Anyone who has never been to San Antonio can at least associate the city with the famous Alamo. Although many things portrayed in history about the Alamo are true, there are a plethora of things that are skipped over or left out completely. It’s unfortunate, but inevitable, that in history you only hear one side of a story, and that’s the winner’s side. Founded in 1718 the Alamo still has very sentimental meaning and is carried out everyday as historians tell about the legacy of the famous building. Even though many men like Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Stephen F. Austin were very heroic men, no one knows much about the heroic men that fought for the opposing side.
One man, Santa Anna, was not among the heroic, but a very well known man. Santa Anna was a dictator and a very powerful man. In 1824 he suspended the Constitution so no one had any rights. Some may say that Santa Anna did have a humane side due to the fact that he let all women and children go before battling at the Alamo. While many men fought for both sides 187 men lost their lives defending what they felt was right, Santa Anna told his troops to take no prisoners.
As I strolled along the streets of downtown San Antonio, I retraced the same steps that many people had in search to know more about my history. The Alamo isn’t just a place where men fought, died, and honored their beliefs, but the Alamo, to me, is the heart of San Antonio and because my ancestors and history lies in it, I know I’ll always “remember the Alamo”.
Word Count-279
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
....because of their singing praises, I believe.
Old, young, tall, short. People from next door and people from across the world walked the same steps I did into the glorious ancestor trailed church. As I strolled into the average sized church I couldn't help but look straight up. I usually get the same feeling when entering the house of the Lord, but this time i felt touched. Touched by the spirits of the indigenous, touched by the atmosphere of the church, and touched by the beauty that cascades from top to bottom.
Arriving early was a must, according to those who have attended regularly, but even a spot standing in the back of the room is as much sought after as the first row seats. I sat next to an elder Hispanic woman and her daughter who attend the service weekly. As the father asked the congregation about locals and vacationers I was appauled at the plethora of tourists. After gazing at the non-locals I tried to imagine where they were from and if they had ever experienced something as memorable as I was at the very moment. Coming from a family who has changed religions and churches more than five times in my life, this mass was constantly reassuring my belief in Catholicism.
It wasn't hard for me to find the way to San Jose, and it was hard for me to pray in church, but I was very fearful about going in alone. I then realized that I wasn't alone, I was with my family, my ancestors, my neighbors, and the Lord.
The service wasn't boring or dragged out like I had witnessed before, but rather lively. The mariachis really added life to the hundreds of years old church by pouring their hearts and souls into the sound of their music. I stared unaware at the young woman whose voice of an angel called out to me like a strangers hand reaching across the dinner table for prayer. Looking to my left, I could see a tear fall from the eye of the elderly Hispanic woman as she engulfed the sentimental language of the song, as if she were singing it herself. Without explanation I couldn't help but shed a few tears myself as many of the congregation clapped their hands and sang along, those who knew the words.
One aspect I was so ecstatic to learn about was that the service was in English and Spanish. Being a minor in Spanish, I could incorporate my knowledge into the church service. The bi-lingual gospel was such a beautiful experience. Even though not everyone understood English or Spanish, the language barrier wasn't enough to keep them from praising and witnessing the beauty of the mass.
As we filed out one by one the mariachis sang what seemed to be no ordinary hymn, but a praise to all. I hadn't been to church in over six months, but this experience not only changed my mind about committing to attending church regularly, but also enhanced my faith even more than before.
Arriving early was a must, according to those who have attended regularly, but even a spot standing in the back of the room is as much sought after as the first row seats. I sat next to an elder Hispanic woman and her daughter who attend the service weekly. As the father asked the congregation about locals and vacationers I was appauled at the plethora of tourists. After gazing at the non-locals I tried to imagine where they were from and if they had ever experienced something as memorable as I was at the very moment. Coming from a family who has changed religions and churches more than five times in my life, this mass was constantly reassuring my belief in Catholicism.
It wasn't hard for me to find the way to San Jose, and it was hard for me to pray in church, but I was very fearful about going in alone. I then realized that I wasn't alone, I was with my family, my ancestors, my neighbors, and the Lord.
The service wasn't boring or dragged out like I had witnessed before, but rather lively. The mariachis really added life to the hundreds of years old church by pouring their hearts and souls into the sound of their music. I stared unaware at the young woman whose voice of an angel called out to me like a strangers hand reaching across the dinner table for prayer. Looking to my left, I could see a tear fall from the eye of the elderly Hispanic woman as she engulfed the sentimental language of the song, as if she were singing it herself. Without explanation I couldn't help but shed a few tears myself as many of the congregation clapped their hands and sang along, those who knew the words.
One aspect I was so ecstatic to learn about was that the service was in English and Spanish. Being a minor in Spanish, I could incorporate my knowledge into the church service. The bi-lingual gospel was such a beautiful experience. Even though not everyone understood English or Spanish, the language barrier wasn't enough to keep them from praising and witnessing the beauty of the mass.
