It’s Only Time

(Dedicated to my brother Frank, my childhood hero)

By Helen Visarraga

The unsaid hero

In everyone’s life there is a hero. That hero may be a mystical figure, an imaginary friend, a spiritual adept, a person of great accomplishment, or a member of a family; such as a parent, sibling, uncle, aunt, etc. As I reflect on my life of seventy six years, I recall having put a few individuals on pedestals that bordered on a hero identity but those individuals came into my life as I reached adulthood. For me a hero is someone who early in life, without knowing it, instilled a value, quality, or attribute that I subsequently developed over the span of my lifetime; like the courage to take risks, step outside of the norm, discard my limitations, not being afraid to try new things, and standing up for myself. Looking back into my early and middle childhood, my hero was my older brother Frank. Perhaps it was because he was the only boy in the family for a long time or because the circumstances of our lives were to lead us in polar opposite directions. I was always afraid to disobey for fear of being punished by my mother; whereas it seemed like no matter what offenses Frank committed, he would never get in trouble. In fact, the more serious the offense, the more she worried and tried to do everything possible for him to include bailing him out of trouble with the law on more than one occasion.

The “Family Rock”

February 11, 2015, was the last day of my brother’s life. He left this physical realm at the age of seventy four after a short-term stay at a hospital in Seattle, WA. He had contracted pneumonia on top of other health complications. The day the family celebrated his life and scattered his ashes was a warm sunny day. I still remember the smell of sagebrush, pinion pines, and the arid tight feeling in my stomach knowing that this was a life and death celebration for my childhood hero. Today was not just another hike on my sister’s Mary property in the outskirts of Chamisal, New Mexico, one of the many rural communities that are part of the tapestry of my family’s heritage. This day was special because the black box my younger brother Alfredo carried contained Frank’s ashes; the eldest of three brothers in our family of nine siblings including a half-sister that we saw periodically.

Slowly one by one we hiked up the narrow dirt trail that blended into a rocky surface leading to the sturdy rock formations where “The Family Rock” is located. Over the years this particular rock formation has been the ceremonial sight for loved ones who have departed. Steve, my sister Mary’s first husband and beloved brother in law, Alicia our loving sister, and our favorite uncle Modesto. The Family Rock also holds part of Scotty’s parent’s ashes. Scotty is my favorite brother in law and an amazing friend. Several family members who were able to attend gathered in love and celebration; to include Gina and Lisa, the latest additions to the family. That’s another story for another time. We shared joy, tears, memories, and experiences related to Frank’s life. We took pictures, enjoyed each other, plus also honored the other family members who are commemorated at the Family Rock, not only by the scattering of their ashes; but each loved one also has a special place on the stone altar embedded on the rock wall.

My brother Alfredo climbed to the top of the formation lifting the box with Frank’s ashes above his head. He led us in prayer as he released my brother’s ashes into the vastness of blue skies. Through my tears I saw my brother’s ashes float in the air like a shroud of smoke that triggered a million images and memories of my childhood hero.

Early Years in Vadito, New Mexico

There are many stories that comprised the roles of child, bother, sibling, father, and human being that my brother experienced before his physical body was incinerated into a box of ashes that was scattered in close proximity to the place where he was born, the small rural village, Vadito. As I am the one conveying this story, I will start out by saying these memoirs are about my relationship with my brother; plus how I viewed other characters mentioned in this story when I was growing up. Being respectful that everybody else who he touched in his lifetime will have their own account plus knowing how our family members may hold different truths based on their own experiences, I want to acknowledge and respect everybody else’s point of view and experience with Frank. This is simply mine.

Frank and I played together among the cactus blooms, sage brush and pinion pine trees on the mountain desert hills behind our home in Vadito, a small village situated in the midst of the grandeur of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the northern part of New Mexico. One of our favorite games was to stomp on old Carnation Milk cans until they fit tightly like a metal mold around our shoes. We would pretend we were astronauts walking on Mars. My older sister Viviana was an avid reader. I learned so much about the outer world beyond our little village from her stories; plus from the many fairy tale books that she shared with me. My life has always leaned toward the realm of imagination; poetry that rhymes, and finding humor in the irony of life. This was due partly to the Grimm Fairy Tale books and other children’s books that she let me read during those summers when the school let her put the library in our hall closet, all three shelves. I remember the rows of multi-colored books on the shelves in the hallway leading to the dispensa (storage room). This was the biggest library I had ever seen.

