“History is the fruit of power, but power itself is never so transparent that its analysis becomes superfluous. The ultimate mark of power may be its invisibility; the ultimate challenge, the exposition of its roots.”
― Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History

 
I sit in a parking lot on the western edge of my university campus overlooking a very busy Interstate 10. Beyond, I can see the border fence. A military vehicle makes its dusty way along the service road in between the fence and the canal with its recent addition of concertina wire. Along this part of the border fence, it is common to see multiple law enforcement agencies—the Border Patrol, the National Guard, State troopers. I am determined to observe all I can.

The vibrant multicolored homes in the distance on the Mexican side of the border catch my eye. Homes painted bright blue, green, purple, and yellow stand out against the desert browns. They are part of a project called El Paso-Ciudad Juarez Mágico, sponsored by the El Paso-based non-profit Amor por Juárez. Behind the non-profit, created in 2009 during the heightened drug violence in Juárez, was the now-defunct Paso del Norte Group (PDNG), a powerful group of binational developers and business leaders formed in the 1990s to remake the Paso del Norte region into a more profitable region for the already wealthy members of the group. While the PDNG used Amor por Juárez to talk about making poor neighborhoods more beautiful in order to create a better quality of life for their residents, on the El Paso side, it targeted poor immigrant neighborhoods like the Segundo Barrio and Barrio Duranguito. The border is filled with such contradictions. It is filled with power made invisible.
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Sitting in my car with the air conditioning running in the mid-afternoon heat, I search the horizon for the tract of land that holds a centuries-long history of power made invisible by half-told and sometimes untold stories. It is the site of the first permanent Fort Bliss, Hart’s Mill, and a collection of historical markers. Located on West Paisano in El Paso, along the border, Border Patrol vehicles sit parked on the other side of the fence. 

As I think about this narrow piece of land and the history that infuses the buildings and the historical markers, I reflect on the ways in which they make power invisible. In 1598, Juan de Oñate passed through the area on his way to Nuevo Mexico. His mission was to conquer and settle New Mexico. He is a controversial figure. His cruelty to Indigenous people is documented yet often contested. Did he order the feet of men from Acoma Pueblo cut off or was it simply their toes? That is what historians debate sometimes.  In 1614, he was exiled from New Mexico for excessive cruelty to both Native people and fellow colonists. Yet, in El Paso and in this strip of land along the river, he is simply “Don Juan de Oñate, Adelantado and Capitan-General, Governor of New Mexico.”  
 
When the Oñate expedition reached the river here in 1598, the Rio Bravo/ Rio Grande was truly a wild river, impossible to cross in most places without the intimate knowledge of the land and the river that the Tampachoa people held. The Tampachoa, called the Mansos (docile) by the Spanish, and their ancestors have lived along the river for centuries. They are still here. In the desert, water always draws people. It was the Tampachoa who taught Oñate and his expedition where to ford the river.  Although the actual crossing occurred to the east in what is now Socorro, a historical marker here celebrates the crossing and the naming of El Paso del Norte. The State of Texas erected the marker in 1936 as part of the state-wide commemoration of the centennial of Texas independence. As I write about here, El Paso’s love of conquistadores and Spanish explorers is rooted this era. Since El Paso was not part of Texas in 1836, we had no traditional Texas history to memorialize. So instead, El Paso turned to conquistadores as a stand-in for white Texan history. 
 
The El Paso del Norte historical marker is accompanied by others.  The Camino Real marker, for example, states that Oñate was the first to travel it in 1598. We know that the many royal roads used during the Spanish colonial period were ancient and well-used trade routes developed by Indigenous people. Indigenous history is invisible here along the border fence.

Here, next to the thirty-foot tall border fence, we learn about the waves of conquistadores, U.S. military leaders, and U.S. businessmen who came to El Paso del Norte (now El Paso and Ciudad Juárez) beginning in the late 16th century. Simeon Hart, whose historical marker touts him as “the main source for securing military supplies” for the Confederacy also notes his ability “to render great service to the Confederacy”; the marker highlights the flour mill that he “founded.” There is no mention of him as a slave owner. The 1860 slave census shows five enslaved people living at El Molina (the mill), ranging from two months to 45 years of age. The slave schedule notes their ages and their sex, but they remain nameless.   They may be the “servants” shown in the 1860 federal census—Charles, Sally, Patsey, Rhoda, and baby Charles.
 
