Tribute to Rudolfo Anaya

El Caldo de Los Años: For Rudolfo Anaya

Denise Chávez

I met Rudolfo Anaya in El Año del Caldo. In the Way Back of my Life as a writer. In the before of my declaring myself to the universe. Back there in the murky stew of indecisive living that is called youth. We met in Santa Fe, where I was living and working as an Artist in the Schools. He came from Albuquerque to go over my submission, “Willow Game,” for an anthology called Cuentos Chicanos.

I do not remember where I heard about the anthology, or how I decided to submit. Prior to this, I was living in Española and teaching at Northern New Mexico Community College. It was my first teaching job. It had been a big move for this Sureña, more monumental than I could ever have imagined. My uncle, Sammie Chávez, made light of my job—”What are you going to do with those hicks up there?” I would later say to him that it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

I first became aware of Bless Me, Última, when it was published by Quinto Sol in 1972. I was a student at New Mexico State University in Las Cruces. I could not believe that a Chicano Nuevo Mexicano had written a book that wasn’t a cookbook or some laborious family history. I had never seen myself or anyone I knew in a book that wasn’t some self-published tome with elementary pen and ink drawings by some sobrino or friend who thought he could draw and was there to help with free artwork. The earth shook metaphorically when I read Bless Me, Última. I said to myself, “I am going to meet this author.” He was a handsome man, that I noted, but also, he was a New Mexican. Uno de Nosotros. He belonged to us, to me, to my land, and to my people. There was a great sense of joy and pride that accompanied knowing Bless Me, Última existed in the world.

It is important to know of the creative energy that was happening in New Mexico in the 70s and 80s. La Academia de La Nuevo Raza was thriving in Northern New Mexico, founded by Estevan Arellano, E.A. Antonio “Tony” Mares, Tomás Atencio, and others. The Concept of La Resolana was developed. What was the Resolana? It was the warmest sunniest place in the house in the winter, where one sat to talk and share, to imagine and dream, conceived by its founders as a vehicle to mine “el oro del barrio,” which was the stories, art, and folklore of our people.

Running parallel to this outpouring of literature, folklore, music, and writing was La Cofradía de Artes y Artesanos Hispánicos—The Confraternity of Hispanic Arts and Artists in Santa Fe. I met Luis Tapia, the sculptor, and participated in events sponsored by La Cofradía. Later La Compañía de Teatro de Albuquerque, directed by José Rodríguez, came to life. Rudy was at the center of this outpouring and at the forefront of Chicano arts and writing.

I became a Chicana when I moved North. It was my awakening to the political side of my being that was lacking when I was a student at New Mexico State University and studying in the Drama department. I was hired as a Drama Teacher at Northern New Mexico Community College and it was the greatest leap of faith in my life. I was terrified. That first day of teaching was memorable. I had moved into a small guest house apartment and noting my needs, I told my students I needed a cheese grater. Not only did three cheese graters come into my life, but so did the whole of El Movimiento Chicano in Northern New Mexico. I met pivotal figures: Estevan and Elena Arellano, writer Stanley Crawford, his wife Rosemary, John Nichols of The Milagro Beanfield War, writer Jim Sagel, from Española, and his wife, weaver Teresa Archuleta, Tomás Atencio and his wife Consuelo Pacheco, Vicente Martínez, descendent of Padre Martínez, Facundo Valdez, Alejandro López, Eduardo and Juanita Lavadie from Taos, E.A. Antonio “Tony” Mares from Albuquerque, Cecilio García Camarillo, musician Cipriano Vigil, storyteller and artist Cleofas Vigil, members of La Academia de La Nueva Raza. El Grito Del Norte was being published by Enriqueta Vásquez in Española. It was an incredible time.

Española was the epicenter of creative life in those days, along with Santa Fe. There was an overlapping and folding and blending of talent there that led to so much creative energy and the formation of many artistic careers. Artists came to Española to teach, to read their work, to visit with members of La Academia de La Nueva Raza, and to share their vision at gatherings on campus and in private homes.

