i

EL MESTIZO MODERNO

THE STORY OF A MODERN DAY MIXED BLOOD AND HIS JOURNEY

TOWARDS SELF IDENTITY

____________

A Department Thesis Presented to Faculty Of

California State University, Hayward

_____________

In Partial Fulfillment Of the Requirement for the Degree

Master of Arts in Anthropology

_____________

By Robert C. Quintana-Hopkins

November, 2001

ii

Copyright c 2001 by Robert C. Quintana-Hopkins

iii

EL MESTIZO MODERNO THE STORY OF A MODERN DAY

MIXED BLOOD AND HIS JOURNEY TOWARDS SELF IDENTITY

BY Robert C. Quintana-Hopkins

Approved:

_____________________________________ _____________________

_____________________________________ _____________________

_____________________________________ _____________________

iv

About the Author…

Robert is half-Mexican and half African American. He grew up in

Stockton, California, the son of Robert and Bonnie Hopkins. He

attended the University of California, at Davis where he earned his

Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science. He is currently earning a

Masters of Arts degree in Anthropology at California State University

Hayward and aspires to earn a Ph.D. Robert has found his process

of personal growth liberating and hopes others will seize the same power.

v

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my niece Mariah, my nephew Terry, and

the many generations yet to be born. May you find pride and

power in the history of your family. It is the root of your

beginnings, but by no means the end of what you can be… And to

all of my ancestors, in memory of your love, hopes and struggles.

May you look down from heaven and find joy in what you have

made. We, your descendants, say Thank You.

…The journey continues.

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Acknowledgements

“God’s Grace and Mercy have brought me through, I am living this moment because of

you. I want to thank you and praise you too, your grace and mercy have brought me through.”

These words will forever remind me of my grand aunt, Llema Mae Silas-Hopkins. It is her

favorite song and one she sings often. When she sings those words she means them and her

praise for the Creator is truly from her heart. It is from my aunt that I received much of my

information on the Hopkins, in particular the 19th century and early 20th century information.

She is the family historian and loves to tell stories, like her grandmother Callie. It is because of

her stories that we, the Hopkins, know our family history, our familial roots. Aunt Llema Mae

has said that she hopes that she has done something in her life to inspire her nieces and nephews

to follow in her footsteps. Aunt Llema Mae, let me tell you that you have, just by being you.

My aunt is creative, confident, intelligent, assertive and giving. Who would not want to emulate

someone with those characteristics? It is my plan to take the torch that you took from Callie and

continue the tradition of storytelling in our family. I am one nephew you have inspired.

To my grand Aunts Jerry and Dolores I owe the utmost thanks. My grandmother, Irene,

passed away when I was eight years old, she therefore was unable to tell me, or any of her

grandchildren, the history of our family. My Aunts Jerry and Dolores have stepped in and been

invaluable sources of information. Aunt Jerry and Aunt Dolores, I thank you for your stories,

they have given your sister’s children and grandchildren a sense of family history and pride.

Now, when someone asks us where our family is from in Mexico, we do not have to say we

vii

don’t know. We can tell them about Hernan Martin Serrano, Adelida and Sidelia. We can say

our roots are in Zacatecas, Mexico, New Mexico and Colorado. To all three of my Aunts, Thank

You! In this thesis, I hope I have done your stories justice.

I also owe special thanks to my Mom and Grandmother, Bennie. My grandma has kept

the spirit of my grandfather alive through stories since I was a little kid. Her stories so inspired

me, I wanted to grow up and be like him. As a kid, we often visited his grave. I would request

my own quiet time with my grandfather, praying that he would help me to grow up and be like

him. My grandmother has told me many times that my character is similar to his in several

ways. Perhaps he heard my prayers! My mom has provided much of the information about her

parents and the family’s life in Colorado.

Perhaps more important than what they have said, my grandmother and mom have

always listened. Because of them, I always felt, and still feel, as if I had someone to talk to, a

non-judgmental ear that allowed me to express my ideas about myself and about life in general.

By listening, they non-verbally told me that my thoughts and feelings mattered and were

important. To my mom and grandmother I am greatly indebted!

To the rest of my friends and family who have read drafts of this thesis, shared their

stories and listened to my ideas, I say Thank You as well. Those of you who have helped you

know who you are. I also must thank Dr. Lindy Mark, Dr. Peter Claus, Dr. Barbara Paige and

Dr. Richard Garcia, my thesis advisors at California State University, Hayward. Two of you

offered the constructive criticism necessary to mentor a developing scholar into a good scholar.

The other two of you offered the encouragement that is also necessary to develop a young

scholar. Two of you insisted that the project always remain mine, reminding me to stay focused

viii

and not allow the opinions of others to alter my vision of the project. All of you saw the value in

my story and insisted that it be told. Your input and encouragement is appreciated.

Last but not least I would like to thank my Dad, who taught me that being a man is not

measured by machismo or chauvinism. Instead, it is one’s character and integrity which defines

him as a man. I know I am one of a few young men today who have had the honor to have had a

father who is such a positive role model like you are for me.

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Table of Contents

1. Acknowledgements vi 2. Preface ix 3. Figure1: Contextual Timeline 1 4. Figure 2: Vigil and Hopkins Family Migration Routes 2 5. Chapter I: La Historia de La Familia Vigils 3

Captain Hernan Martin Serrano and Juana; The Conquistador and his wife 5 Francisco and Catalina; Life in New Mexico, Mexico 5 Adelida and Francisco; Life in Colorado 6 Sedelia and Roy; A Story of Love 10 Irene and Bennie; The Importance of Extended Family 15 Irene and Burt; A couple Who Had Fun Together 19 Vigil Family Photos 26-32 Vigil Family Recipes 33-35

6. Chapter II: The Hopkins 36 Agnes; Born Free, Sold into Slavery 38

Callie and Jessie; Post Emancipation and the Founding of the First Church 39 Gould and Vashti; A Farmer and A School Teacher 43 Robert and Bennie; Dedicated Parents 52 Hopkins Family Photos 73-80 Hopkins Family Recipes 81-85

7. Chapter III: Mi Experiencia 86

My Parents; Un Amor Prohibido 88 Primary Years and Childhood 90 Our Untraditional Upbringing 94 Quintana-Hopkins Family Photos 103-08

8. Chapter IV: Becoming El Mestizo Moderno 109 Childhood Memories of my Family’s Attitude Toward Race 111

Development of My African American Identity 118 College and the Development of a New View of the World and Myself 128

7. Afterward 142

Within A Larger Context 144 For the Individual 149 For Academia 151 Figures 3 & 4: The Quintana-Hopkins Model of The Individual and It’s Relation to Culture 158-63

8. Discussion Questions 165 9. Notes 166 10. Bibliography 168

x

Preface

xi

Nia had been prepared to inherit the wise woman’s book. The old

woman was the salvation and the backbone of the entire village. She was wise. She was loved. But she had become too old to carry out her duties. In return for twenty-two years of training, Nia was to

inherit the old woman’s key to life. The ceremony was long. The people were many. The responsibility was great. Nia was prepared. She was eager to get started. She believed the book would reveal the answers to all of life’s questions. It required two strong men to carry

the book to her chamber. When they placed it on her table, she quickly waved them away. The book was solid gold, trimmed with

emeralds, rubies and sapphires. In the middle of the front cover sat a seven-carat diamond. Nia’s heart was pounding. Her mouth had gone

dry. With her eyes closed, she fondled the cover of the book. The time had come to open it. She was about to learn life’s secret. She

opened to the middle of the book. She looked down at the page. Nia had inherited a book of mirrors.

- Iyanla Vanzant 2

xii

In 1988 I began my undergraduate studies at The University of California at Davis. The

years I spent at the university changed my life. Not only was the formal training I received

valuable, but perhaps more important was the personal change I experienced. College

introduced me to new ideas, new worldviews, and clarified misconceptions I held about the

world and the various people who participate in it. In addition to learning to view the world

differently, I began to see myself differently. The lenses through which I viewed the world and

myself became less one dimensional and more multi-dimensional. I learned to view the world

less in terms of oppositions; right v. wrong, black v. white, male v. female, good v. evil, etc. and

realized that in many instances those elements co-exist to various degrees. This seemingly

simple revelation changed my identity. Socialized as an African American, in college I chose to

view myself as a Mestizo, a mixed blood, as one of my parents is African American and one is

Mexican American. This book is a recount of the process of change I experienced, one which

has been, and undoubtedly will continue to be, life long.

As a child I grew up hearing fractions of stories about my ancestors. I heard that Callie,

my great, great grandmother, was Native American. I heard that Lightnin Hopkins, the famous

blues singer, was our cousin and that Vashti, my great grandmother attended college and was a

schoolteacher. My mom told me that one of her grandmothers was Native American, she

thought possibly Cherokee. I later learned that our family traces it’s lineage to 1535. I always

thought my ancestry was interesting, being half Mexican American and half African American.

My ancestors represented people who often were in conflict as a result of colonization and

slavery. I found it interesting that I am the common link which brings them all together; people

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who I imagine, would never have thought that they would one day have a common descendent,

me. I knew I would one day write a book about my experience, the descendent of these various

people, with ancestral origins from various continents, speaking various languages and with

differing ideas about each other. This is that book, El Mestizo Moderno. My story, the story of

a modern day mixed blood, the new “American.” A child of the original Americans as well as

their enemies and allies.

Chapters I and II of El Mestizo Moderno are documented versions of the oral histories

told to me by my two respective families. They are detailed and elaborated versions of the

stories I heard as a child, in addition to other stories I had never heard until I began writing the

thesis. I have supplemented the oral stories with my own research. I have found the oral

histories to be invaluable sources. As my first sources, they have provided the clues I needed in

order to find information from other sources, such as genealogical databases, slave records and

census records.

Chapter III and IV are autobiographical and present my own experience and process of

development. I have thought long and hard to recount the events, images and people who have

most influenced my identity development. As I reflected upon my childhood, I realized that I

was very fortunate to have parents who allowed me to develop my own identity. I remember my

dad’s family insisting that my sister and I know that we are Black. In a sense their assertion was

right. To the world we are Black. On the other hand, I remember my mother responding to my

declaration of being Black with “You are Black, but you are also half Mexican, and don’t you

forget it.” She too is right. I am an equal part Mexican as I am African American. My parents

have never pushed me to embrace or deny either race or culture to which I belong. My dad has

verbally expressed that he feels I am too militant when it comes to issues concerning African

xiv

Americans and, he seems confused at my desire to explore my Mexican heritage. More often

that not, he silently observes, allowing me to shape my own ideology. My mother supports and

encourages a strong African American identity and enjoys sharing her heritage and history with

me, an interest I do not believe she expected me to have. While my parents’ attitudes, decisions

and actions have undoubtedly affected the way I view the world and myself, My Mom and Dad

have also given my sister and I much freedom. This freedom has allowed us to be our own

people. All parents have hopes and dreams for their children and develop preconceived notions

of what their children and their lives will be like. My parents have not allowed their dreams to

replace ours. Not always making the choices they would prefer we make, I am sure at times we

have disappointed them. Yet, more than striving to teach us to think the same way they think,

they have tried to teach us to be strong enough to stand up for what we believe in, even if

standing up for what we believe in means we stand alone. As seen in the narrative, many of the

members of my families have set their own standards in life, often making choices that the

family as a whole or society in general may not have deemed appropriate. This spirit of

individuality has undoubtedly been passed to my sister and I.

Because of the freedom my parents have afforded me, and the support they have given

me, my identity is truly a self-identity. One I have defined. It is not forced upon me. I am able

to honor and love myself because I have come to understand myself, who I am, who I used to be,

and who I can be on my own terms, through my own eyes, and not through the eyes of someone

else. The freedom my parents have given me has allowed me to embrace both cultures to which

I belong. For me, being Mestizo, a mixed blood is a source of pride. I have always felt

advantaged in some ways. I have two cultures while most people have only one. I can call upon

the strength and wisdom of the ancestors of the Africans as well as the Indigenous Americans. I

xv

am powerful standing on their pasts. The ability to define myself is empowering. In some ways

I feel like a bird with wings. Like the Eagle that killed the serpent at Tenochitlan, alerting the

Aztecs where to build the majestic city, or Osiris the bird king of Egypt, who was murdered by

his evil brother Seth, represented by the Serpent.

The most important issue the thesis confronts is the issue of identity formation. In

particular, it takes a historical view of two families and how their attitudes, values and beliefs

about themselves and the world around them affect the self identity of their descendent, me,

Robert. Some people object to the idea of identity, feeling labels are confining. Self-definition

is flexible if you allow it to be. When you define yourself, there are no limits, and if limits exist,

you set them. The purpose of self-definition is not to label oneself, but to explore issues of

identity. Ultimately, to be able to answer the question, “Who am I?” to your own satisfaction. If

you are indeed growing, tomorrow, you will not be what you are today. You will be better.

Thus, your identity and/or self-definition will change. Because you set the perimeters, change is

O.K.

For me, asking the question: “Who am I?” has been liberating. Seeking the answer has

caused me to examine my past, trace my genealogy and look at who I am today, knowing the two

are connected. Perhaps more importantly, it has given me the foresight to think of who I want to

be and strive to better myself physically, spiritually, and intellectually, knowing the possibilities

of who I can be are endless. By defining myself, I seize personal power. By living in the public

identity, my view of self would be one dimensional and limiting. In asserting my private

identity, I am able to express all of who I am.

I share my story and the story of my ancestors, for I believe ours is the classic American

story. One, I am sure, shared with many Americans, however yet to be told. My story is that of

xvi

El Mestizo Moderno. A modern day mixed blood. My history is as complex as that of the

United States: originating in Mexico with Captain Hernan Martin Serrano, in Africa with a man

or woman whose story I may never know and in America where the blood of the indigenous has

been integrated giving birth to a new American. My identity is not found on the census report, or

on applications that ask respondents to check one only. America is not ready for modern day

Mestizos like myself. We don’t fit rigid classifications of race or fall prey to the racist belief of

division, insisting that an individual is only one race or another. I am both African American

and Mexican American. I choose both, not one race more than the other. To choose would be to

deny a part of myself, an act of self-hate I am not willing to commit.

Finally, the Afterward of the thesis places my experience in a larger context and

discusses the experience and it’s significance to both the individual and academia. My education

and search for self have transformed my life and worldview. It is my hope that other individuals

will embark on a similar journey, clearly not the same, for this journey is my own. Each

individual must experience their own journey, one that will transform them based upon their

individual needs. Once each individual transforms him or herself, our society will be

transformed. We are society and develop and express culture. A society and/or culture group

are individuals who collectively comprise a whole. As such, we have the power to change the

society of which we are members as a result of our ability to change ourselves. As we become

more conscious of the reciprocal relationship between the individual and society and culture, it is

my hope that individuals will cease to be passive critics and engage in social change by first

changing themselves. As seen in the Quintana-Hopkins Model of the Individual and It’s

Relation to Culture (figures 3 and 4), our society is a reflection of us, the individuals who

comprise it. If we want our society to change, we must first change ourselves.

xvii

This ethno history will, I believe, shed new light on the role the individual plays in

relation to culture maintenance and change. As social scientists increasingly focus more on the

individual within societies, we will find that the individual is the source of internal change within

culture and social units. In order for our representations and analysis of culture to be complete,

we must consider both internal and external sources of culture change. Individuals will

undoubtedly be found to be a primary source of internal change within culture and thus, powerful

members of society.

1

Contextual Timeline

100 B.C. Anasazi culture flourishes in what is now known as the American Southwest. 1492 Columbus sailed to America, where there were more than 300 nations of Native Americans,

each with their own name, language, traditions and government. 1598 Juan de Onate led explorative expedition, adding New Mexico as a Spanish Territory. 1776 Founding of the United States of America, end of American Revolution. 1804 Haiti gains it’s independence and becomes first independent Black nation to successfully rebel

against European colonialism. 1821 Mexico wins independence from Spain. Second President is African-Indian, Vicente Guerrero. 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ends the Mexican- American War. New Mexico, Texas,

Colorado, Arizona, California and Nevada become United States territories. 1861 Beginning of the American Civil War. Congress creates the territory of Colorado out of New Mexico. 1862 President Lincoln signs the Emancipation Proclamation. 1864 13th Amendment enacted by Congress, outlawing slavery. 1865 Slaves in Texas freed, June 19th. Also known as Juneteenth. 1784 Constitution of the United States Written and Ratified.

1909 The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People is formed. 1910 Mexican Revolution. 1917 United States enters into World War I by declaring War against Germany.

1919 Black intellectual movement known as the Harlem Renaissance begins and lasts until the end of the 1930’s.

1920 19th Amendment enacted by Congress, giving women the right to vote. 1929 Stock Market crashes, beginning of the Great Depression of 1930-1943. 1930 400,000 Mexicans and Mexican Americans are forced to go to Mexico. 1941 World War II, Japan attacks Pearl Harbor. 1942 Bracero program begins, allowing Mexican laborers to enter the U.S. as short term contract

workers 1943 U.S. Military Personnel attack young Mexican Americans wearing zoot suits in Los Angeles.

1951 The color television is introduced. 1954 U.S. Supreme Court begins process of dismantling segregation by ruling that separate schools

for Black and White students are intrinsically unequal in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas.

1955 Rosa Parks refuses to give up her seat to a white man on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama. The Gadsen Purchase 1963 Over 200,000 Civil Rights activists, including Martin Luther King, Jr. organize and participate

in the historical March on Washington. 1965 Malcolm X is assassinated.

Caesar Chavez, with Dolores Huerta and others, begins the United Farm Workers Association. Race riots occur in Watts, California.

1963 The Black Panther Party is founded. 1968 Martin Luther King, Jr. is assassinated.

Ten thousand students walk out of Lincoln and other East Los Angeles high schools, representing the first mass protest ever undertaken by Mexican Americans and the formal beginnings of the Chicano movement.

Figure 1

2

3

4

La Historia de La Familia Vigils

Chapter I

5

They who wish to understand their own lives ought to know the stages Through which their opinions and habits have become what they are.

- Edward Burnett Tyler

6

Captain Hernan Martin Serrano and Juana; the Conquistador and His Wife

Oral tradition holds that the history of the Vigils begins in the year 1535, 16 years

after Hernan Cortes arrived in Mexico, eventually conquering the Aztec empire and

acquiring the valley of Mexico as a Spanish territory. In 1535 Hernan Martin Serrano

was born. Hernan’s son is Sergeant Hernan Martin Serrano, a conquistador who traveled

with Juan de Onate and five other Spanish galleons as the original Onate colony. Captain

Serrano was born in 1558 in Zacatecas, Mexico. At the age of nineteen, he married Juana

Rodriguez. Juana was born in 1563, they married in 1577. Serrano left Mexico and with

Onate led an exploration of 400 soldiers, priests, colonists and servants north into New

Mexico. The expedition began in Chihuahua, Mexico and traveled up the east bank of

the Rio Grande. They settled at the Pueblo of Yunque- Yunque, where they established a

colony and declared New Mexico a missionary province of the Franciscan order

(Scurlock in Williams 1986: 20). Hernan and Juana had three children: Hernan Jr., Luis,

and Maria.

Francisco and Maria Catarina; Life in New Mexico, Mexico.

The family tree continues for eight more generations. The family lived in what is

now known as the American Southwest the 223 years it was a Spanish colony and known

by the name Nueva Espana (New Spain). In 1821 New Spain revolted against the empire

7

of Spain and declared its independence. New Mexico became a province of the newly

created Republic of Mexico. So it was in Taos, New Mexico, Mexico that my great,

great, great grandfather Francisco Antonio Martinez was born May 4, 1841. His wife,

Maria Catarina Chavez, was also born in Taos, New Mexico in 1850, two years after it

became a United States Territory. The United States acquired New Mexico in 1848 as a

result of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which ended the Mexican American War, and

annexed half of Mexico’s territory to the United States. Under the treaty, Texas, New

Mexico, California, Arizona, Nevada, Utah and half of Colorado became United States

territories.

Eloping, Francisco and Catarina left New Mexico and moved to Colorado, where

they were married January 11 of 1865 at Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe de Los Conejos

Catholic Church in Antonito by Father Jose Miguel Vigil. They lived in San Pablo,

Colorado. Francisco and Maria Catarina had eight children: Rosario de Jesus, Jose

Valerio, Juan Pedro, Juan Urbano, Elyro, Lucas, Maria Adelida and Maria Felicita.

Maria Adelida, my great, great grandmother, was born February 25, 1877 in Gardner,

Colorado.

Maria Adelida and Francisco; Life in Colorado

Maria Adelida married Francisco Barela at La Senora de los Siete Dolores

Catholic Church in Walsenburg, Colorado. They were married by Father Gabriel Ussel

8

December 5,1891. Francisco was born June 19, 1870 to Pilar Barela, a Navajo who was

raised by a Spanish family and carried their last name. Pilar was born in 1849 in Aguilar,

Colorado. During the time of the Santa Fe trading posts, Pilar met Manual Jacques, a

Frenchman. Their relationship resulted in grandpa Francisco Barela, and his brother

Patricio. Pilar chose to give Francisco and Patricio her last name because she and

Manuel did not marry.

Adelida and Francisco were Farmers and had 14 children: Maria Soledad,

Anastacita, Emma, Mary Sidelia, Clodoveo, Manuel Antonio, Francisco Jose, Esperanza,

Dulcinea, Maria De Los Angelos, Alfonso, Cinastaseta, Damiana and Antonio Jose.

Francisco and Adelaida met and married in Huerfano County in Southern Colorado.

Because of their migration through Colorado, the birthplaces of their children mark the

northern route they traveled. Mary Sidelia, my great grandmother, was born in Pueblo,

Colorado, August 4, 1900. The families that migrated north usually traveled in caravans

with horses and cows and rode in covered wagons. The journey from Pueblo to Timnath

took approximately two weeks, as the caravan averaged eleven miles per day. They

settled in the Fort Collins area around 1905, living in Timnath, Eaton, Greeley and

Berthoud.

The Barela family worked together as farm workers. During that time, most

farming families were large, for the more children a family had, the more labor there was

available on the farm. The economic success of the family was almost wholly dependent

on the success of the crops, and since attending school was not compulsory, the children

helped farm and received a limited education. Grandma Sidelia attended school through

9

the second grade and read and wrote in Spanish only. The family harvested sugar beets,

barley and wheat. They lived in old, poorly built farmhouses on the land they rented.

The houses were one-room homes with coal or wood burning stoves, wood planked or

dirt floors and tar and paper roofs. Furniture usually consisted of beds, a table and

benches. They made their own blankets and made pillows and mattresses from chicken

feathers. Every family had an outhouse and they bathed in washtubs with water that was

heated on the stove. They carried their water in buckets from a spring using mules,

melted snow or drew water from a well. The poorly built houses, combined with the cold

Colorado weather, were responsible for the deaths of uncles Clodoveo and Alfonso and

their wives Ramona and Emma from Turburculosis. Grandma Adelida raised their three

children, as they went to live with her after their parent’s deaths.

The family finally settled in Fort Collins, Colorado around 1922. Fort Collins, a

small University town located in the foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, was

established in 1864 as a military camp for Union Soldiers during the Civil War. After the

war ended, the town that surrounded the camp remained and grew (Fort Collins Public

Library Historical Archives Online).

In 1921, while the family lived in Berthoud, Grandpa Francisco went to Timnath

to contract work. On his way home, the car he was a passenger in collided with a truck

traveling in the opposite direction. Francisco and the driver, Warren Rice, were both

thrown from the car, with Francisco sustaining extensive internal injuries. He was taken

to the Larimer County Hospital in Fort Collins. When Francisco died, the youngest of

their fourteen children, Antonio, was almost two years old. Sidelia took care of uncle

10

Toni as if he was her own child in order to help her mother, Adelida. Toni came to

Sidelia whenever he needed help as a young man and sought guidance and leadership

from her. The farmer Francisco worked with felt indebted to Adelida and wanted to help

her, since she was a widow with a large family and several of her children were very

young. He helped her by allowing her and the family to remain on the farm for free.

When Uncle Clodoveo grew older, he bought her a large house in town on Park Street.

Adelida liked to attend mass every morning at 7:00 a.m. and was a member of two

Catholic organizations- The Altar and Rosary Society and the Carmelites Society. The

house on Park Street was too far away from the church she attended. She eventually sold

it and Uncle Manuel bought her a duplex on Cherry Street, three blocks away from the

Holy Family Catholic Church.

Grandma Adelida was the backbone of the family and cared for many of her

grandchildren. A large family, everyone pitched in to help her. Her sons brought her

money and sacks of potatoes and beans. During the summers, the grandchildren worked

in the fields, picking green beans and cherries or thinning and weeding sugar beets or in

the laundries. They each gave part of the money they earned to Adelida. On the

holidays, family members brought stuffed, roasted chickens, pies and other prepared

dishes to the house. Their holiday meals usually consisted of pumpkin pies, pumpkin and

apple empanadas, green beans and roasted chickens stuffed with homemade dressing.

During the week she usually prepared rice, beans and tortillas or potato soup made from

potatoes, onions and milk and served with crackers. Adelida passed away March 7, 1959,

11

at the age of 82. She is fondly remembered as a loving and caring grandmother whose

door was always open.

Sidelia and Roy; A Story of Love

My great grandmother, Sidelia, waited until she was 28 years old to marry. Her

father, Francisco, tried several times to arrange marriages for her, as was the custom at

that time. She refused. Arranged marriages were used to build social, economic and

political alliances between families. Sidelia felt that if she did not know and love the

man who would be her husband, she should not marry him. Some of her sisters married

as a way to get out of the house. Not Sidelia. Headstrong, she refused to follow the

tradition. Sidelia married Roy Joseph Vigil at the Holy Family Catholic Church in Fort

Collins on September 12 of 1928. They were married by Father Joseph Trudel. Roy, the

son of Dolores Vigil and Manuel Duran, was born June 3, 1907. Manuel was from

Mexico. Like Pilar, Dolores chose to give Roy her maiden name because she and

Manuel did not marry. Roy’s mom was a small woman, less than five feet tall, and did

not want him to marry Sidelia. She tried to arrange for him to marry Augustina Godinez.

When he refused, she sent him to Philadelphia to live with his brother Gabe. Roy

returned to Fort Collins and married Sidelia. He was 21 years old.

Roy was a chef and worked at the Cosmopolitan and Brown Palace Hotels in

Denver. He started as a dishwasher, and worked his way up to a line cook and then to

12

chef. He also worked at the College Inn in Fort Collins and later at the St. Francis Hotel

in the Union Square district of San Francisco, California and the Fior De Italia, a

restaurant in the North Beach area of San Francisco. My mother, Bonnie, remembers the

way Roy made breakfast or lunch out of leftovers, putting everything into one pot. She

says the food was always delicious and that she has not encountered a better cook since.

