Let Their Spirits Dance

by Stella Pope Duarte

  Frederick ·

  Friday morning, June 6, we’re still in Frederick. It’s as if we don’t want to leave. The sun is shining, and the day is incredibly clear. We have breakfast at a diner that looks like a train. It’s got all kinds of artifacts related to the era of trains and trolley cars. Mom looks strong, and her energy spreads to all of us. We’ve been traveling, hypnotized by the sun rising and setting in a country so beautiful it makes your heart long to hold it all in your arms. We’ve seen so many landscapes they’ve blurred into one. Deserts look like forests with fewer trees, and the pattern of stars at night is the same over Denver as it is over Pittsburgh. American families look alike whether they eat in a McDonald’s in Raton, New Mexico, or Topeka, Kansas. It’s the same tradition of moms, dads, grandparents, single parents with kids.

  I’ve never seen the bloodied fields of Vietnam. Jesse did. I’ve been protected, spied on by Heaven, seduced by the winds over the flatlands and mountains of America, seduced to believe that the American way of life is the only reality. We’re foreigners, still, the remnant of Aztlán, issuing from caves, blinking in white sunlight, rounding the detours of America to get to its wailing wall, clearing the underbrush to find a straight path to D.C., the city of pain, straight to the warrior’s heart that charmed the sun into moving across the sky in the splendid empire of the Aztecs.

  • WE FINISH BREAKFAST and head back to the motel. By the time we get there, the motel parking lot is crowded with cars and vans from local news stations. There are reporters with cameras and microphones standing in the motel office.

  “Oh, man, take a look at this! Are we celebrities, or what?”

  “So, this is what Holly meant by ‘Get ready for Frederick,’” Chris says.

  “Is this a press conference, Mom?” Lilly asks.

  “I guess that’s what it is.”

  “Is something wrong?” Mom asks.

  “Just people, lots of people, who want to talk to us. Don’t get nervous, Mom.”

  “I don’t think she’s nervous at all,” Chris says. “What about you, Teresa?” He eases our van into the parking lot, takes his sunglasses off and looks closely at me. “Well? Are you OK?”

  “I don’t know. All this delay. We need to keep moving.”

  “These reporters will be hard to shake. They’ve been waiting for us. We’re probably their six o’clock news report.”

  A man approaches our van as Chris comes to a stop. I put my window down and he leans into the open space. “How do you do? My name is Diego Mendoza.” The man’s Spanish name surprises me. He’s light-skinned, someone who could pass for white.

  “I’m from News Channel Ten, and we’d like to do a story on your mom.” Behind him are at least ten more reporters with cameras rolling.

  “The question is, does she want to do a story with you? We’re pretty much in a hurry to get to the Vietnam Wall. As a matter of fact, we’re running late.”

  “I realize that, and it won’t take long, I promise!” He puts his hand over his heart, briefly, as if he’s making a pledge. “The nation is caught up with your family’s journey, Teresa. You are Teresa, right?”

  I nod. “Your mother’s faith, and the love for her son that’s caused her to risk her life to come this far is what’s keeping the nation on your trail.” He smiles broadly. “You understand?” Then he looks over at Mom. “Señora Ramirez, will you talk to me?”

  “Are you a mejicano?”

  “Yes. My family’s from Guadalajara.”

  “Do you know any Mendozas from Phoenix? There was a Mendoza family who helped us when we had no money for food. Do you remember them, Teresa?”

  “No, Mom. I don’t.”

  “I do,” Irene says. “It was a big family. Fifteen kids!”

  “Your dad was so proud, Teresa, even though he had nothing to be proud about. He wouldn’t let us get on welfare when he was out of work. The Mendozas helped us by giving us government food. Era comida, it was food, and I sneaked it into the house so your dad wouldn’t see it. Si, of course, I’ll talk to you!”

  Diego Mendoza helps Mom and Irene off the van. “Were you named after Juan Diego—the one who saw La Virgen at Tepeyac?”

  “The very same one.”

