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Mi América: The Evolution of An American Family

2024; University of Illinois Press; Volume: 92; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.5406/26428652.92.1.09

2642-8652

Manuel Romero,

Latin American and Latino Studies

Five hundred years ago, my ancestors left Spain to explore the Americas; these people and their descendants journeyed to the edge of the Spanish empire, founded settlements, and became citizens of three different countries without ever leaving their homes in present-day New Mexico. Finally, after their people had lived and survived for 350 years in Nuevo México, my parents, Rodolfo Romero and Amelia Madrid, left the Land of Enchantment for the land of Zion: Utah.My journey into the story of my ancestors was sparked in the1970s when Alex Haley's Roots aired on ABC. I had heard about my ancestors, so I knew that we too had an American tale to tell, even though it was not well known. It is a story not just about our history but also about what we inherited, what was passed down to us, from Spain to New Mexico to Utah. I belong to both Rodolfo and Amelia's family and to a large network of extended family, and I'm part of a culture that emphasizes family and faith.My family's roots in New Mexico stretch back to 1599, when Juan Holguín moved there with his family from present-day Mexico City. The first known Madrid to arrive in New Mexico was Francisco Madrid, who came as an oxcart handler in 1603 at the age of nine years old. His grandson, Roque Madrid—my mother's fifth grandfather—would play a significant role in New Mexico's history and in the relentless Spanish retaking of the area from Native Americans in the late 1600s.1 The province of Nuevo México would remain under Spanish control for a century after the lifetime of Roque Madrid.By the early nineteenth century, very few Nuevomexicanos were native Spaniards. Although they still spoke the Spanish language and practiced Catholicism, New Mexico had changed both culturally and politically. Then, in 1821, Mexico declared independence from Spain. In New Mexico, a new class of native-born landowners emerged, mostly wealthy ranchers who had been born in the region and had intermarried with local Indians and mestizo families. Nuevomexicanos remained loyal to Mexico for twenty-seven years, even as tensions were rising with their American neighbors. The Mexican-American War broke out in 1846 and, with the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the region changed hands again. As part of the treaty, Mexicans in several newly acquired territories had the option to choose either to remain or return to the country their ancestors left centuries earlier.Among the approximately 115,000 people who chose to remain and become citizens of the United States were Nicolás de Jesús Romero and Francisca Pacheco (Rodolfo's great-grandparents) and José de Jesús Domínguez and María Concepción Gonzales (Amelia's grandparents). Nicolas, Francisca, José, and María didn't know that they had become foreigners in their native land, which inevitably led to misunderstandings and conflict: many New Mexicans were unfamiliar with the laws and culture of their new country, and over 50 percent of them spoke only Spanish.2 The political status of New Mexico—with its population of Latinos, Native Americans, and Anglo Americans—remained complicated even after the establishment of the Territory of New Mexico in 1850.By this time, the Romeros and Madrids had resided along the Sangre de Cristo mountains that their ancestors had settled 250 years earlier while retaining their faith, their language, and their ever-evolving culture. The land was now made up of Spanish, Mexican, and Pueblo elements that would become known as the Land of Enchantment.My father, Rodolfo, was born in Las Trampas, New Mexico, on February 10, 1906; my mother, Amelia, was born on September 5, 1907, in Llano Largo, New Mexico. At the time of their births, New Mexico was still a territory. Finally, in 1912, New Mexico became the forty-seventh state, and Rodolfo and Amelia, along with thousands of other Nuevomexicanos, became full citizens of the United States.3Rodolfo and Amelia married on August 24, 1926, a warm and sunny day in Peñasco, New Mexico. This set the stage for a narrative rich with hard work, family, and dedication. From this day forward, until he moved his family to Utah in the mid-1950s, my father would support his thirteen children by ranching, farming, sheepherding, and opening a few small business ventures. Mom, the ever-devoted wife and mother, was central to the family's life. She often faced the challenges of raising a large family alone, while Dad was engaged in his various occupations. This underscores the strength and commitment of both my parents in providing for and nurturing their children.During the Great Depression, New Mexico was one of the poorest states in the Union. These were the years of my father's young adulthood. Most people still worked in agriculture or ranching, but