A SMOKER’S DELIGHT
As I gathered my bearings and prepared to move on, I suddenly started to think of Billy and his wife way over in Chihuahua. The residents thereabout were suffering through a spat of inclement weather and an early Winter was predicted. Billy, elated with the recent news about the much-rumored legalization of marijuana, would keep warm smoking his doobies. Well, it wasn’t exactly the case.
Mexico’s Congress had just opened a three-day debate on the pros and cons of legalizing marijuana for personal use, which was a policy backed by three former Latin American presidents who’d warned that the crackdown on drug cartels was not working. Presidente Calderon’ was adamant that his crack-down would with American help, but with the New Obama administration backing off and having second thoughts, it was deemed proper to reconsider their options. Although Calderon’ continually opposes the idea, the highly unusual forum demonstrated that legalizing marijuana is gaining support in Mexico amid brutal drug violence.
Who would’ve thought?
Such a measure was certain to strain relations with the United States at a time when the two countries were being more cordial with each-other in the offensive against drug trafficking.
The congressional debate, which was a waste of time, ended just one day before Obama was due to arrive in Mexico to quetch and kvetch about the drug war. Proponents had encouragement the previous February when the said three former presidents Cesar Gaviria of Colombia, Ernesto Zedillo of Mexico and Fernando Cardoso of Brazil urged Latin American countries to consider legalizing the weed, in effect depriving the cartels of their income. It was their way of apologizing for failed leadership.
The congressional discussion took on a subject “that had been taboo” in Mexico, said a local pot-smoker I’d run into in Durango, adding that his Democratic Revolution Party supported its legalization for personal “medicinal” consumption. BULLSHIT!
But, that is what all dopers hope for, and he further insisted, “What we don’t want is to criminalize youths for consuming or possessing marijuana.”
At least now he made some sense.
Calderon’, whose six-year terms ends in 2012, had proposed changing the law and to make it easier for users to get treatment instead of jail time but stop short of decriminalizing its sale and use.
Before I arrived, Mexico had considered acting on legislation that would have abolished prison sentences for drug possession in small amounts, but America squawked and that was the end of that.
“It’s clear that a totally prohibitive policy has not been a solution for all ills,” said a local police big-wig. “At the same time, it’s illusory to imagine that complete legalization of marijuana would be a panacea.”
Though not according to the smokers!
On the streets everywhere one could see activists urging voters to pressure lawmakers to keep in mind that drug use and abuse were still rising in Mexico. The number of people who have tried drugs rose by a million in 2008, while the number of addicts rose from 307,000 to an estimated 465,000 ~ according to newspapers’ statistics. Frankly, I was surprised the numbers were so low, unless the officials weren’t releasing the actual figures.
Drug-abuse related violence has surged to unprecedented levels since Calderon’ launched his offensive against the powerful trafficking cartels in 2006. Most, however, ask themselves how Calderon’ has managed to escape assassination. Lawmakers refused to deal with specific proposals in either case, and the fight was not expected to result in concerted action. Lawmakers have said they want to continue the study before they even begin to consider proposed bills for legitimizing Pot, and thus make Billy Miles happy.
The time had come, inevitably, to depart Durango and head on somewhere else. I had thought to make for Coahuila, but the weather was not permitting, so I changed course and ended up in Aguascalientes (literally “Hot Water”): Although this state is not often billed as a tourist center, international busy-bodies, as well as yokels from all over Mexico, are attracted to the San Marcos Fair, which is considered the national fair of the whole country and contributes much to Mexico’s economy. Recently, Aguascalientes, also the name of the capital city, has gained some notoriety as a “hot” destination for its superb colonial architecture visible in the colonial centre, as well as the modernity and dynamism in the outskirts.
The city is also popular for its ambiance of relaxation and for its security and cleanliness, as it is often lauded by people when traveling to this part of the country. The place is indeed known for “Hot Water,” and the haciendas, hot springs and baths scattered around the state are also of recreational relevance besides the historical landmarks. In the city of Aguascalientes one of the most enchanting sunsets in the world can be seen in the Cerro del Muerto (Hill of the Dead); the hill resembles the shape of a man lying down. The city of Aguascalientes is called “el corazon’” which means “the heart” of Mexico because it lies in the middle of the country.
