Laurel Anne Hill

Laurel And Hidalgo, Part V

The History of Alta California:
A Memoir of Mexican California by Antonio Maria Osio

Once upon a time, our ancestors passed on family and community histories through oral storytelling. Over time, some narrators embellished the stories and/or inserted their own opinions. Others didn’t. Oral storytellers could drift from a topic and then return, without any publisher’s editorial team waving red pens in protest. Thus, traditional oral storytelling differs from when the typical modern author performs a reading of his or her own published work. Hold that thought.

Antonio Maria Osio knew how to engage a reader in the style of “written” oral storytelling. He used a conversational omniscient narrator. Although not a scholarly man by today’s standards, Osio was scholarly in comparison to many others worldwide during his time. And he knew how and when to draw upon his own knowledge of classical literature. He certainly engaged me, despite the hard fact he appears to have been less sensitive to the plight of Native Americans than I am—typical of his times, even for people with mixed DNA.

So, how did Antonio Maria Osio accomplish writing his meaningful memoir? He looked many truths in the face without forsaking the ability to interject a bit of humor or even sarcasm. For example, his witty description of a group of angry Californio women speaks volumes. “A snake which is seized by a falcon and dropped for the first time is not as angry as those women were at that moment.” And his description of Don Mariano Chico, was beautiful. “Don Mariano Chico will prove for no reason at all with the tip of his sword that three plus two do not equal five.” I love his description of one particular mission padre who tried to fend off a more-than-likely well-deserved attack by Native Americans: “His arms, quickly loading and firing, moved even more skillfully than they did when he was collecting alms.”

If you decide to read The History of Alta California: A Memoir of Mexican California, please read the introduction before the rest of the book. The introduction provides information about Osio’s manuscript, written while the fate of Alta California in the hands of the USA still burned fresh in his mind, and before Hubert Howe Bancroft approached various Californios years later to obtain their biographies. In fact, it appears Bancroft—pushing his own paternalistic agenda—later stole and included his own (and less accurate) version of Osio’s story in his library—now at the University of California in Berkeley. Thus the translation of Osio’s original work by Rose Marie Beebe and Robert M. Senkewicz (and published by the University of Wisconsin in 1996) shines with particular importance. Plus well over 100 pages of notes, biographical sketches, glossary, bibliography, and other information follow Osio’s remembrances translated by Beebe and Senkewicz.

I doubt we are related, Señor Osio, based on my research of my Mexican family ancestry. Too bad. If we were (and I knew it) I would have tried harder to write at least one story with a conversational omniscient narrator. Guess I’ll just continue writing and reading all my stories (such as Plague of Flies: Revolt of the Spirits, 1846, recently accepted for publication by Sand Hill Review Press) with a first or close third person point of view. If we happen to meet during some future Day of the Dead, please don’t hold my more modern writing style against me.

Laurel And Hidalgo: Part IV

Hello readers! Welcome to the fourth episode of On the Hidalgo Treaty Road: the twisted path leading into and out of the Mexican-American War in the Nineteenth Century.

I used my most recent post (Laurel And Hidalgo, Part III) to vent some smoke out my ears, nose, mouth and fingertips. For this post, I promise to keep my Spanish galleon and my Yankee clipper ship on more even keels. And with gentle comments instead of keel-hauling anyone.

As I’ve claimed, I read a lot of books while researching Alta California’s history for my new YA/historical fantasy/magical realism novel: A Plague of Flies: Revolt of the Spirits, 1846. The one I’d like to mention today is Reference Book #3: The Anza Trail and the Settling of California, by Vladimir Guerrero, Heyday Books, Berkeley, CA 2006.

Raise your hand if you actually recall reading or hearing anything about Juan Bautista de Anza and his expeditions through “the wilds” of Alta California in the Eighteenth Century. I grew up in San Francisco, passing by one “Anza Street” sign or another upon a number of occasions. (I lived my first 17 years in a more impoverished section of the city.) I’d almost retired from my day job in Richmond, CA, before I finally took the time to read any book about Anza and his part in the “settling” of Alta California by Spaniards—or the “unsettling” of the indigenous peoples who’d moved into the area thousands of years beforehand.

