Issue 6: “Veterans, Part I” is Here…

Thank you to all who made this issue possible. We are very proud to present this amazing edition, our most content-rich to date, with great insight and narrative provided by 16 amazing writers. Please pick up a copy here at our website, or at local bookstores around Colorado Springs.

issue 6 cover official jpeg

Copies are also available at Hooked on Books (downtown), Poor Richard’s Books and Gifts (downtown), Books For You (8th Street), and Ranch Foods Direct (Fillmore Street). Whenever purchasing a copy at a store, you support brick and mortar bookstores and local businesses, two important institutions we are a fan of. Support Literature, Support Local.

The Staff of La Revista Almagre

Issue 6: VETERANS, coming this Friday

issue 6: veterans

Part One of our edition on Veterans will be available this Friday. Launch events are scheduled for February 1, Colorado Springs, at the downtown Penrose Library, and February 16, Denver. For more details, contact Joe Barrera, Publisher of The Almagre Review. Sign up for our email list by entering your email address on our main page, top right corner in the right column. Event information will be provided as details take shape.

~the Staff

Joe Barrera: Do We Still Have a Conscience?

This is the season when we celebrate the voice of conscience. This celebration is unique in the world, and springs from our spiritual inheritance. As we understand our history, we were founded by people of conscience, dissenters who fled the oppression of church and state in order to remain faithful to their beliefs. We honor this inheritance of freedom of conscience. It has a name. We call it American Exceptionalism. We feel that it makes us better than other nations. The vision has faded but so powerful is the legacy that there is still a memory of it, still a twinge of conscience which prods us to pay homage to our founding ideals. Heroes of conscience continue to spring up in this country. They are Lincoln’s “better angels of our nature,” born to fight the dark forces of fear and discord. We are perpetually torn between conscience, the insistent voice of reason and light, and the devil of fear, which for us always takes the form of racism and xenophobia. It is the eternal war in our souls. The battle manifests in our belief that our purpose in the world is to be “a light unto the nations.” To be this light is to bear a heavy burden, which we carry willingly. But it can be self-destructive. We are torn by repeated struggles, the endless cycles of progression and regression in our history. These occur when we perceive to have either succeeded or failed in our mission of enlightenment. At the moment we have failed. We are caught up in the cycle of regression. We are moving backward.

Martin Luther King

In their latest visitation, progression and regression have been ferociously fighting since the 1960s. The ebb and flow is ceaseless. The decisive battle has not yet been fought. In the titanic struggle a better angel appeared. The darkness killed him, but his life continues. Because of him we know that regression will give way to progression. The hero said this about conscience: “Cowardice asks the question, Is It Safe? Expediency asks the question, Is It Politic? And Vanity comes along and asks the question, Is It Popular? But Conscience asks the question, Is It Right? The Ultimate Measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of convenience, but where he stands in moments of challenge, moments of great crisis and controversy.”

This would be one more moment of great crisis for him. If he were alive today he would be down on the Mexican border, rescuing the 13,000 children torn from their parents’ arms by the U.S. government and caged like animals. “We are responsible for that atrocity,” he would say to us. “Injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere.” He would condemn the racism he knew so well, still directed against his own people, and at the same time non-violently lie down and stop the latter-day slave ships, the dangerously overcrowded vans ferrying desperate immigrants to slave-like jobs. He would stand in front of the wall of shame and intone, “Tear down this wall!” He would fearlessly defend the asylum seekers, reminding us that we have laws granting them the right to seek refuge in the land of the free. He would call all of us, Whites, African Americans, Latinos/Chicanos, to stand with him in conscience. And we would respond, knowing that the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. is not just a hero for Black folks but for everyone of us.

Joe Barrera, Ph.D., is the former director of the Ethnic Studies Program at UCCS, and a combat veteran of the Vietnam War.

Book Chat: Live From Medicine Park

A novel by Constance Squires, Issue 4 contributor.

Boundaries are there for the rest of us; understanding when to cross them, when not to cross them—we grow up and learn where they inform our decisions. We gain awareness of how boundaries and lines keep us from hurting others… and ourselves.

