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.