Bernie's trip to Corpus Christi
- March 2010
Account composed 2 April 2010 (Good Friday)
Boston, MA
I returned yesterday from Corpus Christi, where I had gone to
observe the fifteenth remembrance of Selena's passing. As
my appreciation for Selena grew, I began to dream about making this
pilgrimage, but delayed until I thought of doing so at the anniversary;
and then I began to wonder whether it was appropriate to visit on
that day at all, whether it
would be too much like
celebrating a tragic event, more or less morbid, or whether it would
be what her family
would want (after all, they close the Museum on that day) or not. So
I asked others, and decided in favor, and made my plans.
Like any first-time pilgrim to Jerusalem, Mecca, Varanasi, or the
like, I expected and fully hoped to be consumed in emotion and
meaning, and did not seek to visit "attractions" not related to
Selena. I expected to weep a lot, but also expected to meet other
people whose lives have been deeply marked by Selena, share feelings,
and see how they dealt with the ambivalence, so clear on this very day
as pilgrims flood Jerusalem in memorial observance of a tragedy.
More than anything, I expected the unexpected (and was so
rewarded). Spiral-bound notebook in hand, I vowed to record my every
experience towards this page.
Monday 3/29. After an expansive conversation with the person sitting next to me
in the flight to Houston (which included my discussing the reasons for
my traveling), my first flood of emotion struck me as we approached
that city, and I thought of the Astrodome, and Selena at the height of
her glory and charm and potential but a month before fate consumed
her. As soon as we landed, a bit daunted by the vast Houston airport,
I stopped at once at a newsstand and asked for the new (April) issue
of Texas Monthly, in which I had been informed there would be
a major article about Selena, and she on the cover. The cashier
pointed me to her left, and for the second time in an hour, I was
overcome with emotion as I beheld the cover, a deeply beautiful and
touching painting in the style
of Christian iconography which portrayed Selena as a Saint -- absent
the actual iconography of Christianity, it was clear that Selena was
being shown as a Saint not of some church or belief, but of Texas, of the Tejano community, and of the world. The introduction to the article
described Selena as "beatified, canonized, and resurrected." The
article itself consisted of hundreds of quotes from her family, others
who knew her at all stages of her life, and some others (academic
commentators), arranged to form a narrative of her life, death, and
legacy. It will be available on that magazine's website in two
months.
I boarded a small plane, three across, from Houston to Corpus
Christi, the city named for the slain Nazarene and the Host of the
Mass as which some understand the same (although local Corpus Christi
tourist material goes out of its way to show houses of worship of
other faiths). As we approached, I began to think more and more of
how Selena had seen these same sights from the plane window countless
times. As I left the plane, I heard a "clunk" from the walkway as
though I had dropped something; the woman behind me assured me that I
hadn't, nor had she. But it turned out that was my (very tired)
watch. Selena's first Spanish song in the biopic is Reloj, no
marques las horas ("Clock/watch don't mark the hours"). And so
time stopped as I entered Corpus Christi International Airport, a
small, one-terminal, one-car-loop affair. The weather was summery; my
sweater that I wore from home served no purpose; I did not want to
think about the torrential flooding back home and my basement and its
new sump pump (as with many in New England last month).
There was some ambiguity on the web about the motel I had chosen,
near the Selena museum (in fact, there are many motels in that
immediate area, including the tragic one). Reports ranged from
"awful, insects" to "terrific", and I was more than a bit scared.
Fortunately, the latter group was right, and my stay turned out to be
pleasant and everyone associated with the motel was very kind to
me.
I tried to avoid or delay renting a car, out of issues of not just
funds but laziness about driving in a new city, so I called the hotel
courtesy shuttle. The driver, of course, was a Selena fan, who
was delighted when I first mentioned her, and we began going through the letras
(lyrics) of No me queda más and Como la Flor (if
I recall)
--- he confirmed for me that everyone in Texas,
especially in "Corpus", knows and admires Selena. He indicated to me
that he could drive me to the places I first mentioned, the museum,
the Mirador, and the gravesite, and at that time this sounded
like a great offer. He also, at my request, stopped at a CVS (general
store chain) where I acquired a new $10 watch. As I said, everyone
associated with the motel was exceedingly courteous, and solicitious
and curious when I spoke of how far I had come, and why.