And it was there in Española, in that small out of the way place, a place dismissed and denigrated by members of my family, that I, a fledgling writer, came to life. I will always be grateful to the people who came into my life at that time, as well as all my students, who were just a few years younger than I. They gave me the hope and spirit and belief that I could be an artist, that I could be a writer.

Things were very different then; there weren’t token and designated popular writers, there were simply groups of enthusiastic, loving people creating and expanding the canon of Latino Literature. There weren’t the chosen few being published, as is today. It was a different and exciting world.

I turned down a year in Japan teaching, to get my Master’s in Creative Writing at the University of New Mexico. I was awarded the first Chicano Fellowship in Creative Writing through the English Department. Rudy had recommended me for this honor. Japan or a year of study with Rudolfo Anaya? The choice was easy. This was the year I had walking pneumonia, innumerable parking tickets, and wrote

my first book.

I got a Master’s degree in one year. I was living in Santa Fe and commuting to Albuquerque. My parking tickets were mounting up and finally I moved in with a friend. With my fellowship I bought my first new typewriter, a powder blue IBM Selectric, that was like a tank with interchangeable font heads. I still have it and it still works. It was on this typewriter that I wrote my collection of short stories, The Last of the Menu Girls, and handed it in to Professor Anaya as my Master’s Thesis.

Rudy recommended that I send my thesis manuscript to publisher Nicolás Kanellos at Arte Público Press. I heard back from them right away. I was shocked. The book, a collection of interconnected short stories, was published in 1976 with Rudy as my Padrino.

That year was a very hard year in so many ways and like many experiences of my life, it was a pivotal and major time of growth. I was a student of Rudy’s at that time and also studied with Tony Hillerman, that grand man who was a wonderful and kind and loved professor. I also studied with Dr. Hugh Witemeyer, a model of what scholarship could be and who later became a good friend. I was a poor scholar and yet, I kept going. Ni Modo. Así es. That’s how it is and was.

We Chicanos live by the Ni Modo Philosophy and it is a good thing. Ni Modo. The car won’t start, the plumbing isn’t working, the roof is leaking, the rent is due and more. . .Ni Modo. Let’s do what we can with what we have and do our Best. What can be done? Ni Modo. Whatever. No Big Deal. Accept it. Deal with it. It’s okay. Ni Modo.

We are a people who Endure, a people who have Orgullo, Pride. And it comes from a history of struggle and work. We have a legacy of suffering and we continue to move away from the role of victims of that suffering. And yet, we still live and try to understand and heal the world where the Other is made to suffer. And who is that Other but those of us who are confused, distorted, lacking love?

It was in those years of my struggle to become a writer that I was supported and bolstered by my role models and mentors, most especially Rudy.

I got to know him better when we worked on a series of plays for La Compañía de Teatro in Albuquerque. It became New Mexico’s primary Latino theatre company. My play, Nacimiento, was produced alongside Lola’s Last Dance by E. A. “Tony” Mares and The Season of La Llorona by Rudolfo Anaya in a three-play performance called “A New Mexico Trilogy.”

In Albuquerque, Rudy confronted me and asked me point blank, “So, what are you going to be, a writer, or what?” Again, I was terrified, and yet I had the strength to say to myself and to him, “Yes, I am a writer.”

My mother gave me my first Thesaurus at age ten, in which she had inscribed “To A Future Writer.” I have that book and use it still. I also had a little journal in which I had written that my secret ambition was to become a writer. I remember writing my first little story for Sister Monessa at Holy Cross Elementary School. It was about the willow tree in our front yard. I was eight years old. I still have that piece of paper with the story. Later, the story of the tree became “Willow Game” in my collection of stories, The Last of the Menu Girls.

“Willow Game” was the first major story I’d gotten published other than MADA—backwards for ADAM—about the last man on earth – published in the Madonna High School Mantle, our all-girls high school publication.