After they married, Sidelia and Roy lived in Denver. They first lived in eastern

Denver, and later, northern Denver. They had six children: Jerry, Dolores, Yvonne,

Irene, Leroy and Benjamin. Irene is my grandmother. The children were very close to

Sidelia, who stayed home and cared for them. Roy was strict and worked long hours to

provide a comfortable living for his family. Irene was a daddy’s girl and was the child

closest to Roy. He usually let her get away with things he would not let the other kids get

away with. Sidelia was a faithful Catholic and a loving mother. The family attended the

Sacred Heart Catholic Church, where the kids received their first communion. Sidelia

was very kind and often hugged her children, nieces and nephews. In her presence they

felt loved, protected and cared for. Sidelia only spoke Spanish. Roy and their children

were the first generation in the family to be fully bi-lingual. Because Sidelia did not

speak English, she took care of the responsibilities at home, while Roy worked and did

the shopping for clothes and groceries. Sidelia liked to sew and made some of the clothes

for the family. The neighborhood in which they lived in eastern Denver was mostly poor

and was racially mixed; there were Mexicans, Germans, Irish, Japanese and African

Americans who lived in the neighborhood. Their neighborhood in northern Denver was

mostly Italian. Economically, Roy and Sidelia’s family lived more comfortably than

13

others in their East Denver neighborhood. They had a nicely furnished home and

dressed nicely. The children were not allowed to play in the living room because it was

where the most expensive furniture was kept and thus was reserved for adults and visitors

only. Aunt Dolores says her school principal, Ms. Williams, became very interested in

their family because the children always came to school dressed nicely. Dolores, Irene

and Ben attended The Sacred Heart, a private Catholic school. They paid for their school

lunches and during World War I, were sent to school with money to buy war bonds, two

things most families could not afford to do. They also attended Gilpin and Wittier, two

public schools. One day at Gilpin, a “little white girl, who was dirty and not dressed very

well,” pulled Aunt Dolores from the monkey bars and called her a “Mexican greaser.”

Dolores beat the little girl up. The next day, the principal called Dolores into her office

because the little girl’s mother had come to the school to complain, and the principal

wanted an explanation. Dolores explained that the girl had called her names. She told

the little girl, “You think you are better than me because you are white, but I am better

than you.” The principal requested to meet Dolores’ mom. Sidelia agreed, but told

Dolores she would have to translate for her. Ms. Williams and two other teachers came

to the Vigil home. Dolores says when she opened the door and invited them in, the

teachers appeared astonished that Mexicans lived the way the Vigils lived.

To help some of the poorer families in the community, whenever Roy worked a

banquet, he would ask for the left over food. He brought the food home and distributed it

throughout the neighborhood.

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Grandma Sidelia usually spent summers with the kids in Fort Collins with

Grandma Adelida. They would work in the fields to earn money for school clothes and

Sidelia, with her sisters, Opal and Mary, would can vegetables and fruits, usually

cherries, apples and pickles. They picked chokecherries and made chokecherry jelly.

Sidelia died of breast cancer January 19, 1946. She was 45 years old. After grandma

Sidelia died, Yvonne, Jerry, Irene and Leroy went to live with their uncle in Walsenberg,

Colorado for a short time. His wife was very mean and mistreated the kids. Without the

knowledge of Sidelia’s family, Roy later placed them in the Queen of Heaven Orphanage

in Denver, Colorado where they lived until they turned sixteen. After each one turned

thirteen, they went to live with Adelida, who initially tried to get them out of the

orphanage, but could not because their father’s authority over ruled hers. Dolores lived

with Grandma Adelida and different relatives from the time Sidelia died, until she turned

eighteen. Ben was one year old at the time of his mother’s death and was raised by Uncle

Toni and his wife, Aunt Viola, until Dolores turned eighteen, an age at which she was

able to raise him herself. Grandpa Roy never remarried and lived to be nearly 70 years

old, passing May 14, 1977. He lived with his daughter Irene and her family in Fort

Collins at the time of his death.

Like most of the cities in the United States, Denver and Fort Collins were racially

segregated. During the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s, there were signs in many stores,

restaurants and other downtown businesses that read “White Trade Only.” If a Mexican

person entered the establishment, the workers usually ignored them. Aunt Dolores

remembers going to a small cafe in Fort Collins during the 1940’s with two cousins.

15

They sat at a table, but the waitress never approached them. She kept passing by, helping

other customers. Finally, they stopped her and asked, “Are you going to serve us?” The

waitress just looked at them, not saying a word, and then looked at the door. The door

had a sign that said “White Trade Only.” Aunt Dolores and her cousins considered

themselves white. At the movie theatres, Mexicans had to sit in the balcony and in some

grocery stores, had to give a list of they wanted at the backdoor. Mexicans had to sit in

the back of trolley cars and some water fountains were labeled “white only.” To support

it’s majority Spanish-speaking congregation, Father Juan Fullana and the Holy Family

Catholic Church developed a parish cooperative grocery store in which Spanish-speaking

parishioners could shop for food without the discrimination found in the wider

community.

The sisters did most everything together. They loved to dance and listen to music.

Their favorites were Rancheros (the traditional music of Mexico) and Boleros (slow,

romantic music). In particular, Aunt Jerry liked Pedro Infante, a famous Mexican singer.

As teenagers, their activities surrounded dating. They each had boyfriends, so the six of

them would do things together. They roller-skated on Sundays, went to school dances

and went to the reception whenever someone in the community was married. They also

loved to sing and talk. They walked down the street harmonizing, or picked crab apples

from a neighbor’s tree and went and sat and talked about their lives, their hopes and their

dreams, eating their crab apples with salt.

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Irene and Bennie; The Importance of Extended Family

My grandmother is Irene Helen Vigil. Grandma Irene was born September 22,

1934 in Denver, Colorado. She married Bennie Quintana in Fort Collins April 24, 1952.

Bennie, born April 4, 1926, is the son of Raymundo and Tillie Quintana. Tillie was born,

Cleotilda Chavez, August 5, 1903 in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Raymond was born

December 24, 1886, also in New Mexico. Tillie and Raymond had six children: Gilbert,

Bevion, George, Ray, Bennie and Evelina,. Raymond was a stonecutter and died

September 16, 1941, leaving Tillie a widow. Tillie never remarried and raised the

children as a single mother, running a very strict household.

Bennie was eight years older than Irene and swept her off her feet. She fell madly

in love with him. They had four children together; Bonnie Marie, born August 30, 1952,

Georgina Rae, born September 15, 1956 and a set of twin boys who were born

prematurely and died the same day they were born, March 12,1958. The family had a

funeral for them and would go to visit and place flowers at their graves. Bonnie and Gina

attended La Porte Avenue Elementary School in Fort Collins and received their first

communion at The Holy Family Catholic Church. After they married, Bennie, Irene and

their two daughters lived on a small farm, where Bennie worked as a farm hand.

Much of their childhood Bonnie and Gina lived with their grandma Tillie, who

exemplifies the importance of extended family in maintaining family bonds. Irene and

Bennie separated after a few years of marriage. Bennie moved to California and Irene

rented a house on Cherry Street, where she lived with her two daughters, Bonnie and

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Gina. Irene eventually moved to California as well, as she and Bennie tried to make their

relationship work a second time. When she moved, Irene entrusted Tillie with the care of

her daughters.

Bonnie and Gina were very independent as children. Tillie spoke limited English,

so Bonnie and Gina did the grocery shopping and paid the bills. Tillie would put the

money for each bill in an envelope and the girls would walk to the stores and make the

respective payments. The two of them also attended Mass every Sunday together, which

was presented in Spanish. At five years old, Bonnie walked across town by herself to her

kindergarten class. Carrying the money Tillie gave her every morning, on her way home

she would stop at Woolworth and buy penny candy. For entertainment, the girls caught

rides to Ault, a city about 14 miles away from Fort Collins. Ault had a large Mexican

population, comprised mostly of migrant farm workers. Ault therefore, had a theatre that

played movies in Spanish. Bonnie and Gina watched foreign films with English subtitles.

They both understood Spanish because it was the language spoken to them at home.

They speak limited Spanish however, because they were not expected to respond in

Spanish.

The American Southwest has a complex history in terms of identity. Both

Mexican and American, many Mexican American Coloradoans saw themselves as

different from both their Anglo American neighbors and recent immigrants from Mexico

and in many instances, view themselves as either white, Spanish or Hispanic. Such was

the case with Great Grandma Tillie. She perceived assimilation as the way to rise in

social status. Grandma Tillie told Bonnie and Gina that they were to “go to school, get

18

an education and act like White girls.” The community they lived in was all White and

Mexican. There were two African American families, the Nunnaley and Price families

and no Asians. Railroad tracks literally divided the city. Mexicans lived on one side and

Whites lived on the other. They lived in the house Tillie and Raymond bought on Maple

Street, on the side with Whites.

The Mexican community in Fort Collins consisted of a large lower class, a small

working class, and an even smaller middle class. Tillie’s family was working class.

Grandma Tillie had many hopes and dreams for Bonnie and Gina. It was very important

to her that they have office jobs and not perform physical labor in the fields or canaries

“like the stupid Mexicans,” as she would say. She also did not want them to perform day

work as she did. Tillie worked as a day worker for Mrs. Garrison and Mrs. Buchmeyer.

They were both the wives of local Doctors and lived on large ranches. At that time

professional opportunities for Mexican Americans in Fort Collins were limited. The

primary employment opportunities available for Mexicans were in the fields, in the

canaries or as day workers. There were a handful of Mexican professionals such as

Bonnie’s science teacher, Mr. Manuel Cordova, her Spanish teacher, Mr. Gil Carbajal,

and Aunt Viola Garcia, a nurse (Aunt Viola is Irene’s first cousin). Mexican businesses

were virtually non-existent in Fort Collins. There were no Carnicerias (meat markets),

Panaderias (bakeries), Spanish newspapers, or even Mexican undertakers. There were

two Mexican restaurants in Fort Collins. One restaurant was El Burrito, owned by Ms.

Godinez, the other restaurant was La Sierra, owned by the family of Aunt Opal’s

husband, Bill. Mexican American community members who had a long history in the

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Southwest, were affectionately called “manito,” short for hermanito (brother), while

community members from Mexico were called “Surumatos,” a name with a derogatory

connotation. In the eyes of the Anglo community, Mexicans were the same, whether

born in the United States or Mexico.

Tillie stressed the importance of Bonnie and Gina learning to be independent and

responsible. For chores, they had to wash the dishes, do the laundry, change the linen on

the beds and help with any other odd jobs around the house. Because Tillie was a widow

there was no man in the house to help. They painted the house and did any other

handiwork that needed to be done. She stressed cleanliness, teaching them that “just

because you’re poor doesn’t mean you have to be dirty.” She bought their clothes at

second hand stores and made them wear oxford shoes because they were durable.

For fun, the girls played at Grease Park, which was across the alley. The park

acquired its name because it was where the Mexican community hung out. They would

also ride their bikes, play kickball in the front yard or play with the Cordova girls around

the corner. They often walked a couple of miles to City Park where they would play in

the pool or play baseball.

Tillie’s favorite holiday was Christmas. She stored her decorations up in the attic

and brought them down every year. She decorated the windows, a Christmas tree and put

up nativity scenes. Every Sunday they had a huge dinner. Usually, Tillie prepared a pot

roast with beans, papas (potatoes) and homemade tortillas de harina (flour tortillas).

During the week, she made enchiladas, chili Colorado, meatloaf or caldo de res (beef

stew) among other things. She prepared ground beef often because it was cheap. Then,

20

you could buy ground beef 3 lbs per dollar. For dessert, she made rice pudding with

milk, rice and raisins. She also loved fresh apples, so she made fresh apple cobblers and

pies. Tillie didn’t bake well, so she would have Bonnie bake the cakes. As a Girl Scout,

Bonnie learned to cook in the cooking classes she attended at summer camp. Tillie loved

the meatloaf she would make in tinfoil on the barbecue grill and the cornbread she

learned to bake.

Even though Irene and Bennie separated early, Irene maintained a very close

relationship with Tillie, her mother in law. Tillie died May 10, 1980 of a heart attack.

Irene and Burt; A Couple Who Had Fun Together

After moving to California and divorcing Bennie, Grandma Irene eventually

remarried. She married Humberto D. Cantu, December 19, 1969. They met in Stockton,

California. When Great Grandma Sidelia passed, Great Grandpa Roy moved to San

Francisco, California and worked as a chef. Years later, Aunt Jerry followed. As newly

weds, she and Uncle Jim moved to California because they both wanted to leave Fort

Collins. They had an idealized view of California- beaches, movie stars and wonderful

weather, so California was their choice. In addition, Toni, Uncle Jims sister, already

lived in Stockton. Her husband, Bill, was able to get Uncle Jim a job at the port, working

on cargo ships and boats. Bonnie remembers coming to visit her grandfather in San

Francisco when she was a little girl. She remembers sitting on the rooftop of the house

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and smelling the fresh fish from the local markets. She adored her grandfather and

especially liked when he would throw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and

yell, “potatoes for sell, potatoes for sell, anyone want to buy a delicious bag of potatoes.”

Humberto is the man I knew as my grandfather as I grew up. He and Grandma

Irene are most often remembered for their sense of humors and kindness. Grandma Irene

was a great cook like her father. Everyone loved her chile verde and tamales. She made

a special filling for her tamales, using canned jalapenos and pork. Because tamales were

not a food commonly eaten in the family, Irene learned to make tamales from Dona Lupe,

a family friend from Texas who was in her 80’s or 90’s. Irene cooked all kinds of food.

Bonnie’s favorite dish was gallena frita (fried chicken), with mashed potatoes and gravy

and fresh guacamole, which was eaten with the chicken. On weekends, for breakfast she

prepared chorizo con huevos, with papas, beans and homemade corn or flour tortillas. If

there was left over chile verde, they put it over their eggs. During the holidays, she

prepared ham, turkey, dressing made from scratch, tamales and potato salad.

Irene was very hospitable and generous. She was outgoing, very social, laughed a

lot and loved to have friends over for meals and for coffee. She was not wealthy, but

what she had she would share if you needed it. Bonnie remembers coming home from

school one day and finding a homeless man eating in the kitchen. She asked grandma

who the man was. Grandma Irene said he was hungry and asked her for food, so she fed

him. My mom scolded grandma, reminding her that the man could have killed her. Irene

also enjoyed the horse races, and played bingo on the weekends.

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Grandma Irene worked as a day worker and at times performed farm labor with

grandpa Burt. Bonnie and Gina eventually moved to California to live with their Mom

and new Step-Dad, sometimes working with them on weekends and during the summers

to earn spending money. One weekend, no one in the family wanted to go work in the

fields, but they told Bonnie to go anyway if she wanted to. She rode with a carload of

strangers who worked in the fields too. They were going to pick tomatoes. No one told

Bonnie to bring a scarf to cover her face. All the dust and dead rats made her sick to her

stomach. She repeatedly threw up. At the end of the day, the boss paid her and asked her

not to come back.

Grandpa Burt was quite a character. He loved jalapeno peppers and would sit and

eat fresh jalapenos with either bread or flour tortillas and sweat the whole time. He also

liked to read a Mexican magazine with photos and stories of gory murders. I liked to

read the magazine, too. The pictures of the shot, cut and mutilated bodies were shocking.

Burt was a large man, tall and husky. He was very kind and gentle with Irene. He treated

her and the kids well. Irene was spunky and assertive, so she and Burt shared

responsibility within and outside of the house. He helped her around the house when she

asked for it and did not try to force her into a subservient role. They were friends, had

fun together and worked together as a team. Irene loved to dance, so they went dancing

often, usually listening to Tejano music. When they listened to Rancheros Burt gave out

a loud grito (a high pitched, melodic yell symbolizing happiness or sadness depending on

the theme of the song).

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Irene and Humberto had a daughter, Virginia Annette, born September 6, 1968

and a son, Roy Joseph (named after his grandfather), born October 4, 1969. Irene was a

diabetic and passed away in her sleep at home in Fort Collins on December 9, 1978.

Humberto remarried and later passed away in Austin, Texas on August 27, 1994.

Irene’s daughter Bonnie is my mother.

*********

Growing up I was often faced with the question “where is your family from in

Mexico?” I always answered, “I don’t know. My family is from Colorado.” Following

the question of our origins, people, upon finding out that my Mother is Mexican

American, usually ask if she taught us Spanish, “does she cook Mexican food? Etc.” I

usually laugh to myself when I am asked these questions because my Mom is so different

than the images that obviously come to the minds of individuals who raise such inquiries.

I knew they were asking me if my Mom is the stereotyped image of a Mexican American

female they carried in their psyches. I laughed to myself because no, my Mom is not

matronly, no she does not speak with an accent and no, she does not spend her day

unselfishly cooking and cleaning for her husband and children playing the role of the

begrudgened housewife and mother. In fact, my mother is a contemporary Mexican

American woman- opinionated, assertive and independent.

Researching the history of my family, I found out why my mother is the way she

is and why my sister and I have the ideas and values we do. I found that we are who we

are by design. I learned that I come from a long line of Mexican American women with

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the same spirit of my mother. Women who were bold, strong and not afraid to go against

the norm. In particular, I think of my great grandmother Adelida, who as a widow, single

handedly kept her family together, raising her children and grandchildren by herself.

Sure times were often difficult, but she did not adopt the role of a victim when struggle

arose. Instead, she seized the opportunity to pull her resources and maintain her family

through good times and bad. I also think of my great grandmother Sidelia who so wanted

to marry for love that she defied her father, waited until she was 28 years old and married

a man seven years her junior. She knew what she wanted and she got it. I also think of

my grandmother, Irene who knew that to be a good mother she had to be a strong

individual. She therefore accepted the criticism she would eventually receive for

allowing her mother in law to raise her two daughters so that she could escape an abusive

marriage and create a better life for herself.

The same lesson she had to learn, Irene would eventually teach her daughters.

When my mother and father decided to separate, my Mom called my grandmother and

told her she could not leave because she dreaded the thought of not having her kids with

her and that she did not feel as if she could raise us alone. Grandma Irene reminded my

Mom that while people would undoubtedly criticize her, we were as much our Dad’s

responsibility as hers. She said that no one would say a thing if she raised us alone

because they would consider it her duty, but because my Dad is a man, he would be given

praise for raising us. I am happy my grandmother had a forward thinking, liberated

attitude about women and their roles within the family. My Dad was very capable of

raising us and in my opinion did an excellent job. While my Mom is a mother, she is also

25

an individual. Because she had the space to grow and develop in the ways she needed to,

we have all benefited. If my grandmother had tried to convince her that it was her duty to

remain in a marriage in which she was no longer happy, who is to say what the out come

would be today. My grandmother is also responsible for my cousin Shahona being raised

by her father. My Aunt Gina was young and in an abusive relationship, an environment

my grandmother did not want to see her granddaughter raised in. She put Shahona on a

plane to Los Angeles where she has lived with her father ever since she was five years

old.

From my Mom’s family I inherit the desire to be my own person, to be strong and

independent. My great grandmother Tillie was strong and independent and tried to teach

those values to her granddaughters. Because of Tillie, Irene was able to find her strength.

My Dad and Ricky, Shahonna’s Dad, were strong and independent and because of them,

My Mom and Aunt Gina were able to have the space to find their strength. Because my

sister is a young mother, my parents and I have made raising my niece and nephew a

collective work in order to allow my sister to find her strength. Each individual being

strong works to strengthen the collective. When each individual is strong he or she is

prepared when his or her turn comes to be the backbone of the family. I have learned that

a supportive family gives individuals the room to develop their own strength, knowing

that the stronger the individuals, the stronger the collective.

26

Great Grandma Sidelia’s first holy communion. (Left to right): Sidelia, Damiana and Emma. Fort Collins, Colorado, 1908.

27

( Left): Roy and Sidelia. Fort Collins, Colorado 1928. (Below) : Great Grandpa Roy and Great Grandma Sidelia’s Wedding (Sidelia and Roy in center). The Holy Family Catholic Church, Fort Collins, Colorado, 1928.

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( Left): Great, Great Grandmother Adelaida’s Birthday party. Fort Collins, Colorado, mid 1950’s (Below): Barela Family enjoying a day at the park. Adults (Left to right): Great, Grandma Sidelia, Aunt Julia, Uncle Toni and Uncle Francisco. Children (Left to Right): Grandma Irene, Aunt Dolores, Aunt Gerry, Barbara (back) and Aunt Yvonne. “Grease Park,” Fort Collins, Colorado, 1939.

29

(Left): Bonnie (on right) and unknown girl. Fort Collins, Colorado, 195. (Below): Bonnie and unknown boy. Fort Collins, Colorado, 1958

30

( Left): Bonnie’s third grade school picture. Fort Collins, Colorado, 1960. (Below): Bonnie’s First Communion. (Left to right): Gina, Great Grandma Tillie and Bonnie. Fort Collins, Colorado, 1962.

31

Great Grandma Tillie visiting California. (Left to Right): Aunt Gina, Grandma Irene, Great Grandma Tille and Tillie’s friend, Gillie. Stockton, California, 1970.

32

(Right): Bonnie at 15 years old. Fort Collins, Colorado, Christmas, 1967. (Below): Bonnie (left) and Gina (right) enjoying the sun. Stockton, California, Summer 1969.

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Vigil Family Recipes 3

34

Bonnie’s Chili Verde Note: Due to the fact that my mother and grandfather were both great cooks and enjoyed using their talent, we were not required to learn how to cook. My observations while sitting in the kitchen talking with my mom was how I learned these favorite recipes- Bonnie 2 lbs. Pork Steak, Pork Butt or boneless country ribs 1 or 2 Jalapeno peppers chopped 2 cloves of garlic chopped 1/2 yellow onion chopped 1 14 ounce can of peeled tomatoes (either chopped or whole, if whole break into pieces with your fingers)

Cube meat. Cook in skillet until the fat has evaporated and meat begins to brown. Add onion, garlic and peppers. Sauté until onions are tender. Add tomatoes, salt and pepper. Simmer until meat is tender, usually around 45 minutes. The number of people you are serving determines the amount of meat you use. The number of peppers you use is based upon how spicy you want your dish.

Salt and pepper to taste

Bonnie’s Menudo

2 lbs. tripe 1 ½ lb. pigs feet 1 onion, chopped 1 Tbs. oregano 4 cloves of garlic, chopped 1 15 ounce can of hominy ½ a bottle of Chili powder

Clean tripe. Slice into bite sized pieces. Place in a large pot and bring to a boil. Lower fire and allow to simmer. Add onion, oregano and garlic. Simmer for 4 hours. In a separate pot cook washed pigs feet for 2 hours. Spoon pigs feet into pot with tripe. Add hominy and chili powder. Simmer an additional hour. Serve as stew, placing condiments on table.

Oregano lemon or lime wedges chopped cilantro shredded cabbage diced onion Condiments salt and pepper to taste

Bonnie’s Spanish Rice Note: My mom learned to prepare this dish from her grandfather, Roy. 2 Tbs. cooking oil 1 cup long grain white rice 1/8 yellow onion, chopped 2 pinches Cumin 1 pinch Oregano ½ fresh tomato, diced 2 cups water salt and pepper to taste

Heat oil in a sauce pan over a medium fire. When oil is hot, add the rice and fry. Cook rice until it turns pearl white, making sure to stir it often so that it does not burn, about 3-5 minutes. Add onions, tomatoes, cumin and oregano. Mix. Add water, salt and pepper. Lower fire, cover pot and simmer until all the water is absorbed or evaporated and rice is tender. Do not disturb rice while it is cooking. When rice is done, remove from burner and stir well.

35

Robert’s Mexican Rice

Note: I learned to cook this dish from my mom and have also added my own tastes to it, adding the chicken stock and chili powder. 2 Tbs. cooking oil 1 cup long grain white rice 1/8 yellow onion, chopped 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 Jalapeno pepper, uncut 4 Tbs. chili powder 2 cubes of chicken bouillon (or add pieces of a chopped chicken breast to the pot when water is added) 1/2 8 ounce can of tomato sauce 2 cups water salt and pepper to taste

Heat oil in a sauce pan over a medium fire. When oil is hot, add the rice and fry. Cook rice until it turns pearl white, making sure to stir it often so that it does not burn, about 3-5 minutes. About three quarters of the way through the frying of the rice, add the onions and garlic, stir often to prevent burning. Cook until onions are tender. Add water, tomato sauce, chili powder, chicken bouillon salt and pepper. Mix well. Add Jalapeno. Lower fire, cover pot and simmer until all the water is absorbed or evaporated and rice is tender. Do not disturb rice while it is cooking. When rice is done, remove from burner and stir well.

Bonnie’s Frijoles

1 14 ounce bag of dried pinto beans 1 onion, chopped 4 garlic cloves, chopped 1 smoked ham hock 1 pinch of baking soda salt and pepper to taste

Wash beans and remove any stones or dirt. In a large pot, soak beans over night. In a separate pot, boil ham hock usually 4 hours. Rinse and drain beans. Add to pot with ham hock. Water should cover beans by 1 inch. Add onion, garlic, and baking soda. Bring to a boil, then lower fire and simmer 2-3 hours, or until beans and ham hock are tender and most of the water is evaporated. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Bonnie’s Salsa Fresca

Note: My mom learned to prepare this dish from her mother, Irene. While teenagers, this was a staple snack for Shane and I. My Mom always had a 10-pound bag of tortilla chips and a fresh tub of salsa in the refrigerator. 6 Roma tomatoes, diced ¼ onion, finely chopped 1 clove garlic, minced 1 dash of salt 2 Jalapeno peppers, chopped

For Pico de Gallo, mix all cut ingredients into a bowl and serve. Forsalsa, combine all the ingredients (They don’t need to be cut) in a blender. Blend until mixed well. Keep refrigerated.

4 sprigs of cilantro, chopped

Bonnie’s Guacamole

Note: My mom learned to prepare this dish from her mom, Irene, who often served it with fried chicken. 2 avocados ½ of a Jalapeno (quantity depends on desired spiciness) ½ tomato, diced ½ clove of garlic, chopped 1 sliver of an onion, chopped 1 Tbs. fresh lemon or lime juice salt and pepper to taste

Peel the avocados and remove the pits. In a bowl, mash the avocados and lime juice. Stir in the tomatoes, onions, garlic and Jalapeno. Taste for seasoning. Add salt and pepper. Keep refrigerated. Lemon or lime juice prevents discoloration of avocado.

