Streets of Mexico

By David Ellison

The Saint Patrick’s Battalion (Los San Patricios)

Were they turncoats or heroes? As with all martyrs, it depends on whom you ask.

In the mid 1800s, after the Potato Famine (and British apathy/antipathy) had murdered as many as a million Irish, a million and a half desperate survivors emigrated to the United States. There they faced anti-immigrant, antiIrish, and anti-Catholic prejudice which doomed them to even further misery. Thousands joined the army hoping to earn respect and citizenship. They were usually disappointed, however, since so many nativist officers treated Irish recruits with harsh disgust, and even forbade them to practice their Catholic faith.

Then, in 1846, citing its “Manifest Destiny” to extend “from sea to shining sea,” the United States invaded Mexico. Future U.S. President Ulysses S. Grant, who’d served as a captain during this, the Mexican-American War, minced few words afterward: “I do not think there was ever a more wicked war . . . I thought so at the time, yet I lacked the moral courage to resign.”

Many Irish soldiers apparently found that courage. Perhaps they saw too many similarities between a predominantly Protestant United States engaging in a war of conquest against a much weaker Catholic Mexico and what Anglican Britain had inflicted on their Catholic Irish Isle in 1169. Or, maybe they could not bring themselves to abet the expansion of American slavery. (Mexico had outlawed slavery, which at least partially explains why Texan slave owners had recently demanded their independence.)

Citing “the advice of my conscience,” one Irish soldier named John Riley led approximately 50 of his comrades to desert and to fight for Mexican sovereignty. Eventually, his Saint Patrick’s Battalion (known affectionately in Mexico as “Los Colorados” because of their red hair and ruddy, sunburnt complexions), would swell to several hundred mostly Irish soldiers (but included other Catholic immigrants and even escaped slaves). Specializing in artillery, and fighting beneath a green flag emblazoned with an Irish Harp above the Gailic “Erin Go Bragh” (“Ireland forever”), Riley’s San Patricios became among the most feared vanguards of the Mexican Army. Riley was promoted to captain, and received the prestigious Angostura Cross of Honor.

But Riley’s and Mexico’s was a lost cause. On August 20th, 1847, the Saint Patrick’s Battalion made its last stand in the Battle of Churubusco, just outside Mexico City. When they ran out of ammunition, Los San Patricios resorted to their bare hands, and three times prevented Mexican officers from raising a white flag to surrender. After the slaughter finally ended, and the Mexican General Pedro María de Anaya was ordered to turn over his remaining ammunition, he famously replied, “If I had any . . . you would not be here.”

The United States Army put the surviving San Patricios on a sham trial for desertion (denying them lawyers and refusing to keep transcripts) and then condemned 50 of them to death by hanging, even though the gallows had been forbidden by the Articles of War. It became the largest mass execution in U.S. Military history.

In a particularly merciless gesture, the U.S. Army saved 30 of the hangings for the final battle of the war, the fight for Chapultepec Castle, where Los Niños Héroes also made their heroic last stand. The condemned San Patricios were arrayed in nooses on a hill across from the castle and told that, as soon as they saw the Mexican flag finally fall, so too would they—on ropes short enough to prevent their necks from breaking, so they’d have to strangle slowly.

This was the legendary moment when young Mexican cadet Juan Escutia, in order to prevent his flag from falling into the hands of the Americans, wrapped himself in it and plunged off the castle ramparts to his death. Thus, one of Mexico’s greatest acts of nobility occurred simultaneously with one of the United States’ worst acts of ignobility.

John Riley survived. Since he had deserted before the Mexican-American War had been officially declared, he was spared execution, but received 50 lashes, a vicious brand of “D” on both cheeks, and a sentence of hard labor in prison. When released, he returned to Mexico and served again in its army as major until his retirement. He’d long believed, “You will not find in all the world a people more friendly and hospitable than the Mexicans.

The United States military suppressed the story of the Saint Patrick’s Brigade for generations. Many modern folk musical groups, though (such as The Chieftains, The Elders, The Street Dogs and The Fenians), have resurrected their inspiring tale. MGM made the movie One Man’s Hero in 1999 starring Tom Berenger as John Riley; but, fearing a backlash, the studio canceled its distribution in the United States.

