A Great Inspiration

      My father was not formally educated beyond the high school diploma he earned at Reedley High School in the central valley of California.   He was accepted to UC Berkeley on a scholarship but in typical "Tony" fashion he chose to hitchhike to Alaska instead.  The icy water of the Pacific and a fishing boat was his home for about six months and when he thought he had had enough of that experience he hitchhiked back to his birthplace in New Mexico.

      He was inspired by the injustices he had witnessed as a migrant agricultural worker in New Mexico and California alongside his parents and 11 siblings.  The treatment of poor country folks, especially Mexicanos, at doctor’s offices especially caught his attention because he saw how that acted as a deterrent for his own parents to seek medical attention when they were ill.  So he set out upon a mission to open a clinic in the small town of Loving, New Mexico, a perfect location so that the rural poor would not have to trek down the highway to the city of Carlsbad.  At the ripe age of 23 he opened up Clinica de la Salud, a facility with several nurses, a part-time doctor, a pharmacy, a library and an administrative center known as El Centro.

      I was born that same year - it was 1976 - so as a child running around El Centro I had no comprehension of the great accomplishment of my father.  He ran the clinic as the executive director for many years and eventually donated it to Eddy County so that he could follow his children to new places across the Southwest.  The clinic still exists today but it is not located in the prime location of Loving anymore but in the city of Carlsbad.  This is proof that the recipients of the clinic had no idea of my father’s concept of equality and accessibility for the poor folks of the countryside.

      My father worked hard to create a place where people could go to feel better free of judgment, blame and looks of disgust.  He built a clinic with passion and a sense of justice.  Many of us may feel inspired to do the same but never carry it out.   We have excuses like not having a college degree or having too much on our plate already.  These factors are reasonable hindrances to moving forward and acting selflessly for others.  But there comes a time when you must pursue what feels right.  My father, Antonio Medrano Carrasco, is an inspirational testament to the possibility of accomplishing great things with nothing more than the will to work for justice.

Carrasco Child Unsung Hero of Bastrop County Complex Fire

         Antonio Yanez Carrasco, or as he is more affectionately known among family members, Gordo, was very concerned when he read that two persons perished in the Bastrop County Complex Fire.  The day that he, his wife Martha Sarabia Carrasco and their three adorable daughters evacuated their country home in Paige, Texas, they were concerned that the SUV of their elderly neighbor was still parked out front.

         Gordo knelt down to the level of his daughter Yasmin, looked her squarely in the eyes and said, "Mija, you need to go tell the neighbor that the fire is coming and that she needs to leave now.  Do you understand me Yazmin?  This is important."

         The neighbor was an elderly woman who was obviously living in the outskirts of Bastrop, Texas because she wanted her privacy.  In the two years Gordo and the family lived in Paige they had become friendly with the other neighbors.  Tamales and fruit cakes were exchanged at Christmastime and friendly neighborhood chats ensued here and there.  But this particular elderly woman made it clear that two hellos in two years was all she was going to give.  Nevertheless, Yazmin walked over to her home, knocked on her door determined to persuade her that evacuation was not an option but a must.  As one would predict, the woman was not happy about the wretched news.  Yazmin then, just as her father had done to her, firmly looked at the woman square in the eyes and insisted that she evacuate.

        Two days later, after news that all of Gordo's neighborhood was demolished in the fire, he found out that the fire had hop-scotched his home leaving it intact except for smoke damage and a burnt trailer.  The elderly neighbor's house did not meet the same fate and was charred to a rubble of embers and ashes.  When Gordo read that two had perished in the fire and one was an elderly woman from Paige, Texas, he immediately panicked thinking that it may have been his neighbor.  He searched frantically to find the name listed in the paper.  To his relief the name was not that of his neighbor.  Though it is a tragedy that two people's lives were taken in the Bastrop County Complex Fire, he cannot help but feel proud of the firm actions of his nine-year-old daughter Yazmin.  If she had not stuck to her guns their could have been a third victim.

I Am From Roots Planted In Many Soils

I AM FROM… The palm trees of Southern California, the mizquitls of Nuevo Mexico and the Chihuahuan Desert Agave of the tip’ o Texas that greeted and welcomed me home as I ventured in from off the I-10.  How could I ever say one was more home than the other?  When I am here or there, I am at the center of the world and where I belong.

I AM FROM… The perfect Mexican experiment, the cure for all ailments ever known to humankind, the most delectable combination of stomach lining, spicy chile­­ and maize…. well, menudo of course.  It’s hard to believe a masterpiece could be perfected even more. But chopped onion, lime, oregano and bolillo, toasty French bread, that my mom or my tia would put on the table right before she would serve me a heaping bowlful at my request, worked the magic every time.

I AM FROM… An eclectic mix of cumbias, Motown oldies, Los Bukis, the Eagles and the King of Pop.  And who could ever forget Islands in the Stream, What’s Love Got To Do With It and Ma-material Girl - Iconic Goddesses with legs, lungs and personas of steel.

I AM FROM… A hand-me-down, old schoolhouse style desk that was left in the backyard of a cousin’s house competed victoriously with my Bigwheel, Rubic’s Cube and Pogo Stick.  Class would begin fifteen minutes after carne asada and my pupils were as attentive as chimps in a tree.  The bliss of bringing home deposit slips from the bank to assign as homework to my students was heaven – a tiny peek into the future that was to be.