Yet nothing in the San Francisco School District Curriculum ever taught me, as a student in the 1940s and 1950s, that learning additional facts about early California would or should take a big chunk of my future time. In fact, until the 11th grade, school-taught history seemed simplistic, mostly more about “when” and “we’ll tell you why.” Recite “approved” facts and dates. Maybe participate in a play. In the third grade, I was assigned to paint an early California mural with a Latino in my class. Our friendship, as a result, lasted through high school, when our paths drifted apart. We even “went steady” for six months when I was twelve years old and he was around fourteen. Three paper routes allowed him to bring me long stemmed red roses and boxes of chocolates a number of times. How my mom must have worried. I never did. Salvador, a “perfect gentleman,” surely knew about his family history, but we never discussed the subject. Back then, I knew little about mine. I only wish that today, I could meet Salvador again to say “thank you” for his friendship. To share the family histories we didn’t or couldn’t back then.

Heyday Books (https://heydaybooks.com/), by the way, has published a lot of material about early California, and I’m glad they have done so. Pages of their books contain a lot of information I wish I’d known earlier in life.

Okay, let’s move along to today’s assignment. I’m asking you to close your eyes for a few minutes to mentally prepare for a California landscape without paved roads, cars, fast food joints, motels, drinking fountains, phones, radios, GPS, tourist attractions, or buildings larger than an occasional two-story adobe. Look for horses, cattle, and outdoor kitchens (so buildings wouldn’t catch on fire during meal preparations). Next modern rest stop: at least 150 years in the future.

In the Sixteenth Century, Spaniards first arrived in what is now California. Yet Eighteenth-Century Spaniards still had to reach their Alta California settlements via ports, such as San Diego and Monterey. Due to prevailing winds and currents along the California coastline, that coastal trek by sailing ship could take longer than an Atlantic Ocean crossing. Worried about English settlers invading Spanish territory, the Spanish Viceroys decided they needed a reliable overland route, as well. Thus Juan Batista de Anza embarked upon two expeditions: an exploratory one in 1774 and another in 1775-1776. Any of those years sound familiar? Light that sparkler on July 4, but not in tinder-dry California, please.

Just a reminder about Spain’s definition of “People of Reason” (meaning “citizens”), the term for any white, indigenous, black or racially-mixed Spanish-speaking Christian who was integrated into the economic system of New Spain, of which Alta California was a part. Sounds way more progressive than the slave-holding USA at the time. But don’t forget Spain’s long occupation by Muslim Moors. Religion rivaled skin color in importance. Having made that argument, I’ve got the feeling there may have been various unofficial sub-classes of who the Spanish government really thought had the most reason and who didn’t. Spanish military commanders and priests likely received a higher rating than many others.

The four main players in these Eighteenth-Century Alta California expeditions were Juan Bautista de Anza (either a white or mixed-race Spaniard born in New Spain rather than in Europe), Father Francisco Garcés (white and Spanish born), Sebastián Tarabal (a Native American from Baja California) and Salvador Palma (Chief of the Yuma Nation).

I have no sense of direction and never did. Born during WWII, I’ve always joked about donating any navigational abilities to the war effort. For example, I worked in Emeryville, CA for several years in the 1980s. Every time I stepped out of the elevator there, I had to figure out all over again whether to turn right or left to reach my office. Today, Garmin helps me a lot, at least while driving.

So how did Anza’s exploratory expedition (which had to split up on a number of occasions), manage to trek the badlands of what is now Arizona and California without a compass, timepiece and sextant for each sub-group? And the early version of the sextant they set out with (plus the additional one they managed to acquire) could only establish latitude, not longitude, on dry land. How could they have properly documented the paths they chose?

Saline water wells and inadequate forage for their animals. Trekking sand dunes. Many other hostile circumstances. Either one of Anza’s two expeditions could have turned into a disaster. Yet neither did.

Trying to read the hearts of strangers is never easy. Anza had a good sense of doing so, and his soldiers for the most part trusted his decisions. And Anza learned to trust and respect Salvador Palma and Sebastián Tarabal—and this went beyond Palma and Tarabal’s classification as “people of reason.” Yet I’m sure a distance between Anza and his so-called “underlings” remained.