Mexico has no such qualms about honoring Los San Patricios. Every September 12th on the Plaza San Jacinto in Mexico City, dignitaries such as former President Ernesto Zedillo commemorate the Patricios’ service and sacrifice: “Members of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion were executed for following their consciences. They were martyred for adhering to the highest ideals. . . . We honor their memory. In the name of the people of Mexico, I salute today the people of Ireland and express my eternal gratitude.” Indeed, Mexico sent to the Irish city of Clifden, Riley’s birthplace, a statue of John Riley. And every September 12th, Clifden reciprocates by flying the Mexican flag.

Turncoats or heroes? That’s debated only in the United States.

Many thanks to Dr. Michael Hogan who insisted I include this captivating story in my forthcoming book, Niños Héroes: The Fascinating Stories Behind Mexican Street Names.

The Nightmare Of The Potosi Silver Mines

Dr. Lorin Swinehart

In the “Inferno”, first book of Dante Aligiere’s Divine Comedy, the lowest level of hell is reserved for those guilty of treach-

ery. While many times and places may vie for the title of hell on earth, those who are victims of such a dolorous state of affairs are not necessarily guilty of any offense. One such location that would qualify as a living hell would be the former silver mines at Potosi in what is now southern Bolivia. Those were the days when the Spanish dominions encompassed nearly all of Latin America except Portuguese Brazil and some British and French enclaves along the Caribbean coast. Bolivia as such did not exist yet, not until Simon Bolivar and his armies drove the Spanish off the continent and he gave his name to one of the newly born republics.

One never knows for certain where fable ends and fact begins. The legend is that somewhere around 1545 a man named Diego Gualpa was wandering along the heights at around 13,000 feet while searching for a vanished llama when he stumbled and grabbed at a small bush to break his fall. The alpine soil being shallow and tenuous at best, the small plant came out by its roots, revealing what would later prove to the history’s greatest silver strike.

The ledge upon which Diego stood was atop a vein of silver ore one hundred feet long and thirteen feet wide. This and other strikes satisfied a global hunger for silver as feverish as any craze for gold then or since. China provided a huge market as its own supply of minerals became ever more depleted. In order to address rampant inflation caused by the production of coins made of cheaper metals, the Chinese were desperate to obtain all the silver available at the time.

Thousands of prospectors, utilizing the advanced technology of the local natives, began smelting the valuable mineral over fires kindled from dry grass and llama dung. By the 1560’s the population of the area had swollen to over fifty thousand. So, the rush was on. By 1611, the population had expanded even further to 160,000, and Potosi was the world’s most wealthy city.

As is typical of boom towns, Potosi attracted the lawless element. Corruption, drunkenness, prostitution and dueling in the streets flourished, even full scale battles between spear wielding members of rival ethnic groups. Potosi was crowded with unruly arrivals and always on the tipping point of violence. In 1974, the sociologist ElDean Kohrs coined the term Gillette Syndrome, named after Gillette, Wyoming where large scale coal, oil and methane extraction fostered community disintegration, typified by rapid population growth, skyrocketing prices, epidemic levels of alcohol and drug addiction and soaring crime rates. As Mark Twain once observed, a boom town is a good place for a man to lose his religion.

Bad situations have an uncanny ability to always get worse, particularly where human greed is involved. Eight hundred miles across the frozen heights from Potosi lay Mount Huancavelica, rich with mercury deposits. Earlier, the Spanish had learned that mercury could be used to purify silver, a much more efficient process than reliance upon slow burning fires. In addition, the use of mercury enabled miners to extract silver from lower grade ore. At the time, the combined use of silver and mercury was labeled “The greatest marriage in the world,” by promoters. Little or no thought was wasted on the potential consequences for laborers.

With diminished use of Native American technology, indigenous people could then be considered a source of labor only. Local people were required to provide as tribute weekly numbers of laborers for the silver and mercury mines. At one point, an estimated 4000 Indians each week were forced to labor in the two mines. While estimates vary, it is safe to say that thousands—some say millions—died from their labors. Hundreds of African slaves were also imported to struggle and die in the mines. For a while, six companies in Argentina exported African slaves to Potosi. However, why waste money on imported slaves when thousands of Indians could be secured for free, worked to death and then cast aside like so much rubbish.

