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| What happened inside these walls? |
King Juan Carlos and the Spanish ruling class had stepped in and promised fair elections. In 1976, the people elected Adolfo Suarez, a Democratic Socialist to lead the country forward. Imagine, from autocratic fascist rule to socialism-light, what a change.
On one particular Sunday, there were both excitement and anxiety in the air. Rumor had it that on the following day kiosks would carry magazines, and on the cover, the photo of a woman in a bathing suit, a scandal under the Generalissimo and the Church. Some said it was a test to see if the country was really changing, moving into the modern era.
I was a 28-year-old American student, a veteran, married with two young children in tow. I'd received a fellowship to study in Spain for the 1977-'78 academic year. I didn't know much about the country, other than what many Chicano educators taught, Mexico good, Spain bad. Ironic, since at the time, if Chicanos and Chicanas had doctorates and taught in universities, chances were, you'd find them in Spanish departments.
At the time, there weren't many Mexican American or Chicano Studies departments, if any, in California universities.
To get my bearings of Chicanismo, a fairly new concept, I was reading Chicano literature, poetry, plays, and short stories published in chap books. There were a couple of anthologies. The major presses didn't seem to be interested, like the profit margin just wasn't there yet.
I'd begun reading books about Mexico's history, particularly, the conquest, the seminal tome, Bernal Diaz del Castillo's Discovery and Conquest of Mexico. Castillo had fought in the battle for Tenochtitlan. His was a first-hand account, in the thick of it, so as a veteran, I could relate to his graphic descriptions of combat.
But all that was neither here nor there.
I had an academic year to soak up the Iberian culture and learn what I could. As a mestizo, I carried as much Spanish blood as I did indigenous blood. I made friends right away, mostly university students and young, professional families. The Spaniards took to me, as a Mexican, kind of like a long, lost relative.
Even in 1977, many of them referred to me as a Chicano. In some ways, Europe always seemed to be a step ahead of the U.S., educationally. Some nights, we'd drink quite a bit. Spaniards love their Rioja, beer, and tapas. Afterwards, on the way home, they'd tell me to call out, in a loud voice, "Viva La Republica!" So, I would. I'd lift my head and holler, "Viva La Republica!" the call echoing in the night. I noticed they'd look around, to see if anyone was listening, then laugh, like we were all in on a secret. I later learned La Republica had fought Franco's fascists during the civil war in 1935. During his government, to utter the words could mean punishment and imprisonment. I guess I was the guinea pig and didn't even know it.
So, along comes Monday. I rush to the nearest kiosk. Already a crowd surrounds the small newspaper and magazine stand. As I near, I can hear the oohing and awing. I push my way through the people, and sure enough, in the racks, in plain sight, the photo of a woman in a bathing suit, nothing provocative, for me, an American, just a photo, but I had to consider it through the eyes of those around me, forty years of autocratic-church rule, book-banning, movie censorship, family betrayal, and years of cultural darkness. I heard the mumbling around me. I was still learning to decipher the machine-gun Castellan dialect. I could make out a few people asking what this meant -- a trap to expose the radicals or a true change?
Madrid was an expensive city for a student with a family, so I had decided to study at the University of Granada, a ten-hour train ride south to Cordoba and another three-hours by bus, Analucia, to Spaniards, a cultural hinterland, like Alabama or Mississippi to Americans.
Funny how things work out. Even though I am from Los Angeles, a sprawling American city of millions, the poetic atmosphere of Granada consumed me, its rich Arabic history seeping out of every corner, uncanny, and, surprisingly familiar, like the soft sound of the Arab words, azucar, almuada, alberca, and Guadalajara. The magnificent, snowcapped Sierra Nevada mountains hovered, like a watchful guardian, in the horizon. It was like home. Was I as much Arab as I was Spanish and Indian?
I attended classes at the university, founded by Yusef I, the Sultan of Granada, in 1349, one of the first universities on European continent. As I entered the old buildings, I would run my fingers along the stone walls, as if touching the past.
I attended an evening class inside the walls of the Alhambra, in the palace of Carlos V. During class breaks, the teacher encouraged us to explore the grounds, feel the spirit of the mysterious Muslim castle, then return and report what we'd seen, and how it felt.
Some of us would wander down into the dungeons, off limits to most people. There, we'd pick up old cannon balls and chains, sitting there for who knows how many centuries. Always present was the flow of water through the various halls, mingled with the voice of Washington Irving, who spent the spring of 1828 in the Alhambra, collecting stories from the locals, which he published in his travel masterpiece Tales of the Alhambra. For context, 1828 was barely 40 years after the founding of the San Gabriel Mission in Alta California.
On weekends, I'd buy a bottle of wine, a bar of bread, grapes, cheese, and soft drinks for the kids, and we'd walk to the settlements outside of Granada, or sometimes explore the vast Vega, the fertile farmland that supplied the citizenry with food going back to the Romans. On one trip, we reached the town of Santa Fe, its name bestowed on a settlement in New Mexico. It was an eight-mile walk.
In Santa Fe, in 1492, during the campaign to reconquer Spain, the forces of Isabel and Fernando defeated the army of Muhammed II, the last Nazari of Granada. During the battle, an unknown sailor, Cristobal Colon, came, requested, and received financial promises from the Spanish monarchs to support his journey to the Indies. We all know how that turned out. What I didn't know was that through the years the thousands of everyday Spaniards, especially workers, students and professors, protested the expeditions, the treatment of the Indians, and the destructions of foreign civilizations.
In Santa Fe, I had hoped to see some historical landmarks or signs of those events. Not much, that I can remember, just a beautiful trek through the countryside and a visit to a quaint agricultural Spanish town. Too tired to walk back to Granada, the kids and I boarded a local bus.
There was a lot to think about travelling through these ancient lands. I recalled hearing how, after he lost the battle for Granada, Mohammed II cried as he, his people, and his army fled to North Africa. On a perch, El Ultimo Suspiro del Moro, Mohammed II, looking back on his kingdom, began to cry. His mother told him, "You cry like a woman for what you could not defend as a man." Talk about an overbearing mother, something, I think, my own grandmother might have said.
The more time I spent in Spain, the more I understood my own Mexican culture, the linguistic and religious implications, the machismo, the strong females, and the dark humor. Many soldiers who participated in the conquest of the Americas hailed from Andalucia and neighboring Extremadura, bringing with them, not only weapons but their culture, both good and bad.
Then in my seat, exhausted but relaxed, I saw a woman standing at the side of the road. The driver pulled over to pick her up. She was a plump, older woman, bags in her hands. After she paid, she turned and eyed the passengers, not a free seat in sight. If I had any doubt as to whether Spain was changing, I received my answer at that moment. She said, in a demanding tone, "Que no hay caballeros en este autobus."
After a long pause, from the rear, an old man, who reminded me of my Mexican grandfather, responded, "Si senora, hay muchos caballeros. Lo que no hay son asientos."
Translation: The old woman: "Are there no gentlemen on this bus."
The older gentlemen: "Yes, mam. There are many gentlemen. It's just that there are no seats."
Yet the words that will always remain with me were written by a poet on a plaque on the walls of the Alhambra, overlooking the city. "Dale limosna mujer, Que no hay en la vida nada como la pena de ser ciego en Granada."