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The Hopkins

Chapter II

37

The ancients knew the connection between man and the divine. They knew that buried beneath the personality, perceptions and

self-imposed limitations there lies a spirit of unlimited possibility. They knew that you choose with your thoughts the shape and form of your life. You create with your words the conditions that you

will face. You limit with your fear the coming forth of your desires. You destroy with your blame the direction of your destiny. The

ancient ones knew that only with diligent maintenance of the mind and emotions would man master his fate. Because the blood of the

ancient ones runs through your veins, you have the same knowledge. You have the ability to be what you want in the place

you may choose. Simply follow the divine prescription for unfettered success, “Begin within.”

- Iyanla Vanzant 2

38

Agnes; Born Free, Sold Into Slavery

My great, great, great grandmother was Agnes. Agnes came from Tennessee with

her sister Sarah. They were kidnapped as young girls while doing laundry at the Gould

Spring in Tennessee. Some campers, a man and a woman, in a covered wagon offered

them candy. When they accepted, each camper grabbed one of them. They were taken to

Leona, Texas and sold to Mr. Davis. Like all slaves, Agnes and Sarah carried the name

of their slave master. They were known as Agnes and Sarah Davis. Agnes had six

children: Houston, Callie, Maggie, Kirg, Dady and Rufus. Callie is my great, great

grandmother.

Callie was born into slavery in January of 1853 and was owned by the Durst

family. She told her grandchildren stories of how she had to milk twelve cows every

morning as a child. After she milked the cows, she would go and work in the fields. One

evening, while Callie made dessert- cornbread in a glass of buttermilk, the grandchildren

fought over the cups they used to drink from. Each child had his or her own cup and

plate. This evening each one accused another of having their cup. Grandma Callie

reprimanded them for fighting over such a trivial matter. She sat them by the fire and

told them her story. She said that when she was a young girl she didn’t have cups to fight

over. She told them that during slavery they would ring a bell at dinnertime and

everyone would come to eat dinner, which was served in a trough; the same trough the

horses drank from. When it was time to feed the slaves, the water would be emptied

39

from the trough and filled with food, usually cornbread and whey milk. She told them

that whatever you could scoop into your hands is what you ate for dinner; they were not

provided plates or silverware. Experiencing what she had, Grandma Callie found the

kids fighting over cups unacceptable.

After slavery, Grandma Callie cared for white children in her home. The children

she cared for were usually the children of neighbors, like the Brady family who lived to

the left of the Hopkins and the Prices, who lived behind the Hopkins. At times, Callie

cared for the white children for weeks and raised them right along with her own children.

She nursed the infants from her breast and they slept in the same bed she did. The

children she kept never forgot her. As a young girl, Aunt Llema Mae remembers them

coming to visit her often. The parents came to visit until they were too old and ill to

come any longer and the children came to visit until Callie passed. Callie was part

Native American. From which nation, we do not know2. A picture of her hung in the

family home in Leona, Texas until it was stolen in the early 1990’s. She had light

colored skin, very high and defined cheekbones and two long ponytails, which she

wrapped in cloth.

Callie and Jessie; Post Emancipation and The Founding of The First Church

Great, great grandmother Callie married Jessie Hopkins in 1870. Jessie was born

Jessie Bladen in May of 1850 in Harris County, Texas. The great grandfather of Dan

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Hopkins bought him and Jesse assumed the last name of Hopkins. The white Hopkins

family owned a farm named Hopkins Hill. Jessie has 2 brothers and 1 sister that we

know of: Abe, Moe and Lou. Callie and Jessie had 8 daughters and 4 sons: Annie,

Miggine, Mollie, Sirlena, Ellen, Sarah, Sirphona, Willie, Rather, Rudalph, Rufus, and

Gould. After they married, Callie and Jessie rented a 10.3 acre farm. They cleared

timber off of Joe Floyd’s land to earn the money to purchase their own land. In January

of 1907, they bought the farm the rented from J.E. Mattes, paying eighty dollars. The

Hopkins property is located in Leona, Texas, part of Leon County. Leona is a rural

community. Organized in 1846, the same year the Mexican American War began, the

town served as the county seat of Leon from 1846-1851. Leona is located approximately

halfway in between Dallas and Houston and was originally inhabited by the Kichais, an

Indigenous American nation which lived in the area until the end of the 1840’s

(Handbook of Texas Online: Leona). The community is peaceful and beautiful with fresh

air, miles and miles of timberland and open pastures with herds of cattle and horses.

Trees are plentiful and grow in a variety of types: Cedar, Black Oak, Red Oak, Cotton

Wood, Pine, Pecan, Walnut and Cinnamon among others. Leona is a small community

with less than 200 people, most of whom are related in some way. It was on the land

they bought in Leona that Callie and Jessie raised their children.

Gould, my great grandfather, was the youngest of the children and was

affectionately called Baby. All four boys played in the local Negro Baseball League.

They were Leona county’s best baseball players. Rudalph was the catcher, Rather the

pitcher, Gould the first baseman, and Rufus the shortstop. When they played, people

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would travel up to 50 miles to watch them. They played in Teague, Mexxia, Warthan,

and Huntsville. Reverend F.D. Mayes was their manager and scorekeeper. Other team

members were Morse Robinson, Rev. Lon Evans, William Tryson, Ed Robinson, and

Uncle Cal Tryron was their umpire. Our cousin, Fessie Washington, made their

uniforms, which were gray.

In 1865, Jessie founded a church. It was called The First Church. He had a vision

in which The Lord spoke to him and told him to establish a church. Jessie and the other

members of the African American community wanted the freedom to worship God in

their own way. Callie told Llemma Mae that during slavery they had to worship God in

secret, for they would be whipped if they were caught worshipping in ways White people

felt were inappropriate. They attended church with the Whites and were expected to sit

in the back and be quiet. The First Church allowed them to be able to worship God the

way they wanted to. Jessie met with other community members: Rufus Davis, Louis

Holley, Jake Washington, Wash McDaniel, Dady Davis, Charles McDaniel, Austin

Townsend, Charlie McDaniel, Henry King, Kirg Davis, Richard Washington, Frank

Moten, Houston Davis, Andy Harrison and Billy Washington and established the church

(History of Leon County ). Many of the initial founders are our ancestors. The

church was first built on land behind the home of Louis Holley. The original building

was a one-room log cabin with a dirt floor, shuttered windows, and hinges made of

cowhide. An oil lamp with a rag wick lit the building. Later, in 1906, it became the Two

Mile Methodist Episcopal Church and a new building was built. The men of the church

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built the building, while the women supplied basket lunches. The church is next to Two

Mile Creek and Two Mile Paradise Cemetery. The creek is where Baptisms took place.

Jessie died in 1915 and served as a Sunday school teacher at Two Mile until his

death. After Jessie died, Callie lived with her youngest son, Gould and his wife, Vashti.

Callie lived to be one hundred years old, passing 1941. Callie, Jessie and many more of

our relatives are buried at Two Mile Cemetery. Two Mile is an all-Black cemetery. Each

family has its own row in which the decedents in that family are buried. Before the

cemetery was established, the ancestors were buried in the woods and in pastures.

Every October, Two Mile Methodist Episcopal Church holds a special program to

commemorate Jessie Hopkins and the founding of The First Church. Aunt Llema Mae

hosts the program, which includes dramatic skits, singing, a sermon, dinner and a

fundraiser for the church.

Callie made sure the Hopkins family history would be passed on. She told her

grandchildren stories often. One day in particular, she told her grandchildren to get their

bonnets and jackets because she was taking them out for a walk. She walked them to the

original site of The First Church, where the one room log cabin was built. She then

walked them to where the brush arbor was built that served as a temporary church after

the log cabin had burned down. Callie’s husband, Jessie, passed away before any of

Gould’s children were born. Callie wanted them to know who their grandfather was and

to have a sense of where they came from. Llema Mae believes that based upon the

foundation and example Callie and Jessie set for the Hopkins family, any Hopkins that

cannot be successful is “a pretty sorry person.” Like her grandmother, she has actively

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passed on the Hopkins family history through oral tradition. She can’t comprehend how

a person would not be proud to descend from Callie and Jessie. Like them, she feels we

all owe our service to our churches and communities.

Sam Hopkins is the son of Jessie’s brother, Abe (pronounced “a - b” as in “a, b, c,

d, etc.”) Sam is a famous blues singer who is most well known by his performing name,

Lightnin Hopkins. Lightnin is perhaps the most famous of Texas style blues singers. He

is well known for his talent as an improviser, often creating music with only his voice

and his guitar. During his 60 year career, Lightnin recorded more than any other blues

artist, working with a multitude of labels. Lightin’s mother was Frances Sims. He was

born in Centerville, a town close to Leona, in 1912 and passed away in 1982 from Cancer

(Handbook of Texas Online: Hopkins, Sam).

Gould and Vashti; A Farmer and A School Teacher

My great Grandfather, Gould, born April 10th 1891, married Vashti Cora

McDaniel on December 19, 1915 in Leona, Texas. Reverend Henry Polk officiated the

ceremony and Malinda Donaldson was the witness. They were blessed with a large

family, 11 children in total: Llema Mae, Dorothy Lena, Robert Lee, Joseph Perry, Mae

Ola, Eddie Tolbert, Charlie Jessie, Freddie Vashti, Gould Jr., Presley Daniel and Gary

Lee.

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Gould was a farmer and raised his children on the same land on which he grew

up. He inherited the land from his mother, Callie, who insisted that the land never be

sold. They raised cows, hogs, chickens, turkeys and guineas. They used horses and

mules for transportation. One horse was named Ole Bessie, the other horse was named

Top. Top was a mixed breed Tennessee Walker. She did not like to be rode, so they rode

Ole Bessie and another horse they had. They also had two black mules, one named Ole

Baylom, and the other named Rock. Gould raised crops on a system called halves. The

white farmers supplied the seeds, while the black farmers tended their own land and split

the harvest in half with the whites. They grew cantaloupes, watermelons, cucumbers,

sweet potatoes, onions, cabbage, Irish potatoes, peas, corn, cotton, sugar cane and

peppers. They used some of the items they grew and sold some as well. The house on

the farm sits approximately 250 yards from the road. It was the land in between the

house and the road that the family farmed.

All of the children had chores on the farm. They had to chop cotton and strip

sugar cane among other duties. They drew their water from a well, churned milk to make

butter and made their own ice cream. They bought their clothes from local seamstresses,

of whom their cousins, Fessie Washington and Iosha Davis were the two they purchased

from most frequently. They bought a couple of pairs of under clothes from the store,

while the rest they made out of cotton sacks. The underwear they bought at the store was

to be used only on Sundays. They also made their towels out of cotton sacks. They

washed their clothes by boiling them in a three-legged pot over an open fire. Callie used

the pot to wash her kids’ clothes and passed it down to Gould and Vashti, who used it as

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well. Aunt Llema Mae now has the pot. The pot has now been in the family well over

100 years. The house the family lived in had three rooms: the kitchen, living room, and

one bedroom. Vashti and Gould slept in the bedroom. The girls shared a bed in the

living room, while the boys slept in the kitchen. They made their mattresses by stuffing

cotton sacks with dried grass. Females and males were not allowed to sleep in the same

room, it was considered improper and did not matter whether or not you were brothers

and sisters. The house burned down and was rebuilt with four rooms. It burned down a

second time and the current house has six rooms. The chimney in the original house was

made of moss and mud.

As the kids grew up, Gould and Vashti furnished their home with nice antique

furniture and lived comfortably on the farm. They used a wood-burning stove to cook

and functioned without a refrigerator until 1942. They would eat whatever food was

leftover the next day. If it had spoiled, they threw it away. They picked wild fruits and

berries and made jars of jelly out of them. They also made fresh fruit pies and cobblers

and pickled sugar beets. For meals, they ate chicken often, sometimes three times a day.

They also ate a lot of pork. Pork was usually eaten in the winter because the cold

weather acted as refrigeration, allowing the meat to be stored longer. They salted, cured

and smoked the pork and hung it in a little shed grandpa Gould built. They sometimes

killed cows, but not often. Beef did not store well and would have to be cooked

immediately. When they killed a cow they sold part of the meat to their neighbors.

Sometimes for meals they ate cornbread and gravy or biscuits and syrup. During the

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winter, they covered the sweet potatoes in the storehouse with grass so they would not

become frost bitten.

During the early half of the 20th century, the family lived without many of the

luxuries we take for granted today. They made their own soap by boiling pigskins and

adding lye. They brushed their teeth with sticks and baking soda. They peeled off the

bark and exposed the soft flesh inside the stick, separating them to make bristles. They

used an outhouse and didn’t have toilet paper. At home, they used leaves. After fall,

leaves were not available, so they used sticks. Doctors were used only when a person

was deathly ill. At home, they used Three Sixes, Syrup of Black Draw and Castor Oil to

clean their systems. For colds, they picked fresh pines and boiled them to make a tea,

sometimes adding baking soda. They also made teas from Sassafras, mulleins, the pizzle

from the pig and pig hoofs. For chest colds and Pneumonia they boiled the Tallow from

the cow and rubbed the sick person down with it. Alcohol and ice were used to treat a

fever.

For fun, the kids played baseball, hopscotch, horseshoes and marbles.

Sometimes, they were mischievous when Gould and Vashti were not around. Gould and

Vashti would go into town to shop at the Leona General store about six miles away from

home, or into Centerville, a town fifteen miles away. When Gould and Vashti went into

town they traveled in a covered wagon pulled by horses or mules. Because of the

distance, the trip was an all day event. The kids would kill chickens and fry them and

bake cakes, making sure to clean up their mess before their parents came home.

Whatever they could not eat, they hid by throwing it under the house. They took turns

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setting fires in the fields, allowing the fire to burn for a few seconds and then quickly

putting it out. One day when Gould and Vashti went hunting, the kids decided to go

hunting as well. Instead of killing a deer, they shot one of Uncle Dan’s colts. They

dragged the colt home to show Vashti the deer they had killed. She saw that it was Uncle

Dan’s colt and gave them a whipping.

When Grandpa Gould hunted he would hunt for squirrels, rabbits, possums,

raccoons and deer. Rabbit could only be eaten during months that had an “r” in their

name. Between May and August, the rabbits had bumps with fluid in them. If you ate

the rabbits during these months you would become ill and die. Grandpa Gould enjoyed

hunting and had very good hunting dogs. His dogs were so good many of the white men

in the community came to hunt with him. The dogs were named Ole Black and Bob.

After they died, he had two dogs named Olep and Bo Joe. Olep was a big red dog and Bo

Joe was black. They were both mixed with Labrador Retriever. Gould would tell the

dogs to go bring the cows in from grazing. The dogs would run and round up the herd

without any assistance. All Gould had to do was close and lock the gate.

Vashti was born June 21, 1897, the daughter of Charlie McDaniel and Hannah

Cartwright. Charlie was a member of the Masons Lodge, and was born in Texas, May

10, 1853 to Charles and Lydia McDaniel. Hanna was born March 5, 1856 to Polly

Cartwright. Charlie and Hannah were born slaves and in January of 1900 purchased 75

acres of land in Leona from J.D. Patrick. They paid 350 dollars. They had a large family

and a big house with 10 rooms. Charlie and Hannah had twelve children: Mary Ann,

Lillie, Malinda, Ora, Cora, Lula, Alberta, Lee, Grant, Fred, Joseph and Vashti. They both

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had fairly long lives. Hannah lived to be 79 years old, passing April 5, 1935. Charlie

lived to be nearly 72 years old, passing March 4, 1925.

Hanna and Charlie believed very strongly in education and educated any of their

children who wanted to attend college. Vashti and Gould both attended the Farmers

Improvement Agricultural College in Wolfe City, Texas. Then, Vashti, along with four

of her sisters, attended Wiley College in Marshall, Texas. The Farmers Improvement

College was founded by the Farmers Improvement Society as one means to abolish the

share cropping system which kept many African Americans from realizing economic

independence. The Society promoted self-sufficiency, home and farm ownership,

cooperative buying and selling and crop diversification (Handbook of Texas Online:

Farmers Home Improvement Society). The Methodist Episcopal Church founded Wiley

College in 1837. It has the distinction of being the oldest accredited Black College west

of the Mississippi. The education at Wiley was well rounded and was modeled after the

curriculum offered at Northern Universities. In order to be admitted to Wiley, freshman

had to complete high school and pass examinations in Elementary Algebra, Plane

Geometry, English, and History. Other courses offered were French, German, Latin,

Greek, Chemistry, Physical Geography, Botany, Physiology and Physics (Allen; p.40).

After graduation from Wiley, Vashti became a schoolteacher. She taught in Sour Spring,

Texas and at Two Mile in Leona. Grandpa Robert remembered seeing his mother come

home from teaching school everyday in a horse driven buggy. She taught until 1925,

before her sixth child was born.

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Because Vashti was a teacher, education was strongly emphasized in their

household. She taught her children to read, write in cursive, print, add, subtract and

count to 100 by the time they entered public schools at the age of seven. Aunt Llema

Mae remembers that when she was a child, Vashti often told her to get a pencil and a

tablet and practice writing. Llema Mae would sit on the floor and write, while her Mom

cooked and cleaned. Schools went up to ninth grade and were segregated. When Llema

Mae began school in 1923, Vashti’s sister, Ora was her teacher. In addition to Vashti and

Ora, their sisters Alberta, Maryann and Malinda also attended Wiley. All but Alberta

were schoolteachers. Llema Mae still recites the Paul Lawrence Dunbar poem Vashti

taught her. Vashti recited the poem while a student at Wiley. The poem is “Temptation.”

I done got ‘uligion, honey, an’ I’s happy ez a king; Evathing I see erbout me’s jes’ lak sunshine in de spring; An’ it seems lak I do’ want to do anothah blessid thing But jes’ run an’ tell de neighbours, an’ to shout an’ pray an’ sing. I done shuk my fis at Satan, an’ I’s gin de worl’ my back; I do’ want no hendrin’ causes now a-both’rin’ in my track; Fu’ I’s on my way to glory, an’ I feels too sho’ to miss. W’y, day aint no use in sinnin’ when ‘uligion’s sweet ex dis. Telk erbout a man backslidin’ w’en he’s on de gospel way; No, suh, I done beat de debbil, an’ Temptation’s los’ de day. Gwine to keep my eyes right straight up, gwine to shet my eahs,

An’ see Whut ole projick Mistah Satan’s gwine to try to wuk on me. Listen, what dat soun’ I hyeah dah? Tain’t one commence to Sing; It’s a fiddle; git erway dah! Don’ you hyeah dat blessid thing? W’y, dat’s sweet ez drippin’ honey, ‘cause, you knows, I draws De bow, An’ when music’s sho’ ‘nough music, I’s de one dat’s sho to Know.

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W’y, I’s done de double shuffle, twell a boy couldn’t res’, Jes’ a –hyeahin’ Sam de fiddlah play dat chune his level bes’; I could cut a mighty caper, I could gin a mighty fling Jes’ right now, I’s mo’ dan suttain I could cut de pigeon wing. Look hyeah, whut’s dis I’s been sayin’? Whut on urf’s tuk holt O’ me? Dat ole music come high runnin’ my ‘uligion up a tree! Cleah out wif dat dah ole fiddle, don’ you try dat trick again; Didn’t think I could be tempted, but you lak to made me sin!

Gould and Vashti led a Christian family. Vashti was the Superintendent of

Sunday school, and Church Secretary at Two Mile Methodist Episcopal Church for 25

years. She was also a member of the Heroines of Jericho Japicho Court, Leona #216, a

sister organization to the Masons Lodge. They were respected and seen as leaders in the

Leona community. The McDaniel sisters, in particular, were very active in both school

and church activities.

Vashti was an assertive woman and believed in training her children. Together,

she and Gould taught their children to “be something in life,” to “treat people the way

you want to be treated,” and that “the only way to have a friend, is to be a friend.” Vashti

especially disliked gossiping and lieing. Because she was educated, some people in the

community felt she thought she was better than people who were not. She told her

children that she did not think she was better than anyone else. She was happy to have

had the chance to attend college and thought that instead of talking about her, other

people should spend their energy trying to acquire an education as well.

Gould believed a man’s responsibility was to provide a stable and prosperous

home for his family. He passed this teaching on to his sons and nephews. He was known

to always have money in his pocket and both Gould and Vashti liked to dress well. Their

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nephew Jimmy Ed says “they may have lived in the country, but they had city style.”

Gould liked to wear Khaki pants and shirts with hats. Vashti never wore pants. Instead,

she wore suits or dresses with hats and matching shoes and handbag. In addition to

community involvement, extended family was very important to Vashti and Gould. On

holidays, the family would go to grandma Hanna’s for dinner. They would catch fish in

the creek and have a fish fry or make large pots of stew. They sang spirituals and prayed

whenever they gathered together.

Gould and Vashti were respected by both the whites and blacks who lived in

Leona. The neighborhoods were not segregated; a white family lived on the farm across

the street from the Hopkins farm. In general, Gould treated whites nicely, and they

treated him nicely. Initially, Leona was populated by white southerners who brought

their slaves to Texas with them as labor to cultivate their small farms. Antebellum

politics in Leona reflected the desire of the white population to bring the slave trade to

Texas and other Southwestern states. Thus, the majority of whites favored the secession

of Texas from the U.S., with many white men fighting in the confederate army

(Handbook of Texas Online: Leon County). By the early to mid 1900’s Leona began to

liberalize and relations between African American and White citizens became more

amiable, yet far from perfect.

Vashti passed away January 5, 1966 of cancer. A doctor in California discovered

the cancer, which was malignant, not hereditary. Vashti was afraid to have surgery and

believed that God would heal her. Gould almost lived to be 92 years old, passing January

22, 1983.

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Robert and Bennie; Dedicated Parents

My grandfather, Robert Lee Hopkins, is the oldest son of Gould and Vashti.

Grandpa Robert was born in Leona Texas on September 30th, 1919. He married Bennie

Mae Scott. Bennie was born in Foreman, Arkansas June 28, 1927 to Jesse Ann Richard

and George Scott. The Richard family is from New Boston, Texas. Grandma Jesse Ann’s

parents were Ella Ellis and Jesse Richard. Ella was born May of 1878 and died of a heart

attack in 1926 when Jesse Ann (pronounced Jess Ann) was 14 years old. Jesse Ann

remembers Ella as a praying woman. Ella’s parents were Patsy and James Ellis. Both

born slaves, Patsy was born in 1852, while James was born in 1850. They married in

January of 1870. James is the son of Abram and Annis Ellis. James was born in 1830

and Annis was born in 1831. Abram was owned by Richard Ellis, a wealthy Virgnina

Attorney and Texas Legislator. Patsy and James had five children that we know of:

Jimmy Jr., Matilda, Albertha, Willie and Ella.

My great, great grandmother, Ella, was blessed with 10 children: Lonnie, John,

Willie (Uncle Dots), Andrew (Uncle Buster), Gus (Uncle Buddy), Henry (Horse,

pronounced Hoss), Leola (Aunt Sister), Jesse Ann, Mae Ella and William (who died as a

baby). She had two husbands, first marrying Henry Hubbard December 21, 1900 in

Bowie County, Texas and then marrying my great, great grandfather Jesse Richard

December 21, 1910 in Little River County, Arkansas. Jessie died of Influenza in 1918.

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Uncle Lonnie was half-white and Ella’s oldest child. Ella worked for the Hudson

family as a domestic. Mr. Hudson forced her to have sexual relations with him; Uncle

Lonnie was born as a result. Mr. Hudson acknowledged Lonnie as his child and wanted

him to carry his last name. Lonnie had a very fair complexion and periodically passed

for white throughout his life. He joined the armed services and left Arkansas, forty years

passed before his brothers and sisters ever saw or heard from him again.

Great Grandma Jesse Ann attended school until the fifth grade, an age at which

she was old enough to work on the farm. Most of the kids attended school. The older

boys worked however, so that the younger kids could attend school and therefore,

received a very limited education. Jesse Ann attended Richland School, Royal Chapel

and New Dora, a school ran by the New Dora Baptist Church. They were all one-room

schools, and all the students and teachers were black. One teacher taught all grades. The

students were divided into rows by grades. All of the first graders sat in one row, the

second graders in another row, etc. Children started school at seven years old and

teachers disciplined the children by hitting them with switches. They studied reading,

writing, arithmetic, history and geography. There was a wood-burning stove in the

school that functioned as a heater. Kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling to light the

school and the students used an outhouse. The students brought their own lunches in

buckets. Lunch usually consisted of biscuits, butter and syrup with a piece of ham or

other meat. Each student also brought his or her own cup. Water was stored in a large

wooden barrel with a spout. In Texas, schoolbooks were provided for the students, while

in Arkansas, families had to buy their children’s schoolbooks.

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After Ella passed Jesse Ann lived with her uncle, Papa Jim and his wife, Mama

Essie. Papa Jim was born September 10, 1889 and was the Patriarch of the family. He

had two farms, one in Forman Arkansas and one in New Boston, Texas. The Farm in

New Boston is 300 acres of timberland that has been passed down through the family for

several generations. The farm in Arkansas is where they made their home. It was located

in the African American section of Forman called “the Bend,” because it was located on

the bank of the red river, where the river bended and curved. Grandma Bennie Mae

remembers the abundance within they lived on the farm. As a little girl, she thought she

was rich. They raised mules, cows, pigs, horses, chickens, geese and turkeys. Their

horses were named Seddie, Dallas, and Fort Worth. They used the horses for

transportation, but also bought a car in the early 1920’s. Ella was afraid of the car and

would drive with the door open so she could jump out if she needed to.

The family farm was about ten miles away from town so they had to be self-

sufficient. They grew cotton, sugar cane, peanuts, corn and other foods. They used the

sugar cane to make syrup, made their own clothes and stored large quantities of food in

the pantry. In the pantry Papa Jim stored potatoes- which were buried in the ground and

covered with dried grass, 50 gallon barrels of syrup and flour by the barrels. Every

winter, Papa Jim would kill two pigs and smoke them. The pigs would hang in the pantry

and they would cut off what ever they needed to prepare meals. Papa Jim had a large

staff of people who worked for him. They had a large, long table and everyone would

have meals together, the staff and the family, often eating the meat they hunted-

raccoons, possum, squirrel, rabbits and birds. Possums and raccoons were prepared by

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boiling and then baking them with sweet potatoes. Squirrels were either fried or made

into squirrel stew.

On the farm everyone worked and had chores. There was no running water, so

they drew water from a pump and prepared meals using a wood-burning stove. The stove

had a tank attached to the side of it, where water was stored. Whenever the stove was

heated, the water was warmed and hot water was available. They didn’t have a

bathroom, so the toilet was located in an outhouse. They bathed in a large washtub,

either in the kitchen, the living room or a bedroom, using water warmed on the stove.

