An Ode to Christmas and the Silvan Family of Fuentesauco, España

Writing THE GIRL IMMIGRANT when all through my files

I found documents stirring across thousands of miles

Various photos were tucked into SILVAN folders with care,

With fantastical hopes they’d multiply if I peeked there.

I dreamed of a time, far back in Spain’s day

when our forbears lived with guitar music and spade

their orchards were failing, their money grew dim.

And Hawaii soon called to reach out a limb.

So… many generations I am learning their names

their birthdates, marriages and the babies that came.

I readily walked through their streets to find signs

to show me rich histories maybe survived.

Our ancestors are all nestled snug in dirt beds

Visions of descendants never entering their heads.

But I try to imagine their Christmas long ago

With fiestas and celebrations both high and low.

A lacy mantilla covered our grandmother’s hair

and she’d just kneeled down for a long Christmas prayer.

When out on the plaza mayor, there arose such a clatter

she wanted to spring from her knees to see what was the matter?

Away to the window, someone’s child flew like a flash

Tearing up the aisle and tripping toward the sash. 

She tried to sit quietly, prayer-like and timid,

As this matriarch was feeling blessed and aged.

The moon on the crest of the cobblestone street,

Gave the luster of mid-day to those trying to sneak…

When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,

But all of her grandchildren smiling ear to ear.

With their parents behind them, so quiet and quick,

She knew in a moment she just might be sick

With excitement and pleasure, their footsteps came,

And she smiled at each one, whispering their names.

Now, Agustin, Jacinto, Celestino and Felisa

Teodora, Juanitco, Alejandro and Manuela, ~

Bring in baby Jose and move into my pew

And dash in beside me, to kneel for a few….

And then, in a twinkling, she heard the priest say

Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas this day

Agustin, Juan, Victor, Geronimo and Crescencia

Smiling at these Fuentesauco Silvans in silencia…..

He glanced toward the Alvas, Martins, Hidalgos and more

Inhaled Christmas incense and watched its smoke soar

He thought his flock never looked so wondrous and fair

And felt Christmas peace arise all through the air.

These Spanish families would grow and multiply soon

Some might even try to fly up to the moon,

But Fuentesauco would shine like a beacon to draw

Descendants to meet these ancestors they foresaw.

I smile as I dream of how it was then, wondering slightly

how it really could have been; my people blending tightly

All part of my line with red or brown hair, blue eyes or dark

Their Spanish lives aching for food, aching to make a mark.

Our Spanish pride will never dim as long as we remember

How THE GIRL IMMIGRANT’s family was just a glimmer

Of a family before…descendants, young, old, tall and short

This story spanning across waters to their Hawaiian port

They left their homeland but kept Spanish traditions.

They played their music and sometimes eyes even glistened.

As they prayed.  They cried.  They lost children at sea.

But still persevering… as Americans, created thee and me.