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Chicken Beaks Revisited: An Hispanic Adolescence

by Ben Romero

175 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0124; ISBN 1-4120-2296-7; US$17.95, C$22.95, EUR14.95, £11.00

The story of family, religion, and values told through the eyes of a teen. Retraces the lives of an Hispanic, Catholic family living in Northern New Mexico during the 1960's.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book As seasons change, so it is with the mind and body. The call of nature takes us from childhood comforts to the challenging world of adolescence. Chicken Beaks Revisited: An Hispanic Adolescence tells a story about family, religion, and values. This story, told through the eyes of an emerging teen, retraces the lives of an Hispanic, Catholic family living in Northern New Mexico during the 1960's. Told in first person, using dialogue sprinkled with Spanish, each event comes alive with underlying lessons mixing humour, love and drama. Though Hispanic in flavor, the vignettes have universal appeal. The people and places are real. Only names have changed. During time of rapid physical changes and awkward development a young person is filled with emotions that he cannot understand, let alone control. This book targets older children and adults.

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About the Author Ben Romero was born and raised in Northern New Mexico, the fifth of seven children in an Hispanic, Catholic household. Romero is a part-time Adult Education teacher in an ESL (English as a Second Language) program, and uses some of his writings as material for teaching. He has spent the past 28 years working for the US Postal Service and serves as Customer Relations Coordinator for the Central San Joaquin Valley. He received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Management with a minor in Spanish from Fresno Pacific University in 1995. Romero is active in the Catholic church, serving as CCD Instructor for teen-aged Confirmation candidates, and as a member of Holy Spirit Parish Men's Club. He is also a member of the Central California Hispanic Chamber of Commerce. Romero is married to Evelyn Romero, his wife of 32 years. They have five children and four grandchildren.

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Excerpts

LAS FIESTAS

It started with the burning of the Zozobra (anxiety) on Friday night, depicted by a giant made of paper. The ears were too large for the body. He wore a white gown and a scowl on his face.

He stood 25 to 30 feet tall, built on a hillside on the outskirts of Santa Fé. As it grew dark and a huge crowd gathered, a person dressed in a red devil suit danced around the monster. Then from the eyes of the beast, flames appeared, catching him on fire. The arms and head moved like a giant puppet and loud, guttural cries were emitted (via large speakers) from the burning body. The smell of gunpowder grew strong as the dense smoke obscured the hillside. My Mother said he was crying for his mama. It struck me as sad that everyone would cheer his death while he cried for his mother. As he burned, fireworks were spewed from within the flames like skyrockets that lit up the night.

The burning of the Zozobra symbolizes the end of fear and terror between the two peoples (Pueblo Indians and Spaniards) and the beginning of the true mixture of both races when a peaceful settlement was reached. It celebrates the re-conquest of New Mexico in 1692 by the Spanish who were expelled in 1680 during the famous Pueblo Revolt.

Once the monster burned to the ground, the focus was on the Plaza, which was closed to all vehicular traffic in order to accommodate the multitude of people.

During the rest of the Labor Day weekend there were shows on the grandstand at the center of the Plaza and booths set up by vendors everywhere. Indians sold fine jewelry on the porch of a great, old building called the Palace of the Governor. On Monday there was a parade in which my Uncle Tony played the part of Don Diego de Vargas, leading his Spanish army behind the cross and a group of Spanish settlers. Other groups played the part of peace-loving Indians, ready to welcome the invaders with open arms. It was colorful indeed. A pretty girl was chosen to be the Fiesta queen and the parade ended at the ancient church cathedral, where a Holy Mass followed. There was a carnival nearby with rides, candied apples, and popcorn and hot-dogs. It was a wonderful event and we looked forward to it every year.

One year my brother Louie and I hitchhiked because my parents were unable to take us. It was safe to do that in those days. Dad left us off at Pojoaque and we started walking toward Santa Fé as the traffic got heavy. A man in an old convertible stopped and offered us a ride. He asked who we were and said he knew our father and named off some of our relatives. The car was small, and I sat in a cramped space next to the folded canvas top. My parents picked us up in the evening next to the big clock, like they said they would.

The following spring when Fiestas was five months away, my Mom suggested that if I wanted to go I needed to start saving money. Counting on the stubby fingers of her tiny hands she said, " Mira, tienes Abril, Mayo, Juño, Julio, y Agosto. En cinco meses puedes guardar cinco pesos."

I was nearly 11, but it sounded impossible. How could I be expected to accumulate five dollars in that space of time? In 1963 five bucks was a ton of money.

Louie and I worked at odd jobs and saved every penny. By the time it got close my cousin Teddy said he wanted to go. This gave Louie the opportunity to dump me for his friends. My Uncle Joe (Teddy's dad) said he would drive us and we could spend the entire day. It turned out to be a day I'll never forget.

