Great writers E

Although she was raised on Long Island, New York , Ellissa Brewster has been a Texan most of her adult life and has enjoyed the good Corpus Christi life since 2006.  She has worked as an organic farmer, a Montessori teacher, a journalist, a writing tutor and an ESL tutor. Most of her writing experience has been based on personal interviews related to public relations. Her work has been published in Tierra Grande magazine, The Business Journal of Corpus Christi, and Inspire, Coastal Bend Magazine.  Ellissa’s hobbies include bird watching, gardening, book club, registering voters, and writing about her family’s history. 

When you are a kid, things just are the way they are. You don’t have the perspective to judge if things should be different, nor do you know at the time which experiences are so unique that you will remember them 60 years later. 

I grew up in Corpus Christi as a second generation Mexican American. I realize now that my family did not have as much as some people did, but we were happy. I did not feel as if we were suffering—life was the way it was. Sometimes I overheard my parents worrying over the bills. Sometimes we had a car; sometimes we didn’t. 

I was the oldest boy in a family of eight. I worked at my father’s shoe-repair shop after school and on Saturdays. I helped out: took out old stitches from shoes, removed heels, cleaned the machines, swept, got change, ran errands, things like that. I was six when I started. It was a job. It was expected. 

But on some Saturdays, I got a break to go to the movies with my friend Jerry. I earned the money for the movies from shining shoes with my shoeshine box. On the side, I had painted my slogan, “Best Shine.” In the summers or on breaks from school, I carried my shoeshine box to the local Wee Mart convenience store. There I shined shoes for men who sat on bar stools drinking beer in the “bar” section of the store. I charged 15 cents a shine (5 cents more than most boys) and that money was mine to keep or spend. 

From my father’s shop, Jerry and I walked to the less-expensive movie houses, such as the Grande or the Amusu, which showed second-run American movies in English, or the Melba, which had Mexican movies in Spanish. Admission was 15 cents at these theaters, and we usually had a nickel for candy or a drink. 

When I was 12, I got a new job as a paperboy. Before school, my dad would drive me on the route. We rolled down the passenger-side window, and I balanced on the window ledge with my legs inside the car. I hurled rolled-up Caller newspapers into yards, alternating over the car roof and to the side. In the afternoons, I tossed the Times from my bike. The rolled-up newspapers had enough weight to toss easily, but the Saturday Evening Times was so thin that my brother and I had to fold them into triangles—then they would whirl through the air like flying saucers. 

I gave the money I earned to my parents to help with the family’s expenses. A couple of times, when my parents could not make the $60 mortgage payment on our home, they used my paperboy money. 

On my first day of training for the paper route, the neighborhood manager took me along with some experienced paperboys on a tour of the neighborhood. I was the only Hispanic in the group. The boys were saying, “The Mexicans [customers] are no good, they don’t pay.” However, my manager Bill Carter was kind. He told the kids not to judge people like that. Before that day, I had not thought much about Mexicans being different from other people in a negative way. It was more a puzzle than an insult to me.

One year, I got a Big Box of Games, which included checkers, steeplechase, Parchisi, Chinese checkers, and other card and board games. However, my big present came from a man named Joe Simon, who owned the Nueces Furniture Store on Chapparal St. Now this was big. 

I got an invitation to attend dinner on Christmas Day at the Robert Driscoll Hotel. All the paperboys in town received invitations, and our managers encouraged us to attend. Joe Simon was footing the bill. Before noon, my father drove me and my brother, who was also a paperboy, to the Robert Driscoll Hotel. I will never forget the distinct aroma and the luxuriousness of this place. We walked into the plush lobby with its stuffed wine-colored chairs and thick embossed wine-colored carpet, and we were dazzled. The aroma of coffee and a turkey dinner greeted us. Christmas music was playing. A sign told us where to go, “Paperboys: Terrace Room.”

The entrance to the Terrace Room was to the right of the lobby. The room was huge with a stage and many tables covered with linen tablecloths and the biggest, most splendid Christmas tree I had ever seen. There must have been 300 excited paperboys in that room. The room filled with boys’ voices and the sounds of those on the stage. My brother and I sat where we felt most comfortable, with the other Hispanic boys. We had a good view of the stage from our table. 

I could not believe it. I had heard of the Galvans, renowned local musicians, and Bobby Galvan had even visited our school. However, I did not expect to see Ralph Galvan, the most famous Galvan Brother, playing songs like “White Christmas,” and other Christmas favorites to a group of paperboys on Christmas Day. Waiters brought us plates of food—a complete turkey dinner.