We arrived at Leopard Street, the long crosstown avenue of
Q-Productions and its contained museum, and passed the latter, which
displays a prominent sign at the street: I noticed that businesses were
hundreds of feet apart and from the street on their grassy plots, and
that there were no sidewalks. It seemed a car-only place, and my
previous ideas of businesses physically abutting each other, and being able to
find, say, another general store or different restaurants by foot were
now inoperative. Between the motel and Q-Productions were a tanker truck
farm, "gentlemen's clubs", a gun shop, and small convenience stores
that didn't seem to acknowledge the existence of yogurt. Businesses,
including Q-Productions, were frequently shed or barn-like
structures, not of brick nor stone. The courtesy bus driver even said
that the hotel routinely advised against walking the short walk to the
museum! "We're not in Boston any more", en todo, as it
were.
I tried to reconcile these images with that of beautiful Selena
kissed by grace walking around this lack of a sidewalk, but I'll bet
"drove" is the right term. I thought of her talking with her father,
"as in the movie" amidst these drainage ditches and weeds and
industrial-style structures, and knew it had to have been so.
Frequent discussions of the hometown kid who made good brought
back memories of my 1985 pilgrimage to the former East Germany to
visit the life-sites and tomb of my other favorite musician, and
how even waiters in little Mühlhausen knew about the organist who
once worked at the Blasiuskirche, J. S. Bach.
A secondary part of my plan was to find "informal remembrances" on
Wednesday, the day of the anniversary, such as I had found pictured on
the web, kid Selena wannabes and the like ... if I could not find out
about them, I hoped to at least locate the famous Selena murals, and
see what was there. Selena's family doesn't support or encourage
these "celebrations", and it seems clear why -- 3/31 is for them a day
of unalloyed tragedy; I would feel the same way; I am ambivalent as it
is. But read on. Again, I thought of Good Friday and how
different people over the centuries have read the events in Jerusalem
in different ways. Shifting back to the everyday, I was
beginning to wonder whether my solicitous shuttle-bus driver could really
drive me through this wisp of a plan I had to an unknown event...
Checking in to the motel, I rested and started to watch TV.
Although the full menu of channels and networks was available, the
only TV I wanted to watch was Univision, the largest Spanish
network, for that was what I have been doing at home for much of the
past year as Selena and Spanish have been taking over my life. There were
announcements of shows about Selena for the next few days; Cristina
(Saralegui), the deep-voiced talk show hostess (some call her the "Spanish
Oprah"), a woman of my years of huge dignity, heart, and depth, would
devote her Monday show to Selena (she held a long interview with her brother,
AB Quintanilla), as would Don Francisco his show on
Wednesday (he is also a renowned Spanish TV host (Sábado
Gigante), who, like Cristina, is very broadly respected in many
Latino-American communities, and interviewed/knew Selena firsthand
when she was among us.) All Univision news shows had Selena
coverage. I was delighted to be able to see the shows that I "would
miss" because of my travel, although I couldn't VCR them. What's more
they were "on an hour earlier" because of the time difference, but,
joke upon joke, my body was still on Eastern time...I stopped for a
second to write in my journal, "What am I doing in a motel room in
Corpus Christi, Texas, watching Spanish television?" A mere year and a half
ago I could not have imagined this.
Oh, did I mention Spanish? I spoke and used more Spanish in this
trip than in the rest of my life. This trip would have been
impossible without the ability to hold conversations in Spanish. That
is, I would have been unable to ask passers-by to help take my
picture, ask older Mexican visitors how they felt about what they saw
in the museum, and so on. All of my study of Spanish (which I began
because of Selena) culminated in this trip. As her father told
Selena herself, Spanish is fundamental to this region and the culture
which Selena made her life's calling in the few years she was among
us. Anyone serious enough to make this pilgrimage must first acquire
some competence in this beautiful language which was spoken there
before English arrived. It was the key which allowed people,
especially non-English speakers, to open their hearts to me.
Tuesday 3/30. Today's plan is to visit the Museum, and try to learn
about "impromptu observances" such as I could. The Univision
Despierta America (wake-up program) talks about Selena a bit. I had a Mexican-style
breakfast with very delicious (chopped) chorizos that I
remember Selena mentioning. Today's new bus driver says that it's
just fine to walk to the Museum, which opens at 10. The day is
radiantly sunny and gorgeous, once the (very late) sun comes up. I
start to think about abandoning the rent-a-car plan; I dither. I take
the courtesy bus to the museum as recommended, and arrive 15 minutes
before opening. The shed-like buildings and weeds and ditch seem
humble, humble surroundings for a Queen -- a passing train sounds a
full diminished-seventh chord for its horn (a very tense and
disturbing chord).
