Diagnostics; The first encounter with The Machine

 After being found guilty for stealing a car, breaking into a Deputy Sheriff's house and stealing guns, the five delinquents were taken to the notorious Gatesville State School for Boys in Gatesville, Texas. The apprehension for us kids as first timers to this place of horror was thick as the Deputies drove us in handcuffed on that long drive there. And as we were launched out into this wilderness without a space suit or space helmet, never mind the spaceship, I was thinking about my second cousin Rudy Natal who gave me the nickname "Gordo" when I was a little boy. 

Rudy was about three years older than me. And I could still see him in my mind as the car engine hummed down the road; diving into the deep parts of the river at the El Paso Bridge where Rio Vista is now. And as I recalled Rudy and the gang, I remembered  all the fun times and sad times at the River that we once had there. Well, the humming of the car was hypnotizing and I was not only in the car mentally, but at home. I remembered as we traveled that we could see miles of nothing except woods or farm land in between towns. To the west of Interstate Highway 81/ 35 we could see the long snaking hills that extended from Uvalde and Castroville, Texas on the South end, all the way to Waco and Dallas, Texas on the north end. This view was truly the grand vista to the grand entry of 'The Gateway to Hill Country' then. 

It was a solemn drive that I was accustomed to already because of all the drives through the back roads to Kerrville and Fredericksburg, when we had to visit my mom. You, young people, that didn't see these precious magical places like Blanco, Boerne, Center Point, and Comfort, Texas in their own beautiful Natures clothes from back then will never know how special they were. So that long drive gave me time to reflect on how tough all the kids in El Barrio had to be to survive in the barrios. I will never forget a morning one summer that all the barrio kids were swimming at the river in the Mexican section of El Paso bridge. We would get shot at with weapons by the white men if we wandered into the 'white sections' of the river in those old days. From this point on I also grew accustomed to hearing high powered bullets angrily buzzing by my ears as I ran weaving and dodging like a scared Jack Rabbit. Even much later as I grew older, I remember those bullets passing by my ears cussing me out loud as I ducked and stumbled as I ran through woods, streets, barrios jumping barbed wire fences, and weaving through buildings. And I could hear those bullets shout back at me as they passed and missed, "Ruben, you sorry so and so, we are gonna get you you sorry M.F." And in anger I would shout back at them and say, "yeah M.F.s', but not today!" 

Well, let us go back to that morning at El Paso Bridge. In many white peoples minds, Mexicans were still looked upon as wild vermin that needed to be exterminated to make room for only the Civilized Ones. And on this early bright shinny majestic morning I decided that I wanted to dive at the deep end of the river where the big boys dive. And so I crossed over the car lanes excitedly without looking both ways. The road running across the bridge traveled East and West and I believe it was called Cheatham street.  I was about 9 years old then. As I got half way across the lanes, I heard a very loud screeching sound made by a car braking hard. So I looked to see what it was and as I turned to look I saw a woman's face in shock, and so was mine. Then I heard many of the gang screaming to come and get me from under the car. The car was a 1955 Black Ford. It was a tank! And one extremely beautiful young red headed white girl who looked college age was driving the car. As she had come to a stop she knew she had hit me hard and sent me flying up the road a bit. And before she came to a complete stop, I had grabbed the metal chrome bumper and dragged holding on to the bumper to keep from being squashed under the car. I remember she came out of her car in a complete panic. She was screaming and crying hysterically. She stood out among all the brown skin boys there and pleaded with all of the boys if  I could be compensated monetarily for the accident. Then she offered to take me to the hospital. Well, I was now head over heels with this beauty. As I lay stretched out in the middle of the road, an older white man drove up behind her car and got out of his. This man was well dressed in formal clothing and he asked her by name what had happened. The the girl frantically explains and offers to compensate me. The older white man told her to get in her car and get to her class at the college here. But, she insisted and wanted him to call for ambulance for me. Then she addressed him as "Doctor." However the Doctor told her once again to get in the car and leave the matter to him. So she left and the Doctor told Rudy and the older boys there to pick me up and place me on the shoulder of the road believing that since he was a Doctor, he would attend to help me. So my people picked me up and put me on the side of road, like a dog without a bone. Then the white Doctor walked up to us and told everybody that I was fine and got in his car and drove off going west. Afterwards my family carried me to my grandma Florencia's house and there the women commenced my doctoring and hospitalization with prayers, candles, and rubbed ointments on my body that were design to treat horses' injuries called "Volcanico". No one could afford cost for doctor or hospitalization. And the Doctor who was most likely a pillar of the community didn't even call for the Police. This was circa 1959. This story has appeared in The San Marcos Daily Record because I wrote about it years ago, and in a Book by "Jill Nokes" of Austin, Texas regarding "Yards of Folk Art in Texas.". 

