Like many Americans, I fall into the “mixed breed” category. Half of my roots dwell beneath several villages in Mexico; the other half are buried in the Kansas prairies. Strong, self-sacrificing women form the base of both sides of my family tree. Take my mother’s father’s mother Ramona, for example. Back in the 1920s, the only work men could find in Hidalgo, Mexico, was down in the coalmines. When her husband was killed by a runaway cart down in the mines, great-grandma Ramona swore that none of her sons would ever have to take such risks to put tortillas on the table.
So, late one night, Ramona gathered all five of her children, including my five-year-old grandpa, and headed for the Mexico/Texas border. It cost five pesos to cross the bridge, but Ramona talked someone into rowing her family across the river by candlelight for only fifty centavos per person. Once across, she managed to find food and shelter for her family in a country where she didn’t know anyone and did not speak the language. Rather than endanger their lives working in the mines in Mexico, Ramona’s children grew up and earned their living by opening barber shops and restaurants in the United States.
My other maternal great-grandmother, Carmen, descended from the villagers of Cruillas, Mexico, who were relocated to a ranch in South Texas in the 1850s by a man named Captain King. Legend has it, King convinced 120 men, women, and children to dig up their ancestors’ graves, round up their donkeys and chickens, and follow him to Texas to a stretch of cacti and mesquite (land) known as “The Wild Horse Desert.” This soon became the largest modern ranch in the world with 75,000 herds of cattle and nearly one million acres of land—that’s nearly the area of Rhode Island! The King Ranch also was known as the birthplace of the American cowboy. Many of my great-uncles were just that—vaqueros (Spanish for cowboy) who broke horses, roped cattle and lived on the open range. Although she gradually became totally blind, great-grandma Carmen cooked, cleaned and cared for all twelve of her children.
My mom grew up in the nearby city of Corpus Christi, Texas, with three brothers, ten half-siblings and two adopted siblings. Her own mother died when she was three and her father lost his leg in a motorcycle crash, so she was raised by her tia and tio (aunt and uncle). For years, this family of seven lived in a one-bedroom house with no air conditioning—not even during the blazing 100 degree summers!—on a daily diet of beans, rice and tortillas. When she turned eighteen-years-old, my Mom pulled herself out of the barrios and became the first in her family to ever go to college! Go Mom! After college, she met my dad.
Little is known about my father’s ancestors. Our family’s last name is Griest and often Germans think that we are one of them. But, Germans don’t share the same pronunciation of our name. We say Griest so that it rhymes with the word “Christ.” Germans pronounce Griest with a long “e” like “creek.” Anyway, as far back as anyone can remember, the Griests come from Kansas. My grandma on my father’s side was the first in her family to finish high school. Simultaneously, she managed to raise two boys and run a hamburger joint called M&M Burgers in the small town of Minneapolis.
My dad became another “first” when he left the Kansas prairie at the age of seventeen. Having taught himself musical rhythm by whacking on garbage cans turned upside down, he drummed his way around the world with a U.S. Navy band. When I was little, he filled my ears with wondrous tales of far-away lands like Hong Kong, Newfoundland, and Morocco. If wanderlust prowls in our genes, I think I inherited mine from my dad! My parents met at a jazz club in Corpus Christi on Halloween in 1966, married the following Ground Hog’s Day, and had my sister Barbara and then me.
