{"id":3040,"date":"2018-09-25T12:00:15","date_gmt":"2018-09-25T12:00:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/floridareview.cah.ucf.edu\/?post_type=article&p=3040"},"modified":"2018-09-25T12:00:15","modified_gmt":"2018-09-25T12:00:15","slug":"only-tourists-remember-the-alamo","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\/","title":{"rendered":"Only Tourists Remember the Alamo"},"content":{"rendered":"

She doesn\u2019t know why she gets into the car, but she knows why she\u2019s alone. Jonas broke up with her in an email: On the things that matter, the things that really count, we don\u2019t see eye-to-eye. <\/em>He\u2019d switched the font to Lucida Handwriting, blue, as if to soften the blow. She\u2019d seen it coming. They\u2019d argued about evolution at the foot of the Tower of the Americas. He pointed at a duck and asked in what universe does something whittle down to that?<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

One with a sense of humor, she said, but he didn\u2019t laugh.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Darwin was racist, Juliana, he snapped. Darwin said terrible things about black people. Did they teach you that in AP Biology?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Did they teach you that at Jesus Camp? she’d retorted, but only when he\u2019d begun to walk away. He couldn\u2019t hear her over the children screaming in the dry fountain. San Antonio was in drought, like always, so the waterfalls modeled on Mayan temples held no water. Kids in slip-on sneakers raced from bottom to top and down again. She was sure their game would end in bloody mouths, broken teeth, but no one fell.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She knows why she boarded a southbound bus after school. She wanted to go downtown. Her bills were too wrinkled for the token machine, but the driver waved her through with a nod. There were no other students on the bus, not even after the Trinity stop, just a few unsmiling women who glared at the hem of her tartan kilt but wouldn\u2019t meet her eyes. She sat by the window near the back, tucking her skirt beneath her legs so her thighs wouldn\u2019t stick to the vinyl, and watched the sidewalks for someone she knew. Down the North St. Mary\u2019s strip, where bars and clubs beckon the underage. Not yet dark, no one drinking. Day drunks stick to the River Walk. There she\u2019d once witnessed a pink-faced man in a balloon hat relieve himself into the brown current on a Tuesday morning, that summer she served breakfast and lunch at an Italian restaurant where every dish was pre-prepared, microwaved.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This is why I keep you on breakfast, Julibaby, the manager had said, nudging her. There\u2019s a lot more of those groserias<\/em> at dinner.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A lot more tips, too, she\u2019d considered saying, but she didn\u2019t want him to think she was a complainer. She\u2019d barely earned enough to pay for the tricolor tie he insisted she wear in the 100-degree heat.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t go downtown to get drunk. No: she is terrified of drunkenness, thinks of it as roving hands and burst capillaries, a sickness you choose. A disease of weak will, the way her mother speaks of it, verg\u00fcenza<\/em>; they\u2019re better off without her father. So Juliana doesn\u2019t drink, not really. She\u2019d tried. The girls said it would mellow her, but at a party with the Central Catholic boys she\u2019d panicked after two Mike\u2019s Hard Lemonades and called her mom to come pick her up.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am out of control, she told herself as she waited in the front yard. I am out of control. It felt good to say it, even if she knew it wasn\u2019t true.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t raise you like this, her mother said in the car. Sneaking around. If you need to sneak around you\u2019re ashamed of your life and who are you then, Juli?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m the virgin who gets scared and calls her mom, she thought. I\u2019m Shirley Temple. She giggled. Her mother stiffened behind the wheel.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She got off the bus at a downtown plaza, pushing against the current of tourists toward the river. She was numb, blind to the designer chocolate shops and trinket stands and smear-faced kids begging their parents for food and air conditioning. Sweaty strangers but still she\u2019d seen them all before, people set on remembering the Alamo, people who buy t-shirts and ice cream and indulge a history that makes them feel good. She was fixed on something Jonas said the night of their first date: I\u2019m so glad you\u2019re not like everyone else. She kept herself from asking how, letting his words swell in the silence like confession. He didn\u2019t try to touch her, not then. He waited in his car until she\u2019d closed and locked the front door of her house before he drove away. He waited until she was safe.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dusk hit. The bald cypress trees along the river were mobbed with grackles, their clipped wails piercing the tourists\u2019 din. Not their song, Jonas said\u2014the slick brown-black birds were just trying to echo the downtown crowds. Their real call is much quieter, he once explained, less desperate. They sound almost like songbirds on their lonesome. He was homeschooled; he used words like lonesome. He had a small chip in his right front tooth. He was in a band, played guitar. She wanted to lick the calluses on his fingers until they were soft.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She doesn\u2019t know why she gets in the car, but she knows why she took a pledge of abstinence for True Love Waits: Jonas asked. He came to Incarnate Word High School during assembly with homemade pamphlets and a promise ring on his finger and before a dusty green chalkboard she said yes to God, along with a handful of freshmen and Hilda Rios, who would probably remain a virgin the rest of her life, pledge or no. He wrote his number on her pamphlet, right next to a clip art vision of a smiling bride.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Call me if you want to talk about the promise we\u2019ve made, he smiled.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019ll be a born-again virgin if I can chill with him, some girl snickered after he left homeroom.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

