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I was at the retreat and it was awesome. It really came at an appropriate time in our lives to get us thinking about the changes we need to undertake. I think everyone ought to make a serious retreat before they retire and Fr. Vessels is probably the best guide for these type of retreats. You should be getting some pictures soon. Jesus Martinez Dear Father Vessels, SJ.
Thank you so much for giving the recent retreat at Loretto Academy's El Convento. It was a blessing, both physically and, much more importantly, spiritually. Reconnecting with my JHS brothers was a distinct pleasure. In this hurried and harried world where one must live in the world, but not necessarily be of the world, taking the time for oneself to more closely commune and connect with our Father, as well as recharge our personal batteries by some quiet time where we are not constantly besieged by “urgent” phone calls, whether they be cell or landline, imperative e- and snail mail, demands by work, family and friends, is vital for our physical and spiritual health. We are on this planet for such a brief moment in time to be followed by eternity. To take the “long” view- preparing for the future with our Lord is something that all too few of us do well or often enough. Perhaps we are in a bit of denial to think about that, for the life we are living or have lived as we draw ever nearer that point may have left us damaged “goods”. But as we should always remember, the Lord knows our hearts, no matter what our outward appearance is. We cannot hide but should run to Him. I cannot urge my fellow JHS brothers sufficiently to avail themselves of the opportunity to attend spiritual retreats, wherever they may be. Go- for the good of both body and soul! In the future, my recommendation would be for a lengthier retreat as 1.5-2 days is insufficient to fully appreciate and enjoy the spiritual benefits. Sincerely,yours in Christ, Paul Beenen- JHS'67 A letter from Charlie A. Huereque, Class of 63 Dear Fellow Classmates I knew that once I arrived back home to Kaleefornia, that I would quickly go back into my normal day responsibilities. I also knew that there was something that I had to do as a result of the two days I spent with my fellow class mates that I had not see in 41 years. Needless to say, it was a very emotional time for me. So I share my thoughts with you that have been on my mind since then. I am extremely disappointed! At me, for not taking the opportunity to share my thoughts with my fellow Jesuit graduates at the Saturday luncheon to celebrate the beginning of the Jesuit Legacy. As I sat there at our table, I kept remembering what a friend of mine used to tell me. I have had the privilege to have traveled the state of Kaeefornia with a gentlemen, who is now in his 90's, and the one thing he would tell me during our journeys; was "lets see where that path will lead us cause you never know if you will be down this path again". During my early high school days there were two men that I feared the most, one was my dad and the other was Father Vessels. I just have one question I would like to ask Fr. Vessels, where was your sense of humor back then? The members of the class of "63" laid down a strong foundation for those that followed. So in that same vein, enclosed is a check for $1000.00 to help with the beginning of the Jesuit legacy. And I challenge the rest of my fellow "63" graduates and al of the Jesuit grads, to offer what ever you can to the spirit of Jesuit High School and what the school has meant to you and to it's legacy. Remember what my friend always said, you never know if you will ever be down this path again. Respectfully, Charlie A. Huereque Class of 63 A chapter from Professor Ricardo Aguilar's novel UP RIVER dealing with his recollections from his days at Jesuit High Cloister We were just kids, fresh out of elementary school, when they took us to that unfamiliar, strange brick building, four floors counting the basement, set on a sandy mound overlooking most of the valley. The floors, classrooms, corridors, stairs, doorframes, desks, lockers, papers, pencils and pens were constantly coated with a fine dust that crunched underfoot and stuck to the heel of your hand when you tried to write. The place was absolutely austere, not a single picture on any of the walls, everything designed for some functional and practical purpose. They even painted all the furniture the same color, an odd tone, something like a Sunday hangover, as if they’d mixed together whatever was left over in a lot of different paint buckets, I’ll bet the paint was a gift from some hardware store. Long ago, they told us later, the building had been a refuge for Jesuits escaping from Mexico during the anti-Church movement. It was built in the shape of an M. The right leg of the M and part of the upper angle held classrooms and offices. The cloister was on the other side. A chapel stood in the center, with the cafeteria in the basement. A coat of arms was set in the floor just outside the chapel, beneath the letters AMDG (Ad Majore Dei Gloriam) BVMH (Beata Virgine María Honorem) were a