When we were finished eating, Joe Simon gave a speech. He told us about how when he was six years old, he had sold newspapers on a downtown corner in St. Joseph, Missouri. He had to be tough to defend his corner from other newsies and to bear the cold on snowy days. Like me, he knew what it was to take on responsibility as a boy. He said he made a vow in 1906 when he attended a traditional Christmas dinner that a local restaurateur sponsored for newsboys. “If I ever have a chance, I’m going to give such a party for kids,” he promised. 

He kept his promise after he started his furniture store in Corpus Christi in 1925. That year and every year after, for more than 30 years, he hosted a party and celebrated Christmas Day with Corpus Christi newsboys. After his speech, Joe Simon went around to the tables and shook all of our hands. He was a big, bald man with a persistent, genuine smile. 

We got presents from the publishers of the Caller and Times newspapers. I do not remember the presents except for one: The United Artists Book of Happiness. I had heard of it because it had been advertised on the KEYS radio program. It was a slender coupon book with balloons and stars on the cover. Inside were ten $1 coupons. 

This special book allowed you to go to movie theaters owned by United Artists. My brother and I had never been to such expensive theaters (where admission was 65 cents). For us to be able to go to the Ritz or the Centre was something special. 

Right after the party at the Driscoll, my brother and I walked through the pedestrian tunnel that led from the bluff to downtown and immediately redeemed some of those coupons. We saw Rio Bravo, a western with John Wayne, Ricky Nelson and Dean Martin. We used some of the coupons to make pigs of ourselves at the snack bar, wasting coupons on too much popcorn and orange soda. 

After the show, my brother and I waited by the newsstand on the corner feeling nauseated from all the snacks. My father drove up in his clunker of a car, we got in. My most memorable Christmas was over.

READ MORE GREAT WRITING IN CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2020

Emma Helene Guerra grew up in the Rio Grande Valley. She works daily on her writing to promote the representation for women, the Hispanic community, and the LGBTQ+ community. More about Emma Helen Guerra at the end of this section.

I can feel my teeth rotting inside my mouth.

Brown-grey cavities jutting out in mangled bone

piercing my gums.

My tongue licking up the bitter taste of blood mixed

  with saliva, my spit turning a burnt orange against the

 porcelain sinkstained with mold and hair dye in shades

 of black and blue.

A bruise on the delicate skin of emotional stability.

I remember how jealous I was of my younger

brother who left each dentist appointment with a

 clean record, not racking up hefty bills for 

pulled teeth and silver molars. His brush

 remaining dry. Nightmares consumed my mind

of each delicate tooth falling from its spot,

my tiny pink hands unable to hold it all. 

Every word equaled another sacrifice

as I pay close attention to not swallow one, 

it would cut up my insides and I would simply

die. Soon enough, the pile would overflow

falling 

down 

slowly

into the black void of no return

I

wanted 

help

from the thoughts I could not control, and the

harm being inflicted upon myself. All by myself,

 but I did not want to die. Letting go was not an

option like the strangers online told me it was.

Despite the warning sign, physical and verbal,

my issues often went ignored and forgotten.

Brushed under the tethered rug of academic

achievement. Perfection was the unsaid bar I had

 expected myself to reach, a bar that a child’s

hands cannot touch. My brother did not feel the

need to reach that same height. I wonder if my

parents just heard his screams better

since they did not sound like mine. 

I remember how jealous I was of my younger brother.

The house I lived in was different than the other houses across

two main streets in my small town.

My House

One story, I watched its development from foundation to completion

in the memories of my five-year-old mind.

Plants overgrowing 

in the backyard my brother and I grew up in.

The dirt

turning to mud while water sloshed out of a faded green hose. 

It stuck everywhere just below the knees,

a cool relief to the sweltering days of early spring.

The garden itself never producing more than tomatoes and jalapenos,

the right ingredients for pico de gallo.

The front yard 

lingers with Christmas lights hanging fresh on a Bird of Paradise tree

beginning to wake up after a bitter cold snap

36-95 degrees in a matter of hours.

The house across the main road on the right

established with a dripping AC clinging out the side of a window.

Maps labeling this area as a 

Colonia.

I see it as history.

Two cars in the driveway,

one on the street.

Three generations of a family sharing a single bathroom.

Traditional charm in a different sense.

Chipped teal blue covers the wooden shingles

still as vibrant as the first coat in the 80’s.

Young children play soccer with one another behind a rusted chain-link fence,

dust devils emerging from their steps.

Grandmother’s watchful eye keeping them safe

from themselves and other.

The light on the porch always on, humming a soft yellow hue 

only broken up by the tapping of a moth hitting its bulb.

The house across the main road on the left

brings a wave of new development as my small town becomes a city.

Polished stone exterior covering both stories,

a miniature mansion in the making.

Concrete being poured over the soil fertile enough 

to hold the livelihood of an orange orchard.

16 years of that memory gone within a week.

Before the houses

Came towering concrete fences in an earthy pink paint,

keeping the secret of development inside for only those who can afford it.

