Where the Mesquite Tree Grows: Growing up Along the Rio Grande – an Anthology

By Al Garcia

Where the Mesquite Tree Grows is a poignant and riveting journey through the thoughts and recollections of a Mexican American young man who, like others of his generation, searched for purpose, meaning, and self-discovery. The journey begins in the cotton fields along the Rio Grande and follows the author through the 1960s cultural revolution, into the jungles of Vietnam, and finally to his return to his roots and his legacy along the Rio Grande.

It is a compilation of memories, thoughts, and even nightmares blended into a kaleidoscopic work that will make you laugh, make you cry, and make you think. The author examines and reveals in passionate writing his emotions and his sentiments about the past and current culture of his heritage and the social evolution within that culture, revealing his life experiences in words that define not only him but his generation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973640073

Al Garcia

Al Garcia is a native of the Rio Grande Valley. Recently retired and a former military journalist and legal assistant, he now makes his home in Palm Valley, Texas. He served in the US Army from 1968 to 1971 as a combat journalist in Vietnam and as a military journalist at Fort Carson, Colorado. While in Vietnam he traveled throughout the Mekong Delta, which gave him unfettered access to the realities of the War and the affects it was having on the American men and women in uniform. Before entering the military, he attended Pam American University in Edinburg, Texas and worked briefly for The Monitor newspaper in McAllen, Texas as a feature writer. For over 30 years he worked in Northern California as a legal assistant at several prestigious law firms in the Bay Area before returning to his roots in the Rio Grande Valley.

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Copyright © 2018 Al Garcia.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4006-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4005-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4007-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018913106

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/19/2018

Contents

Introduction: The Words That Define Me And Explain Me

Where The Mesquite Tree Grows

Chapter 1 Life Along The Rio Grande

My Thoughts About Our Border Along The Rio Grande

El Rio Bravo Del Norte

We Only Inherited The Wind

The River Runs Through My Valley

Listen To The Whispering Winds Along The Rio Grande

The River

Beyond The Horizon

The Chicano State Of Mind

Picturing El Valle Without Us

Walls

One Small Step, One Giant Leap

The Chicano-Free Generation

The Lost And Last Generation

Always A Texas Boy At Heart

No Time To Weep

It Was Easy To Be A Shadow

Summertime

Cotton Fields

Born To Be Hurt

Even Children Can Feel The Hate

And The Children Cried

The Casualties Of Despair

The Choice

The Dilemma

I Hear The Caged Child Cry

Imagine Being A Child

Too Poor To Exist, Too Brown To Matter

No One Took An Interest

The House That Hope Built

Chapter 2 It’s All About Family

It Is Family

Family Ties

For All The Days I’ve Lived

A Commentary: You Can Come Home Again

The Valley Beyond The River’s Edge

The Cowboy Way

Gifts From My Parents

How Many Steps Does It Take?

The Beauty Of Perfection

Remembering A Mother Is Forever

Father’s Day

Echoes Of My Parent’s Heart

Why Do The Birds Keep On Singing?

A Simple Heart

I Wasn’t Always Proud

A Commentary: Growing Up Brown

Beneath The Shadows

The Promise

Magic Memories

The Flame Of Life Extinguished

Age Becomes You

Loss Betrays Us

Ghost Stories

The Way We Were

The Time Before Photos And Videos

Who Was I Meant To Be?

Pondering, Wondering

No Regrets

A Solitary Man

The Gathering

Chapter 3 Yellow Ribbons And Forgotten Dreams

Where Have All The Young Men Gone

How Do You Touch A Human Soul?

Remember To Forget

The Reluctant Warriors

From Hamburger To Prime Beef In Ten Weeks

An Unexpected Bond

My Part Of The War

I Was Like Jimmy Olsen – The Cub Reporter

A Delusion Or Simply An Illusion?

