Amando Álvarez
Smoke
Our ship had just gotten to the gunline in South Vietnam in August of 1972 and we were very apprehensive about what awaited us. We were stationed 2 ½ miles from the coast; our war had begun. Our only solace during this ordeal was to go down to the room next to the sonar dome. The access to it was by way of a narrow ladder going down three stories to the depths of the bow. The sonar dome room had become a haven for us. Here, we could talk freely; we could be ourselves, and we could smoke ourselves into numbness, oblivion, and forgetful bliss. But why do this? Why try to forget? Why question and strike back at reality?
The answer was simple. The war was unpopular. We were there but had no support from the home front, no support from our friends, our relatives, our fellow countrymen and women. We were there but wondered why. So we found refuge in the sonar dome room. A smoke filled room of absent-mindedness and psychosis. We were abandoned, and we knew it.
One uneventful day—they were all the same—we were doing the usual in the room when I was called to the bridge for watch on the helm. The regular man on watch had gotten sick and I was called to replace him. There was not much to do since the ship was dead in the water, but the action was intense. “Who? Me? I’m supposed to report to the bridge?”, I asked in a startled, paranoid way. I could barely talk and my eyes were red from smoke. “Why don’t you go?”, I pleaded with Wood, but he responded “I’m not Hernandez, you are”.…relieved that he was, in fact, not me but he.
And so I went up to the bridge, shaky, bewildered, drenched in sweat and in a bloody state of mind. Outside, I could see the fiery fire-fights. The sun had barely set, and beneath the red clouds, I could see the tank battles in the distance close to the sandy shore. Our ship was not idle, either. Our gun turret was aimed at he NVA trenches near the beach. We fired from our 5 ¼” gun as if we could be proud of its terrifying effect. Our projectiles shrieked through the air as if they were heaving molten lava on the enemy, a message from hell to our adversary who must have been terrified at the demonic, terrorizing sounds of our fire. Up above the fire and screaming agony was the sky—blood-red from the setting sun and from the flares lighting up the heavens—which had turned topsy-turvy from the action below, from hell, itself.
But I was numb of any emotion, any feeling, any concern. In the distance, on the beach, I could discern a scarlet haze on the shore. The rat-infested trenches were overflowing with bodies, body parts, and blood onto the beach. The water splashing ashore in its ebb and flow, was sucking the life of the people, of the land, of the enemy and—ironically—of our own troops. It was slowly turning crimson, bleeding from the battles, from the bullets, from the incoming fire offshore. The world was slowly bleeding and I could see it but I could not feel it. I was insensitive to the suffering and the pain of it all. But as I said, I could see the bloody ocean creeping, hemorrhaging, pulling us in as if Moses’ rod, itself, had turned the water into blood and had brought the monsoon winds out of season. The redness crept toward the ship and our captain, “Mad Wayne” as we called him, was undaunted and stubbornly stayed the course. “No retreat. Where the ship is stationed, there it stays! No quarter to the enemy!” And we stayed….the captain adamant, fighting for his medal, promising each of us a beer on liberty for every dead enemy soldier killed by our cannon. And we continued our fire even though our barrel was molten red, even though the bloody swirling sea turned bloodier, redder, angrier. We did not retreat.
And smoke filled the air. Smoke from our gun turret, smoke from the fatal shore, smoke from the clouds, smoke from the sonar dome room, smoke engulfing the ship, smoke everywhere, smoke and blood mixed with earth, wind, and fire…blood and smoke. But I did not care. I saw everything but felt nothing, cared for nothing, felt no pain. Kill was the operative word as closer and closer the redness crept our way. The rod was extended, the ocean was dying and I was aware.
I knew what was happening; it was so obvious. Closer and closer it came. The captain inflexible and obstinate, the crew numb, the ship coughing up its bloody message of destruction. I talked little, almost as if I knew it wouldn’t be of any use. The captain intent on killing, and the sea intent on sucking us into the maelstrom of her death throes. I talked less and I knew more. I felt nothing but I saw everything. The smoke filled the bridge and the deafening noise was everywhere: the captain screaming orders, the officers pleading for retreat, the crew helpless, and the blood-red sea closing in. It was shear madness and I knew it.
Tired of the insanity, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being home, being with Maria, being away, but these thoughts did not come. I closed my eyes but saw more. I saw volcanoes in the sky, fireballs raining down from other worlds; bleeding, screaming, dying. And I realized that our ship was lost at sea, lost in oblivion, lost in time and space in a monochrome world, engulfed, finally, by the bleeding wounds of man, of the creeping wounds, finally engulfing us thanks to a stubborn captain refusing to say “Withdraw!” And so it came to pass that our very ship became the knife that cut the ocean and the seas to shreds. Home was far away and hell so very close—all around us, smothering us, drowning us in its filthy vomit. The burning, intractable fiend commanding our ship had taken us with him to a smoldering, smoking Hades. And I realized that I was no longer of the deadly living…but of the living dead!
