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Marching Into a New
World
Ghosts of El Grullo
A daughter of the
American Revolution tea
party? Me, a Chicana
from south San Diego?
You have got to be
kidding! But the girls’
vice principal of
Montgomery High School
shook her head. No, she
was not kidding. And so
at a time when my world
consisted of Slippin’
Into Darkness, Jeremiah
the Bullfrog, Black
Magic Woman and U.S. Out
of Vietnam slogans, Mamá
and I made our way to a
mother-daughter DAR tea
party to honor the award-winning
senior girls of our
school district. Our
green Rambler groaned
and then shifted into
gear as we neared the
ritzy part of town.
Reciting the Pledge of
Allegiance, listening to
an album of booming
cannon balls,
recognizing a vaguely
familiar marching song,
and sitting through a
somber man’s voice
offering a gloriously
boring rendition of
American Revolution
highlights-Oh yes, thank
you, I would love
another cup of Earl Grey.
1973: My initiation into
womanhood, into
arguments with Papá:
“Why can’t I live in the
dorms?” I demanded, only
to be blasted back with:
“What, you a single
woman living out of the
house on your own? Don’t
even think of it!” Into
the world of the MEChA
movement: “You are
Mexicans,” I said to my
parents one day,
pointing at them with my
Miss-Know-It-All finger.
“But I am a Chicana.”
Followed by a Marxist-Leninist
philosophy embracing
inherent contradictions
and dialectical
materialism (or
something like that),
while taking turns
dancing with my Mexican
heritage-those ghosts of
my parents’ hometown of
El Grullo and my
American culture, even
as Gibran’s The Prophet
whispered in my ear that
to “both bee and flower
the giving and receiving
of pleasure is a need
and an ecstasy.” Alas!
It was just me and
Jonathan Livingston
Seagull searching for
enlightenment.
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So what did you think of
the tea party, I asked
Mamá on our way home
that afternoon of my
senior year of high
school. In her soft-spoken
Spanish she told me that
she thought it was
lovely that they were
honoring me. She was
proud of me, proud that
they were honoring me.
But I had nothing to do
with the American
Revolution, I said. I
was nowhere near the
Plymouth Rock in the
dawn’s early light. She
looked at me a moment
with that infinite
patience I have come to
appreciate in a mother
with nine children and
an impossible husband.
Then she said: You have
everything to do with
the American Revolution,
Mi’ja. And turning to
look out the window, she
added: Watch out for
that blue car that’s
zigzagging up ahead.
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Patricia
Santana
is
the
author
of
Motorcycle
Ride
on
the
Sea
of
Tranquility
(University
of
New
Mexico
Press,
2002)
and
Ghosts
of
El
Grullo
(University
of
New
Mexico
Press,
2008).
Motorcycle
is
the
winner
of
the
1999
Latino/Chicano
Literary
Contest
and
was
selected
as a
Best
Fiction
Books
for
Young
Adults
by
the
American
Library
Association.
San
Diego
Magazine
awarded
it
Best
Fiction
of
2003.
For
more
information,
visit
Patricia’s
website
at
patriciasantana.net
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My mother died a year
after the DAR tea party,
and I have often
wondered how she knew
that, yes, I had
everything to do with
the American Revolution.
How did she know I would
be a part of a women’s
movement in honor of her
and her mother and all
the mothers that came
before? How did she know
that, unlike her, I
would have choices about
which university to
attend, how many
children to have, and
how long before I left a
toxic marriage? How did
she know? But what a
question, ¿verdad?
Mothers always know
best. Little could I
imagine in 1973 at the
age of 18 that attending
the DAR tea party with
my beloved mother was my
start down the road to
freedom of choices, a
green rambler drive
toward my own American
revolution.
Ghosts of El Grullo
is my fictionalized
chronicle of those heady
times when women were
coming into their own,
when our mothers stood
back—both bewildered and
impressed—as we
daughters struggled and
learned to take flight,
or at least shifted into
a higher gear.
By Patricia Santana
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[This article has been
edited for
www.latinastyle.com. For the full version,
check out the September/October issue of LATINA Style.]
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