In a short time, a couple of other visitors arrived, and the museum
opens, and a man at the entry desk, whom I did not know, took our
cameras (as I knew would happen), giving us tags, and led us down the
hallway of what is (as others have noted) a working music production
company, to a studio, still in use, where Selena had recorded
I Could Fall In Love With You, as seen in the
movie. Then he led us to a room at the end of the hall which was the
museum proper, of which numerous photos exist on the web. A large
room with two side-wings, the Museum is haunting. One of the
side-wings is
devoted to Selena's career advertising Coca-Cola, whose photographers
and videographers had a skill of taking the most exquisitely beautiful
images of her. The center of the museum is occupied by (plexi?)glass
cases with Selena's actual famous outfits on headless white
mannequins; each case features a little picture at the bottom of
Selena wearing that outfit; this was, of course, very moving and
painful to see. I saw the white lace "No me queda más
video" dress, the silver vest she wears in the
gorgeous-among-the-gorgeous photoshoot picture of the
Spanish Classical cast (it is dated January 1995), the justly famous
Astrodome outfit, etc., and the
palpable absence of Selena in them was excruciatingly painful. (One had to know
Selena's life and work fairly well to be able to identify these
outfits with concerts and places. You cannot come here "cold". I was
embarrassed by costumes I could not identify.) And she designed each
one. Of course, the many Grammys and other awards she won were all there, as
well as the famous microphone with her lipstick still on it, her
famous spangled bustiers, and a TV playing the Johnny Canales (a Latino TV host who featured a younger
Selena many times) tapes, her red Porsche ("her only concession to
celebrity"), heartbreaking photos of her singing at eight years old,
and much more. Perhaps the exhibit that surprised and
impressed me most was a drawing Selena had made at age 15 of dress
designs, with detailed specifications of materials and forms, and a
beautifully drawn woman inside of them who seemed to be a
self-portrait. I had no idea she could draw so beautifully. She
was, among all else, a brilliant woman.
A thought that repeatedly occurred to me was that of a life
frozen and interrupted; that these were the artifacts that Selena used
every day to be Selena, and they were frozen in time when she passed
on. I thought of the suitcases and spectacles at the
Holocaust Museum in Washington (and, of course, Auschwitz whence they
come), which gave me the same feeling of the
artifacts of lives in progress frozen in time by their owners' murder. Both events
were tragedies so significant as to affect one's view of and attitude towards
life itself.
Another strong memory of the museum visit is that of the other
visitors to the museum, which quickly filled up. I spoke to many,
mostly in Spanish. Often (at other places, too), I would find a young
person in their 20s or 30s with a mother closer to my age, the latter
a Spanish-only speaker, and the child bilingual but not as proficient
in Spanish, and I conversed with the parent. One discussion I want to
mention was with one such parent; we talked about Selena and the
tragedy and how hard it is to understand. She asked me if I was a
believer (religiously), I acknowledged that I was a doubter, and she
said that were I a believer, I would understand the tragedy. I left it
at that; I did not want to pursue it.
I had no trouble spending the available time of the Museum (from 10 to
12) there. As I left the Museum, I saw a man at the gift shop door (where I
was headed) whom I immediately identified as Mr. (Abraham) Quintanilla, Selena's
father. I went up to him, and said, "Mr. Quintanilla?" and we
introduced ourselves. I had harbored a hope of meeting him, but not
for any real reason. I have no special insight, message, or agenda;
I, like maybe millions of others, have fallen in love with the
departed Selena, condemning myself to eternal tears, and offer what
condolences I can, for I cannot begin to comprehend the depth of the
family's grief. Perhaps my story is of minor interest, being a
thorough gringo, an older guy, that I study Spanish and am
becoming closer to Latino culture because of
Selena, or flew from the other side of the country ... but that is all
trivia, nothing compared to the horror that fate lay upon him and his
family.
We did talk a bit. He went away and promised to come back, and
he did, and we talked a bit more. I offered words like those I just
wrote. As with the woman I just mentioned, he, too countered my doubts
about the goodness of what God may be, saying that the evil one whose
name he, like many of us, cannot mention, did the deed, not God. For
me to ramble about theological speculation is
one thing, but he has
lived this unimaginable nightmare firsthand, and, as with Holocaust survivors whose faith
persists, his life story gives his opinions on this subject special validity and power.
