drive from Brownsville. We stopped
there because we were looking for
a music teacher who shows his
kids how to play conjunto music.
Sometimes I play this type of music
in the car and you tell me to please,
please, please turn it off. I used to
hate it too when I was growing up.
It’s the old-fashioned music your
grandparents used to listen to when
they were farmworkers. They told
me that at the end of each week the
musicians would come play at the
migrant camps where the people
stayed and someone would sprinkle
water over the dirt so everyone could
dance without making it too dusty.
And that was more than eighty years
ago, so now the music is super old-
fashioned. But that’s what made this
teacher and his students so special
(you might say weird). Outside of
school, they probably listen to hip-
hop or rock or country with their
friends, but at school they had
decided it was cool to play the music
of their grandparents and great-
grandparents. To sing in Spanish
and play the accordion and even a
bass and electric guitar, which is
less traditional but still traditional
because of the way they play the
instruments. It was like they had
stepped forward in time and still had
one foot behind them, watching the
dust rise up as their music played on.
Wish you were here, DadSATURDAY, MAY 18
Hi Elena,
We reached the end of the river.
You’ve never been here, but someday,
if you want, I can bring you to see it.
This is where the Rio Grande, the
river that for more than 1,200 miles
divides one side from the other, meets
the Gulf of Mexico. East of here, the
Gulf becomes the Caribbean Sea,
and then farther out it turns into the
Atlantic Ocean, where it connects to
Europe and the coast of Africa. But
here the water isn’t very deep or all
that wide. When I was about your
age, my parents would bring me here
and, believe it or not, I would swim
across, from this side to the other
side, to the beach on the Mexican
side. Yes, to Mexico! I know it sounds
crazy, but nobody thought it was
back then. This morning, on the U.S.
side, close to where we parked on the
public beach, I saw an older man
with waders and a fi shing pole enter
the water, and on the opposite side a
younger man wearing cutoff s took
his own fi shing pole into the river.
The young one shouted something
to the older one and the older man
took a few steps forward—they were
maybe fi fty yards apart—but the
wind was blowing hard and they
couldn’t hear each other, so instead
they waved. Maybe they were trying
to say the water was cold. Maybe
they were wishing each other luck. I
can’t even say if they were speaking
English or Spanish or maybe a little
of both, but the wave they gave each
other seemed to be enough to get
across what they wanted to say.
See you soon, Dad TPREVIOUS SPREAD, FROM LEFT: Fieldworkers
pick honeydew melons outside Mission; Texas
red grapefruits, the state fruit, harvested by the
Rio Grande Juice Company, in Mission. LEFT: Mr.
Ben’s Bakery, in Brownsville, has sold traditional
breads and pastries since 1972. ABOVE, FROM
LEFT: Brownsville visual artist Alejandro Macias
with a self-portrait; Mexican and American
fishermen at Boca Chica, where the Rio Grande
empties into the Gulf of Mexico.
TEXAS MONTHLY 85