True Love Waits, but she didn\u2019t have to. He invited her to bible study at his church that same week, offering to pick her up at her two-bedroom house on one of the sadder streets in Alta Vista and drive her all the way out to 1604, where box churches beamed search lights into the sky. On the drive she asked if he was paid to recruit virgins. She\u2019d rehearsed the line a few times at home, hoping it struck the bohemian evangelical chord just so.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No, he laughed. It\u2019s more of a volunteer gig. My calling, I guess.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Then, quick like he knew her next question: You\u2019re the first recruit I\u2019ve ever asked out.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He introduced her to his friends at bible study, boys with names like Chad and Tucker who tucked button-downs into belted jeans. Is it Joo-lee-anna <\/em>or Hoo-lee-anna<\/em>? one of them asked, and she blushed and shrugged: I respond to everything. Jonas pronounced it wrong but she hadn\u2019t wanted to correct him. Their names sounded better together his way, anyway.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When she left the river, mounting the limestone steps toward the street, a crush of men in chino shorts cheered from a hot pink barge behind her. They lifted their beer mugs in approval; someone screamed nice skirt.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The girls at Incarnate were jealous of her, for once. They noticed her compulsively checking her email in the library between classes. Did you fuck him yet? they asked, poking her waist, laughing. Does he keep his ring on when he feels you up?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No, she snapped, but he does make me wear a crown of thorns. The girls laughed harder, impressed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t touch her, not at first. They were never alone in a room. They spent afternoons in youth group in deep, circular discussions about holy desire, how true love is anchored first in faith. They sometimes brushed arms, sitting close enough for her to memorize his smell: Tide detergent and chew. A month before they held hands, six weeks before he kissed her in a dark theater. And then it was an urgent tumbling, a humming thrill that didn\u2019t stop when he stopped (and always, he stopped). She reasoned it was okay, the wanting, because it felt pure. Like something she was created to do. Her body\u2019s own glorious mystery.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Why are you doing this to me? he asked one night his hands in her hair his mouth on her ear.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She expected to find men on Commerce Street, men who bared gold teeth at her as they drove past, slow. Jonas asked about these cars once, early in their courtship: what\u2019s the deal with y\u2019all\u2019s lowriders mang?<\/em> He used a Southside accent when he asked questions like these. He asked more often those nights his tongue had been inside her mouth. He never waited for her answer. He never asked why she didn\u2019t introduce him to her mother, either. Her house was off limits, he seemed to understand. He might have been relieved.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t tell her mother about him. She kept her grades up, still went to mass, was home, always, before the end of her mom\u2019s shift. No need for questions.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Why are you doing this to me? he asked again and again breathing into the hollow of her collarbone why won\u2019t you stop me?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Because I don\u2019t want to, she wanted to say. Because you don\u2019t want me to.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Instead she\u2019d kiss his forehead and eyelids and pray he felt it too, the longing that followed her for hours after they touched. In mass, as she pushed the papery wafer against the back of her teeth, she\u2019d close her eyes and meditate on the patch of hair beneath his lower lip. She\u2019d come to crave her own faith, its private, solemn ritual. At Jonas\u2019 church everything was hands in the air, flashing lights, the devoted weeping as they sang.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They\u2019d meant to explore Mission San Jose the night he confronted her about ducks and evolution. She\u2019d thought the majestic limestone church would please Jonas\u2014he was a Texas history buff, could recite Davy Crockett\u2019s monologue from the John Wayne movie on request\u2014but the grounds closed at five o\u2019clock.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