The children in surrounding neighborhoods now excited

for this upcoming Halloween in hopes of the “good candy”.

They see it as a positive for now. 

Layers of fluorescent green grass clutters each yard.

Beauty, and sophistication.

A lawyer, businessman, major could live here.

How unassuming, 

the Elote man doesn’t even drive by them.

But such is growth.

The house I lived in was different than the other houses across 

two main streets in my small town.

The memories, though, stay the same.

all we seem to know

is how to count coins in the dark.

blind to where they come from,

blind to where they’re going.

we support those who speak the loudest,

it doesn’t matter the message that echoes,

the vibrations guide us none the less.

a dollar in penny’s clothing,

we think them as one of us.

although, our voices never did matter,

just the sound of pockets flowing into another.

big sounds, big words, empty promises,

angry results.

like birds trapped on their telephone wires in search of spring,

we move one way in hopes of prosperity, growth.

when you turn on the lights,

we never moved at all.

and those pennies, nickels, and dimes?

gone. 

I searched for another's love

but i couldn’t love myself. i 

wanted a man to hoist me, all 200 pounds, away, i 

wanted a woman with the touch of a goddess to heal me. 

touch reverts to sweet hunger pains, causing my body to ache

for that physical sensation of another’s presence. something

my hands could not 

recreate. 

where has she gone? that 

woman who opened her heart so freely. i’ve 

left her back in that year. she grew too heavy with 

the weight of the night to bring her with me. i 

simply do not have the strength.

simple lullabies

my true companion. notes hitting a minor key.

read the rest in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Emma Helene Guerra is a current student at Texas A&M University – Corpus

Christi studying English with a minor in Women and Gender Studies. She grew up in Edinburg, TX within the Rio Grande Valley. Growing up within the RGV gave her a unique aspect on culture, traditions, and her Mexican-German heritage. Guerra was able to release her first book of poetry in July of 2019 titled “a singular experience: the love, pain, and life of a young adult” which detailed her experiences with newfound freedom after moving away from home and the rocky transition into becoming an adult.

She works daily on her writing to promote the representation for women, the Hispanic community, and the LGBTQ+ community.

F.E.I. prefers to write in an open room as if the stories emerging from the

process demand physical space. More about F.E.I. at the end of this section.

It reaches over

Hands me a golden apple

That nightfall 

would soon wipe its

Sins and return it full blooded.

My car radio speeds

Amidst the brief

Warring peace

Toward the hero’s clamor:

This is for progeny.

The sea charges her crescent bay

The wind hollows the emerald mine

As I tear every breath clean from shore

Burning heart swims in deficit

Flying past the ambitious brow

History roped me in reverse

Knotted on familiar posts that

Assuage my ancestors and my birth

As swiftly as the opium loaded cannon

To the black ship gliding beckoning

The dignitaries, where carriages

Scattered the sparrows in tandem

The years towed the open current

Slicing through with breathing swords

Raised a thin line of pelican

To an increasingly diminished return

F.E.I. prefers to write in an open room as if the stories emerging from the

process demands physical space. Of all the places she has lived,

literature and philosophy remained her constant spring. After moving to

Corpus Christi, she found that it has more space than she had hoped. Her

educational background is in finance.

Fredrick Gonzales has called Corpus Christi, Texas home for over 20 years.  After earning his Masters in Secondary Education he began his career as a teacher. More about Frederick Gonzales at the end of this section.

1942

The day we left was the saddest day of my life. We lived in a small village outside of Chihuahua. My three older brothers, my aunts and uncles, and even my cousins were there, but only Marisela and Rosita and I would cross. My brothers couldn’t go because my father needed their help in the fields. I could speak English good enough to get by, and this was important because you could never trust gabachos. The coyotes would only take us so far, and then they usually handed you over to another gabacho who would then take us the rest of the way. My mother said to stick close to Marisela, who had crossed before but gotten caught and sent back.

I had learned a little English from Miss Galindez. She told us that she graduated from the university in Mexico City. My mom called her 'la angelita de las montanas" because she was so pretty and because her face would always light up around kids. My mother and Miss Galindez both said I was the best hope our family had of someone actually doing something special. My father would not look at me. When he’d paid the coyote his life's savings, I could tell he was dying inside, his body was hard and thick and his hands rough and cracked like the dry creek beds in around the village was indifferent. At least he would have one less mouth to feed. 

We had all heard stories about the lawlessness around the border. Some girls were never heard from again. They say that they were either raped or killed around the cities of Nogales and Juarez. My stomach felt queasy and I felt like I might throw up, kind of like when I see that boy Ramon.

My grandmother gave me her rosary, a beautiful black heavy cross with a silver image of Jesus Christo on it. I put it around my neck.