  “La Virgen must be sending us a message. What do you think, Irene?”

  “She is miraculous,” Irene says. “She must be telling us we’ll be at the Wall very soon.”

  We walk with Mom to the motel lobby. We’re followed by the reporters and cameramen. Everyone else catches up to us. “Are you gonna let Mom do this?” Paul asks.

  “She wants to do it. Ask her yourself.”

  Paul walks up to Mom and the reporter. “Excuse me,” he tells Diego Mendoza. “I need to know if my mother wants to do this press conference.”

  “She gave me the OK.”

  “Mom, is that true? You want to talk to all these people?”

  “Si, mijo. Don’t worry. This man’s name is Diego Mendoza. There was a Mendoza family who helped us when we were starving.”

  “He’s not related to them!”

  “We’re all related. Somos familia.”

  I look over at Paul. “Told you.”

  Questions start, as all of us settle into the lobby. Mom and Irene sit together on a flowered couch. I sit next to Mom. Paul stands behind her, and Priscilla sits on the armrest next to me. The kids sit on the carpet. Everybody else locates a space on a chair or couch, and in most cases, just stand wherever room can be found. The bright camera lights make me feel as if we’re on stage.

  Diego Mendoza starts the questions. “You’re almost in D.C.,” he says, looking directly at me. “What thoughts do you have to share with us about your trip, Teresa?”

  “It’s been hard traveling, and there were times none of us thought we’d ever get to the end. But it’s all been worth it, such a beautiful country we have, and all the people we’ve met along the way have made it all worth it.”

  “And to think it all started with you, Mrs. Ramirez.” He looks at Mom. “You heard voices?” I scan the faces around the room to see what reaction his words have made. Nobody flinches. It’s business as usual.

  “Voices? Yes, but I didn’t know what they were saying. I never heard them before.”

  “How do you know it was your son?”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know their voices?”

  “Yes.”

  Diego Mendoza smiles.

  One of the women reporters asks, “How do you feel now, Mrs. Ramirez? Now that you’re almost there?”

  “My mijo, that’s Jesse. He didn’t call me here for nothing. I feel strong. I could walk the rest of the way!” Everyone laughs along with Mom. “It’s la manda, my promise that’s making me strong. I made a promise to get there, and I’m going to keep it. God is leading the way, and La Virgen.” She lifts up the medallion. We will get there. My friend, here, Irene, has a son on the Wall, too.”

  Irene leans into a microphone. “My son’s name is Faustino Lara,” she says. Irene says her son’s name slowly, as if she wants everyone to hear it correctly.

  One reporter wants to know how many messages we’ve received on our web site. Cameras turn to Michael. “Over two thousand,” Michael says. “Some people send two or more messages, but there’s always somebody sending us a message.”

  “And you are how old, Michael?”

  “I’m twelve. There’s my dad over there.” He points to Paul.

  One reporter asks Paul, “How does it feel to be the father of such a bright boy?”

  “It feels good. My whole family is smart. I’m proud of my son.”

  “Your brother, Jesse, did he win the Congressional Medal of Honor?”

  “No. He won a Purple Heart, a Bronze Medal, a Silver Star, and other medals. It’s not the medals that make a soldier, it’s the kind of person he is. You can’t forget somebody like Jesse because of who he was. He was my only brother, but he was more than tha
t. He was like a dad to me, a friend I could always count on. He was my hero.”

  Priscilla whispers in my ear, “Wow.”

  One woman stands up and asks, “These voices, has your mother ever had this experience before? Could this phenomenon be related to medication or to her health?”

  Priscilla answers quickly, “If you think Mom needs Prozac, you’re wrong! She’s the sanest person I’ve ever known.” There is a pause, as the newspeople talk among themselves.

  “I’m sorry, I meant no offense,” the woman says.

  One man addresses the vets. “You men who served. Have any of you visited the Wall before?”

  They all respond that they haven’t. I notice Pepe, Gonzalo, and Fritz standing just outside the front door. I signal them to come in, and they shake their heads—no.