As we filed out one by one the mariachis sang what seemed to be no ordinary hymn, but a praise to all. I hadn't been to church in over six months, but this experience not only changed my mind about committing to attending church regularly, but also enhanced my faith even more than before.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Every Brick Tells a Story...
I couldn’t help but hide the fact that I’d never visited any of the Missions in San Antonio. Although embarrassed, the enthusiasm and anticipation of what was to come engulfed me as my best friend, Kristin, and I parked at Mission Francisco de Espada. While gathering in the courtyard with classmates, I couldn’t escape that my ancestors walked this very ground that I stood upon. Our tour guide, Park Ranger Dora V. Martinez, enlightened us of a brief history before we started on our journey back in time to get a feel of what it was like living at Mission Espada.
Mission Espada was first established in Mississippi in 1690. It was later moved to what is now known as Austin in 1720 and in 1731 arrived at its third and final residence of present day San Antonio, Texas. Although we say the mission was moved, the buildings were never lifted and carried from one site to another; the only things that moved were people and documents, such as birth certificates, death certificates, etc. While strolling along the courtyard perimeters it was evident that Mission Espada was not just a home for Spaniards and Native Americans, but also a battleground and protection facility for many. My classmates and I discovered many holes in the walls that seemed to have been put there purposely. These holes were where many of the men rested their firearms in an attempt to shield their land and family against the Apaches and Comanche tribes. The gunshots only reached a mere fifteen feet, so the soldiers had to literally wait until they could see the “whites of their eyes” in order to know they had a clear enough shot.
Many are falsely led to believe that the churches of these missions are the sole purpose for their existence. Although the first church of Mission Espada was not strong enough to stay standing, the second one was. The church is still an active house of worship. The church doors have a mysterious story, maybe because no one is certain if it is true or not. A mason who designed the archway of the outside outline of the church doors fled/ran away one night. Later, research leads us to find that a mason fled because he killed a man over a woman and didn’t want to be hung for his crime. All the archway pieces were pre-cut, but because of job security, on the mason knew where each piece went. Since no other person could figure out the puzzle, the archway of the church ended up being narrower than expected.
Our last stop was the courtyard. We ended where we had started, and this was what touched me most of all. As I listened to Ranger Martinez, her voice became more of a narrative voice as I vision men and boys weaving clothing, and women farming the crops. Being in ninety-degree heat I pictured men’s blistered backs because there weren’t enough trees to block the sun from hitting them as hard as they dug the asequia.
There may only be brick and rock, and a few building left standing, but to me this mission is still very much alive. The spirits that still roam the soil touch every bit of beauty that this mission has left. I felt my ancestors there, and could see the great things that they started. I have yet to see all the missions, but tomorrow is never too late.
Mission Espada was first established in Mississippi in 1690. It was later moved to what is now known as Austin in 1720 and in 1731 arrived at its third and final residence of present day San Antonio, Texas. Although we say the mission was moved, the buildings were never lifted and carried from one site to another; the only things that moved were people and documents, such as birth certificates, death certificates, etc. While strolling along the courtyard perimeters it was evident that Mission Espada was not just a home for Spaniards and Native Americans, but also a battleground and protection facility for many. My classmates and I discovered many holes in the walls that seemed to have been put there purposely. These holes were where many of the men rested their firearms in an attempt to shield their land and family against the Apaches and Comanche tribes. The gunshots only reached a mere fifteen feet, so the soldiers had to literally wait until they could see the “whites of their eyes” in order to know they had a clear enough shot.
Many are falsely led to believe that the churches of these missions are the sole purpose for their existence. Although the first church of Mission Espada was not strong enough to stay standing, the second one was. The church is still an active house of worship. The church doors have a mysterious story, maybe because no one is certain if it is true or not. A mason who designed the archway of the outside outline of the church doors fled/ran away one night. Later, research leads us to find that a mason fled because he killed a man over a woman and didn’t want to be hung for his crime. All the archway pieces were pre-cut, but because of job security, on the mason knew where each piece went. Since no other person could figure out the puzzle, the archway of the church ended up being narrower than expected.
Our last stop was the courtyard. We ended where we had started, and this was what touched me most of all. As I listened to Ranger Martinez, her voice became more of a narrative voice as I vision men and boys weaving clothing, and women farming the crops. Being in ninety-degree heat I pictured men’s blistered backs because there weren’t enough trees to block the sun from hitting them as hard as they dug the asequia.
There may only be brick and rock, and a few building left standing, but to me this mission is still very much alive. The spirits that still roam the soil touch every bit of beauty that this mission has left. I felt my ancestors there, and could see the great things that they started. I have yet to see all the missions, but tomorrow is never too late.
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