The Compound

The Game

Introduction To War 101

I Heard The Dream And Lived The Nightmare

Innocence Betrayed

As Sheep To Slaughter

Searching For The Reason Why

Shadows In The Night

Doubt

Call Me By Their Name

Lean On Me

Stranger In Their Midst

Tomorrow Never Came

I Never Saw A Rainbow

Guilty

Touched By War

Courage

After All, We Were Soldiers

Stripped Naked

Touched

Tears

What I Did For War . . . And What The War Did To Me

Mission Impossible

Acceptance

Suppression

Truth Doesn’t Always Set Us Free

Home Alone

I Hear The Bluebird Sing

It Was All About Self-Preservation

The Days Of Feelin’ Groovy

The Hidden Enemy

I Remember It Well

Remembering The Green, Green Grass Of Home

When In Rome . . .

The Time Machine

Wild And Crazy Guys

In The Belly Of The Beast

Only A Teardrop

Invincible

Shadows Of My Mind

While In The Company Of Strangers

A Midnight River Cruise To Remember

My Walk With John Glenn

A Question Of Faith

I Don’t Dream Anymore

Body Count – The Numbers Game

Walking To Nowhere

In Search Of Courage, Understanding And Heart

I Hear The Call Of The Mockingbird

To Be A Stranger

Winning Their Hearts And Minds

Now Only A Medal With A Ribbon

Leaving On A Jet Plane

The Fall Of Saigon

It Never Ends

We Gotta Get Out Of This Place

When The Lights Went Out

Give Peace A Chance

Magnificent Obsession

Chapter 4 To Dream The Impossible Dream

I Write The Words

The Meaning Of Words

Splendor

Rays Of Hope

Night Symphony

On Gossamer Wings

Time

The Hands Of Time

The Face Of Time

View To The Death Of Time

The Answer Is Before Us

To Reach The Mountain Top

The Simplicity Of Faith

What The Night Brings

Dreams

The Emotion Of Devotion

Think The Impossible

When Will The Crying Stop?

A Scream To Humanity

Nobody But Me

Have You Ever Looked Behind The Mask?

A Sad Commentary On Respect

Question And Answer

Return To Innocence

Peace

Beauty Among The Beasts

To Wish Upon A Star

The Garden

Like A Delicate Flower

Seascape

Marigold

The Road Not Taken

Written On The Wind

When Did The Laughter Stop?

I Look To The Heavens

The Web

A Moment In Time

A State Of Mind

Constrained

Exposed

Carousel

To See The Sunrise

Day Becomes Us

Passion

Life Is Passion

The Simplicity Of Emotion

Sunday Mornings

Sunday Morning Blues

The Beauty Of A Sun Day

A Sunday Morning Think Piece - The Soul

Forgetting The Reason For The Day

Memorial Day — The Day After

Two Ways To See, Two Ways To Hear

Let Me Count The Ways

Not Just One Day, Not Just One Way

Heart And Soul

One Is A Lonely Part Of Nothing

The Sound Of Quiet

Five Dirty Words Every Mother Has Used

Why Do Friends Fade Away?

Embrace The Imperfections

Listen To The Wind

The Journey

Unveiling Truth

Imagine

Believe

Wonders Of The World

A Friend

We Are . . . Fear

Like A Fallen Rose

Mourning Becomes Night

A Forever Thing

It’s Not Easy To Be You

Alone

A Measure Of Our Life

The Winter Of My Life

Masters Of Our Domain

Raindrops

Raindrops (II)

Rainbows And Moonbeams

Behind The Rainbow

Whispers In Your Ear

To Touch The Hand Of God

A Natural Revolution

Chapter 5 The Second American Revolution

Only Two Things Guarantee Our Democracy

Two Phrases That Speak To America’s Dilemma

September 11Th

America The Beautiful, Where Art Thou?

Once A Nation Of Choices And Voices

What Is All This Hoopla About Taking A Knee Anyway?

Fallen Soldiers Believed In America

The Winds Of August

The Shot And The Whistle Heard Round The World

A Commentary: An Oath Betrayed, A Duty Ignored

Hail To Chaos

A Commentary: To Support And Defend

Ship Of Fools

Denying That The Denial Was A True Denial (Hmmm?)

When Words Collide

Am I My Own Enemy?

