As I thought about this, I realized that there are three levels of understanding. The first is that of a teller within the culture, part of the “family.” The second is that of a teller who is close to the culture, a “neighbor.” The third is that of a teller who is relatively unfamiliar with the culture, the “friendly stranger.” Since Joe encouraged me to work with this story, I’m going to discuss the different strategies that tellers at each level of understanding might use with “El beccero.”
The words el becerro mean “the calf.” The story begins with a widow and the old man who is her neighbor. She has sent her cows into the mountains for the summer. When she wants meat, she sends her son to the old man to borrow a calf which she promises to pay back when her own cows return in the fall. Here we are, one paragraph into the story, and we already have one big question:
Why are the widow’s cows in the mountains?
If this were my “family” story, told by my own grandparent, I wouldn’t have to ask this question. If my family were lucky enough to still hold a grazing permit, I’d know cows who spent their summers in the mountains. Furthermore, I would have heard the stories about the tangled history of land and water use in northern New Mexico. I could easily make this story my own, though I might want to do some research on land and water use.
In the case of El becarro, I am not “family”, I am a “neighbor.” I grew up and lived about half my adult life I northern New Mexico and I’ve met cows in the mountains. I remember well a young bull standing in the center of a dirt road in the Jemez. He defied our 1957 Chevy Carryall until my father shifted the truck into compound low and nudged the beast into backing away. Even as a child, I understood that this was somebody’s cow, grazing where the summer thunderstorms keep the high mountains green. It is easier to take the cows to the grass than bring the grass to the cows. But I knew nothing of the history of land and water use in the area. A storyteller who is a “friendly stranger” might know nothing about the need to move the cows to the grass.
To understand the situation in “El beccero,” neighbor and stranger alike need to learn more about land grants. In their book River of Traps William DeBuys and Alex Harris touch on the history of a typical land grant, that of Las Trampas. In 1751, the governor of New Mexico, acting as the representative of the King of Spain granted a parcel of land south of Taos to twelve inter-related families. These settlers built their houses and church around a walled plaza and called their new home Las Trampas. Each family held plots of irrigated farmland in the river valley. It is worth noting that the rights to the water were connected to the land, not to the family that farmed that land. The resources of the forest and mountains included in the Las Trampas Land Grant were used communally. Since not enough rain fell in the valley to support large pastures or hayfields, the cattle went up in the mountains of the land grant during the summer. (Timber was also harvested from the land grant forests.) The story of “El beccero” holds an echo of the time when the people of northern New Mexico had the right to graze their cattle in their own mountains.
That all changed after 1848. The original Treaty of Guadalupe promised to the land and water rights of the citizens of Mexico who had so abruptly become part of the United States, but this promise was soon forgotten. The newcomers neither understood nor respected the communal aspects of land grants and the locals’ grazing rights were slowly chipped away. Much of the old land grand territory has become Forest Service lands. “La Floresta” and its grazing permits are not loved by the people who still live on the land that was their ancestors. (For more about that see The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols. The movie is good. The book is better.)
It’s taken an entire blog post to clear up one question. It’s a good thing research is fun! We’ll continue this exploration in my next blog post.