San Antonio Has Yet to Give Wilbo Clearance to Take His Leave Even Though He Has Booked A Ticket on Saturday's Texas Eagle to Chicago

March 13, 2020 at 12:42 PM
Starbuck’s in the Deco District, Fredericksburg Road
San Antonio, Texas

Today means my last full day in San Antonio, Texas. I went to see if Esperanza Center for Peace and
Justice found my father’s hat. I had left it in the dark when I slipped out of the Queer Voices reading
to catch the bus home. I had been wearing it as my sun protection even though too small for my head.
After his passing, I kept it as an artifact to remind me of him, to keep the memory of him alive.
The black baseball cap has a green alien and a flying saucer stitched into its panel.
Extraterrestrial Highway 375, Area 51, Nevada reads the white stitching. 

Edward William and his life partner, Joan Elizabeth, married and stayed together for life, despite threats to divorce or split up. Dad found it possible to take an early - retirement deal and work for mom in her business, making painted wooden figurines and traveling the country to sell them at arts and crafts shows. After a show in Arizona, the two stayed out in the west and toured by car. I wonder where he stopped along Highway 375 to buy the cap. Maybe he spotted the souvenir in the gift shop after enjoying a nice breakfast in a diner that had a view of the Area 51 chain link fence? 

I’m glad I recovered the cap today. I walked up to Esperanza and I was greeted at the door by a woman who let me know she was deep cleaning top to bottom, all two floors. She pointed out the hand sanitizer, and I wanted to bathe in it. I pumped it on my hands and rubbed my hands dry. “I was here for Queer Voices and I left a black cap. It had a green alien on the panel”. “Oh, yes. We loved that cap. We knew somebody was definitely coming back for that!” She stepped in back and came right back with it. She took notice of the maize lettering of my shirt, “Read to me your shirt”.

A woman who will sanitize two floors of a large building might seem bossy, but I totally understand. “Michigan Dad. My daughter presented it to me when she earned her bachelor's degree. I prize it as much as I prize daddy’s hat.” I’m graduating online from the University of Michigan in May. I would walk the stage in the Big House but the event has been cancelled already. We’ll all gather online to watch the speeches”. “Oh, I’m sorry. I have enjoyed two wonderful mornings in the Big House watching thousands graduate. You won’t miss the cold, though. Congratulations on your degree. Go Blue!”

Esperanza became one of my favorite places in San Antonio, a beautiful building with a boutique of handmade items displayed for sale, made by local artisans. The Queer Voices reading filled the house with excitement and showed that the LGBT community wasn’t afraid to gather and knew all about taking precautions against a virus. Even almost a week later, San Antonio has yet to report a case of Covid-19, at least to my notice. Every week of my month-long stay, I found an intriguing event to visit upstairs at the place whose name translates to hope.

The programming always came from the viewpoint of an open mind. Queer Voices totally confused me because I had no idea how all the men and women identified as gendered people. I have had to give up the game of trying to pigeonhole people by ethnicity because it doesn’t work. That night with the writers I wondered how useful it was to try to see which person was a crying game waiting to happen. I could just enjoy listening to their poetry and celebrate their freedom, more freedom that I’ve found in the world. 

Another night, Linda Otero came to read from her new book, “In the Shadow of the Freeway” and she taught how barrios risk destruction at the hand of well-meaning if misinformed urban planners. I had just spent a day walking the land that once belonged to the barrio called Lavaca in San Antonio’s Southtown. 

The words of the displaced settlers had been stamped into the cement of the sidewalk. I read each one and read it aloud for TikTok, trying to give messages on ephemeral concrete a chance at immortality. I annoyed Otero by standing up and recording a TikTok and she protested politely, with a great deal of class. “Sir, are you recording me? Pictures are okay, but I don’t want this to show up on YouTube. This is just for us, the ones who came to share the evening with us”. I sat down. I deleted the thirty second video. I remember her words and her presentation just well enough to paraphrase it.

Esperanza takes Latin food seriously and each night I found an offering to celebrate. One of the organizers took the time to create a Mexican banquet with corn and bean and chicharrones and spanish rice and more. I savored nopalitos, stewed prickly pears sliced thin, for the first time. I’ll never forget the flavor. She also made a hearty soup of beans and spices which nourished my entire being. I had no idea that mere, inexpensive beans could be transformed into a dish that wonderful. It was like that every night at Esperanza. Cuisine might be the secret power of the barrio.

Now I’m anxious that I might lose my father’s hat again. I thought of mailing it to my daughter for her to have and pass on to her family. I’ve wondered if it would fit on the head of my nephew, Ian, the actor and painter.  A hat that’s on the head however very soon becomes a hat left on a peg or a hat on the ground. Maybe I should sew the fabric into a quilt, adding patches from my worn-out Michigan Dad tee. The tee has yet to grow holes, but in a few washings it will.

Maybe I might be making a mistake leaving San Antonio tomorrow. After this writing, I’ll walk next door to the Art Deco H-E-B and I’ll find full shelves of cans, even a complete row of toilet paper. I hope not to be wrong, but I’m sure I would notice panicked hoarding from the window of this Starbucks. 

I was just making friends. I had a recruiter who had lined up an interview for me, a very promising opportunity with a growing company. I had met a long list of movers and shakers, leading the way in venture capital to the arts. I had yet to walk around the San Antonio Riverwalk entirely. I had experienced the pure spiritual headrush you will feel when you walk into the church of the Alamo, but I hadn’t spent a day imagining Tejanos arriving at Mission San José for prayer and confession. I have booked my passage on tomorrow’s Texas Eagle leaving at dawn for Chicago, and yet I feel this place still embracing my imagination and my very person.

I came here from New Orleans, and the last bus to San Antonio cancelled at the last minute, just after midnight as a downpour began to fall. I walked through the soaking rain to an all-night bar with a laundromat and washed my clothing, drank a PBR and stayed up all night until the next bus came for us. I kept thinking that New Orleans had yet to give permission for my departure. I have yet to see the conductor punch my ticket at Sunset Station. What passes through your mind, San Antonio?

Facebook buzzes my phone with one more cancelled event. However, the Tejano Music Awards Fan Festival has yet to send one, making Market Square a promising destination. Maybe I’ll wear a Luchador mask instead of a surgical gauze over my nose and mouth. Covid-19, you’re going to have to ride me like a bronco to take me down! Besides, Stefani Montiel headlines tonight, and she's hotter than a fever.