Live From Medicine Park JPEG cropped
Constance Squire’s novel Live from Medicine Park reminds me of the eyeglasses on the billboard in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. In Fitzgerald’s classic, we are invited to feast upon the calculus of destruction through those inanimate lenses of T.J. Eckleburg. There is something to be said for this voyeuristic narrative machine… the impersonal lens through which we watch a fatalistic crushing. Even though the characters themselves are vessels for human frailties, vices, and compulsions, it feels as if they are being strung along by invisible rope into their wreckage. The path is inevitable and they almost aren’t to blame. The author is become the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus, split between decadent grape-sucking and idle puppeteering with their human playthings. That seems to be the bargain with Fitzgerald’s eyeglasses… he is telling us that looking away will not save Gatsby and friends. Everything is in motion.

Which is why I spent the first half of Live From Medicine Park wondering why the central characters of Ms. Squire’s novel keep doing things to sabotage themselves, or others, despite their better natures. Ray Wheeler, through whom the story is told, is a documentary filmmaker barely hanging onto his career. He’s messed up bad enough with previous jobs that taking him on is a liability. Ray has also wrecked other things in life; he’s divorced, living in a dark moldy house in Austin with a nasty lawsuit hanging over his head. The only reason he ends up in Medicine Park working on a Rock and Roll documentary is that a former student has set the project up. This former student hired Ray out of admiration and pity, indicating that not only is Ray down on his luck, but he is a credible artist. His other films have been successful, won recognition, and former students still understand this talent.

This novel is about artists, there’s a lot of them in the book. We get into the mirror within the mirror thing, as the novel shows a filmmaker creating a movie about a rock legend relaunching a music career that got derailed by drugs and alcohol in the late 70s, early 80s. The subject of Ray’s documentary, Lena Wells, is a petite, dark-haired beauty whose youthfully supernova Rock and Roll career came crashing down during an embarrassing live performance on the Tonight Show twenty-some years ago. Now, she is planning her comeback tour, and part of the publicity launch includes a documentary, a sanitized bio sort of thing. But herein lies the problem: Lena and Ray are both artists, and the purpose of the documentary is bound to their separate and non-overlapping motives. This is where Live From Medicine Park reminds me of T.J. Eckleburg’s glasses. The movie camera is the “machine” in the story which keeps the characters relentlessly unspooling their privacy, revealing their deceit. Ordinary folks tend to lie by omission or concealment—a thing different than bald-faced lying—and the artists in Live from Medicine Park are no different. They are like us. The camera does not have to be “on” for them to start opening up, it only has to be there. And why is that?

It would be easier if Ray Wheeler was simply a professional. Remember the bit about boundaries? He understands they are there, he just has no ability to see and respond to them. It might make him an unsavory type if it weren’t that Lena, who is outwardly a much better, nobler, drug-and-alcohol-free version of herself, is also stricken with her own capacity for manipulation and neediness. She is not guiltless in the way this family mystery unravels under pressure from the panoptic lens. It might be that despite her attempts to control Ray’s documentary, to turn it into fluff and promotional treacle, is not commensurate with her own deeper, darker needs for confessing family secrets. She has spent the last couple of decades rather quietly in Medicine Park raising her son, Gram, and maintaining a deep friendship with Cy, the tall, lean and leathered guitarist of the band. At first appearance, the last fifteen years has the veneer of rural Oklahoma tranquility (albeit of a slightly unusual kind), complete with orange bowling-ball river rocks upon quonset-like buildings, their pillars and arches, along with sun-baked bluffs and mountains in a tornado-riven country. The locals deal with the wicked green and yellow skies preceding bad weather quite casually… but those skies keep Ray Wheeler on edge while he chums about with Lena and her family, trying to figure out how to tell their story.

Ray has taught his students in the past that they must love their subject, but in the spirit of Captain Kirk, not violate or get involved with their subject (The Prime Directive). This might sound contradictory on its surface, but that’s only because on a deeper level it is. If Ray could follow his own advice, we wouldn’t have this novel. Ray is torn by two things; he is a coldly automatic passenger to his craft, getting footage and narrative regardless of consequence. He is also warm-blooded and male, which serves us a fairly predictable pillow and linen destination. Few things in the universe are more reliably forecast than a single man fueled by mid-life insecurity. Ray is so helpless, he falls—if not in love—certainly in bed with someone who’ll have him. That is to say, our filmmaker is no Captain Kirk. These two competing motives play separately along parallel lines, but one always has the sense that the end is a single dot where the trains will collide. Ray Wheeler never performs the violence, he just triggers the action… against his better judgment: “He had been trying to live by a code, to do what was right, and instead had backed into mistake after mistake, like Oedipus setting out to avoid the prophecy that he’d kill his father and marry his mother and doing those very things along what he thought was the road away from them.” (pg.201)