How very Catholic, he sniped. Like the Lord operates from nine to five.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That\u2019s not fair. Every church has operating hours.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Worship me from one to three, he sang. After seven, there\u2019s no heaven.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

His voice was thin. He couldn\u2019t get it to tremble the right way.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Clever, she said. She reached for his hand but he shoved it in his pocket.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I guess it\u2019s easier to break the rules when you have a million of them, he said. If you think about it, it\u2019s like the Pope expects you to fail. Like he\u2019s setting you up for it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t know what to say. In the dead pause she remembered something a Taylor or a Travis had said to Jonas after bible study: How\u2019s that spicy mission work coming along? You still a sucker for lost causes?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

On Commerce Street she has a clear view of the Tower, watches its glowing glass elevator ferry diners to the revolving restaurant at the top. She\u2019s never been; only tourists see the city from that height. They sip margaritas made from cheap mix and try to spot the Alamo, where men died for Texas, where their favorite myth was born.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She waits. She carries no purse, no phone. So when a man whistles at her from a cherry-red Camaro that sparkles like candy, she climbs into his passenger seat knowing people won\u2019t find her if this stranger doesn\u2019t want them to. She isn\u2019t scared. It has to be irrevocable, what comes next.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The man talked a big game when she was on the sidewalk, some nonsense about her schoolgirl skirt, but he\u2019s quiet when she enters the plush interior of his coupe.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What are you doing? he asks.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You said you had something to teach me.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He looks all around the car, everywhere but her face. He\u2019s breathing hard. A drop of sweat glides down his jawline.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You don\u2019t belong here, baby girl.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

How do you know?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You\u2019re a good girl. You don\u2019t know what you\u2019re doing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

True, she says. But I\u2019ve got to learn sometime.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That\u2019s not how it works, he says, but he lets the car roll forward without pressing the gas.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

She doesn’t know why she gets into the car . . .<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":3041,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[811,6,37,812],"class_list":["post-3040","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features","tag-alicia-d-ortega","tag-aquifer-the-florida-review-online","tag-hispanic-heritage-month","tag-only-tourists-remember-the-alamo"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOnly Tourists Remember the Alamo - The Florida Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Only Tourists Remember the Alamo - The Florida Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"She doesn't know why she gets into the car . . .\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Florida Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/43\/2018\/09\/Ortega-Alicia-D-pic-H.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"811\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"524\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"11 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/article\\\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/article\\\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\\\/\",\"name\":\"Only Tourists Remember the Alamo - The Florida Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/article\\\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/article\\\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/sites\\\/43\\\/2018\\\/09\\\/Ortega-Alicia-D-pic-H.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2018-09-25T12:00:15+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/article\\\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/article\\\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/article\\\/only-tourists-remember-the-alamo\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/sites\\\/43\\\/2018\\\/09\\\/Ortega-Alicia-D-pic-H.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/cah.ucf.edu\\\/floridareview\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/sites\\\/43\\\/2018\\\/09\\\/Ortega-Alicia-D-pic-H.jpg\",\"width\":811,\"height\":524,\"caption\":\"Author Alicia D. 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