  “I didn’t even want to come on this trip,” Gates says.

  “Why was that?” the man asks.

  “I didn’t think I was good enough. My life has taken some detours, you might say.” Gates smiles. “But things have changed. I’d like to thank the Ramirez family, and especially Mrs. Ramirez, for inviting me to come. Being here is making me realize how lucky I was to have friends like Jesse.”

  “We’re connected to the guys on the Wall,” Chris says, “whether we know it or not. When we were out on those hills, I can tell you we fought for each other. We couldn’t depend on the government. None of it made any sense.” I look at Chris and nod my head.

  “I’m hoping to meet other Chinese Americans at the Wall who served in Vietnam,” Willy says. “The Vietnamese thought I was one of them when I wasn’t in my uniform.”

  “Any comments from you? I’m sorry, your name?” One reporter is looking at Yellowhair.

  “I’m Yellowhair. This is my mother, Sarah.” He puts his arm around his mother. “My brother Strong Horse was killed in Vietnam. We’ve always sent warriors to battle. It’s no new thing for us.”

  “Or for any of us,” Manuel says. “Chicanos are another group who have been drafted left and right, along with the Blacks, and other minorities.”

  “So, it’s the government’s mistake that made all this possible?” one woman asks.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “Money, long overdue. They sent Jesse to the wrong address, that was a nightmare for us.”

  Diego Mendoza looks at me and says, “I understand President Clinton is sending some White House aides to meet you at the Wall.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of that,” I tell him.

  Our press conference ends with some comments from the kids. The kids wave to their friends back home, and I wave to Elsa, and my granddaughter, Marisol. I sigh out loud in relief. “I never want to do this again,” Priscilla tells me. My mother and Irene sit like two queens, totally poised, waiting for someone to lead them to their royal coach. “They probably wouldn’t mind it,” I tell Priscilla. “Did you ever think Mom could do all this?”

  “Surprises come in small packages, I guess,” Priscilla says.

  • BEFORE WE LEAVE the motel, I get a call from Lieutenant Major William Prescott, who tells me the Army would like to have a ceremony for us at the Wall on Saturday morning. He tells me the president would like to pay tribute to the men who served in Vietnam, and especially Hispanic soldiers. I tell Mom the news, and she looks at me, her face weary. “Era hora,” she says. It’s about time.

  The Wall ·

  We’re driving into D.C. at dusk on Friday, June 6, 1997. The press conference made us late. What should have taken us no more than two hours’ travel time has now extended to a whole afternoon. We drive past green, rolling hills, thick foliage, wildflowers, and huge trees. Picturesque homes, some with red barns, and tin roofs dot the landscape. We move slowly, waiting for the vehicles to line up so nobody gets lost. We’ve decided to go big and stay at the Capitol Hilton, only blocks away from the White House.

  “Did it rain?” I ask Chris.

  “No, why?”

  “All the cars look washed.” He looks through the rearview mirror and laughs. “They’re just shining in the sun, Teresa. We’re at the end, that’s what’s making everything so clear.”

  Traffic is picking up, fast cars that move helter-skelter all around us. Some appear to be following our vehicles, making us look like a cavalcade of at least fifty cars. The flags and Zuñi feathered wands on our vehicles are fluttering in the breeze, waving a colorful salute.

  “Look, Mom! Look at all the people following us!” Mom turns to look out the back window.

  “Ay Dios mio! Will we all fit at the hotel?”

  “Mom, they’re not staying with us! They’re probably people who live around here. People who have been reading about us, or watching us on TV.”

  “God bless them all!”

  “Can you imagine if they all stayed with us?” Chris asks me.

  “Don’t say it too loud. Mom might get the idea into her head.”

  We’re driving down Georgia Avenue on the northeast side. We see Black people everywhere, crossing the street, walking the sidewalks, kids playing out in crowded apartments.

  “La capital!” Irene cries with joy. “We’re here, Alicia, here to touch our sons’ names! What would they say to see us here? Ay mijitos!”