Rudolfo Anaya was my first editor, I am proud to say. As we worked through his notes on “Willow Game,” I was more than thrilled to be sitting in his presence. I could not believe I was sitting with the author I first met on the page in my small insular Las Cruces world. To be a Chicano/Chicana in those days was an experience that was life altering and the greatest benediction. I was formed by greatness all around me. It was my abundant fortune to have met so many people in those early days of El Movimiento, that led to my awakening life as a Chicana. Now not everyone was a Chicano or a Chicana. To be Chicano means that you have a political and social awareness and consciousness and understand La Lucha. As the generations identify themselves as Mexican Americans, Latinos, Gen Mex, Chicanx, so I identify with the term Chicano/Chicana.

If I ever met anyone who embodied the word Chicano, it was Rudolfo Anaya. He was the standard bearer of belief in all things Chicano I held sacred. He knew the sacredness of La Familia, held family close, and revered his roots. He honored his Ancestors, most especially his parents. He was a Compadre to so many. He knew what Compadrazo truly meant. He did not have to be related to be related. He was like a Tocayo or a Tocaya, automatically claiming that brother/sister/relationship with someone who has your same name. His name was spelled Rudolfo, not Rodolfo, as is more common. My mother, Delfina, a Spanish teacher, questioned him about the spelling of his name and he gave her the answer she needed. Rudolfo it was.

Rudolfo, not Rodolfo, knew our Cultura inside out. He knew La Lucha, the Struggle, the tradiciónes, the traditions. He knew La Tierra, the Land, and how our Querencia was this land, whether North, South, East, or West. He knew what the land meant to us, family land, lost land, as he knew our connection to our Antepasados and all who came before, our Indigenous brothers and sisters, and what land meant to all of us who are a Mestizaje, a Mezcla and a Mixture of Blood. His Female Face of God was Our Lady of Guadalupe, who represented those forgotten, abandoned, forsaken, and neglected. The Guadalupe is who we turn to in prayer, for who knows us best than the Mother?

Rudy knew La Malinche, La Llorona and El Cucuy. He knew what a good plate of red enchiladas was, and he loved pan dulce with Cafecito. Those last visits of mine to see Rudy at his home were always filled with me carrying bags of pan dulce from El Super on Central Avenue. I have wonderful food memories of my husband, Daniel Zolinsky and I eating with Rudy and his wife, Patricia, all of us who enjoyed our New Mexican food.

To write about food and language is to know about a culture and Rudy did. The fluidity of moving back and forth from English to Spanish is a trademark of who we are in New Mexico. Ours are the urban stories of life in Albuquerque and the bigger cities, just as much as our stories of life on the farm, the llano, las montañas and el desierto of this incredibly beautiful state.

Rudolfo was a man of faith. He believed in the Beauty and Spirit of Men and Women, in the Sacredness of Animals, and the Magical Realm of the Ancestors that lingered and existed side by side with the everyday. His was a Spiritual life, a life that elevated the Sacred and understood that it was our deepest core, our solace in all things. There is no greater blessing than that of the Antepasados, que rodean siempre, those spirits of our Ancestors that move in and out of our lives, giving untold grace and blessing to our existence. Who would we be without the Blessing of Mother, the Wisdom of our Father, the insights and hard work of our Grandmothers and Grandfathers?

And yet, Rudy was never sanctimonious or preachy. He loved to laugh and was always one to see the humor or absurdity of any given situation. Once after a reading and during a Q and A session, a young man asked him how much money he made, to which Rudy replied with a stern reproach, “None of your business.” He was never one to suffer fools.

He would sometimes stop me in my tracks, and it was good. I could go on and on. The very first time we read our work together was in Santa Fe at a museum and after I finished my theatrical walk-about, I got off the stage and he looked at me with that incredulous expression of his and said, “What was that?” I think I surprised him with the exuberance of my reading, but from then on, he was fair game, and I often singled him out to read to and he would answer back. He was always willing to play along, sometimes at his expense, and I was grateful. Lo siento, Rudy!

Rudy knew that freedom was to be found in life through hard work, through perseverance. Our homeland, Aztlán, is always carried within us. Life is our Celebration of who and what we are. Our Vecindad, our neighborhoods, are sacred. We may live in the Land of Nepantla, a Nahuatl word meaning “The land in-between,” in that liminal space that is La Frontera, in the break between the worlds as ordained by maps and powers that be, but we have seen and will see the demagogues come and go, like the hot breeze of our long-lasting almost interminable southern summers, and the northern arctic winds that bite and then are gone, the dust and wind having carried them away to the land of the Ancestors, up to the sky of Knowing. La Calaca is our friend, our sister who stands to our left, her hand on our shoulder, but we are not frightened. Her touch is light, merciful.

