains were everywhere, easy to grow and delicious when prepared. My mother made delicious meals using cactus. Our main meat was chicken which was supplemented by what my father could hunt.

The girls were responsible for helping Mother with meals and chores in and around the house. The boys were responsible for the farm chores. That is not to say there weren’t switch arounds. I not only worked outside on the farm, but I also helped my mother in the kitchen.

Our household wasn’t much different from all of those around us. There was a stream that came from the mountain that ran close to our house as well as other houses in the neighborhood. Much of our water came from the stream, and it was where my mother and my sisters washed our clothes, and it is where we children used to play with our friends. Clothes were laid out to dry on the grass and the hillside. One day, government engineers came to survey the stream and the area around. Very soon, the riverbanks were coated with concrete on both sides. Much of the natural beauty was destroyed. The people shrugged their shoulders at the inevitable and returned to their daily lives. People without power learned to adapt.

Later on, my father and the boys built another house made of concrete. There was enough land, that my father gave each of us our own lot. There are now four other houses which have been built by and for my brothers and sisters. I, too, was given a lot on which to build.

Gold mining was an important industry in and around the area where we lived. There was other manufacturing going on at the same time, but gold was the most important. Many of the townspeople were employed in the mines. There was a high incidence of respiratory ailments associated with this industry. The government tried regulating the mines, but not successfully. Also, much of the slag affected the drinking water and the streams that flowed in and around the area. So many people living there fell ill from that source as well. Our house and well were quite a distance away from the contamination, although I know that it could leech into the soil and be carried through the aquifers. As far as I know, none of my family was affected.

When I came to live with my family, my mother and father had two other children: Mateo, who was nine and the oldest, my sister Reina (Josephina) who was next oldest at eight, after me came Jose, six, Carlos, five, and Estrella, three. There were also two cats, chickens, horses, and cows. Later on, I acquired a mule which my mother dubbed Milagro (miracle). My father farmed sugarcane. But in secret places, a field of marijuana. This was my immediate world with which I became intimately familiar.

In appearance, my skin is light, as is my mother’s. My hair is dark, thick, and curly, and I have a high forehead which, at times, gives the appearance of balding in the front, depending on how I comb my hair or have it cut. At this writing, I have gained in height. I am now 5’9", which is taller than my mother and about the same height as Papa. My weight remains about 145, which has been the same for several years. Papa is slim, dark-haired, and masculine. Papa does not like for anyone to look closely in his eyes. If, by chance, one furtively glances at his eyes, one senses (beyond the drunken stupor) a depth in them—a hint of malevolence, an impenetrable wall. His intractable stance and demeanor pretty well sum it up, with square, solid white teeth showing in a singular smile, capped by a dark moustache. My father is a bit taller than I, while my mother is shorter than Papa. After having six children (with more to come), she is not heavy but, as the years toll on, there is a greater thickness about her middle. Her eyes remain brilliant and flashing despite everything she has been through.

Most Mexican families are large, including lots of cousins, uncles, and aunts. And my beloved abuela and abuelo, my mother’s parents, they were my refuge and my protectors—but I am getting ahead of my story.

When I was permitted to go with Papa and my brothers, men from the mines, construction, and locals sat around a bonfire drinking beer and recounting their experiences. They told strange, sinister, and ludicrous stories that raised the hair on the back of my neck. One man spoke of how the devil possesses people. Many in my village are superstitious, which is reinforced with each telling of their fantastic yarns and inculcated into impressionable minds of children who were present. They spoke of a girl in our village who could turn her head all the way round. They said she was possessed. It was also reported that one of the men who used to come to the bonfire had sold his soul to the devil and the devil had come to take possession. The man could see the evil spirit approaching and tried to escape. Sparks and ashes from the bonfire swirled into the air like a swarm of fireflies hissing and sputtering. There was no escape for the poor, unfortunate man. Their stories and the feelings and superstitions they generated are still a part of my life. Although, in retrospect, I suspect their stories were conjured up more from the effects of alcohol than anything else. Of course, they were products of their own environment, so many of the stories must have sparked their own imaginations as children and they were now passing them on. Tradition—and superstition—is extremely strong in my country.

My father had many acquaintances, people he knew in construction, the mines, but especially in drugs. There were corrupt employees and officials in government circles who, for money, kept the leaders well-informed. Papa was acquainted with many of them. The officials were paid monthly to provide information to the organizations of two major Mexican drug traffickers: Ismael Zambada, a trafficker based in the Pacific Coast state of Sinaloa, and Vicente Carrillo Fuentes, leader of a once-powerful drug organization in the northern city of Juarez. Corrupt employees handed over privileged information from investigations to different cartels, which used the information to corrupt other dishonest public servants and, in that way, they were able to act with impunity. Some corrupt officials had links to Emilio Diego Espinoza, who headed up an active drug gang in Mexico and Columbia. The southern United States was also fertile territory, especially Texas and California, with extensions into Canada.

