Retired lawyer, attained the age of 75 years on September 21, 2008 against some interesting odds - having survived quintuple bypass surgery, and the defribillator has so far lain dormant - and from which lofty height I opine on things that may or may not be my business in El Paso, Texas, and elsewhere. Progressive in most things, currently mourning the ongoing slaughter of the Constitution of these United States and the traditions of our country at the hands of as gifted a cabal of thieves, crooks, scoundrels and traitors as history ever saw or imagined, and history with our first black president seems to be repeating itself. It is highly unlikely that the country and its Constitution will recover say, during the next twelve years, by which time I will have mercifully been long gone.

Left wing Catholic, a staunch believer in liberation theology and the beatitudes and in the power of love to heal all things - all of which I try to put into practice, and at all of which efforts I continually stumble. Long ago I stopped being awed by "princes" of the Church who are more or less my age, including the Pope and his shiny, designer red slippers, but who somehow along the way forgot that Jesus didn't write a cook book for the last supper (why can't people allergic to wheat be allowed to use rice wafers for communion?), nor did he hoist a golden chalice encrusted with gems to share with the twelve - and that yes, it is entirely possible that Judas, Hitler and Stalin were forgiven - after all, it was God's call, and only a fool would claim to know His or Her mind - and that our current crop of criminal politicians will perhaps one day be forgiven also for all the carnage and murders they have countenanced in far away lands.

Fighting valiantly as what is called a "single father", with but one remaining dog as undependable ally against the onslaughts of one teen age daughter (the previous five offspring having long past fled the nest), her sister having recently crossed the magical threshold of twenty years, who absolutely refuse to acknowledge the obvious - that teen agers and young adults are marginal human beings, and are indeed like the pathetic fallacies of literature, if truth be told, and that salvation lies somewhere on the other side of thirty, but not always. As I observe their offorts to continue their education - I keep hoping that somehow, somewhere, they will suffer an attack of smarts that will ensure that they, like the one remaining dog, will succeed, ins and the one remaining, like the late Otxoa dogs, in scaling the walls of heaven. But youth does have its moments, always, of course, at the expense of wisdom.

My hobbies of the moment are staying alive, writing a song or an occasional poem, from time to time romancing the ladies, and working with good folk who are trying to smite the bastards, a task as trying as it is endless.

Current burrs under the saddle: religion as practiced by cheerleading, Republican-Jesus-smiles-on-the-successful-businessman brand of latter day Norman Vincent Peale types who inhabit, without any vestige of shame, outfits like the $$$mega-churches nationally, and locally, outfits like "Abundant Faith Living Center" and "Vino Nuevo" and their Catholic wannabes. Hint: St. Raphael's. And the racissts. Always the damned racists. One strives mightily to love the rascals, but it is terrifyingly hard to succeed. Religion ought not to be the last refuge of the scoundrel, as is unfettered patriotism, nor should breast beating (with a smile for your neighbor) pietism be confused with either prayer or piety. It costs nothing to opine, but it costs much to judge, and I will surely pay the price, but then, so will the others.

The frightening and quite excessive number of young people forced to pose during a long ago Thanksgiving are and top row, left to right, Megan Neely holding Aidan Medina, Micaela Ochoa, Sara Neely, Carmen Ochoa holding her sister, the squalling Emily; María Angélica Ochoa and Ryan Neely. The older ones display dramatically violent Democratic party leanings and are frothing at the mouth with their desire to vote except for Sara, Aaron, Megan Micaela and María Angélica, who have already cast their first ballots.) Truly, we are loving them to death and wll, in time, take Aztlán back from the thieves.

The Neelys are grandchildren, offspring of Will Neely and Stephanie Ochoa, and are a forlorn and deadly combination of Irish, Basque, Mexican and German genes. No more are expected. Children, not genes.

Grandchild Aidan is the offspring of Sergio Medina and Rebecca Ochoa. Since the picture was taken, Kenzie and Maya (really) have joined their less creatively named brother, all three being a passable combination of Mexican and Basque genes altered no more than necessary by the Germanic ones.

Grandchildren Carmen and Emily have Karl Ochoa and Carmen B. (a very private person) for parents, and no more offspring are expected. The Mexican and Basque genes clearly enjoy beating up on the Germanic ones.

Micaela and María Angélica are the daughters now grown into nasty teen and young adulthood, perhaps by being challenged only by Basque and Mexican genes.