Mr. Quintanilla happily volunteered himself for two photos with me, in the
outside office, which both came out very well. (He also noted that he
steers clear of Internet writings about Selena.) He then excused himself,
which was no problem, for, a bit star-struck, I had said enough. I then immediately
recognized and met Suzette, Selena's big sister, who was suffering a
cold of some kind, so didn't want to get too close, but I offered her
similar thoughts of condolence and admiration. She was in transit,
and I did not speak to her very long at all. Completely star-struck
by meeting Mr. Quintanilla and Suzette, I was lifted on a wave of
"positive energy", as non-scientists say, and thus had no fear of
Leopard St., and sauntered joyfully back to the motel
although in so doing (as noted above) failed to acquire craved
yogurt.
At the Museum, one of the visitors asked me if I was going to an
certain event tomorrow (3/31) in "the Molina", Selena's former
neighborhood. Exactly what I was looking for, I committed
the details, an address, the name of a store, the "Snack Shack", to my
spiral-bound friend, and
endeavored to find out more. I asked the museum entrance fellow about
these events, and he did not know -- as I said, the family steers clear
of them, but he gave me two numbers of radio stations. Back at the
hotel, I was unable to get through to either. But I did find a web
terminal, and successfully searched for "Selena tribute Corpus Christi 2010"
(which had turned up nothing just a week before), and found the event.
I would need a car.
After a catfish lunch at the next-door (quarter mile) restaurant,
I had (le pide) the hotel bus drive me to the airport, and rented
one. From then on, in spite of my fears, everything was easy.
I spent the rest of the evening watching Univision (including
notícias with
my favorite Univision newscaster, the lovely Edna Schmidt, subbing
for also-faves Jorge Ramos and Maria-Elena Salinas), and
eating at the bar in the hotel, where (oddly) there were only men, and
seemingly all in the oil industry and most perplexed that I was in
this city
on vacation. I had some conversations
about energy and politics, and Selena. The bartender, the only woman
in the room, was quite interested in hearing about my trip and plans
for the next day, and I promised to tell her about it after it
happened (and I did, as you will read). Back in the room, Univision
had some news-summary piece which (when I turned it on) featured the
ravings of the monstrous lunatic who took Selena from this world and I
could not even stand to see it. I instead watched the last hour of Clint
Eastwood's Gran Torino, which features devastating tragedy and
sacrifice, and I again thought of both Holy Week in progress and
Selena, but Selena's passing was not "sacrifice" -- the tragedy was utterly
pointless and without redemption of any kind; its only "meaning" lies
in confirming meaninglessness in the course of life. And that was the
end of the second day.
Wednesday 3/31. (Writing 4/3, Holy Saturday). As the sun pours
down this beautiful morning in Boston, when, before the local public
radio station renounced classical music, I would often listen to the
tragic Passions of Bach on this Saturday, my mind is still in Texas, where I woke up
Wednesday morning in a Corpus Christi motel room aware in every
breath I took of what happened in another motel room a bit down the road fifteen years ago. But I had made plans to observe that in organized
ways, a grey compact rental car now my Rocinante ("was a workhorse", Don
Quixote's "steed"). At 6:30 AM
it is dark in Corpus Christi in late March, and the pre-dawn hours
were bleak and foreboding, calling to mind the rain with which the Heavens
deplored that day when Selena ascended into Eternity by the hand of
darkness.
Turning on the TV, Univision (Despierta America) is talking
about Selena. Taking on a dark blue longsleeve shirt, one of my most
solemn, I went out and ate breakfast in the hotel (the chopped
chorizos weren't there), but Selena's smiling image was on the
front page of the CC Caller-Times, as well as a detailed
announcement about the upcoming event that evening. While I respect the family's
attitude about not promoting or helping people find these events,
frankly, there it was on the front page of the newspaper. The
address was right, but the event would be from 5 PM to 10,
somewhat
late in light of my desire to watch the Univision coverage, especially Don
Francisco (at 9 in that zone). A good musician can play by ear.