Our Complicity In The Betrayal Of Truth

Lost Friendship

Looking Back To Our Future

I Used To Believe

Helplessness

A Question Of Gun Violence

Color Blinds

Killing Us Slowly With His Words

Like A Game Of Three-Card Monte

Catcher In The Swamp

Criminals One And All

The Counterfeit Patriots

Twlight In America

Malignancy Of The American Body And Spirit

Countdown To Self-Destruction

Under Attack By Friendly Fire By The Rio Grande

Freedom’s Timeless Song

Where Were You?

Abusing And Misinterpreting The 2nd Amendment

That’s Collusion

Behind Closed Doors

The Color Of Power

Senator John Mccain

Disrespecting A Man And A Nation

Hard To Watch The End Of A Chapter In Our History

One Last Salute

Epilogue: The Sun Also Rises For Us

Love your stories…Brings back many memories when we were young and lived in RGV. I hope you publish a book one day of your stories. You are a great writer.

– Odilia Canales

Love your writing. Why don’t you compile all your writings in one book? I enjoy everything you write.

– Rosie Garza

You have so much wonderful and amazing talent that needs to be shared with everyone. I’m sure your fans who have read your work will agree with me….So beautifully written.

–Sylvia Reyes

Dedicated to

My parents, Alejo and Sara Garcia. They gave me a heart and soul to make my own, and they set me free to be me.

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Introduction

The Words that Define Me and Explain Me

B eing or becoming a writer is one of the most dangerous jobs or vocations one could undertake. I’m not talking about being a newspaper writer or combat journalist, both of which I’ve done, but rather, writing from the heart, because it exposes you for who you really are -- it exposes the person behind the words. It reveals your passions, your faults, your fears, and even your most private secrets for all to see and read. It may be called exhibitionism by some, egotism and plain arrogance by others. But in reality, it is simply putting into words feelings, emotions and recollections of fractured dreams and glimpses beyond the dreams.

I fought with the idea of subjecting myself to the scrutiny of those who would read my words and most personal of thoughts. For unlike a woman, a man must maintain a measure of masculinity that words may not convey. While a woman can examine and describe in words the emotion of love and passion and friendship with full acceptance, I was told a man had to exhibit his strength, his fearlessness, his boldness, not in words but in the manner that he lived. Yet, to be human, man or woman, we all experience the joys, the pain, the highs, the lows. So that was my initial dilemma when I began to write. Could I, would I, expose myself for having feelings, emotions, passions and dreams? Would that make me less a man, would that deprive me of respect?

Once I started writing, however, all my fears and doubts were quickly displaced by a wondrous sense of fulfillment, contentment and completion. I had so much inside of me that I had never shared with anyone before, not even myself. But once I began to write the words, the feelings, the emotion and the passion began to flow effortlessly and clearly. It was like an overflowing dam having reached its capacity, so too my mind, my heart, my soul had reached its own capacity and now it overflowed into the words I wrote and typed, and I felt the pressure, the stress, and the fullness that had weighed me down begin to ebb and fade.

So, writing from the heart can be dangerous and revealing if you’re not ready to accept the words that may escape and expose who you really are. Can I be the man that I was meant to be and still display myself without regard for what someone may think or say? And honestly, I can say I can, I have, and I will continue to write the words that express my most private feelings, emotions and passions because maybe, just maybe someday, even today, someone will come across the words I wrote and say, Hey, I have those thoughts, those feelings, that emotion and that passion as well, and I thought I was alone. And, maybe unlike me, that person may expose themselves before those feelings begin to overflow, by simply knowing that they are not alone. We are the human race. Alike in every way, and different only if we decide to hide and conceal the essence of who we really are. I may have learned too late I think. But I am hopeful that my words may open new doors and expose new paths for those few who may somehow come across these words of mine. Who knows, stranger things have happened.

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Where the Mesquite Tree Grows

I grew up where the mesquite tree grows. Where the sun almost touches the blistering soil and where even the shade is too hot to sit beneath.