As bad as conditions in the silver mines became, they were even worse in the mercury mine. Mercury is widely known to be toxic, the culprit behind the so-called Minamata disease that many years ago caused widespread blindness, paralysis and retardation among the citizens of a Japanese fishing village where local shellfish, a major food source, had been contaminated by a factory upstream. Inside the narrow tunnels of the mines, the heat of the earth vaporized mercury and other minerals like sulphur and arsenic, causing workers to inhale a fog of toxicity. Native laborers were forced to serve several two month shifts each year. Rather than see even their children recruited for the mines, native parents often mutilated them in order to keep them safe.

The demand for silver was so great that the Spanish Crown largely ignored pleas for the mines to be closed, and most reasonable health and safety precautions were never instituted. It took eighty years to even provide some ventilation tunnels into the deeper, darker, hotter shafts. It has been reported that sometimes when the graves of local miners were exhumed, puddles of mercury were left behind.

Native workers struggled under slave-like conditions in the heat and darkness. For light, they wore candles on their foreheads. They toted loads of a hundred pounds of silver ore up and down rope ladders, two men to a ladder, one climbing on one side while another descended on the other. Miners suffered and died in droves from Tuberculosis, silicosis, and other respiratory ailments like pneumonia. Some simply expired from asphyxiation. Spanish overseers beat workers with whips and rocks for failing to meet demanded quotas of ore. It was reported by one priest that if twenty Indians entered the mines at the beginning of the week, half would emerge crippled by its end. Like other native peoples who have been trampled beneath the iron boot of European invasion and occupation, those throughout South and Central America were subjected to forced religious conversion, compulsory labor and violent treatment.

The horrors of Potosi took place at a time when the debate among European powers over the very personhood of Indians raged fiercely. To settle the matter, an assembly composed of fourteen prominent theologians was ordered to be formed at Valladolid by Spain’s ruling monarch Charles I. There the Spanish priest Bartolomeu de Las Casas debated fiercely with the humanist philosopher Juan Gines de Sepulveda over whether Indians even had souls. Sepulveda argued that Indians were inferior persons and, thus, natural slaves, sadly not an unusual argument among those who first seek to deprive their intended victims of their humanity before treating them as mere commodities to be used up and eliminated. Sepulveda maintained that it was the duty of the Spanish to “civilize” and “Christianize” native peoples. Having witnessed the methods utilized by Spaniards to civilize and Christianize the peoples of the Caribbean, including beheadings, burnings, decapitations, and torture, Las Casas refused to budge an inch. Fortunately, Las Casas carried the day, causing the King to enact laws forbidding Indian slavery. However, given the distances between South America and the mother country, such good intentions often proved unenforceable, and the mass of human rights violations continued largely unabated until the rich veins of silver were exhausted and the mines were finally abandoned.

What is the lesson to be learned from the centuries long horrors of Potosi. None that become evident, no more than the lessons to be learned from the Atlantic slave trade, the Holocaust of World War II, or such less well known episodes of human skullduggery as the genocide meted out to native Tasmanians by invading white Australians. As one grisly chapter of human history ends, yet new ones arise to take its place. It is challenging to conclude other than that humans are capable of absolutely anything and that they will use any excuse to justify their bad behaviors; profit, progress, religion. While the silver mines at Potosi are closed, mute reminders of the cruelties of the past, slavery has not vanished from earth. According to one BBC report, there may be as many as 27,000,000 million persons living under slave-like conditions. Many are women and young girls held in sexual bondage. This contemporary reality should be a blotch upon the consciences of us all.

Lorin Swinehart

By Linda Steele

Afew months after my back surgery, I was finally allowed to walk on a flat surface with a companion every day.

My daughter, Trudy, and I decided that we would walk in the parking lot at the high school just a few miles down the road. It was June and school was out. The parking lot would be empty so we wouldn’t have to dodge speeding teenagers in their jalopies or kids texting on their phones during our walks. Her Lakeland Terrier, Zoe, was happy to accompany us.

One Sunday evening, soon after our walks began, our lives changed dramatically! I looked up the slight grade to the fenced-in running track and saw a pretty Border Collie looking down on us.