Babies were bathed every morning in a dishpan. They lit their home with oil-lamps.

Grandma Jesse Ann milked nine cows every morning while she lived on the farm. They

used some of the milk to make butter, which they churned by hand. They also sold some

of the goods they produced to the employees of the railroad. Both grandma Jesse Ann

and Bennie Mae picked cotton. Grandma Jesse Ann says she picked 200 lbs. of cotton

per day and that as an adolescent grandma Bennie Mae picked 100 lbs. per day. Jesse

Ann made her children work to teach them a strong work ethic. She says she hoped they

would never have to perform hard labor for a living, but she wanted them to know how to

work if they needed to.

In addition to farming, Papa Jim ran a ferry that transported passengers and cars

across the red river. The fairy was large enough to transport two cars at one time and was

connected to a cable that ran from one side of the river to the other. If there were only

one or two passengers to transport, Papa Jim used a small boat, instead of the large ferry.

He charged 25 cents for passengers without cars. Every evening, he would come home

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with a bag of money which he placed on the table and counted. Always around to

observe, but too little to help, Bennie Mae and Jesse James would gladly accept the coins

he gave them each day. Not knowing the value of money, Bennie Mae would become

upset if he tried to give her a paper bill. She preferred coins.

Mama Essie died in a house fire during the late 1940’s. They hid their savings in

the house. When it caught on fire, they thought everyone escaped unharmed. Mama

Essie remembered the money was still in the house and ran in to get it. She never came

out again. The family soon realized that Mama Essie wasn’t the only person still in the

house. She and Papa Jim’s grandson, Charles Carson, was in the house as well. He was

around four years old. Papa Jim eventually remarried and passed away in a car wreck on

New Years day in 1955. He lost control of his truck while driving home from town.

Juneteenth was a popular and important celebration for the African American

Community in Texas. Juneteenth is an African American Holiday recognized on June

19th, which commemorates the emancipation of the slaves. Because of limited

communication, the news of emancipation traveled slowly across the country. It was

almost two years after the Emancipation Proclamation had been signed that the slaves in

Texas knew they were free. Yearly, the community had a large picnic that lasted all day

long and then a dance during the night. Of course the kids were sent home at nightfall.

Uncle Lonnie and Uncle Henry often provided the music by playing the guitar.

Jesse Ann met George Scott in Forman, Arkansas, they married December 12 of

1930. Jesse Ann and George had eight children together: Bennie Mae, Jesse James,

George Jr., Ella, Galveston (Sunny), Sylvester (BaeBae), Donald, and Darletha. Bennie

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Mae, Jessie and George were born in Arkansas and all three were born with the assistance

of midwives. The midwives were usually family members or close friends of the family.

Jesse Ann was 15 years old when Bennie Mae was born. Papa Jim felt she was too

young to be a mother, so he and Mama Essie raised Bennie Mae and Jesse James until

Bennie Mae was 10 years old. Jesse Ann says she missed her children so much, that

while they lived with Papa Jim, she would come to the farm to help with the laundry and

other chores, so that she could be near her children.

Around 1940, Jesse Ann, George, Bennie Mae and Jesse James moved to

Texarkana, Texas for a brief period while George worked for a lumber company. He

earned $12 per week. Jesse Anne was pregnant with George and worked at a Bakery, she

earned $2.50 per week. A combined income of $14.50 per week was sufficient then.

Grandma Jesse Anne remembers paying $.20 for 1lb of lard, $.09 for a box of cereal,

$.25 for 5lbs of sugar, $.04 for bread and $.07 if you wanted the bread freshly baked. In

1942, George moved to Ogden, Utah and worked at the Ogden Arsenal. Later that year,

Jesse Ann moved as well and brought the rest of the family.

Bennie Mae was 14 years old when the family moved to Ogden. In Texas, she

attended segregated schools and remembers having to walk about 2 miles to school each

way, while the white kids rode the bus. In Utah, she was one of three black students in

her school. The other two students were her brother, Jesse James and their friend, Jerry.

The schools were not all that were segregated in Texas. Grandma remembers water

fountains and restrooms with signs that said “white only” or “colored only”. She also

remembers having to use the back door when going to restaurants. African Americans

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could not eat in the dining rooms with whites. Thus, if you were Black, you had to go

through the back door and eat in the back of the restaurant, or if African Americans were

not allowed to eat in the restaurant, you could order your food at the back door and take it

to go.

Bennie Mae thought she was a tough little girl. She liked to wrestle with her

cousin, John Lee and picked fights in school because her cousins were there to help

defend her. One day she picked on a little girl by stepping on the heel of her shoe. The

little girl asked her to stop, but she kept stepping on her shoe, asking the girl “what are

you going to do about it?” The girl swung her lunch pale and hit grandma in the forehead,

giving her a big knot. The lunch pale was a small tin pale that jelly came in. Grandma

didn’t mess with the little girl anymore after that.

George later worked for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Jesse Ann began working

for Hill Field Airforce Base in 1942 and retired as a civil servant in 1985, after 43 years

of employment. She held several positions including the position of packer. George

passed away on June 9, 1952 in an automobile accident. Jesse James passed away the

following year, September 31, 1953 in a car accident as well. They are both buried at the

family cemetery in New Boston, Texas. The cemetery is next to the Pleasant Hill Baptist

Church of which our great, great, great grandmother, Patsy Ellis, was a founding member

in 1872. Jesse Ann remarried, marrying Iris Anderson in 1963. Iris passed away in 1988.

Robert and Bennie met in Ogden, Utah in 1944. They were neighbors. Bennie

was a student at Central High School. Robert worked as a civil servant at the U.S. Navy

base in Clairfield, Utah and was friends with Bennie’s older cousin Leonard. Robert was

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older than Bennie, a gambler and had a live in girlfriend. As far as Bennie was

concerned they were friends. She would visit Robert and his girlfriend, with most of the

time passing by with him giving her advice about being a young lady. Robert thought

about Bennie differently than she thought of him. The first time he saw her, he

commented on how beautiful she was and told Leonard that one-day she would be his

wife. And so it was. In January of 1945, with $150 in cash, they caught a train to Reno,

Nevada, where they were married January 31st. Grandma was 17 and grandpa was 25.

They continued to Stockton, California where they would reside and raise their family.

Grandma and Grandpa moved to California at the same time thousands of other

African Americans were leaving the South and moving West because of the abundance of

defense industry jobs as a result of World War II. Robert’s older sister, Dorothy already

lived in California, having moved in September of 1942. She was the first of Gould and

Vashti’s children to leave Texas. Aunt Dorothy came west with her first husband, L.C.,

who had a job in San Mateo. In 1944 he got a job in Stockton. The following year

grandma Bennie Mae and grandpa Robert came to Stockton. Many young people left

Leona. A small community without a major industry, Leona failed to provide the upper

mobility many of them desired. Aunt Mae Ola moved to Stockton in 1949, followed by

Aunt Charlie who moved after she graduated from Tillison College in Austin, Texas. In

1957 Gary came to visit his brother and sisters with their parents Gould and Vashti. He

decided to stay. He was 18 years old. In 1958 J.P. and Bo moved to Las Vegas to work

construction, Gary went with them. Freddie lived in California and was the first to move

to Las Vegas in 1956. Her husband O.D. Hooks worked construction and told her

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brothers there were plenty of jobs and that they should come to Las Vegas as well.

Working as the live in maid for a rich white family, Llema Mae has lived in several

states, including New York, California and Nevada, traveling throughout the United

States with the family. She is the only one of Gould and Vashti’s children who decided

to return to Texas to make her permanent home. Aunt Llema Mae has been able to foster

the family ties with Texas for all of those who have moved away.

When they arrived in Stockton, grandpa Robert sent their wedding certificate to

Grandma Jesse Anne and grandpa George so that they would know that he maintained

her honor by marrying her. Jesse Anne and George were mad at Robert for several years

because of his and grandma’s eloping. George told Robert that he was not welcome in

their home because of it. Jesse Anne says she didn’t care about a wedding certificate; a

certificate didn’t change the fact that he had taken her daughter from her. Robert and

Bennie first rented a small house built behind the home of L.V. and Lewis Sampson.

They lived there for five years and in January of 1950 bought the house we have all come

to call home, 3432 Russell Avenue, now Turnpike Road. They paid $1,300.00. The

house they bought was small and white with two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen and

outhouse. It was located in a rural section of south Stockton on land that used to be the

city dump. In 1953 Grandpa Robert and a contractor rebuilt the house, adding an extra

bedroom, a formal dining room and a bathroom. In 1959, they added another bedroom.

Bennie remodeled the whole house in 1983.

Robert and Bennie were blessed with eight children: Frances (who died at birth),

Robert Charles, Carolyn Faye, Dennis Ray, Brenda Joyce, Stanley Lee, Sharon Ann, and

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Lisa Denise. They were loving parents and both were hard working. When they first

moved to Stockton Grandpa Robert opened a dry cleaners with his friend Kirby. They

ran the cleaners for 2 years and sold it because it was not as profitable as they had

wished. Robert then worked at Rough and Ready Island and later as a supervisor at

Sharps Army Depot. In total he had worked over 20 years for the U.S. Government when

he retired in 1970. He became ill with emphysema in 1967. Bennie has always been a

hard worker, a trait that continues until this day. She began baby-sitting at seven years

old. She would watch her little cousin, Nelsene, while her cousin Ora worked.

Everytime Grandma would get a drink of water, she would also give a drink to the baby

using a teaspoon. The teaspoon prevented her from drowning the baby. During her

breaks, Ora would come to clean and feed the baby. At thirteen, she began working by

helping an elderly white woman with polio with household chores. The lady paid her 50

cents per day, which totaled $2.50 per week of her own money for her to spend. When

they moved to California she worked for the union and held various jobs including

working at the U.S. Army annex, the University of the Pacific, Chet’s restaurant and as a

day worker. Grandpa Robert wanted grandma to stay home while their children were

young. She worked after the children were old enough to go to school and then worked

in the evenings so that either she or grandpa was always home with the kids. Grandma

sacrificed her own dreams of having a career to care for her children. In 1983 Bennie

returned to school in nursing and became an in home geriatric nurse. Grandma has

always seemed to have an endless source of energy, however we all know that it is her

drive and commitment. She successfully juggled the duties of a mother, wife and worker.

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She would wake up in the morning, get grandpa off to work, the kids off to school, cook

dinner and then go to work. Grandpa taught Carolyn how to make corn bread. Carolyn

would prepare the bread when she came home from school, so that when grandma came

home the family could have dinner together. Grandma Bennie also canned fruit,

vegetables and sweet potatoes. The sweet potatoes were for grandpa who liked sweet

potato pies. In addition to our names, he and I share a love for grandma’s homemade

caramel icing cake.

All the children had chores. The girls rotated kitchen duty. Aunt Carolyn would

wash dishes for a week, and the next week aunt Brenda would wash them. Sometimes

Carolyn would hide the dirty pots so that she didn’t have to wash them. The boys were

responsible for maintaining the yard. Grandpa Robert would sit on a bucket and

orchestrate the activity. The girls helped with the cooking and housework. To earn

spending money all the kids worked in the fields. They cut onions and grapes and picked

tomatoes, peaches and cherries. As teenagers they took on part-time jobs if they wanted

to. Stanley had a paper route and Brenda worked at Capital furniture showroom as a

duster and at the Rice Motel as a maid. Robert jr., helped his Dad care for the live stock

the family owned. Grandpa Robert had a pigpen across the street. He had twelve brood

sows and up to 200 pigs. He had a slop route, on which he would collect left over food

from friends and neighbors to feed the pigs. He also had a friend who farmed who would

give him left over carrots and pumpkins from his harvest. Each year they raised a calf,

which once it was grown, they would have butchered and store in a deep freezer. Robert

jr. was responsible for grazing the cow. Every morning before he left for school, he

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would take the calf from the pin next to the house and tie it to a stake in a nearby pasture.

In the evening he would bring the calf back in and lock it in the pin. Because the kids

played with the calf, they couldn’t eat the meat when the calf was slaughtered. The meat

would sit in the freezer about six months before they were finally willing to eat the meat.

Robert jr. also raised chickens, ducks and pigeons. He would sell the eggs from the

chickens, another item the kids didn’t like to eat. Over the years, they had several dogs

as pets, including: Tippie, a pit bull, Big Boy, a German Sheppard, King, a German

Sheppard, Peanut Butter, a mutt, and Trixie, a Poodle.

For fun, the kids took full advantage of living in the country. They played with

the animals, played baseball out in the fields and made their own golf course, using old

curtain rods as golf clubs. They road their bikes, swam in “Little John Creek,” made mud

pies and played monopoly, dominoes and checkers. Often, they made up their own

games, like “don’t let the headlights hit you.” They would all stand in front of the house

and wait for a car to come around the corner. The goal was to run behind the house

before the car’s headlights hit you. One time Robert Jr. and his cousin Gloria got into the

hog pin and chased a little pig around until it died of a heart attack. When it died they ran

out of the pen and Robert caught his pants on the bobbed wire fence. He started crying

and screaming. Gloria says she was so mad at him because if the adults found out what

they had done, they would undoubtedly be in trouble. She told him to be quiet and she

would get his pants uncaught. He kept crying and screaming, so Aunt Dorothy came to

see what was the matter. When she opened the door, they knew they were in trouble.

During the summers all the cousins would play together. James and Carolyn were shy

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and quiet and stayed out of trouble. Robert and Gloria were adventurous and were

always in trouble. They would all walk barefoot in a big group of cousins to buy penny

candy at the neighborhood store.

The community they lived in was known as Plum Nelly and Mourfield and was

very tight knit. Every family knew the other families in the community. Children who

acted out of line while away from home could bet that if an adult did not scold them

immediately, they would call their parents so that by the time they arrived at home a

whipping was waiting for them. The neighborhood they lived in was integrated. There

were Mexicans, Whites, Filipinos, Gypsies and other African American families.

Segregation in the southern United States was de jure- sanctioned by law. In California,

segregation was de facto- a matter of custom and class. Most African Americans were

working class and scattered throughout southern Stockton, with the majority living South

of Charter Way. A few middle class, professional blacks lived in Northern Stockton.

Friday’s were considered the kid’s night. Every Friday they would go to Hux

Drive-In on Charter Way. Hux’s was the style of restaurant where the waitresses came

and took your order and served you at your car. For dessert they always took home a

gallon of vanilla ice cream and two gallons of root beer and made root beer floats.

Robert and Bennie’s children were the first generation in the family to attend

integrated schools. They all attended William Howard Taft elementary school, which

was around the corner from home, John Marshal Middle School, and Thomas Edison

High School. Because they grew up in California they never experienced segregation the

way Southerners did, a reality that confronted them whenever they visited the South.

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Grandpa Robert was hesitant to take them to the South, for he knew they were not aware

of the social rules of segregation. Whenever they went to Texas or Arkansas, grandpa

and grandma would have a talk with them and explain that they were leaving California

and that things were different where they were going. Once they arrived, the children

would usually stay on the farm while the adults went into town to shop. Grandma says

she knew how to talk to the white Southerners without having to call them ma’am or sir.

She would politely ask for what she wanted and say thank you.

Aunt Carolyn remembers going to Texas one summer in the 1950’s and going to

the store with her grandfather Gould. When they walked into the store the clerk

immediately and in a friendly and familiar tone greeted our grandfather. He said “Hi

Gould.” Grandpa Gould responded “Hi, Mr. so and so” (Carolyn doesn’t remember the

Clerks name). She looked behind the counter and the clerk was a teenage white male.

She remembers feeling so angry and hurt. As a little girl, she didn’t understand why her

grandfather would allow a white teenager to call him by his first name while he addressed

him as Mr. In contrast, she was taught to never address an elder by their first name.

Today, we all know why such an incident happened. Apparently the people who owned

the store were the white Hopkins. Llema Mae says when Papa, the name we called

Gould, would go into the store, the clerk would always greet him with familiarity because

they knew him well. Sometimes the clerk would say, “Hey there Baby Hopkins, how are

you doing first cousin?” She says the white people in the store would look so funny

because they thought they were literally cousins by blood. In actuality, the clerk’s father

had owned Papa’s father, Jesse.

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Gould told his granddaughter, Gloria, that he once had a conflict with a white man

because the white man insisted on calling him boy. They were the same age and papa

insisted that he be called Gould, Baby or Mr. Hopkins. The white man kept calling him

boy. Grandpa Gould pulled his gun on the man and the man then called him Gould.

African American men were often put in dangerous positions by whites who challenged

their dignity and self respect. Gould Jr. had a friend who had a white woman who

wanted to have sexual relations with him. He was not interested in the woman but knew

he had better accept her invitation or run the risk of having her lie by saying he had raped

her.

In 1965, Robert Jr. joined the U.S. Air Force and was stationed in Wichita,

Kansas. He and some friends went into town and caught a cab back to the base. He sat

in the front seat of the cab with the white driver, a social taboo he was unaware of. When

they got out of the cab his friends told him to never do that again. As an African

American, he was expected to sit in the back. His friends warned him that if he didn’t

follow the rules he could be seriously hurt.

Carolyn has vivid memories of watching the events of the 1960’s on a little black

and white television in the living room with the family. In particular, she remembers

Bull Connors, the National Guard and the children who integrated the schools in Little

Rock, Arkansas. She remembers seeing the water hoses and dogs that were unleashed

upon the marchers and protestors. In the ninth grade, she participated in a boycott of a

local grocery store that refused to employ African Americans.

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Family life has always been a priority to Robert and Bennie. Robert coached little

league for five years, coaching all three of his sons, Robert Jr., Dennis and Stanley.

Robert was an avid sports fan and often took the whole family or his sons with the

neighborhood boys to Candlestick Park in San Francisco. Robert and Bennie were

members of Greater Friendship Baptist Church, where Robert served as a Trustee under

the leadership of Reverend Moses Rivers. Bennie still worships at the same church and

has held several positions including treasurer, secretary, and served on the banking

committee. The church is now under the leadership of Reverend Raymond Guyton Sr.

All of the children were required to attend church and participated in holiday programs.

They walked to Sunday school on Sunday mornings and Grandma and grandpa joined

them at 11:00a.m. for church services. Carolyn and Dennis sang in the choir, and

Carolyn served as secretary of Sunday School for five years. Robert and Bennie

established the rule that if you didn’t go to church on Sundays you could not participate

in any extra curricular activities that week. In addition to her positions of leadership at

church, Bennie served as President of her chapter of Mary’s Nurses #18 for many years.

Robert and Bennie ran a strict household. Robert was the head of the household

and was very authoritative. He would only tell you to do something one time. He

usually did not have to whip the children because they knew better than to disobey him.

He was not mean; he just did not tolerate disobedience. The boys could go to parties, but

the girls were not allowed to date until their senior year of high school. At that time,

dating was called “taking company.” When one of the girls was interested in taking

company, her boyfriend would have to come home to meet her parents. Grandpa would

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sit down and ask the young man question after question. “Who are your parents? What

are your goals in life? What are your grades like in school?” He also expected his

children to be informed. They were required to read the newspaper daily and report to

him what they read. Luckily, most of the kids enjoyed reading. Robert did not allow his

kids to be lazy. He expected the kids to get up every morning when he woke up at 5 a.m.

During the summer, the kids would complain and ask why they had to wake up so early if

they didn’t have to go to school? Grandpa told them to “get up if you don’t do anything

but stand up.” They would all congregate in the kitchen to show him they were up.

When he would leave for work, grandma would tell the kids, “O.K. kids, you can go to

bed now.” They would all run and jump back in the bed, including grandma.

Each of the children had their own personalities as children and as adults. Robert

was athletic and very smart as a kid. He liked to watch educational programs and

documentaries on television. Like his father and grandfather, he had an interest in

animals. As an adult, he is a sports fan, current events philosopher and joker. Carolyn

was quiet, studios and liked to read as a child. She stayed out of trouble and would bribe

her younger brothers and sisters into performing her chores for her. As an adult, she is

our aunt who shows leadership and independence. She is close to all of her nieces and

nephews, because as a child she did not feel close to any of her aunts and uncles. It was,

therefore, important to her to foster caring relationships with her nieces and nephews.

Most of us consider her our third mom, after our own moms and our grandmother.

Dennis was adventurous as a kid and would test the boundaries of authority. As an adult,

he was our cool uncle. He would let us drive and taste his beer, which he mixed with V-8

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tomato juice. He was also strict. As kids, we had a place and he was cool as long as you

stayed in it. Brenda was a tomboy as a child and liked to fix things. As an adult, she was

our fun aunt. Every summer she would come pick us up and we would spend a week

with her at her home in Napa. She would dance with us, let us drive and do anything else

we could think of that was fun. Anytime you spent with Aunt Brenda, you knew would

be adventurous and fun. She liked to read novels and horror books. She also loved to

cook and was crafty. Stanley was ambitious as a kid. He was disciplined, worked hard

and saved his money. As an adult, he was our strict uncle. He expected you to behave

properly and to follow the rules. He watched to make sure you did so as well. Sharon

was the youngest child for eight years. She was spoiled, and according to her brothers

and sisters, was a brat. She always wanted to help her older brothers and sisters and was

very loving. She liked to hug and kiss everyone. As an adult, she was our pretty aunt,

who was into the latest styles and music and had a ton of clothes. She was the aunt who

you could be “real” with. She didn’t believe in beating around the bush and being

cordial. She said what she felt and expected you to do the same. Lisa is the youngest of

the children and grew up almost like an only child. She was spoiled, like Sharon, and is

very close to my grandmother. Instead of an aunt, she grew up like a big sister to Shane,

Lori and me. The three of us spent afternoons after school at my grandmothers while our

parents worked. Lisa made sure we stayed in line, delegated chores and didn’t hesitate to

reprimand us with a whipping, when needed. When we were teenagers, she took us out

with her and has always been someone we can depend on to be there when we need her.

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Robert Lee, also known as RL (pronounced Rail), passed away April 13, 1974 of

emphysema. After Robert’s death, Bennie assumed the leadership role in the family.

She has continued to be a dedicated mother and grandmother.

Robert and Bennie’s oldest son is Robert Jr. Robert Jr. is my father.

*********

I never dreamed I would one day look into the face of my ancestors who

experienced slavery. I believe the majority of us see the experience of American slavery

as something separate from ourselves- an event that happened in another time, to

someone else. As African Americans, we know we descend from the survivors of the

“American Holocaust,” yet failing to research our family histories, many of us do not

know our direct connection to the “peculiar institution.” Instead, we adopt an ambiguous

history. We see ourselves as the children of all slaves. Most often not knowing where

our ancestors are from in Africa, we see ourselves as children of the continent as a whole.

Our histories exist and are not ambiguous. They are specific histories locked in the

minds and memories of our dear elders many of whom are not college educated, but who

are extremely intelligent, with magnificent memories. It is the responsibility of the

younger generations, some of whom are college educated, to continue to tap into that

knowledge and eliminate the myth that because we are African American we are a people

without history. Our history is American history (both Indigenous and European) and

African history (both African proper and African American). It is crucial that we

preserve the knowledge our elders hold before it is lost forever.

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I was shocked at how much information I was able to receive simply by asking.

The majority of the information I received was through oral tradition, which I verified

with census records and other sources. I found the oral information to be

overwhelmingly accurate. I hope more African Americans will document their family

histories so that we can better understand who we are as a people. Our history exists; it is

up to us to preserve it.

Researching my family history, I was impressed with the perseverance and focus

with which my ancestors lived. I enjoy reading history and have read many books about

the African American experience and the struggles slavery and “Jim Crow” imposed

upon our people. When I researched the history of my family however, I found a

different story. I was surprised and impressed that Hanna and Charlie, born slaves,

owned 150 acres of land and educated 5 of their children. I was impressed with Jesse

who lived in an integrated community, but built an African American institution, the First

Church, in order to meet the needs of the African American members of the community.

I see my ancestors as builders; people who strove to create their own American

experience instead of begging to be a part of someone else’s.

Today I stand tall, taller than the highest building, the greatest mountain or the

furthest reaching tree. I stand tall because I stand on the shoulders of Callie, Jesse,

Charley, Hannah, Vashti, Gould, Robert Lee, Bennie Mae, Robert Charles and Bonnie.

They have provided the foundation on which I stand, the springboard from which I jump.

Yet, it is up to me to determine how high I will rise. My grandmother gave me a strong

faith in the creator and a strong work ethic. As a kid I watched her call upon the creator

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when times were hard and give praise when they were good. Now, I do the same. My

Dad raised Shane and I to be value oriented, stressing the importance of being honest and

treating each other and others the way we want to be treated. My aunt Carolyn fostered

in me pride in being African American. From them all I inherit a legacy that shows me I

can achieve all that I put my mind to, regardless of what challenges I face.

In performing my research, I was also pleased to see that I come from a long line

of African American men who challenge the commonly held notion of what the Black

male experience is. The men from whom I descend where not defeated or beat up by a

racist society. Instead they were husbands, fathers, good providers for their families and

respected community members.

Standing on the shoulders of the Hopkins, failure is not an option for me. My

ancestors succeeded in a time and place in which their success was not guaranteed, so

they created their own success, always making the journey a little easier for the

generation that followed. Because their blood runs through my veins, I have the same

power; the power to build, create and help the next generation stand just a little bit taller.

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Great, Great Grandma Hannah and Great, Great Grandpa Charley McDaniel. Leona, Texas around the late 1800’s.

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Grandma Bennie Mae at 16 years old. Ogden, Utah, 1943.

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(Left): Grandpa Robert (Right) and his best friend, James Polk (Left). Leona, Texas, around 1941. (Below): Great, Grandpa Gould herding cattle. Leona, Texas, around 1963.

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( Left): Robert Charles at ten months old. Stockton, California, 1947. (Below): A weekend visit to Aunt Dorothy’s house in Menlo Park. (Left to right): Grandpa Robert, Robert Charles, a family friend holding Carolyn and Grandma Bennie Mae. Menlo Park, California, 1948.

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(Left): Grandpa Robert and Sisters. (Left to right): Dorothy, Grandpa Robert and Llema Mae (Robert Charles in background). San Mateo, California, 1956.

Gould and Vashti visiting California. (Left to right): Great Grandpa Gould, Freddie, and Great Grandma Vashti. San Mateo, California, 1956.

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(Left): Robert Charles’ graduation picture from Edison High School. Stockton, California, 1964. (Below Left): Graduation Day. (Left to right): Grandpa Robert, Sharon (in front) Robert Charles, and Grandma Bennie. Stockton, California, 1964. (Below Right): Robert Charles serving as a medic in the United States Air Force. Wichita, Kansas, 1965.