Do you know that as I see it now, people like Rudy Natal and other Mexican young kids like him in San Marcos were bad asses. And I mean it. But they were not criminal minded. Their minds were not like mine.., angry at the Doctor and people like him. Angry at the injustice that had us in its clutches. What I saw back then, the nefarious racism and heavy discrimination against us by the white rulership notwithstanding, was that people like Rudy Natal, Domingo Alaniz, Peter Marmalejo, Mike Mendoza, Paul Rios, Los Castaneda Boys, George Guerra, Frank Natal Jr., and many others, were that they were American Patriots to the marrow of the bone. All of them joined The Military and wanted to serve this Country regardless of how they were treated. Oh, I get bad images and thoughts from all these things as I write, nevertheless, what I see now is that two extremes were running concurrently here in the barrios but in opposite directions on a continuum. One group of young Mexicans were seeking Honor the American way, and I was seeking Justice the un-American way. So both groups therefore believed that we were ready for anything that could be thrown at us. And as I thought about what awaited us up ahead on our odyssey to the big house, I thought to myself; as I tried to psych out myself from the inner fear. I told myself, "Ruben, we are Chicanos, and all of us are Vatos Locos, we will survive La Corre too vato" 

That morning when we arrived at the Diagnostics in this Reform School, the San Marcos Deputies uncuffed our hands as we unloaded the car and they walked us into this quiet hospital looking place. And the climate in my head of Vatos Locos changed briefly. I remember being walked in by the Deputies and guards into the front of a brick building, through glass doors and being received by more guards in prison uniforms inside this nest. All the guards were white men and they took us into their custody. Legal papers were signed and exchanged by those two entities that now owned us. The Deputies left and we were separated by age and taken to different wings of this large place. We were assigned to our cells and told that we would be called out to be instructed on all transactions that would take place before we would be classified and sent to our assigned Schools to do our time. They told us to expect to be there at the Diagnostic Center for at least 21 days. 

From the first wing cell that I was in, I could see only the first part of the next wing next to mine. About an hour after we arrived, standard procedure there was to have us shower and be put into standard uniform for the Reform School. This uniform consisted of a White cotton T-shirt and shirt and blue jeans, and black low quarter shoes. Later our hair would be cut in a crew cut style. However as for the shower, the guards would walk us step by step on how to shower. This was done everyday. They would say when to soap on, and then when to soap off. They made sure we would skin it back and make sure every part of the body was clean and dried. Afterwards, they assigned our white bed linen and pillow and hygiene accessories. We were given three square meals a day, but one had to eat everything served in that meal or suffer severe consequences. There was no talking or smoking allowed here. You could talk only if a guard or specialist in medicine would ask you something. During the day as we waited in the cells to be called for vaccinations or other medical reasons, one could not fall asleep or there would be dire consequences. I got to see guards go off on some of these youngsters and they were whoop up badly. Every part of this Diagnostic Center was sparkling clean, because the kids kept it that way everyday. This was pretty much the routine when I first arrived there on September 21st, 1965. As for my other four friends and family, they were in other wings and I never got to talk to them until we were assigned to our schools. At that time there were only six schools. And the odds of getting that close to ever talk at length again with that San Marcos group was very low. However, I did get to see them from a long distance as we were marched in formation to Church or other events. But I'll never forget that several nights I peeked into the windows with no curtains or blinds next door to me, and I would watch these two handsome Mexican guys who were arguing with each other in their cell then a major fist fight would erupt between them, it was brutal. And as Providence would have it, a year later I would meet these two guys again at Mountain View School. Both of them became good friends of mine. Julio was from Dallas, Texas and Jose El Negro was from Houston. Those were miserable lonely quiet nights and days at Diagnostic and would prove to be only the prelude to the worst still to come, but we didn't know it. Nevertheless, now all the boys looked the same and the guards looked the same. 