“Look at that dog!” I said. “Every time we circle the lot, she meets us and walks along beside us until we turn the corner and then she stands and waits and watches us till we come back around!”

“I think she is flirting with us or with Zoe. Look how she bows her head and then sways it from side to side when she walks,” Trudy laughed.

“Next turn let’s walk closer and see if we see a human with her,” I suggested.

So, we hobbled along for one more turn in the parking lot. As we approached the entry gate to the running track where the coy, flirty dog was trapped, we noticed a large sign. Gate Closed 10:00 pm Friday through Monday at 9:00 am.

We did not see any humans inside of the gate.

“Good grief! That poor dog has been locked up in there without food or water since Friday night! Somebody must have dumped her here at the school and then she wandered into the track area and got locked in. Poor dog!” Trudy sighed as she jiggled the lock. “How can people be so cruel?”

The dog stuck her nose through the chain link fence and looked hopefully into my eyes with her tail wagging.

“How are we going to get her out of there?” I wondered out loud.

“Let’s call the police!” Trudy suggested.

Minutes later a policeman arrived. If he thought we were a couple of eccentric dog lovers, he never let on.

When he jiggled the lock, the dog ran to the other side of the track as fast as her legs could carry her!

“Looks like she’s afraid of the law,” the policeman laughed.

After an attempt to climb the high fence, the policeman said, “I can’t get in there and I don’t think I’d better cut the fence. Let me call the school’s head maintenance man. He should have a key.

Shortly after that, an old red pickup truck rattled up through the lot and an ancient man wearing baggy khaki shorts with skinny legs and cowboy boots approached us.

“Got a dog locked up in there? Bet he could use a drink of water. I brought some and a little pan. It was 104 degrees today and yesterday wasn’t much better. It’s a wonder he ain’t dead by now!”

The man unlocked the gate and stepped inside, bent down, and put the bowl of water down for her.

The dog remained on the other side of the track, watching until Trudy, Zoe and I stepped inside the fence. First, the dog ran towards us and as she got closer, she moved more slowly. Finally, she crawled to us on her belly. Trudy slipped a braided loop leash over her head and moved the water closer. The dog looked at us but didn’t drink. She smiled the most awkward and adorable crooked smile! We waited and watched and waited some more, but she still didn’t drink. It seemed obvious that she wanted the water as she looked longingly at it. I said, “Come on, doggie, it’s okay.” Instantly the thirsty black and white dog with the most beautiful golden eyes drank and drank.

The policeman said, “I hate to tell you this, but the shelter is closed until Tuesday. Can you keep her till then?”

Hmmm. I seemed to always be bringing some creature or other home. My husband told me once, it was a good thing he was there, or our house would be filled to capacity with stray people and stray animals!

Zoe was interested in our new friend. She was welcoming. We opened the car door and both dogs happily jumped right in.

My husband met us in the garage with a smile on his face. Because his frequent cry was, “Don’t bring anything else home that eats!” I was quick to start explaining. “We found this great dog! She’s a good one! We just have to keep her till the shelter opens on Tuesday.”

“Pepper left the car reluctantly. Those serious golden eyes looked up at him fearfully as he crouched down in front of her and stroked her bowed head.

My husband, who had been on his own since age 14 said in a quiet voice, “Don’t worry, I know what it’s like to be thrown away and homeless. I’ve been there. It’s gonna be okay.”

The next day we had her scanned at the vet’s office for a chip and, there was no chip. We took her picture and made posters and placed them in the school parking lot and at the running track. We also placed an ad in the weekly newspaper that came out on Thursday and decided to keep her until we exhausted all avenues to find her owners

By Thursday we cringed every time the telephone rang. We didn’t want anybody to take our Pepper Pie away from us. Yes, we had already named her Pepper and lovingly called her Pepper Pie. The whole family had fallen in love with the sweetest, most polite dog we ever had the privilege to know. Some folks thought her overbite made her look silly and other folks thought it made her look cute. We thought she was beautiful.

After three weeks, happily, nobody ever claimed her and we wanted to keep her forever. We asked the vet and the folks at the shelter both if we could call her ours and they agreed that she could definitely be ours. I think this is where I should tell you that we all lived happily ever after!