Our property was part of or adjacent to the Picuris Indian Pueblo. Frank and I would often see Indian men walking along our property line to the village store to get groceries or to buy liquor from Clovis’s & Trinidad’s bar. Frank would scare me by telling me they were savage and dangerous, that they had bows and arrows so we needed to hide. I never saw a bow or an arrow but I always ran after him to our favorite hiding place behind a giant clump of sagebrush next to the trunk of an old cedar tree. He could run so much faster so I was always forcing myself to keep up. I remember always wanting to impress him by not being a wimpy girl so he would let me play with him. The sweet smell of sage and cedar calmed my fear as we watched the Indians until they were out of sight. Occasionally he would shave pieces of dried trementina (tree sap). We would chew it like gum. I remember the pungent taste. I would spit it out after a few chomps. Another favorite game that we played was “choosing cars.”

This game involved dreaming of the cars we would own in the future. Sitting on a log, a rock or on the ground, it didn’t matter where; we would watch for cars on a road that seemed so far away. It was only Penasco, the next village over but to us it seemed miles and miles away. There wasn’t much traffic so the game would take a long time. He always chose the pickup trucks. I liked the shiny cars. I imagined they belonged to rich people. I would dream that someday I would own one. One of Frank’s happiest days was when dad showed up with a brand new 1953 Chevrolet pick-up truck. It was a shiny milk chocolate brown. However, the joy was short-lived because that was the day my father announced that the family was moving to Utah.

Not all my adventures during my early years with Frank were pleasant. Being the only boy in the family at that time plus the fact that my father was away sheepherding most of the time, Frank had the job of chopping down the annual Christmas tree. One year I begged to go with him. Mom agreed but warned Frank to take care of me although I was seven and he was ten. The older siblings were always in charge of making sure the younger ones were safe. Frank grabbed the tattered rope attached to his sled. He ordered, “Follow me.” He pulled the sled up the hill in two feet of snow and I slowly followed trying to keep from sinking as I carefully tried to walk in his tracks. Luckily, the top layer of snow was beginning to freeze so I was able to walk on top without sinking down with each step. We were almost to the top of the hill when he yelled “this is the one.”

Early Years in Vadito, New Mexico

There are many stories that comprised the roles of child, brother, sibling, father, and human being that my brother experienced before his physical body was incinerated into a box of ashes that was scattered in close proximity to the place where he was born, the small rural village, Vadito. As I am the one conveying this story, I will start out by saying these memoirs are about my relationship with my brother; plus how I viewed other characters mentioned in this story when I was growing up. Being respectful that everybody else who he touched in his lifetime will have their own account plus knowing how our family members may hold different truths based on their own experiences, I want to acknowledge and respect everybody else’s point of view and experience with Frank. This is simply mine.

He grabbed the axe and began chopping at lower branches to expose the thick trunk so it protruded above the snow. Then he yelled “get out of the way if you don’t want to get hurt.” I immediately backed away and fell backward onto the frozen snow. The tree was falling at the same time. Then he said “I have a job for you.” At that moment I wondered what he wanted me to do, but not for long. He was giving me orders, “lay on the sled, you need to hold the tree down because I forgot the rope.” So I did as I was told. I rarely argued with Frank. He was the boss of me when we were together because mom had given him that responsibility. Thank God, mom had made sure that I was dressed warmly, boots, mittens and a warm coat. I laid face up on the sled. He put the tree on top of me and told me to hug it around the piece of the trunk where he had moved the branches aside. I hugged the tree while trying to move my face so that the pine needles wouldn’t hurt me while wondering what he was going to do next. Suddenly I found myself sliding down the hill holding tightly to the tree and screaming. The sled slid sideways as it gained speed. Both the tree and I flew off into a snow bank right behind our home. He grabbed the tree to shake off the snow and straighten the branches as he threatened, “You better not tell mom or you’re going to be sorry.”

