DOWNTOWN DIARY: OF JACKASSES AND POMEGRANATES
by Jenni Burton
Newspaper Tree, TX –
Oct 2 2006
"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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