I AM FROM… Larry, Lauricio, my father’s friend who was like a little brother to him.  This gentle giant was the life of every party.  If he walked in the room, the monotony would quickly march out.

I AM FROM… “Hey, hey we’re the Monkeys!”  Fantastic friend’s ferociously funny and faithful falling in with flare.  Immediate alert that the day was looking brighter – Larry was there.

I AM FROM… Dreams of a non-profit organization that I would found and run.  Eradication of the world’s hunger was my goal.  My heart would bleed when commercials of little starving children in Africa and Latin America would come on t.v.

I AM FROM… The stories of my parents, aunts and uncles traveling the U.S. Southwest as migrant agricultural workers.  Deep scars still visible in their spirits remind us all of sad injustices – my tia Rita who had to bend over to be paddled, her underwear visible below her skirt, in front of her 4^th grade class, for translating the teacher’s lesson for a newly arrived little girl.

I AM FROM… My children, my family, my students.  They are the food that nourishes my soul and keeps me strong.

Contributed by Ms. Carrasco-Villalpando

Short Autobiography of Guadalupe Carrasco

     I am a Mexican-American woman who was born in New Mexico, raised in California and just moved to Arizona from Texas.  Interstate 10 has connected my families and taken me home, wherever that may be, all my life.

IN PROGRESS

Living for Change

       I am my father's daughter.  That sounds ridiculously obvious - but to all who know me and who also knew my father, that phrase makes so much sense.  Of course, that statement is more of a compliment to me than to him.  He was amazing and God's proof that a college education is not the only means to acceptance as a member of the intelligentsia or necessary to impact change in the world.
       At the age of 23 he opened a low-income community health care clinic in Loving, New Mexico (or Florencia, the pre-1848 name that he preferred to call his little village of 1000 people).  El Centro de Salud Familiar, the Family Health Care Center, employed a part-time doctor, nurses and medical assistants and even had a modestly stocked pharmacy.  His inspiration for this humble yet profound project was found in his observation of the treatment of low-income rural Mexicans by mainstream society in 1960's and 70's, especially in the Central Valley of California and in Loving and Malaga, New Mexico (the two places where he lived growing up).  He envisioned a clinic that would provide equitable health care and make the poor feel comfortable enough to ask for what he believed was a basic human right.
       This is just one example of the thousands of great and selfless acts of Antonio Carrasco.  My siblings and I reflect on this familial history and we cannot but help to feel small and meager in comparison to this 5 ft., 8in. giant.
      Yet, in all reality, his greatest accomplishment was the planting of the seed of hope, justice, beauty and the will to make the world a better place.  He planted that in his six children and the thousands of nieces, nephews and friends who were blessed to know him.  Sometimes the seed is slow to germinate but I have hope that some Carrasco Oak Trees will tower the Earth some day.
      My brother Christian said something simple and profound to my son after returning from the Little Big Medicine Sundance, a place where my father was a brother to Chief Danny John and the Dine people.  He said something like, "I always say I'm gonna make a positive impact on the community.  I always say tomorrow I'll start.  Enough is enough.  Tomorrow needs to be today."
      Christian so eloquently gave life to a gut feeling I have had for so long.  So the feeling has been embodied through words and now the question is "how."

A Root Here, A Root There

            "Mama don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys…," sang my father Antonio from his multi-green mixed with rust prized 1954 Chevrolet.  Yes, he sang to, he did not listen to, Willie Nelson because his carcacha, his jalopy, had no radio, no reverse gear, and in some areas of the vehicle, it had no floor boards or window to protect you from the New Mexico summer or winter.  We never parked in front of Allsups, we parked on the side.  So that when we exited the mini-mart with a 36-ounce Tallsup and a fried burrito, Tata’s breakfast of champions, we could drive around the back and around the store to leave.  Having no reverse gear meant having to be very strategic everywhere you went.  

            Several times a year he would pack some or all of his six children, depending on the mood or level of forgiveness the mothers had for him or quite honestly, how well his version of the story held up.  The pack would ride highway 62/180 from our hometown of Carlsbad to either El Paso, Phoenix or Oxnard, California, depending on the time of year and the group of siblings.

            Always, always he would roll down the plexi-glass replacement window, stick his arm out and wait until one of us dared to ask, “Tata, what are you doing?”  He would laugh a mad man’s laugh and say that he was waiting for his eagle to come land.  We would wait, albeit with a sideways ay, ay, ay looks, for that eagle to land.

            When our patience wore thin, about five minutes into the ordeal, and we asked where in the world this aguila of his was, he would respond, “He only comes to me when I’m alone because he knows my children are afraid.”

            My father was brave, he was full of faith and understanding, he taught his children well, but I am still stifled by my fear of so many things.  Tata, one day the eagle will come to me, I promise.

            His serious tone would fade away as fast as the New Mexico state line disappeared in the rear view mirror.  He’d take a gulp of his Classic Coke or Bud Light, whichever one he felt like at the time, and he would proceed to make fun of each of his little prides and joy.  One by one we would fall prey to his wit and charm.

            “El dia que yo me muera, no voy a llevarme nada…. No mas un puño de tierra[1]." Oh no, here we go again, Dad’s gonna start his singing again.

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[1] English Translation:  The day that I die, I’m not taking anything with me…. Only a pinch of dirt.