By N (Abby) McKinnon neilmcki2@gmail.com

As someone who has lived a long and toothsome life, I frequently receive letters seeking advice on proper behavior and etiquette during the time of CO-

VID. I have selected a few of the most irrelevant for these pages.

Dear Nabby: Is it OK to dance with a stranger as long as he or she is wearing a mask?

Faceless in Chapala

Dear Faceless: It’s okay in three circumstances. 1) You’re in your own living room, 2) You know why a stranger is in your living room, and 3) You do not try the hokey-pokey until you’re sure your partner is an Arthur Murray graduate.

Dear Nabby: Should I sanitize my hand after my wife takes it while we’re crossing a busy street? Clingee in Joco

Dear Clingee: It’s probably a good idea but I would first check if she’s carrying a sharp object in her other hand. If so, encourage her to sanitize the sharp object before she uses it.

Dear Nabby: I met a wonderful man recently and would like to have sex with him. Unfortunately I don’t know him well enough to ask if he’s vaccinated or not. Do you think it proper to go behind his back and ask his wife?

Hesitant in Ajijic

Dear Hesitant: No I don’t. A little mystery never hurt any relationship

Dear Nabby: With plenty of time on my hands during the pandemic, I decided on self-improvement. I’ve taught myself 5 languages, learned ballroom dancing on the internet and created a wildly successful app that matches people with a shared passion for wild cow milking competitions and classical music concerts. Meantime, my husband has spent the time watching Dr. Oz reruns, eating pizza and scratching himself in inappropriate places. My problem is that I like Seinfeld but he refuses to change the channel. What do you suggest?

Married to a scratcher in San Antonio

Dear Married: Your differences are irreconcilable. I suggest you create an app that searches out people that speak Urdu to each other while they’re ballroom dancing and leave the potato to his couch.

Dear Nabby: My husband refuses to get vaccinated. He says that the vaccine contains microchips that allow the government to track his movements. On top of this, I think he’s cheating on me. What should I do?

In a Quandary in San Juan

Dear Quandary: You have to convince him. Tell him the vaccine is incredible stuff you scored on the street. Then, after he is vaccinated, get his tracking information from the government. It will be useful in the divorce proceedings.

Dear Nabby: One of the individuals in my book club refuses to get vaccinated which makes us all uncomfortable. He says his religion doesn’t allow him to put foreign substances into his body. How can we convince him to take the jab?

Reader in Ajijic

Dear Reader: I know the person you are referring to and have, on different occasions, personally watched him shovel sashimi, menudo and steak tartare into himself. Each time he washed it down with cheap tequila. So, I understand your frustration. However, you must remember that he is a warm sentient individual who has feelings like we all do. Notwithstanding the fact that he is also a thick skulled idiot with the IQ of a sponge whose selfish and unprincipled behavior has caused innumerable deaths, immeasurable suffering, job loss and incalculable debt, you should consider one thing before you approach him: Is he holding a sharp object?

Dear Nabby: I heard that some wealthy individuals who don’t want to get vaccinated are paying poor people to get the jab in their name, making the rich ones eligible to fly to other countries on holiday. I live on social security and could use some extra money. How do I get in on the action?

Hard Up in Chapala

Dear Hard Up: Before taking this lucrative step, there are a couple of things you should know: 1) More than 100 booster shots is not good for your health and 2) the needle marks on your arm may be misinterpreted.

Dear Nabby: When will I have herd immunity?

Puzzled in Guadalajara

Dear Puzzled: You have he(a)rd immunity after a full week has passed with no one asking, “Have you he(a)rd the one about the traveling salesman and the farmer’s daughter?”

End

By Bernie Suttle

The Korean War was the reason I got a College de-

gree. Work towards a four-year university and avoid the Draft and Korea. Owen and I decided to go to Citrus rather than Pasadena City College, “Cuz that was a ‘Sosh’ place” and the two of us had decided to be good students, not distracted by frivolous activities like fraternities, dances, girls. Keep your grades up. Get a draft deferment. We would sit up front and raise our hands to answer all questions, not in the back of the classroom with the slackers. Of course, to pull it off we had to crack a book, but it was worth it.

We knew we had it wired when Carla Blaha, the English Lit Prof at Citrus asked a question of the class. As usual, Owen and I, sitting in the front row, shot up our hands to answer before she finished speaking. Smiling, she nodded to us and said, “I know you know the answer. Let’s give the rest of the class a chance this one time.” Victory!