Papa was selective about whom he visited. One in particular was Cruz-Morales and his wife Angelina. Papa referred to him as Zorro. There was something puzzling about their relationship, an unexplained connection which mystery deepened over the years. It may have had something to do with drugs or with my father being in prison, most likely both. They were very friendly, and Sr. Cruz-Morales was my godfather at my baptism.

Before visiting them, my father would line us up. With no explanation he would slap me hard. It hurt me physically and mentally. I was a child unable to protect myself. One has to be a bully to pick on a child. Looking back on it now from a more mature and experienced advantage, I can surmise Papa’s feelings of inadequacy, internal response to outward stimuli—in other words, being smacked around himself as a child. That excuses nothing.

At that time all I could do is beg, Papa, don’t hit me! Don’t hit me! None of the other children was struck. I was small for my age, at that time about six or seven, and weighed at most sixty pounds. I hadn’t done anything wrong that I could think of. These terrible beatings wrote on the psyche of who I was to become.

Don’t cry or I’ll smack you again. You have to learn to be macho. Get in the truck. He had this idea that I was acting like a sissy, and he wanted to beat it out of me. Many times he would hit me in front of other people and tell me, Be a man. It got to the point that when Papa raised his hand, I would automatically flinch.

Papa’s efforts to make me macho knew no bounds. When I was about eleven or twelve, I was forced to ride a wild horse to prove I was macho. My father tried to put a blanket across the bronco’s back, but the horse flew into the air and bucked until the blanket came off. Papa got the horse under control and forced me to jump on its back. The first buck propelled me to the ground with such force that I broke my left arm. Although I did not have to get on the horse again, Papa thought I was faking. I was in agony and unable to sleep.

For the next several days, Papa forced me to do my chores and work in the fields. I begged him to take me to the hospital, but he refused and told me to get to work. My sister Reina saw that I was in a lot of pain, and I implored her to take me to the doctor. Reina had been my protector from many of my father’s rantings. Immediately, she took me to the hospital, which was about an hour’s drive from our house. The X-rays showed that I had a broken ulna. My arm was placed in a cast. When we got back to my father’s house, Reina started yelling at him for his insensitive, uncaring, and inhumane treatment and told him that this was going to come back to haunt him one day.

In another misguided effort to make me macho, Papa insisted that I had to kill a pig with a knife. He dragged me to the pen and picked out a pig. I pleaded with him to not make me do this. He told me that either I killed the pig or he would kill me. The anger welled up in me so powerfully that I thought of killing Papa instead. I had the knife in my hand, and with ferocious frustration, I stabbed the poor animal in its heart. It made no sound—no squeal—nothing. It just died in my arms.

It was for self-preservation that I developed the art of lying. It became an integral part of daily life, and in spite of irrefutable evidence, still I clung tenaciously to the lie. Nothing could shake my resolve, and I convinced myself that the lie was truth. I could escape and stand outside my body, for it was not I but some other boy who committed the offense, whatever it was, and who was being beaten. There was born a survival skill upon which I still rely. I don’t know if I will ever be able to renounce this art which has sustained me as well as troubled me and all those who have embraced me in love and kindness. For them it is a grievous fault, and one which I am reluctant to give up. At this point, I don’t know if it is possible. Those who love me have confronted me and have asked me to trust them. It is frightening, not knowing if what they say is true. A greater problem is not being able to believe others, as they may be lying, too. To be deceived by those whom I trust would be a cruel blow. All round me people were telling lies, and joking and laughing when they got away with it. They were great teachers and I learned my lessons well. It was a way of life where I lived. I often wonder if the whole world lies. It seems so. The answer remains elusive. There is this great fear lurking that I may rely upon others who may lie and they can take advantage of me and make me the fool. I learned, too, that there are some people to whom you do not lie. The consequences can be deadly.

Another trait developed for protection and self-preservation is secretiveness. It permeates all areas of my life: innocent activities as well as guilty ones. As a matter of habit, I divulge little information. The little that I may divulge is tinged with half-truths or incomplete. This remains true even now, to the chagrin of those who love me and protect me. It is a matter of independence and trust. Many times I do not know which seems improbable and difficult to accept. But, because of the severe beatings and trauma to my head, it is extremely difficult for me to remember and to learn. It has been suggested that I may be suffering from dyslexia, which is possible, but I put it down to the blows to my head as more likely. As you can imagine, this has caused much friction in relating to others.

I remain caught in a great vicious circle which impacts my life and my relationship with others. I can’t trust anyone. This unhappy circumstance orders