I took up my car as soon as the sun came up to dispel the chilly
gloom, and, following
Leopard and Navigation (a very bleak, desolate, industrial North-South
arterty which I suppose is there to help you "navigate", not look
pretty), in minutes I found myself in La Molina ("The mill"),
Selena's old neighborhood. I drove there this early to make sure I
could find it, scout out the parking situation, and find my way back
later when the neighborhood might be chaotic with neighbors and other
fans. I soon enough found Bloomington St, and the houses that were her
family's. I found the Snack Shack and its owner, Fred, who was
preparing for the event, but shared some time with me, as I told my
story, and he told me about he event, how it had moved from a
mural-shrine down the street (which I then visited and photographed on foot sipping
coffee he had given me as a gift), and told me the parking setup. I
planned to return two hours before the event. Fred took a picture of
me with a beautiful painting of Selena by Neil Vela, to be unveiled at
the event [photo], and I thanked him and got on my way.
La Molina is a beautiful, green, soft neighborhood of pretty
single family homes (some in better shape than others); my images of poor
Hispanic communities from Boston and earlier New York were
completely off-base, my first contacts having been supplied a half a
century ago by West Side Story (as well as growing up in New
York City, which is not Texas). La Molina is a pretty,
warm place, as I imagined Selena and her family on these very
streets. But more about that later at the event ...
I was beginning to feel really empowered by the rental car. The
highways 385, 37, and 44, 286 were easy to find, broad, uncrowded,
well-marked. I could now do whatever I wished in CC, without need to
negotiate times to be picked up and leave events whose playout would
be unknown. Finding the Molina was easy. Finding the highways was
easy. But keeping my promise to tell the waitress what happened and watch
Don Francisco's tribute show might yet be difficult, and the next day I would
be homebound.
My next stop was the Mirador de la Flor at the seaside. No
problem, zip down Interstate 37, which gets a little confused about
its identity at its very end, but, as the landscape became more
conventionally city-like (the word "urban" having since been reused), I
stopped at a gas station convenience store, got a real map (all
streets), asked about the Mirador ("end of that block"), and I was all
set.
There is a set of Miradores up and down the bay coast, which
overlooks the harbor, toward the beaches on the island across the harbor.
They are all white octagonal gazebos (from the British "phony Latin"
for "I shall gaze"), except Selena's, which is rectangular and larger,
but yet with a roof/cap like the others, and on its side a special stairway up
from the pier, the Paseo de la Flor. I left the
car on a spot on the pier, put on my spring-jacket, for it was right
early in the morning and chilly, and ascended the paseo, my
head bowed and hands in a gesture of devotion as I thought upon
Selena. I gazed at and circled the bronze statue, whose body faces
along the bay but whose face is turned to watch over the water.
A great white (sculpture) flower faces away from the bay. There is a
gentle stainless railing, yet at the base of the statue are votive
candles, multiple flowers, and even a wood-like card with an extensive
prayer/devotion written on it. I am at the shrine of a saint, a saint
whom I, along with the people in this city, worship. It is cold, it
is very early in the morning (about 9), and there are few
visitors. I take some pictures, but try not to interrupt other people,
a very few of whom came, some taking pictures...
There came then two men from an organized religion who began handing
out tracts, collaring people to present their own version of cosmology and theodicy. This angered me
to no end. There are 364 other days in the year, and Texas and the US
are big places. Even Corpus Christi is a big place, but this little
spot on the sea, on this day in particular is reserved for Selena. I told them that in no uncertain
terms, and remarked how there were other days and other places set aside by followers
of their faith for their observances and presentations. One of the
two feigned sympathy, as the other went on accosting people, but after a long
while, they finally left.
Most of the red mission-style bricks that comprise the floor of the
Mirador are inscribed (some seemingly officially, including by
the family) with messages of love, admiration, and prayer. Many other
bricks are inscribed with marking pens (in spite of advisements
against
vandalism, out of respect for the family), some dated very recently, some with
devotions and admiration, others just names ("Joe and Sue") and dates,
which will probably go away with sufficient rain. It felt odd walking on
them. Contemplating the beautiful but tragic statue intensely, I noted how the bronze was
turning green, especially around Selena's beautiful and magical eyes
and the bangs of her hair, and thought upon the Statue of Liberty from
my youth in New York City, and how time and eternity greened that most
famous of bronze ladies, bringing forth the following Spanish poem
from me
(edited un poquitocito since, and run through every native Spanish speaker I
could find for grammar check; the style, of course, is influenced by
classic Latin (not Latino!) hymnody).
Al Mirador
31 marzo 2010 Corpus Christi, Tejas
|
|
NUESTRA DAMA del Mirador,
Más allá de los botes y del agua miranda,
Para siempre a la frontera de las tierras
así como de la vida misma parada:
He aquí, verde caen tus lágrimas
En las esquinas bronce de tus ojos profundísimos,
Como también tus flequillos siempre adorables,
Como se enverdece ella de la libertad en ese otro puerto.