Nor is there mention of his wife Jesusita Siqueiros, the daughter of a wealthy Chihuahua family who owned mills. Beginning in the 1820s, white U.S. men came to northern Mexico where they intermarried into wealthy, politically connected Mexican families, giving them access to political, social, and economic contacts.  I will always remember a column by a well-known local writer who simply stated in 2002 that Hart “married a Mexican girl from southern Chihuahua.” Women become invisible in these narratives.
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​In the 1870s, Hart sold part of his land to Fort Bliss and the officers' quarters remain today. Most recently apartments, the buildings are now boarded up and slowly decaying.  This was the one of many locations of what was originally called “the Post Opposite Paso del Norte.” Founded in 1849, just a year after the end of the U.S.-Mexico War, its purpose was to stop Indigenous people, especially the Apache and Commanche, from crossing the new border. The historical marker mentions Hart and the building materials but says nothing about the purpose of the military fort directly on the river.

​Last week my partner Diana Bynum and our grandson Joaquin Leyva joined the Journey for Justice, a caravan organized by Witness at the Border to bring attention to the distress of migrants coming to the United States and to call for justice. The caravan travelled the entire 2,000 miles of the border.
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Together with his grandmother Diana, Joaquin rode hundreds of miles, stopping at border crossings where local communities told them about the suffering of migrants and what they were doing to help ease it. For Diana, it was important to do something in this moment of crisis. To witness what was happening in other communities. Here in El Paso, Diana had volunteered many hours, feeding migrants, doing arts and crafts with children, making shoelaces, and more. ​​

​In a poem reflecting on that experience, Joaquin wrote
“On the caravan I
Saw new things.
Mountains made
Of boulders.
Deserts filled with
Cacti.
Walls built to isolate.”
 
Diana and Joaquin returned from their journey to a crisis at this border, our home, El Paso. A few days ago, the Texas governor called in the National Guard who placed concertina wire along the border so that no one could cross. Each day, hundreds if not thousands of migrants wait on the international bridges on the Juárez side of the border. US immigration officials are releasing up to 1,000 migrants per day in El Paso and hundreds are on the streets as the temperature drops below freezing. Non-profits and churches are quickly organizing to provide shelter for the people on the streets. Shelters on both sides of the border are overwhelmed.

Many migrants are from Venezuela. Venezuelans are now the second largest group of migrants encountered by the Border Patrol, surpassed only by Mexicans. In the past eight years, millions of venezolanos have left their homes in desperation.  They go to neighboring Latin American countries. They come here. In their home country, over 75% live below poverty, defined globally by the World Bank as $1.90 per day. The daily minimum wage is less an $1.00. Inflation is unbelievable. In 2018, it hit 130,060%. It hovers around 500% now. A cup of coffee is beyond reach of most people at the U.S. equivalent of $2.50. While that may seem affordable to us, it is more than a day’s wages for many Venezuelans.

The migrants wait. It’s ironic that the Spanish word meaning to wait and to hope is the same—esperar. The migrants here at the border do both. They wait, sitting on sidewalks surrounded by bags of meager belongings, covered in blankets, or in lines waiting to eat or be taken into the warmth of a temporary place to stay. And they hope. Hope that the long journey here will allow them to wait out the crisis in their country. Hope that they will be able to work and find security and stability. Hope that their children will thrive. Hope that someday they will be able to return home.
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The border is always a place of contradictions. To live on the border is to be constant witness to the inhumanity of government policies and the generosity and kindness of people. El Pasoans are volunteering at shelters, and providing water, coffee, blankets, and coats from cars parked in areas where migrants wait. They donate meals to shelters and give of their time. It is a generosity of spirit that we have always shown on the border, perhaps because we have little. Perhaps because so many of us remember our parents and grandparents who came seeking a better life.

Joaquin ended the poem by writing,
“No matter how
Dim the light may be.
There is still a
Little bit of hope.
And a little bit we can do to help.
And if we can do
Just that, we can
Create bigger
Change.”
 
As I drive past the hundreds of migrants on the streets of El Paso, I hold on to that little bit of hope. For them. For us.
 

​Presented at Corazón, Historia, Raíces/ El Paso, Texas
November 5, 2022
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Arrival to US

​In 1914, Isidro Ruacho called for his family to join him in El Paso. Emeteria Leyva responded, crossing into El Paso with their four children: Ausencio, Julia, Petra, and Gerónimo. Isidro was tired of the fighting he endured during the Mexican Revolution. His son Gerónimo remembered his mother sending him into the battlefields to look for his father’s body. He talked of walking among the dead men, putting small rocks on their eyelids in order to keep them shut. It was a childhood memory that remained with him throughout his life.
For Isidro and Emeteria, and thousands of other migrants, El Paso represented an escape from the violent chaos of the Revolution. It represented stability. For 3-year-old Gerónimo, however, coming to El Paso embodied the unknown. In a 1978 oral history, Gerónimo remembered crossing the border and walking on El Paso Street, knowing they were now in the United States but having no idea what that meant. Frustrated because he was crying, his brother Ausencio grabbed him by the hand. “Mi hermano estaba ya grandesito y me traía de la mano, hecho a la mocha.”

