“El Paso. It's your canvas.” Wow -- what a condescending little mindfuck that is. For those of you who haven't had the time or the stomach to flip through the entire slide show, this is what a $100,000 branding contract can buy you. Mind you, this is the slogan that was proposed for the purpose of encouraging new residents. I don't think I need to go into the various implications of this slogan, but I would like you to ponder the language at your leisure. Whoever Glass Beach's copywriter is, I hope this was some snide little quip that ad agency employees like to pull out when they're feeling cynical, and not the culmination of hundreds of hours of methodology and analysis. “It's your canvas” … well, let's hope the local mural and graffiti artists take them at their word.
I guess if El Paso is “my canvas” (heavens to Murgetroid) then I suppose I took out the Krylon and painted it red last weekend.
It was a great weekend. Thursday started off with the opening of Dave Ford's exhibit Evaporosions, which is an amazing exhibit if you haven't had the chance to check it out. It's inside an old factory space at 301 W. Overland Street. The after party later migrated to La Norteña. Wine, nibblies, and simple machines mingled with blues and a crowd that was, well … diverse isn't quite the word I'm looking for. Conflicted? Discordant? How so? I guess I just found it ironic that there were so many vocal supporters of The Plan who enjoyed themselves so freely at both the factory space and La Norteña, two spaces that are slated for demolition under the umbrella of the redevelopment district. Attendees included Susie Byrd and her children, Francisco Delgado, a Chicano activist and artist who painted the piece titled “El Plan” that is reproduced on plan opponents' t-shirts, Mark Deutrom -- the evening's entertainment -- who has a deep and unbridled hate for his hometown (“What is with this town, Jenni B.? The lithium in the water?”), Rich Wright -- who has a deep and unbridled love of his hometown (“Let's go get some tequila, guys”), and several of my neighbours.
I met people who had recently moved into the neighborhood (the Merrick Building and Union Plaza), who told me how much they loved their new apartments. I met people who were more than happy to see the whole thing bulldozed in some sort of Biblical baptism by fire. It was fantastic to see so many people enjoying themselves and to see the neighborhood alive, but at the same time, my cynicism got the better of me after a few glasses of wine and some excellent tacos de atún.
This sentiment replayed itself the next night when Bobby Byrd and Jim Ward held their CD release party again at La Norteña. I love Norteña, as do many of our friends, and a collective mood of elation was expressed when it finally -- FINALLY -- reopened a couple of months ago. It was so wonderful to hear music and spoken word croon through its doorway, but again disappointment and cynicism grabbed hold of me. After the music and poetry stopped and attendees trickled out, my husband and I sat and contemplated the fate of this little gem. We talked about how great it would be if there were shows there on a weekly basis, and wondered which of our promoter friends would take the initiative. The Tap neglected to renew its liquor license, and currently Norteña's our only option for a night out with the kids in tow. It dawned on me -- THIS is blight?
This business that has become a landmark, that reinvests in its property, that hosts poetry nights and musicians. This business that adds to the character of the neighborhood and does so on its own terms -- that's BLIGHT? It's going to be torn down for a stadium? What, so we can create a dead zone? That whole neighborhood went through revitalization efforts during the Caballero administration. Businesses are just starting to thrive, people are moving in, functions are being held, and for what? So that we can lose it all over again for a stadium? Tell me, what team do we have that requires a stadium? We can't get bands here as it is, because Abraham Chavez and the Coliseum don't sell out their shows. And we want a stadium?
That night Bobby read a poem entitled “Pomegranates,” and it's funny because I was thinking about them the night before. This is the time of year where my son and I go door to door in Central El Paso collecting them before they rot on someone's front porch. We eat the seeds, press them into juice, use them in sauces, and I also petrify the seeds for my artwork. The two best specimens are used on my Samhain altar -- one for the goddess Ashtart, and one for my mother, who died nine years ago. I still remember the first time my mother taught me how to eat a pomegranate. I was three and she showed me how to extract the juice, what foods they go well with, and how to eat them with respect.
There's an ancient proverb in Armenian that goes “Eshoon noor oodel chi vayaler.” Roughly translated it means, “It ain't pretty watching a Jackass trying to eat a pomegranate.” In my mother's culture, the pomegranate is a symbol of the beauty and durability of the Armenian people. Pre-Christianity, it was associated with the womb of the mother goddess, Ashtart, and for the last 1,700 years since Armenia's conversion it has been synonymous with the Sacred Heart. When Armenians first came to the U.S. to escape the Turkish Massacre and work as farm laborers, they brought their sacred plant to California, so the story goes. We love pomegranates. They are hardy little shrubs that can grow on mountainside or farmland. A tree can bear fruit for up to 200 years. They have been used for thousands of years as medicine, clothing dye, food additives, and fertility gifts. If you don't like to eat the whole seed -- only the pulp -- they are difficult and time consuming to eat. They are a symbol of our stubbornness and our rasquachismo. So when some Jackass violates our beloved national fruit, we take offense.
Downtown El Paso is my beloved Pomegranate. It is unusual. It is durable. It is strange. It is mean. It is beautiful. Like a pomegranate, one must remove the rind to discover the tempting seeds, which lie within. Unlike an Apple or a Pear, it is not superficial. The Jackass who seeks to release the seeds is ill equipped and awkward. The only way he can do so is by stomping on the fruit, because if he just tries to bite into it, the bitter rind dirties the taste of the pulp.
What great men have peeled back the rind of our Pomegranate and chewed the seeds whole: Antonin Artaud, William Carlos Williams, Jack Kerouac, and countless other thinkers and vagabonds. There are those who would crush it to reap its benefits, but those who have wisdom know that the only way to enjoy it is to be ginger.
I'm sick of looking at Downtown as a condemned man. I'm sick of walking down the street wondering who's going to be gone in five years. Just because you give a cancer patient plastic surgery doesn't mean he's going to survive.
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Email Jenni at jenni@newspapertree.com.