prolonged drought devastated crops and cattle prices fell. Some small farmers joined migrants searching for greener pastures in California, while others went north to Colorado and Utah.In 1956, Dad decided he'd had enough of constantly leaving the family to find work and decided to instead take his family as he found work, first in San Francisco and finally in Bingham Canyon and Midvale, Utah. More than three centuries after our ancestors first arrived in north-central New Mexico, the family relocated.Latinos were not strangers to Utah. Explorers from Spain's northern kingdom of Nuevo México arrived in Utah in 1776. Franciscan fathers Domínguez and Escalante surveyed the region and wrote about the landscape and people they encountered. A large number of Mexicans came to Utah in the early 1910s, both before and after the Mexican Revolution. From the late 1930s to the early 1960s, hundreds of families came to Utah from northern New Mexico and southern Colorado.4In the late 1940s and 1950s, Kennecott Copper in Bingham Canyon was one of the better-paying jobs in Utah. Miners who left to join the armed forces and never returned were replaced with men from Greece, Italy, Japan, Mexico, New Mexico, Puerto Rico, and the former Yugoslavia, making Bingham one of the most diverse towns in the state. The town of Bingham, once embedded in the middle of the Oquirrh Mountains in the southwest part of the Salt Lake Valley, no longer exists. At its peak, it had a population of fifteen thousand, representing some twenty-seven nationalities.5Several of Rodolfo and Amelia's family and friends had migrated to Utah from New Mexico. Four of Mom's nephews and a niece, two of Dad's nephews, and numerous cousins also relocated to the Salt Lake Valley, first to Bingham Canyon and nearby Lark. We frequently visited them, usually on Sundays after Mass. It was a fun time playing with cousins and friends. These interactions had a significant impact on us, allowing us to form lasting relationships that have been a source of support and will continue to be for years to come. Being able to maintain connections to cultural and familial roots gave us a sense of identity and belonging, something that is especially important when adapting to a new environment.The decade of the 1950s was transformative for the Romero/Madrid family. One death, five weddings, and eleven grandchildren later, the family was growing. The transition from New Mexico to the mining town of Bingham Canyon brought changes to the entire family. Not only was our family expanding, the language we spoke was changing. All of us were making a new crop of friends, many of whom we still associate with today. Though the mining town is gone, many of us who lived there cherish the memories from our time there. For my sisters and me, these were the beginnings of our formative years.Our faith was also vital to our lives. The Catholic church played a pivotal role in shaping our family's traditions, education, and daily practices. Long before public education arrived in New Mexico in the late 1940s, it was the Catholic church that provided primary education, specifically in the villages. Most of my older siblings received their primary education from the Dominican nuns. Even after arriving in Utah in the 1950s, our parents made sure we adhered to ancient rituals that included eating absolutely no meat on Fridays during Lent; attending Mass and reciting the rosary every day during the forty days of Lent; observing all the practices of Holy Week, especially on Good Friday; reciting the rosary after the viewing when a person passes away; and of course hanging pictures of Jesus and saints on our walls.The ritual I remember most vividly was Las Mañanitas, which took place every year on December 12. On this day, Latino Catholics throughout the Americas, including in Utah, honor Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, the Virgin of Guadalupe. The celebration includes a reenactment of the apparition of the Virgin to a Mexican peasant, Juan Diego, in Tepeyac, Mexico, on December 9 and 12, 1531.My parents were very enthusiastic about this celebration. For years, my sisters and I were awakened around four o'clock a.m. to take part in the reenactment. Boys and girls dressed as Mexican peasants marched down the middle aisle of the church with gifts for the Virgin Mary, usually cans or cartons of food, which they laid at her feet during Mass. My understanding is the food was then donated to a Catholic charity. A boy was chosen to play the part of Juan Diego and a girl to play the Virgin. There was seldom any dialogue. Most of these celebrations took place in Salt Lake City at the Cathedral of the Madeleine. At the conclusion of the Mass, we usually had breakfast at the church hall.The faith we brought to Utah impacted me personally in many ways during my formative years, from serving as an altar boy at Mass, attending Catechisms every Saturday, and attending Catholic school in Utah for five of out of my twelve years of primary education. All thirteen of Rodolfo