When I was not even four years old, a new branch of my family inserted themselves into my life: my aunt, uncle, and cousins, recently returned from El Paso, TX, where my uncle, who was with the military, had spent one of the multiple, several-year-long stints at Fort Bliss spread throughout his career. With them, they brought not only Native American pottery, rugs, silverware, turquoise jewelry and other art work, but also stories of the old and new West, of Indians (of whose mere existence I had, until then, been blissfully ignorant), of a different life style than the city life I knew – simpler and more attuned to nature – and of horses, gold diggers, cowboys, settlers, gunfights, honor, and bravery. For my next birthday, they gave me an almost life-sized teepee which instantly became my most prized possession ... and gave me a leverage over the neighborhood kids that didn't go down too well with some of the local boys.
Thus began a fascination with the American West that has never left me since.
(For those who have read the intro page of this website's chapter on Shakespeare, or my FAQ page's passages about Greek mythology, in both of which areas I have a practically life-long interest as well, I pause here to leave room for your imagination to picture the likes of Tecumseh, Geronimo, Perseus, Odysseus, Hamlet and Macbeth all duking it out for my attention with each other [alright, so Hamlet ain't duking anything out with anybody, he's just driving 'em all nuts with his neverending questions and brooding] ... but, yes, after all these years, all in all it's still a draw. Yet, I digress.)
By the time I set foot in the West for the first time as a teenager – my uncle and family were back in El Paso – I had learned to ride, had acquired a solid knowledge base of Western legends, lore, literature, movies and history, had survived my first few camping trips, and was familiar enough with the places to be seen to occasionally reroute the tour my relatives had put together for me, and to drag them to places even they had never heard of. In other words, I thought, I was ready for the real thing.
Except that I wasn't. All the books, pictures, and movies in the world couldn't have prepared me for the sheer magnitude of the Western landscape; for the momentous, age-old dignity of its mountains and woods, the sun-drenched, spellbinding and unexpectedly animated expanse of its deserts, the forever-unprobed mysteries of its canyons and prehistoric civilizations, and perhaps most of all, the limitless vastness of its skies. Sure, all of these are clichés – but I suppose I'm resorting to them because even now, I am still unable to come up with something better; other than the recognition that, even in the age of mass tourism, growing ecological sensitivities, and newly-discovered empathy for the Red Man's plight, the American West simply has to be seen and experienced to be believed.
The pages in this section of my site thus are my little tribute to a region that, although I currently don't even live anywhere near it, has had a profound impact on my way of thinking ever since I was a child, and will stay with me forever.
For all that, however, I know that when it comes right down to it, I'll always be a tourist there. So I'm not trying to pretend to any greater insights than I actually possess. My own reviews and guides on the Southwest, California, and Western literature, as well as my Western filmography, are therefore only meant as fairly basic introductions to the subject. If you are interested in tips and advice from someone who does have the kind of inside knowledge I so sorely lack, you may want to check out Jack Purcell, possibly one of the last great Western storytellers in the old tradition (review of his "Hell Bent for Santa Fe" to be posted shortly, so stay tuned), and definitely the kind of guy you'll want to talk to, particularly about anything and everything Texas, New Mexico, lost gold mines, and the great outdoors. No-nonsense, down to earth ... and some of the wickedest sense of humor west of the Mississippi and north of the Rio Grande.
Western History and Historic Fiction
The Bloody Americas: The Conquest
Less-Known 19th Century History
Pre-Columbians in the Americas
Native Americans and Tribal Casinos
New Mexico and Texas: Rivaling Neighbors
New Mexico and Arizona History
New Mexico History and Visiting
New Mexico Myth, Mystery and Madness
Outdoors with a Chuckle
(I did mention his sense of humor, remember?)
She might be without country, without nation, but inside her there was still a being that could exist and be free, that could simply say I am without adding a this, or a that, without saying I am Indian, Guyanese, English, or anything else in the world. Sharon Maas: Of Marriageable Age.
Through our maps, we willingly become a part of their boundaries. If our home is included, we feel pride, perhaps familiarity, but always a sense that this is ours. If it is not, we accept our roles as outsiders, though we may be of the same mind and culture. In this way, maps can be dangerous and powerful tools. Debbie Lee Wesselmann: Trutor and the Balloonist.
I believe in such cartography – to be marked by nature, not just label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. ... All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps. Michael Ondaatje: The English Patient.
Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind. Something you dream about and sing about. Maybe it's not a place on the map at all, but just a story full of people you meet and places you visit, full of books and films you've been to. I'm not afraid of being homesick and having no language to live in. I don't have to be like anyone else. I'm walking on the wall and nobody can stop me. Hugo Hamilton: The Speckled People.
Copyright 2001-2009: Themis-Athena, all rights reserved.