Coming here was significant to me because I would meet a couple of distant relatives on my mother’s side who are, or had been Roman Catholic priests; a fact which was unusual only because most of my mother’s relatives are, or had been clergy-bashing Freemasons. Bernardo Lugo Rivera, related to my mother once removed, was the first one of my local contacts to receive my introduction query, and warmly welcomed me to his home. Oddly enough, I arrived to discover he was in the middle of quite a controversy of his own. If the inheritance squabbles between the Martins back in Jalisco weren’t enough, now I would be a reluctant observer of a sex scandal. Ostensibly he had admitted the previous month that he is the father of a child conceived while he was still a Roman Catholic priest. Bernardo, a middle-height and lanky figure, quiet and shy though somewhat cave-mannish in appearance, surprised his parish by acknowledging he had suffered an intimate relationship not only with some local church-mouse named Victoria Vargas, the child’s mother, just five days after lawyers for Vargas announced they were filing a paternity suit against him but also with a fellow named Nicolas Mejia, an effeminate though handsome, faux-blonde and pot-smoking gay man who claimed to be Bernardo’s partner. For a minute there I thought I was in the middle of a scene in some updated version of Tennessee Williams’ Night of the Iguana!
Before I had a chance to ask questions, he was harangued by the local press and a parish lynch-mob, forcing him to respond, “Here and now, before my people and my conscience, I declare with absolute honesty and a sense of duty and transparency in relation to the controversy provoked by the paternity suit, that there was a relationship with Victoria Vargas.” Then he went on after swallowing his pride along with some emotions, “I assume all responsibilities ... and recognize the paternity of the child, and promise to protect the boy’s privacy. He will lack for nothing as long as I can help it.”
I was aghast at the personal drama I had stumbled upon. I had really to think hard whether to stay and take in all the emotions, or flee for quieter prospects. After all, I didn’t know this guy, he was just a distant relative I’d heard about in passing years before. Hence, would it behoove me to experience a real live sex scandal? I caved in to my baser instincts, and resolved to take in all of the juicy details.
After the commotion had died down (somewhat), I approached him with my own questions, but he said he would not comment further on the matter for the rest of the day, and would instead focus on his responsibility. It was not known if Vargas had immediately responded to Bernardo’s surprise announcement, but her lawyer, like a true blue vulturine opportunist, said he was pleased. All that I could express was my dismay and sympathy for this fellow who, like my Jalisco relatives, I had never met before but now found myself in the middle of his worst tribulations. He did later complain to me that, “By recognizing I am the father of the child, I proved my persecutors right. But I had no intention of inventing anything.”
He also confided that he did not know immediately what would happen with the lawsuit. A couple of weeks before, he’d said he would withdraw
it after Vargas denied approving it.
But, the Judge said the law required the case to continue, even if Vargas’s lawyers withdraw it. Bernardo would be notified in three days of the content of the lawsuit in any case.
Frankly, had I known about this scandal beforehand I think I would have braved the cold winds of Coahuila. While Bernardo would remain silent about the allegations until the forthcoming Wednesday, he did plan to say that the paternity claim “must be false.” His legal adviser called it a smear campaign by Vargas’s lawyers, so what advice could I give him? He was very humble with me and very generous, but so pre-occupied nonetheless that at times I felt like he was unaware of my presence.
Nicolas came in soon-after, and we all had a long conversation about it. “Generally speaking,” said Nicolas, “people get more in trouble for lying about what they’ve done than for what they’ve actually done,” which was some advice he admitted he should have used after he had initially denied his relationship with uncle Bernardo. Then, to my consternation, Nicolas pulled out a roach and starting smoking away, and suffused the atmosphere with the noxious fumes. I almost gagged. But, his face lit up and he exclaimed, “Ah, such a smoker’s delight!”
With Bernardo joining him, I had little choice but to shut up!