Romero's children were married in the church, and all forty-five grandchildren were baptized Catholic. This was the world my parents, Rodolfo and Amelia Madrid Romero, were born into; this is the faith we brought to Utah.In many ways, the 1960s resembled the 1950s for my extended family—more weddings, moves, twenty-four more grandchildren, graduations, and funerals. But the 1960s also ushered in new norms in music, exploration, civil rights, war, the way we prayed, and our perception of the world around us.The decade began with two truly historic events, specifically for Catholics. In 1960, the United States elected its first Catholic president, John F. Kennedy. In January of that year, the Ecumenical Council known as Vatican II took place, which altered our rituals for worship and brought about a new theology. With Vatican II and the changes it made to Sunday Mass, we could comprehend scripture and not just the sermons. As an altar server or monaguillo, I had learned my responses to the priest in Latin, with little understanding of what I was reciting. The altar now faced the parishioners, and the responses and prayers were in the language of the local populations. Spanish Mass was introduced in Spanish-speaking countries, as well as in Utah.The 1960s were also a period of intense social and cultural change in America, and that change touched every aspect of our lives. The Civil Rights Movement was going on all around me, but I was still oblivious to the protests and marches for justice. However, these movements would come to profoundly shape my social and political perspectives.Shortly after I finished the third grade, we learned that Kennecott was buying up more of the Oquirrh Mountains and people were having to move out, including our family. It was the largest displacement of people by a mining company in Utah history. The owner bought out the neighborhoods for less than they were worth.6 So in 1961, my father decided to move his family from Bingham to Midvale, where Rodolfo and Amelia bought their first home in Utah. The move to Midvale had a significant and lasting impact on me. It involved changing schools and meeting lifelong friends. My parents also made friends whom they would cherish for the rest of their lives.Racism and prejudice were, unfortunately, also part of our experience in the new neighborhood. Many Catholic residents of Bingham Canyon were relocating to West Jordan but had to attend Sunday Mass at Midvale's St. Theresa's parish. The Catholic church in Midvale couldn't accommodate them all, so a new church was to be built in West Jordan.7 Some white residents of the town were not pleased. Still, after much work, St. Joseph was eventually constructed.Perhaps no year defined the 1960s more than 1968, a year of triumphs and tragedies, turmoil, assassinations, protests, and a turn in the Vietnam War. Members of the Romero/Madrid family have a proud tradition of military service that spans across many generations and conflicts since becoming US citizens—from the Civil War to WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, the Iraq War, and Afghanistan, and some are still serving.From the moment we became citizens, Nuevomexicanos have proven their loyalty to this country. Many served, many died. Though we have not validated it, we believe my great-grandfather Nicholas Romero fought for the Union army in the Civil War in New Mexico. Our relatives served in World War I and were among the more than 500,000 Latinos who served in World War II.8 As of today, some eighteen descendants of Rodolfo and Amelia or their spouses have served in the US military. No conflict affected our family more than the Vietnam War.November 22, 1967, is a day I remember vividly. I was sixteen years old, and the next sixteen days changed my life, as well as the lives of three families from Midvale and West Jordan. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and I had just come home from school. The house was quiet, except for my sister, who was lying on her bed crying. When I asked my mother why, she said, "Mataron a Leroy." Leroy, my sister's first boyfriend, had been killed in Vietnam.Two days later, I was working on my sister's car on a Friday afternoon. My parents and sister were home attending to family matters. I had to leave to find a part for the car, and when I returned, my parents were gone. My sister Theresa told me they were at the home of our cousin, Primo Andrés, comforting the family. Andrés Martínez was my mother's nephew, who, like us, had come to Utah from New Mexico. The family just learned their son, Jimmy, had been killed in Vietnam. Jimmy was about three years older than me. I'd known him all my life. We were very close to my cousin's family.Just thirteen days later, another Chicano from Midvale was killed in the war. Tom Gonzales was my sister Theresa's age; they were classmates in high school. The Gonzales family also had deep roots in New Mexico.In the span of sixteen days in late 1967, Jimmy and two of his boyhood friends, Leroy and Tom, died in the jungles