His name was Perfecto Ochoa. He was born in Woodward, Texas on June 13th, 1924. The town doesn't actually exist anymore. From what I understand, Woodward's population dwindled in the 1930's and declined to ten residents by the year 2000. My grandfather's family had at least two ranches in the area. He would often tell us the story of how his parents would go to one ranch and leave him with a rifle, a horse, and a bag of frijoles. He would hunt animals for meat, like birds and rabbits, but he would remind us that he was only around nine years old and he would spend many nights alone and crying. During the great depression, his family traveled the U.S. looking for farm work. They went from California to Michigan. Somewhere in there, like many Mexicans who owned land in Texas, they lost their land to the government due to some tax or law they didn't know about.
Let me be very clear about something. My grandfather's first language was Spanish. However, as far as he was concerned, he was Tejano. He never referred to himself as Mexican. He states that his grandfather was born in Texas. So, even though Texas was once part of Mexico, like all other Texans, he was proud of being from Texas. Although he was proud, he said that his family often had to keep a low profile because the white Texans would actually hunt African-Americans, and the Spanish-speaking Texans dare not get involved. He never went to school, nor did he learn how to read, but he taught me quite a bit.
As a young adult, he tried a brief stint as a coyote, or someone who sneaks Mexicans across the border. He said that he got caught the first time he tried, and almost went to jail. One of his relatives worked in law enforcement so he made a deal with him that if he enlisted in the army, he would not have to serve any time.
So Perfecto tried to join the army, but they didn't accept him because he had flat feet. I'm not sure what that was all about, but that's what he said. Eventually he moved to the Chicago area like many did during industrial times, and married a Dutch woman named Hilda, which was very controversial in those times. He worked for, and retired from the railroad. I remember when I was little I just assumed he drove the trains and thought about how cool his job must've been.
My grandfather was never a very religious man, and he never belonged to a church. However, when he was diagnosed with cancer last February, and the doctors told him he had about three months to live, he swore that he was going to shock the doctors. He almost made it a year. But what I admired most during this time was his very matter of fact attitude about death. Whenever I visited and asked him how he was feeling, he would say, "Good, for now." Then he would point upward and say, "Until He decides its time." It wasn't until his last few days that, as he struggled through the discomfort, a slight impatience set in and he would beg God at night to take him. As a Muslim, I am taught that sickness before death can bring about God's forgiveness for mistakes you have made. I envied him for having that time, but most of all, I admired his courage and total submission to God's will in the last year of his life.
I visited him two days ago. It was the first day that he stopped speaking. As I was about to leave I had the blessing of a very bitter sweet memory. My aunts were about to clean him up a bit, and I asked how I could help. So they asked me to lift and tilt him on his side. As I leaned down and tilted him toward me, his hands were up on his chest and his face was right in front of mine. He whimpered a bit, very much like a child who his sick or half asleep. It was very sad seeing my grandfather like that, but I must not forget that he once saw me like that. And at one time in my life he may have held my whimpering face close to his when I was a baby, his second grandson, who happened to look a lot like him. So, as I looked at him and saw my old age, I also saw my grandfather returning to his Lord in the helpless, weak state in which we are born into this world.
In the last few hours of his life, my grandpa began to struggle to breathe. All of his children that were in town, where called to his house and stood around his bed to say a prayer led by a local clergyman. As his wife and children finished the prayer, they said "Amen" and my grandpa took his last breath and passed away. Grandpa, we fished together, fixed pipes together, worked together, painted together, when junking together, and danced together. My high school friends used to tease me and say I'm going to look just like you when I get old. I just hope that I can face death with as much courage and submission to God's will as you did, knowing that from God we come and to Him we all return. Vaya con Dios.
Let me be very clear about something. My grandfather's first language was Spanish. However, as far as he was concerned, he was Tejano. He never referred to himself as Mexican. He states that his grandfather was born in Texas. So, even though Texas was once part of Mexico, like all other Texans, he was proud of being from Texas. Although he was proud, he said that his family often had to keep a low profile because the white Texans would actually hunt African-Americans, and the Spanish-speaking Texans dare not get involved. He never went to school, nor did he learn how to read, but he taught me quite a bit.
As a young adult, he tried a brief stint as a coyote, or someone who sneaks Mexicans across the border. He said that he got caught the first time he tried, and almost went to jail. One of his relatives worked in law enforcement so he made a deal with him that if he enlisted in the army, he would not have to serve any time.
So Perfecto tried to join the army, but they didn't accept him because he had flat feet. I'm not sure what that was all about, but that's what he said. Eventually he moved to the Chicago area like many did during industrial times, and married a Dutch woman named Hilda, which was very controversial in those times. He worked for, and retired from the railroad. I remember when I was little I just assumed he drove the trains and thought about how cool his job must've been.
My grandfather was never a very religious man, and he never belonged to a church. However, when he was diagnosed with cancer last February, and the doctors told him he had about three months to live, he swore that he was going to shock the doctors. He almost made it a year. But what I admired most during this time was his very matter of fact attitude about death. Whenever I visited and asked him how he was feeling, he would say, "Good, for now." Then he would point upward and say, "Until He decides its time." It wasn't until his last few days that, as he struggled through the discomfort, a slight impatience set in and he would beg God at night to take him. As a Muslim, I am taught that sickness before death can bring about God's forgiveness for mistakes you have made. I envied him for having that time, but most of all, I admired his courage and total submission to God's will in the last year of his life.
I visited him two days ago. It was the first day that he stopped speaking. As I was about to leave I had the blessing of a very bitter sweet memory. My aunts were about to clean him up a bit, and I asked how I could help. So they asked me to lift and tilt him on his side. As I leaned down and tilted him toward me, his hands were up on his chest and his face was right in front of mine. He whimpered a bit, very much like a child who his sick or half asleep. It was very sad seeing my grandfather like that, but I must not forget that he once saw me like that. And at one time in my life he may have held my whimpering face close to his when I was a baby, his second grandson, who happened to look a lot like him. So, as I looked at him and saw my old age, I also saw my grandfather returning to his Lord in the helpless, weak state in which we are born into this world.
In the last few hours of his life, my grandpa began to struggle to breathe. All of his children that were in town, where called to his house and stood around his bed to say a prayer led by a local clergyman. As his wife and children finished the prayer, they said "Amen" and my grandpa took his last breath and passed away. Grandpa, we fished together, fixed pipes together, worked together, painted together, when junking together, and danced together. My high school friends used to tease me and say I'm going to look just like you when I get old. I just hope that I can face death with as much courage and submission to God's will as you did, knowing that from God we come and to Him we all return. Vaya con Dios.