One might wonder, as I do: What could or should have happened in 1774-1776 to peacefully change California’s stream of history, to avoid what happened in 1846? Or with the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors, Catholic missionaries, and diseases such as smallpox and measles from Europe prior to 1774? By the time of Anza, was it already too late to turn the tide against fate, greed, ignorance, intolerance, and US Manifest Destiny? It may well have been.

Laurel And Hidalgo: Part III

Welcome to the third episode of On the Hidalgo Treaty Road: the twisted path leading into and out of the Mexican-American War in the Nineteenth Century.

The Mexican half of my father’s family didn’t immigrate to California until sometime in the 1850s, or a little later, in the case of Great-Grandpa Emigdio Medina. By then, California had already “traded” the golden eagle of Mexico for Uncle Sam’s bald one. A war of US conquest, actually.

Great-Great Grandma Francesca, a Tejada by birth and an Orendain by marriage, made the journey as a widow with her two young daughters. All that happened long before the now-famous Orendain tequila existed, at least as a commercial product. Who knows what the Orendains served in Mexico way-back-when as the guys got together to boast, debate or commiserate? Several varieties of my family’s tequila are now available for sale on my side of the border. At my age, I rarely consume hard liquor. Still… When I die, do I really want any of the Orendains to give me a bad time?

“You mean, YOU devoured hundreds of bran muffins baked by the Swedish-English side of your family, but you never even tried one single sip of our unbelievably incredible tequila?”

Those of you familiar with my novels and short stories already know I recommend staying on the good side of spirit entities, particularly members of one’s family. I think I’ll take the proactive route now and avoid potential embarrassment in the future.

Which brings me to today’s actual subject: Mentioning two of the many books I read while researching to write my new YA/historical fantasy/magical realism novel about sixteen-year-old Catalina Delgado. If you’re wondering why I haven’t yet revealed my manuscript’s title, Sand Hill Review Press only recently accepted the book for publication. Now we’ve figured out the title: Plague of Flies: Revolt of the Spirits, 1846.

Hint for those of you drifting toward a semi-conscious state as you read: A revolt of spirits spells trouble.

Reference Book #1 in my bibliography: The Decline of the Californios: A Social History of the Spanish-Speaking Californians, 1846-1890 was first published by the Regents of the University of California in 1966. The copyright was renewed in 1994 by author Leonard Pitt. Please don’t confuse this Leonard Pitt with Leonard Garvey Pitts Jr.—the American commentator, journalist, novelist, and winner of the 2004 Pulitzer Prize for Commentary. Leonard Garvey Pitts Jr. was born in 1957. I don’t know the birth date of Dr. Leonard Pitt, but he was definitely older. The Decline of the Californios was not the first book I read about Alta California, nor was it the most informative, but it’s a good place to start the discussion.

As an aside, I love reading newspaper columns written by Leonard Garvey Pitts, Jr. He is amazing. On the other hand, I’ve heard Dr. Leonard Pitt (no “s”) has been criticized for his sometimes “romantic” portrayal of California’s Nineteenth-Century days. Yet Pitt (no “s”) describes the world he writes about according to his viewpoint and overall message to convey. True, his style of writing is almost too entertaining in places. Melodrama creeps with ease into the pages. Regardless, Pitt (no “s”) left me with a lot to ponder as I planned and wrote my novel. Thank you, sir!

Which leads me to Reference Book #2 in my bibliography: Benjamin Madley’s An American Genocide: The United States and the California Indian Catastrophe, published in 2016. This is an excellent and compelling (if sometimes stomach-twisting) work of nonfiction for those ready to face the more horrific details of Nineteenth-Century California’s history. On a number of pages, I had to stop and go get a breath of fresh air or a drink of water before I could continue. Once I needed to put the book down for several days. And the most unsettling part? I truly believe Madley did NOT exaggerate the word-pictures he painted.

Turn to page 60 of An American Genocide. Dare to read how John Augustus Sutter (upon whose land the California Gold Rush began) fed the Native Americans effectively enslaved under his command. He fed his forced laborers a disgusting mess of offal and bran in long troughs, as if they were pigs. Read it! Go read it! Then enlist others to read the same. And Sutter did this when slavery was illegal in Mexico.

Of course, the needle on Sutter’s moral compass had lost some of its magnetism years earlier. He must have enjoyed spending money more than earning it. Threatened by creditors and imprisonment, Sutter had deserted his wife and children in Switzerland before heading for the New World, picking up a couple Hawaiian gals for his entertainment on his circuitous route to Alta California.