two-headed eagle, byzantine-style with no crowns, and a brown and white striped shield, the symbol of the San Ildefonso School. The schoolyard was unattractive too, with only a couple of listless bay trees and some scraggly grass. Everything was so ashen that it produced an overwhelming thirst we tried to slake at the water fountains. Eventually we got used to the horrible taste of the water because we were too parched to be finicky. On the first day, they gave us an exam, supposedly to test our intelligence. It was ridiculous because those of us who didn’t know enough English flunked, not because we didn’t know the answers, but because we couldn’t understand the questions. To this day I remember how one of the priests led me to his office and, doing his best to console me, told me that I shouldn’t be too upset over my test score, that although my low intelligence showed I wasn’t cut out for a profession, I could get along very nicely as a policeman, a fireman or working with my hands, besides, I’d probably make a good artisan because everyone knew that Mexicans are especially good at any kind of manual work. (All the groundkeepers and most of the cooks and janitors at the school were Mexicans.) The first regulation to be learned by those of us from Juárez and the chicanos who by some miracle had survived the U. S. school system without forgetting their Spanish was that it was forbidden to speak that language in school, just think about that, lots of us had never had a single English lesson. Of course there was discipline, you had to stay after school and walk around a bare field. Each demerit, three for speaking Spanish, cost you three laps around the field and each lap took about 10 minutes. So when you piled up a lot of demerits, not only did you give your leg muscles a good workout, but it would get dark while you were still shuffling around in the sand. You weren’t allowed to speak during your stroll. How often I meditated there about the reasons why crabs should be immortal and other profound principles. But that wasn’t all. Since the school was so far, about 15 miles from home, our parents formed a carpool, a dumb scheme, with the idea of saving on gasoline and sharing the ordeal of driving 30 miles, waiting in line at the bridge and putting up with a carload of insecure adolescents. So what happened was that even if only one of us was kept in, we were all punished, waiting for an eternity with the daddy on duty that day. The culprit was finally received with icy silence and more punishment awaited him at home ;why are you late, you’re incorrigible, you don’t study, you‘re lazy, you’ll never make anything of yourself, we’re spending our hard-earned money to send you to a good school and all you do there is eat your lunch, we’re really not surprised because you’ve always been irresponsible, don’t think for a minute you’re going to borrow the car because if that’s how you act in school, how can we expect you to behave yourself when nobody’s watching you. Some of the carpool "friends" came from Juárez high society. Their parents spoiled them, bought them the latest model cars and forked over plenty of cash. Others, like me, barely got enough for a movie on Sundays and wore the same clothes until the shirts didn’t fit and the pants reached mid-calf. And I was the smallest, the butt of the others jokes. Unfortunately I hadn’t yet learned enough curses to answer the chain of obscenities heaped on me, and could only count on a small repertory of shits and hells. So the only goddamn thing I could do was sit and take it, although two or three times, when I got good and fed up, I reacted with my fists. All I got to show for that was a couple of black eyes and long-term trouble. I learned then that the middle class in Mexico is shit, that chicanos are more noble, that the Mexican bourgeoisie raises their kids to be bullies. Somehow I realized that I didn#61501;t fit in with that group of boys who were supposed to be my peers, that I found their company disgusting. There were two terrific exceptions: Luis and Charlie Boy. I still love those guys even though I hardly see them any more. Maybe what made them different was that they were poorer and were part of the group only by chance, not choice. One of the crowd was a queer, but I didn’t even suspect that until much later, I must have been naive with a capital N. He was the worst bully of all, I know now that he probably picked on me because the others wouldn’t have stood for it. Anyway, most of the insults had to do with homosexuality. The group spoke of nothing but sex during the four years of my adolescence and theirs. They invented girlfriends, gabbed endlessly about the tea-dances, about the parties in their homes, about the clothes they’d wear to the dances, about what a hot number that blond X was, about how she’d let you paw her, "in the movies, in the dark, you’ve never done it?, well I have, thousands of times, and to different girls, you’re an asshole, no girl would ever look at you." I can’t recall a single instance when they spoke well of anyone or when there was a conversation about any other subject. But Luis and Charlie Boy, well, that