  Then without warning, my mother begins to sing in a voice so clear and crisp, you’d think she was thirty, instead of seventy-nine.

  Bendito, Bendito, Bendito sea Dios

  los angeles cantan, y alaban a Dios

  los angeles cantan, y alaban a Dios.

  I turn to look at her and her face is radiant. If I could have taken her picture in that instant, I would have framed it and put it into one of the stained glass windows at St. Anthony’s Church. I wave at Manuel and Priscilla in the van following us. Their images blur through my tears.

  Yo creo Dio mio que estás en el altar

  oculto en la hostia te vengo adorar

  oculto en la hostia de vengo adorar.

  Bendito, Bendito, Bendito sea Dios

  los angeles cantan y alaban a Dios

  los angeles cantan y alaban a Dios.

  My mother’s voice is rushing in my ears, and I never want her to stop, not now, not ever. Her voice is my lullaby again, caressing my soul. We round the corner onto Constitution Avenue and see the Capitol loom ahead of us, imposing, regal. On either side are buildings that belong to the Smithsonian, some with American flags waving from entrances and front lawns. The cavalcade of cars curves behind us with my mother’s voice announcing to the nation’s capital that we are here, the Mexicas of Aztlán, to pay honor to their fallen warriors.

  • WE DRIVE BY the memorials, but don’t stop to get down. We barely glimpse the pathway leading to the Wall, and the Wall itself, off in the distance. There is anxious energy in all of us, we want to run to the Wall, and we want to run the other way. We decide to get to our rooms and wait for the ceremony promised by the Army in the morning. My mother says nothing when I tell her we’re staying at the Hilton. I expected a lecture about the cave Christ was born in, and how La Virgen didn’t even have a decent blanket to wrap Him in, but she only nods, and asks me if I got rooms for everybody, including Pepe, Gonzalo, and Fritz. Pobres, she says, they probably drink to stop their pain. That’s the way it is with men, she says, always wanting to hide their pain.

  Mom looks so strong, I swear she’s gotten ten years younger. Her appetite is good. She eats dinner for the first time in weeks and finishes the meal. Mom and Irene tease each other like girls in school, laughing about what they’ve been through to get to this city. I imagine them teenagers, giggling behind their hands, wearing miniature copies of their Virgen medallions. They’ve arrived to where their sons are immortalized in granite, etched in silence, reflecting back light from the sun shining overhead.

  That night Chris and I decide to go dancing. There’s a sigh of relief between us, a coming together that makes us feel comfortable with each other. We’re los peregrinos, the pilgrims who made it through valleys, hills, and encha
nted landscapes to come to the end of an old woman’s promise, la manda she made to God, a compact that could never be broken, except by death. We should have set our sights on Magdalena, Mexico, at least we could have lifted San Francisco’s head from its stiff pillow and know our prayer was being answered. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do at the Wall, except touch Jesse’s name—all this way to touch his name.

  • MANUEL, PRISCILLA, PAUL, DONNA, AND GATES decide to join us for the evening. The kids, Willy, Susie, and Sarah stay back at the Hilton with the Guadalupanas. Yellowhair, Gonzalo, Pepe, and Fritz decide to go off to the seamy side of the city to look for action.

  Visits to the web page have tripled the closer we get to D.C. It takes all Michael’s time to man the web page and answer as many requests as he can. We’ve taken rooms on the Towers floor of the Hilton and get our own concierge who provides us personalized service. We get our own fax machine, which Michael and Cisco are using to send faxes to some of the people who have visited our web site.

  The old women set up their makeshift altar on a coffee table draped in white linen. The image of La Virgen, the statue of El Santo Niño with Jesse, Faustino, and Gustavo’s photos propped up in the middle, are becoming familiar faces glowing between the flickering candles.

  The Hilton staff is looking in on us every hour. They heard about the money we got from the government and know our names from stories they read about us in the newspaper. The whole place makes the Guadalupanas nervous. They’re not used to being served. The rooms are too rich for them, they say. I’m glad it’s late, and we can’t go off hunting for another hotel.