We really watched our money. What I loved and craved at the Fiesta was some enpanaditas (meat pie turnovers). But they were very expensive at 75 cents apiece. Teddy and I bought one anyway. We also had an ice-cream sandwich with a hard waffle coating.

We waited anxiously for the carnival to open and bought tickets for several rides.

Next to the Tilt-a-Whirl was a black and white photography studio. Not the curtain type that made you black. Before leaving for lunch I told Teddy I wanted to take a picture to remember the day.

The photographer supplied whatever backdrops and seating we wanted. We chose a tranquil scene with a bench and used a mature pose so we could look grown up. My mom still has the photo.

At lunch we ate at a café. I nearly fainted when I got the 95-cent bill for my hamburger and soda. By then Teddy and I were almost broke. We walked sadly for a long time in circles around the plaza. We went to Woolworth's about a dozen times to see if there was anything we could afford. But the smell of popcorn tortured us. We each had a nickel. Then Teddy got a bright idea. He spotted a table with plastic bags of confetti.

" Look!" he said. "These are only a dime. We can each pitch in a nickel and buy a sack."

" What for?" I asked.

" To throw at girls, stupid."

It was brilliant! We bought some and rationed it, each taking a small handful at a time and selectively throwing it at girls with long hair. Before long there were small groups of girls giggling and tossing handfuls of confetti back at us. I still smile at the memory of Teddy, with his black, wavy hair littered with bits of paper, running around in the midst of the crowd, trying to dodge the girls that chased us. How innocent it all was and how full of fun.

ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT

It was my favorite sophomore class. I chose it hoping I could learn to write. Most of the students were Juniors and Seniors, but I managed to stay out of harm's way. I had been encouraged early in the semester when the teacher read one of my compositions aloud and praised my work. She was tall, dark, and pretty. It was a joy to watch her walk and hear her speak.

"I need a poem from each of you tomorrow. Any length, on any subject. It will be competitive." Her voice was drowned by the bell and rustling of books as students spilled out the door.

"Can we use humor?" I asked, yearning for her attention. "You can use any style you've learned," she said.

I couldn't wait to get started. The rough draft was done by the time I got off the bus. I was the last one off and my sister and her friends stared at me.

"What were you writing?" asked Marcella. "A love note?"

"It's a poem."

"Who's the girl?"

"It's homework for American Literature."

"I should have known," she said, winking at one of her friends. "He's got the hots for Miss _"

"Do not! I just like the class." I walked ahead of them. Let 'em giggle. What do they know? I've got an A in English.

"Pass your poems forward, please. I'm going to shuffle them and pass them around. Each of you will read aloud the poem you get and we'll vote on the best one. Don't tell anyone who the author is. If you get your own, please let me know."

I was amazed at the fine poems that were being read, but felt confident I could win. I had used every technique she had taught us. The rhythm was musical, the rhyme perfect. I wrote it with her in mind.

Glenda cleared her throat and started reading my poem. I DREAMED OF YOU. Students started giggling from the start.

I dreamed of you last evening
walking barefoot in the sand
Your hair shone with the setting sun
as we walked hand in hand

your eyes were full of laughter
and your smile was just for me
It took my breath away to be
with you, down by the sea

I felt the beating of your pulse
as waves crashed on the shore;
and in my dream so heavenly
your heart was mine once more

But suddenly your hand was gone...
you faded from my sight;
as coldly I awakened
in the morning, at first light

Everyone was laughing when she finished. I was beaming.

"I'm going to disqualify that poem," said the teacher. "It's not original."

"What?" I said.

"I've heard it before."

"That's impossible," I protested.

"I don't remember where I read or heard it, but I know it's not original," she said. "I have to give you a zero."

The room grew quiet. As the rest of the poems were read, I heard nothing but the pounding of my heart. I was devastated.

Everyone had left the room when I approached the teacher, sitting at her desk, grading papers. She wasn't as pretty up close.

"I didn't cheat." I said.

"I wasn't picking on you. I didn't know whose poem it was," she said.

"I worked so hard. How can you give me a zero?"

She looked up at me, no sympathy in her eyes.

"I shouldn't do this, but I'll give you the same chance I'm giving those who did not turn in a paper. After your test tomorrow, you can use whatever time you have left over to write a new poem. You'll receive half credit at most."

The test took longer than I'd hoped. My eyes burned with anger and the knowledge that even the goof-offs were getting a better grade than me. I had only five minutes left for writing. My mind raced. I managed two lines:

The clouds above have different shapes
I see a dove and herd of apes

"Time's up. Turn in your papers," said the teacher.

For the two lines, my zero was changed to a D minus. My attitude toward the class and teacher changed. I ended the semester with a C.

The poem remained hidden in my self conscience for decades. In 1998 I got it published.

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Catalogue Information

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