No, really, I'm American

There's a discussion I've had from time to time. It goes something like:

Interlocutor: "What nationality are you?"

Sasquatch: "I'm American."

Interlocutor: "Well, I'm Mexican, which means I'm American, too. You should call yourself 'a United States citizen.'"

Sasquatch: "Well, I'm from the United States of America, so I'm American. The official name of Mexico is Los Estados Unidos de México, but you don't seem to have a problem with calling yourselves Mexican. So why shouldn't I be allowed to call myself American for my nationality. What gives?"

The conversation then devolves into an "am too/are not" and ultimately goes nowhere. In Spanish, the descriptor for someone from the United States is estadounidense, essentially "unitedstatesian." If someone is from the United States of Mexico, then why isn't he/she estadounidense as well?

If you're native Spanish speaker who can shed some light on this seeming inconsistency in the application of estadounidense, I'd love to learn more about it. If you don't speak Spanish and have a theory that might hold some water, I'd love to hear that, too.

Don't let this happen to you

Rocky and the Art Museum (Part III of Sasquatch's Southwestern Sojourn)

On Sunday, I went with RM and Mrs. RM for a horseback riding lesson. Those of you who know me can stop snickering already. This wasn't a typical trail ride situation, where they basically stick you on a horse and send you down a path the horse has traveled a million times. This was an honest-to-god, start from scratch lesson.

RM rides Western style, and Mrs. RM rides English style. Considering that the saddle is much larger in the Western style, I chose it because I figured I would need all the help I could get to stay on the horse.

I'm scared to death of horses, so I was looking at this morning's activities as a challenge that needed surmounting. (Get it? Horses? Surmounting?) I figure that any animal that can look me in the eye without any effort is an animal worth a bit of respect (or fear, in my case).

Aside from knowing that I feared them, I knew really nothing much else about horses, so this was turning out to be quite an adventure. First, we retrieved my horse from his paddock. His name is Rocky, and he's 22 years old. This is a good thing, because I needed a horse who would be compliant and not up for any sort of mischief. We (the trainer and I) led Rocky from the paddock to the prep area (if there's a technical name for this part of the stable, please let me know). Once we got him attached to the fence in the prep area, I had to slide my hand down his legs and use a hoof pick on his feet. This is to make sure there are no rocks stuck between the shoe and foot, and also to check the status of the hoof. Next, I had to brush him with a curry comb, and then with the body and face brush. I brushed this horse for nearly half an hour, and he still had dust coming out of his coat. I think he manufactured it, frankly.

Once he was brushed, it was time for the application of the saddle. RM had an extra, so he was kind enough to let me use it. I put on the saddle blanket, the pad, and the saddle. I'm not all that mighty, but the stable owner seemed a bit impressed that I could just hoist the saddle up and over the horse in one smooth motion. Good for me. I got it in the right position, just behind the withers.

Then it was time to apply the bridle, which I wasn't about to attempt. I asked the stable owner to help me with this, because I didn't fancy putting my hand very close to the horse's mouth. Also, he had lots of green foamy stuff all around his lips, which made him look like Nort the Weedeater. Creepy. Once he was bridled, we walked over to the ring where the exciting stuff would take place. Not to sound horribly negative, but I think one of the worst parts of the entire experience was just walking the horse from place to place. His head was right next to mine, and it made me really uncomfortable. He was pretty low-key about the whole thing, though, so the transit occurred without incident.

I made it on top of the saddle, and just sat there for a few moments, just taking in the view and the realization that I (more or less) had gotten this animal ready to do this, and that I was actually doing this. Up to this point, I have failed to mention that it was only about 35F outside, so everything we did was COLD. Riding a horse in this weather just makes you colder, unless you're the horse. RM and Mrs. RM did their thing, while I was given basic instructions by the stable owner.

RM looks a little chilly, no?

My heels are down, just like they're supposed to be...

I was instructed how to hold the reins, and not to put my other hand on the saddle horn. I did the "click-click" thing with my tongue and squeezed my legs together, and we started moving. This was so cool. We walked around the perimeter of the ring a couple of times, and then I was told we should trot. Trotting, in theory, sounds wonderful. In practice it's something completely different. Because I don't know how to post (that is, stand in the stirrups and bounce gracefully with the rhythm of the horse), I just caromed off the saddle repeatedly. My theory is that you start riding at 6'2" and end up at 5'8" after your spine compresses from trotting.