Just to be safe I asked my brother Miguel if I could have his knife. At first, he said no, he had made it himself and it was his keepsake. He thought the better of it and gave it to me with my mom's raised eyebrow and blessing. It had a beautiful handle made from a deer horn onto which he had carved a panther and an eagle. It was beautiful, but deadly and he sharpened it every night. I could hear him sharpening it as I lay on the floor of our home. The sound of the rock used to sharpen his blade sounded like the claws of a demon. An imagination like that was usually how our bedtime stories would get started, but my mom's rendition of La LLorona (Wailing woman) was the scariest. She had just drowned her kids, and I was scared she would come after me.

I climbed into the bed of an old pickup truck, along with myself, Rosita, and her sister Marisela. I had just turned seventeen and Rosita was my age, Marisela was about twenty-five which seemed old. I had never really spoken to her, but me and Rosita always talked at school about going to America, and about boys, especially Ramon. The day turned into night and as we all lay curled up in the bed of the pickup, I heard the hoot of a lechuza and poked my head out of my blanket. It had the head of a woman, and she was crying, this was a bad omen. I reached for my brother's knife and wrapped my other hand firmly around mi Jesus Christo. It was so dark, and we all at one time or another, fell on each other. I could see every star ever made, and it was so clear that you could see where the angels lived—if you tried really hard. But the lechuza kept coming back into my mind, and I knew it was only a matter of time until this trip ended badly.

The next day was spent travelling. As it was getting dark, I could tell we were getting closer because the chatter in the cab had increased. I could make out words in English like “property” and “drugs” along with "El Malito,” the sickly one, and "bitches," which I had never heard. We went off road for what seemed like miles and miles. It was really dark when we stopped. Somewhere off in the distance I saw the glow of what must have been the border towns of Juarez and El Paso. Mari told us to be ready for anything, so I stayed alert for any key words the gabachos used. I asked Mari who "El Malito" was, and she turned as white as the lechuza I had seen. They told all of us to get out of the truck, and I held on to Rosita's hand. Another truck drove up with its headlights turned off, and all we could see were shadows. I could make out the exchange of what appeared to be money and large packages being transferred from one truck to the next. The gabacho who had been driving walked up with a smile on his face, his face skinny and weathered with a scar on his left side that ran along his jaw. "Mr. Mah lee toh is going to be very happy with you all," he called over to the other guy in a squeaky voice. "Jonesy come on over here let’s get some free samples before we go dump these bitches off."

“Garner you know ‘El Malito’ don't like that shit and he'll kill me, and you, if his precious cargo got messed up.”

“Aw, a little fun ain't going to hurt none.”

Jonesy insisted that they had their dope and money, and that we were there to be delivered, no questions asked.

“Hey, you know these bitches are a dime a dozen, we can replace 'em in no time.”

“Hey, it's your funeral,” Jonesy answered.

Garner rested the barrel of his rifle on his shoulder, Mari gave me a look. Rosita whimpered. I pulled her behind me with my left hand and grabbed my brother's knife with my right. Garner grabbed Mari from the back of her hair and wrapped his forearm around her throat. He tossed his rifle towards Jonesy who wasn't expecting it, and he juggled his rifle and Garner's, and both rifles fell to the ground, one went off and shot the bed of the truck, which must have scared Garner really good because he let go of Mari, and started toward Jonesy, calling him a “dumb son of a bitch!”

Using Mari as cover, I gutted Garner right across the stomach, just like my brother Miguel had taught me to gut a deer. His insides poured out and he fell to his knees. Mari ran towards Jonesy and started clawing at his eyes. Both me and Rosita ran for the rifles. I had never used a rifle before and neither had Rosita, but Mari had experience, so we gave her one of them. Just like a wrestling “Lucha Libre” team on the T.V. we switched, and me and Rosita proceeded to claw away at Jonesy as Mari aimed the rifle and yelled for us to move, We did, and she shot Jonesy right in the crotch, and all the while Garner was trying to stuff his insides back in his gut. Mari turned around and shot him in the same area as Jonesy. We dumped all the drugs and grabbed some of the money. Mari was the only one that knew how to drive, so we all hopped in the cab, screaming and crying, and somehow laughing at the same time.

"Vamos,” I yelled even though I had no idea where to go.

We crossed that night into El Paso, where Mari met up with some contacts. Later we were given food and water and a hot bath. I had never slept on a real American bed before. The lady who took us in was Maggie Galindez the sister of Miss Galindez. She helped get us into El Paso, and gave us direction as to how to start a new life in America. That summer with help from Maggie, I got a job at a local grocery store. My only hope is that my children and someday grandchildren will be real American citizens. They say there's no place like America. My name is Maria Helena Hernandez and I've made it. 