I do not remember who took this picture in Del Rio, Texas, in 1969. It was on the evening after a trial jury had returned a "not guilty" verdict in the U.S. Govenmnent's futile attempt to railroad a Chicano lawyer. I had modestly assisted my mentor Warren Burnett in the doings, the high point of which was when he replied to the U.S. Attorney's efforts to interrupt his argument with a silly objection by replying, "I am old enough to remember when blacks had to ride the back of the bus, and when uppity mexicans were challenged in their attermpts to vote. When a lawyer can no longer cited scripture, history, or our noble beginnings to do away with these evils, then lawyers and advocates will have failed in their efforts to keep lit the flame of liberty." The day following we rode off to Mexico City on motorcycles, accmpanied by the late Bill Kugle of Athens, Texas, and now retired 23rd District Judge Neil Caldwell.

If so moved, you may contact me at viejolex1@gmail.com - it being absolutely understood that nothing you may say will surprise me. In my time, I have dealt with murderers, rapists, thieves, girls who wanted to be boys and vice versa, poor and rich, in and out of uniform, good and bad cops (unfortunately, mostly bad), mostly good and a few bad priests and other men and women of the cloth, mostly good and a few bad doctors, rascally and sainted professors and teachers, and I pretty much have seen most of the actors strutting about in the human comedy, which generally explains why I normally prefer dogs, who, like good Democrats, live to serve others. Cats, who uniformly like to scratch and hiss, clearly tend to be Republicans.

memories

Long ago, when Mexicans and Gringos - warily and with no small misgivings - eyed each other across a great divide that has lessened more in the telling than in the doing, there were real alligators ("lagartos" in Mexican Spanish) in the zócalo pool in downtown El Paso, Texas. The pool was large, as were the beasts, and it was architecturally attractive. The zócalo was formally known as San Jacinto Plaza, but everyone called it the "Alligator Plaza", "La Plaza de los Lagartos", or simply "La Placita," and it was in fact a small park right in the middle of town with the alligator pool at its center.

The park around the pool was put to good use by those who took their daily ease on the grass, philosophers all, rising from time to time to lean on the handsome cement ballustrade that encircled the pool, there to ponder and deliberate upon the ways of alligators and other pressing affairs of the moment. The trees, large, tall old elms, were full of birds and birdsong: the center of town, in contrast to the relaxed ambience of the park, was vibrant and alive. There was a sense of community, there was movement of commerce and people, and the city was firmly anchored in what was even then called downtown, with the hub of it all being the pool and the alligators. On any given day, people were to be seen downtown until late in the evening. Movies at the majestic Plaza Theatre were 9 cents for kids, and 15 cents for adults. The Ellanay, Palace and Texas Grand offered similar prices. Of an after school day during the school year, throngs of students from El Paso High, the old Bowie High, the St. Joseph's Academy (mostly known - and delicately stated - as toney Loretto Academy's little sister for brown girls not able to afford the Loretto tuition) girls, and the boys from Cathedral High would make their way to the plaza for a quick visit before going home or to wait for a given bus, in the meantime patronizing the soda fountains at the Walgreen's and Kress and the Queen Anne Bakery as well, where the best chocolate eclaires in town were two for thirteen cents - a real treat after one of the hotly contested grammar school basketball games at the Catholic Youth Organization Hall nearby. A slice of cherry pie with a cherry coke was a package deal for twenty cents at the soda fountains, and the ogling of each other, the stolen glance, the budding teen age loves, all were part of the approaching close of day.

Of a weekend evening, the older teenagers would cross over to Juárez and Fred's Rainbow Bar for cold beer and American style sandwiches - where the kindly proprietor would not let the young people get drunk, and who became a legend in his lifetime to legions of El Paso teens - or the Cavernas Musicales, down a flight of stairs, with cavern decor, complete with large stalactites and stalagmites. The more adventurous would find their way to Calle Mariscal with its sellers of Gardenia bouquets, the strolling musicians, the photographers with their Speed Graphic press cameras who would take your picture and deliver a not-too-wet black and white print in something like ten muinutes, and the houses of pleasures with a fair number of young ladies of the evening ready to introduce their young clients to the faux joys and mysteries of sex.

The center of things had yet to unravel.

The Popular and the White House department stores, and later the Gilberts and Glass stores were stocked with fine merchandise. It was not unusual for the Popular to open by appointment on a given Sunday so high ranking military, industrialists, and other wealthy people from the interior of Mexico could shop privately. The Casa Oppenheim in Juárez was known for the quality of its German cutlery, crystal, and the expensive French perfumes kept in stock. Streetcars trundled back and forth across the river, at the time free from the foul and dreary girdle of cement that now contains it, its flow reduced to a muddy trickle fighting for passage through thick weeds - and the border officials were surprise! generally courteous. The Florida and its signature Filete Marcos,a filet mignon served with a spicy, peeled baked potato and slices of roasted, tender long green chile, the Charmant, La Nueva Cucaracha, the Lobby, the Chinese Palace, and the Crystal Palace were not only superb restaurants in Juárez; they hosted world class entertainment as well up until the early 70s by way of floor shows: Stan Kenton and June Christy, Peggy Lee, the Ballet Folclórico de México de Amalia Hernández, Trio Los Panchos, the Ink Spots, Los Churumbeles de España - far too many to name. But one restaurant stood above them all - Martino's - a gourmet's delight, now but a shadow of what it used to be, as its prosperous owners went off to live in Spain long ago. And by the 70s, la Avenida Juárez, where these establishments were located, was showing signs of decay, and one by one, the fine restaurants closed. Today, the avenue is lined with cheap disco or hard rock bars that cater exclusively to the young, and the unregulated drinking poses problems on both sides of the border.