I remember the hot summer days of life along the Rio Grande. Shirtless, barefoot and roaming free. It was life among the corn and cotton fields and windblown dust storms on uncovered fields. It was a state of mind devoid of all but living the moment and savoring the natural wonders that only a six or seven-year-old could fully appreciate.

The only thing I had to play with back then was my imagination and the natural wonders that surrounded me. It was the most natural of environments for the thirsty mind of a boy filled with visions and inspirations in all that he saw in his green and growing universe.

I had all I needed or wanted as a boy. Parents who loved me. A sister and a brother who looked up to me, after all I was six or seven and they were just kids. But best of all, there was an old mesquite tree in the back of the house that I imagined must have been there even before time began. That was my magical castle and everything else revolved around me and that tree. Those were the days when I ruled a kingdom – my make-believe kingdom beneath the blistering sun and in the hot shadows of the mesquite tree. And I was a good ruler over my magical empire where the mesquite tree grows.

I still remember those carefree days of childhood and recall how my little magical kingdom was eventually swallowed up by the encroaching vines and weeds of a world I didn’t want and by a reality I would eventually become a part of. But the days where the mesquite tree grows were the happiest days of my childhood. Those were the days when I saw the world through the eyes of a child – innocent and pure. Where the mesquite tree grows was where the magic was.

And as I grew older and a bit wiser with the years, I began to spend less time where the mesquite tree grows. The magic began to fade. The world was embracing me, pulling me towards tomorrow, while the shadows and the shade of the old mesquite tree beckoned only the young with thirsty minds and imaginations who could build new castles where the mesquite tree grows.

And now as a man, I look out the window and see the old mesquite tree. How many thirsty minds did it shield from the hot Texas sun? How many make-believe castles were built under the shadows of its outstretched arms? Oh, how I long for the days of my magical kingdom beneath where the mesquite tree grows.

This was my beginning.

CHAPTER ONE

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Life Along the Rio Grande

(Experiencing Life As a Mexican-American)

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My Thoughts About our Border Along the Rio Grande

W e understand that history is anything that has happened in the past, whether it happened a few minutes ago or 20, 30 or 100 years ago. We also understand that history is supposed to caution us, inspire us and even teach us about ourselves, our nation, and the blunders and mistakes that were made, as well as highlighting the triumphs and accomplishments of our society.

The Rio Grande Valley (the Valley), a unique region of the country which combines flourishing urban and rural cultures within its warm tropical boundaries, is now being turned into a political minefield despite its normally down-home hospitality, charm and appeal for its residents and countless tourists hypnotized by its welcoming climate and sociable and affable residents of the area.

History shows that for decades the Valley has been one of the major gateways for our southern neighbors along the 1,969 miles of border with Mexico. For decades we embraced and welcomed people from across the border who found their way into the cotton fields and fruit orchards across the Valley, working long and endless days under a hot and grueling sun for a few measly dollars. Women would walk across the international bridge to jobs as housemaids and childcare workers, earning $5.00 to $7.00 per week as live-in help, $12.00 to $15.00 per week if they were lucky. Hard working brown-skinned men and women, one and all. On the northern front, Canada and the United States share 3,145 miles of undefended and unprotected border, with little or no political distraction or controversy. The story there is different. There the people that cross the border into the United States know English, have money, take only high paying jobs, buy at high-end stores and eat at five-star restaurants. And, oh yes, they’re white.

Granted, in the years that have gone by, the unscrupulous and ruthless underworld has slowly and surely exploited our open and embracing attitude toward our border neighbors as a means to traffic in drugs. This type of behavior and abuse occurs across all borders in all lands across the globe. However, it is not an excuse for extremism of any type. Border security exists. The question is the effectiveness of that security and how it can be improved and supported. In the past, each decade of border history saw an increase in illegal activities along the border. And each decade saw improvements and increases in security and commitment to safeguard our border.