A la libertad de soñar se le trajiste a tu gente
Mientrás a todo el mundo le regalaste tu Amor y tu Alegria;
Y como los pescadores a cuyos botes los guardas hoy,
Regresaste con un cosecho -- de corazónes.
O DAMA BRONCE miranda el puerto, otórgame
Que a tu preciosa memória la guarde siempre dentro del
mío,  
Que no sea en tinieblas echado
Mientrás conmigo tu luz.
© Bernie, March 2010
|
O Our Lady of the Mirador,
Beyond the boats and the water gazing,
Forever at the frontier of the lands,
Like as of life itself standing:
Behold, green fall thy tears
From the bronze corners of thy deepest eyes,
Like as well thine ever adorable bangs,
Like as She of liberty turns to green in that other harbor.
Liberty to dream thou gavest thy people,
While to all the world thou didst gift thy Love and Joy,
And like the fishers whose boats thou guardest today,
Thou didst return with a harvest -- of hearts.
O Bronze Lady looking out over the harbor, grant me
That I might keep thy precious memory within mine,
That I be not be cast into darkness
So long as thy light be with me.
© Bernie, March 2010 (también)
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More visitors, speaking Spanish and English, gradually arrived. Many
were not pilgrims/visitors, but just passing through. An old,
poor man from Cuba begged me for money, in Spanish. In the presence
of my saint I could do little but give him many times what he
expected. But then I subjected him to my poem! At least now I had a
conversation-starter. I also collared another Spanish-speaking
mother/bilingual son pair to take my picture and chat with me, who
were very dear. The religion people were gone. Many people with
Selena shirts and other apparel came by. No one bowed down and
prayed; those are gestures of a different religion. In our religion,
we sing and dance Bidi, Bidi, Bom Bom, but not here.
At twenty minutes of 12, there were quite a few people, and I
decided to move on to my next destination, the cemetery, which is quite a
ways away down Shoreline-becomes-Ocean. I somehow did not think that
in a few minutes would be the actual time of day when the tragedy
actually happened, but it is better, for I was having a "good" time, in spite
of my immersion in commemorating a tragedy.
Driving South along the highway, rather than immersed in noble
thoughts about Selena I was (as I should have been) mainly concerned
about driving, finding the memorial park and being able to U-turn if
necessary (which it didn't turn out to be, as it were). I had in my hand a previous
pilgrim's web-posted account with fairly detailed instructions on how to get
there, including what to do when you do. Despite the mission of
grief, the highway and the coast and beach
along which it runs were quite beautiful. It would have been too far for the motel
courtesy driver. I found the park, followed the previous pilgrim's
directions, and quickly found a group of a few people and cars right
where the gravesite was supposed to be. I decarred.
The documentary footage, Portillo's Corpus, and
third-hand reports, make it seem as there were a large area containing
Selena's final resting place, rendered generally inaccessible by a
fence. This is not so. It is a grave the size of any person's,
and a few feet behind it the much-photographed anvil-like black stone
with her famous signature keeps watch. These are enclosed by a small iron fence,
and there is a fenced walkway about ten feet long from the internal
road to that fence. At that point, one is but a foot from the foot of
her grave, and one can easily leave flowers (there are apparently
regulations about exactly how you do so, the size of the flowers,
etc.) While it was of course painful to be there and see this, I was
not overcome with emotion, for this is what is left, not what we
lost. I had no flowers.
The bronze sculpture of Selena's face with long hair, often seen in
reports, is actually very beautiful (it usually does not
seem so when photographed), although the hollowed eyes are chilling.
People came and went, and I tried to limit my conversations; I certainly did not take
photographs. A man in his 70's had come from Argentina, and engaged
me in a great deal (too much for the place) of conversation, all in
Spanish. (Maybe I got a third of it). Oddly, although from urbane Buenos Aires, he did not use the
Internet (which is as essential to Selena fanship as Spanish), and
did not know our master poet Sérgio. He said we would meet up again at the Molina event.
What finally did bring me to tears was the presence of a young couple with their
little son, maybe 5 or 6 years old, who all loved Selena; the parents
knew her work when she was alive. The boy loved and sang her songs.
