LETTERS

Editor,

In the August 31 issue of Atención there was a letter complaining about the fireworks exploding in the night. In the village where I live, there was recently a nine-day series of these in the late afternoon.

Prior to this an 18-year-old young man had been killed riding his motorcycle on the highway near a neighboring village. He had just returned from the United States where he had worked most of the time for the past few years, sending money to his parents, Antonio and Rosa. Luis Enrique was the kind of rare person who never met a stranger and never had an enemy. His face and smile were so open and friendly, without guile, that he was a pleasure to be around.

I was surprised to learn that the funeral was to be not in the village church, but in a much larger church in an outlying San Miguel neighborhood. When I arrived at the church, there were many people standing outside. Among them, though standing alone in the sun behind the casket with his sombrero in his hand, was Antonio. His body with years of hard work, his slumping shoulders, his bald head in the sun, all bespoke of this horrible tragedy. I don’t handle situations of tragedy well, so as I worked myself into the church, I avoided his eyes.

I stood along the aisle as did many people. The large church was full. I was impressed at the community solidarity—people coming, mostly without cars, to the funeral of one of their young people. I later learned that so many of the village came out of respect for Luis Enrique. He was truly liked by all. Women with their children, the young who were not working in the US and the elderly came to give their respects to his memory and to grieve together as a community at the loss of a most beloved member.

The casket was not opened, depriving the villagers their last opportunity to see his face. Probably we will never know what happened. Did Luis Enrique lose control of his bike? Was the driver of the pick-up truck drunk and swerved into the other lane? But we do know that Luis Enrique went under the pick-up. The driver of the pick-up fled.

After the service, I saw Rosa walking down the aisle, to leave the church and to lead the procession to the cemetery a mile away. Rosa cared so gently for several years for my Alzheimer’s-brain addled mother. One of the night women who slept so lightly, ever alert to Vivian’s movements. Giving her medicine. Leading her to the bathroom, ever ready to grab her should she stumble. Now there she was, walking down the aisle to bury a son, comporting her stout, strong body with the dignity so natural to her. It was clear that she had given her round, kind face with brilliant eyes to her youngest, most beautiful child.

For nine days after, at a specific time in the late afternoon, Antonio set off those bombs that so many don’t like. It is a tradition here when an infant or child or unmarried young person dies. I don’t know the exact reason, but to me those daily bombs spoke thusly— don’t forget me. Please. Don’t forget me. I was too young to die. Please. Remember me.

And I did remember Luis Enrique. I remember the times he helped rake leaves. The times in passing the house he stopped to inquire about the things important to me—the vegetable garden, the animals. And I thought of Antonio and Rosa. And of the brothers who had returned from the US to grieve with their parents and with the extended family, living physically and emotionally so close.

Not all of these bombs signify a tragedy, and I am told that the authorities have been prohibiting some of these “celebrations” during the middle of the night. But remember, we live in a traditional, religious community and some of these explosions may be, could be, a family’s way of trying to send a beloved dead member’s soul to heaven.

Jim Moore

Editor,

What a wonderful evening arranged by the staff at the Biblioteca. The choir, the musical instruments, the delightful costumed singers, the charming dancers and the appreciative audience all made this a fiesta to be remembered.

We appreciated the clever buffet arrangement with tables in different parts of the patio so that pozole was served on one side, and tamales on the other, with other cooked treats in between. This kept the lines short and the patrons happy.

The Estudiantina was wonderful and after we left reluctantly we heard that the mariachis arrived and friends who were on their way out for dinner turned back to stay until later listening to the great music.

Let’s hope this will be an annual event.

Lee Asheroff

Editor,

A few weeks ago I arrived in San Miguel with several items on my agenda, one of which was to present a book I’ve translated, Cossío del Pomar in San Miguel de Allende, at the Bellas Artes (El Nigromante). Immediately after arriving and dropping my bags off, I began to walk a block or so to the Instituto Allende. Only minutes after my arrival in your beautiful town, I tripped over a small curb and fell crashing to the ground like a giant oak, clearly breaking my one remaining original issue hip. Several sanmiguelenses, tourists, and aghast bystanders came to my immediate rescue at the fall site. Responding to my situation in remarkable ways were a couple of friends who were reached by phone, strangers who rushed into assist when I was loaded into the ambulance, then finally those wonderful professionals at the Hospital de la Fe. This is an open letter of gratitude to those caring folks, both friends and strangers who helped me in immeasurable ways through a painful and frightening situation. The Red Cross Amb
ulance workers, Dr. Elias at the hospital, the nursing and technical staff all couldn’t have been kinder or more professional, for which I shall be eternally grateful and to whom I send my enormous gratitude.

Maline McCalla