The Bermúdez family of Juárez had yet to embark on their wildly successful scheme to despoil - socially, ecologically and spiritually - not only their city but ours - through the ugly maquiladora industry and the exploitation of young women, an unseemly joining at the economic hip of all that is bad about the robber barons on both sides of the border, where it is not unknown for scrupulous factory owners to cart off their equipment in the night, leaving the workers with unpaid salaries, without benefits and without recourse.

But even then, there were omens visible here and there, for those who cared to look. Consider: with a growing university at hand to act as anchor for the education establishment so necessary for any successful economy, the myopic city fathers of the day could do no better than to proclaim the perceived economic cornucopia of the border as being based on cotton, cattle and cheap Mexican labor.

This mantra continued to be chanted for far too many years, and the city fathers, now joined by late blooming city mothers, notably women sitting on the boards of our predatory banks, peopling chambers of commerce and running the University of Texas at El Paso - imagine, if you will, a university president whose legacy will be, beyond question, her attempts to kill the departments of philosophy and communications and to stand absolutely mute as Duncan Earl, a gifted professor was run off, and again, as an exquisitely qualified Mexican-American female was passed over for the position of University Librarian and a white male hired instead - great God, where do we get such people? - continues to be chanted even now, for seemingly the only industries we are able to attract are those willing to pay about $6 per hour to the hirelings. Those who claim that El Paso has become the Mecca for the telemarketing industry may be on to something that the bulk of the people ignore to their economic peril.

It was 1948: along with my friend of many years - Lagarto - he of the exquisite nickname hung on him back in our grammar school days and whose identity I have sworn to keep close to heart, beyond telling you that he is from Juárez, born of an anglo father and a Mexican mother, and who continues to reside in Juárez - I was an eighth grader at St. Joseph's Parochial school. All too soon, Fr. Walsh, the pastor, along with Frs. Schimpf and Callaghan - much loved Jesuits all - were to leave St. Joseph's and the other grammar schools in El Paso, set in the parishes the Jesuits had founded and that the Sisters of Loretto had so well staffed for so many years.

Having been stymied in my attempt to join the Columbian Squires (the youth group of the Knights of Columbus) by its new, racist chaplain or his seminarian satrap assigned to St. Joseph's - one of whom had cast a viciously effective blackball barring my entry into the Squires - I learned early on that religion could also be the refuge of the racist. I would also learn that I lived in one of the more racist cities in the state of Texas - with its all black school, prior to Brown v. Board of Education, and up to 2005, its original "Mexican" school, recently replaced by a brand new model, specifically built on the wrong side of the tracks to keep us there - a city that as late as 1968 still punished kids for speaking Spanish on the school grounds by sending them to "Spanish Detention" for an hour or so after school.

And it took its toll. Having suffered racism - "dirty Mexican, greaser, spic, get the hell back to Mexico, keep away from our white girls" - from grammar school, through Notre Dame, the Navy and Austin, where I moved to work for a year before entering law school, and where, even as a veteran with a brand new wife and a kid to boot, in 1959 I couldn't find a job for three months until an enterprising employment agency passed me off as "Spanish" and I got a job pushing furniture around in a warehouse - I too succumbed to racism, and I learned the lesson well.

I hated my tormentors, and it was only through my involvement with civil rights beginning in the middle 50s that I began to open my eyes, a process that continued on through the 60s when I was helped to get over a fair amount of hate by my mentor, the late great west Texas lawyer, Warren Burnett, so untimely dead, who taught me that you could meet the racist in an arena of his choosing and defeat him, now and again, if you but used your head and your talents and respected him as a human being worthy of respect on that ground alone, for Burnett in his agnosticism and later atheism was more a practitioner of the beatitudes than any number of so called Christians and observant Jews I have met and yes, who buttressed my belief that El Paso, beneath its rose-visioned chamber of commerce approach to the real world was racist to its core. Yet, now and again, I realize I'm still not entirely sure, even at my advanced age, that I have truly freed myself from this cancer that rots the soul.