To now, simply to fulfil a campaign promise to a fraction of our society, commit billions of taxpayer dollars and international outcry to build a big, tall, impenetrable wall defies logic and economics. It also defiles common decency and respect for ourselves and our neighbors. The building of walls to keep people out is a thing of history, not the future. The building of a physical wall across our Valley and other parts of the Mexican/American border is a betrayal of our American heritage and our American optimism and will not only scar our beautiful landscape along the Rio Grande but will also traumatize our psyche as residents of this growing and prosperous community that lies in the middle of this political storm.

A time back I wrote a few lines of prose that clearly convey my feeling and sentiment about a Wall on the banks of our beloved Rio Grande. I wrote:

Sitting on the bank of the Rio Grande, watching the day go by. Serene and tranquil, a picture of contentment framed by the bright blue sky above and trees and shrubs along its bank, their roots drinking from the river’s edge. The winds of change begin to blow the branches of the Mesquite that shades me from the sweltering rays of the summer sun. To imagine nature’s vista before me hidden by a man-made wall or barricade dismays me and betrays me. As history has so blatantly exposed, the walls that man builds to separate and to divide eventually come tumbling down. For man cannot be bound by artificial walls and barriers to keep each one apart. For it is the role of man to grow and share and thrive, and to sit upon the river’s bank and see the natural vista as it was meant to be. Unfettered. Unchained. Open and free.

Will the Rio Grande Valley go down in history with the stigma of having been used in a political power game, or will the Valley retain its stature in the eyes of history? Will the Valley continue to be the gateway to freedom, decency, truth and justice? Time and history will surely tell our children one day. But today, it is our voice that will shape the outcome of what history writes about our wonderful Valley and the people that turned a once desolate delta into a flourishing and integral member of the American Experiment. Let the sound of freedom be heard across all borders and across the globe, beginning along our very own Rio Grande.

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El Rio Bravo Del Norte

(River of Discontent)

A graceful natural boundary of nations and of cultures, El Rio Bravo del Norte, better known as the Rio Grande, flows majestically, and unfettered by man’s determination to define its purpose or its destiny. The river that dissects the land also divides the hearts and souls of those that flourish on its banks, its placid waters disguising the turbulence that flows beneath.

As a kid growing up in the Valley and along the Rio Grande, I remember swimming in its cool refreshing waters. It was always a special treat to come to the river’s edge and enjoy the breeze and the sound of the flowing current down below. It was a natural wonder to behold, the river flowing free of man-made walls, and only sky and trees and brush to frame the spontaneity of the moment, the way it was meant to be seen and to be felt.

And I later learned, as I grew up along the Rio Grande, that for those that stood along the river’s bank across from me, El Rio Bravo del Norte meant something else more profound and more than just a swimming hole or a scenic sight just to behold. For those that stood and watched and dreamed from across the way, the river was just a mirage, unreachable and unattainable. And I looked back from my side of the river, and I didn’t understand.

I finally found out what the river was all about when I began to read and write and think. The river was about us’ and about them." It was all about people, and nothing to do with the majestic flowing river that I loved. And I stood on the bank of the Rio Grande and I could see people on the other side, living and working and laughing just like me, and still I didn’t understand that it was all about those who have, and those who have only dreams.

Why us and why them? Why not us? I never fully understood the reasons why, especially growing up along the Rio Grande, and especially when I was taught that it was our way to inspire and encourage freedom, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Why does El Rio Bravo del Norte now represent the opposite to everything I was ever taught? Why are we now attempting to build a wall to further separate and keep us and them apart? If at my age I continue to not fully understand, how must our children now view the beauty of our river and the majesty of the scenic vista that it reveals? Will we block their view of what freedom, liberty and happiness looks like, by erecting a wall to prevent us from looking at them?

El Rio Bravo del Norte -- a river that flows through our very heart and soul along the Rio Grande Valley -- a river naturally formed to nurture and nourish the land and the creatures that roam along its banks. Now a river of discontent. A river flowing to nowhere. A river now without a reason, other than simply to divide.

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We Only Inherited the Wind

F or decades, if not generations, my mother’s family has attempted without success, to regain ownership of lands originally granted to them by the Spanish King sometime during the late 1700s to early 1800s, through a land grant. The Mexican government also issued land grants in the Valley during the time it owned the land, and even for some time after the Republic of Texas came into existence.