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Hopkins Family, while Robert Charles is on leave from Air Force. (Left to right): Brenda, Robert Charles, Grandpa Robert, Grandma Bennie Mae, Lisa (on lap) Carolyn, Sharon (Back row, left to right): Stanley and Dennis. Stockton, California, 1966.

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(Left): Great Grandpa Gould Visiting California. Left to right: Rober t Charles (in background) Grandma Bennie Mae, Grandpa Robert, Great Grandpa Gould and Sharon in front. Stockton, California, around 1962. (Below): Great Grandpa Gould and his children. (Left to right): Llema Mae, Dorothy, Robert, Joseph, Mae Ola, Charlie, Gould, Jr., Presley and Gary. Stockton, California, 1973.

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Hopkins Family Recipes 4

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Aunt Dorothy’s Fried Chicken Note: Aunt Dorothy makes the best fried chicken I have ever tasted. 1 chicken, cut into serving pieces 2 cups of all purpose flour 2 cups of vegetable oil salt and pepper to taste

In a paper bag combine flour, salt and pepper. Lightly salt and pepper each individual piece of chicken. Place 2-3 pieces of chicken in the bag at a time. Holding the top of the bag shut shake the chicken around in the bag. In a cast iron skillet over a medium-high fire, warm vegetable oil. When the oil is hot remove chicken from bag and add to oil. Cook on each side until it turns a golden brown. Be careful not to cook the chicken too fast, for the outside will brown but the inside will remain raw. Adjust fire as needed.

Grandma Bennie’s Baked Chicken

Chicken wings Corn oil Pepper Season Salt Garlic powder Herb or Italian seasonings

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Thoroughly wash chicken wings. Slightly oil bottom of baking dish. Place chicken in baking dish and season. Bake 25 minutes. Turn chicken over. Season other side. Bake an additional 20 minutes or until all liquid has evaporated.

Robert’s Chitterlings and Hog Mogs

Note: I learned to prepare this dish from my Grandmother, Bennie. 1 10 lb. bucket of chitterlings 3 lbs. hog mogs 1 potato 4 Tbs. season all 1 Tbs. sage 4 cloves of garlic, whole 2 Jalapeno peppers, chopped 2 bay leaves ¼ cup vinegar salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot combine washed hog mogs and enough water to cover the meat. Bring to a boil and simmer for 1 hour. Thoroughly clean chitterlings, removing all fat, particles and debris. Add chitterlings, potato, season all, Jalapenos, garlic, bay leaves, vinegar, salt and pepper to pot. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until tender, usually 5 hours. Add extra water and seasoning if necessary during cooking. Serve with hot sauce.

Grandma Bennie’s Greens

1 bunch turnip greens 1 bunch mustard greens 1 bunch collard greens 1 smoked ham hock or ¼ lb. salt pork 3 cloves of garlic, whole 1 Jalapeno pepper, chopped 1 Tbs. season all 1 pinch of baking soda salt and pepper to taste

Wash the greens thoroughly, changing the water several times. Place the ham hock or salt pork (Sliced) in a pot. Add enough water to cover the meat. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and allow the meat to simmer covered about 1 hour (30 minutes for the salt pork). Add garlic, Jalapeno, season all, salt and pepper, cook an additional hour. Add the greens and baking soda. Bring to a boil and then simmer for 1 hour.

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Grandma Bennie’s Cornbread Dressing

1 large pan of Cornbread ¾ bag of stuffing (add seasoning packet from package) 2 Tbs. vegetable oil 1 1/2 medium celery ribs, chopped 3 garlic cloves, minced 1 quart of water 2 cups chicken or turkey broth (either meat drippings or canned) 8 eggs 3 cups milk ½ bell pepper 3 Tbs. garlic powder

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a large roaster, crumble the cornbread into small sized pieces. Add water, croutons, sage , poultry seasoning, rosemary, fresh garlic, garlic powder, salt and pepper. Mix. In a skillet sauté celery and bell pepper in vegetable oil, about 5 minutes. Add to mixture. Using hands, mix well. Add milk and mix again. Taste mixture and add additional seasoning if necessary. Add eggs and meat broth. Cover and bake about 45 minutes or until finished.

2 Tsp. season salt 1 Tsp. black pepper 3 ½ Tsp. dried rosemary 2 Tbs. poultry seasoning 3 Tbs. dried sage 3 Tbs. dried sage

Grandma Bennie’s Giblet Gravy

Note: This gravy is traditionally served with cornbread dressing. ¼ ground beef giblets liver gizzard turkey neck ½ cup turkey drippings ¾ cup flour 1 celery rip, finely chopped 2 cloves garlic, minced ½ cup vegetable oil 2 Tbs. season all 2Tbs. sage 2Tbs. poultry seasoning 1Tbs. rosemary leaves salt and pepper to taste

In a saucepan, boil turkey neck, liver, giblets, gizzard and 1tbs of season all in enough water to cover the meat. Bring to a boil, then simmer 1 hour and 30 minutes. When done, spoon meat from pot. Pull meat off turkey neck and shred. Finely chop remaining pieces of meat into small pieces. Return meat to pot. Add ½ cup of drippings from turkey (If not cooking turkey, use canned broth). In a separate skillet warm vegetable oil. When hot, add flour and brown, stirring often. When Brown, add two cups of cold water. Mix and allow to simmer 20 minutes. Add to pot. In a clean skillet, sauté bell pepper celery and onion. Add to pot. In a clean skillet, brown ground beef. Drain fat and add to pot. Add remaining seasoning and simmer for 30 minutes.

Aunt Carolyn’s Cornbread

Note: This is the first dish I ever learned to cook. My father taught me to prepare bread when I was about nine years old. Both of my parents worked, so I was responsible for preparing bread each night when I arrived home from school- Carolyn 2 cups yellow cornmeal 1 cup all purpose flour 3 Tbs. baking powder 1 Tsp. salt 2 cups milk 1 egg, lightly beaten

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Combine the cornmeal, flour, baking powder and salt in a large mixing bowl. Stir in milk and egg. Mix well. Oil a baking pan and allow to warm in oven, 2-3 minutes. Pour batter into an oiled pan. Before pouring in batter, heat oil Bake 15 to 20 minutes, or until golden brown. To be sure the center is baked, insert a toothpick into the middle of the bread. If the toothpick is dry when removed the bread is done. If it is gummy, the middle has not finished cooking.

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Robert’s Cracklin Cornbread

Note: My dad used to periodically prepare this version of cornbread. It is his favorite.

To make Robert’s cracklin cornbread, use the above cornbread recipe, adding fresh Chicharones (fried pig skins) to the batter. Break pig skins into small pieces and stir into batter.

Robert’s Black Eyed Peas

Note: I learned to cook this traditionally African American dish from my mom. She saw the recipe in a magazine. It is delicious. It is an African American tradition to eat black eyed peas on New Years Day. The superstition holds that doing so brings good luck. ¼ cup vegetable oil 1Tsp. cumin seeds 1 onion, chopped 4 cloves of garlic, minced 5 roma tomatoes, chopped 1 16 ounce bag of dried black eyed peas 1½ Tsp. salt ¼ cayenne powder 1 tsp corriander 2 cups of water

Soak black eyed peas in a pot of water over night. Heat oil. Add cumin seeds, onion and garlic. Saute. Stir in tomatoes. Cook 1 minute. Add drained black eyed peas, salt, cayenne pepper, coriander and water. Mix well and bring to a boil. Lower fire and simmer 45 minutes. When peas are tender turn off fire. Add chopped jalapeno and cilantro and serve.

1 jalapeno, finely chopped

Aunt Carolyn’s Sweet Potato Pie

Note: Aunt Carolyn learned to prepare this dish from her mother, Bennie. 2 lbs. sweet potatoes 2 Tbs. butter, softened 2 large eggs 1 cup granulated sugar ½ Tsp. nutmeg ¼ Tsp. salt 1 Tsp. vanilla extract 3/4 cup canned milk 1 9 inch pie crust

In a large pot, boil sweet potatoes. Potatoes should be tender, not mushy. Drain potatoes in a colander, allowing them to cool. Peel skin off of potatoes and put the meat into a mixing bowl. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Add butter to potatoes and smash with a fork. Add eggs, sugar, nutmeg, and salt. Mix. Stir in vanilla and milk. Pour mixture into pre-made pie crust. Bake about 45 minutes. Allow to cool to room temperature, about 2 hours.

Grandma Bennie’s Peach Cobbler

2 29 ounce cans peach slices in syrup ½ cup granulated sugar 2 Tbs. all purpose flour ½ Tsp. Cinnamon ¼ Tsp. Nutmeg ¼ vanilla extract 1/8 Tsp. allspice Dash of salt 1 Tbs. butter or margarine

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Combine sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice and salt in a large bowl. Add peaches. Mix. Spoon into pastry shell. Dot with butter. Cover pie with second pastry shell. Sprinkle a little butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice on top. Seal and flute edges of pastry. Bake for 50 to 55 minutes, or until golden brown.

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Grandma’s Caramel Icing Cake

3 cups all purpose flour 3 Tsp. baking powder pinch of salt 1 ½ cups sugar 1 ½ stick of butter 2 Tsp. vanilla extract 1 1/2 cups milk 6 eggs

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour three 8 inch round cake pans. Combine flour, baking powder and salt in a bowl. In a separate bowl combine sugar, eggs, butter and vanilla. Beat until fluffy. Add flour mixture alternately with milk, mixing well. Pour batter into baking pans. Bake about 25 minutes or until a tooth pick inserted into the center comes out clean. Allow cakes to cool about 10 minutes before removing from pan.

Caramel Icing 1 cup of sugar 2 cups of milk Combine milk and sugar in a saucepan. Allow to simmer on a very low heat, 25-30 minutes. Stir often so that sugar does not burn. Allow to cool by placing in a bowl. When cool, spread over each layer of cake.

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Mi experienca

Chapter III

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Most of us believe only what we can see. Our eyes limit us in our perception and experience of reality. Yet, do we realize, whoever

controls what we see or experience can, in fact, control our perceptions of reality? How then can we determine what is truth and what is not? We must investigate, we must probe. We must ask questions. We must seek. We must know truth intuitively, with our hearts and minds in harmony. The moment we accept

what is given to us as truth, we lose our conscious reality. We are living through the eyes of someone else. How can we expect to find peace, harmony or self if we live through the perceptions of another? We can’t. Whether religion, career, personal liberty or

life itself, we must investigate; we must seek. We must probe. We must ask questions. We must be in charge of our own reality and

know our own truth.

- Iyanla Vanzant 2

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My Parents; Un Amor Prohibido

My parents are Robert Charles Hopkins and Bonnie Marie Quintana. My father

lived perhaps as close to the All-American experience an African American male could

have lived during the time of his youth. He grew up in a loving, Christian home in

Stockton, California. He played little league, joined the Air Force after graduating from

high school, and attended the local community college. He was handsome, intelligent, a

dreamer and somewhat rebellious. Robert has never believed in following the rules set

by society and to this day dances to his own tune. Whatever the majority of people are

doing, he’ll try to do something else in order to be different. He is very social, has a big

heart and is well liked in his community.

My mother grew up in a strict, Catholic and traditional Mexican home of her

paternal grandmother, Tillie, in Fort Collins, Colorado. She, too, had a rebellious spirit.

She is both sensitive and a fighter in one. Her rebellious nature arose out of a refusal to

accept the rules set by her family. In many ways, she viewed her family as dysfunctional

and wanted a different life for herself. Bonnie is every determined and focused. She is

responsible and has a low tolerance for people who are not. She is very much a

perfectionist and is often misread as being mean or unfriendly. She is hard working and

very independent.

My parents met in Stockton, California in the summer of 1968. Bonnie and her

younger sister Gina moved to Stockton to live with their mother, Irene, who had

remarried. They both experienced culture shock when they moved to California. They

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had never seen Asians or Indians (from India) until they moved. They attended Amos

Alonzo Stagg and Thomas Edison High Schools and lived next door to Mae Ola

Thompson, Robert’s aunt, on Odell Street. Robert and Bonnie saw each other

periodically when Robert would come to visit his cousins. One evening, when grandma

Irene wasn’t home, Bonnie and Gina were washing dishes in the kitchen. They left the

door open and were able to be seen from the street. Robert and his friend passed and

yelled to them. Bonnie and Gina came outside to talk with the young men. Robert and

Bonnie secretly dated. She wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend or go on dates, so they

talked on the phone for hours each day. Robert would come to the high school and take

Bonnie to lunch, and pick her up after school, so she wouldn’t have to catch the bus. So

they weren’t caught, he would drop her off a block away from her home. In her eyes, he

was handsome, older and a gentleman. He took her places, had a car, a job and most

importantly, treated her nicely. Bonnie fell in love. To Robert, Bonnie was beautiful and

innocent. He wanted to take care of her, to give her the love and home her parents did

not always give her. Robert fell in love too.

In 1969, Robert and Bonnie ran away, catching a bus in Manteca, CA. and leaving

behind my Dad’s 1966 Pontiac GTO. They moved to Los Angeles. Bonnie was 16 years

old. Robert was 22. Because my Mom was a minor, my Dad ran the risk of being

arrested. The car would have made it easy for the police to locate them. They lived with

uncle George, Grandma Bennie’s brother, for a couple of months and then moved out on

their own. Several months passed before Grandma Irene knew where Bonnie was. She

called home and asked for permission to get married, permission that was not granted

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without a struggle. They soon bought a house in Compton, California. The following

year, I was born.

Primary Years and Childhood

I was born Robert Charles Hopkins, Jr. on June 22, 1970 in Compton, California.

As my impatient character would have it, I arrived into the world two months earlier than

expected. My mom was seventeen, in a large city away from her family and seven

months pregnant. She felt pains, but had no idea she was in labor. She went to the

doctor’s office for an examination, laid on the table and before any arrangements could

be made, I was born. I weighed three pounds and two ounces. I was a happy baby, very

cute, and therefore showered with attention. I was my parents’ first child and the first

male grandchild in my dad’s family. For the Hopkins, my birth was significant. My

grandfather Robert gave me the responsibility of leadership when I was three years old.

He was ill and needed me to see after my peers in the family; a responsibility I did not

welcome at that age, telling him, “shoot, I can’t take care of all these kids.” He also

teased me about the speech impediment I had as a child. He would say I mumbled my

words because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to speak English or Spanish.

Nearly three years after I was born, I was followed by my little sister, Shane.

Shane was born March 24, 1973. She was like my little rag doll. I vividly remember her

developing her own personality and my wishing she would always stay a baby so we

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could play and she would do whatever I wanted to do. She has grown up to have the

same rebellious and stubborn personality as both my parents. Shane and I grew up very

close. We are the only two children my parents have and love each other dearly. We are

in some ways as different as night and day, but have never lost sight of the important fact

that we are the only brother and sister the other one has and must love, respect and

protect each other. My dad made sure I knew my role as Shane’s big brother early in life.

He told me that if Shane got into trouble and deserved a whipping, I would get a

whipping, too. As her big brother, my job was to keep her out of trouble. If I didn’t

perform my job well, I was in trouble with her.

We lived in Compton, California until I was four years old. It was a very

different neighborhood than it is now. The neighborhood was filled with Mediterranean

style homes with manicured lawns. My parents first bought a small two-bedroom home

on San Vicente and later lived on the corner of Glencoe and Temple. My Mom was a

clerk at Mattel and my Dad worked at the Post Office, while attending Compton Junior

College at night. My sister and I had every toy imaginable as a result of my Mom’s

employment at Mattel. We were one of two African American families in our mostly

white neighborhood on San Vicente, while the neighborhood on Glencoe was primarily

African American. There were very few Mexicans in either neighborhood. The

Walker’s lived across the street from our house on Glencoe. I played with their son,

Michael. As parents, my mom and dad tried to provide the healthiest environment they

could for us. When they first married, they were young and trendy; therefore our house

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was often a gathering place for their friends and their brothers and sisters. Shortly after I

was born, my Aunt Gina came and lived with my parents. She was thirteen.

I have only a few memories of our life in Los Angeles. I remember one night

running to the car because we were on our way to the pizza parlor. I tripped over an

underground sprinkler and hit my head on the curb, crack it open. I received stitches and

still have a scar to remind me of that evening. I also remember hiding under the dining

room table one day because my Dad was trying to take me to the Barbershop to get my

hair cut. I can still see my parents walking around the house calling me as I sat between

the chairs under the table and watched. I hated getting my hair cut. My parents, aunts

and uncles liked my hair long. Large Afros were in style then. My Grandfather however,

liked my hair short. Whenever I stayed with him and my grandmother, my hair was cut

regularly. He said when my hair was long it was “kinky” like my Dad’s, and when it was

short it was more like my Mom’s. I also remember loving to watch the Sonnie and Cher

Show. My parents took me to the Circus one year in Los Angeles. I remember standing

along the exit as Cher walked out of the tent. I said “hi, Cher.” She turned and said “hi,

sweetie.” As a kid, when my sister would get her hair washed, she would use the comb

as her microphone, fling her hair like Cher and sing, “I got you Babe.”

In 1975, one year after my Grandfather, Robert, passed away, we moved back to

Stockton. My parents rented a small farm on Kaiser road, about 12 miles from the city.

We had fish, a cat, a dog, pigs and horses. One pig was a mean and large black female

sow named Blacky. When my Dad finally sold Blacky, she weighed 700 pounds. My

Dad was the only person who could enter the pen with Blacky without being attacked.

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We also had a red Doberman Pitcher named Shaft. Only my Dad could feed him as well.

My horse was a pony named Judybell. Shane’s horse was Judybell’s colt named Chris. I

remember crying the night they bred Judybell. They washed her genitals with a soapy

solution and brought the large male horse into the stall with her. She made so much noise

I thought he was hurting her and publicly protested their mating, yelling “get him out of

there.” My parents drove us to my grandmother’s house every morning and we walked to

Taft Elementary School, around the corner from her house. After school, we played at

our grandmothers until our parents were off work and came to pick us up.

After a couple of years of living in the country, we moved to a working class

neighborhood in South East Stockton called Nightingale. We come from a working class

family and lived comfortably. My dad owns his own business recycling scrap metals.

My mother is a supervisor at St. Joseph’s Medical Center. Christmas and Back to School

were the big shopping times for us. We usually received what we asked for: bikes, a

stereo, Atari and a Starter jacket for me; dolls, Barbie accessories, skates and make-up for

my sister. There were always clothes for both of us. As we grew older, we wanted to

pick our own gifts. Our parents then gave us money and allowed us to shop for

ourselves. We ate dinner together every night and my sister and I were in bed by nine

o’clock on school nights. My parents religiously stuck to our bedtime curfew. Life was

pretty routine for us. We went to school and played at my grandmother’s during the

week. On weekends, my Mom would prepare breakfast for us, usually pancakes the size

of your plate, french toast, chorizo with eggs and potatoes or bacon and eggs with

English Muffins. After breakfast we would go visiting their friends or Shane and I would

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ride our bikes around the neighborhood. We usually went to dinner at a restaurant at

least once a week. My Mom’s grandmother never took them out to eat. It was her Mom

who helped acculturate her beyond her immediate experiences at home. She often told us

the story of when she and Gina first came to Stockton to live with their Mom and Burt.

They went out to dinner and the waitress asked what type of dressing Gina wanted on her

salad. Gina said, “I didn’t order salad.” Grandma Irene told her, “it comes with your

meal.” Of course Gina was embarrassed. My Mom did not want us to be as sheltered as

she and Gina were and tried to expose us to the world as often as possible. My parents

took us to San Francisco, the State Fair in Sacramento, the Hoover Dam, Disney Land,

Venus and Redondo beaches and often to Lake Tahoe during the winter to inner tube

down the mountains in the snow. We religiously stopped at the International House of

Pancakes for breakfast in Tahoe.

Our Untraditional Upbringing

In 1979, my parents separated. One weekend morning, they called my sister and I

into their room and told us that they were separating and my mom was moving out. They

asked us whom we wanted to live with. My sister said she wanted to stay with our dad. I

said I would stay, too. I was nine years old, my sister was six.

Shane and I became much more independent after my mom moved. While she

was there, we didn’t have to cook or clean, we just helped when we wanted to. I

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especially liked to vacuum. My grandmother tells a story of me around three years old.

She was vacuuming and I wanted to help her. She told me “No” because I was too little.

She says I cried and cried, yelling, “I want to vac, I want to vac!” After my parents’

separation, my sister and I began grocery shopping and helped with the cooking and the

cleaning. As we grew older, we rotated washing dishes every week and would work in

the yard on the weekends. The yard was our pride. We would cut the grass, trim the

trees and clean up. When we were all finished, we would go get our dad and show him

what we had accomplished. During the summers when he would go to work, we would

clean the whole house spotless and prepare dinner. We would be so proud of ourselves

when he came home. Our new found chores were accepted eagerly until we became

teenagers and wanted to spend our time on the phone or out with our friends. Our dad

was very flexible with us as teenagers. I never had a curfew and basically was able to do

whatever I wanted. My friends had strict parents and used to sneak out of their bedroom

windows. They had great stories of adventure and risk taking. I wanted some adventure,

so I asked my dad what would my punishment be if I snuck out of the house one night.

He asked why I would want to do such a thing. If I wanted to go somewhere all I had to

do was ask, tell him where I would be and come home at a decent hour. I never snuck

out. My dad knew I was a good kid, so he trusted me. He felt I was less likely to get in

trouble if I felt I could be honest about what I did.

My dad provided a stable home for Shane and I. He cooked a balanced meal

every night and would make a large country breakfast every weekend. He cooked

traditionally African American foods like neck bones, pig’s feet, fried fish, chicken and

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pork chops. He barbecued rib tips, cooked black-eyed peas and baked corn bread. He

also made spaghetti, lasagna, meat loaf and goulash among other things. My dad loved

Chicharrones (fried pork skins) and Carnitas (roasted pork). There was a Mexican

Carniceria (meat market) a block away from our house. We had Carnitas, Chicharrones

and Pan Dulce (sweet bread) often. I liked the cake muffins and the yellow cake with

white frosting and multi-colored sprinkles on top. My dad also liked to stop at a fruit

stand near our house to buy fresh fruit and freshly roasted peanuts.

My dad taught my sister and I unconditional love, family commitment and

generosity. I remember a White mechanic my dad had hired to work on one of his trucks

who came over to visit every evening for more than a week. He, his wife and children

always came around dinnertime. At first, we didn’t know what their plan was. We soon

recognized that they didn’t leave until they ate. My dad never questioned or criticized the

man, he simply went along with the game, offering the man, his wife and kids to join us

for dinner.

My dad was a strict disciplinarian when it came to obeying him. Disobedience

quickly resulted in a whipping. When Shane and I knew we were going to be whipped,

we would run and hide under my bed and hold on to the legs of the bed frame. My dad

would grab us by our ankles and pull us out. As he swung the belt, he would explain to

us why we were getting whipped. The dialogue went something like, “Didn’t I tell you

not to...” I know he hated to whip us. He always told us, “I whip you because I love you.

If I didn’t care about you, I’d let you do whatever you want to do.” My sister was an

actress when it came to getting in trouble. As soon as our dad came in her room with the

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belt, she would go jumping, crying and screaming, “Ok, Ok….” As soon as he would

leave she would come into my room laughing and say, “It didn’t even hurt.” Our dad

usually gave us our way. We knew that if he said “no” all we had to do was keep asking

him over and over again and he would eventually say “yes” just to shut us up.

Sometimes our plan would not work and we would make him mad. If he got up from his

favorite spot on the sofa screaming, we knew we had crossed the line and would run to

our rooms.

We each had our own rooms with our own television and stereo. We were pretty

independent and each pursued our own interests. My dad loves to watch sports, the news

and documentaries. Shane and I listened to music and talked on the phone. We were

MTV kids and on the weekends watched MTV from the time we woke up until the time

we went to bed. Shane liked Duran Duran, I liked Madonna and Billy Idol. We went to

school on the North side of our city and did not attend the same school as the few kids

who lived in our neighborhood. Shane developed friendships with the girls who lived

next door. I chose not to develop friendships with the boys who lived around the corner

and on other blocks. I did not perceive them as being desirable friends and therefore

developed my friendships with my classmates at school. Bart was my best friend in high

school. He lived about two miles away from us with his older brother. His father is a

Chaplin in the Air Force, therefore they moved frequently. He wanted to attend the same

high school all four years, so when his parents moved at the end of our freshman year, he

decided to live with his older brother. As a result of being on his own, Bart was very

independent. I was too, however to a lesser extent. We both had cars and jobs. His first

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job was at Burger King; my first job was at Mc Donald’s with my cousin Lori. I was

hired when I turned fifteen and worked on weekends. From the time I was sixteen to the

time I was twenty, I worked at the Sizzler. I started out as a bus boy and later became a

waiter.

At the age of eighteen, I drove to Oakland one weekend and purchased a fake I.D.

at a check cashing franchise. It was rudely obvious that the I.D. was fake, but many bars

and dance clubs let me in with it. The waitresses I worked with treated me like their little

brother. I would go and hang out with them at bars on the weekends after work, even

though I did not drink. For me it was just fun to dance and socialize, especially since I

was less than twenty.

Bart and I also hung out with Cathy. Cathy is half Mexican and half white. Her

father is Mexican and her Mother is white. Like Shane and I, Cathy was raised by her

father. The three of us usually did everything together, we went bowling, played pool

and Bart and I raced our cars on vacated roads. Cathy’s Dad worked nights so we would

often go watch television with her and sometimes she would play pornographic movies.

We were pretty active in school so a lot of our activities revolved around school, for

example rallies, football games, dances, or other activities. Cathy and Bart were my best

friends throughout high school.

Our extended family played a big role in our lives. In the mornings, my dad

would drive us to my grandmother’s house where my cousin Lori would comb my

sister’s hair and we would walk to the bus stop to go to school. After school, we would

go to my grandmother’s house until my dad was off work. We would play and have so

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much fun that we usually would not want to leave when my dad came to take us home.