It is in the Power of Naming, in the Ability to call Out, to Call Forward, that we lose the Fear of Death, La Sebastiana with her arrow resting now, La Huesuda, with her haunted bony face turned toward the sky of possibility and hope. We are a people who know and will survive the onslaught of the dark lives that subjugate and harm. Rudy was always there fighting for the innocent, the maligned, and the oppressed. He suffered greatly with the plight of our Refugee families. Through the years, Rudy often sent me articles, stories, poems. One of his last messages included a poem about the Refugee children.

I was fortunate to become a friend to Rudolfo Anaya. Believe me, I worked it. I knew he was a great and blessed part of my life, and although he was my Editor and Professor, I also wanted to be his friend. I never let go. I knew his home phone number by heart. I would check in from time to time. I would write notes, send cards. When I moved back to Las Cruces, I always kept in touch. And it was my great blessing that Rudy and his wife, Patricia, were there and as busy as they both were, they made time to see me and to share a meal. And more. I spent time at their lovely and beautiful home, petted Chamisa and Oso, their beloved dogs, had breakfast at the little island in the kitchen. I slept so peacefully in that basement guest room with the glow in-the-dark star, planets, and constellation stickers placed there by their granddaughter on the ceiling. I loved Rudy and told him so many times. And for that I feel no embarrassment. I think more than once I may have caused him pause with my exuberance and flailing about, surely, he winced at my antics, but I was undaunted. I loved him and told him so.

In 2011 I was awarded the Premio Aztlán, an award for Chicano/a Literature founded by Patricia and Rudy. It was a great honor to go to Albuquerque to receive this award from them. It was only one of the many blessings and opportunities that were given to me by them. I never stayed in their writer’s guest house in Jemez and wish I had. The invitation was always there. I am a homegirl and it’s always been hard

to leave home, no matter the season.

The only so-called fissure in our relationship happened when I sent him the manuscript of my novel, The King and Queen of Comezón. I decided to send Rudy the novel to read, something I have never done. Sometime shortly after that, I got a call in which he proceeded to tell me how bad the book was and asked me what in the world I was thinking about and that he was sending it back. I was hurt and upset. I was so mad that when the manuscript came back, I threw it into the recycling bin. Oh, how I wish I’d saved it!

This caused a tension in our relationship for a little while and dented our friendship. I apologized for yelling at him. He never apologized to me. He did something better; he finally read the finished book and wrote me a wonderful note in which he said it was a great book and that it stood for the New Mexico he loved. I wept when I read his words.

I have taught most of Rudy’s novels and always come back to Bless Me, Última. Oh, if only my novels had been banned like his! It was burned in 1981 in Bloomfield, New Mexico, named one of the “Ten Most Frequently Challenged Books” in 2008 and 2013.

The measure of the greatness of Bless Me, Última is its quintessential humanness. It is the story of our coming to understand the nature of Good and Evil. The young boy, Antonio Máres y Luna, epitomizes us as we peer into the Garden of Understanding where both light and dark reside.

I have written papers on Rudolfo Anaya, represented him in towns small and strange, large and overwhelming. I organized a PowerPoint on Rudolfo Anaya’s New Mexico, which includes a photo of our beloved Lotaburger Restaurant, with its green chile cheeseburgers that all New Mexicans love.

Sometimes there are tears. They come now and again when I think of Rudy and Patricia and how very much I loved and still love them both. I miss Rudy, his wit, his leveling comments to me when I got beside myself and was over the top, when I was lost or confused or just downright too busy flapping about and carrying on.