During the final days of our last semester at Citrus, Owen and I were killing time in the student union between classes when Forrest, our favorite target for banter aimed at his gullibility, showed up. Forrest was a good guy but a clueless, poor student who was always deep in self-inflicted woes. He began as soon as he saw us.

“I’ve had it. I’m flunking Betty Beck’s biology class with an F minus and there’s no time to bring my grade up. With that failure I’ll lose my Student Deferment, I’ll be drafted and sent to Korea. I might as well be dead.”

Smug in our conceit we felt like cognoscenti. We were ripe for a pigeon and here he was. Our message built ad hoc to Forest was of course preposterous but it held out a slight glimmer of hope for the poor soul to overcome the real problem he was facing but not prepared for.

“Can’t make up enough to pass, eh”? Owen asked.

“No way. She told me a month ago it was then or never and I just didn’t get around to it.”.

I chimed in with false compassion, “That’s tough, Forrest, lots of guys I know enjoy being in the army.”.

“I’ll hate it. I’ll probably be killed too.”

He was really down. He needed some hope. We could give it to him.

I offered, “Have you thought about providing the Exhibition for Ms. Beck?”

“What’s that? Is it like homework?”

“Easier, lots easier.”

Owen jumped right in. “It might already be taken and I don’t know if Forrest is the guy for The Exhibition.”

“What is the Exhibition,” Forrest asked with guarded interest.

“Well, near the end of each year, Ms. Beck selects a volunteer for the Exhibition from those failing the Biology class and when successfully completed he is given at least a pass and a B if done excellently.”

Now Forrest was attentive. A pass would mean two more years of school, no draft, no Army and no Korea. A Draft Deferment could save him. Forrest, normally a “doubting Thomas” wanted to believe.

“From F to passing, maybe even a B. What do I have to do? Do I have to build something?”

“No, nothing to build, no work to do. Just show up. Just be you.”

“How do I apply? What do I do?”

I said, “Well, at the end of the semester when the biology class studies human reproduction, that’s when you’ll be needed.”

Suspiciously, Forrest muttered, “That’s coming up but what do I do?”

Owen smoothly answered, “Remember those sketches in the back of the Biology book of the human male with words printed to the side and arrows pointing towards organs that were part of the reproductive system?”

“Ah, yeah?

“That’s where you come in. Betty Beck subscribes to the Reality School of education, not just text books and pictures.”

“What do I do?” Forrest shrieked.

“The day of the Exhibition you don’t sit in your regular seat.”

“No?”

“No, that would identify you as the Exhibitionist. You wait in the hall outside the classroom door. You’ll be wearing a robe - only a robe.”

“What!”

“Don’t worry. No one will know it’s you. You’ll be wearing a kind of bag over your head to hide your identity. Don’t worry; you’ll be anonymous. When the class is all seated, except for you, Ms. Beck will open the door to the classroom and guide you up onto the platform in front of the class. And that’s it. Oh yeah, the robe will be left at the door. You don’t have any identifying tattoos do you?”

“No, but won’t it be cold in there?”

“Not as cold as Korea. You can wear your shoes,” Owen said, comfortingly.

He continued, ”Ms. Beck will point out the various organs - your organs - that are part of the reproductive system. She’ll use her wooden pointer.”

“Ahee! A wooden pointer?” Forrest exclaimed.

“It’s rubber-tipped; don’t worry.

There’ll be a short Q & A session and that’s it.”

“That’s all?”

“You’ll pick up your robe. She’ll drop her pointer and you exit the way you entered, no longer worried by the draft or anything else. You could try it. Ask her. It’s up to you.”

“You’re kidding; I can’t believe my grade will go from F to passing, even a B, in just one 50-minute period”. So said Forrest, and we knew we had him hooked.

This appeared to be the toughest decision Forrest had ever faced. Could he believe it? He needed something to save him; this could be it. What happened finally with Forrest I can’t say. Did he make his proposition to Ms Beck? Did she see it as a boyish ruse or did she throw him out a window? We only knew that his eyes were brighter. He held his head up higher but he never counseled with us again.

Bernie Suttle