The next day he made it up to by asking me to carve wooden knives with him. Or just maybe I got revenge. Frank had stripped the excess branches from the Christmas tree. Using his pocket knife, he whittled off the bark and shaped the broken branches into wooden knives with sharp points. He gave me one and kept the other. Then he instructed, “See that piece of cardboard on the side of the house, we are going to throw the knives to see if they stick.” I was so excited to play this dangerous game with him. I knew Mom would beat the hell out of us but mostly me if she found out. Since he was the boss, I went along without worry of getting in trouble.

He threw his knife first. It swiftly flew through the air and stuck into the top part of the cardboard target. I hurriedly tried to do the same. Without noticing that Frank was walking toward the target to retrieve his knife, I let my knife fly through the air the same as he did. It hit him on the left causing a little puncture wound. One would have thought he was mortally wounded. I can still hear his anger, “you stupid idiot, how can you be so dumb? You better not tell mom or you’re going to be sorry.”

Utah 1953

I remember the shiny pick-up truck piled high with mattresses, boxes, and anything else that would fit as mom, dad, and seven children left the home, the garden, the animals, and the community where mom and dad had lived their whole lives. We were off to a whole new adventure in Utah. My father, who had been a sheepherder most of his life, developed a tumor under his spine. It had to be surgically removed. He was in a full-body cast for almost a year. After his recovery, he was not able to pursue his trade as a sheepherder. Dad had been taken in by his uncles who were also sheepherders when he was thirteen, after losing both parents. Through a friend of his, he found out that the military bases in Utah were hiring warehousemen to work in handling the military inventory during peace time. According to my father, it was a necessary move so that he could adequately provide for the family. He was a very hard worker and always put his family first. However, the unexpected circumstances in Utah albeit he had better employment also created the gradual demise of the family system.

Although the family lived in Vadito, a small rural village, we had a home with plenty of space; we had an acre of land with fruit trees and a big garden. We raised rabbits, chicken, and a hog for meat. We had a goat for milk and goat’s cheese. Life was hard but it was a living that was sustainable and hardy at the same time. Nothing was lacking because we lived in a community where everybody else was at the same economic and social level. We settled in Syracuse, Utah, a rural Mormon community. First of all we were the family that rented the homes that had outdoor plumbing and were mostly used by migrant farmworkers. We had no fruit trees, gardens, or animals. In Utah we were just a large poor Catholic family living in the midst of all white Mormon rural farmers. We worked in the fields for some of the farmers to help mom and dad because the warehousing wages were not enough to make ends meet.

Frank was the oldest son and the only son among five sisters for many years until my brother Alfredo, and Floyd were born. They were both born in Utah. By that time Frank was a young man trying to be the best male role model in the family as we all struggled to settle into a whole new frontier. Racism was rampant in those white rural communities. All of us experienced the negative effects on different levels; either by being subjected to name-calling or being made fun of because we did not speak English correctly as it was our second language. I think it was more difficult for Frank and my two older sisters. My oldest sister ended up marrying at age 15. My other sister left Utah as soon as she finished high school. Frank got into trouble and joined the army. The rest of us acculturated as well as possible, but not without short and long-term effects. Relocation of our family from New Mexico to Utah in 1953, created many obstacles that the whole family endured, and from which we all survived to best of our abilities. No one was to blame. These were the circumstances and experiences that we all lived through.

I don’t know who was the strongest. Perhaps it was my father who dared to move the entire family to Utah in 1953. Being a man of spiritual principal and knowing that his belief in God would always guide his path, he made his decisions as the man of the family and our mother followed; not always agreeing but somehow trusting her own faith that somehow we would all persevere.

It was our mother’s strength, tenacity, and forbearance that stand out the most to me. Perhaps it is because of my own challenges of being a parent of only two children while always having had the means to provide for them very comfortably. On the other hand, my mother prevailed under dire circumstances. When I think of my mother raising nine children under some very difficult conditions, I can only bow to her amazing faith and tenacity to keep on giving all she had to give. Her sacrifice came with a huge price. She suffered from major depression most of her life. Yet, she kept going in spite of hospitalizations, medications, Electro Shock Therapy, and her deep, deep fear and worry for the well-being of the family.