It was immigration from the United States into Mexico that began the eventual decline and fall of our Mexican legacy bestowed by Spanish monarchs and Mexican Presidents as land grants and decrees. For, as Americans began to immigrate into the northern territory owned by Mexico, it ended up being dominated by the new American settlers, which led the settlers to eventually rise up and win their independence from Mexico. And this in turn resulted in the settlers taking over lands once owned and settled by Mexicans who had rightful title to the lands through land grants issued long before the Americans ever set foot in Texas.

The immigration problem, as history tells us, seems to have been turned upside down, inside out. For it was American immigration into the Mexican state of Coahulia y Tejas that began the fall of our ancestor’s prominence and status in the emerging Republic and eventual State of Texas and the Rio Grande Valley. It was Anglo immigrants, who settled on the banks of the Rio Grande that took our long-held lands and properties along the river bank and inland to the rich fields and mineral rich hills and grasslands through the Tejas territory once owned by Mexican families for decades and generations. It was the Anglo immigrants, with their sense of entitlement and greed, who quickly sought and acquired our lands, took over our prominence and our status, and eventually totally defeated and denigrated our culture and our ancestors to strangers and outsiders in their own land.

That is the simple story of how a once rich and cultured society of strong, decent, dedicated Mexicans, our ancestors, quickly became a subservient and docile subculture in a valley once dominated, governed and controlled by Mexicans. Everything was suddenly gone. Decades of toiling and nurturing the land, harvesting the fields and tending to the creatures that roamed the prairies and grasslands, all now gone. The new Anglo settlers brought with them new laws, enabling them to defeat the few Mexicans who contested the takeover of their lands along the Rio Grande and beyond. And like the Indians that had been defeated and denigrated by the white settlers when they decided to expand their settlements and territories, Mexicans were left with nothing but their broken pride and shattered spirit.

Our ancestors survived. Defeated and dejected. They survived. It was their engrained ability to look to the future and somehow know or understand that this too shall pass - that time was on their side. That a heritage and legacy born centuries before would somehow persevere and thrive again. That was the character, strength and determination of a people that had settled a wilderness once, and that was the legacy that would someday recapture the essence of what they had began back in the 1800s when Tejas was still just a dream.

This is the stock we come from. This is the history we have inherited. This is the story that must be passed forward. The dreams of some to regain our lands are long gone. Time has made that impossible to achieve. But what does remain is the dream of keeping our heritage and our legacy alive. It is engrained in us to remember our history and to respect the sacrifices made and the sorrows endured.

And in the end, we are of Mexican descent. Still proud. Still strong. Still dreaming. Aware that we only inherited the wind – but like our ancestors, the wind is all we need to lead us to our destiny, and to where the grass grows green and the river flows, and to where dreams continue to come true -— a place called home, along the Rio Grande.

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The River Runs through My Valley

I am a solitary man in a world of isolated souls. I am devoid of the accoutrements of power and wealth, empowered only by my mind and emboldened only by my tenacity, a trait bestowed by the legacy of pride and honor transported across the Rio Grande in the souls of simple people, yearning to be free, whose names and faces are now forgotten beneath the decaying, tilting headstones in abandoned and neglected fields of memories, in a place by the river that runs through my valley.

How foolish to have been young and not have known the stock from which I came. I was too vain and much too arrogant to understand much less appreciate the sacrifice and grief, character and strength that flows inside my veins. My only thought when I was young was to escape the boundaries of my existence, my longing simply to obscure and mask the humbleness around me and be accepted and not rejected. I learned too well to hide myself behind the banalities of youth. Like anyone my age back then, I simply wanted to belong.

And in the end, I failed I guess. I was a loner, not a leader. I was quiet and reserved, not outgoing or outspoken. I was the opposite of everything I saw and envied in those around me. I stayed within the boundaries of my social class. And I felt cheated and betrayed by a world that favored those with privileges I did not have. And I didn’t know I had phases yet to live that would eventually define and complete who I would be.