And in speaking of Rudy, I need to speak of his wife, Patricia. She was a lovely woman who was Rudy’s muse, fortress, strength, and partner. I don’t think I’ve ever sat in the presence of anyone who was so present. When people spoke, she listened. When she asked questions, she truly wanted to know the answers. She was a wonderful listener, a great conversationalist, a faithful friend. And kind. She generated goodness and this was her gift to all of us. I will always treasure my times in that great kiva room of theirs in the center of their home, the light streaming in the windows. I would glance out to see Albuquerque laid out below us—that resplendent valley below where so much miracle took place for me, for all of us. Those were magical times that I will always hold sacred.

Rudy forgave me for backing up into his mailbox, literally mowing it down, and for other lapses, no doubt. The last time I spoke to Rudy was on the phone. I called to say hello and check in. I was surprised that he answered the phone as in those later times he might not. We talked for a very long time. And when we said goodbye, I told him, as I always did, I love you. Silence on the other end of the line. Ni modo. It didn’t matter. I loved him.

There are dichos in Spanish that say many things in a very succinct and powerful way. Rudy was a man of dichos. He would be happy to know that I have called him and the Antepasados out with a dicho.

El Caldo de los Años. The Stew of the Years. Our Stew was Rich. Hearty. Full of Nourishment and Love. Gracias por Todo, Rudolfo Anaya. Toditito.

Photos by Daniel Zolinsky

New Mexico: A poem of the senses

Denise Chávez

For Rudolfo Anaya Maestro

The pito of the cotton gin The sound of the nearby train at two in the morning No one calling me & me hearing the no one call & hearing what they say even if there are no words *

Our mothers combing their long dark hair and rolling it into a bun a little askew but oh so strong The purple blue Organ Mountains at sunset The View from La Bajada coming into Santa Fe Crossing the river near Albuquerque near Jemez Pueblo La Sebastiana and her Cart, La Catrina & her beautiful hat La Huesuda & her bony elegance *

Spanish English Navajo all at once and wanting to hear more The wind coming from the north east now the west the gentle wind the soft caressing wind the hard male wind blowing the trees and bringing lightning & rain Oh, rain please come rain, let me hear you again La Llorona calls for her children. . .Mis Hijos. . .mis hijos. . .¿Dónde están mis hijos? A child runs on the hot sidewalk laughing An old woman in church sings: Bendito Bendito Sea Dios. Los angeles cantan y alaban a Dios Interminable rosaries in Spanish: Santa María de Dios Ruega por Nosotros pecadores. Ahora en el hora de nuestra muerte. Amen.

Red chile sauce that stings & cooks & boils & beats inside of me its hearty blood its lifeblood that runs through me my chile my chile my lovely mother chile Cebolla & lettuce, chile & melón, sandía & ajo, picking your own & growing your own.

Your mother’s face now & in memory your face now & how it is & how it was you remember how it was & you remember you are the many faces now & in dream

Dichos a life full of Dichos: No hagas pedo y la gallina es tuya Cada Chango tiene su mecadito y yo el mío Honor, Privilegio y Placer El que no conoce a Dios, ante cualquier güey se hinca

Your little legs dancing & your voice singing Oh, María Madre Mia O Consuelo del mortal Apararme y guiarme a la patria celestial

Frijoles de la olla café de la olla anything de la olla Fideos secos o agüados Navajo tacos

The sacred albóndigas the holy meatballs at Tortugas pueblo macarón y chicharrones & a shot of whiskey to brace you for the cold before you go out to see the dancers on the Feast Day of Our Lady of Guadalupe December 12

Marranitos Pan de Huevo Conchas Elotes Semitas Agua de Melón Sandía Limón Horchata, ay, Horchata Huevos Rancheros Huevos Mexicanos Chile Rellenos Chacales Posole Champurrado Chocolate de La Abuelita Bar-B-Q from the pit your family made Cotton candy and Fry Bread at the State Fair Apples from New Mexico Pecans from New Mexico Green chile from Hatch Red chile from Chimayó Your mother’s sopaipillas, sopa, pan & her wonderful arroz & whatever you have for me right now because I’m really hungry. . .so let’s eat, let’s dance, let’s remember. Remember the stories the people the land Remember those people we love Let us honor them Dance for them Sing for them Remember Our Mother Our Mothers Our Father Our Fathers Nuevo Mexico ¡Qué Viva!