The live alligators are today long gone - gone and replaced by substitutes crafted of fiberglass by the gifted artist Luis Jiménez of El Paso (recently and tragically killed in a freak accident in his New Mexico studio) - in menacing pose rising out of a waterless, would be pond that seeks to compensate by bathing the fiberglass creatures in a fine mist during the hot summer months, about which people gather to cool off (cheerfully known by the locals as "misting Mexicans"). But no matter how gifted the artist, no work of art can truly capture the raw reality of feral life. Beyond question, it is not the same: nor is the zócalo.

The elms that once grew here have been replaced by recently planted live oaks, and some rather ugly "desert-friendly trees" that will take generations, if then, to grow into any semblance of towering majesty. The grassy areas are now fenced off. Warning signs abound: "It is forbidden to feed the birds". This last is generally ignored by mostly old people who cheerfully feed popcorn - readily available from vendors around the plaza - to the pigeons and other feathered vagrants.

And in fact, some four years years ago, during the state Democratic convention which met in El Paso, some Native Americans had put up a tipi in the park on the forbidden grass, and one afternoon I saw a couple of young, handsome women in fringed and beaded buckskin feeding a riot of birds assembled at their feet as a flute and drum sounded in the near distance, and it was enough to pierce the soul. Although the police were around, they had had the good sense not to interfere.

So much for fences.

"Don't throw trash - fines up to $1000. No alcohol permitted. Restrooms permanently closed - use facilities across the street". So many signs are truly jarring, and must seem so even to the insensitive. Don't feed the birds. It is telling, that in a city right next door to a country where one of the great revolutions (American, 1776, French, 1789, Mexican, 1910, Russian, 1917 - the last two within living memory) that defined liberty took place, so many restrictions proliferate like unwanted garbage. "Park closes at ten".

After ten o'clock of an evening, about the only living beings in the zócalo are humans of various preferences in dress and tastes in matters sexual, of which El Paso seems to have an inexhaustible supply, all circling each other like buzzards, all awake to the probability that more than one of their number are police people seeking to entrap them; and entrap them they do, having caught in years past a district judge, a few prominent citizens, and from time to time and with great good humor, one another - all willing to live the lure of the moment for a few dollars, and for pleasure feigned more often than not.

And alas, the cities of my youth, El Paso and Juárez, are no more. Progress as defined by the damned developers and the maniacs united for growth unchecked has not been kind to either, and the zócalo has suffered apace. Every few years, the city administration du jour tries to modernize it. The results are invariably the waste of tax dollars spent on more cement and crushed rock, less grass, and less space for people. Today, many of the buildings that defined downtown stand mostly empty. The businesses that remain are generally confined to the first floors, where low quality goods, perfumes, fast food and notions are sold. Downtown is dying, as is the pattern in so many other cities. At night, the windows that once drew crowds to their displays are now shuttered by the ugly roll-down metal curtains that are spreading, crawling, despoiling the downtowns of America, victims to the malls, suburbia, the automobile, suvs and changing values.

In El Paso, the current administration has embarked on a plan to "revitalize" the downtown area. Totally oblivious to historical and economic facts - i.e., El Paso is about 80% Mexican-American, and is economically deprived - the administration has entered into an unholy marriage with big money, represented by billionaire Bill Sanders, a local boy who has been described as the biggest and most powerful landlord in the country, according to Business Week magazine. Not only would downtown be "revitalized", but in the bargain, the oldest historic neighborhood in El Paso, the "Segundo Barrio", almost 100% Mexican-American, would be "sanitized", in the words of the promoters and developers, through the implementation of a "Plan" put together by a San Francisco firm from the top down, with absolutely no input by the people most affected by this morally bankrupt madness.

Why am I not surprised?

The "Barrio" is part of downtown only in the latte fueled dreams of the promoters of destruction. In reality, it is some blocks removed. The politicians propose to use the power of eminent domain to condemn residential and commercial properties, sell them to real estate investors through their "REITs" - real estate investment trusts who will, in theory, build modern apartments and bring in "upscale businesses". This pie-in-the-sky nonsense that will result in the displacement of thousands of people, mostly women and children, is being and will continue to be fought every step of the way. Two recall petitions have narrowly failed, one for technical reasons and the other for lack of thirty or so signatures. Civil disobedience continues to face this most avaricious, morally corrupt and foolish administration in the history of the city.

It has been a long, hot summer.

Growth has brought us, among its benefits, the magnet of the overpriced malls which have largely destroyed the nucleus, the downtown of the city. As a goody, so to speak, "Wal-Mart" and its supercenters abound. The grocery departments at the supercenters are expensive, and generally more so, than the quality stuff to be found in the neighborhood markets like Sun Harvest, the Blue Sage markets, and even Albertson's - but still the people go and line the Waltons' pockets when they could buy for less.

Bobos.

We indeed do live in Boboland, and in the The Barrio and A Personal Journey links above you will find some of its crónicas.