Phases of our lives. I learned we each go through our own evolving stages and phases. I was no exception, except no one told me, no one warned me.

There was, of course, my youthful frivolity. Followed shortly thereafter by my psychoanalytic phase where I looked into my unconscious mind trying to find meaning as to how and why it was influencing my thoughts and my behaviors. Then followed my pseudosophisicated phase, where I just acted weird, but with a little bit of style. And finally, there is the phase I am in today, where I can begin to see the sun setting in the horizon by the river that runs through my valley.

This phase I find the most rewarding and the most revealing of them all. For now, I can sit back and look at all the years and all the things I did and said. And I feel content and complete and finally free to be who I am, without regrets.

I now have the time and the wisdom to appreciate my past. And I walk the abandoned and neglected fields of memories I had left untended, and I search the forgotten and decaying headstones for the names and my connection to those in my forgotten past, who once walked along the river that runs through my valley. I am back by the river where everything began, and to a place where memories never die.

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Listen to the Whispering Winds Along the Rio Grande

T he tranquil quiet along the river bank conceals the agitated cold reality of the flowing waters of the Rio Grande. It is a temptress, alluring, exciting and seducing. It entices like Bathsheba, Delilah and Drusilla. It is the flowing river of dreams and desires. It is the gateway to the land of milk and honey. It is the Rio Grande, or the Rio Bravo as its better known in Mexico.

For generations Texans living along the Rio Grande have been the guardians of the gate. Beginning as a mountain stream in the Rocky Mountains, the flowing waters find their way through the prairies and the deserts that define our land, finally reaching its rest in our fertile Valley along the natural winding border with our neighbor, Mexico.

As residents of the Valley, our lives and our histories are intertwined with the flowing energy that defines our region. The waters of the Rio Grande helped turn a dying delta into a flourishing community of vision and commerce. We extended our hands across the River with the bridges that we built to not only share the prosperity of the riches of our fields and of our labor and ingenuity, but also to embrace the bond between two cultures bound by blood, sweat and tears.

And in the generations that followed we continued to prosper and grow in the Valley by the river. We left behind without a second thought across the river and the bridges that once bound us, the remnants of a stagnating and languishing society, that looks across the banks of the Rio Grande to see the promised land. The land of milk and honey, right at their doorstep, yet inaccessible, unreachable. An impossible dream.

So close and yet so far. To dream the impossible dream. To live in America, the land of the free and of the brave. The land where dreams can come true. A place that thrives and flaunts its wealth, its freedom, and its power to make dreams come true. The Valley along the Rio Grande chronicles two worlds existing in the same place at the same time. And there is a helplessness to seeing and hearing and even feeling the passion of those who yearn to live their dreams. All that they seek is a chance to live, to grow, to flourish in the land of opportunity. To be able to dream the impossible dream. To be dreamers in a world of promise.

But, unlike Einstein or even Millenia Trump or her parents, or other notables who have been welcomed into our midst because of the great contributions they bring with them, the men and women (and children) who found their way into our land over bridges, deserts and through the waters of the Rio Grande decades ago and even today, these people bring with them only the shirt on their back, the worn shoes on their feet, and their character and virtue -- like wisdom, courage, humanity – things that are in short supply in our nation today. Also brought along with them -- their dreams, work ethics and a love of family.

Today we see the seeds of their endeavor. Children. Grown up children who can be found in our top universities; doctors, lawyers, nurses, bankers and entrepreneurs, whose ventures have expanded our communities, and yes, even some simple, ordinary contributors to our society, working ordinary jobs in ordinary places across our land.

It was alright, I guess, to have people walk cross the border when we needed them (in fact, we trucked them in from the border), especially here in the Rio Grande Valley, to pick our fruits off the trees, break their backs in our cotton fields in the sweltering sun, or dig the holes and clean the filth we didn’t want to do ourselves. But how dare they want to stay after all they’ve done, especially when they were paid so well – five or six dollars a day for a 12 to 14-hour day! We do pride ourselves with having provided free drinking water and shade beneath trailers