We trotted around the ring, and then made circles at a trot. Rocky was a bit lazy—after we would take a corner at a trot he would automatically slow down to a walk. While my spine appreciated it, it didn't make the whole "you're supposed to slow down when I tell you to slow down" part of the relationship work. So I would click again and squeeze again and we'd commence trotting again.

The coolest thing for me (and I'm so simple-minded that this was cool for me) was the overback maneuver. Essentially, you're sitting there on your horse, but you want the horse to face the other direction. Simply by pushing in with the outside knee and just laying (not pulling on) the reins on the outside of the horse's neck, the horse will turn 180 degrees and stay put. Also, you have to turn your head in the direction you want the animal to turn, because although it doesn't look like it, horses can see pretty far behind them. The head turning is the visual cue they need to complete the maneuver. I did this overback thing probably 20 times or so, just because I was amazed that a knee and a skinny piece of leather could make a half-ton animal do what I wanted him to do.

I'm an old cowhand...

After about 90 minutes of being amazed and spinally compressed, the lesson was over. I walked Rocky back over to the prep area, where I unsaddled him and then brushed him again. I helped take his bridle off, because that's something he actually *wanted* me to do, so he didn't fight it at all. I gave him a carrot and then took him back to his stall. I was freezing, and covered in dust, but it was fantastic. I just hoped that my four-times-over great-grandfather, who was in the 4th Iowa Cavalry in the Civil War, was even slightly proud of me.

Never would I have thought that I would be able to pull this off.

From the stable, we went for coffee (highly necessary after two hours outside), and then to the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History. We saw a great temporary exhibit ("Prelude to Spanish Modernism: Fortuny to Picasso"), to which RM was able to add great value and insight, as he is quite the accomplished painter himself. The history of Albuquerque is also presented, and there are lots of artifacts from the conquistadors. Absolutely fascinating. We took in a quick (and cold and windy) tour of Old Town Albuquerque, and then went for dinner and one more round of Scrabble. I'm pleased to say that I won the last game.

This little guy is in front of the museum.
He looks so happy for someone who's going to be dinner shortly...

The next day I was at the airport at 6:00 a.m., saying goodbye to RM. It went very quickly, and it was great to see him and meet his wife. Hopefully it won't be another six years before we get together again.

El Morro and the Zuni Reservation (Part II of Sasquatch's Southwestern Sojourn)

On Saturday, I was up before the dawn (just like in the Supertramp song). The Colonel gave me a ride to RM's house, where Mrs. RM was making blueberry pancakes from scratch. Fantastic pancakes. Did I mention that Mrs. RM cooks really, really well?

Sufficiently stuffed, RM and I then hit the road for El Morro, also known as Inscription Rock. It's about a two-hour drive there from Albuquerque. We had a supply of water and roasted piñon nuts to keep us from starving. Piñon nuts are pine nuts, but they're not the same ones that you'd find in commercially-available pesto. Because this particular breed of pine nuts isn't commercially available, there's a cottage industry built around them. They have to fall from a piñon tree and be harvested off the ground—it's a fairly labor-intensive task as I understand it. Before I had one, I asked RM what they tasted like. He said the most accurate description he could come up with was "creamy." As usual, he was right. You eat them with the shell on and they're really good, even if you still have tiny bits of shell floating around your mouth 20 minutes after you've finished. According to a few sources, you can make a really good pesto out of these if you're willing to put in some effort...

On the road to El Morro

El Morro is a National Park Service site. It's 200 feet tall and made mainly of sandstone. There's a waterhole at the bottom of it, which made it a popular stopping point for travelers. Starting in the late 1500s, the Spanish—and later Americans—passed by El Morro. Many of these travelers would carve their names into the soft rock at the base of the bluff. Well ahead of them, the inhabitants carved various petroglyphs. Don Juan de Oñate, the first Spanish governor of New Mexico, made the first European carving, saying "Passed by here the Governor Don Juan de Oñate, from the discovery of the Sea of the South on the 16th of April 1605." Depending on whom you believe, he either made it or didn't, and may have been hedging a bit by making this grand pronouncement in the rock.

