Not long ago a large group of leading Mexican scholars, educators, and cultural analysts assembled by the nation’s Colegio de Mexico published a report on “the nations most pressing issues.” Among these at that time was the fact that the number of books read per capita in Mexico was less than one per year. This year the subject was doleful enough to prompt Mexican author David Toscana to write about “The country that stopped reading.” He asked: “How is it possible that I hand over a child for six hours every day, five days a week, and you give me back some one who is basically illiterate.”
When Concha Rosales, in the early 1960s, reached the age that some girls in rural Jalisco then began school — between seven and ten years old — she did well.
It was generally believed that such females would marry early, spend their lives caring for their husbands and their children. Thus, little education. But because Concha, as an infant, had survived a plunging mountainside wreck, the family that adopted her wanted to give this child of tragedy the benefit of schooling. Concha began school she was five.
Like all campo children then, Concha early on had learned to perform household tasks. But the way she single-mindedly took to hard chores hinted at the fact that she might be a rough-hewn combination of both a bright child and a very independent one. Her behavior prompted some to call her contrary.She was the (adopted) daughter of Chema Rosales, a campesino rancher with whom I was forming a slight partnership involving cattle. Sometimes when at Chema’s ranch, some people noted Concha’s early boldness and acquired skills. Those things struck me — as it did others — as peculiar for a girl of that time. I was told that when she was five, without being asked, she began helping her “mother” with cooking and household tasks. What she liked best was ranch work, which was generally judged to be even more strange.
In those days very few pueblo Mexicans, and almost no rural adults, read anything beyond simple information stamped on the few commercial agricultural goods circumstances forced them to buy. And in those days newspapers were not available in most pueblos. Those towns serving as a region’s cabacera (municipal capital) had a papeleria that sold newspapers — delivered two or three days late by a clattering bus that delivered passengers and goods once a day.
Though I was a gringo and not related to the family, Concha was pleased when we ran into each other the day she decided she could fix fence by herself. Stretching damaged barbed wire taut from its post to twine it’s broken ends together is hard for most muscled adults. So she was surprised to find me fixing a rustler-cut four-strand opening in the Rosales’ farthest pasture. From then on we often rode fence together. Shortly, Concha began squinting over my shoulder as I was scribbling something in a pocket notebook, or when I was underlining articles in Guadalajara newspapers I always had stuffed in my shirt. At fifteen, she could read pretty well for a campo kid. But then for some reason she got stuck and quit school. I had a friend whose kids had gone through most of primaria — elementary — school. He found their school books, and I gave them to Concha. They were old and kept her interest. Meanwhile I read to her articles written from notes I’d taken down. “Everybody knows that stuff,” she said at first.
I grinned. “Nobody in the rest of the world knows what’s going on here. This will amaze people in the Estados Unidos, Canada, in Inglaterra.
At that time, pieces of the “Latin American Literary Boom” were appearing in Mexican newspapers and magazines, stirring pride if not understanding. The first bootleg snatches of an examination of Mexican culture were being passed around. Later, they would be called “The Labyrinth of Solitude,” by Octavio Paz that became the uber-text on Mexican character/culture. Paz was to become Mexico’s first and only Nobel Literary Laureate in 1990 in part because of ‘Labyrinth.”
But in that still early moment, Mexico’s literary boom was in its infancy. Eye-opening works by Jalisco authors were appearing nationally, and being hailed internationally. One of these was by Ciudad Guzman author Juan Jose Arreola, whose book “Confabulario” featured a seemingly innocent, short story, El Guardagujas (“The Switchman”). It was a brilliantly hilarious satiric portrait of Mexico’s flawed government-run rail service, Ferrocarriles Nacionales de Mexico. B. Traven’s “The Midnight Call” and “The Kidnapped Saint” also appeared. And the celebrated collected short stories “El Lano en Llamas,” by Juan Rulfo, who was soon called Jalisco’s — and Mexico’s — greatest writer.
Most people thought Boom-level tales were too “advanced” for Concha. I disagreed. I showed her newspapers and magazines from Mexico City and throughout the United States applauding this work and its authors. I hoped the articles and stories would hook her. Once hooked by an author, one reads in a new way, more slowly, probingly, intently, with greater curiosity — and an appetite for more. These stories were the core of a rustic educational plot to lure Concha back to elementary school. It didn’t.
The next rainy season was a mean one, with drought and a tromba — waterspout. Trombas, like hurricanes, raise hell. On the day the tromba arrived, Concha’s favorite calf was following its mother, a pet named Consuela, to a lush arroyo in a far pasture. You could see the tromba begin tearing at a nearby mountainside. Concha had her horse saddled and was racing for the arroyo before anyone noticed. Everybody was getting poultry, animals, implements out of the weather. I barely glimpsed her go over a hump in the nearest horse lot, and grabbed my horse. Chema Rosales asked if I was loco. I nodded at the horse lot. “Concha and her pet cattle.” “That is a dangerous-sized shower coming,” he said. “Bring her back, pronto. To hell with the cattle.”
When I got to ridge above the arroyo that made the pasture ahead such rich grazing, I saw two mounted young men pushing Concha’s Consuela and her calf. Just below where I paused, Concha was riding full tilt toward the young men. I kicked my bay gelding into a full-out run. Concha intended to take her cattle back. This day was getting crowded. It had started out being a quiet Tuesday morning.
As Concha came at the arroyo and the two boys herding her cattle, thunder stirred and another bolt of lightning hit the mountainside muffling her mount’s rush. She was going to ride right into them. But if they had a weapon. My horse began to slide down-hill. Concha, rope already out, went into the watery arroyo, and clipped one of the boys. I saw a rifle flip into the air as he lost his saddle. The other kid kicked his horse into a run to get away with the cattle. Then he must have thought of his companion. He swung back, swearing at Concha.
Concha, who spent her days roping everything that moved, had reached the middle of the arroyo. She held her rope well down the right side of her gelding — as her father taught her. The second kid was coming at her, pushing his mount over the edge of the arroyo. With a low, rising swing, Concho brought her loop up just over her horse’s head. It was a rising, easy looking throw over her mount’s ears, lifting up right at the boy’s face. Concha was already dallying her line around her saddle horn. She jerked her horse around to head uphill. When I got there, she had yanked that boy into his companion who was trying to get up the muddy bank. But the first one got loose, and hunting for his rifle. Wondering if he really intended to use it, I cast an unforgiving loop around his throat and yanked him back into the water.
We rode fast — the two kids in front of us — watching the tromba. I told Concha that if she could tackle stuff like this, she could dominar any schooling around. She nodded grimly “Pos si, I”ll try again. I like those stories. But I need help sometimes.”