Until this day, the parents had spared the child the crippling
knowledge of the tragedy. I did not know what to say, and cried
bitterly, knowing how I would have felt were I the child (and not
knowing what I would have done were I his parent). How do you tell a
child that sometimes the wrong and horrible thing just happens in
spite of (even a short) lifetime of doing the right thing? Or that the
beautiful young singer he adores was gunned down fifteen years ago by
a sick woman whom she trusted? I
was about that old when my most beloved grandfather died of cancer a
lifetime ago. As the Argentine man left, I, weeping, soon set along
the shoreline highway back to lunch at the restaurant next to my
motel.
Passing the Mirador on the way back, but not intending to
stop, I saw what looked like a news crew interviewing people. I
wanted to "get in on the action", having reels of prepared statements
about Selena, the nature of my trip (in all three senses), and so on.
I dumped the car bayside on the pier again, and milled about the
Mirador anxiously. KIII-TV (South Texas TV) was indeed
interviewing passers-by, and they indeed came to me, and asked me (in
English) on camera where I came from, how I felt/learned about Selena, etc.,
and I gave, coherently, the expectable answers, trying to keep it
interesting/newsworthy at all times; I don't know what became of the
footage, and when they finished, I indeed returned (with the greatest
of ease via highways 37 and 385) to Leopard St.
I ate again at the restaurant next to the motel, where the very
solicitous waitress (a woman about my age, an abuela), was
touched by my poem as I downed wonderful pork chops not knowing what
food I would see for the rest of the day. After an hour or so in my
room, I set out for La Molina, and got there (as planned) with
two hours to spare. I parked right across the street from the "Snack
Shack", asked permission to "hang out" there until the event, and did
so, much of the time alone, and at other times talking to other
customers, some of whom knew Selena first or second hand. Most lived
in the neighborhood or not far. I had a long conversation with a very
elderly Cuban man, in Spanish, who was there with his two daughters
who seemed to be my contemporaries. As I ate scooped ice cream, and
the members of the family of this mom-and-pop luncheonette scurried
about readying for the event, the little store began to grow on me,
its deliberate antiquity (very old posters, bottles, clocks, other
antiques, especially Coca ColaTM artifacts) began to remind
me not of Selena's time, but of my own childhood (and my own
grandfather's grocery store) in New York City. Although I was a
visitor, I was also a customer, and I started to feel very much at
home as the other customers bestowed warmth and interest upon
me.
As the time for the event drew near, I acquired bits and pieces of
its plan; there would be performances, presumably of Selena
dobles (reenactors) singing her repertoire, a candlelight vigil
(such as the one fifteen years ago), and an open mike: I entertained
thoughts of offering my feelings in Spanish, maybe with my poem, (but
getting back later, especially driving at night, was high on my
mind). Also, the main thread of the event was in English
About a half hour before, they closed their drive-in window, whose
turnaround area behind the "shack" was to be the venue. A stage and
sound equipment had already been
set up, and the Emcee, Sylvia D from a local radio station, was
present. Less "spontaneous/impromptu" then I had imagined, this event
is annual and organized. Again, conflicting feelings about "why do
you 'celebrate' a death in this way?" rose up in my thoughts. But
they answered this. A Selena poster on the stage labelled the event "Gone,
but not forgotten", and there were various other posters of her, and of
her famous signature. And there were little girls decked out with her
typical gorras (caps) and costumes, and other dobles. I
met Carolina, an adult "Selena interpretation specialist" in (a copy
of) the sexy costume Selena wore at Monterrey (something I read during
the trip reminded me that no matter how perhaps-provocatively Selena
dressed on stage, her conservative and protective father was always in the audience.
Through loud sound-checks I finally found a seat next to a large
four-generation
family (most of the people sat on the ground, but my knees would not
have tolerated that). As the event began, Sylvia D emceed in English
minced with Spanish words familiar to the gathered. In time about 200
people had gathered; the newspaper later said 300. I don't
want to critique individual performances for better or worse; this is
not television, but a regular event in which I was a participant just
by being there and meeting people, and I want to be welcome should I
want to do it again. Nor would it serve any purpose to do so.
