Stories

by Xavier F.Aguilar

 

VIVA ZAPATA: drawing of Zapata monted on rearing horse

MEMORIES OF
MEXICO

I first met Emiliano Zapata
when he was seventeen and
hiding on a friend's ranch in
Puebla to escape a possible
labor camp in the Yucatan.
It was two months of friendship
that I will never forget.

On one sun filled day my amigo
came riding on a white horse
only to stop at my side and
dismount for usual conversation.
His dark eyes, bold with intent
and confidence, looked into mine
as he told me stories of Morelos
and it's suffering due to Diaz.

Emiliano was always one to speak
of “land and freedom” as we discussed our philosophies and idioms. He would sit upon the ground and tell about Mexico City where he tended horses in stables of marble. Even at that youthful time his words were essentially against the monopoly of land.

Porfirio Diaz brought a bitter taste to Emiliano's tongue as he reconstructed the details of desperation caused by the dictator. Even as he sat staring at the horse grazing nearby he spoke of his life's ambition. “. . . to redeem the forgotten mountain race, making it feel master of the land on which it treads, creating a nation of dignified human beings.”

It was the second month of our friendship when Emiliano met a girl who came to work at the ranch. She was a few years younger than he and was immediately attracted to him. Her name escapes my memory, but, her beauty never shall.

Her skin was as rich copper and the blackness of her eyes enticed with mystery. When she smiled it caused the sun to shine and the fields of corn were like fields of gold. She had the melodius voice of a songbird which filled her varon with desire and passion.

In those last days of our companionship, Zapata, his senorita and myself shared many hours of riding and laughter and conversing. Too quickly the days passed to be with those of such piocha friendship and too slowly the nights.

I was surprised to learn that he had gone as the senorita left the ranch in the morning, her brown mare snorting and tossing it's head. It had been one of those starless Mexican nights when Emiliano slipped away from the ranch as he had appeared; abruptly.

Adios amigo.

***

As though God knew my heart, I again rode with my friend Emiliano in 1911 when we captured the cities of Curautla and Cuernavaca. By this time our justice spread from Morelos to the states of Guerrero and Tlaxcala. We fought in groups of thirty against three-hundred and could not be stopped! Our women fought with us in our cause, cooked for us that we had strength to stand against Diaz and shared their company to keep the nights pleasant.

Emiliano had become much more quite than he had been as a youth. He now acted upon his thoughts rather than speak of them. He mistrusted and fought each shifting government to regain the land and the dignity of his people.

Such was the very last time I saw my friend as he stood under his large sombrero wearing a dark waist-jacket and matching pants that were pegged at the bottom. That meeting ended our comradeship in a noble cause. With his blessings I took leave of his presence.

How many times thereafter did I think of our rides together . . . of The Revolution . . . of the Zapatistas? To count the stars that glimmer would not be enough to compare to the amount of times and to touch one would not relate to the thrill of riding beside Zapata.

As years passed I continued to read of my friend's plight and his rise to fame. With his soldiers dressed as peons, Carranza spending millions to destroy him, they would come into the capital, sell goods in the market, and depart with a load of rifles. Many were the stories told of Zapata and his caudillos.

By ambush in 1919 General Zapata fell never to rise again? “The surprise was terrible,” recounted an aide in his movement, “The soldiers of the traitor Guajardo . . . a thousand . . . were firing.”

Thoughts of friendship crowded my brain, thoughts of the finest horseman in Morelos; a Revolutionary, a selfless man, a good man. I still have the knife Emiliano gave to me at Puebla so many years ago; a thing I will treasure always, like my memories of Mexico.

© 2006 by Xavier F. Aguilar

Illustration © 2006 by Aaron R. Aguilar

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