what it means to witness ; Luis alBerto Urrea ’ 77
The story of Luis Alberto Urrea could fill 16 books . And it has — he ’ s written them . They ’ re not all about him , of course , but where he ’ s been , what he ’ s seen , the harsh realities of those living in no-man ’ s-land .
URREA HAS SEEN LIVES no one else has and his books have brought them into a greater consciousness and conversation . Those lives aren ’ t his own , but they are as close as it gets , as his books give them life beyond the page .
But this story isn ’ t about those books . Nor is it about the awards they ’ ve earned , the accolades and literary acclaim . Any search of Urrea ’ s name can yield all that . This is the story of Urrea before . The story of a UC San Diego student . One who didn ’ t have much . Who never really did .
Urrea was born into severe poverty in Tijuana , Mexico , in 1955 . His father , once an assistant to the vice president of Mexico , had fallen from favor , and his mother was American , a Staten Island native who spoke little Spanish . They lived on a dirt street in a house full of relatives until Urrea caught tuberculosis , whereupon the family moved to San Diego ’ s Logan Heights neighborhood . It was here in the barrio that a young Urrea recovered , but grew up somewhat as a misfit : a blondehaired , blue-eyed kid who wasn ’ t Mexican enough for the Mexicans , or American enough for the Americans . He was a child of the border , even at home . “ I was torn between the Americanness my mom wanted for me and the Mexicanness my father wanted ,” he often says . “ They were wrestling for cultural influence over me .”
After his parents divorced , Urrea moved to the suburbs of Clairemont . He became interested in drama and often escaped by writing poetry and lyrics for local bands . “ I was the guy in high school with the notebook ,” says Urrea . “ Others had drum sets and guitars . I became the writer guy because we were crushingly poor — from a broken home , no money , no car .”
No intention to attend college , either , but his mother , a blue-blood New Yorker , had other plans .
“ It was beyond my comprehension back then , but my mother pushed me hard ,” says Urrea . “ In spite of our rough beginnings , and diminished place in American culture , my mother was fierce in her classism . She looked around San Diego and said , ‘ The University of California , that ’ s the school ’— I ’ ll never forget it .”
UC SAN DIEGO WAS ONLY A FEW MILES from his home , but they were worlds apart . Urrea started college utterly overwhelmed , struggling to find his place and admittedly bombing his first quarter . He used what money he needed for textbooks and sent any extra to his mother . “ I was the first in my family to go to college . I felt so much responsibility suddenly on me ,” he says . He could feel his family , his nieces , nephews and half-siblings , all looking to him . “ I had no reason to believe that I had a bright , shiny future ahead ,” but still , his family eagerly watched with great expectation .
Urrea experimented with acting for a bit , and continued writing poetry before finally settling into a role with his college literary magazine and forming a bond with its advisor , literature professor
Lowry Pei . “ His nickname was ‘ Mad Dog ,’” Urrea remembers . “ He wore love beads , had a big drum in his office ; we had some wild people teaching here back then .” Along with professors like Donald Wesling and the greater literature department , Urrea found his place on campus as a writer , as well as an illustrator for various college publications . And even for a student who had very little , Urrea got along well enough for the first three years , until a family tragedy would leave him with even less .
Details of the episode are scant , but during the winter of Urrea ’ s senior year , his father drove to El Rosario , Sinaloa , Mexico , to withdraw $ 1,000 from a bank as a graduation present for his son . At some point during the drive home , however , his father ran afoul of Mexican federales and Sonoran police , and was beaten so badly he died from his injuries . A family friend called Urrea to come to Mexico to retrieve his father ’ s body . But the police expected to be paid . He had no choice . Urrea bought his father ’ s body with the same money that was sought for his graduation .
He returned to San Diego unable to speak , struck by the ruthlessness of the police and the devastating loss . But he could write . Though struggling through his final two quarters , he was encouraged by Pei to write about his experience — if only as a means of getting it out .
The resulting short story , “ Father Returns from the Mountain ,” and the feedback it garnered in class would become an unforgettable lesson in many ways . Urrea remembers meeting with Dr . Wesling : “ He called me into his office and said , ‘ You ’ re trying to wound me , you ’ re trying to hurt me . You ’ re shrieking at me , and the more you shriek , the less I will care about what happened to your father .’ And I remember thinking , this is the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me . But of course , he was quite wise .” Wesling added , “ This is a terrible event , but you need to control it if you ’ re going to write about it , so that as a reader , I can feel what I need to feel .”
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