and fields of Southeast Asia. The three friends had family ties to the mining camps of Bingham Canyon. Their strong Latino heritage celebrated patriotism. As teenagers they lived in Midvale. Two enlisted; one was drafted. Each one of them, age twenty or younger, died in ground combat.Leroy Tafoya was killed on Wednesday, November 22, the fourth anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination. Jimmy Martínez died less than twenty-four hours later on Thanksgiving Day. Tom Gonzales was shot on December 7, Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day. Along with my sister-in-law's nephew, Tony Montoya, the names of four family members or friends are engraved on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, DC.My cousin and his wife, María, built a shrine to their son in their living room. A memorial to a fallen hero, it is beautiful and inspiring. A glass-enclosed cabinet holds Jimmy's Marine Corps dress blues, his Purple Heart, and photographs of Gonzales and Tafoya.Leroy, Jimmy, and Tom volunteered because of the lack of jobs, the lack of opportunities, and a deep sense of patriotism. They performed their duties without question. Like a significant number of people of color, they served in the infantry, where casualties were the highest.9By the end of the war, some thirty-two family, friends, and acquaintances fought in Vietnam, and some of them were wounded or died. Nearly all of them Latinos, most had resided or had been raised in the southern part of Salt Lake County where Midvale and West Jordan are located. Some were drafted, others volunteered.The thirty-two who served indicate the large number of people of color who participated in the conflict. At the time of the war, eighty-three thousand Latinos served in Vietnam. Of those, 20 percent were killed, and 33 percent were wounded. This highlights the disproportionate impact that war and conflict can have on minority populations.10Credibility gaps, generation gaps, gender gaps, racial gaps, and economic gaps all refer to the differences and disparities that existed between different groups of people in society. These gaps led to tensions and conflict between communities. Many Americans, specifically those from the minority communities, felt marginalized and excluded from certain opportunities or benefits. These gaps would result in an increased trend toward violence and an anything-goes popular culture. These issues reflected the complex and evolving nature of society in the 1960s, as different groups grappled with competing interests and perspectives.Because Dad enjoyed watching the news, I was tuned in to world events, but I was too young to understand their impact on me. I was primarily concerned with my music, what I wore, and my friends.In May 1970, my high school graduation was approaching, and I was struggling to complete enough credits to attend the ceremony. I was not a good student, and I just managed to graduate with a D average. I had no direction, no goals, no understanding of what I wanted to do with my life. In January 1971, I made the decision to enlist in the Army, planning to go to Vietnam to avenge the killing of my cousin and two other friends. Fortunately for me, I was deployed to South Korea instead and was eventually honorably discharged.In the 1970s the Civil Rights Movement was going on all around me, but I was totally oblivious. That changed in 1973, when I was talked into enrolling at the University of Utah and enthusiastically became a student activist. I was able to take advantage of the GI Bill, which provided educational assistance to veterans. When I enrolled, I was still working full-time at the Army Depot in Tooele. During my freshman year I attended classes in the evenings after work. A year later, in August 1974, I quit my job in Tooele and became a full-time student.Salt Lake City did not have the large minority populations that Albuquerque, Denver, or Los Angeles did. Nevertheless, the social activism that did occur had profound and positive change for Latinos, specifically in education.In March 1968, the Spanish-Speaking Organization for Community, Integrity, and Opportunity (SOCIO) was officially established in Utah, with bylaws in both Spanish and English.11 By the 1970s, SOCIO had become a statewide organization working on behalf of the Spanish-speaking community to improve equality in hiring and promotion, advocating an end to ethnic and racial injustice. SOCIO significantly impacted my young adult years.SOCIO also challenged the University of Utah and other institutions of higher education to recruit and enroll more Chicana/os. The organization worked with Governor Calvin Rampton to create a Chicano ombudsman office, helped start the Minority Advisory Board, and promoted the well-being of Utah's sizable Latino/a population. In 1978, before I graduated from the university, an opportunity came unexpectedly. My friend and future state senator Pete Suazo was leaving his job as the Mexican American community corrections counselor at SOCIO and recommended