1990

I couldn’t believe how many people came to see us go. The streets were all lined up with American flags. I climbed onto the bus and got a window seat. I could see all of my family. My mom and my brother, my little sister, even my grandmother was there waving her little American flag. My dad was the only one that didn't show up, he was against me joining from the beginning, that it was a man's job and a girl should be at home. Well Grandma Helena, as I called her said, “that a woman is much stronger than a man in many ways,” and I blamed her, for me joining the “Guard.” She was always telling me stories about how she was the fastest girl, and how she used to embarrass her brothers. 

Yeah, it was the National Guard, but not one person in the unit ever thought that we would ever get deployed—especially to Iraq. There weren’t that many women in our unit considering it's a combat support unit. I worked in communications, but I also carried a S.A.W. (squad assault weapon). It's a light machine gun and I loved it; I could have it field stripped and reassembled faster than some of the guys.

Three weeks later, I was in Kuwait at a staging area for the 36th Infantry Division, getting ready to cross the border into Iraq. Me and Smitty, her real name was Angela Smith, joined straight out of high school, we went through basic training together. She was my driver, I was the gunner, and Sergeant Sanchez was our truck commander. Sgt. Sanchez was deployed during Desert Storm so we called her the old lady, but not to her face. Me and Smitty were just privates, fresh recruits. But we sure didn't lack motivation. Inside the truck, I stood between Smitty and Sgt. Sanchez; I had to stoop down just to talk to them, since my head stuck out of the cab of the truck we were in. We were mainly carrying communications equipment and some supplies. In front of us were Dominguez and Martinez, the fuel tankers, right behind us are the medics, Hernandez and Johnson, with the recovery vehicle and the last gun truck covering our rear. I wouldn't admit it to Smitty, but that was the most scared I'd ever felt in my life.

I looked around at the convoy and I saw the welded pieces of metal strategically placed to deflect the blasts from IEDs and RPGs. We'd already learned that they were using roadside bombs to target convoys. Someone said some contractors had been caught and killed in Baghdad, then hung from a bridge. The command to move out came over the radio, Sgt. Sanchez yelled to Smitty, "Let's Roll!", and we let out a whoop! whoop!, excited and scared of the unknown. Three days was the estimated time to get to our F.O.B. Badger just outside of Baghdad.

We trailed into the hot Kuwaiti desert, eyeing caravans of camels as we trudged on at 30mph. I was so excited, I yelled, “I want to shoot one!” I was just kidding of course, Sgt. Sanchez told me to "at ease the bullshit!" and scan my sector for enemy activity. I told her there's nothing out here but sand and sun. Just then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a dead camel with a vulture feeding on its insides. When the vulture popped up its head to see us, it had the head of witch; her face was full of blood. I told Sgt. Sanchez to pass me up a cold bottled water out of our ice chest—the heat was really getting to me. That night I looked up at the stars and I wondered if my family back home looked at the same constellations I looked at. We moved out early that morning. I don't even know when or where we crossed into Iraq, but the sand started to kick up, and I was scared we might have a brown out (sandstorm). We made it into a little town, and it seemed every local was a potential enemy; you could hear, "we got a guy on the overpass! keep an eye on him!" Sgt. Sanchez told me to lower my silhouette in case of snipers. I continued scanning the roof tops, it was eerily quiet and once we reached a certain part of the town all the locals disappeared. All of a sudden, I heard Sgt. Sanchez yelling, “contact left! contact left!” My first instinct was to duck down although I didn't hear any gunfire. Just then our truck was rocked from the left side, and I was thrown to my right. It was an RPG. I felt my ribs crack, and dark smoke filled the cab. I somehow managed to keep my firing hand on my SAW, and I stood up to see the trigger man running down an alley, so I lit him up until I saw dust, and a pink mist where his head used to be. The pain in my ribs was terrible. I noticed we weren't moving, and I yelled at Smitty to "move out!” I looked down and yelled “Smitty, get us out of here! Move out!" but she was lying on her side; looking up at me, unblinking a look of surprise on her face, and with her mouth wide open. I yelled, “Smitty! Smitty!” She just stared, unmoving as if she were playing a bad joke. I looked over at Sgt. Sanchez slumped forward, her helmet all out of place. I looked up and the tanker in front of us had jack-knifed, there were three more explosions, and small arms fire from the rooftops, and windows. I swung my turret around and started firing blindly into the buildings. I could see Doc Johnson and Doc Hernandez maneuvering the wheeled ambulance into position, to get Smitty and Sgt. Sanchez, so I gave them as much cover fire as I could. A projectile with a line of gray smoke behind it fired right over the truck's hood and hit a donkey cart on the other side of the road, which sent the startled donkey screeching and trotting. The donkey was hit by one of our trucks coming around to provide cover. It seemed like a bad dream. I grabbed my SAW and tried to take it off the turret, but the pain in my ribs was too great. Just then the chalk that was ten minutes behind us was fast approaching. Their commander had luckily called in some Apache helicopter gunships, which proceeded to demolish the buildings that housed the enemy. My ears were ringing so bad I didn't even hear Doc Hernandez yelling at me to get off the truck. I barely remember being medevac’d out. They told me Smitty didn't make it, and that Sgt. Sanchez had a severe concussion, a broken jaw, and three cracked ribs, tough old lady, and as for me? Besides the cracked ribs, I had third degree burns all up and down my lower legs, I didn't even know it, but the burns were bad enough to send me to Brooks Army Medical Center in San Antonio. All I could think about is that I've got to get back. I got to get back to my unit. My name is Maria Helena Dominguez, I am a third generation Mexican American and I am proud to be called an American.