Amando Álvarez
The Boxcar
Entonces estos varones fueron atados…y fueron echados dentro del horno de fuego ardiendo. ---Daniel 3:21
I was anxious and apprehensive but happy. I was leaving home for a better life. I had plans. I would go to El Norte to work and make money. I had heard many good things about that country. It was a land of opportunity. The streets were paved with gold. It was the land of free speech, a land that gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance. I was filled with enthusiasm and paid no attention to Porfirio Díaz’ lament: “Pobre de México, tan lejos de Dios y tan cerca de Estados Unidos.” I paid no attention at all. I was going to get a ticket out of poverty!
It was cool early in the morning when the time of our departure arrived. I said good-bye to my wife, Aurora, and our baby. I was leaving home, a place where I felt safe, a haven I loved to no end. Aurora felt my feelings and feared what I feared. She cried. She knew it would be some time before she saw me again. Soon I would be hundreds of miles away and the farther I went, the stronger the pain in her heart. It was dreadful.
My two compadres would be at our jacal soon and would join up with me to leave our rancho to make the trek to the border. The plan was to cross at Nogales. In Sonora, on the Mexican side of the border, the coyote—the man who would take us across for $500.00 a piece—would be waiting for us. We would cross to Arizona, on the American side. From there, we would board a train late at night in darkness so no one would see us. The coyote had a friend who worked on the train and who had prepared a couple of half-empty boxcars for us. From there, we would travel to the Northwest where there was plenty of farm work.
When I arrived in Nogales with my friends, I met the rest of the group that would cross with us. There must have been about 40 all together. Men, women, and children. Although I did not have a meaningful education, I was good with numbers and figured the coyote would get $20,000.00 for our group. Twenty thousand American dollars! This man was rich. He must have been a man of importance, an influential man, a real jefe like the hacendados of don Porfirio. But who was he, really?
I looked around the old, abandoned rancho on the outskirts of the town next to the border and wondered where this “rich man” must be. I pictured him in an expensive car, wearing a suit and accustomed to giving orders. We waited anxiously for his arrival. Another man, dressed in ragged Levi’s and a plaid shirt, wearing a Los Angeles Lakers cap walked around with a sub-machine gun, not saying a word, but anticipating a serious event of consequence. He must have been the second-in-command, one of the coyote’s soldiers. He was as anxious as we were to cross and get on with it.
By now, darkness had fallen over the hills and enveloped the countryside with a dark cloak of uncertainty. At a distance, we could see faint headlights at the top of a hill and faint engine noises that announced the arrival of two vehicles. One appeared to be a bus like the old ones that travel between small villages in my country; the other looked like an armored vehicle. We surmised the coyote had arrived.
He was quiet and sure of himself, a heavy mustache covered his thick upper lip; and his eyes were concealed by sunglasses, but we sensed a savage stare like that of a wild animal ready to pounce on its prey . His voice was low, barely audible. But when he gave orders, his “soldiers” quickly responded. “¡Súbanse todos al camión!” his captain ordered treacherously, but we knew he was speaking through the coyote. The coyote was el jefe—there was no question about it. We formed a line to board the bus, but could not get on board without paying our money. The gravity of the situation somewhat lessened the absurdity of the backdrop: the captain resembling a bus attendant at the station, taking tickets from the boarding passengers. But there was no room for humor. This was a costly trip that I would not forget.
The darkness was terribly eerie. No one talked. We were crowded in the bus with our knapsacks, which was all we were allowed to carry. Anything larger was thrown away by the “soldiers.” A couple of us argued to keep larger belongings, but we were given the choice of going back to our villages or discarding the “excess” baggage. No one refused. We had come too far to turn back.
Our bus followed the byways, far from main highways where American helicopters searched for us with spot lights and special equipment for night time detection. We were going to a strange land with a strange language and even stranger customs. But we were hungry at home and had to find a means to feed ourselves and our families. We were going to work, to live the American dream; so we thought.
I could not discern the conversation between the driver and the “soldier” with the submachine gun. I could only hear whispers. The coyote had already gone home. He had his money and most assuredly had given his soldiers their share. His job was done. But we still had to board the train.
The bus stopped on a ridge a good distance from where the train had stopped. We were pushed out of the bus and told to form a line again. One of the soldiers led the way and all we could hear was the noise of a couple of giant sliding doors creaking as they opened. We were told to keep quiet—as if we had talked too much and too loud—and were directed inside the boxcars. The doors slammed behind us—two boxcars with twenty people in each. We were thrown in at random; it did not matter if sons and daughters were separated from parents, or wives from their husbands: we were loaded onto the boxcars like cattle. Behind us, we heard the doors slam shut and another sound that seemed like two-by-four beams locking us in. I dreaded that sound, and fear overcame me at the thought of being immured, as if buried alive in this giant wooden box. I prayed the trip would be swift.
Finally, the whispers from the “soldiers” ended. We were left to ourselves. I wondered who would be at our destination to open the boxcar doors. Did the coyote have a plan for our destination? How would we get out? My mind was whirling with thoughts about the journey. Did the coyote pay off a railroad employee to safely transport us to the Northwest? Were the “soldiers” long gone by now? Where did the coyote live? Was he already planning another crossing with more people? Did he really care about us? Or was he just a greedy businessman who lived to make money like an avaricious, insatiable animal? How would we get out?! Silence.