One might even claim that Yankees (Yanqui may be a Twentieth-Century spelling) only continued the dehumanization and abuse of Native Americans in Alta California begun by the Spaniards and Mexicans (and to a lesser extent, the Russians). As we all know from history and the daily news, two-tiered legal systems can and do light the grim pathway to the beating, sexual assault, torture and death of those in the lower tier. For your next instructive throw-up moment, turn to page 34 of An American Genocide. Carefully read the indented paragraph, the one explaining the fate of some Native American runaways recaptured by the Spaniards in Alta California. Let’s just say it involves the hide from a newly slaughtered and skinned calf.

One of Madley’s points, however, is that the USA took a giant step over the dividing line between murder and genocide. Their goal became extermination of Alta California’s Native American population. Between 1846-1873, that population dropped from 150,000 to 30,000. Less than 17,000 remained by 1880.

Madley’s book was the last one I read during my ongoing research which I’d begun around 2005. Only 7-9% of my DNA is indigenous. An American Genocide made that 7-9% scream within 100% my brain. But even the 91-93% non-indigenous part of my DNA duplicated orders and posted them in my gray matter. Finish your novel, Laurel. Your country—supposedly somewhat civilized—slaughtered thousands upon thousands of real people. Innocent people. Men. Women. Children. Babies on cradleboards. WRITE.

And so I have written. Did my ancestors dictate my choice? Frankly, I’m not sure. My desire for personal sanity certainly contributed.

Laurel And Hidalgo: Part II

Welcome, readers, to the second episode of On the Hidalgo Treaty Road: the twisted path leading into and out of the Mexican-American War in the Nineteenth Century. Once again, I’m focusing on good old California.

Raise your hand if you can define the word, “Californios.” Do I detect some uncertainty out there? Do words stumble out of your mouths? No problem. My mouth stumbles and bumbles like it was going out of style.

I went online and found all sorts of definitions for “Californios,” some based on ignorance, some on snobbery, some on political correctness, and others on the actual geography of what was once called Alta California, which extended way beyond California’s current borders. For purposes of this blog, let’s just call “Californios” those Mexican citizens living in what is now US California between the time Mexico declared independence from Spain in 1810 until it ceded Alta California to the US in 1848. If my simplistic (and inaccurate) working definition blasts smoke out your ears, shake your head in dismay and mentally substitute your words for mine. I’m cool with that.

Today’s subject is General Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo, one of California’s most distinguished citizens in the 1800s. Definitely a Californio by my working definition or yours. In a time when the Mexican government’s poor choice of Alta California governors and lack of support pissed off the Californios, Vallejo and others realized a powerful country (such as Britain or the US) could ultimately annex their territory. Vallejo favored the US. Plenty of others didn’t. Hold that thought.

When I fell and broke my hip at work in 2006—on my way to give a safety lecture about slips, trips and falls—I ended up stuck in a hospital for a few days. My physician pinned my hip in place, so to speak, which meant minor surgery instead of major. There were only so many times I could hobble out to the nursing station to chat. My husband, David, brought me Alan Rosenus’ award-winning biography of General Vallejo to read, to keep my mind occupied and my nurses sane.

General Vallejo wasn’t what we in the US today would classify as a “general.” You know, like General Colin Powell or President Eisenhower. I believe Vallejo’s top military rank was colonel of cavalry. He did, however, become commandant general and military governor of Alta California. Now that’s a mouthful. Thus, he became known as General Vallejo. Hold onto that thought, too.

The landowner-peon relationship on most of the 19^th Century Mexican-California ranchos has bothered me for ages, ever since I learned too many of the servants had a status far too close to slaves—despite the fact Mexico abolished slavery in 1829. Additional research on General Vallejo, however, helped me to identify with him and his parents in one way. Didn’t most of us as youths try to push the limits? Don’t we as parents want our kids to behave as we think they should? According to more than one source, the Catholic Church unofficially excommunicated Vallejo as a young man for refusing to turn over a banned book—likely by Voltaire—to a local priest. Imagine the horrified expressions on his parent’s faces! In comparison, me hiding my library copy of Peyton Place from my mom back in 1959 didn’t even come close.