was different, those kids were decent. Once Luis got the brilliant idea of starting a Science Club, Charlie and I got all excited about it (though I hated science), and we set up a laboratory in my grandmother’s attic. Charlie brought a few things from his old man’s furniture store, Luis some instruments, and my Dad gave us some old tables we set up in the kitchen for our lab. We really got into it, and we’d even do our homework there, repeating the experiments we’d done in class. One day Charlie decided that we ought to manufacture some nitroglycerine; get this by mixing glycerine with nitric acid. No, not that way, more of this and less of that, or less of this and more of that. Then that skunk Charlie leaves me alone and suddenly I hear a son-of-a-bitch of a blast. Charlie Boy had set me up, the bastard. I had to go change my underwear. Another day we had another marvelous inspiration, we’d make an ice bomb. Charlie and little Luis (he always got the biggest kick out of everything) went to the ice cream stand and got some dry ice and a container with a good strong cap. Trembling with fear, we put the ice in water and screwed on the cap. It began to build up pressure, Charlie tossed it into my grandmother’s yard, and nothing happened, it didn’t break, it didn’t explode, it didn’t do anything. It just lay there on the grass. We ran down, dumb kids, it could have exploded in our faces, and Charlie picked it up and threw it over the fence. The neighbor’s dog started to bark, he knew what was going on, he must have been sniffing it. The thingamajig blew up and killed the stupid dog. We had to keep out of sight for two or three weeks. Then Charlie’s parents lent him a Vespa, one of those fat ones with the gears on the left handlebar, the brakes on the right. Once in a while they’d lend him the family Chevy, brand new, red as hell and a beauty. You wouldn’t believe the dumb stunts we pulled in that car. I swear I don’t know how we stayed out of prison or reform school. Jackass Charlie would race at full speed up Niños Héroes, a wide avenue with little traffic, then he’d suddenly jerk the wheel and we’d turn like crazy in what we called the eagle spin and lots of other pirouettes. At night Charlie would take his 22 and say we were going to hunt hares. He’d improvised a silencer with an old pipe, a bunch of hooks and a sponge. Actually, this contraption was well designed, it let out no more sound than a whisper. We’d go up to the Chaveña Gulch and look for dogs and cats. There were a bunch of them there and some were casualties in our make-believe battles. The bad part was that a lot of people walked around there too, now that I think of it, what if by some rotten luck we’d shot somebody? Or accidentally hit a gas tank? Who knows. At the time we were just unbridled and determined to run wild. We were great buddies, we’d go out beyond the airport, cross-country among the brambles. He had his 22, and I had the target pistol I’d steal from my aunt Estela, poor thing, she always seemed to understand the fury burning inside me. We had energy to spare, we were convinced nothing was impossible, there was nothing we couldn’t do. We hunted hares, rabbits, birds, and anything else that crossed our path. We climbed all the hills, crossed the deserts. I ran into Luis the other day. He invited me to his wedding, he was as fat as I am, and wore a big western hat and boots. I see Charlie now and then. He smokes like a chinmney and he’s as crazy as ever. Now he’s building an airplane, he claims, but won’t use any kind of instructions, whatever he makes has to be completely original, one of these days if I don’t watch out I’ll come crashing through my roof. There were some other interesting kids at school too. Agapito Mendoza, heaven help humankind, was the class comedian. He could make the sphynx laugh. Tall, fat, dark-skinned, he always wore Levis, suede shoes and the most fantastic collection of T-shirts I’ve ever seen, from one with a picture of Einstein to one with Mickey Mouse and another with Donald Duck. He had trouble-making down to a science. Nacho told me that one day at about four o’clock in the afternoon they’re standing on a corner downtown where a bunch of people are waiting for the bus, and Agapito suddenly pipes up, "Jesus, it just got hard!", everybody glares at him. Nacho feels like crawling into the path of the approaching bus. Agapito, cool as a cucumber, goes on, "My bubble gum! It just got hard as a rock! What dirty minds!" Then there was another time, in biology class with Topres, better known as Torture, a Puerto Rican teacher who wasn’t ordained yet though he was a Jesuit, very funny-looking because he parted his hair on the side and had the sides trimmed very short, so he looked like they’d used a bowl to cut his hair, he had a crazy walk with his feet pointing out at a 454 angle. He was chunky, very pale, and spoke English with such a heavy accent you could tell right away his native tongue was Spanish. That day Torture asked Agapito a question about what he’d been explaining. That was a mistake. We all knew what was coming. Torture had been explaining that "areola" is the scientific