Read more great fiction in Corpus Christi Writers 2020

Fredrick Gonzales has called Corpus Christi, Texas home for over 20 years. After serving in the active duty Army as a Combat Medic in West Germany, he settled in Corpus Christi in October of 1989. There he joined the Texas Army National Guard and after more than 20 years of service and 2 tours of duty in Iraq he retired from the Guard in April of 2013. While serving in the Guard he pursued and earned several degrees from Del Mar College and Texas A&M University in Corpus Christi respectively. After earning his Masters in Secondary Education he also began his career as a teacher. In the summer of 2019 while taking an advanced children’s literature course in pursuit of his Doctoral degree he decided to write a children’s picture book. He also wrote a short story titled “Crossing Borders” based on different generations of Mexican American women, who crossed different borders in relation to becoming and being an American citizen. 

Grant Mays is an electrical engineer.  An ardent sci-fi fan, he started randomly writing this unnamed journal  

14:30 Hours 2:30.

Doesn’t matter that it’s well into day planetside in N.A. To Eric 14:30 felt as shit as 04:30 would. The dull hum and vibrations, creaks and lurches and occasional flickering of light, the ship felt like 04:30 no matter the hour. 

Of course, in space, the day/night cycle isn’t set by the stars but by the duty roster. The wonder of humanity’s greatest accomplishment was marred by its faults; its propensity to place the human in a situation so estranged from its evolutionary comfort zone that they almost lose sight of what it means to be human. 

Eric sighed. Another shift (not day, shift). After 14 months they blurred so completely that the Magna Soviet–Fed border was more clearly defined. 

Mr. Sardan’s thoughts weren’t this articulate; a blip intuitively understood and processed but lacking the specificity that this articulation gives. 

Time for caffeine. 

14:31 hours, Engineering Specialist II, Petty Corporal Eric Sardan, Serial No. 1823947265-C12B, 

Federation Frigate operating under Federation Charter §74.6.13.2, research and exploration in sector Archimedes, onboard the vessel Leibniz. Nothing going on today. 

End Log. 

Eric Sardan got a kick out of sounding overly formal in logs, only to be followed by the inevitable nothing that permeated this region of space. Much like most of space, actually. Maybe that’s why they call it space? Either way, little quirks and bits of sarcasm kept him sane. 

14:34

Eric slipped into his fatigues. He put on his larger pair. I look like shit in these, he thought. Actually, I always look like shit. But the more form-fitting ones look less shit. 

14:39 

Conduct of Federation Personnel While Deployed 

§18.3.2 

Comradery & Fraternity 

§18.3.2.1  To foster community and comradery, personnel shall take First Meal prior to beginning shift. 

§18.3.2.2  Further, personnel shall—

(because, according to the psychological Board, attaché to the Grand bitch Admiralty, Personnel on extended deployment are at risk of developing mental health issues to monotony, confinement, and general boredom)—socialize during First Meal to alleviate psychological fatigue.

Did they consider that sitting with Jacob—with the charisma of a fucking goat—and Armando, who only seemed to talk about the faults of the Pan-Solar Soviet, or the Primary Gladis, or the latest nutjob theory lost colony ships that were stolen by monastic radicals, or football. 

God, fuck football. 

He was seated with extremes from the platonic spectrum of shitty table conversation. 

Of course, Jacob, when he did chat, only ever talked about the latest human rights violation of the Pan-Solar Soviet.

Mr. Sardan recognized the benefit of organized society. Processes and procedures pertaining to the minutia of society kept the bacteria out of the Verts, and made sure another Hercules doesn’t happen. 

Sure, he had opinions on politics. On what humanity should aspire to (such as leaving him alone), and recoil from (i.e., table conversation with Armando and… fuck… who – Jacob. A man almost as easy to overlook as one’s own flaws), but he had little interest in the ideologue minutia. 

He felt he was neither unprincipled, nor overzealous, just reasonable! 

The irony of this self-praise, that everyone probably sees themselves as the sole practitioner of reason, and the lack of introspection that required, was not lost on him per se, but was an ugly thought he was cognizant of for a flash, before subduing and rationalizing his thoughts. 