I run the risk of flattening the complexity of this novel’s cast of characters because there is so much in it, and Ms. Squires has done an excellent job of giving us quite a menu. I’m afraid that if I went into it all, it would take too long. But for those who seek that, this novel is for you. The plot is driven by the mechanics of all these characters’ relationships, Lena’s family and friends, and the reader is presented with the pleasure of unraveling a mystery along the way. The cosmic force to disassemble family secrets, personified by Ray’s camera, needs an obvious place to go, a wall to push that will cave. And of course, as I have marveled before, few writers are as effective with metaphor as Constance Squires; “[he] took a turn around the Great Room, passing through conversations like a plane through weather patterns”—“Regret batted around in him like a startled bird as he realized he had crossed a line somewhere and left a choice behind.”

I will confess, that the plot-mystery of a story is often less interesting to me than the author’s exploration of “big” themes or deep ideas along the way. The publishing house and market must get their customary product… and that means reliable techniques such as a mystery that dissolves under the gears and ratchets of plotting. But I feel that the author is saying other things with this story. Ms. Squires is telling us about artists, and about people. I want to get back to the previous question: Why do Lena and her circle keep Ray around when they want different things? Ray, socially, is all elbows and knees knocking people around. Throughout the novel, Ray keeps stepping on his subjects, using them, asking inappropriate questions, slipping from journalistic filmmaker working on behalf of a “deserving audience” to a strangely ingratiated family-member of the Rock and Roll clan. Ray does, he “loves” his subject and yet will sacrifice them to the cold functional need for drama and pain that has to appear in a documentary of his artistic making. If Lena wanted the documentary to be a tool-piece in her publicity package helping the relaunch of her career, it’s very obvious that she decides against those sensibilities. She allows Ray, in his competence for damage, to continue this project. She too, along with her son, Gram, Cy the guitarist, and daughter-in-law, Jettie, are not being honest with themselves. Something about these people want (need) the disassembling lens in their life.

Which leads us to the next question. Why? Why do they want that lens—T.J. Eckleburg’s fatal glasses—why invite that in and allow it to unravel the mystery? My hunch is to do with one of our essential urges, the voyeur’s urge. We live in an interesting age and the evolution of social media illuminates something very important in our nature. We’ve long acknowledged our reptilian desire to peek into other people’s private lives. The internet illustrates this daily. But social media has taught us that perhaps the desire—or hope—that other people want to look into our private lives is equally, if not, more important. There is something perversely nourishing to the ego that our inner mysteries are worthy of outside observation. And here, I see the wall to Lena and her friends’ privacy wanting to give way in similar fashion. It’s not even important whether the camera is rolling—one of Ray’s continual frustrations is missing “prime” footage as interviewees confess little secrets like breadcrumbs. But, it’s the threat of the project, the film’s lurking presence, that animates their willingness to confess in bits and pieces. It’s as if they need to do this more than Ray needs to get his career back in order.

So my understanding of the characters’ motives began to shift into place. No wonder the Lena Wells Rock and Roll clan keeps this half-cocked, muck-fooleried docu-auteur around. Without the conviction or strength to clean up their own secrets, they find in Ray Wheeler, the first click or domino in a long Rube Goldberg machine that will unravel their secrets for them. In this manner, Lena and her friends merely have to “flip that first switch,” setting in motion the artist who is slave to his craft and mammalian instincts. They become complicit in the mess that follows. This “tornado” is something they end up inviting to dinner.

Ironically, Ray sees the weakness and manipulation in his subjects’ decisions which are in fact his own to the point they determine his behavior. This is a classic case of projection. Until someone’s life is on the line—consequent of his actions—there can be no hope for self-examination. And this is perhaps where Ms. Squire’s panoptic machine departs (halfway, at least) from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s deep message about fate and doing our best despite the watery breakers beating our face. Ray Wheeler abandons T.J. Eckleburg’s gaze through one of the few effective means available to thwart fate. Accountability. Ray has two routes ahead of him, one that guarantees the trains collide at the dot of inevitability, or he can shift their schedule so the two may pass in a narrow miss. Basically, the artist can surrender to fate by riding his compulsions and unquestioned instincts, or… he might stop for a moment of honest self-reflection and appraise his actions. Internal awakenings occur in different ways, and in this story’s Oklahoma setting, of hard land and aboriginal mythology mixed with colonial kitsch, we get to have a white man (Ray) go on a vision quest. Befogged by fevered dreams and the consequences of his investigative cudgeling, he is provided clarity for the way forward. Perhaps there really is medicine in the water.