The first car wreck

My memories of Frank span from our childhood in New Mexico, to visiting him at a State Juvenile Detention Center when he was in high school, and being so proud of him when he joined the Army. He used to send me pictures of him climbing palm trees when he was stationed in Panama. He was so handsome. I used to brag about him to my friends. One of my girlfriends, Christine Herrera had a big crush on him.

I remember when he came home on leave one time. He was wearing his Army uniform. I was so happy to see him. However, he seemed older now giving me advice about not getting in trouble and obeying mom and dad. Now he wanted me to obey mom and dad because he knew he wasn’t my boss anymore. He had borrowed my dad’s car to go visit one of his friends but did not return home that night. I remember my mother crying and pacing the floor. My dad was trying to calm her down. He asked me to take care of her because he had to go to work. We did not have a telephone so there was nobody we could call. That afternoon my dad came home early from work. This was very unusual. Mom was in bed crying praying the rosary. Dad came into the bedroom where mom laid sobbing. He said Frank was in an accident and he is in the hospital at Hill Air Force Base.

Mom’s sobbing turning into full blown screams. Later we learned that Frank had been badly injured. He suffered a brain injury that left him unconscious. The accident happened when Frank stopped at a stop light in Clearfield, Utah. A young man in the car next to him dared him to race. Frank hit the accelerator and both of them took off at high speed. Frank hit a cement structure, the car flew into the air, and he was thrown out as the car came back down with a mighty force that collapsed the roof, steering wheel and all. The car was upside down. Frank’s unconscious body was fifty feet away from the wreckage. He had his Army ID on him which enabled the paramedics to transport him to the Hill Air Force Base hospital. For a week, we wondered if he would make it. When he woke up, his brain was not functioning normally so the Air Force hospital contacted the Army officials because Frank was still on active duty. The following week he was transferred to an Army Hospital in Fort Sam Houston, Texas. He was there for a little over one year as I recall. He had to learn how to do everything all over again. Even simple tasks like tying his shoes or buttoning his shirt had to be relearned. He was eventually discharged honorably from the Army. I don’t know if he was discharged directly from the hospital or if he finished his tour of duty. I do remember how happy I was to have him home again.

The second car wreck

Upon his release from the Army, Frank found a job at Anabelle’s. It was a nightclub on twenty-Fifth Street in Ogden, Utah, a street historically notorious for organized crime and other illicit activity. I remember how thrilled he was at finding a job. Annabelle was a very successful black woman who had hired him as a bouncer. She owned the club. He was living at home during that time. Every day he dressed up in a sports jacket and nicely starched shirts that I had to iron. I remember thinking he looked so important and handsome. He took out a loan when he got his first paycheck. He purchased a brand new Chevrolet Corvair. I remember the shiny new sky blue color. But mostly I remember the first ride he gave to the Dipper Drive In to get a hamburger and a Coke. It was payment for ironing his shirts. Not long after he bought his car, he was in another car accident. This time the car was totaled but he was not badly hurt. However, he was cited for reckless and drunk driving.

His traumatic brain injury from the first accident that was left undiagnosed by many professionals would later in life be the source of much suffering, multiple incarcerations, isolation, substandard psychiatric treatments and mismanaged medication treatment. Frank already had a record from time served in the state juvenile detention center prior to joining the military. Going into the Army was a deal his probation offer made with Frank and mom and dad so he could be released from detention. Now the DUI and recklessness were new charges added to his record. This incident started a spiraling down of Frank’s abilities to make good choices; particularly when alcohol was involved. He became angry, short-tempered and aggressive with people in authority which often caused his time in jail to be increased because of his aggressive behaviors. The jail where he spent time on and off for drunken disorderly or probation violations was on the same block area that bordered 25th street. Frank’s release from jail each time had the usual probationary requirement to report monthly to his probation officer.