Oñate's CYA inscription.
Note the care he took to avoid carving over the petroglyph...

El Morro from the back side.
That thing looks like it's going to fall off, but the Park Service is keeping a careful eye on it.

After a two-mile hike to the top, RM and I saw the box canyon formed by the bluff (I kept thinking of Roland and the thinny from Book IV of the "Dark Tower" series), as well as the ruins of an 875-room pueblo. The view from the top of El Morro is fantastic, even when the weather isn't cooperating (we were freezing). Once we hiked back down, I bought a copy of "The Pueblo Revolt."

The view from the top of El Morro

A few of the 875 rooms

The intrepid explorers having summited El Morro

We had a quick lunch of apples, piñon, and Mrs. RM's ginger snaps, and then headed off for Zuni. The Zuni Indians* are one of the Pueblo peoples, with about 6,000 population. This was the first time I'd ever been to a reservation before, excepting a brief pass-through in South Dakota when I was 14. I didn't really know what to expect—it was quite an eye-opener. The land surrounding the pueblo is beautiful, especially the principal mesa just outside of town. It's considered sacred, and RM told me I shouldn't photograph it. No problem. I was there to be educated, not to offend anyone. (I found out later that a photo permit is available for purchase. Apparently a bit of commerce will mitigate any offense that might be taken, at least regarding the natural splendor. You still aren't allowed to photograph anything that deals with ritual, and that makes perfect sense to me.) The thing that was most striking to me was the poverty that seemed to prevail throughout the pueblo. I've done a little research, and found that around 43% of the Zuni live below the poverty line. We stopped in at the Zuni Visitor Center to look at the various fetishes and silverwork. Once we got back to the car, a guy in his mid-20s came up to my side and asked us for money. We gave him around $5 or so, but it made me uncomfortable—not the guy himself, as he didn't seem threatening—that it was somewhat de rigeur to hit up the tourists for cash like that. I asked RM about it, and he said that he didn't really mind it, considering the hospitality he'd been shown by the Zuni when he was there for the Shalako Ceremony last year.

The Shalako Ceremony is the most important event of the year for the Zuni. The Shalako are the gods' messengers, and run back and forth all year long with messages, as well as bringing moisture and rain when needed. When they leave, the carry the Zunis' prayers for rain. As I didn't see the Shalako Ceremony, I can't really do it any justice. If you can ignore the cartoon at the top of this page, the text below will outline the ceremony for you. RM and Mrs. RM have been invited back this year—they'll be there this weekend, in fact. I'm looking forward to hearing about it.

From the Zuni reservation, we went to the Navajo reservation to visit the parents of one of RM's friends. They weren't home, so we headed north to Gallup, which is along old Route 66. We stopped for gas, and visited one of the myriad Indian artwork/jewelry stores there. Some of the pottery is absolutely amazing, but I have a real thing (not a good one) about the texture of unglazed pottery, so I probably couldn't have most of it in my home. After being subjected to a bit of the hard sell by the woman working there, RM and I made our way east on I-40 through a torrential downpour. I was glad he was driving.

Again, there was much Scrabble played once we got home, and again, I lost. Grrrrr....

The final installment of my New Mexican adventure will appear shortly

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* Before you take me to task regarding the use of "Indian" rather than "Native American," I am using the same rationale used by Fergus M. Bordewich in his book Killing the White Man's Indian. On pages 19–20, he says that

...the more formal "Native American" feels strained and unsatisfactory, and implies that other people born in the United States are somehow less "native" than, say, a Yaqui immigrant from Mexico or than someone who may be only one-thirty-second Cherokee by measure of "blood quantum" but who nonetheless meets the criteria for membership in that tribe. "Indian" has the virtue of clarity; it remains by far the most commonly used term among natives themselves and the established form for organizations such as the National Congress of American Indians, the radical American Indian Movement, and the new National Museum of the American Indian, for such agencies as the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the Indian Health Services, and as part of the official name of most modern tribes.