I won’t say which path at the fork our artist takes, right or left, because as a wise man once said, if you see a fork in the road… “take it.” Ms. Squires is a savvy writer, and savvy writers know that perhaps the most interesting outcome is not a total collision, nor is it a near but miraculous miss, but one where the trains clip and some of the cars are lost. For me, it’s interesting in this particular story that another choice observation is the measure in which a person undertakes the process of honest self-examination. Ray had to initiate, then perform this process on his own. The Lena Wells Rock and Roll clan needed the outside contraption… that Rube Goldberg machine I mentioned. And, they both bear different results. But it happens to be the journey that the characters need to make. To be trite, they must follow their own path. The message in Live From Medicine Park might simply be that the best way forward is a combination of the two, the artist must make decisions along the way, understand his or her limits, acknowledge boundaries, while surrendering—to a degree—to fate.

The ending serves up this harmony perfectly, and in an ironically gentle way. I like stories that show people’s capacity for growth. We never got that in The Great Gatsby. In that novel, the women and men were resigned to their motives and impulses, and it all disintegrates in a bad car wreck underneath the eyeglasses. Fate is impersonal, and those decadent Olympian gods are rather flip about our individual outcomes. But if we can find a tale about artists untying a bit from those puppet masters, we see two things: reality and hope. I enjoyed Constance Squires novel very much because we get to spend a week behind the scenes of a former Rock and Roll legend, and we get to feel how very much they are like us, in need of showers, easy to bruise, and hasty to react. In fact, they might be a little too much like us. But, in the end, we get the sense of those two things in Live From Medicine Park—Hope and Reality. We also get to see Ray Wheeler’s ego gently massaged by the very thing the documentary camera represents… Other people thinking about us, and thinking about us highly.

Live From Medicine Park bookcover

Look for this Book Cover. Pick up a copy…
AMAZON

 

John Lewis
Artist and Editor
The Almagre Review

Joe Barrera: The Christmas Truce

It was not the same as the famous WWI Christmas Truce of 1914 on the Western Front, when French and British soldiers came out of the trenches and mingled with their German enemies, exchanging gifts and singing Christmas carols, to the consternation of their commanders. The truce in my war was a ceasefire nevertheless. At least for a few hours, or even for a day or two, depending on where you were. The ceasefire had been announced by both the U.S. and South Vietnam. The Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese agreed to it, somewhat reluctantly. They immediately violated it, firing their ubiquitous mortars at U.S. base camps. That was our version of events. The VC and the NVA said that we were the instigators.

Christmas Flower

Christmas 1967 was a clear, peaceful, sunlit day. We were set up on a hilltop near the Laotian border somewhere west of the 4th Division’s 1st Brigade Base Camp at Dak To in the mountainous Central Highlands of South Vietnam. The series of bloody hill fights known as the Battle of Dak To had terminated a few weeks earlier. Like other battles far away and long ago, Dak To is largely forgotten. I cannot forget it and I am forever sorrowful because too many comrades died. The NVA mauled the 173rd Airborne Brigade on Hill 875 and 3/8th Infantry of the 4th Division at Hill 1338. 1/8th Infantry, my unit, had been involved on 1338, and firefights, ambushes, mortar and recoilless rifle attacks on unnamed hilltops. Now we dug in, licking our wounds and wondering when the next attack would come out of the North Vietnamese sanctuaries in Laos. Soldiers always know it. They had deliberately put us out there. We were the bait to entice the North Vietnamese out of their holes.

But for a short time the Prince of Peace reigned. Out of the bright blue sky a double-rotor Chinook helicopter swooped down and landed at the LZ we had hacked out of the thick forest. The ramp lowered and crewmen pushed bulging orange-colored sacks onto the ground. They ran back into the cavernous hold and emerged carrying mermite cans full of hot food. People we never saw out in the field appeared: the company XO, the supply sergeant, the mess sergeant, the company clerk, and the usual shammers and profile-wavers. These base camp commandos lined up the mermite cans, broke out the paper plates and proceeded to serve the less-fortunate grunt infantry Christmas dinner, turkey with all the trimmings. Others opened the orange sacks and out tumbled cardboard boxes, packages from home. The Army had come through. We were not forgotten after all.

