TRAVEL SERIES: Shame, Shame

In life, there will come many times when you have to stand up for what you believe. Regardless of whether you choose to act or claim yourself a victim of Genovese syndrome, your integrity is at stake.

Cradled in the heart of San Antonio is the chapel of the Mission San Antonio de Valero dating back to the early 1700s. Originally, it served as a Spanish mission for Catholic priests until 1793 when it became a fort. My wife and I, Texans, stopped on our honeymoon because when you get married you want to re-experience everything with your spouse. Bleachers and crowds congested the streets surrounding The Alamo at the time as the town got ready for its Fiesta celebration, but we didn’t know what was going on. All we saw were flowers everywhere, people walking up and down the streets, women in dresses and boots, men in Wranglers and boots, and police officers. It is in the Alamo Plaza that I met the most ignorant person ever.

“Do you know the history of The Alamo?” he asks blocking me from running in any direction. Normally, I’d be rude when feeling attacked by strangers, but I’m with my wife. The middle-aged Native American activist had been hanging around with flyers in front of the Plaza, puffing at a cigar for a while and occasionally perching it between his index and middle finger — a sight I would normally avoid. I don’t know why I didn’t spot and avoid him. Was he sneaking up behind me? Do I have a target on my forehead?

“Of course I know the history of The Alamo. I attended school in Texas during seventh grade; I took Texas History,” I said.

“What happened here?” he asks. My wife walks away and blissfully continues investigating what the parade is about and ignores my S.O.S. I telepathically send. What can I say now to get far away from this man? My wife just abandoned me and disappeared into the parade preparation site, entranced by beautiful tulips, roses, sunflowers, and country dresses. To the man, do I say “Sorry, I don’t have time for this?” Do I just keep walking? I panic and instead, I attempt appearing indifferent and simply answer his question with: “Well, we defended it.”

“Defended what? Who’s we? Against who? Why?” he asks.

“The Alamo. Americans, Texans, whatever. Against the Mexican president at the time…”

“Who was he?”

“Porfirio Díaz? Santa Anna? I don’t remember, but if I ever need that information, I have Google, though.”

“We have been trying for so long to get our land back. The land that is now used as a tourist attraction and has become a product of capitalism. But the government doesn’t care. Do you know that all those people you call heroes, Travis, Crockett, Bowie — they were slave-owners and not even from Texas?”

“No. That’s definitely something I’ll look into when I get home. Thanks.”

He completely ignores every effort I make to get back to my wife and proceeds to tell me that these “Texas heroes” actually moved from New Orleans and other parts of Louisiana because Santa Anna abolished slavery in Mexico before Abraham Lincoln did and The Alamo happened to be an important slave trading point. I was beginning to gain interest until…

“You know what they would do?” he asks, ignoring the crowd around us. “They’d cut of the heads of (Expletive) and put them on pikes to scare other (Expletive) before they arrived in slave ships.” I stand in shock, look around me for help, and tap S.O.S. in Morse Code with my foot hoping someone, anyone will help me use all my energy to emit an S.O.S. signal to everyone and anyone around me. There are crowds coming and going. There are cops patrolling the area. There is an array of cultures represented here. Someone has to have heard that, surely. I stand paralyzed trying not to seem like we’re two friends having a conversation, making it clear that I am an unwilling participant – a victim – in this conversation.

“(Expletive) are (Expletive) ugly enough as it is. That’s bad enough. Now imagine a (Explicit) with his head cut off and his body on hanging by a tree,” he laughs. He laughs! I cannot believe that someone who is fighting for what he believes are the rights of his people — a minority — would say such a thing about another minority. Such comments are not only upsetting at a patriotic level but also detrimental to your own cause. Does he not see this? By now I’m so anxious that my heart is skipping beats and I move on from telepathy to iMessages and hidden pocket dials like someone about to be kidnapped. Where’s Liam Neeson when you need him? From behind me, my wife approaches. From behind me, the next best rescuer approaches, my wife, who could easily work for the NSA.

“OK I’ll look into that. I like history. That’s why I’m here, but I have to go because my wife and I have plans. Bye.” I walk away with my wife, hold her hand, and tell her about the man. She is shocked too and apologizes for leaving me. “That’s not good enough!” I yell. “Your apology doesn’t fix the disgusting feeling of being around an ignorant, racist person like that. You’re going to have to pay for dinner to make up for leaving me.” She does, but I’m not satisfied.

As we drive out of San Antonio to our next stop in Houston, I can’t help but feel disappointed and ashamed. I feel disappointed for he has hurt the fight of many Native Americans. I feel ashamed that I allowed that man to use racial slurs without defending African-Americans. I feel ashamed that I allowed him to speak like that in front of me and around other men, women, and children. I feel ashamed I didn’t act.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is part of a periodic series of Travel articles from UTRGV creative writing students of Philip Zwerling.