As I saw this affair (which really concerned me not), by acknowledging his son Bernardo could steal thunder from the opposition and would be able to move forward and focus on his more compelling problems--namely his active support for the legalization of marijuana, and more importantly, his position on gay matrimony in view of the fact that he was currently involved with another man, and his Roman Catholic convictions prevented him from accepting such unions. Bernardo, 48, had resigned in 2004 as pastor of San Pedro, latterly his Aguascalientes parish and the poorest in the region. I also learned that in December 2006 he announced that he was renouncing the priesthood itself to run for local office and fight for legalized marijuana and Gay rights. But it was not until July 31 of last year that he was given “consecrated” permission to resign by his archbishop, thus relieving him of his chastity vows, and freeing him to pursue the kind of love that dare not speak its name in provincial Mexico.
With all the details of a troubled vocation flying back and forth, I learned that his boy was born on May 4, 2007, and that the child is named Armindo Primo de Rivera in honor of Bernardo’s grandfather.
The mother is now 26, but her relationship with the priest-turned-political hack began when she was 16, according to Bernardo’s own admission. His opponents in the state legislature called on the Church to excommunicate him for allegedly having a relationship with an adolescent while he was a priest, but nothing came of that.
Monsignor. Mario Medina Villalobos, who had been present at the gathering in Bernardo’s home and had initially supported his onetime pupil, was the first member of the local clergy to react.
“Bernardo lied to the church, but better late than never, as the saying goes,” Medina said to the group. “He won’t be the only one who lies to the church, but he recognized his mistake and that is a courageous act. Truth be told, courage is a trait rarely to be seen in the Church.”
I personally think that Bernardo’s acknowledgment of his paternity effectively stopped the growing scandal dead in its tracks. The monsignor further remarked, “He is not the first priest with a child.”
Unfortunately, many of his parishioners considered the scandal a black eye for the Catholic Church, which 90 percent of Mexicans identify as their faith, and residents of Aguascalientes are particularly touchy about the subject. Others believe the church should examine its celibacy (rule for clergy), because it’s an embarrassment that more and more priests have had sex with parishioners, and a boy was born out of Bernardo’s relationship. Fortunately, he was accepting his responsibility as father, that’s all I could say. The episode was like another “telenovela” (soap opera), but fewer and fewer people were tuning in to watch the almost formulaic melodrama.
When we finally had a few moments alone together, I explained the reasons for my adventure, he explained the finer points of smoking marijuana with Nicolas (among other things), and the revelation he’d had which led him to emerge from the closet of sexual shame. We further exchanged laughs, anecdotes, and a few hopes for the future.
GETTING MY MOXY BACK
At this point in my journey I felt like I was losing my drive, my motivation ... my “moxy.” Everything seemed to be falling apart on me, and at each point of arrival I was being met with more and more controversy rather than enthusiastic assistance, which, to reiterate, was all I wanted. The anxiety surrounding, and conflicts within the family relations were putting a damper on everything, and the more I crossed state borders, the more I antagonized the federales, thus laying myself bare to dishonorable deportation.
After talking and dealing with Bernardo for a couple of days, I started to feel a turn-around in my mood. Nicolas would poke fun at me (and that’s all he poked) that it was the pot fumes that were working their “magic” on me. My “humors” were in tact, nonetheless, and my reason unclouded, despite Nicolas’s arguments to the contrary. After much reflection and introspection, the light of inspiration slowly flickered again, and I could focus on my purpose once more in spite of the pot and silly insinuations.
The next morning I exclaimed with glee, Praise Heaven! I found the will, if not the energy, to work on my journal again after a 5-day lapse ~ the very days since the arsenal explosions in Durango.
I was getting my moxy back! But, there surely had been a lot of distraction. Hopefully, from now on I could return to my goals without confrontational interruptions from nagging parishioners or loitering lovers with a penchant for ganja worship.