I got two packages. The smaller one was from my lady love in Mercedes, the little dust-blown south Texas town five miles north of the Rio Grande. In 1750 my ancestors had settled on the north bank of the Big River, on “la merced,” the Spanish land grant which gave the town its name. I remembered my great-grandfather’s land. But he lost it to the American taxes he never understood. How I longed to be back there, dust notwithstanding. The bigger package was from my Dad, stationed with the Army in Kaiserslautern. The whole family was in K-Town, frolicking with the frauleins. I could have gone with them but I chose Vietnam instead. My girl had sent stationary, pens, envelopes, and sweet-smelling lotion-saturated wipes. She was ready for the first kiss and knew that I had not bathed in months. My father’s box was full of canned Mexican goodies, tortillas, hot sauce, tamales, cinnamon-laced chocolate, all the usual Mexican Christmas delicacies. How did he get all that stuff in Germany? That must have been some commissary in Kaiserslautern.

 

Joe Barrera, Ph.D., is the former director of the Ethnic Studies Program at UCCS, and a combat veteran of the Vietnam War.

Joe Barrera: Heroes Make Us Who We Are

Reminder: Our sixth issue, Veterans, will be coming out soon. Keep your eyes and ears open for the latest updates and information.

red rock canyon hiking COLORFUL
View from Red Rock Canyon

Are heroes molded by the societies which produce them, or do heroes create the values that define societies? It’s a perennial question. Colorado Springs is imbued with the military ethos and we take the question of war heroes seriously. For me this is especially poignant. I still crave peace on my journey home from the Vietnam War. Searching for it, I met recently with The Pikes Peak Heroes Legacy Committee, another of our distinguished citizens’ groups dedicated to honoring veterans and their legacy.

The Pikes Peak Heroes Legacy Committee “exists for the purpose of honoring and remembering the sacrifices of heroes among us, to ensure that their legacy is preserved in our community for future generations.” To that end, the Committee is dedicated to creating a permanent, mobile, museum-quality exhibit to honor the legacy of the flagship of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, the USS Arizona, sunk on December 7, 1941. And the Arizona sailor and  survivor, Donald G. Stratton, the 96-year-old retiree who lives in Colorado Springs. But more than that, the Committee wants us to remember that the heroes of Pearl Harbor, even if only a few remain, are very much alive. The traditions they represent are also very much alive. The Committee is chaired by Capt. Bob Lally, (US Navy Ret.). Vice-chair is Col. Stan VanderWerf, (USAF Ret.). Committee members are Lisa Bachman, USAF Veteran; Dr. Andy Cain, (USN Ret.); Matt Coleman (USN Ret.); LtCol. Bill Linn, (USA Ret.); CDR Mark Seglem; (USN Ret.); Mary Beth Burichin, CSprings Airport; Welling Clark, (USN Ret.); Bill Nelson, attorney-at-law; Andy Vick, Cultural Office of the Pikes Peak Region. Nikki and Randy Stratton represent the family of Don Stratton. We owe all of them a sincere thanks.

The panel has already succeeded in re-naming the new Fillmore Street bridge at I-25 after Don Stratton. No doubt they will succeed with the new exhibit, which will be on display at the airport, there to greet both residents and visitors and educate them on the values which we prize in this community. But the fund-raising is still underway. Contact the Center for Regional Advancement, a 501(c)3 organization affiliated with the Colorado Springs Chamber of Commerce, to donate.

I feel that a country, a society, a culture makes heroes. We know that America is somehow exceptional, that we live for truth, freedom, justice, fairness, and equality. And for one other thing. We live for kindness. These are high standards. We may not always live up to them, but we never stop trying. I believe that is what makes us “exceptional,” that we never stop trying–and that we are always ready to defend these virtues. The men who died at Pearl Harbor died defending them.