Prison years

On one occasion when he went to meet with his probation officer, he stopped at Annabelle’s although he was not supposed to be around alcohol nor in places that served it. After several drinks, he got into a fight with another patron. Annabelle ordered him to leave and not come back. He had already lost his job shortly after the car accident. As he walked past the stores and shops on twenty-Fifth Street, Frank looked inside a pawn shop window. He saw a gun mounted on the wall. In his drunken state he broke the window, immediately setting off the burglar alarm. The police were on site immediately. This offense with his past record carried a prison sentence.

Over the next twenty plus years Frank was in an out of prison four or five times. Each time it was for parole violation that typically involved physical altercations with others, assault with or without a weapon, leaving the state while on parole, or other crimes that I didn’t learn about. Such was the imprisoned life of my childhood hero.

I would write to him in prison and send him poems. I sent him this poem prior to his release from prison when arrangements had been made to have him transferred to a group home. Mom worried about him all the time. I used to try to cheer her up by reading the poems that I wrote for him and also the letters that he would write back.

Dear Frank. I wrote this poem for you. You will be out soon.
The past is but one road that we once chose to take
Sometimes the road looks rocky or endless like a lake
Sometimes it curves with winding strength – with unknown turns ahead
Sometimes it leaves us so forlorn and sometimes full of dread
But that was just one road my friend and now we’re on another
The road that passed has reached the end – you’ve got a new chance brother
I’ll be right here to comfort you when you are down and out
I’ll be behind you all the way through every single bout
So worry not, but look ahead to sunny days to come
Cuz this year when spring arrives, your past will all be gone
You’ll leave those prison gates behind and never to return
For out here lies some happiness
And Brother, it’s your turn

The poems and letters helped me to cope with my feelings of helplessness in trying to comfort mom, plus my own worry about what might be happening to Frank in prison. When he called mom, she always let me know what was happening. He spent lots of time in solitary confinement for being aggressive and fighting. I remember one time when he was home on parole but awaiting his court hearing, I asked him to tell me how he felt about going back to prison. His reply was, “it’s only time, it doesn’t matter where you spend it.” I realize now that Frank had come to terms with his lot in life much easier that I or the rest of the family had, especially mom.

Over the years, family members learned to protect themselves from Frank’s erratic behaviors when he would go through manic or schizophrenic phases. Mostly, he refused to take his medications or combined alcohol with them. He also had periods of time when he was stable enough to work but with his prison record it was impossible for him to find steady work. He helped family members when he could. He loved fishing. Oftentimes, he would catch fish and give them to my sisters or to his friends. One time he gave me a beautiful Onyx ring. He told me it was a gift because I had been such a good sister to him. A few months later, he asked me for the ring back because he was broke and needed to sell it. It reminds me of when he was young before he went into juvenile detention. Mom and dad bought a little cheap record player for me. It was in a brown and tan case with a gold colored lock. It had a little turn table for a 45 record. I could buy one record. I chose Elvis Presley “Don’t Be Cruel.” I was so happy to have my very own record player at age fifteen. Two months later, Frank took my record player and mom and dad’s camera and pawned them to get money. I could never stay mad at Frank. Perhaps it was because I was too busy trying to comfort mom whenever Frank got in trouble. She worried constantly.

Becoming a father

During one of spaces of time between prison terms, he met Joanna. She was a struggling heroin addict trying to stay clean through a methadone program. Bill was Joanna’s friend and employer. She cooked and kept house for him in return for rent. Joanna was very fond of Bill who had given her a job and a place to live when she found herself homeless after her release from prison where she spent five years on an insufficient fund felony charge. She had no home prior to prison. She was a prisoner to heroin then. The illegal check writing was next, followed by an almost fatal overdose that summoned help for her condition and brought her criminal life to surface. She and Frank seemed to hit it off as they had lots in common. That is until the day that she made arrangements to give Frank’s baby up for adoption.

The circumstances around the birth of Frank’s baby Sean were sad to say the least. Joanna had contacted a lawyer to discuss giving the baby up for adoption through the black market. When Frank, found out he spiraled out of control. What I recall is that he called Sabina to come and take the baby for a few days to give him and Joanna some time to work things out. Sabina took the little infant boy home with her, planning to give Frank and Joanna a respite during a very stressful time. But after Sabina took Sean, there were two events that changed the course of Sean’s life forever.