name for a woman’s nipple. At the time there was a popular jingle in an Oreo cookie commercial, "Little boys like other toys but I like Oreos. Sure enough, Agapito started to sing, "Little boys like other toys but I like areolas." Torture turned all the colors of the rainbow, red, white, purple, and finally the black of fury. He started hopping around, the way he always did when he was angry, his hands clutched in fists. He let fly a torrent of insults, half in English, half in Spanish. He really let Agapito have it, he was a Neanderthal, he had no idea of the meaning of the word decency, that the level of his crudeness was only slightly lower than the level of his intelligence, that he didn’t understand why his parents wasted good money sending him to school, seeing he was a lazy, ignorant bum. Agapito couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He told Torture that one day when he was elected to the Congress of the United States, the first thing he’d do would be to write a law to deport all the Puerto Rican scum that lived off everyone else and he’d also present a bill to cut off all U.S. aid to Puerto Rico. Torture was furious, speechless with rage. He made awful faces, then adjusted the belt of his habit and said, “Agapito! You and I will settle this. Right now!” He grabbed Agapito by the neck of his Mickey Mouse T-shirt and practically lifted him out of his seat. The kid seemed to be wound up, he laughed like a lunatic, and the laughter made tears roll down his face. They ended up in the office of Bacussy, Mr. Demerit; the disciplinary prefect who got his jollies by meting out punishments. Agapito was always his best customer. Bacussy must have loved him because he provided his raison dêtre. Agapito was in hot water most of the year he spent in Phillipot’s class. He was a pain in the ass, a black from Louisiana with two doctorates, one in Philosophy and one in foreign languages, and at the time he was working on another in Theology, his classes were really brilliant. I got my first taste of French from him, and literature too, because he made us read, read and read, and expected us to know all the answers. We wrote our first poems, we did our first play. Phillipot spoke with incredible clarity, it was hard not to get wrapped up in what you were hearing. But Agapito acted up as usual. At first Phillipot ignored his wisecracks, then answered him with withering sarcasm. He threatened him, but the threats went over Agapito’s head, then he sat him in the back corner, facing the wall. There he remained the whole semester, but he never improved, putting his feet against the wall. “Agapito!”, said Phillipot, "When will you grow up?" Probably never. We all knew it. Agapito was good at football, good at basketball, and almost a pro at baseball. A few days ago this guy turned up at my office with long, graying hair and a beard, wearing a jacket, Levis and suede shoes. It was Dr. Agapito Mendoza, cum laude graduate of the University of Oklahoma, a Chicano activist, a specialist in labor relations. The kids from around here were bastards too, with a couple of exceptions, the same spoiled kids, the ones from Los Nogales, from the Country Club, they lived like kings, dressed in the latest style, went to all the dances, played golf, their fathers gave them plenty of money so they could get drunk and not bother them, and so they could get themselves girlfriends of their own high class, hell, there was never any high class in Juárez unless you were a descendant of Fray García de San Francisco. Juárez was a lively place, all along Mariscal street down to the river and on all the side streets. Floor shows, good, cheap booze, lots of dames and industrial quantities of dumb gringos. In those days, the place to go was Curley’s Club, and that’s where Pedro and I used to sneak off to at night. He’d bought an old gray and black Mercury, fixed it up like new, it looked great, little lights in each door, plush upholstery and carpeting. From Curley’s We’d go to the Noa Noa, then to Don Felix Club, the Reno, from there to the strip tease at the Follies or Waikiki, and then to the untitled movies at the Taxco Bar. That was supposed to be a kid’s initiation, he’d pick up a hooker, and when it was all over, he’d come out a man. You were expected to dance with the whores to prove your manhood, even if they stank like hell you had to put up with it just the way they put up with the whiff of brandy on your breath, the stench of your sweat and cheap after-shave. That must have been the best the world had to offer because people came from miles around, even Parral, to have fun. The low-class places were always packed with gringo soldiers and others of their kind who invariably admired the strippers and their suggestive poses, cheering when the women assumed positions never before seen, they were with their wives who clapped and hooted as loud as they did. Even today, in the rest of Mexico, from Chihuahua south to the capital, they have the idea that we’re the new Sodom and Gomorrah, that any woman who lives here must be part of that desperate eroticism, created by white-slavers for the entertainment of every man