Our grandmother always had snacks and a lunch prepared for us when we came home

from school, usually hamburger helper, soup, which she brought from the restaurant she

worked at or peanut butter and jelly on crackers. She has a big black walnut tree, so we

would collect bags of walnuts, take out the meat and she would make homemade walnut

cupcakes for us from scratch. She also made homemade teacakes for us. My cousin Lori

is an only child and my Aunt Lisa is younger than her brothers and sisters, so the four of

us usually did things together. On Friday nights we would go roller-skating at the local

roller ring, and on Saturdays we would catch the bus to the mall, where we would hang

out and play in the arcade. Some Saturday’s we would go to the flea market or have

garage sales to earn spending money. During the summers we would go swimming

everyday at the swimming pool at McKinley park, near Lori’s house, always using the

money our parents gave us to buy penny candy on the way home. My Aunt Carolyn,

Lori’s mom, took us to Santa Cruz and Great America every summer. We also spent a

week each summer at my Aunt Brenda’s house in Napa and another week at our cousin’s

house in San Jose. On Sundays, they would come pick us up for church. We all spent

the holidays together, congregating at my grandmother’s house. Even after I went to

college, my grandmother and aunt continued to play important roles in my life. My Aunt

bought me a refrigerator for my dorm room and made sure I had a college level

dictionary and other supplies. Both she and my grandmother sent me money if I was ever

without money to pay my bills. They encouraged me and told me how proud I would be

to one day tell my kids and grandkids how I struggled to get my education and finally did

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it. My Aunt Gina was a Jehovah’s Witness and therefore, did not celebrate holidays.

Instead, around the holidays she would cook a big dinner and invite us over. When I was

in college, I especially appreciated her dinners because she always sent me home with a

plate of food. Sometimes she prepared a Mexican meal with Carnitas (roasted pork),

Mexican rice and beans. Other times, she grilled steaks and served them with baked

potatoes and steamed vegetables. No matter what she served, she always made a large

green salad with cucumbers, radishes, chunks of tomatoes and sometimes, shrimp.

My mom’s role in our lives changed after she moved. We relied upon our Father

for our daily existence and saw our Mother as a Mother/Friend. She took us shopping,

out to dinner and did more fun things with us. She took us to the doctor when we were

sick and made sure we saw the dentist regularly. She met with our teachers, attended our

school events and participated in our extra curricular activities. She attended my track

meets every weekend, sold sodas at the school dances, drove in the school parades and

sat on the homecoming committee for two years. My dad was our parent in our private

lives, my mom was our parent in our public lives. My mom would tell us how bad she

would feel when teachers and other parents would tell her how great her kids were. She

felt my dad deserved the credit more than she did, but by choice, he was rarely there to

get it. My dad gave us a lot of freedom to make our own choices and would voice his

opinion only if he felt we were making the wrong choice. My mom talked to us more

intimately about life, sex and our goals. As teenagers, her house was our hang out. Our

friends really liked her. She was an adult you could talk to without feeling afraid or

ashamed of any questions you may have had. While I was a teenager, she taught me

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some very valuable life lessons such as: you can’t love anyone else until you love

yourself first; how can you expect someone else to love you if you don’t love yourself;

and, people do to you only what you let them. Even after I went to college, my friends

liked her. One year for my birthday, she cooked my favorite dinner, chile verde. Some

friends and I came home to eat before going to San Francisco to dance at the Palladium,

then a popular dance club. My friends invited her to come with us. To them she was

cool, but to me she was my mom. At nineteen, the last thing I wanted was my mom at a

club with me. She must have known how I would feel. She declined to join us.

My parents achieved what no other separated or divorced couple I have

encountered has been able to achieve. They have both played active and complimentary

roles in our lives without fighting and division. After they separated, the four of us

would bowl every week together. We vacationed together, we went on one-day outings

together and still spend every holiday together. After many years of maintaining separate

households, my dad has continued to be a resource for my mom when she needs him.

My mom has met all the women my dad has seriously dated since their separation and is

socially cordial to them. Their relationship actually gave my sister and I some unrealistic

expectations about separating from the people we’ve dated. We associated ending a love

affair or breaking up with someone we dated as moving from being lovers to friends. We

saw no reason we would not still be friends with our past love interests. Experience has

taught us that our parents’ relationship is unique. Usually, past love interests are not

emotionally capable of being your friend after you break up, or your current love interest

doesn’t understand why you are still friends with someone you used to be involved with.

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My parents remained separated for twenty years. For some reason, they would never

formally divorce each other and would sometimes laugh about it. Everyone knew they

would never get back together, a thought my sister and I could not imagine. They both

held long-term relationships with other people and had grown too different to ever be a

couple again. In 2000 they finally did it. They were divorced.

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Robert Charles and Bonnie. Stockton, California, 1975.

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( Left): Robert. Stockton, California, 1973. (Bottom left): Shane at Grandpa Gould’s house in Leona, Texas, 1975.

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(Left): Robert and Shane. Stockton, California, 1975. (Below): Lori and Lisa visiting in Compton. (Left to right): Robert, III, Lori (in car) and Lisa. Compton , California 1974.

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Hopkins Family, including (left to right): Robert Charles, Bonnie, Shane and Robert, III. Stockton, California, 1978.

Shane, Robert, III and Robert Charles. Stockton, California, 1984.

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Robert’s high school graduation picture. Stockton, California, 1988.

Shane’s high school graduation picture. Stockton, California, 1992.

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Shane and Robert. Stockton, California, 1991.

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Becoming El Mestizo Moderno

Chapter IV

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It takes courage, strength and conviction to go against the grain. But if someone hadn’t done it, we wouldn’t have wheat bread,

chocolate chip ice cream or radios in our cars. It is often difficult to get people to follow your train of thought. Stop trying.

It’s your train. You are the engineer and the conductor. We usually want and need help, support and comfort when we are doing

something new. If we do not get it, so what! Does that mean we should stop what we are doing? Absolutely not! The path

to success is paved with road signs, warning symbols and obstructions. But when you start a new trail equipped with

courage, strength and conviction, the only thing that can stop you is you.

- Iyanla Vanzant 2

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Childhood Memories of My Families Attitude Towards Race

My identity in terms of race has been a continuous process of development. My

earliest recollections of issues dealing with race come from my family. I was

periodically called a yellow banana and half-breed. The names didn’t bother me though.

I knew I had a fairly light skinned complexion, but I never felt superior or inferior to

anyone around me. It was just the way things were. In addition to commenting on my

complexion, people would fuss over my sister’s hair, commenting on how pretty it was.

In some ways, mixed children grow up surrounded by contradictions. Some people call

you names, while other people view your mixed characteristics as attractive. The

contradictions are perhaps what help center you. When you are in the middle and able to

view both sides, you are careful not to fall into the trap of either group. Through

experience you learn that opinions are relative to with whom you are speaking. In my

case, I am considered light in part of my family, and dark in the other. My sister and I

have “good” hair in part of our family and “nappy” hair in the other.

I remember one night in particular, my Aunt Sharon, my dad’s sister, and an aunt,

with whom I became very close as I grew up, was mad at my mother. For some reason,

she decided that night I would be the recipient of her anger towards my mom. As she

cooked at my grandmother’s stove, she made me stand in the middle of the kitchen and

told me I had better not move until she told me to. I stood there while she told me I was a

half-breed and a mutt and rattled profanities about my mom. As with the experience of

being called a yellow banana, I did not feel anger or hurt. Instead of internalizing

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negative emotions about myself, I thought about how ridiculous and mean my aunt was.

I knew I was mixed, but also knew I was not a mutt or half-breed. My aunt was very

unique. She was very direct, often told the truth, even if it hurt your feelings, but was

also very loving and kind. I think her sensitivity is what made her appear mean at times.

Often, people assume a hardened stance in order to protect their vulnerabilities. I believe

it is because I knew my aunt’s personality that I didn’t resent her for her behavior. She

could be nice, but when she was mad at you, she would not hold back in trying to hurt

you verbally. She and my Aunt Brenda taught me to drive and the importance of being

brave. In particular, she taught me that when you are in a confrontation, you never let the

other person know you are afraid. Bully’s look for people who are scared of them, if they

recognize that you are afraid, they will continue to harass you. Sharon was very proud of

me and told me often. She was her own person and seemed happy that I had grown up to

be my own person as well. That night in the kitchen is definitely not the basis of my

opinion of my Aunt Sharon, but it is a memory that has stayed with me all these years.

In reflection of my Aunt Gina, my mom’s sister, I am somewhat surprised at how

freely she interacted with my sister and I, never once showing any sign of reservation

towards her half Black niece and nephew. She and her husband Mark, who is white, took

us on vacation with them several times and often invited us to church with them. The

church they attended was a Jehovah’s Witness Kingdom Hall and had less than a handful

of Black worshippers that I knew of. One time in particular, I was at their house for

dinner. Mark’s brother and his family came for dinner as well. We hadn’t been

introduced yet, so Mark’s brother asked, “So Gina, who’s your friend?” She smiled and

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answered, “This is my nephew Robert.” He looked puzzled and said “Oh!” My sister

had a similar experience. She was in the bathroom getting ready to go to church when

some of Gina and Mark’s friends stopped by to join them. When my sister came out of

the bathroom, she says the visitors looked like they saw a ghost. They had no idea Gina’s

niece was half-Black. My sister and I find these incidents funny. We wish we had

cameras to capture these truly “Kodak” moments. The community in which Gina and

Mark lived is rural, white and strongly influenced by white supremacists. The reality is

our family is by no means the norm in their community. My mother has also experienced

similar situations with co-workers who see her and I together and think I am her

boyfriend. The fact that I am her son, I guess is the last consideration for the people who

have not met my sister and I and therefore do not know her kids are half-Black.

Gina lived with us often while I grew up. She moved to Los Angeles to live with

my mom and dad shortly after I was born. My parents moved back to Stockton after my

grandfather passed away in 1974. She eventually moved back to Stockton as well. One

of my memories at around seven years old is of going to the motor movies with her and

her boyfriend on a date. I wonder what he thought when he came to pick us up. My

aunt’s unconditional love was obvious. She didn’t seem to care what people thought

about the fact that we were related. One may ask why should she care and assume her

attitude would be expected of a family member. It would be naïve of me to pretend that

race doesn’t matter to some people. The reality is some families are separated because of

interracial relationships. Interracial relationships definitely have consequences from

outside sources, be it family or society in general. Any American knows race is perhaps

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the most volatile subject in America. To deny the ramifications of an interracial

relationship would be to ignore reality. Of course whether the consequences outweigh

the benefits is a judgment that can only be made by the principal parties involved.

Several months after she passed away from cancer, I was reminded of how proud

my aunt was of me. I went to the 1st birthday party of my little cousin and Gina’s

granddaughter, Jesse. When I walked into the house, I heard a lady I had never met say

to someone else, “That is Gina’s nephew, Robert.” Later, I introduced myself to the three

ladies and found they were co-workers of my aunt. One of the ladies was my aunt’s best

friend, Trootie. I had heard of her just as she had heard of me. They told me how often

my aunt spoke of me and how proud of me she was. She had shown them pictures and

that is how they recognized me when I walked in. Having just lost my aunt several

months before, in May of 1998, I was happy to be reminded that she loved me just as

much as I loved her. Later, when I told the story to my grandmother, she reminded me

that my senior year in high school, my aunt wrote a letter to the regional television

station, telling them about the work I performed in the community promoting drug abuse

prevention. The station gave me an award. The first quarter of my freshman year in

college, I watched myself on television with my dorm mates as a featured guest on

Channel 3’s “To Be Somebody.”

My parents, I know, suffered ramifications for their choice to marry and have a

family together. Some of the consequences I am aware of, others I imagine they have

never shared with me. My father has never spoken of any negative consequences. My

mother, on the other hand, was disowned by her biological father as a result. I never had

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the occasion to meet him. When I was born, he told my mom he didn’t have any nigger

grandchildren and not to bring me around him. Needless to say, she didn’t. My

grandmother remarried before I was born, so I grew up knowing my step-grandfather,

Humberto, as my grandfather. When I was older, my mom told me the story of her

biological father. We knew he had passed away, but no one knew how, where or where

he was buried. I, the grandson he wanted nothing to do with, did the research and found

he had died of cardiac arrest and was buried in the cemetery next to the Hospital in which

my mother works. When he died, he had no money, friends or family. Everything for his

burial had been donated, from the clothes and casket, to the plot. I felt sorry for him, yet

understand why he lived the life he did. I believe strongly in the law of Karma; the

energy you put into the universe is returned to you. He undoubtedly reaped what he had

sewn throughout his life. I remember feeling surprised at the compassion I felt for him

when I learned of his fate. I even briefly entertained the thought of purchasing a

headstone for his grave since he didn’t have one. I asked myself why I wasn’t angry with

him for the way he treated my mom and for referring to me as a nigger. I came to the

conclusion that it was the values with which my parents raised me. I was taught to be

generous, to share, to be respectful, especially of elders and not to hate. Most

importantly, however, I knew that in my early 20’s I was already more than he could

have ever hoped to be. For that I was grateful, and therefore could not be angry.

Both of my grandmothers preferred their children marry within their race. My

grandma Irene protested my mom and dad’s relationship. On one hand, the age

difference would have been reason for any mother to protest. The fact that my dad was

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African American however, made the situation even worst in my grandmother’s eyes.

Because my mom ran away with my dad, there was tension in my mother and

grandmother’s relationship for a brief period. Shortly after I was born, Irene experienced

a serious car wreck. My mom and I came back to Stockton so that she could help my

grandmother with my Aunt “Chati” and Uncle “Cash” who were babies at the time. The

visit healed their relationship. According to my mom, my grandmother “oohed” and

“aahed” over me, her first grandchild. My mom had previously told her that she now had

her own family, and that my grandmother had a choice: accept it or not. She chose to

accept it. After getting to know my dad, my grandmother liked him a lot. She had

previously not even taken the time to get to know him. After visiting my parents in Los

Angeles and seeing how well he cared for my Mom, she eventually told him that he was

“the best son in law she could have ever had.” My grandfather Burt liked my dad very

much as well. When my parents separated, Grandma Irene and Burt were planning to

come to California to help my Dad raise, Shane and I. My Grandmother passed away

before they moved, yet Burt came anyway. My parents had separated, so Burt lived with

my dad, my sister and I. My dad dated a lot after he and my mom separated. At one

time, he had ten girlfriends of different nationalities. Burt called him “the international

playboy.” My sister had a crush on a young man in her class named Jesus. Burt always

teased her about him. When we were older and called him on the holidays, he would still

jokingly ask her about Jesus. When we went to Burt’s funeral in 1994, his second wife

gave us the picture of my sister he carried in his wallet. It was her first grade picture; he

carried it in his wallet for fifteen years.

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My grandma Bennie Mae wanted her children to marry within their own race and

expressed her desire to her children. My grandfather, Robert, told the children he

wouldn’t allow my grandmother to interfere if they chose to marry someone of a different

race. He felt if their kids could spend a lifetime with their spouse, he and my

grandmother could definitely spend a couple of hours with them. My grandmother didn’t

want her children to experience the pressures of being in an interracial relationship. In

regards to my mom and dad, she felt my mom was too young to be a wife and a mother.

The realities of my mom’s experience because her husband is African American

and children are half-African American made her extremely protective of us on issues of

race. She isolated us away from her family, feeling we would be hurt verbally or treated

differently than other children in the family. Until the age of 28, I had only met my

mom’s immediate family – her mother, stepfather, two sisters, brother, paternal

grandmother and my three first cousins. While growing up she told us her extended

family wasn’t worth knowing and that she preferred not to interact with them. I trusted

her judgment, and as a kid never questioned her decision. My dad’s family is large and

very loving. I didn’t lack a family in any way. My grandmother Bennie loves my mom

as if she is her own daughter. Together we were a family and that was enough for me.

One weekend after I had graduated from college, I was home visiting and spoke

on the phone with our cousin Connie, who lived in Fort Collins at the time. Connie was

one of the few extended family members my mom still spoke to, however one I had never

met or previously knew of. Connie told me how she and her family had always wanted

to meet and get to know my sister and I. She said she had requested many times for my

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mom to bring us to Fort Collins to visit, offering to pay our airfare if necessary. My mom

refused. Connie told me that she understood my mom’s actions. She felt it was natural

for a mother to protect her children from what she perceived as danger. I asked Connie if

she thought we would be treated differently than the rest of our family. She answered

No. She was sure we wouldn’t be by the people in her and my mom’s age group and

younger. My cousin is part Oglala Sioux and was raised both in Colorado and on the

Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota. My mom says she remembers Connie and her

siblings being called half-breed and other names when they were children. I imagine it

was Connie’s own experience that allowed her to relate to my sister and I even though

she didn’t know us. I was surprised she even brought up the issue of race, and was

further surprised at how candidly she spoke about it.

Development of My African American Identity

Many of my images of Black pride come from my Aunt Carolyn. She has always

been the most Afrocentric of my family members. I remember her protests against

allowing her daughter to believe in a white Santa Claus. She insisted my cousin Lori

know she was Santa. My parents preferred my sister and I think Santa brought at least

the majority of our gifts, signing the gift cards “From Santa.” I appreciate the way my

parents made Christmas fun and exciting while I was a child. My dad’s family also

commented when my mom would buy white dolls for my sister, saying that my sister

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should have Black dolls and that my mom didn’t know better. I realize the balance in my

consciousness came from having exposure to both the way my parents thought and the

way my aunt thought. My parents never made an issue of race. My aunt made a big

issue of race. Because of my parents I didn’t grow up with any baggage or self-image

problems and felt I could accomplish any goal I set for myself. I foresaw no barriers to

my success. Because of my Aunt, I was proud to be African American and was prepared

to face a racist world, preparation every African American youth needs; yet a lesson I

don’t believe my parents were ready to teach at the time because of their idealistic

perspectives. My mom has observed discrimination, but has not experienced it the way

an African American has. My dad believes in self-determination and considers

discrimination an excuse. In his opinion, if you are discriminated against, you must work

harder; realizing that your goal can still be achieved.

In speaking with my mother, she says she and my father knew my sister and I

would be treated as African Americans. They wanted us to be prepared and felt as if they

had a choice; either they raise us in California with my dad’s family, or in Colorado with

my mom’s family. They chose California so that we would be socialized as African

Americans. They knew my dad’s family could provide a stronger support network for

my sister and I, as well as for them. In retrospect, their choice was right; I would not

have the self-esteem I have today, had I grew up in Colorado. Colorado is not a Mecca of

diversity and I doubt my Mexican family could have adequately socialized two half-

Black children to have Black pride. Non-Blacks tend to underestimate the importance of

race, often emphasizing that race does not matter. In an ideal world, perhaps it does not.

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Most African Americans know that race does matter. An African American child who

grows up thinking it does not will be taught an ugly lesson by experience. What your

family does not teach you, the world will. African American children need to be

equipped with the tools to function in a racist world. The fact that race matters in the

United States is indisputable. The most important question is who does it matter to?

I grew up in a very integrated environment. My family was integrated. My high

school was integrated, as well as the neighborhood in which I grew up. On one side, our

neighbors were a White and Japanese couple, the Izumis. On the other side, lived a

Black and Mexican family, like ours, the Millers. Throughout high school I was one of

several non-white students who were leaders and college bound. I was voted most likely

to succeed my senior year and by no means fit the stereotype of the typical African

American male. To many African Americans, and especially my little sister, I “acted

White.” I did not embrace such a label and felt the people who would apply the label to

me did not know who African people really are. It perplexed me as to why some of my

peers felt that if you spoke “proper” English and wanted an education you “acted White,”

while people, including Whites, who spoke with broken English and were juvenile

delinquents were considered “acting Black.” It was as if some African Americans

actually embraced negative stereotypes about us. I thought about all the great African

American leaders who came before me and knew education was not foreign to Blacks. In

actuality, our ancestors struggled so that we could have access to education. Fredrick

Douglas for example, learned to read and write using a stick in the dirt. I knew Whites

did not have a monopoly on learning. I have since learned that Africans created the first

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written languages, manufactured the first paper and formulated geometry. Therefore, to

receive an education is not to act White, but to continue a centuries old African tradition.

Unfortunately, while in high school, I adopted a “blame the victim” attitude and

questioned why if racism wasn’t a barrier for me, it appeared to be one for other African

Americans. I perceived African Americans who didn’t achieve as having low drive and

low goals. I especially perceived those who were in gangs and who sold drugs as

walking right into the trap of the “White man” they criticized as being out to get them. I

remember having discussions with my mom, my sister and some of her friends who sold

drugs. My mom tried to explain to them that while they blame Whites for wanting to put

them in jail, they actually give Whites the opportunity to lock them up by committing

crimes. So, if it is true that Whites want you in jail, you are doing exactly what they want

you to do by selling drugs. When you get caught, they are going to send you to jail. The

question they didn’t seem to get was why would you put yourself in the situation to go to

jail if you know someone is looking to send you there? I wanted an education and future

and definitely wanted to stay out of jail. I resolved myself to accept that if to others that

meant I “acted White,” then so be it.

In college, I learned the difference between institutional racism and individual

racism. Today I recognize that not everyone has the same opportunities and resources

and that as a result people have different challenges and experiences. In addition, I

learned of the powerful psychological effects the American experience has had on

African people. The effects are so strong in many cases we have adopted false

perceptions of ourselves, our history and our place within the world. I now have a better

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understanding of the process that has brought our community to where it is today. I still

however, refuse to adopt a defeated ideology and accept racism as an excuse to fail or

underachieve. We all have choices. We must remember that where we are in our lives is

exactly where we want to be. If we aren’t where we want to be, we must make a choice

to do something different. Unfortunately, as teenagers, some of my peers felt they didn’t

have choices. Because of their race, they felt the choices had been made for them and

they accepted those choices. African Americans and Latinos alike must stop blaming

other people for the condition of our communities. We know how we ended up where we

are; the question is how are going to reach our full potential? We, alone, must be

responsible for answering that question.

While others perceived me as “acting White” I thought of myself as fairly

Afrocentric, even though I wasn’t familiar with the term yet. I remember my Aunt Lisa

who is five years older than I am, writing a paper on Shirley Chisolm. She told us that

Shirley Chisolm was the first African American and the first woman to run for president

of the United States. She also told us that whenever we had to write essays or read books

that we should select African American subjects and authors. And so I did. I eventually

wrote an essay on Shirley Chisolm as well. In high school, I was president of the Black

Student Union, which I renamed The African American Student Association. As a

fundraiser, we sold West African food. Sophie, the wife of a family friend from Sierra

Leon, prepared it for me. She made Jollof Rice and Cassava Leaf dish. As a teenager, I

related myself and other Blacks, to Africa. I was not ashamed of being Black; my own

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definition of being Black simply differed from that of others. I saw being African

American as an asset, not a liability.

As a kid I developed a feeling of being different than some African Americans. It

was a feeling that had positive attributes, rather than negative. I was surprised through

conversation to learn that my sister, Shane, and cousin, Lori, grew up with the same

feeling I did, the feeling of being socially superior to other African Americans. Our

feelings were a source of embarrassment and therefore, a subject we had never discussed.

Growing up, we felt that we knew the “proper” way to act and carry ourselves, as

opposed to other African Americans, who were criticized as less cultured, most often by

my aunt Carolyn. My whole family set the expectation that we would look, act and speak

as educated and cultured people who were disciplined and well behaved. My

Grandmother emphasized our speech, frowning when we spoke Ebonics and saying “I

always wanted my children to speak nicely, I never wanted them to speak broken

English.” My Dad also emphasized our vocabulary, correcting us when we conjugated

verbs incorrectly. His biggest pet peeve was our use of the word “aint.” He would say,

“aint is not a word,” and would challenge us to find it in the dictionary when we would

insist that it was. My Mom emphasized our manners and expected us to be well behaved.

My Aunt Carolyn had a heightened sense of class and indirectly encouraged us to aspire

to have class about ourselves, mostly by criticizing people, white and black alike, who

appeared to have none. Our sense of being socially superior was therefore a sense of

knowing the “proper” way to behave and to act. I do not believe it was an issue of

economic class because our family is working class. Instead, it was an embracing of

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middle class values and the families attempt to integrate into the middle class. My mom

and aunt Gina portrayed similar attitudes towards Mexicans. I remember them both

discouraging the girls in the family from dating Mexican males, who they viewed as

undesirable marriage partners. They characterized Mexican males as drinking

excessively, being physically abusive and limiting a woman’s role to that of mother and

wife. I disagreed with them, seeing Mexican men as committed to their families and

hardworking. Interestingly, I see me niece and nephew growing up with the same ideas

we did. Their comments about their classmates exemplify their awareness of the

difference between their own behavior and that of their white or African American

classmates. They see themselves as being able to walk in both worlds and have a healthy

sense of self-esteem as African Americans. In either case, I do not associate my family

members attitudes with self-hate. Instead it was an attempt to be more than what may

have been expected of us as Mexicans or African Americans, a rejection of aspects of

culture they viewed as negative and an attempt to set a higher standard. My Dad often

told us he wanted us to do better than he did and to learn from his mistakes. The attitudes

projected were an attempt not to put others down, but an attempt to bring us up; to make

us more socially refined and thus more upwardly mobile.

My political consciousness came from my Aunt Carolyn. For almost a decade,

she dated a multi-millionaire who lives in Stockton and served as a city councilman for

many years. She was very active in his campaigns and helped to run a nightclub he

owns. As a result of her involvement we were introduced to local politics at a fairly

young age. When I was in middle school we attended political fundraising dinners,

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watched the city council meetings on television and listened to adult conversations about

the political power struggle between the white and African American members of the

community. I became very interested in politics and viewed it as a means to improve the

community. In high school I assisted a local candidate who ran for an assembly seat and

also helped sponsor a voter registration drive at school. I also had my own talk show at

school, modeled after the Phil Donahue show. It was called the “Rob and Rash Show,”

because it was co-hosted by the Student Body Vice-President Rashmi Vasavada. The

show was held in the auditorium and teachers would bring their classes to participate. On

one occasion we invited local politicians and sought to educate our peers about the

political process and the importance of their participation in it. My aunt and her

boyfriend worked locally to support Jesse Jackson and eventually were alternate

delegates to the National Democratic Convention. They also participated in a UFW

strike with Caesar Chavez in the late 1980’s. Unfortunately, my personal experience

with politics led to a distorted perception of the process in general. For me it was up

close and personal. I saw politics as a means to strengthen the community to give

underrepresented groups a voice and to fight for social justice. I aspired to be a politician

and knew that I would one day make a difference for all people, but especially ethnic

minorities. Majoring in Political Science at UC Davis, I learned that politics are about

power. I decided that I did not want to be involved in a profession where egos,

manipulation and a power pull were the names of the game. After completing my junior

year I decided to continue with my major only because changing it would have meant an

additional year in school.

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I was lucky in school to have had nice, caring teachers of all races throughout my

childhood. My 2nd grade teacher was Ms. Young, who was Chinese American. She

would bring Chinese potato chips and prepare them in class and always took us on field

trips to the roller skating ring. My third grade teacher was also named Ms. Young and

was African American. My sixth grade teacher was Ms. Hudson, a European American.

