When I was a young Chicanito, running wild on the streets of El Paso, my dad was my biggest influence. Born and raised in Mexico, he emigrated illegally to the United States, crossing the Rio Grande from the Juarez side and making his way to El Paso, where he lived a long and fruitful life, and in the process raised a family of eight.

Dario Ceniceros Olvera was a strong man, who brooked no disrespect from his sons and daughters. We learned to toe the line and behave to the point where, if we did misbehave, at least we wouldn’t be caught. The words we feared the most from our mother were: “Wait until your father gets home.” We trembled at our indiscretion, wishing we could take it back because, we knew. My dad was going to be mad. We trembled, we shook. He never abused us, but he did punish us as he believed that to spare the rod would be to spoil the child.

We used to laugh at one of his favorite lines: “I am poor, but proud.” To us, he was saying that he was proud of being poor. That didn’t make any sense to us because we weren’t proud of being poor. We were ashamed. We didn’t have as much as our peers and we certainly didn’t live amid any luxurious surroundings. On the contrary, we lived in some tenement apartments at the corner of Rivera and Estrella.

Now, however, after all these years, I finally understand what my father was telling us. He wasn’t saying that he was proud of being poor. He was saying that he was a proud man and would rather work his fingers to the bone working hard, than take anything that didn’t belong to him. He meant that he could sleep at night, secure in the knowledge that whatever small amounts of money he earned came about through honest and legitimate labor. For more than 20 years, he was a laborer at Phelps Dodge Copper Refinery. He worked inside the “tank,” which was the place not to be. He pushed a broom and did other manual labor, yet he was a proud man.

He felt good about himself and he inculcated in us the same love for hard work. He taught us to never accept money that didn’t come about honestly. He taught us to return whatever didn’t belong to us if it fell into our hands. Even if a store clerk gave us an extra nickel in change, he demanded that we give it back. “It’s not your money,” he would admonish. “It belongs to the store.” So, we learned to give back what didn’t belong to us.

Judging by what’s been happening in our beautiful city, what with the endemic corruption that seems to be overwhelming us, not everybody grew up with the same father, with the same values. I’m no saint. Far from it. But, I am an honest man. I’ve never made huge amounts of money, but only enough to survive, and to have raised two families. My first family included my daughters Nila and Malintzin. My second family consists of Ricky, Carlos and Diane. I struggled, yes, I did. But, the struggle has been honest and open. Not so for others.

I’m wondering. Former County Commissioner Betti Flores admitted to accepting $10,000 for her vote on some land sale. I’m wondering, Betti. Was it worth it? Were you so broke and poor that you opted to accept dirty money? I’m wondering, Betti, did the $10,000 rescue you from some deep, dark dungeon of despair for lack of money? Was it worth it? Was it worth it to lose your good name, your reputation, your respect? Was it worth $10,000 to turn your life upside-down? A life that now seems trapped in the corridors of justice? No, Betti, it wasn’t worth it.

I’m wondering too about my friend, Raymond Telles. He recently pleaded guilty to two counts of offering bribes to a couple of El Paso County Commissioners and to some members of the Board of Trustees of the Socorro ISD. Raymond, Raymond, Raymond. What the hell were you thinking about, Raymond? I don’t know too much about Betti Flores and her financial situation. For all I know, she might’ve been desperate for $10,000. But, you, Raymond? Were you that desperate?

I knew your father, Richard Telles Sr., very well, Raymond. I ran his campaign for city representative in 1987. That’s about the time I met you. I always thought you had an excellent future. You were articulate, intelligent, wealthy, and strong. When you ran for mayor against Carlos Ramirez, you were criticized because you didn’t have a college degree. So, what did you do? You attended law school and became a lawyer. Obviously, you had the intelligence to do that. But, to accept dirty money, Raymond? Didn’t your father leave you, your sister, and your brothers all his money? Your dad was rich, Raymond. He used to tell me so. He said he could buy 20 Cadillac automobiles if he wanted to, but he just wasn’t ostentatious. On the contrary, he usually drove a beat-up old car.

But, you, Raymond? You wanted more money? You accepted graft, you tried to bribe others into your circle, but you got caught and, now, you’ve confessed. Raymond, your father must be turning over in his grave. Your uncle, the Ambassador, must be wondering what happened to his amazing family. Que verguenza, Raymond, for your family to have to deal with this corruption that’s landed on their doorsteps.

Was it worth it, Raymond? Was the money so huge that you took it, despite the fact that you probably had money of your own? What about the other people which you bribed, Raymond? What happens to them? In fact, what happens from here on out, with corruption and deceit oozing out of El Paso’s pores. How do we clean up our city’s name now, Raymond? Got any ideas? My father used to say, “I’m poor, but I’m proud.” Finally, after all these years, I understand what he meant. Thanks, dad, for saving your son.

Sin Fin