By the time of their arrival to El Paso, historic Chihuahuita (that included the Segundo Barrio) was the most densely populated area of the city. As the population of the Segundo exploded in the 1910s and into the 1920s, exceeding the capacity of tenements and schools, newly arrived Mexican immigrants began moving eastward along the river into places like the “East El Paso addition.” While the neighborhood was originally populated by “Americanos,” that changed as Mexican immigration transformed the demographics. Isidro and Emeteria were part of this movement to the newer barrios of El Paso in the early 20th century, settling first in a presidio, a one-story apartment building that reminded people of military barracks, on Frutas. Soon after, they moved the family to Pera Street, which just a few years before had been known as Pear Street. Emeteria would live on Pera from the 1910s until her death in 1967. It was a neighborhood of presidios and small, one family homes, and small businesses lining narrow residential streets.
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As a child, Gerónimo’s homelife was culturally Mexican, living in a community just recently uprooted from Mexico, that spoke Spanish, and working to maintain Mexican culture. His contact with English-speaking “Americanos” happened only at school or at work, which he began as a child. Every time we drove on Pera to visit his mother at her home, he would laugh. “Mija, yo andaba en estas calles, un chavalito descalso.” His stories reflected the poverty in which he grew. Even shoes were a luxury.

Church

Like Beall Elementary, another community institution opened in 1908, Guardian Angel Catholic Church.  Italian Jesuit priest Carlos Pinto, known as the “Apostle of El Paso,” founded Guardian Angel or Santo Angel Catholic Church on Frutas, which originally catered to English speaking parishioners. By 1915, as the Mexican community grew, it became a Spanish-speaking congregation and in 1918, the church was turned over to the Mexican Jesuits. There, Gerónimo attended mass and danced as a matachin under the leadership of Marcelino Serna. 

Church was an vital institution to Gerónimo. During my childhood, we attended Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe Church where matachines danced to la Virgen on her day, December 12. Every year, after mass, as we stood with others in the courtyard, watching matachines dance their prayers to la Guadalupana, as had generations before them, my father recalled his childhood dancing as a matachin at Santo Angel under the tutelage of highly-decorated World War I veteran, Marcelino Serna. Serna, born in 1896 in Ciudad Chihuahua, crossed into El Paso in 1916, went to Denver to find work, and volunteered to enter the military when the United States enter the war. He served on the front-line in France and his valor on the battlefield was acknowledged by numerous countries. He was unable to be promoted above private, however, because he did not speak English. In 1924, an article published in the Sioux City Journal describing the “San Lorenzo dances” that took place yearly. “The leader in one of the groups in the El Paso dance is Marcelino Serna, a young Mexican Indian who distinguished himself by killing Germans recently, as his fathers may have distinguished themselves in killing Spaniards or members of alien tribes.”   As a World War II veteran, my father was proud that he had danced under the leadership of Serna. 

Washington Park
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1918 was a momentous and terrific year across the globe as the misnamed Spanish flu killed millions. In El Paso, hundreds became sick every week. Six hundred died here in the first months of the epidemic. The City closed schools, theaters, and churches. Gerónimo fell ill. He remembered, “I was sick, very sick, y no habia medios de ver doctor ni nada.” He was fevered. He couldn’t breathe. His mother Emeteria went to Washington Park and picked leaves from the fresnos there, the ash trees. She made a bed of the leaves on the floor and had him lay down on them. In traditional healing (including Chinese and European), the ash tree is known to reduce fevers and help with arthritis, gout, and other afflictions. “Pero gracias a Dios no nos murimos nadie de la familia. Y de eso me acuerdo mucho también,” remembered Gerónimo.

Mission theater

In August 1917, the El Paso Herald Post announced the opening of the Alameda Theater [1] under the ownership of  Jose Soltern  and the management of Jesus Ontiveros. The theater was part of a growing number of movie theaters in El Paso that catered to its expanding population. Often when driving on Alameda returning home from my grandmother’s house, my father would point to what was later the Mission Theater, the headquarters of the Mine, Mill, and Smelter Workers, and eventually the Mine and Mill Bar. “Look at that theater, mija. I used to sneak in there with my friends to watch movies.” According to historian David Dorado Romo, over a dozen movie theaters were constructed in El Paso between 1910 and 1920. Often the theaters catered to the more wealthy Mexican refugees who were seeking entertainment. For impoverished children like Gerónimo, who also wanted entertainment, sneaking into the theater was the only way to enjoy moving pictures.