Joanna died of a drug overdose. Frank spiraled further out of control, broke the law again, and ended up in prison. In a stress-induced manic frenzy, he broke a bank window to get a stuffed Elk head that was mounted on the wall. In his delusion, this was a gift for his baby son. Frank saw Sean when he was born and would not see him again until the last year of Frank’s life. Sean visited him at the adult group home where Frank lived after he was released from prison. Frank had pictures of Sean on his dresser next to him in his Army uniform. He was a very proud father. Although his emotional expression was suppressed by the long term effects of strong psychotropic drugs, when I visited him at the group home with my sister Viviana, who had regular oversight of him until he passed, he was always kind and asked about everybody. He would always say “I still pray for everybody and especially for Sean.”

In many ways Frank was a victim of faulty mental health and correctional institutions. Prisoners, especially Latino men incarcerated in the Utah State Penitentiary in the late 1960’s and 1970’s, didn’t have a prayer of fair judicial and/or mental health treatment. He was heavily medicated by prison psychiatrists for many years without a proper assessment of his traumatic brain injury.

He was still in prison in 1987. I was completing my second year of graduate school. We had a panel on mental health in the prison system in one of my classes. The folks from the Alliance of Mental Health presented data on the number of prisoners with traumatic brain injuries that are misdiagnosed in the prison system; keeping them cycling in an out of mental institutions coupled with multiple incarcerations. Shortly thereafter I met with two of the members on the panel. I told them about Frank’s situation, the many years in prison, his traumatic brain injuries, and the multiple medications that he had been prescribed. Within a month, the folks from The Mental Health Alliance helped to navigate Frank’s release from prison plus his subsequent placement in the group home settings. Frank went through two or three placements until Viviana found one that was more suitable for Frank. It was run by an Asian couple who loved the clients. The home was on a huge piece of property surrounded by evergreens with a huge area for the clients to walk outdoors without being disturbed. Frank had his own room decorated with pictures of Sean and religious images from his Catholic upbringing. I’d like to think that the last few years of Frank’s life were peaceful and safe. He had shelter, loving caretakers, warm meals, and he was free to walk around the property and have visitors whenever he wanted.

Farewell my hero

I visited him at the hospital before he died. It was the last time I saw him. We talked and hugged. I asked him if he was afraid to die. In his nonchalant way he laughed a little and said, “Why should I be afraid, we all have to die.” So I said good-bye to my childhood hero. But every now and again I re-read a letter he wrote me from prison that I have treasured over the years. I imagine his spirit soaring in freedom from the prison of life.

This letter exactly as he wrote is a treasure that I keep to remind me of Frank’s beautiful soul trapped underneath the conditions and outcomes of his traumatic brain injury, the impact on his mind, behaviors, and actions. But like Frank said himself “it’s only time, it doesn’t matter where you spend it.” I have read this letter countless times. Each time I read it I see deep empathy, appreciation, unwavering faith and a recognition that he wanted to do better. His soul came to gather many experiences through which he learned and also taught those that knew him. The lessons I learned from Frank have made me stronger. He loved his family, especially his son, Sean.

If I could deliver a poem to him today, it would be as follows.
You travelled through valleys where rivers ran dry
Amidst life’s illusion you reached for the sky
Your faith was you shield
Your armor was love
The dragons you killed
Are now little white doves
For you weren’t your body
Nor your troubled mind
In this great equation
Great truth you will find
There’s no such thing as a final good bye
Life is eternal and you’ll never die

I have found great comfort, joy, and some sadness in writing down my memories of Frank. During this time when the world finds itself facing social distancing and isolation due to the Corona virus, I can’t help but think about the resiliency, strength, fortitude, and faith that Frank had to have had to endure many years in prison with long periods of solitary confinement. Whenever I grumble because I cannot go out and about with the ease and freedom that I’ve always had, I think about being so appreciative for all that I have been given in this life. I thank God for all of the family members. No matter what experiences anybody goes through, they are all perfect for the soul of our being. At the very root of it all, we are all loving creations learning how to move through this physical material world.

(scroll down to read Frank’s letter)