I want to shit, but don’t want the hassle of undoing my fatigues. Does the ship smell funny, or am I having a stroke? Nah, probably burning insulation. Maybe that will give me cancer? Fuck, maybe space radiation will. Maybe Rebecca’s a bitch. Maybe Rebecca’s bitchiness will give me cancer – 

“ENGINEER SARDAN! THAT INSULATION IS BURNING!”

Oh shit, that was burning insulation. 

Usually the fire alarm goes off if shit’s burning, although his curiosity regarding the lack of an alarm was superseded by the burning shit. 

Okay, at least this is an easy fix. Ship’s power provides anywhere between 28 VDC and 75 VDC, which requires buck regulators to step down the voltage to power the mess hall subsystems. But, there is a manual cutoff—fortunately, it’s easily accessible (Per AN-1083, §12.4.1.3, manual cutoffs for all power supplies powering secondary subsystems must be readily accessible by authorized personnel and conform to §34.5.1.2 of AN-1011 PANELS AND EQUIPMENT INTERFACES), so I can just cut power to the mess subs. 

Eric jogs over to the corner of the mess, keys in his 8 digit PIN, and disables power to the mess subs. 

The insulation is still smoldering, but since the overtemperature condition in the circuit which caused the insulation (which, he now notices, was not regulation but a shitty repair. Probably Jack. Or Uladzimir?) to burn has ceased, the insulation cooled and – 

Tschhhhhhhh! 

Eric collapsed to the ground, his lungs filling with the foam from the extinguisher that Jacob was now bravely operating. 

That fuck. That boring fuck. 

Eric passed out, his last moments of consciousness lamenting the lack of air in his longs. 

What a shit day for Eric. 

 Spanish Jews fleeing the Inquisition arrived in New Spain as early as the 16th century, were founders and settlers of Monterrey and other settlements. They were the ancestors of many South Texas families. Herb Canales, a former Director od the Corpus Christi Library System, is researching this.history 

My interest in family history placed itself within historical context to create a broad narrative when I was in high school. My mother one day commented that a lady at work would go to La Retama Library in Corpus Christi at lunch time to work on her family tree. 

I found that fascinating and wanted to do the same. So, one summer day, with time on my hands, I boarded a bus at Louisiana Avenue and Alameda and headed down to the library. Arriving in the Local History room I located just one relevant book – “The Romance of Spanish Surnames,” by Charles Maduell. That was it. The rest of the genealogy collection consisted of works of Southern ancestry and English heritage. Understandably so, as the library depended largely on donations for its genealogical collection. 

Also, as I would find out later, works on Hispanic genealogy were literally few and far between. The research and publishing boom had not begun, the Internet was decades away, and what little that had been published in Mexico was difficult to acquire. 

The next point of inspiration was the series “Roots” which ran on the ABC television network in 1977. Who can forget LaVar Burton’s portrayal of Kunta Kinte? At the time the series ran, Alex Haley, author of the book upon which the series was based, but not without controversy, appeared on the Johnny Carson Show and presented Johnny with a genealogy of the Carson family which had been compiled by the LDS Library in Salt Lake City. Intriguing!

But still, it would be years before I would be able to advance research, one among others. That opportunity came in 1985 when Corpus Christi City Manager Ed Martin appointed me as director of the Corpus Christi Public Libraries. That was a critical time as a new library to replace La Retama Library was in the planning and construction stages and would open the following year. 

To expand and create a Hispanic genealogy collection I enlisted the support of Dr. Clotilde P. Garcia, otherwise known as Dr. Cleo, sister of Dr. Hector P. Garcia who had recently been awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by Ronald Reagan. She provided financial support which helped acquire a growing body of work. 

Dr. Cleo also funded the computerization of 18th and 19th century records from early border settlements, the culmination of a sort of Oregon Trail, but in this case from south in New Spain (Nueva España) to the frontier at or near the Rio Grande. This is where many South Texas Hispanic families originated. 

From this research we learned of early land grants of vast acreage of as much as 8,000 acres in elongated strips north of the Rio Grande that our families were awarded by the King of Spain as early as the mid-18th century. They brought traditions with them as vaqueros that would later be adopted by the mega ranches of South Texas. This was history not taught to us in Texas history classes. 

Since the time I began to build this collection so much has been published. What might have remained hidden history, i.e., the land grants representing the earliest land ownership in present day South Texas, received ample and official treatment in “New Guide to Spanish and Mexican Land Grants in South Grants,” published the Texas General Land Office under Commissioner Jerry Patterson. Thus far I have personally found five ancestors who owned lands as early as the 1760s in South Texas. 

