Let Their Spirits Dance (34 page)

“Who knows? Your mother listened more to God's voice than she listened to any of us.”

Only death could break the promise, end the bargaining between my mother and God. Before my mother died she looked at me and said, “You will touch my mijito's name for me, Teresa—you will do it for me—yes, mija?” It was a question and a command. Yes, do it for me? The invisible only asks of us what it knows we are ready to do.

I'm not one to break la manda. I don't want to end up like the man who swallowed the needle. I looked at my mother's eyes, gray, colorless, I looked closely into them. It was important to lock eyes with her. The power of la manda demanded it.

“Yes, Mom, yes, I will. Don't worry, go ahead of us if you have to. Say ‘Hi' to Jesse, tell him we miss him and that we're glad we came all this way to touch his name, to meet his family. Tell him I love his wife and son and grandson. Tell him to say ‘Hi' to Don Florencío for me, Nana…and Dad, too.”

My mother lay her hand gently over mine and never said another word. I still feel the pressure of my mother's hand over mine, cold, hard.
I let my mother take the heat out of my hand, and in exchange, she laid the burden of la manda into mine.

 

• L
IEUTENANT
P
RESCOTT
and another military officer come to the hospital to offer us condolences on behalf of the U.S. Army. The lieutenant tells us the ceremony at the Wall has been postponed until Sunday. He asks if we will still be willing to attend, and tells us that honoring our men is very important to the U.S. Army. Yes, of course we will attend, I tell him, my mother's promise will be carried out, no matter what.

After they leave, Ricky tells me the ceremony is media propaganda to give the Clinton Administration credit for recognizing the 191,000 men of Latin descent who served during the Vietnam War, and that's not counting all the others with Latino roots who don't carry Spanish surnames. He tells me we don't have to acknowledge any of it, but I tell him the more publicity, the better. I'm only quoting Michael on that one. Los Chicanos are a huge part of the Latinos, and we've come a long way to be heard.

The Army tells us they will provide a military escort to fly my mother's body back to Phoenix. My mother would die twice if she knew we had plans to fly her back to Phoenix, or she may not mind it anymore, considering she's flown ahead of all of us.

We return to the hotel to make plans for Sunday's visit to the Wall. I call Elsa in Phoenix, Espi, and Ray. Elsa cries the whole time I talk to her. Priscilla and I cry every time we see each other. Paul is stoic, his face sullen, pale and unsmiling. Donna is crushed. It's as if she had lost her own mother.

“We have to be strong,” I tell Priscilla, “We have to do this for her.” Strong, strong, strong…I say the word so many times it becomes a battle cry. Nobody has anything left to say to us. Suddenly, everybody's quiet. Not even the excitement of D.C. attracts our attention.

Michael tells me the web site is buzzing constantly. Our story has been picked up by news stations, local and national. Cards and flowers arrive at the Hilton. The Hilton staff is hard-pressed to find places for the floral arrangements, and resort to setting some of them out on patios and terraces.

I don't remember eating on Sunday, don't remember brushing my teeth. I have only one thing on my mind—my mother's death and la
manda. We arrive at the Wall at 9:30
A.M.
The sun is shining overhead. The morning is warm, and a bit humid. Cars line the streets, and everywhere there are people milling about, watching us as we get out of our cars and begin our trek to the Wall. Photographers are snapping our pictures, cameras are pointed our way. I notice a marker with the words
VIETNAM MEMORIAL WALL
.

We walk through a pathway under trees and green grass all around. Hundreds of birds are singing in the trees. Every now and then we spot a squirrel in a tree. We walk slow with Irene between us, taking one labored step after another. We're in procession, the sacred stance of the Sun People led by El Santo Niño and La Virgen. Don Florencío would be so proud of us.

I notice teenagers skating up and down the streets. People are sitting outside the White House protesting nuclear weapons.
IF THE BIG ONE GOES OFF, WE ALL GO WITH IT
, one of the signs says. The words
DON'T SELL OUT PEACE
are written on a huge banner hanging between two trees. It looks like a scene out of the sixties. Some of the nuclear protesters wear tattered Levi's and headbands. I've always wondered about our philosophy of promoting peace and building weapons of war at the same time. It doesn't make sense. It's like going to the doctor to get well, then going back home and drinking poison.

We're grassy yards away from the Wall. I'm walking now with Priscilla, Paul, Manuel, Thom, and Lam with Joshua in his arms. I turn to Priscilla.

“Does your breastbone hurt?”

“Yes.”

