Siempre Leal November 12
Siempre Leal—always loyal—still stands as a beacon on the Malecon, at least as of this date. The marine fort is evacuated, like the jail across the plaza, and slated for eventual demolition. No longer is there a need to protect the town from an attack by sea, so the Marina troops have moved closer to the port at UNAM. But they still come when called, fully fit and committed, even if their long guns sometimes swing about too randomly while they are committing in full. At least no one gets hurt. The kids just want to get home.
In silent protest, I have not sought a haircut since my barber was executed. Still, I feel the need to visit Peluca’s old place on the way back from a useless errand in La Colonia. Storm clouds threaten, and the air is cool and unsettled passing by the elementary school, where recess is accompanied by a latin soundtrack. At the fountain of the Iglesia de San Jose, strings of algae cling to a floor of brain coral, in typically morbid imagery.
Peluceria, my old barbershop, is closed for good. A few dirty flowers lie against the metal storm-door, and tattered yellow tape outlines the small property. In the middle of the sidewalk outside, a candle burns in a broken wine glass, cemented by spilled wax. A deck of cards sits atop a can of Jack Daniel’s soda pop. A dozen empty Corona bottles are placed around one bottle that is open and full of beer. Salud.
This is not the only commemoration of the day. At the Cantina Habanero, a machete is presented to cut the cake. In person or in spirit, the veterans—John, Tony, Oliver, Jim Boyd, Gary, Memo, Cindy, and Frank Reams—are all in solemn attendance.
November 10 is the birthday of the US marines, formed by the Continental Congress in Philadelphia—in 1775, a year before the declaration of independence. Volunteers had to provide their own weapons. The marines were essentially the first organized federal militia, and, steeped in history, pride in the corp runs very deep. Sergeant Major John Gallegos presides over the small event this afternoon.
Beside the stage and screen is an empty table for one, covered with a white tablecloth. On a small plate is a green lemon slice and salt, signifying bitter loss and endurance. The wine glass is inverted, for absent company. One scarlet rose rests in a vase tied with a yellow ribbon. John chokes up when he talks about the brothers who suffer still and the brothers who cannot come home. He thanks them for their service. Sempre Fi.
“From the Halls of Montezuma,“ begins the canned Marine anthem, bringing John and Tony (and Oliver and George) to full attention. The song reference is to the Castillo, the military stronghold which sits atop a 200-foot cliff in a cultivated Aztec forest. The final hand-to-hand assault in a terrible war.
We commemorate the epic Battle of Chapultepec, the last fight between Mexico and the United States. The date was 9-13-1847, making this roughly the 160th anniversary of the battle, which also served to immortalize the five Niños Heroes. It cost the lives of some hundred marines, to which the “blood stripes“ on the blue dress trousers bear constant tribute.
And we commemorate the sacrifice of those who cannot be here today, with a white tablecloth and friends waiting. Tomorrow at 11 am, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, Veteran’s Day, World War One ended with a bit of ink to paper in Versailles. The boys, including my Grampy Jack, could finally go home.