She taught speech class and introduced me to my love for public speaking, which led to

my desire to teach. Mrs. Musgrove who is also White, was my high school leadership

teacher and helped me refine my leadership skills and to set personal goals. Mrs. Bunton

and Mrs. Moore were both African American and taught me to have high standards. Mrs.

Bunton taught American Government and Mrs. Moore taught Advanced Placement

English. They were both known for being tough and expecting excellence. In addition to

being my teacher, Mrs. Bunton was my dad’s first grade teacher. She thought favorably

on him and had such a well known reputation that I was excited to learn from her as well.

Dr. Lee, a Chinese American vice-principal in my high school, was supportive of me.

My senior junior year, he arranged for me to be tutored by the senior class valedictorian

because I needed assistance in my intermediate algebra class. It was his way of helping

to ensure I would be prepared for college. Mrs. Deborah Louie, my early outreach

coordinator, is Filipina and was a tremendous help in assisting me to get into UC Davis.

My sophomore year in high school, my counselor was an African American female, Mrs.

Doris Edwards. She taught me a very valuable lesson. I interviewed and had been

chosen to represent our school in a countywide drug abuse prevention program. I went to

the information meeting and was the only African American student there. The next day

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I went to Mrs. Edward’s office and asked her, “Why didn’t you tell me I would be the

only Black person in the program?” She told me, “Robert, the higher you go, the less

Blacks you will see. You may as well get used to it now.” I knew she was right and

continued in the program. The next year, I became the assistant coordinator.

Not all my teachers felt I should integrate into mainstream society so easily. My

senior year, my head track coach was an African American male who belonged to the

Nation of Islam. Because I was Student Body President, he approached me about being

more radical and asked me to assist him in stirring up the administration. When I

refused, he told my best friend I was a “house nigger” and deserved to die.

My best friend in high school was Bart. Bart is African American, tall and husky.

He, too, was college bound and was perceived as “acting White.” He told me how

frustrating for him it was because of his size. He felt that Whites perceived him as

intimidating. He altered his manner in order to appear more subtle and less boisterous so

that he would not scare our classmates. He felt I was less intimidating to Whites because

I have a smaller frame and lighter complexion. One day my cousin Lori told me she too

felt my complexion gave me an advantage over other African American males. We were

debating why so many African American males go to jail, join gangs or sell drugs. She

told me that my experience could not speak to that of the average African American

male. She felt I had been afforded more opportunities because of my complexion. At the

time I conceded to her explanation, knowing that I had individuals in my life who

encouraged and supported me and accepted that other people may not have been so

lucky. Today, I do not accept the explanation as easily. I agree that some Whites

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probably do feel more comfortable around lighter skinned African Americans, but I also

know that to many Whites, and African Americans as well, a Black person is a Black

person no matter what your complexion is (remember the one drop rule). Therefore, to

use skin color as an explanation to differentiate between the haves or have-nots, educated

or uneducated, etc., is to perpetuate a centuries old source of separation for African

Americans which began on the plantation with house and field slaves. Success comes to

those who seek it and are prepared when opportunities come. Besides, to accept such an

explanation would be to ignore the many dark skinned people who are successful and the

light skinned people who are not. In addition, it would be to assume that success for

African Americans comes only when Whites allow it. A conclusion I believe all would

agree is absurd.

College and The Development of a New View of The World and Myself

The development of my identity has been an enriching process, for it has been an

experience of personal growth. As a child, I was socialized as an African American, as

an adult, I have chosen to take a more holistic approach and embrace both cultures to

which I belong. I appreciate and honor the elements of both African American and

Mexican culture. I have learned to cook the traditional dishes of both cultures like

menudo, chili verde, Spanish rice, salsa fresca, sweet potato pie, black-eyed peas,

chitterlings, and cornbread stuffing. I hope to be able to pass these traditions and others

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on to the generation that comes after me. I dance to salsa and merengue as well as hip

hop and house music. I revere ancient Egypt as well as Tenochitlan and speak Spanish as

well as Ebonics.

The years I spent in college were the catalyst for my growth. While a student at

UC Davis, I was exposed to a new thought pattern – Afrocentricity. Afrocentricity

teaches that it is natural for individuals to view the world from a perspective that makes

them the center of reference. For example, African Americans must have an African

centered worldview; Mexicans, a Mexican centered worldview; etc. When a person

views the world from a perspective rooted in his or her own culture, they are more likely

to find that their own history and symbols are honored, an important issue in terms of

self-esteem and identity.

“Afrocentricity questions your approach to every conceivable human enterprise. It questions the approach you make to reading, writing, jogging, running, eating, keeping healthy, seeing, studying, loving, struggling, and working…. The psychology of the African American without Afrocentricity has become a matter of great concern. Instead of looking out from one’s own center, the non-Afrocentric person operates in a manner that is negatively predictable. The person’s images, symbols, lifestyles, and manners are contradictory and thereby destructive to personal and collective growth and development. Unable to call upon the power of the ancestors because one does not know them; without ideology of heritage, because one does not respect one’s own prophets; the person is like an ant trying to move a large piece of garbage only to find that it will not move” (Asante 1991: 1 & 45).

A valuable, but hard lesson for African Americans to learn has been that

Europeans are not going to write history to glorify the African experience, no matter how

glorious we know the African experience has been. Their nature is to tell their own story

and highlight their own heroes and heroines. In the same manner, we must pass our

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history and culture on to our children. It is not the European or any other race’s

responsibility to tell our story. That is our duty. The duty of all mankind however is to

tell the truth and not distort history to falsely glorify their own cultures or heroes.

“The Afrocentric mission [is] to humanize the universe…Afrocentricity does not convert you by appealing to hatred or lust or greed or violence. As the highest, most conscious ideology, it makes its’ points, motivates its’ adherents, and captivates the cautious by the force of its’ truth…Our problems come when we lost sight of ourselves, accept false doctrines, false gods, mistaken notions of what it is truly our history, and assume an individualistic, antihumanistic, and autocratic posture.” (Asante 1991; 6)

I was most influenced by the work of Dr. Chiek Anta Diop. After reading his

book, The African Origin of Civilization: Myth or Reality, I admired him as a brilliant

scholar. He was assertive and had a superior command of knowledge, drawing upon

original historical documents and archaeological evidence combined with critical

thinking to develop and support his arguments. In 1966 Dr. Diop shared an award with

W.E.B DuBois. They were recognized as the two writers who most strongly influenced

the thought of people of African descent during the 20th century. After reading his book,

I found the award to be well deserved.

As I have grown, I have come to realize that in order for me to be a balanced

individual, I must honor both parts of me, my African American self and my Mexican

American self. I must view the world from a mixed perspective, because I am mixed.

My years at college changed my life. I had always been a good kid, a leader. I

was student body president of my high school, Homecoming king, ran track, and was

active in a community organization that specialized in drug abuse prevention. When I

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went to college, I had been well versed in how to lead others. At college, I learned how

to lead myself. I attended lectures and presentations by Alex Haley, Dolores Huerta,

Maya Angelou, Maulana Karanga, and Bobby Seale, among others. These individuals

knew who they were and stood firm as a result of their strong self-esteem. They had a

gift, and were there to share it. I admired them. They appeared to not care about what

other people thought or said about them because they held unpopular opinions. They are

whole, bold and centered in their own cultures. I knew what I wanted. I wanted what

they had. I began my journey to receive it. The popularity contests of high school were

over for me. Who cared who won an election, who received the most votes? My

question was “Who am I?” I wanted to know, love, respect, and honor myself. I am wise

enough to know that the search for the answer to this question will take me on a life long

journey. I am many people: a son, a brother, an uncle, a man. Race is only but a part of

who I am. Tomorrow, I will not be who I am today. I hope to be a father, an educator,

and a role model. I hope to have the same knowledge of self I saw in the heroes and

heroines of my college years, and to inspire someone to begin the journey inward the way

they inspired me. The journey is healing, and sweet, and once you begin you will never

want to stop. Honoring your own feelings, whatever they may be is the ultimate act of

self-love and self-respect. Once you reach that space in yourself, everyone around you

will follow suit. My space is pretty cozy at the moment, yet I am still digging.

In addition to ideological influences, I expanded my cultural awareness while a

student at UC Davis. I took the opportunity to enjoy the Alvin Ailey Dance Co., the

Dance Theatre of Harlem, Ballet Folklorico De Vera Cruz, Tito Puente, Pete Escobedo,

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Conjunto Cespedes, and Teatro Campesino, among others. In addition, I participated

annually with my family in Black Family Day at UC Davis and Festival de La Familia in

Sacramento. In college, I found the artistic richness of both my cultures to an extent I did

not know before. As I watched Conjunto Cespedes, Pete Escobedo, and Andy Narell, I

saw the strong African influence on Latino culture, the Cuban and Puerto Rican cultures,

in particular. Many Cubans and Puerto Ricans still speak Yoruba, a West African

language from Nigeria. Listening to Celia Cruz, India and other Salsa singers, I realized

that in many respects African and Latino cultures were not separate and mutually

exclusive, but were connected and had a history that integrated aspects of African,

European and Indigenous American cultures.

My third year in college I took a class on African religions in America. We

studied Santeria in Cuba, Candomble in Brazil and Vodun in Haiti. I was once again

moved by the strong presence of traditional African religions being practiced in

contemporary American societies. I saw the way Brazilians, Cubans and Haitians

combined the traditional ways of the African ancestors with the ways of the Europeans

and Indigenous Americans to create vibrant, self-affirming cultures. Being Cuban,

Brazilian or Haitian did not mean abandoning the ways of the African or Indigenous

American ancestors or avoiding the culture of the Spanish, French or Portuguese.

Instead, they took all three cultures and synchronized them, making them their own,

creating their own culture out of the three. Seeing them, I knew I could do the same.

The African Religions class taught me to think differently. My professor, Dr.

Jacob Olupona, was a Yoruba from Nigeria. He explained to us how in America we view

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things as black or white, male or female, right or wrong, usually posing opposites on a

spectrum. We have problems viewing things in their full complexity. For example, the

Yoruba religion is both monotheistic and multitheistic, a reality many of the students in

my class could not comprehend. In the Yoruba religion, there are many gods who have

less power than the Supreme God. One god in particular is male, part of the year, and

female the other part, a concept most westerners cannot understand. I learned that the

Yoruba teach a worldview that is cyclical. Everything is connected and plays a vital role

versus the western worldview of things being separate and mutually exclusive. I saw that

our western thought pattern in many ways was the root of sexism and racism. Women

were not honored as procreators with men, both equally dependent on each other in the

cycle of life. They are seen as separate and inferior to men. Non-whites are not

respected for their independent cultures and histories, but are seen as different and thus

inferior. I saw that the same worldview prevented me from fully realizing who I was as a

Mestizo. When I thought with a western worldview, I saw the world as Black and White

and because the world saw me as Black, I did too. Learning that Yoruba saw Black,

White and Grey, I found that I was the Grey, and thus saw myself differently.

Many people have told me I look Puerto Rican. Most people know I am mixed

with something, but rarely know with what. Several people upon finding out I am half-

African American and half-Mexican American suggested I claim to be Puerto Rican. I

always asked why? Responding “I am not Puerto Rican. I am half-Mexican American

and half-African American.” I knew they made the suggestion because they could

conceptualize a Black and Latino mix as Puerto Rican or Cuban, but were not used to

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associating Blacks with Mexico. I have never lied about my race. I do not feel I should

have to in order to fit into someone else’s perception of race or ethnicity.

In fact, there are Africans currently living in Mexico who are the descendents of

the survivors of African enslavement. I became so excited the first time I saw pictures of

Black Mexicans. As I read an article highlighting their history and the photographs Toni

Gleaton took for the Smithsonian, I saw that their features are just like my sister’s and

mine. They have curly hair, brown skin of all hues, and almond shaped eyes. That day I

learned that there were people like me in Mexico. I questioned why I never heard of

Black Mexicans before. The article said that at one time there were more African slaves

in Mexico than in the United States. As a result of the large presence of Africans and the

consequential mixing, the article also estimated that up to 75 percent of Mexicans have

African ancestry (Hispanic; p. 90). I quickly shared the news with my mom and my

sister, sending them photocopies of the article in the mail. We each shared the article

with our respective friends. I knew that many Mexicans would have a hard time

accepting that they have African ancestry. When most people think of Mexicans as

mixed, they think of Spanish and Indigenous American. The truly informed person adds

African, for to ignore the African presence is to take a biased, narrow and limited view of

Mexico and Mexicans. When I told my roommate at the time, Santiago, who is from

Mexico, he felt it shed some light on some of the characteristics of people in his family.

He said one of his aunts is very dark skinned and his own hair is very, very curly. His

hair is so curly, he uses gel to straighten it every day. To him it made sense.

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I also read the book, They Came Before Columbus, by Ivan Van Sertima. The

book documents the pre-European relationship between Africans and Indigenous

Americans. I later read Africa And The Discovery Of America, by Leo Wiener and

Black Indians: A Hidden Heritage, by William Loren Katz. Katz offers an informative

overview of the interrelationship between Africans and Native Americans. I was pleased

to read that Mexico’s second president after independence, Vincente Guerrero, was a

black Indian. Guerrero helped write the constitution of Mexico, including the phrase “All

inhabitants whether White, African or Indian, are qualified to hold office” (Katz 1986:

48). My favorite book was Africans and Native Americans: the Language of Race and

the Evolution of Red-Black Peoples, by Dr. Jack Forbes. Dr. Forbes concluding assertion

affirmed the thoughts I had developed based upon my personal reading. He says:

“Many scholars have assumed that the repopulation process… was one of replacement of Americans by Africans and African-European mixed bloods. There has essentially been no replacement of Native Americans (considered on a large scale). What has in fact happened is that American survivors and African survivors have merged together to create basic modern populations of much of the greater Caribbean and adjacent mainland regions… In short, persons may “look” African but have Native American ancestry, or “look” indigenous American, but have African ancestry, and not only may individuals lean in one direction or the other, but the population of entire regions may seem to fall into one category or another… The ancestry of modern-day Americans, whether of “black” or “Indian” appearance, is often quite complex indeed. It is sad that many such persons have been forced by racism into arbitrary categories which tend to render their ethnic heritage simple rather than complex. It is now one of the principal tasks of scholarship to replace the shallow one-dimensional images of non-whites with more accurate multi-dimensional portraits” (Forbes 1993; 270).

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It became clear that the relationship between Africans and Indigenous Americans and

Mexicans was long and complex. It also became evident that it was a relationship that

very few people talked about.

My third year of college I decided to change my name. I debated for weeks

whether or not I should do it. One of my co-workers, Fred, and I developed a friendship

and would talk a lot about our ideas on race. He is Mexican and encouraged me to do it.

Mexican tradition is that you carry both of your parents’ last names. I questioned

whether I wanted to carry the name Quintana since it belonged to my grandfather and he

was prejudiced. Fred reminded me that it was my mom’s last name as well and that she

was who I was inheriting it from. I decided to do it and called my mom to tell her. When

I told her I had decided to change my name she told me “Don’t call me with that crap.

You were born Robert Hopkins and to me you will always be Robert Hopkins.” I said,

“mom, don’t you even want to hear what the name is?” She said, “No.” I had been

growing in my African consciousness and she perceived me as being militant in my

thinking. She therefore thought the new name would be an African or Arabic name.

When I told her I was adding her last name to my name, she was shocked into silence.

When she finally recovered, I could tell she was pleasantly surprised and proud. My

Aunt Gina was surprised and proud as well. My dad’s family was offended. I am named

after my dad and grandfather. I did not see myself as disrespecting my dad or my

grandfather. I am proud to carry their name. Instead, I saw myself as honoring both of

my parents and feel the last names together more fully express who I feel I am.

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I began to question my acculturation into “mainstream” culture during my

freshman year at college. One day my high school classmate and one of my best friends

during college, Erica, and I drove to the Mission District of San Francisco to visit a

Latino art gallery. We were lost and walked down Mission Street trying to find the

Galleria. We both were afraid. We had never experienced poverty the way we saw it

that day in San Francisco. We saw people living in cardboard boxes and occupying an

abandoned building. We came from working class suburban environments and felt

foreign in this urban Latino neighborhood. The fact that we then lived in Davis didn’t

make matters any better. Davis is a small college town where nearly everyone is

educated and there is virtually no crime. Erica is Mexican and I am half-Mexican. We

were astonished at ourselves when we saw a White man in a suit and both expressed

relief, feeling we must be safe if he was there. On our way home we discussed how at

school, we both had been acculturated to fit into the White American society. We

questioned whether our acculturation was so deep, that we actually felt safer amongst

Whites than we did amongst our own people. That day was a wake-up call to both of us.

As people of color, our perception of our place within the world was distorted. We

adopted the ideas of the dominant culture because in some ways, we believed we were

different than our own people. Thank God for education, an Afrocentric education! In

reflection of that day, I now see that we were responding to issues of class. We felt

vulnerable because we looked like preppy college kids and felt as if we did not fit in. We

felt that if anyone would be the target of a crime, it would most likely have been us. I

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know that had we been in a middle class neighborhood we would not have felt the same

way. Today, I visit the Mission more frequently and feel much more comfortable.

I have learned that the feelings Erica and I felt that day in San Francisco are the

direct source of African American and Latino oppression. Issues of class divide people

of the same race and prevent us from unifying. While reading a translation of the letters

Hernan Cortez wrote from Mexico to Emperor Charles IV in Spain, I was astonished at

the explicitness with which he expresses his plan to conquer Mexico. In describing the

conflict between the people of Tascalteca and Montezuma and vice versa, he says:

“When I saw the discord and animosity between these two peoples, I was not a little pleased, for it seemed to further my purpose considerably; consequently, I might have the opportunity of subduing them more quickly, for as the saying goes, “divided they fall.” So I maneuvered one against the other and thanked each side for their warnings and told each other that I held his friendship to be of more worth that the other’s.” (Pagden 1986: 69)

A larger military didn’t bring about the fall of Mexico, division amongst the indigenous

nations did. The same experience occurred with Africans and slavery. Africans captured

other Africans from rival nations and sold them to White slave merchants. Whites were

undoubtedly wrong for what they did in Mexico and Africa. We, Mexicans and Africans,

must also accept responsibility for the role we played in the incidents as well. Without

such acknowledgment, we are destined to continue to repeat the same mistakes. Could

Cortez have conquered Mexico without the help of Montezuma’s enemies? Would so

many Africans have been sold into slavery had other Africans not so desired the material

goods Whites brought to exchange for human cargo? Will African Americans continue

to allow color, hair texture, and class to divide them? Will Mexicans continue to allow

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national origin, language and class to divide them? As long as our communities remain

divided our second class citizenship will be easy for the dominant culture to maintain.

As Cortez said, “divided they fall.” We are still divided. When you look at the number

of African Americans and Latinos in college, prison, and living in poverty you will see

we are clearly still fallen. When will we get the message?

The development of my identity has been a continuous and enjoyable experience.

Enjoyable, because it has been an experience of growth. I am able to see where I used to

be and know I am no longer there. Today my perception of the world is more and more

rooted in African and Mexican tradition, a multiracial view that in many ways I have had

to create myself. I am realistic however and know I am a product of the United States.

My view of the world is thus strongly influenced by the dominant culture. The

development and maintenance of an Afrocentric and Chicanocentric consciousness is a

goal and process at which I must continue to work.

As I look back upon my family history, I see that my history is as complex as the

history of the United States. As the history of the country, my ancestors represent the

varied American experiences: slavery, European immigration, Spanish exploration,

Mexican migration, African American self-determination, and the Indigenous American

experience. Like the United States, my family experienced racial conflict when two

apparently different worlds met. I use the word apparent because the families were

actually very similar. They started out as large farming families. Through their attempts

to make futures for their children, they both increasingly integrated into the mainstream

society. Fortunately for my sister and I, the racial conflict was a reality we have never

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had to experience directly. My mother’s love protected us from it. She sacrificed her

original family ties in order to try and make her new family ties healthier. Her plan

worked. She says she feels my sister and I were robbed of part of our culture because of

the limited contact we had with our extended family. I disagree. I come from a large

loving African American family who embraced my mom, not because of her race, but

because she is a good person. I come from a small Mexican family, led by my mom and

my Aunt Gina. Everything I need to know about being Mexican, they taught me.

I have learned to abandon the stereotypes of what it means to be a Mexican or

African American and to view my experience as one of the many African American and

Mexican experiences in the world. A Mexican American can be a first generation

migrant who crossed the border illegally to pursue economic prosperity in the U.S. A

Mexican can be a cholo living in East Los Angeles, born and raised in America, who

calls himself Chicano. A Mexican can be a Wall Street stockbroker living in upper

Manhattan, a world renowned writer or a graduate of Harvard Medical School. An

African American can be the kid growing up in the inner city of Chicago, a member of

the Hip-Hop generation. An African American can be the grandmother in the South who

knows her Bible backwards and forwards and who can move mountains through prayer.

An African American can be a female astronaut, a Pulitzer Prize winner, an inventor and

international ambassador. We are all of these things. No one experience is more valid

than the other, no more African American or Mexican than the other. They are different

expressions of a people and are a testimony to our abilities and greatness. Wouldn’t our

communities be limited and boring if we all had the same experience? What would

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happen to our ability to dream and aspire to improve if our concept of inclusion meant we

are all the same? More than language, food and traditions, both families together taught

me about character, pride and through their examples to be bold, to set high, but realistic

goals, and to see myself as more than a racial category. Any individual can speak

Spanish or Ebonics, eat Mexican or Soul food. While I do those things they do not define

who I am. They are aspects of my culture, a part of who I am. My family’s

unconditional love has shown me that I am more than the world’s perception of race.

And, in the same rebellious nature as both of my parents, when even their perceptions of

identity seemed to narrow, I stretched the limits and formed my own multi-ethnic

identity. I believe they have been pleasantly surprised.

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Afterward

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No man is free until all men are free. No woman is healed until all women are healed. These are more than profound

statements worthy of thought. They are the clues to the moral responsibility we all have for one another. Many of

us hold on to our pain, afraid to reveal it. Ashamed to admit it. Others hold on to healing information because we believe it is ours to own. We may fight for the freedom of people of color, but we say nothing when gays or women

are oppressed. We owe it to ourselves and everyone else to see that all people live painless and free. It is our duty to share what we know if it has helped us to move beyond

some darkness in life. We can talk it out or write it out, but we must get it out to those in need. We can support

someone and encourage someone else to take healing steps or paths or ways. We should think about where we would be if there were no books or people to guide us when we need it. Then, with an open heart and extended hand, we

can pull someone else along.

- Iyanla Vanzant 2

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Within A Larger Context

The 15th century marks the beginning of an extensive change in the history of the

entire world. In search of a trade route to India, as a means to eliminate the North

African merchants who traded silk and spices, Europeans began explorative expeditions

by sea, seeking a direct route to Asia. The Italians dominated the Mediterranean Sea and

traded European goods for pepper, nutmeg, cloves and cinnamon among other items,

which they sold to other European countries at a profit. In 1488, the Portuguese rounded

the tip of South Africa, finding the direct route to Asia they sought. Four years later, in

1492, Christopher Columbus stumbled upon the Americas. His contact with the

Americas was a “discovery” undoubtedly only in the context that Europeans previously

had no knowledge of the full extent of the American continents. They previously had

knowledge only of the existence of Greenland. The Americas were no secret to West

Africans, whom the Europeans saw loading large canoes with merchandise and heading

out to sea in the direction of the west. And, whom Native Americans told them had

visited and traded with them by sea (Van Sertima 1976: 1). As a result of the "discovery"

of new territories and the desire to acquire material wealth, colonialism and European

expansion existed for 500 years throughout the world. Very few civilizations on Earth

have not been, at one time or another, touched by European colonialism: including Asia,

Africa, the Pacific Islands and the Americas. In more instances than not, mixed races

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have been created, languages transformed and cultures integrated, synchrotized and

permanently altered.

Witnessing the beginning of the 21st century, much of the world lives in the

period of post- colonialism. Postcolonialism is characterized as the period in which the

majority of colonial territories have been returned to the indigenous people, thus bringing

the period of colonial rule to an end. However, very few territories, such as the United

States, Mexico, Canada and Australia, still function as inter-colonial, or as Rudolfo

Acuna states, an "Occupied Territory." Intercolonial societies are those in which power

is maintained, not by the indigenous people, but the transplanted invaders or their

descendents. These societies are not postcolonial and more often than not, the indigenous

people in inter-colonial societies are the most economically, politically and socially

disadvantaged of all citizens. In the case of postcolonial societies, the responsibility of

governing former colonies creates new challenges for the re-independent nations. Many

must attempt to rebuild an economy in a nation depleted of its natural resources and most

often, left bankrupt. Colonies were exploited, as the wealth that was extracted by the

invaders was used to benefit the respective monarchies, not the colonies themselves.

Exploitation of colonies has led to the creation of the “third world” nations and their

antithesis, the “first world.” The Pre conquest nations of Africa, America and Asia

rivaled and in some instances exceeded European developments in agriculture,

architecture, astronomy and philosophy among other things. “Third world” countries

are not naturally underdeveloped and resource poor. Their wealth was extracted, claimed

by Europeans and used to the build the European dominated “first world.”5

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In addition to economic challenges, the newly re-independent nations must come

to terms with who they are, now that their genetics, language, religion and culture have

been changed forever. The affects of colonialism have undoubtedly been devastating for

all people involved. Those who were colonized must face new issues of identity and

relearn their own history from a perspective rooted in their own culture. In the case of

Europeans, contemporary Europeans are left to resolve centuries old issues, which their

ancestors created, yet from which they have clearly benefited. They must come to terms

with being the beneficiaries of unjustly acquired privilege, participating in a deteriorating

system which maintains their privilege and ultimately finding their place in a new multi-

ethnic world in which their roles will undoubtedly be different than those of their

ancestors. Like people of color around the world, persons of European descent must

redefine themselves in light of post and inter-colonialism. A reality which will

undoubtedly be troubling to many for white males in the U.S. currently comprise 25

percent of the population and are accustomed to controlling the allocation of the whole

“pie.” The dismantling of colonialism and inter-colonialism, means “ those who have

‘had it all’ may some day have just their fair share- about one quarter of the pie. And that

could feel like having nothing at all” (Steinau Lester 1994: p.17.).