But I do want to make some general observations; again, how people
were delighted to hear how far I had come (places from which people
came were noted in the next day's newspaper, and "Boston" was listed
, although others were from New York, New Jersey, and the man from
Argentina -- most were Texans). And there were young girls who did a
credible job of embracing Selena's texts, dance moves, grace and joy,
singing her standards, in a way that reaffirmed for me how Selena was
for them a source of strength, purpose, and inspiration. At every
half hour, multiple TV teams came and broadcast the stage, panned the
audience, interviewed people, etc., and I started to yearn for
publicity, having decided that my personal story (of my fanship)
is itself a tribute to Selena. There was talk that Univision was
coming, that is, the great national Spanish-language network that I
watch almost every day on WUNI Boston ("La mejor programación
en español") whose
personalities I had come to "know" well from viewership. Wow! That would
be cool!
Cool? Why am I thinking about enjoyment and watching these singers
and dancers on a day when the most grievous murder is remembered?
Sylvia D made it clear: She and the gathered do this yearly to keep Selena
alive in our hearts, to spread her joy and love, and it is working.
One of the "Selena interpretation specialists" sang Where did the
feeling go?, to which Sylvia D answered "Where? Right HERE
and NOW." And this was true. I was finally among my
coreligionists, as it were.
Univision did show up, a cameraman and producer reporter named
Martha whose last name escapes me. The event was getting a little
repetitious, and it was almost time for the candlelight vigil, as the
sun finally went down and stopped assaulting my growing forehead. It
was approaching las ocho (8 PM), and I started to think about
getting back. As I made my way out, Fred the owner asked for photos
with me, which flattered me deeply, and others gave me contact info.
I directed some to this site.
And just as I left the gate, a Selena miracle happened.
As Univision interviewed one of the
participants, the latter told the reporter that I had
come all the way from Boston. The reporter then talked a bit
to me, in Spanish, on camera, and told me to wait a second for her to
interview one of the young performers, and then she actually
¡interviewed me in Spanish! I could not believe what was
happening. I would be on Univision with my year-old Spanish! (Thank you, thank you, muchas, muchas gracias
blessed beautiful Selena, for bringing me this
gift of a language and a people!) She asked me ¿Qué significa
Selena para Usted? ("What does Selena mean to you"), and to that and
other queries, I explained que Selena era the most perfect human
being I had ever seen, and was the reason I learned Spanish, and the
link (vinculo) between myself and the comunidad latina en
los Estados Unidos. I was so dazed, thrilled, and delighted that
I was lucky to make it safely home as the almost-fallen Texas sun
dimmed the roadways. I took a slightly chancier route than Navigation
(went right to 385 from La Molina) and was at the motel in ten minutes or less.
I had asked the reporter what show I'd be on, and she replied
El Gordo y La Flaca, mañana ("The fat guy and skinny gal"), a popular
gossip show that generally airs too early for me to watch, not to
mention the fact that I would be too airborne myself at that time
tomorrow. So at the hotel, after going to the bar (with a local
Shiner Bock beer serving as dinner) and relating my day as
promised to the most-interested waitress, who said she would try to capture it
somehow, I called my office voice-mail to get to a colleague who said
he would do capture the show (and I told him all about the trip). It turns out the
Selena segment was short (and it is on the web), but they did not use
my interview. Good enough. (On Univision, I hear all levels of
Spanish from interviewees, from first-language and second-language
speakers).
I got my belongings in order, including cards and CD's from the
Q-Productions gift shop, packed my bags, and prepared to leave
Selena's hometown with the morning light. I watched Don Francisco's
tribute show, Recordando a Selena at 9 (Central),
featuring Pete Astudillo, Johnny Canales, an adorable
performance of Como la Flor by the lovely sisters who call
themselves Los Horoscopos de Durango, and others in a long
discussion for which, at the end, he thanked Mr. Quintanilla for
permission to produce this tribute at all.
Thursday, 4/01. I thanked the original
shuttle bus driver again, with another long Spanish conversation. On
the (hour-delayed) plane between Houston and Boston, I sat next to a
Guatemalan grandmother with no English, and had plenty more exercise
in Spanish, as if I hadn't had bastante.
That's pretty much it. I took pains to get the photos through
security undamaged, resulting in a manual pat-down for all my
troubles, and even greater pains to get them to my local CVS in time.
I did have them by 9:30 the next morning. I spent the next day (Friday) telling the trip sequentially to
several people at work, and all Friday Night and Saturday Morning
writing this for you.
Please enjoy, visit Corpus Christi yourselves, and continue
exploring and feeling the meaning, depth, beauty, joy, sadness, and
ongoing legacy of Selena as you see most fit. The best way to honor her
memory, I agree now, is to nourish it.
Bernie
Boston
3 April 2010