I’ve incorporated the juicy Voltaire possibility into my latest novel (a book under consideration by my publisher), if only in the background. A single quote from Voltaire affects the life of my protagonist, Catalina Delgado.

Which reminds me, Catalina’s grandfather has taught her to read, a skill that many in early California—particularly women—didn’t have. (When I hold up the audience-response placard, please shout “boo.”) To be fair, whether or not wives in Mexican California could read, they had half-way decent property rights when compared to their US counterparts at the time. Remember, a lot of US laws originated from British ones. Under “coverture,” US women back then lost all control over their property and money once they married. In the US, coverture was discarded only state-by-state. The final US sackful of coverture didn’t hit the legal trash can until 1880.

Excuse me, I digress. Back to the Hidalgo Treaty Road.

Enter the “Bear Flaggers” in 1846: Mostly a rag-tag bunch of “Yankees” (that is, from various parts of the US) who wanted to claim Alta California for the US. They created their own flag, one picturing their rendition of a California bear—a feeble attempt on the level of early elementary school art.

Remember that first thought I told you to hang onto? Many of the Californios knew General Vallejo’s positive feelings toward the United States. Apparently, a fair number of the Bear Flaggers didn’t. Or they let their leaders whip up their emotions into a rabid froth. Recall that second thought you’re holding, the one about Vallejo’s true title? The Bear Flaggers probably thought a “general” would have a stash of military weapons they could confiscate and use against Mexican soldiers.

If only Google had existed.

The Yankees should have done their homework, then approached Vallejo for his advice on annexation, worked with him. Instead they captured and tortured him, threatened and scared his entire household. Either some of the Bear Flaggers weren’t the brightest candles in the dining room chandelier, or their leaders had already decided to confiscate the lands of all Californios for themselves—and to exterminate most of California’s remaining Native American population in the process.

At any rate, I bet a lot of Californios mumbled “We told you so,” when hearing the news about Vallejo’s imprisonment. But that’s for another entry.

Respectfully yours,

Laurel Anne Hill
Author and Former Underground Storage Tank Operator

Laurel And Hidalgo: Part I

All right, readers. Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard of the Hidalgo Treaty. Keep them raised if you have a clue what that treaty was all about. And keep your device’s camera on so I can take a tally.

Just kidding. No surveillance going on at this end of your web connection. However, I suspect the majority of hands out there are NOT raised.

Interesting fact #1 about the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo: The document was signed on February 2, 1848. Ground Hog Day—at least since 1877. Please hold that thought until later.

I’m neither a lawyer nor historian. I’ve read the treaty, but I’ll leave interpretation of the actual wording to experts. Officially, the treaty ended the Mexican-American War. Actually, it facilitated a huge land grab in the favor of Uncle Sam. The basic history of much of the western US sums up to the following: Spain stole the “New World” western lands from the indigenous tribes. What became Mexico declared independence from Spain. Then the US essentially annexed (stole, with the help of “The Bear Flag Rebellion”) a huge chunk of Mexico. Those Mexicans deciding to remain in what is now known as California and parts of nearby states were supposed to have their land titles protected. Fat chance of that. A historical example of “white privilege.”

You may agree. You may protest. Hey, what gives lily-white Laurel Anne Hill the standing to talk about anything?

My father was half Mexican, as was my first husband. My indigenous DNA isn’t much, only 7-9%. But my Mexican ancestors have been giving me lots of dreams and advice for 30 years. That’s one reason why it took me 20 years to write my award-winning spirits-meet-steampunk novel about a young Latina, “The Engine Woman’s Light.” I didn’t dare make a mistake. That’s one reason why I’ve spent the past 15 years working on a “spirits meet the Bear Flag Rebellion” novel. Sand Hill Review Press, the publisher of “The Engine Woman’s Light” is reviewing my latest manuscript. Please keep your fingers crossed for me and my main character, Catalina Delgado.

I grew up in poverty. In many of my stories—no matter where or when they take place—one of my themes (like Ground Hog Day) keeps returning. The lower classes of society can make a huge positive difference.

Stay tuned for Part II. I’ll delve into my personal experiences and some of the books I’ve read while researching the Bear Flag days.

With warm regards,

Laurel Anne Hill
Author and Former Underground Storage Tank Operator

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Laurel Anne Hill

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