around who, like it or not, bishop, priest, Mason or Knight of Columbus, becomes a willing or unwilling victim of pornographic perversity. The fact is that now, with this business of the sexual revolution, it’s all obsolete. But the legend persists, I know people who refuse to cross the border or come here because they’re scared. They say they’ve heard about a lady who one night, when she was doing some fancy writhing at the Carrousel to the tropical rhythms of Fili Munoz and his Caballeros, danced with a flashy guy dressed in a silk suit, Italian shoes, stinking of Aramis, smeared with vaseline from his pompadour to his D.A., covered with gold and diamond rings, like Nero, that thug who always showed up at the dances half drunk but with a gift for gab. Well, there they were wiggling to a cumbia, the guy took her back to her seat after giving her a good feel, and she, completely fulfilled, notices that the gentleman’s feet are a hoof and a rooster’s claw, Satan, Lucifer, Old Nick, Beelzebub or any of the other names for the devil I can’t remember, all myths and lies parents tell their kids to scare them, probably as penance because you can’t tell me they didn’t live it up themselves when they were younger, and it/’ only their guilty conscience that makes them holier-than-thou. But all that’s gone now, the city has grown, a million and a half to the south and half a million on the other side. Mariscal Street is done for, business shot to hell, no customers, they’re all in the fashionable discotheques, they don’t go to the bars any more. When the center of the city moved, Sodom was left on the outskirts. With all those maquiladoras, single women have jobs nowadays. No more professional hookers, just affairs, they don’t sweep the streets the way they used to but nowadays that’s where people make love. Another of our nutty buddies was Panayote. I was stunned when I heard that crazy guy had gotten married, and my eyes popped one day when I saw him giving his baby a pacifier. The poor kid just sucked it. I should have known that couldn’t turn out well. One day, very calmly, Panayote shot himself while he was cleaning a pistol. He couldn’t even stand himself, we met him at the Reno Bar, he’d buy us all beers, and we were a little afraid of him because he was one of those guys who won’t listen to reason, who don’t give a damn about anything. Dangerous at dances and parties. Once we were cruising on 16th street, on Sundays the kids would ride back and forth from one end of the street to the other, up and down from noon until three, everyone happy, honking horns, yelling to each other, gossiping, a real blast. There was a gang we called the Flintstones because they were a rough bunch, they carried switchblades, chains, tire irons and were always looking for trouble. Panayote hated them, especially one of their leaders. There we were having a helluva good time when suddenly a rickety black Cadillac full of long-haired thugs drove up right next to our car. Panayote gave them the finger, they wanted to get out and fight. Panayote took out a Derringer he always carried and started shooting right there in the street. He didn’t give a damn that there were people on the sidewalks and a bunch of kids in their cars. The Flintstones just ducked down and put the pedal to the floorboard. When it was all over we discovered two big bullet holes in the trunk, that damn fool Panayote, after that we didn’t want to go anywhere with him for fear of getting ourselves killed because of some stunt he’d pull. He didn’t go to school, and that surprised us because our parents made us toe the line, like it or not. His old man had him tending bar at the Reno, but he’d come along when we went mountain-climbing. In those days we liked to play at being explorers, supposedly to see if we could find the treasures said to be hidden in the hills, the gold Benito Juárez had brought during the Reforma wars, all the money Maximilian had sent to keep his enemies from getting it, Montezuma’s treasure, and all the other treasures the legends said were buried around there, near what had been a post house behind the mountain, to the west, the stopping place for the stage coaches that crossed toward the north along the Camino Real through Mesilla, Socorro, Belén, Albuquerque and Santa Fe, following the river, through Dead Man’s Pass and the plains. What we found was a cave three-quarters of the way up the hillside, it looked like hoboes or hikers stayed there because there were lots of ashes and bits of charcoal on the ground, the cave was beautiful because it was like a miniature mine, the walls studded with clusters of white and purple quartz crystals, we also found a whole damn lot of pain, we came back all bruised and scratched by cactuses on the way up, by thorns and more cactuses on the way down, not counting our slips and falls and the suffering of our tobacco-filled lungs. When we got home we had to use brushes all over to get the sticky filth off our bodies. There we go, three of us on Charlie’s motorcycle, it looked like it was going to collapse, but it didn’t. It’s a miracle I’m still around to tell you about it, because we came close