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Hey Hombre, Go Back Where You Belong

Alex de Cruz

     After my fiancee said she’d found someone else and broke off our engagement, sending back the ring, I’d been devastated. I grew weary of friends and relatives saying, “Miguel, I’m so sorry to hear your wedding was called off. What the heck happened?”
    I’d mumble something like, “We both agreed; we just weren’t right for each other.”
    I started to avoid people I knew. I needed a fresh start, so I jumped at a job offer from a company in Madison, Wisconsin.
    As a Latino coming from San Antonio with its rich Hispanic culture, Madison was quite a cultural shock for me. I worked and socialized with Anglos, who were generally welcoming and far more racially open minded than in Texas, but I still felt like an outsider.
    I ran into a group of folks from work returning from lunch together one day. One of them remarked, “Oh Miguel, we didn’t invite you because we went to a sushi bar and didn’t think you’d like it.”
    I replied, “I’ve always liked fish, especially ceviche. All because I’m Hispanic, I don’t just eat tacos and tortillas you know.”
    When I got out into rural Wisconsin, I’d encountered some down-right racist remarks.
    After being in Madison for several months, I was thinking moving there was a mistake. Although I’d made some superficial acquaintances, I couldn’t call any of them real friends. I’d met a couple of women whose company I enjoyed, but didn’t foresee any becoming a serious relationship.
    One day I was sitting at Starbucks, when a woman near me remarked, “Excuse me, but I just noticed you’re reading the same book as I am.” I turned my head, and to my surprise, saw a young Hispanic woman about my age, with beautiful brown eyes and a smile that radiated warmth.
    We started chatting and really hit it off. She was studying architecture at the University of Wisconsin on a scholarship and had grown up in Arizona. Her name was Maria, and before she left she gave me her phone number.
    The next day, I texted Maria about getting together for dinner and was pleasantly surprised, that almost immediately I received her response, “Miguel, sounds great.”
    While I walked Maria home from dinner, she mentioned she used to go horseback riding as a teenager, and said, “I’d love to find a good place around Madison to go riding.”
    “Gee, I know a great riding stable about an hour away, that this old cowboy-type guy, named Charlie, owns. I often go riding there.” I responded.
    Maria surprised me again by immediately saying, “Miguel, let’s go together this weekend.”
    I’d grown up on a small cattle ranch in Southern Colorado and ridden in junior rodeo as a teenager. I looked forward to riding at Charlie’s stable on Saturdays and enjoyed shooting the bull with Charlie. He had also ridden rodeo in his youth, and he reminded me a lot of guys I met on the rodeo circuit.
    When I phoned Charlie to make reservations, he said in his usual drawl, “Yeh, I remember you, Miguel, cause you’re a good rider. I get so damn many beginners here, who’re a pain in the ass.”
    When we arrived at the stable, they already had two horses saddled for us. Charlie walked over, his ever-present Stetson hat pulled low, looking like the Marlboro man, but one that didn’t smoke. He remarked, “Miguel, I’ve got Corky here for you. I ride him myself.” Corky was a beautiful chestnut-colored stallion.
    He said to Maria, “Misty shouldn’t give you any trouble and be a nice ride, young lady.” Yes, Charlie was old-fashion and used terms like “young lady.”
    Maria reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a carrot she gave to Misty, a nice looking bay-colored mare. I could see they’d get along just fine.
    Once we were mounted up and ready to go, Charlie said to me, “You know the trails Miguel and don’t need a guide. Enjoy your ride and feel free to give the horses a good workout.”
    The day was perfect for horseback riding, sunny, but not too warm, with a light breeze rustling the vibrant-green spring leaves. The air felt alive with a symphony of chirping birds, although you frequently couldn’t spot them hidden in the new foliage.
    Maria enthused at one point. “Isn’t it just gorgeous. Look at that pretty carpet of little purple wildflowers over there. Do you know what they are?”
    “Yeh, I think they’re crocuses,” I replied. I took a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful fresh scents of spring.
    We walked or trotted the horses on the trails through the woods and galloped across several open fields, giving Corky and Misty a good workout. Corky and I were getting along like old friends and Maria seemed to be thrilled with Misty.
    When we reached Miller’s Creek, which bordered Charlie’s property, I suggested, “How about taking a break here.” We dismounted.
    Mostly we sat soaking in the moment, feeling the warmth of the spring sun on our skin, and watching and listening to a natural world alive with new life. The horses were standing in the shallow water, noisily lapping it up. Maria looked wonderful.
    As we entered a large open field, I lightheartedly challenged Maria. “I’ll race you to that old oak tree on the other side.” Without saying a word, Maria kicked Misty and took off like a flash. Giving Corky a firm tap with my heels and slap with the end of the reins, I set off in pursuit.
    We had almost caught up, when Corky suddenly veered off and pulled up lame. Patting Corky on the neck and whispering soothing words in his ear, I hailed Maria. “Wait up. Corky’s hurt.”
    After dismounting, I could see that Corky was favoring his left-front leg. Examining it, I couldn’t see anything wrong, even checking his hoof to see if a sharp pebble had become stuck in it. I walked back to find out if there were any holes that Corky might have stepped in, but spotted nothing.
    Since the stable was less than a half mile away, I walked the rest of the way holding Corky’s reins. I felt badly that Corky got hurt, but didn’t feel responsible.
    As we entered the barn, Charlie walked over. He didn’t look pleased, and snapped with a derisive tone, “Hey hombre, what and the hell did you do to my horse.”
    Maybe I was being overly sensitive to the racial connotation of “hombre”, when said in a derogatory manner, remembering people talking about Mexicans as “bad hombres,” but his remark set me off.
    I told Charlie, “Hey, my name’s not hombre, it’s Miguel, and I didn’t do anything to your horse.” I then started to explain what had happened.
    Charlie cut me off before I was finished and then uttered something inexcusable, “Hey hombre, why don’t you go back where you belong.”
    I erupted. “You racist bigot! Where do you think I belong, Mexico, because my skin’s brown. I have ancestors, who’ve lived in Southern Colorado and Northern New Mexico since the 1800’s. We have the land deeds to prove it.”
    “We can trace my family tree in this country back over six generations”
    Before things went any further and one of us started swinging (and we know who the sheriff would arrest), Maria had the good sense to take firm hold of my arm and lead me out of the barn, while saying, “Come on let’s go. You both need to cool off.”
     As soon as we got in my car, I turned to her and said, “Maria, I’m not letting anyone get away with a racial comment like Charlie made.”
    She just replied, “I understand, but my father had a bad temper, which is a long story. Arguing like that never settles anything.”
    I didn’t know what to say beyond, “Maria, I’m sorry.” To relieve the silence in the car as we drove back to Madison, I turned on the radio to my favorite classical music station. A Bach concerto was playing.
    Maria spent most of the time watching the scenery. She was upset; I just didn’t realize how much.
    When we got to her apartment, she opened the car door and hopped out before I could get out to open it for her. Leaning her head back in, she said, “Thanks very much,” and then turned and walked to her front door.
    After a few days, I texted Maria about getting together after work.
    I got this text back, “N/A.” She was also “not available” for anything else I invited her to do over the next several days.
    When I phoned her later, the call went to voicemail and she never called back.

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