Bernardo and I talked calmly about the scandal. He meekly apologized for allowing the affair to become so damn caliente (hot). But, in a few more weeks it would all be OVER, or so he wanted to believe. I shared with him a letter of introduction written by Consuelo, whom he knew very well. He then showed me pictures of his grandfather Armindo, and offered to scan them so I could have a copy of each before I left. From them I could see my family resemblance and get a feel for our family heritage. I thought it all too curious considering how Corazon had compared me to her Grandpa David. Did I possess such a common face that I could be confused for anyone, albeit old grandfatherly types?
Bernardo insisted the pictures would show me how well I fit in to the overall scheme. Moreover, without pressing him, he shared stories Grandpa Armindo had told him about his run-in, and experiences with Fulgencio San Roman ~ stories about politics and their mutual association with an underground writers’ group that opposed the increasingly patronizing hold the PRI Party was tightening around Mexico’s democratic institutions back in the 1950s. For the present I needed only to hang on a bit longer.
I was quite curious and anxious to learn more about my family heritage, albeit loosely connected with respect to Bernardo.
I think it was finally settling in that it was not just a symbolical adoption, but the return of a long lost half brother of mine! At this point I felt like I had three grand-fathers; I wasn’t just a Martin, but the grandson of Armindo and Fulgencio. Yet, what of Fulgencio? His life was hanging by a thread, to coin a phrase, and a death watch had commenced. All that I could think about was whether I could make it back in time to Reynosa and pay my respects before this great and mysterious institution of cinema-art had passed away.
Even though it was more of a coincidence than anything else, it was so ironic that my own great-grandfather Alberto Aldama, father of my father’s mother, was of fine Sephardic stock (speaking of the latter, I swear to you, my grandmother Justina looks just like Menachem Begin if he were a drag queen), and, like Armindo, had made good money in the meat-packing business. He put my own father to work, and he did so until he was 21 ~ yes, my “old man” could have inherited the whole enterprise and could have died a millionaire, but, way back then, he decided he’d had enough of the stench of dead
carcasses stuck up his nose, and waved off Great-Grandpa Alberto. He’d decided on the life of a male whore until he met my mother about 8 years later, and the rest, as they say, is tragedy.
Furthermore, it seemed like the family meat-packing vocation asserted itself now that I had discovered I was related to Bernardo.
I found it also quite funny that Grandpa Armindo, just like Corazon’s grandfather, had moved to California so that no one would know him. Why? Who was he running away from?
Neither Bernardo nor anyone could tell me, but it happened way back in 1952, the very year my parents were married.
Drudging up the family history was turning out be a lot more interesting than I’d supposed.
Bernardo wasn’t sure when those pictures he showed me were taken, probably in the 1940’s. Grandpa Armindo died in the 1970’s from cancer. He was a tough bird, hated by most ~ but he was always nice to those who knew him best. He was just a typical Mexican Macho-Gentleman who wouldn’t tolerate crap from anybody!
The hours came and went, and I bucked up and decided to get moving again. No sooner had I resolved to take a side-trip to one of the natural hot-springs of Aguascalientes and thereafter soaked my travel-weary carcass in a boiling bath, when another scandal exploded over Bernardo’s head, and this time involved many priests and their parishes. Thus my new found relative, who was long gone from his sacerdotal duties, was attacked again, and this time it really involved Nicolas; for years he had served as Bernardo’s private secretary and personal manager, hence much of what they were being accused of fell on his head. The press had a field day interrogating poor saps like them and other priests and bishops they had exposed. Bills for porn movies, horse manure, a chocolate Santa Claus, all listed as expense claims by the respective bishops and priests to pay for an array of items. They were initially exposed by a disgruntled former priest who had heretofore fled to Spain. Then the regional newspapers ran away with the juicy rumors the following Friday, stoking public anger over congregational excesses amid the protracted recession. The Aguascalientes Daily published details of claims related to 13 priests and offered examples of hundreds of other bills submitted by them to their respective dioceses, and their bishops seemed to have participated in the graft. The documents revealed how some diocesans used lax regulations to accumulate hefty bills to pay for their relatives’ housing taxes and costs of furnishing homes, while others claimed for trivial amounts including a packet of pork rinds worth about $1, two cans of cat food and an ice cube tray (these belonged to Nicolas).
A Wetback in Reverse Page 33