“So does mine.”

Everyone else is trailing along behind us. Lisa and Lilly are helping Irene. Cisco and Michael are walking together. Michael's got the laptop and cell phone in his backpack and is already anticipating meeting some of the people who have visited our web site.
The Vietnam Wall forms a chevron-shaped angle like a V that connects the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial
. The Wall looks exactly the way my second-grade students described it in their report. The whole place is even bigger and more impressive than I've seen on postcards of D.C. The waters of the Potomac are gray, serene, reflecting back sky, trees, and glimpses of the memorials. The Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial are bold markers, hemming in the Vietnam Wall. I'm catching my breath. It's like I'm getting ready to climb a mountain.

We see cameras and a podium set up some distance from the Wall. There's a sign on the podium,
WELCOME RAMIREZ FAMILY
. Now I'm nervous.

“Oh, my God…Ricky, look at the crowd!” All around us are people, White, Black, Brown, Yellow, Red, every nation represented. In spite of their numbers there is silence, as if we're all in church together. Some people are wiping their tears away.

“What are we supposed to do?” I ask Ricky.

“Just be yourself,” he says, “that's what they want to see, all of us here, saluting our men.”

We're getting our picture taken as a park ranger walks up to us and tells us we can look up Jesse's name in the directory and find out what panel he's on. We walk around the sidewalk to several stands set up with books in which you can look up a soldier's name. We look up
Jesse A. Ramirez, born April 23, 1947, died June 7, 1968
. Chris is helping Irene look up Faustino's name. Gates is at one of the directories with a woman who looks like Kamika. He must have met her last night. I'm glad Erica is 2,300 miles away. Gates got over his “poor me” attitude. He's gotten stronger on the trip, reading about Mandela and the struggle of Black people to gain respect, which is their due. Yellowhair and Sarah are looking up Strong Horse, alias Eddie Bika. Pepe and Gonzalo are looking up their brother Gustavo. Fritz is looking for names of his friends. Michael doesn't forget to look up Robert O'Connor for the redheaded reporter, Holly Stevens. I tell Cisco to look up Gathering Eagle Feathers, who is on the Wall as Benjamin Rush, nephew of the Native American woman from Albuquerque. We get slips of paper on each man that look like cash register receipts, and papers with small pencils for making rubbings of their names.

Now we're ready. People are milling around us, and Lieutenant Prescott is at the podium. Ricky's talking to him, and he motions us to come. Lieutenant Prescott shakes my hand.

“On behalf of the Secretary of the Army, I welcome you, your family, and friends to the Vietnam Memorial Wall.”

“This is Jesse's son,” I tell Lieutenant Prescott, “and his wife and grandchild.” He looks surprised.

“Pleased to meet all of you!” Later, speeches were made by the Army, Air Force, Marines, and Navy, congratulating veterans of color and their families for serving their country during the Vietnam War.

Cameramen move in on us, and I see a couple of reporters talking into their microphones…“The journey is over for the Ramirez family,
recipients of ninety thousand dollars owed them by the U.S. government for the death of their loved one, Sgt. Jesse A. Ramirez. Tragically, the family has lost their mother, Alicia Ramirez, who passed away yesterday afternoon at George Washington University Hospital. They have journeyed for a week from Phoenix, Arizona, bringing with them other minority families, victims of the Vietnam War.”

I'm glad the reporter said “victims,” because I feel I'm on the Wall with Jesse. I look at Thom and Lam and wonder if they have a wall in Vietnam to honor all their victims. Mothers cry in the same language the world over. I notice Angelo is wearing a Zuñi feather stuck in a headband. He's walking with Sarah, dressed in her Zuñi clothes and Yellowhair in his buckskins. There are gifts all along the Wall set on the cobblestone path, small flags, flowers, teddy bears, caps, a baseball, pictures.

Just before we get to the first panel a tall white man approaches me.

“Teresa?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Ronald Bradford—but Jesse knew me as Tennessee.”

“Tennessee? Oh, my God, Tennessee!”

“Hi, Tennessee,” Chris says, walking up and shaking his hand.

“Good to see you!” Tennessee says. They hug and pound on their shoulders at the same time.

“Your brother saved my life,” Tennessee says to me, “and ma'am—I mean, Teresa, I'm so grateful, my heart is breaking, has been for years!” He starts to cry and holds me in his arms. I'm holding the man Jesse died for, but it could have been anyone else. Jesse would have done it for whoever needed him. That's the way it was for the guys in Vietnam. They fought the war for one another.