But history is not straightforward. It can be inspiring, fascinating, messy, horrific – sometimes all at once. Such is the case of the Sephardic Jews of the Iberian Peninsula. The word Sephardic is derived from the Hebrew word for Spain, Sepharad (and variations). In 1492 the Catholic Kings of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabel, chose to expel its Jews, who had arrived very early on following the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in the first century CE. They could remain if they converted and would be called conversos or New Christians. Portugal would be pressured to follow suit. 

I am researching the arrival of these Jews in present day northeastern Mexico who were founders and settlers, but hiding their heritage, in the 16th century of Monterrey and other settlements – right next door to us in South Texas. 

This story is, as I said earlier, fascinating.  

Of what befell Luis de Carvajal y de la Cueva, a converso, and his sister’s family, Crypto-Jews, that is secret Jews, is indeed tragic. His story began with him as a rising star at court in Spain and would end with his death in prison, and with his sister’s family executed in Mexico City for relapsing to Judaism, or what the Spanish called, observing the Law of Moses.

Carvajal was born in Mogadouro, Portugal near the Spanish border around 1537 and was educated and partly reared in the home of an aristocrat in Spain. So thorough his education must have been that he learned to speak the Castilian of the upper classes such that he could function at court in Spain and later granted access to King Phillip II of Spain.

In 1579 the king appointed him governor of the newly established province of el Nuevo Reino de Leon, today, Nuevo Leon, with Monterrey as its modern capital. 

This province included large areas of Texas and New Mexico as well as the modern Mexican states of Nuevo Leon, Tamaulipas and Coahuila. And because his post included Texas I submit that he should be considered the first governor of Texas.

It should be noted that Carvajal as a New Christian, would, under official policy, be forbidden to enter the new colonies in the Americas and would much less be given a high position. The concern of the crown and the church was that new converts could not be trusted not to return to their Jewish faith, settling in the hinterland, as they came to do. Only Old Christians were officially sanctioned. 

But there was a pressing need to settle the northern reaches of New Spain, Christianize the natives and seize treasure. Carvajal convinced the king that he was the man to do it.

At the same time of the appointment the king authorized Carvajal to raise cattle. As many settlers would have some cattle for their personal needs this would seem to have been for the purposes of establishing a large operation, thus requiring the king’s signature and seal. Many cattle would over the centuries become free-roaming and be gathered by later settlers. Thus, the genesis of the cattle industry.

Also unusual was that in authorizing Carvajal to recruit 100 families to colonize the new province that no questions would be asked of them, such as their status as Christians, by Spanish officials. This can only mean that many who arrived in the Carvajal flotilla at Tampico, 300 miles south of present-day Brownsville, were either New Christians or still of the Jewish faith, officially barred.

Included among the colonists was his sister’s family. 

By all accounts Carvajal carried out his assignment thoroughly. But as with many leaders he engendered envy and resentment even among officials. Some may even have suspected that he was a New Christian, again, forbidden in the Americas. But they could not pin anything on him. That he practiced the Catholic faith, at least outwardly, was unquestioned. 

But that did not hold true for his sister’s family as the case unfolded. Francisca de Carvajal and her children Luis the younger, named for his uncle, Isabel, Leonor and Catalina were arrested in Mexico City on the charge of being Crypto-Jews, secretly practicing Judaism. They underwent years of trial, release following contrition, re-arrest as a result of new accusations, and were eventually executed in 1596. Years later, two other daughters, Mariana and Ana would be executed on the same charges.

Carvajal’s crime was that he did not report his sister to the Inquisition. He died in prison in 1591. 

His heir, Luis the younger, has received attention recently. He kept a journal with religious thoughts and prayers. That provided the evidence needed to convict him. Decades ago, the journal disappeared from the Archivo General de la Nación in Mexico City. In 2017 it showed up at auction in New York. A collector of Judaica purchased it. Once realizing from experts what it was, he had it digitized by Princeton University where it can be downloaded free, and then had it repatriated to the Mexican archive.

This is one area of my research which will hopefully result in a book. I am studying other families and tracing Sephardic Jews from Spain and Portugal to New Spain, as well as their ancient story in Iberia. Suffice to say now that many South Texas families can trace their lineage to these Sephardic Jews, victims in Iberia and New Spain of religious intolerance of the worst kind.

I can trace my interest in this history to one individual who I met in graduate school at Columbia University in New York – Jackie Kamerow, now Ben-Efraim, a linguist and librarian at the American Jewish University in Los Angeles. She introduced me to Sephardic history of which I knew nothing about. As it turns out she was correct in that I, and I must say, many others, share this lineage. 

EXCERPT

Spanish Jews fleeing the Inquisition arrived in New Spain as early as the 16thcentury, were founders and settlers of Monterrey and other settlements. They were the ancestors of many South Texas families. Deep research in family history will lead you there.