Straight Outta El Chuco, Tejas

Abel Cruz Chacon of El Paso, Texas gave us much more than many of us bargain for in life.
Having passed at the wise age of 87, he is survived by his daughters: Irene C. De La Cruz, Irma Diaz, Isela Campos, Aurora Chacon, Beatrice Segura, Gloria Reta, Irma Dominguez, and Angie Briano; his sons: Abel Chacon Jr., Andres Chacon, Abel Chacon Jr., Martin Chacon, Rene Aguilar, Ricardo Chacon, and Federico Flores Jr.; as well his 43 grandchildren; 49 great grandchildren; and countless nieces, nephews, and friends.

Always generous with his joy, inspiring in his dance, captivating with the sincerity of his heartfelt stories, full of life –he gave us a glimpse into the wisdom and ease that is gained from nearly 9 decades of living.

And while his life had its challenges and he, like all of us, might have had his own regrets in life, the way in which he lived out his last decades speaks to the potential of our humanity and of our capacity to love one another fully and generously.

He often shared that one of his biggest regrets is not having become that man earlier in life for the benefit of his children; and I believe that he carried that regret with him, more than any of us could judge him for.

The sincerity of his regrets was shared in his stories and he was always honest about the pain those earlier experiences caused; and yet, these same experiences softened him into the fullness of his humanity. That humanity that many of us were drawn to in his later years.

My sister and I had the benefit of visiting Tio Abel in El Paso when he was caring for his mom, our great grandma Evi Chacon. It seems like a lifetime ago! And yet, the memories of that trip are a timeless treasure because we caught a glimpse into how much Texas and Tio Abel were intertwined. Some people think we own the land we live on; but more than anything, the stories of the lands we live with become a part of our skin and form a huge part of who we are. As Tio Abel drove us through El Paso, he showed us our roots. He told us about our family’s history in Smelter Town; he made sure we had menudo along the Juarez border; he took us to Juarez and talked about the old days; he made sure we noticed the bridges on our way there and on our way back; and he shared both funny and painful stories about his youth. He made sure that the fabric of who we are stayed with us. And indeed it has.

My favorite pastime during his many visits to California was spending time hearing him tell his stories. I mean, I would also get a kick of how he ate jalapeños with everything – pizza, pancakes, donuts – everything; and it wasn’t just that he ate jalapeños with everything, it was how he did it – holding the fresh jalapeños with both hands, warming up the spice, like he was about to conjure up some magic – or maybe some mischief – or both. But his stories -- in his smooth voice with the Tejano flavor. There was magic in those stories. You could almost see him traveling through time as the light gleamed in his eyes when he’d tell his stories. And he loved to tell them. Even washing dishes became a gateway into stories. Cleaning would turn into song and dance – and a story, and I think for him, it was a means of survival that became a way of life.

He sang, and he danced, and he shared his stories. And he lived a long and full life. From him, I learned about perspective and the gift of generosity in how he lived with joy –and heart.
Each of us has a series of stories that his love of life helped create. In a way he became a bridge of sorts, like those strong and timeless bridges he helped build. Bridging us back to ourselves. Grounding us into our own stories while helping us expand into places we tend to neglect.

Reminding us to stay grounded in the little things that matter most. The time. The stories. The pictures. The moments. Sharing our joy generously, simply, and with the utmost sincerity.

Many of us grieve his loss while feeling a smidgen of relief knowing he is somewhere waving goodbye with a smile standing on his own two feet, "Ready, willing, and able," as he'd say.

Tio Abel. A proud Tejano. Straight outta El Chuco, Tejas.
Crossing bridges he helped build.
Moving on to adventures in the afterlife.
Heart on his sleeve.
Pep in his step.
Dance moves for days.
Loving unconditionally.
Always re/membering.

(photo credits belong to Mariana Alvarez //words my own)