“Are these your children?” I point to two teenagers standing behind him.

“Yes, and if it hadn't been for your brother, well, they wouldn't be here. Please accept our love.” The kids hug me and Priscilla and shake hands with Paul. Tennessee turns to Thom. “I'm so sorry,” he says to her. “Your husband was a great man.” Thom looks so small next to Tennessee. She stands on the tips of her toes and hugs him. Tennessee turns to Lam and hugs him. He gives Joshua a kiss. “Look at this! Never would believe the day!”

So much has happened that Priscilla, Paul, and I are becoming experts at accepting whatever comes our way, like the Guadalupanas, accepting life, death, love, sorrow, joy. Who's next? What's next? The
journey has tried us, sifted out our fears, made us warriors like the men on the Wall. Maybe that's why my mother wanted us to journey together for days and days so we would get to the heart of who we are.

We walk up to the first panel and someone whispers to us,
God bless you Teresa, Priscilla, Paul…God bless your mother, your brother Jesse…We love you…We're here for you
.

We reach the first panel. It looks so small. I don't touch the Wall. I'm waiting to get to Jesse's name.
Angel Luis Sanchez…Robert Cinosa Gonzalez…Aurelio Garza Herrera…Pedro Caudillo…David Esequiel Padilla…Anibal Ortega Jr…. Miguel Pagan…Ernesto Coto…Frank Alday…Arturo Barriga
…As I walk by I see more and more men with Spanish last names.

“Oh, my Christ…look at all the Spanish names! They cleaned out the barrios for this war!” I cry out the words. A reporter puts them down on paper. Priscilla and I are holding hands. Ricky has his arm over my shoulder.

“Lots of the men were from Puerto Rico, too,” he says. “Others were from Mexico, Central America, South America, but they're all Latinos.”

“I can't believe it!” Priscilla says. “Oh, my God Teresa, I can't believe this!”

Frank Navarro…Bobby Joe Martinez…Juan Marcos Jimenez…Filiberto Chavez…Paul Galaniz…Leroy Valdez…Rudy Lopez…Robert Lopez…Arthur Castillo Tijerina…David Urias…Pablo Duran…Wilfredo Reyes-Ayala…Francisco Diaz…Joe Hernandez…. Steve Garcia
.

The panels get bigger.
Juan Martinez…Jesus Martinez…Antonio Lopez Jr…. Steve Gomez…Tom Galvez…George Ramiro Sosa…Juan O. Sanchez…Encarnasion Rodriquez Jr…. Dennis J. Rodriquez…Cristobal Figueroa-Perez…Jaime Rivera Lopez…Leandro Garcia…Felix Alvarado Ruiz…Paul A. Miranda Jr…. Ernesto Soliz Cantu…Juan Macias Jimenez…Rene Zaragoza Hernandez…Manuel Martinez Gonzales…Joseph A. Mena
.

“Jesus, God…no! God, how did this happen? This isn't real—I'm in a nightmare!”

The panels now tower over us.
Tony Cruz…David Moreno…Pedro Valenzuela…Anastacio Gomez…Agapito Gonzales…Daniel M. Arizmendez…Pedro A. Rodriquez…Rudy M. Oliveras…John Salazar…Luis A. Lopez-Ramos…Julio A. Hernandez…Juan F. Garcia-Figueroa…Ricardo R. Tejano…Luis G. Gomez Mesa…
Geronimo Lopez Grijalva…Felipe Herrera…Jesús Mejia…Joseph A. Padilla…Octavio Molina-Rosario
. Each man has a story to tell and perhaps, a little old lady like my mother who mourned him all her life. I can barely look at the Wall, but I have to. I notice an airplane flying over us swaying in the clear blue sky; its white wings disappear in the distance.
Carlos Cruz Aguirre…Felipe Cantu…Manuel Herrera
. I don't have to walk very far to see another Spanish name.
Joe Gutierrez…Joaquin Castro…Joel Gonzalez Velez…Vicente Ramirez Gonzalez…Tony Valdez Nastor…Felix F. Flores…Eligio Rice Gonzales Jr…. Angel L. Gonzalez-Martinez…Arturo Serna Rodriquez…Ramiro Lopez Salinas…Pedro JT. Mota…Benito Contreras Jr.
, and then I see our own
Francisco Jose Jimenez
from Arizona. This is a massacre, a travesty. Each name is alive. I turn to the crowd, hundreds standing on the cobblestone walkway, on the lawns, under the trees, and by the waters of the Potomac River in the distance.