me.The program involved inmates at the Utah State Prison and youth in detention or involved with juvenile court. It provided them with the tools and support to successfully re-enter society and build fulfilling lives. This included job training, education, and treatment for mental health and substance abuse. The job gave me experience as a community activist, which contributed significantly to me eventually receiving a scholarship from the Mexican government.The 1970s were an exciting time for me. I gained a new pride in who I was, and my self-esteem and confidence were restored. I graduated from college, got involved in the Civil Rights Movement, landed my first professional job with SOCIO, and purchased my first house using the GI Bill.While I was working at SOCIO, I heard of a scholarship program called Becas para Aztlán. The Mexican government used some of the profits from new oil reserves to fund scholarships for Chicanos/Mexican Americans to pursue graduate degrees at Mexican universities, on the grounds that if the US wouldn't help us with our education, they would. I'm sure their agenda went beyond that. Little did I know this discovery would propel me to a whole new and exciting cultural, political, and educational journey.On August 2, 1979, I packed my belongings and headed to Mexico City. It was one of the most pleasant plane rides I have ever experienced. The skies were calm and blue, and I took it as a good omen.While my Mexico City experience began in the late 1970s, much of what changed the trajectory of my career occurred between August 1979 and August 1981. I was now seeing the world in a very different light than when I'd arrived there. I could see the United States from the outside and hear what the world was saying about us, and although I often found myself defending the homeland, I didn't hesitate to agree with some of the criticism of my country's policies.In the summer of 1981, my two-year scholarship was about to expire, and I was anxious to get back to the United States. I'd made new friends and completed two years of grueling graduate work at a prestigious university. I'd been exposed to a part of the world I had only heard about, and most importantly, I was leaving with a new set of goals—goals that would have seemed far-fetched only two years before. I was going down a path that a kid from Midvale might never have imagined, teaching political science at Northern New Mexico Community College in Española.By the time I left Mexico, my life had changed profoundly, and I was more confident. Studying in Mexico opened new doors and offered new opportunities. While in Mexico City, I met and fell in love with an exchange student from California. Three years later Rebecca and I were married in the same village on the same day my parents were married some sixty years earlier. Two years later, our daughter Sonia was born. Now I had to provide for my family.In 1982, my second year teaching at the community college, the general election cycle was taking place around the country. A local politician had run and lost the second congressional seat two years earlier and was running again. By 1980, a census had been completed, and New Mexico received a third congressional district because the population had increased. What better way to teach political science than to have a congressional candidate speak to my class? I placed a call to Bill Richardson's campaign office, and he agreed to speak to my class the following week. I agreed to meet him in the student union lunch area. A future congressman, secretary of the interior, ambassador to the United Nations, and governor stood there waiting for me. After he won his primary challenge, I invited him back to speak to my class again. He went on to win the election.Bill Richardson, now a congressman, had been in office for six months when I was invited to apply for an LBJ congressional internship. Not only was I teaching political science, I was going to witness it at work. I'd spend the summer working in Richardson's Washington office, an experience that served me well in my classroom.Later that year, I applied for and was awarded a National Endowment for the Humanities scholarship, which gave me the chance to study religion and politics for a summer semester at Rutgers University in New Jersey.In 1987, Rebecca and I were living in Albuquerque. I had just graduated from the University of New Mexico with a master's in political science with an emphasis on state and local government. I was ready to go to work, but the economy was in a recession, so I couldn't find a position in my field. After some lengthy discussions, we decided to relocate to Utah. We wanted our daughter to be around family, and in August, we made the move.In 1988, an election year, I landed a job with Salt Lake City mayor Ted Wilson's campaign for governor. Once again, I found myself paid for work I absolutely loved. My job was to get as much support as possible from communities of color around the state. Election night could have changed my life dramatically. The