Nestled between dreams and arrogance lies a valley of innocence. A place along a flowing river
that divides the “haves” from the “have nots.” A place where traces of innocence have been long replaced and erased by the winds of time, like a rolling tumbleweed, scattered and flung into an arroyo of oblivion. Yet, the Rio GrandeValley continues to glisten in the sun, like a golden jewel, reflecting the brilliance of time, of hope consumed and of dreams galvanized by inspirational heritages and legacies that transcend the beauty of a rainbow.
The Rio GrandeValley is where shines the sun, and where the destiny of so many dreams came to blossom and then die. It is my womb. It is my home, and someday it will be my living mausoleum. A place filled with memories that linger beyond the boundaries of time and beyond the confines of all human expectations.
I am bound to this place in the sun, like so many before me. My heart. My soul. My mind. All nurtured, fortified and emboldened by the legacy of those who toiled through the seasons and revered the virgin earth, and treasured the flowing river that nourished and quenched the thirst of the earth and of the drained and weary laborers who agonized under the hot, burning sun for a dream not yet dreamt, and a time not yet born.
And here we are today, in a place where still shines the sun, and where dreams still are born and memories shared, where the innocence and naïveté of our roots and our origins have long been suppressed by arrogance, egoism, pomposity and idiotic delusions of grandeur. Sadly, I put myself into that dismal category, for believing that we have grown and blossomed in character, in strength, in self-awareness and in appreciation and understanding of our fellow man.
I am heartened to learn that individuals like Joel Ramirez of Edinburg (March 2 3 2), and others who think and believe as he does, have read some of my letters. We have become intolerant of thinking and ideas that do not conform to our own. We have become the very thing that once brought shame, disrespect, hardship, disgrace and humiliation to our ancestors not too long ago in this Valley by the Rio Grande. We have become the enemy of empathy, understanding, tolerance and inspiration. We have become everything that generations of dreamers before us struggled and fought against, and everything they feared and abhorred — the apathy, the greed, the conceit, the arrogance.
I was born into a family that taught me to share and to give of myself, and of what I have and what I believe in. I was brought up believing in Christian values, respect for oneself and for others, regardless of their origin, their pedigree, their religion, and, believe it or not, even their politics. That was when we lived in a Valley of innocence, where doing the right thing was an inbred trait among young and old Mexican-Americans in the Rio GrandeValley. A time when the sun shined bright, and when the very soul of the Valley blossomed and bloomed like bluebonnets that grow wild in fields and along roadways in our beautiful South Texas.
Now, the more I read in letters to the editor and commentaries about the depth of dislike, disrespect and even hatred toward our neighbors and ancestors by the very descendents of once dreamers who called the Valley home, I mourn the loss of our one-time valley of innocence. A place where once young Mexican-American kids were taught and lived by the Golden Rule and where respect, dignity and decency were afforded those seeking to better their lives. Today it is called paying it forward. Simply put, it is showing appreciation of a good deed one has benefited from by doing something kind or useful for someone else. We used to live that. We used to be that. We used to be kind, gracious and considerate.
I don’t have answers, nor do I profess to have the intellect to come up with remedies to some of the problems I have mentioned in many of my letters. I share my questions. I reveal my concerns. I expose my naïveté on a number of topics. And each time, instead of hearing, “Oh, I’ve had those same questions or concerns,” I hear, “(H)e has no solutions, or remedies, no
answers. He just complains.” They aren’t complaints. They are thoughts, ideas, concerns, to
which I have no logical answers, that flood my mind and confuse the logic of what is going on around me.
I am who I am. I am my parents’ son, brought up to believe in the better of us, and in the best within us. I still believe there is a bit of that old-time innocence left in our Valley.
By the way, a “kingdom … without borders, fences,” means His kingdom, not our man-made world of walls, borders and fences erected to split the world apart.
Al Garcia is a published author living in San Juan.