          In the 1940s, the Alameda Theater was purchased by new owner,  remodeled and renamed the Mission Theater. The management sought to appeal to “white patrons,” living on the east side.  

Orphanage

At some point in his early childhood, Gerónimo’s mother left him with a señora for six months. He never knew why she suddenly left him or why she unexpectedly reappeared, but we know that Mexican families often struggled to provide for their children and arrangements were made between families. In the 1920s, after the death of my maternal grandmother, her youngest living son was placed in an orphanage for several months when the family was unable to care for him. In Socorro, Texas, the County Poor Farm took in who they called “abandoned and neglected children,” mostly Mexican beginning in the 1930s.

El Paso proper had a number of orphanages early on. First, there was an orphanage for white Protestant children, followed by an orphanage for white Catholic children. It was not until the second decade of the twentieth century that Mexican children in El Paso could rely on an orphanage of their own and it was located in East El Paso where the current Father Yermo school is located.  In February of 1920, the Sisters of the Society of the Servants of the Sacred Heart and of the Poor, whose motherhouse was located in Puebla, Mexico, opened an orphanage for Mexican girls.  Lacking the support of El Paso's Anglo Americans and with the Mexican community lacking the resources to provide for the children, the orphanage depended on the work of the sisters and the orphans for survival.  The Sisters sold flowers and taught the older girls how to embroider.  Through the sale of flowers and their embroidery, the Sisters and the girls earned over $3,000.  To make ends meet, they also grew their own vegetables and provided milk to the children through the use of their two cows.  

John Lucas and Felicitas Ruacho

East El Paso was also home to African Americans, many who worked at the nearby railroads. All my life, I heard about my father’s aunt Felicitas who had married a Black man named John Lucas. Unexpectedly one day several years ago, I found mention of them in a tiny announcement in the January 29, 1920 issue of the El Paso Herald.  There, next to an ad for the “calyx skirt” and just below an article pitting the intelligence of brunettes against that of blondes, was an article, “El Pasoans wed in Las Cruces.” The couple married in Las Cruces, no doubt, to escape Texas’ anti-miscegenation law. Despite our treatment as second-class citizens, Mexican Americans were legally defined as white. In the early 20th century, Las Cruces, New Mexico provided opportunities to Black El Pasoans that were denied by Texas law, including the right to marry a “white” woman and get an education at the New Mexico College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts.

In the early twentieth century, as Felicitas and John wed, Black men and Mexican women created intimate relationships while facing criticism and threats from the judicial system. The classification of Mexican and Mexican American women as “white” made Mexican-Black marriages illegal in many states, including Texas. It didn’t matter that some of the couples were married in places where they could marry (Mexico, for example). Their marriage was still against Texas law. As one observer wrote, the men were in trouble for marrying their color, but not their race. The day following the arrests, numerous Black families moved across the border to Ciudad Juárez. (See chapter 2 in Porous Borders for more on this story.)  A Texas law passed just five years before Felicitas and John married made intermarriage a criminal offense punishable by two to five years in the penitentiary. A 1925 Miscegenation law declared interracial marriage a felony and nullified interracial marriages even if they occurred in a place where these marriages were legal.  Despite their efforts, Felicitas and John found themselves breaking the law through their marital relationship. Texas' anti-miscegenation law remained on the books until 1967.        
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The couple resided on Palm, just west of Beall School. A look at the 1920 census shows that the two block long street was home to both Mexican and Black families. The male heads of Black households worked for the railroads while Mexican heads of households held a variety of positions. The small Mexican and Black street was just a 15 minute walk from Douglass Elementary School, El Paso’s segregated Black school.

Conclusion
          I am grateful for my father’s stories, for the way they ground me, for the way they allow me to see history.

Sources

Vamos al cine: Film Exhibition and Moviegoing in El Paso, Texas, 1935–1955 - ProQuest
Access Newspaper Archive Institutional Version | Viewer (oclc.org)
Access Newspaper Archive Institutional Version | Viewer (oclc.org)
A History of Beal School, El Paso, TX 

 My mother in front of the presidio apartments  where she lived in El Segundo Barrio, 1920s.

My flapper mother in the late 1920s