race was so close that we went to bed that night not knowing the winner. But in the morning, we found out we had lost by less than a percentage point. I can only speculate how things would have been different for me careerwise had he won.The experiences of the 1980s increased my desire to seek a better life in the United States. Earning the title of professor was remarkable. Teaching and interacting with students at the college gave me a sense of accomplishment and pride. Nothing changed me more than the birth of my daughter. I was now responsible for another human being. I knew that Rebecca was going to be an amazing mother and that we'd raise our daughter to be politically and culturally conscious, to be proud of who she was. We were determined to do what we could to make sure she was bilingual. From the time she was born, we discussed where she might attend college. We knew what we wanted for her, and to our amazement, she is the lady we hoped she would become.On Super Bowl Sunday, January 27, 1991, the family received a call that Mom had been taken to the hospital. We weren't sure why or how serious it was. She had been taken to the hospital before and always recovered. She was a strong woman, so I hoped she would be treated and released again, but this time, she had suffered a heart aneurysm. She died that same day.Someone once said that when you lose your language, you lose part of your culture. This was particularly true for our family since our mother, who was born in the United States, never learned English. All our conversations with her were in Spanish.In 1995, about four years after his wife died, Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. It would slow him down and eventually take his life. Watching the health of a parent deteriorate is disheartening. Rodolfo was a strong and independent individual who made a living with his hands and his back. To be forced to lie in bed helpless, needing assistance just to go to the bathroom, must have been humiliating for him. I could see it on his face. Dad had lived to be ninety-one years old. It seems the Romero lineage has a history of longevity. Four of his sisters and his mother lived well into their nineties. Dad was almost always healthy, seldom missed work, and, until Parkinson's set in, took few medications. Dad's passing was not as devastating to the family as our mother's had been. We knew his death was imminent. Nevertheless, it was the end of an era. His sister, Onofre, was the last of Juan Manuel and Teófila Romero's children still living. She, too, came close to making it to the century mark.In the summer of 1992, Institute for Human Resource Development (IHRD), a social services provider for Latinos in Utah, was searching for an executive director. IHRD was a nonprofit agency with an emphasis on migrant Head Start, gang prevention programs, and other social service projects. I was interviewed and hired. In short order, I reorganized the staff structure and eventually convinced the board to change the name of the organization to something that said more about who we were and what we did. Centro de la Familia de Utah (CDLF) became the official name.During my tenure at CDLF, I attended my first annual National Council of La Raza (NCLR) Conference in Houston, Texas. Now known as the UnidosUS, it is the largest Latino advocacy organization in the nation. It was an awakening, to say the least. I met professional Latinos from all over the country. The workshops were educational, the entertainment was the best, and there were many Latino activists in attendance. Some I knew, others I had just heard about. By now SOCIO had been dormant for some time, and there was a need for a new Latino civil rights organization in the state. Attending the national conference sparked an idea to create a local civil rights affiliate organization with the help of the NCLR.After months of meetings with Latino organizations from around the state, we convinced them to join a new coalition. On October 12, 1993, El Día de La Raza, the Utah Coalition of La Raza (UCLR), was born. I was elected as its first chairman. We had gathered seventeen organizations to sign on as members, including Centro Civico Mexicano, Centro de la Familia de Utah, the Utah Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, the Catholic Diocese, the American GI Forum, IMAGE de Utah, the Chicano Student Association of the University of Utah, the University of Utah's Chicano Scholarship Fund Board of Trustees, and several others. The media was very interested in our mission, and we had an impressive turnout for our first press conference. The next day, we made the front pages of Utah's major newspapers.12Prior to leaving Centro, I was appointed to the Utah Transit Authority's (UTA) board of directors. In 1992, Utahns had voted against a measure to fund a light-rail system.13 However, UTA's general manager, John Pingree, secured federal funds to move the project forward.14 The issue soon became divisive, and I was right in the thick of it. A resolution w