As he writes in his book, All the Gallant Men, Don Stratton was enraged at the treachery of the Japanese, the way their pilots grinned and waved at the American sailors they were mercilessly strafing and bombing as they flew their planes twenty-feet off the water at Pearl Harbor. The Japanese attack was against all that Americans hold dear. Five minutes into the Pearl Harbor attack every American sailor and Marine had made the steely resolve to avenge the death and wounding of their comrades. The sheer cruelty was against all the rules of kindness. Kindness is an American virtue. Yes, sometimes we forget ourselves and behave in a cruel manner, but we always remember who we are and come back to kindness. Kindness springs from the truth that we are all equal. There was one man who certainly believed in equality. This man believed in it so much that he disobeyed orders for the sake of the equality he felt with his shipmates. In doing so he saved Don Stratton and five other men. Joe George, the man who saved Don’s life, was the perfect example of kindness. Read Don’s book. You will be inspired to live up to American values.

Joe Barrera, Ph.D., is the former director of the Ethnic Studies Program at UCCS, and a combat veteran of the Vietnam War.

 

Joe Barrera: First Thanksgivings

We should always give credit where credit is due. I’m thinking of the Native Americans in this season of Plymouth Rock, Captain Miles Standish and John Alden, who both wanted to marry Priscilla Mullins, the only marriageable woman left after all the others died of disease and sheer heartbreak on the pestilential tub called the Mayflower. Priscilla must have been pretty tough. Tisquantum was there, the kidnapped and returned Patuxet Indian better known as Squanto. He had learned English during his sojourn in Europe and was able to translate for the Pilgrims and negotiate with hostile tribes, which saved the Plymouth colony from annihilation. Indians helped Europeans in the New World. This relationship is part of Thanksgiving lore, a gift from American mythology. We think of Captain John Smith and Pocahontas at Jamestown, Leatherstocking and the Mohican, Chingachgook, Sacagawea and Lewis and Clark, and the cowboy version–the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Native Americans helped white people in this land, which for Europeans was often strange and savage. Of course, it never seemed to work the other way. We give thanks for Indians like Squanto, who introduced us to the turkey which the Pilgrims ate at the banquet in 1621, when they celebrated the anniversary of their arrival. Except they ate venison, not  turkey, but turkeys are part of the myth. Besides, they are so much more fun for kids to draw, along with men carrying blunderbusses and wearing hats with buckles.

Frozen Berries Color
     photo by: Marian Lanham

We honor the New England Thanksgiving, but there was an earlier one, on the banks of the Big River, el Rio Grande, when the Spanish mining magnate, Juan de Onate, brought 500 settlers north from Santa Barbara in the the present state of Chihuahua, in 1598. This is important to know because American history is incomplete without the Spanish contribution. Knowledge of Spaniards, Indians and Mexicans is crucial if we are to understand our present situation. Onate’s aim was to colonize northern New Mexico, which meant that the Pueblo Indians had to bear the brunt of European exploitation. This was true whenever Europeans encountered native peoples. But the Spanish were different from the English. Spain did not drive out the Indians to make room for white settlement, unlike the English. Spain sent mainly soldiers and priests to the New World, unlike the English who sent entire families. This meant that Spanish men often married Indian women. Onate was married to the granddaughter of the Aztec emperor, Moctecohzuma, and the settlers he led had already begun el mestizaje, the mixture of Spanish and Indian blood and culture, which characterizes Mexico and the U.S. Southwest.

The settlers crossed 600 miles of waterless desert, a journey every bit as hazardous as the Atlantic crossing. They finally reached el Rio Grande in what is now El Paso/Ciudad Juarez. So grateful were the people to find water that they had a real thanksgiving, the same as the Pilgrims more than twenty-years later. They prepared a feast of fish from the river, and staged pageants, among them the reenactment of los moros y cristianos, the battles between Moors and Christians, celebrated to mark the reconquest of Spain and the expulsion of the Moorish king Boabdil in 1492. The Catholic monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabela, drove out the best part of their industrious population, the Muslims, and also many Jews.

The Spaniards, in spite of extensive intermarriage with Native Americans, transferred their rage against Muslims to the Indians  The following year, 1599, Onate sent his nephew, Juan de Zaldivar, to Acoma Pueblo, to demand provisions from the people there. The Indians attacked the soldiers, which prompted Onate to retaliate. He punished the Acoma people by cutting off the right feet of the men and selling many of the children into slavery. The Acomas have never forgotten this but Spanish justice caught up with Onate. He was tried for his crimes and banished from New Spain. I cannot think of similar punishment for English crimes. Regardless, we can learn from this and truly give thanks for the Indians who made European settlement possible.

Joe Barrera, Ph.D., is the former director of the Ethnic Studies Program at UCCS, and a combat veteran of the Vietnam War.