The question; who are we? Lies at the heart of Anthropology. Understanding

humankind is the unifying goal of the four sub fields of Anthropology: Archaeology,

Linguistics, Physical (Biological), and Sociocultural. The period of Modernism, which

characterizes the field’s formal origins in the mid 19th century, sought to ground the study

of humans in scientific method, establishing linear models of progress and absolute

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truths, or universals. Anthropologists, during this time, were exclusively white males

commissioned by colonial governments to study the people under subjugation, the people

who would later be identified as the “other.” The information collected was used by the

colonial governments to devise means by which to control their subjects better and more

efficiently. Cultures were described and interpreted from a European perspective. Issues

of power, specifically concerning colonialism, were ignored. Indigenous philosophy, art,

religion, etc. were viewed as myth and superstition. Historical context was ignored,

treating the anthropologized cultures as isolated and disconnected from time or

surrounding social, political and economic influence. The accounts were not objective, a

qualifying characteristic of scientific study. In contrast, the accounts were heavily

subjective, reflecting a European view of the world with Europeans representing the

evolved, end product of man and woman’s development, while people of color

represented the primitive and barbaric aspects of man and woman’s beginnings.

Post Modernism emerged in the 1960’s in direct conflict with modernism. Post

modernism rejects universal laws and generalizations, instead, seeking to explore the

individual and the realities of social fragmentation and instability. Post Modernists

embrace pluralism, a theory that allows for the existence of multiple realities and for the

people who live those realities to speak for themselves (Thomas 1998; p. 79). It is in the

Post Modern Spirit that I present my ethno-biography. Not a representation of all African

Americans or Mexicans, but a representation of my families, our experiences and myself.

A dialogue between the world and myself. A conversation in which I present my own

reality, my response to the public culture that I experience through the media, the

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educational system and other individuals. This thesis is a dialogue through which I hope

to encourage others to free themselves from false images, both of themselves and of

others. I ask not that others embrace the images I present, but instead, find their own

images. This book is my mirror, my reflection. Hopefully you, the reader, will face your

mirror too. And, if you choose, join the dialogue.

As an individual I have embarked upon self-reflection, taken a critical look at

myself and made a conscious effort to be self-aware. Similarly, the field of anthropology

is experiencing the same change. With the rise of post modernism and the reality of post

colonialism, the field has been and is still questioning itself. Scholars are seeking new

ways to perform anthropology and questioning the manner in which they present their

research. By confronting the subjectively Eurocentric Anthropology of the past, scholars

are setting new standards.

My personal exploration of self has led me to conclude that I have a dual

consciousness in which I live. My public consciousness is an aspect of public culture, a

culture which is shared at various levels and in varying contexts with some Americans

and with all Americans. It is within this public culture that race pre-dominates and that

racism often shows its ugly face. I would be naïve to ignore race at the public level.

Public culture in the United States is racially stratified and ethnically fragmented. I am

identified as and treated as an African American male in the public sphere and must be

prepared to function as such in this society. It is in my private culture however, that I can

determine how I see myself and where I can choose to be more than race and thus, refuse

to allow a racist society to dictate my perception of myself. It is with this notion of

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public and private culture that I would like to explore the implications of my ethno-

historical biography for the individual.

For the Individual

Individuals have failed to realize the crucial role they play within culture. Groups

are collections of individuals, therefore, the group changes when individuals change. If

we want to change our attitudes about race it must begin on an individual level. My

experience, I believe, is a good example of the old adage, you can’t judge a book by its

cover. We are often quick to categorize people, associating them with our own pre-

conceived notions based upon outward appearances and our previous experiences. All

people are prejudiced. We pre-judge people based upon their gender, age, sexual

orientation, race, economic status and level of education among other things. We rarely

take the time to explore the substance of individuals, or in relation to the adage, read the

book beyond the cover. In this diverse country and new global society, the challenge is

for us to change our thinking about ourselves, and the people around us. We must first,

explore within and find out who we are, including, yet beyond, race. The resulting

answers may surprise you. The second step is to stop ourselves when we begin to

stereotype people. Instead, we must begin to dialogue, asking the people around us

questions, finding out who they are and what their beliefs are instead of passing

judgements based upon our own preconceived notions. Dialoguing moves us out of the

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public and into the private. By eliminating stereotypes and questioning the concepts we

hold about ourselves and the people around us, we can begin the important task of

healing ourselves as individuals, a nation and a world.

It is at the private level of culture that individuals have the most impact. It is at

this level that we express our own interpretation of what it means to be male, female,

African American, Mexican, Chinese or European American, homosexual, heterosexual,

rich, poor, Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, etc. Private culture is unique, much like our

finger print. It is a personal experience, in its entirety unlike that of anyone else, but in

parts, perhaps similar to many. Private culture is a place in which power lies solely in the

hands of the person living the experience. Power is realized through the exercise of

choice. We choose who we are, what our expression of culture will be, which learned

characteristics, ideas and rituals we will embrace, and which we will reject.

As the Quintana-Hopkins Model of the Individual in Relation to Culture

illustrates (figures 3 and 4), individuals, through their participation, affect public culture.

The relationship between public and private is therefore reciprocal. It is in this reciprocal

relationship that individuals hold power. A society or culture group is comprised of

individuals with some shared (and defined) experience. Culture is inherited and learned

from the preceding generation. Individuals within the social unit embrace and reject

various elements of the culture they inherit. The elements they reject are replaced by new

elements. The old and new elements constitute a recreated culture which will be passed

on to the next generation. The next generation does the same as the previous generation,

embrace and reject various elements of culture, maintaining what they find useful and

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affirming and rejecting what they do not. As these newly created elements of private

culture spread and are shared, they become a part of public culture and thus transform the

shared culture. That is, until another element comes along to replace it. And, such is the

nature of culture, changing and fluid, as the people who participate in and comprise it. It

is my hope that more of us will begin to explore and acknowledge our private cultures.

Private culture can be a refuge from an often chaotic, misinformed, biased and

manipulated public culture.

The key to understanding social change lyes in understating the role the individual

plays within public culture. When we recreate and personalize culture, passing it on to

the generation after us, we take the opportunity to create change within culture. Culture

is therefore not an objective entity separate from the individuals who practice it. In

contrast, it is wholly the expression of the participants and is what they are. The elements

of culture which exist, exist because the participants demand it. Those individuals who

are bold enough produce change within culture and eradicate elements they find archaic,

non-useful or negative. Those individuals who are not bold, simply complain and

passively participate, allowing the status quo to be maintained.

For Academia

The period of the 1960's until present has seen a radical change in the social

sciences. The former "other" whom white male scholars previously studied are now

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college educated, producing literature and holding professorships in traditionally western,

white and male dominated establishments. The previous "other" is now speaking for him

or herself in a language westerners can understand. These voices have undoubtedly

changed academia, enriching it with a more varied reflection of the faces of the world and

often, offering perspectives in contrast to and, at times, in direct conflict with Eurocentric

perceptions of the world. It is in light of the phenomena known as post-modernism that I

wish to discuss the implications of this ethno-historical biography for academia by

exploring four themes: voice, power, historical context and the group v. the individual.

Voice

El Mestizo Moderno is an ethno-historical biography which is both mono- and poly-

vocal. The ethnohistorical portion is a re-articulation of fragmented stories orally passed

to me by various members of my family. Some of the accounts are first hand, some are

second hand. I, in turn, have connected the stories, giving them a sense of temporal

fluidity. In the ethno-historical section (chapters I and II), I have in essence, taken many

voices and made them my own. The ethno-biographical portion (chapters III and IV) is

based upon my own reflections, and thus, reflects my own voice. I am conscious of the

fact that in both sections, I, as the writer, am representing. In one section I represent my

family, while in the other, I represent myself. Representation, I believe, is inevitable.

Issues of voice are important in Anthropology, a discipline which seeks to

understand the human experience. Voice is important because who speaks determines

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what is heard, how information is interpreted and which information is included or

excluded. As Anthropology entered the period of post-modernism, anthropologists began

to pay more attention to the voices of women and people of color. I would however, like

to emphasize the fact that the emergence of literature by women and people of color is

not a new phenomenon. We have been expressing ourselves since time immemorial,

through song, poetry and stories told in the oral tradition. It is only now, that we have

begun to speak in a language deemed appropriate by academia, written and in a European

tongue, does it appear that our voices are new. We, undoubtedly, have been speaking

since before the respective conquests. It is only recently that academicians have cared to

listen.

The fact that anthropologists are listening to people of color is a reflection of the

changes the field has experienced. As James Clifford says,

“A new figure has entered the scene, the “indigenous ethnographer” (Fahim, ed. 1982; Ohnuki-Tierney 1984). Insiders studying their own cultures offer new angles of vision and depths of understanding. Their accounts are empowered and restricted in unique ways. The diverse post- and neo- colonial rules for ethnographic practice do not necessarily encourage “better” cultural accounts. The criteria for judging a good account have never been settled and are changing. But what has emerged from all these ideological shifts, rule changes, and new compromises is the fact that a series of historical pressures have begun to reposition anthropology with respect to its “objects” of study. Anthropology no longer speaks with automatic authority for others defined as unable to speak for themselves (“primitive,” “pre-literate,” “without history”). Other groups can less easily be distanced in special, almost always past or passing, times- represented as if they were not involved in the present world systems that implicate ethnographers along with the peoples they study. “Cultures” do not hold still for their portraits. Attempts to make them do so always involve simplification and exclusion, selection of a temporal focus, the construction of a particular self-other relationship, and the imposition or negotiation of a power relationship” (Clifford 1986; 9-10).

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Thus, the inclusion of various voices in the ethnographies of anthropologists reflects a

positive change within the field. By including more voices in the discourse on culture,

man and woman, the dialogue becomes more challenging, complex and in depth.

Contemporary anthropology is a discipline moving toward inclusion, for anthropologists

now write from various perspectives: feminist, post-colonial, post-modern, etc. How

permanent and in depth the changes are remains to be seen. Writings by Anthropologists

of color and feminists are, in some cases, still seen as different or radical, representing the

philosophy of marginal members of the discipline and not the mainstream. Until the

scholarship of women and non-whites ceases to be novel and is simply accepted as

scholarship in and of itself, one may argue that the changes are simply rhetorical or

cursory.

Power

The most significant issue of power the thesis, El Mestizo Moderno, confronts is

that of definition. In particular, it confronts the question of who defines an individual’s

identity. The overall assertion is that when an individual defines him or herself, he or she

holds the power. By allowing others to define us, we relinquish our power and assume

the role of a victim. I view identity, like culture, as both private and public. Our private

identities are based upon the way we view ourselves. Our public identities are based

upon the way others view us. The two are interrelated. How we view ourselves affects

the way others view us, likewise, the way others view us affects the way we view

ourselves. It is within this relationship between the private and public identities that the

issue of power arises. As individuals we have limited control over our public identities.

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It is over our private identities that we have the option of exercising the most control. In

the public sphere, where racism predominates, I am seen as African American. In the

private sphere, where I can confront racism directly, I view myself as a mestizo.

Undoubtedly, the public identity of both African Americans and Mexicans is as

less than, inferior to and subservient to Europeans. The media, history books and social,

political and economic segregation and disparities reflect, on the one hand, the very real

and on the other, the very exaggerated, differences between people of color and

Europeans. People of color are often depicted as criminals, poor, uneducated and

powerless. The tragedy of colonialism is that many of us have allowed the public identity

to become our private identity, meaning we have internalized the dominant culture’s view

of ourselves. As such, we relinquish our power before we ever try to exercise it. Many

of the images provided by the dominant culture tell us we are powerless, power being

reserved for whites. We re-enforce those images when we accept them as true. The

mythical power of the Anglo has paralyzed African Americans and Mexicans, who often

view whites as an insurmountable barrier. One goal of scholarship must be to eliminate

the myth of the powerful white man it has spent the last two centuries creating. The first

step to eliminating this myth is for people of color to reclaim the images of ourselves.

Similarly, women, gays and lesbians must do the same.

It should also be made clear that identity is multi-layered. Therefore, individuals

may have identities which connect them to several groups. Ultimately, I see myself as

more than race or a member of three separate cultures. I have many identities. I am a

man, an uncle, a student and a Californian. As I continue to live my identities will

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change and compound. I will become a father, a professor, and an elder within the

community. Each identity is an aspect of who I am and dominates depending on the

context or situation. The process of identity formation is thus an evolutionary process

and is in a constant state of change. As anthropologist Stuart Hall says,

“Cultural identity is a matter of “becoming” as well as of “being.” It belongs to the future as much as to the past. It is not something which already exists, transcending place, time, history and culture. Cultural identities come from somewhere, have histories. But, like everything which is historical, they undergo constant transformation. Far from being eternally fixed in some essentialized past, they are subject to the continuous “play of history, culture and power. Far from being grounded in a mere “recovery” of the past, which is waiting to be found, and which, when found, will secure our sense of ourselves for eternity, identities are the names we give to the different ways we are positioned by and position ourselves within, the narrative of the past” (Hall 1990; 225).

It is in acknowledging all of who I am that I refuse to relinquish my power to a public

that would narrowly define me.

Historical Context

Public are the shared aspects of culture, which unite a collection of individuals.

Private is each individuals own interpretation, experience and representation of culture.

For example, in food preparation, a culture may have a shared, common dish that the

majority of members may prepare. All people however, prepare the dish slightly

different, adding their own touch, personalizing the dish according to their own likes and

dislikes; more or less spicy, an additional ingredient or perhaps eliminating one. The

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commonly prepared dish is part of public culture, an aspect which unites the individuals

in the society. The same dish is also a part of private culture, a reflection of individual

tastes, preferences and skill. It is because of this public and private relationship that I felt

it necessary to explore both, the experiences of my family, as well as my own. Because

culture is learned, the people around me have undoubtedly affected me. Because culture

is recreated, I have also chosen which aspects of culture I will practice. I have been able

to personalize my culture according to my own preferences, dislikes and tastes. As a

member of two public cultures, I have taken aspects of each and embraced them,

integrating the two cultures together, creating my own individual culture, in part shared

with and similar to both public cultures, yet wholly unlike any other individual’s, for my

individual culture is my recreation, a reflection of me. To ignore historical context would

be to provide a misleading account of my identity formation. To only articulate what my

identity is without exploring how it developed would be to ignore the role my individual

choices have played in developing my identity. Historical context has allowed me to

show that identity formation is a process and is fluid. Today, my identity is as a mixed

blood, a mestizo. While I have always acknowledged and been proud of the fact that I

am mixed, my initial identity was primarily as an African American. My private identity

reflected the public view of me. Through time, as my worldview changed, so did my

identity. Historical context reflects that development.

Group V. The Individual Within The Context of Culture

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And The Quintana-Hopkins Model of The Individual and It’s Relation to Culture

The significance of the individual within the context of culture will increasingly

become clearer. Historically, anthropologists have studied groups focusing on

commonalities and forms of unification.

“We have traditionally thought of culture as being shared by a group’s members. We know, however, that much is not shared. Even what people do seem to share is not understood in exactly the same way in all aspects by any two individuals…Even where there seems to be a high degree of consensus, close scrutiny reveals individual differences” (Goodenough in Borofsky 1994: 265-6 )

As anthropologists increasingly focus on individual experiences within groups, I believe

it will become clear that the individual is the primary source of social change within the

group. As seen in the Quintana-Hopkins Model of The Individual and It’s Relation to

Culture (figures 3 and 4), it is within the recreation of culture that change manifests itself.

As the recreated culture is shared, it becomes an element of public culture, until it is

replaced by yet another recreated element. One example of this process of change is

Kwanzaa, the African American holiday celebrated from December 26th- January 1st. Dr.

Malanga Karenga, a professor at California State University Long Beach, created

Kwanzaa in 1966. Based upon his cross-cultural research on the continent of Africa, Dr.

Karenga identified seven commonly found and celebrated principles among the multitude

of cultures he studied: Umoja (Unity), Kujichagalia (Self-determination), Ujima

(Collective work and responsibility), Ujamma (Cooperative economics), Nia (Purpose),

Kuumba (Creativity) and Imani (Faith). Dr. Karenga took the seven principles and

created a holiday, Kwanzaa with rituals and social and spiritual significance. Today, the

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holiday is celebrated by over 5 million Americans. One individual, Malanga Karenga,

recreated culture, shared it and transformed the public culture of many.

I believe the recreation of culture and the role choice plays in determining which

aspects of culture will be practiced is evident in this ethno-historical biography. By

focusing on both, the aspects of culture which unify a collective, and the aspects of

change which creates a re-alignment or overlapping in membership between collectives,

Anthropologists will better understand social organizations in their entireties. The

unifying elements are what constitute a society, however to assume that societies are

stagnant and unchanging is to take a limited view of the society in question. Change

originates from sources both within and outside of a culture. A well rounded analysis of

a culture will undoubtedly explore unification and change from both inner and outside

sources. In El Mestizo Moderno, I have attempted to reflect these internal and external

forces of culture change. While the wider society has shaped my family and influenced

the choices we have made, in other instances our personal choices have been the sources

of change.

I also believe the future will force us to redefine our popular concept of diversity in

which we often homogenize groups based upon race or gender. There is diversity within

The Quintana-Hopkins Model Of The Individual and It’s Relation to Culture

Culture (Rituals, beliefs, language, food preparation, music, etc.) is inherited, and in some ways, is shared by the individual members of each defined social group.

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Individuals within the group embrace aspects of culture they find useful and affirming and reject those aspects they do not.

Rejected aspects of culture are replaced with new elements, while embraced elements are personalized and expressed by each individual in the manner he or she deems appropriate. Culture is thus, recreated. In part much like the inherited culture, but also in part new and reflective of the individuals who recreated it.

The recreated culture is passed on to the next generation who will do the same thing, personalize and recreate various aspects of the culture they inherit. If the elements of recreated culture are embraced, they eventually become a part of shared culture as they are passed to subsequent generations. If they are not embraced they will be replaced by other elements of recreated culture.

Culture changes as a result of internal forces and is reflective of both the individuals who practice it as well as the people from whom they inherit it. Individuals exercise social action through their ability to recreate culture. The ability to recreate culture transforms individuals from passive participants in a cultural system larger than themselves, and turns them into active agents of social change.

Figure 3

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Social unit, comprised of members who share aspects of a defined culture

(rituals, beliefs, language, food preparation, music, etc.).

Individuals within the social unit inherit culture which they personalize and recreate. Some aspects of the inherited culture are embraced, while others are rejected and replaced by new elements.

The recreated culture is passed to the next generation of individuals, who does the same thing, recreate culture and pass it on.

Culture change is realized when individuals recreate and disseminate culture, passing it on to future generations and transforming the shared culture. Individuals who realize the role they play within a social group become agents of change, causing culture to remain in a constant state of transformation.

The Quintana-Hopkins Model Of The Individual and It’s Relation to Culture

Culture is reflective of the individuals who practice it and changes when individuals change. Change begins at the individual level and expands to the public level.

Figure 4

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groups we stereotype as homogeneous. For example, can we discuss the female

experience without discussing issues of class, sexual orientation, race and religion? I

think not. Not all women are the same. The issues a poor woman finds important and

pressing may not be the same as those of a wealthy woman. The experience of a woman

who is also a member of an oppressed minority will not be the same as that of a woman

who is a member of a privileged group. Similarly, Mexicans, Africans, Europeans, etc.

do not all have the same experience, language, economic status, religion or culture.

Again, it is in exploring the individual that we will come to fully understand true

diversity and in a relative sense, what the many human experiences are.

As Gloria Anzaldua discusses in her book, “Borderlands/La Frontera,” it is

undoubtedly the mestizo who will bring a new understanding to diversity, “ambiguity”,

“contradiction” and “pluralism”. Mestizos walk in two, sometimes three or more

cultures. We are not afraid to expose the various layers of our identity, to be who others

say we are not, to be more than one person at the same time. Metaphorically, Mestizos

are bridges, connecting separate races, separate cultures, bringing them together, helping

to transport those who find the natural terrain too dangerous, uncomfortable, and

unwelcoming. Our refuge is the personal identity, the inner self; the self-portrait that we

know will one day transform the world.

Historically, Mestizos and other mixed people have been used as a tool of the

oppressor. By creating a caste system, an oppressor uses the mixed blood as a tool to aid

him in the subjugation of the indigenous people. Often born out of rape, Mestizos of the

past were more privileged than indigenous people, yet have never been seen as an equal

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to the group in power (examples are seen in Mexico, South Africa and the plantation

South). The mestizo has occupied a place in the middle, comprising a third race, a race

that has traditionally tried to disassociate itself from it’s indigenous past and instead

embraced it’s European aspects in order to gain privilege. Often Mestizos and mixed

bloods have been as much of a detriment to indigenous people as Europeans. Adopting a

Eurocentric perspective, they have killed, enforced segregation and spied for whites,

informing them of indigenous efforts to rebel against their oppression.

The modern mestizo differs from the mestizo of the past primarily in

consciousness. The modern mestizo has an elevated consciousness, knows that he does

not comprise a third race, but instead she embodies both. The modern Mestizo knows

that when the indigenous are under attack so is he. Born out of love, the modern Mestizo

is not a casualty of war but perhaps the person who in the future will prevent it.

Conclusion

The issue of identity applies to the view we have of ourselves, the view others

have of us and the view we have of others. As individuals, it is important that we have a

healthy and informed view of ourselves, in other words, that we be self-aware. In

contrast, we must also try to have informed views of others with whom we participate in

the public culture. Lastly, by recognizing our limited power in determining how others

view us, individuals are encouraged to not focus on what others think of them, but instead

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on what they think of themselves and how by changing him or herself, the individual

changes society.

The changes the academic discipline of anthropology experienced in recent

decades have undoubtedly been towards a more inclusive discourse in which the people

who were previously studied speak either for themselves or with anthropologists.

However, scholars who study the United States must be cautious. While theoretically we

may support the tenets of post-colonialism, practically, the theories do not apply to our

studies. Post colonialism exists in the various countries of Africa, in India and in China

among other places. Perhaps through self-reflection, realizing who we really are, the few

inter colonial societies that still exist can follow the example of the rest of the world and

divorce the reality of colonialism. Until the final steps are taken, issues of race will

continue to haunt this country.

As an individual, what will you do about it?

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Discussion Questions

1. Is the experience of the Hopkins family representative of the African American

experience? How is it similar to or different than the experiences of other African American families?

2. Is the experience of the Vigil family representative of the Mexican American

experience? How is it similar to or different than the experiences of other Mexican American families?

3. What is the significance of the title: El Mestizo Moderno? What are some

possible reasons why the author selected the title? 4. In what ways does El Mestizo Moderno reflect the relationship between the

individual and culture as outlined in the Quintana-Hopkins model? 5. Do you believe the author would accept or challenge the “one drop rule”? What

evidence is provided in the book to support your assertion? 6. Why was the author’s university experience valuable?

7. How would you describe the author’s identity? Is this identity fixed or fluid?

What evidence can you offer to support your assertion? 8. In what ways does El Mestizo Moderno reflect a changing Anthropology?

9. Based upon the evidence provided in the book, why did the author develop a self-

image different than the image projected upon him by the public culture, or wider society?

10. In what ways were the Hopkins and Vigil families both, similar and different? Is

there evidence that each family shaped the life of the author? What examples from the book can be offered?

11. What contribution does El Mestizo Moderno make to our understanding of

culture? 12. Is the author’s experience a marginal experience or a sign of changing race

relations and racial politics within the United States? Please justify your answer.

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Notes

1 I began to read the work of Iyanla Vanzant in 1992, toward the end of my studies at UC Davis. Since I had taken the class on African Religions in the Americas, I was very open to reading her first book Tapping the Power Within. A Yoruba priestess, in the book Vanzant teaches readers how to tap into the divine spirit which is within each and every one of us. I have read every book Vanzant has written since and the result is her teachings have had a profound impact upon my life. I choose to include passages from Vanzant’s daily meditation book, Acts of Faith, because the book aided me in my personal and spiritual development and therefore is an important part of my story. 2 I imagine Callie was part Cherokee. Oral history tells that her mother, Agnes, was from Tennessee. The Cherokee are from Tennessee. It was common for escaped slaves to marry Native Americans and live with their Native American relatives, adopting the respective culture. Because Agnes was born free. I would assume she lived with Native Americans. Because she was kidnapped and sold into slavery, I would also imagine she was part African. Thus it is likely Agnes was a Black Cherokee and the source of Native American blood in Callie. 3 I asked my Aunt Dolores if there were any family traditions that have been passed down through the generations. She said the only one she could think of was the family’s love for good food. She said most of the people in our family are good cooks and appreciated the taste of good food. Food has been an important part of my experience as a Mexican American. I was glad to hear that the tradition had not been lost. I hope you enjoy these family favorites as much as I have. 4 I have grown up enjoying delicious soul food cooked from scratch. For me, a holiday would not be complete without soul food. Now that I live in a different city than my family, I often eat soul food when I am home sick because soul food reminds me of the time I spend with my family. These are our family favorites. I hope you enjoy them. 5 In his book, Stolen Legacy, George James documents the process by which Egyptian philosophy has been falsely characterized as Greek. The source of Egyptian philosophy was the Egyptian Mystery System, similar to the modern university in that it was the source of higher knowledge from which students, or initiates, from around the world came to study.

“As regards the visit of Greek students to Egypt for the purpose of their education, the following are mentioned simply to establish the fact that Egypt was regarded as the educational center of the ancient world and that like the Jews, the Greeks also visited Egypt and received their education. (1) It is said that during the reign of Amasis, Thales who is said to have been born around 585 B.C. , visited Egypt and was initiated by the Egyptian Priests into the Mystery System and science of the Egyptians. We are also told that during his residence in Egypt, he learnt astronomy, land surveying, mensuration, engineering and Egyptian Theology. (2) It is said that Pythagoras, a native of Samos, traveled frequently to Egypt for the purpose of his education. Like every aspirant, he had to secure the consent and favour of the Priests,..” (James 1992: 42-43)

Thus, Egyptian philosophy first entered European culture through European initiates who studied the Mystery System, such as Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. These students in turn established schools outside of Egypt and eventually produced in written form the orally transmitted knowledge taught in the Mystery School. The knowledge they taught was not original, newly formulated doctrines, but instead, the philosophy of the Egyptians. The Greeks also acquired Egyptian Philosophy through conquest.

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“Since Theophrastus and Eudemus were students under Aristotle at the same time, and since the conquest of Egypt by Alexander the Great, made the Egyptian Library at Alexandria available to the Greeks for research, then it must be expected that the three men, Aristotle who was a close friend of Alexander, Theophrastus and Eudemus not only did research at the Alexandrine Library at the same time, but must also have helped themselves to books, which enabled them to follow each other so closely in production of scientific works, which were either a portion of the war booty taken from the Library or compilations from them.” (James 1992: 17)

As the Philosophy of Egypt was stolen by Greeks, so was the wealth of the colonized territories.

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