And now only one Law applied to all of us there. And in every cell, on the nightstand with one drawer, at the table top lay a small New Testament pocket Bible. Always a reminder and a sign pointing the way to the old tried and true Path. But I was full of rage, and felt that a wrong had to be righted like in The song "The Impossible Dream". But better yet, like in Miguel De Cervantes Man of La Mancha! I was like Don Quijote, however, I could not articulate what I was feeling then. This was driving me crazy so I acted out my frustration on The White Man. I couldn't even articulate in the vernacular of the peasantry, like The Wizard in the Wizard of Oz said to his horse when he had just talked to Dorothy as the tornado approached. Nonetheless, I tell everyone that I believe in the Impossible dream. Moreover, I always tell everyone that I am a man of great Faith. But at that time, and for a long time afterwards, I never bothered to read the Bible. And "God" was not even on my mind. Not even as I lay in a gurney in a hospital at Long Bihn, Bien Hoa, Viet Nam, on Christmas Eve in December 1970, as a Catholic Priest and Full Bird Colonel read me my last rites. All I remember was that Priest waving some smoke from some ancient looking incense metal thing as I faded into a  long coma.. And I was not even Catholic. My family was, but I wasn't. Nevertheless, although "God" was not on my mind, and I didn't even call on "Him", "He" had me in "His" mind and "He" helped me when I was given up for dead. But, my Alyssa says to me, "No you are not a great man of faith grandpa!" And so I asked her, "What do you mean?" And she says, "Grandpa, you want to give up Blogging already because you see no results that you were expecting. Grandpa, you have to plant a seed like corn in the ground and wait for it to sprout and grow until the corn is mature and ready to provide nourishment for somebody." But I tell her, "Nana, I hate to farm, and I hate to fish, because I don't have the patience baby." Then she responds and says to me, "Well you see, that is your problem." And she is right, Patience is a Virtue, But... I hate doing Time! Waiting and waiting for this now and then for that later. And again for this and again for that. But, isn't that beautiful, at least it gives life meaning because in the waiting other valuable things happen too. 

For example, I had a dream several years ago. And as the dream unfolds before my eyes, I see that I landed in a nice Nursing Home for seniors somewhere. Maybe it was called, "The Poet's Path?" I don't know? However, the first thing I see is two older well dressed Black men standing in opposite corners in the lobby and both are sobbing and trying to hide their tears. So I walked up to one and asked him what seemed to be bothering him. And he fights back the tears and tells me that he doesn't want to die. So I tell him not to think about those things but he keeps repeating that he doesn't want to die. So I moved over to the other guy and asked him what was bothering him. Keep in mind that I don't know how long they've been at this place. And the second guy really fought back the tears and said, "I don't want to die." So I asked him why not? And he looks at me in my eyes and sees that I am being sincere with him and says, "I have one son that I haven't seen or talked to yet but he lives out of state and he can't take off from his demanding work at home to come and see me. And I just can't leave this earth until I see him. And that's why I don't want to die." That was the end of that dream, but one can see that this is the beauty of living, nobody in their right mind wants to die. However death is an indisputable inevitability like hunger and desire for sex, it always lingers until the end for all of us. 

And as I think back to Gatesville and the young boys who were killed there, and the boys who were thrown away by parents and or the 'System' there. Young boys who committed no crime other than they were not wanted for one reason or the other. Placed with criminals, some were left there from the time they were 10 years old until they turned 21. All I can say is that I am proud that I was there with those guys, all of them.  And having witnessed with my own eyes the inhumane brutally that was the normal daily experience at that Golden Era for us in this place, and trying to grasp what happened here. And while those like Rudy who were listening proudly to the great "Ray Charles" singing "America the Beautiful," I was listening to the great Richie Haven sing, "Freedom!" and about how it feels to be motherless. Motherless for me meant to not know what Justice is! And please note that during this same time period, more that 40 other kids from San Marcos are doing time here also. And they hate the cruelty of the corrupt system that cripples them daily. And they don't know how to articulate their anger and frustration against an invisible Machine like "Mr. T" that manipulates and exploits them at will. Let's sleep on that for now guys, and good night. Again talking to someone, even to yourself, is therapeutic Amigos. Thanks again..                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Respectfully,                                                                                                    

    Ruben N. Gutierrez

ReplyForward

6