to killing ourselves time and again thanks to the hare-brained things we did with no thought of danger. We raced through the sand chasing hares and rabbits, pistols and rifles ready to shoot without stopping. Charlie would leave the dusty roads, and we’d chase the poor animals cross-country. When we got a little older and wiser, we stopped going to the desert, Prieto, Zorro, Panayote, Charlie and I and some other guys whose names I can’t remember, would go to the Juárez valley on regular hunting trips. Once we were almost the hunted, the valley’s sand hills are known to be a hide-out for lovers. That time, as we crossed a dune we came upon two naked people, they looked red but we never found out if that was because of the sun or their passion, we didn’t stop to figure it out, but started running away, scared stiff, never looking back, until the dusty cloud we raised filled the horizon. That same day, I was driving my Aunt Estela’s square little Corvair, she was the only one crazy enough to lend me a car, we were going south along the dirt embankment of the river, that was about ten feet below us, and on a sharp curve we skidded, whipped around a couple of times, went over the edge, our hearts in our throats, the car wheels spinning in the air, all of us scared to death except Panayote who started laughing so hard it was eerie. That’s why I’m not surprised by what happened. The last time I saw him he was showing off a brand new green Volkswagen, he’d painted Hellas on the sides; he always said he wanted to go and live in Athens. El Prieto was crazy too, but much less wild, one of those guys who like to dress in the latest style, starched plaid shirts, drill pants and cowboy boots. Quiet, and longing to find a decent girl, well, he made a play for hairdressers too and there’s a helluva a lot of those around, Saturday afternoons he’d stroll past the windows of Ofelia’s or Sylvia’s or some other salon. The girls there pretended not to see him, as if they didn’t like him, as if they thought he was a jerk, but they’d finally take notice. El Prieto had a brand new car, metallic lightning blue, he thought he was really something. Passing a beauty parlor one day, he noticed that the girls were peeking out at him but as soon as he turned around, pretended not to have seen him, he parked quickly and ran back to the window and there they all were, pressed against the window like flies, when they saw him they scooted back to their places, it looked like a tomato packing house with all those red cheeks. We were always on the make, even at the dances, and all real machos, "I like this one," or I like that one and you’d better not ask her to dance because you’ll have to answer to me, and then we’ll see who cries uncle. Huddled in a corner, drinking and drinking to get up our nerve and whispering among ourselves, we’d let three songs go by while the girls sat and waited because these idiots didn’t ask them to dance, just stared, finally when some other guy came to ask them to dance, the jackasses got burned up, then we’d insult the girls, "what a pill she is, ugly too, not worth a second glance, besides I like that one better," or, "I didn’t really feel like dancing just now anyway," there were always a couple of guys at those dances who loved to spoil things for everyone else, "why did you dance with so-and-so, as if you didn’t know she’s my girl, she’s mine and I don’t share her with anybody", and pow, a fist, right there, to the jaw or the stomach and a free-for-all would start. You always went to the dances neat and tidy, but you knew you might leave in tatters. Once a bunch of idiots started fighting on the second floor of the casino, it was like a balcony around the dance floor, three stairways and a very nice railing, so you could sit and watch the dancers from there. There were tables, and it was the favorite spot for the fellows who didn’t know how to dance and spent their time getting drunk instead. One night, in the middle of the dance, when the Aceves orchestra was playing Ramona, a brawl broke out, fists flying all over the place, one of the pugilists shoved another against the railing, he lost his balance and went over, fell on top of one of the couples on the dance floor, in spite of all the yelling, the dancers pretended not to notice and just ignored the childish antics and boorishness of the upstairs crowd. That was the end of the party, everybody got into it, they threw out the people from upstairs, how embarrassing, my friend. Whenever the subject of dances comes up in a conversation I always remember the joke about the casino, that one night when there was to be a dress ball a guy showed up at the door without an invitation, with three women who were obviously prostitutes. The doorman didn’t want to let him in because the gentleman’s companions are ladies whose reputation is questionable, to which the man shouted "There’s no question about these ladies’ reputation, they’re whores, the ones with the questionable reputations are the ones in there, on the dance floor.” NMSU's Ricardo Aguilar-Melantzon is New Mexico Professor of the Year
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