The boxcar was warm and suffocating. I looked for holes for ventilation and saw none. I remembered that the day before had been exceedingly warm and I had heard that Arizona summers are like fiery furnaces during the day. The air was getting warmer and thinner; still, nobody spoke. But I think we were waiting for the train to come to life. We were expecting the sudden jerk of the boxcars as they resumed their migration. But there was no noise outside. Fearing the worst, I made an attempt to open the slide door to catch a breath of fresh air, but it was shut tight.
Suddenly, we heard the faint sound of a train starting its journey. But which train? Ours was still, no movement. We anxiously waited to hear the iron wheels break the silence, but all was soundless, the wheels were undisturbed and the hush in our stoic demeanor suddenly hinted an emotion—an emotion of panic. My suspicion was materializing. Were our boxcars unhitched? Was the coyote’s friend, who worked on the train, unwilling or scared to admit that we were on board? The soldiers and the coyote were gone. Who could help us now? And the Mexican dicho came back to me in a more ominous way: “Pobre de México, tan lejos de Dios y tan cerca de Estados Unidos.”
So, where was God? Who could help us now? Terrified, we started screaming and the peaceful silence was broken by our frantic shouting. Someone had to let us out! Someone had to help us! I tried to calm everybody. I knew that the more we screamed, the faster the oxygen supply would run out, and the sooner we would perish. But I did not want to think of dying. I wanted to live. I looked for an opening, a break in the panel, a hole to breathe through. I had to stay calm!
The Arizona sun surely would be rising by now. I would wait for any light to creep through the panel. Then, I would crawl to it, make it bigger, breathe. But my strength was sagging. I was debilitated. I no longer heard the whimpers of the children or the sobbing of the young mothers, even the whispered prayers had gone silent. And the heat was increasing as the sun most assuredly kept rising and bathing the land with its fiery rays. Our boxcar was slowly turning into a furnace, a hot suffocating furnace. And we were dying!
But I had found a hole—not where I expected it, but on the floor. I kept quiet, selfish to keep the discovery to myself, selfish to live! Hotter, hotter, and closer and closer to death. Quieter and quieter, and closer and closer to the end. If I died, I would surely spend eternity in hell for my selfishness. If I lived, I would surely have the women and children on my conscience for my sins.
Justification. “That’s it!” I had a wife and child to support. God wanted me to live. That’s it! God had selected me to live where others would die. I prayed to live and tried to forget the others, the dying, the suffocating, the furnace, the hell.
Weaker, fainter, hotter, unconscious, desiccated, like the Arizona desert. I finally blacked out.
………………………………………………………………………
“That’s what I remember,” I said, as my fever subsided. “But who saved us? Who else is alive? Am I the only one who survived?” The doctor explained everything:
“You were the only survivor, unconscious and almost dead. One of the railroad employees reported an irregularity as a train was hitching up two boxcars that were left behind the previous evening. Some Mexicans with submachine guns were spotted attempting to load 40 of you people in those two boxcars, but they were already full with the dead—and you. They’ll pay. Immigration caught them, but the coyote is too sly, he’s still on the loose in Mexico.”
“And what will become of me?” I said, as I grasped for a chance to redeem myself, an opportunity to make good, to clear my conscience. “You will go back to Mexico. It’s cooler there,” replied the doctor compassionately.
And so I have returned to my jacal. I am content with my wife and child. I am not rich, will never be, but the cool breeze under our shady tree reminds me of the safe harbor of home and the perils of El Norte. Como México, no hay dos….And I do promise to redeem myself…some day.
Amargado 5/29/01
Mi poesía no es para el rico
Para Ofelya.
Mi poesía no es para el rico,
Ni para el egoísta,
Que viven por el elogio;
Elogiarse para que el mundo los vea.
No lavándose la cara ni las manos
Para que el mundo así los conozca.Mi poesía no es para el racista,
Ni para el poderoso capitalista,
Ni para el enorgullecido que aparenta.
No es para el hipócrita del mundo;
El que se preocupa por el “qué dirán.”
No, no es para esa legión.Mi poesía es para el pobre,
El analfabeto y el que ignora;
El que se acuesta con hambre
Y con hambre vuelver a despertar.Es para el débil
De cuerpo y espíritu,
El que mañana va a morir;
El que perdió el ímpetu
Y está listo para dormir;
El que sufre de noche
Y de mañana vuelve a sufrir.Mi poesía es para la sal de la tierra,
Para el creyente de la sierra,
El moribundo de sudor en la frente,
El que nunca dejó de creer.Creyendo hasta la tumba
Que su vida era para algo;
Y para algo dio su vida, sin embargo.Sin embargo y no obstante,
La vida dura vivió, doliente;
Siempre con la cruz constante,
¡Siempre con la cruz por delante! --Amando Álvarez 8/7/01
GALERIAS (fotografías)
UNO / DOS / TRES / CUATRO / CINCO / SEISThe Mexican Experience in Idaho
The Coin (by Daniel Rodriguez)
POETRY
