As a child in El Pao I was sometimes teased (accused?) for being more American than Venezuelan. Looking back, I can grant the criticism in that I might have been too carelessly effusive in my praise of United States history while too reticent in my acknowledgment of Venezuela’s.

However, I must plead, not as an excuse but as a mitigating factor, that my Spanish instructors did not help me much in this, given their disdain for Spain’s actions and inactions in the Americas in general and in Venezuela in particular.

I now understand that the standard approach to Latin American history – at least in my day – did not exactly promote a love and appreciation for our heritage. If Spain was so evil and if it represented “500 years of atrocities”, then how am I, as a child, to value, let alone love the society or culture that they bequeathed to us?

As readers of this blog have seen, Spain’s contribution to the Americas was truly a wonder: 500 years of high culture, including the oldest cathedrals, universities, opera houses, and more in the western hemisphere, let alone the teaching and training of a language and system of law that were truly a marvel of accomplishment in their time. 

We’ve written about that elsewhere (for example, see here and here) and will continue doing so.

I begin this post with the above because I do not want you to think I do not appreciate my years in Georgia, Puerto Rico, Texas, and other parts of the world where I have been blessed to have lived or otherwise spent time and met good and fine friends. I do appreciate them; very much so. 

For now, however, as Christmas approaches, my thoughts inevitably wander back to our few short years in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Whenever I count my blessings, I think of my parents and grandparents and the life and heritage they bequeathed me. 

I think of El Pao and childhood friends.

And I always think of Kalamazoo.

I vividly recall flying to that town for the first time in the early summer of 1984. As the plane approached and the green fields and lakes – so many lakes! – came into view, my heart was powerfully drawn to that small midwestern city that I had hardly ever heard about (except in a Glenn Miller song).

The folks I met, my interactions with clerks, executives, factory workers, children, immediately brought El Pao to my mind. The Midwest became more than a geographical touchpoint: it immediately became a part of me … because it was always a part of me, only I didn’t know it. The ready friendship and transparency of our neighbors, church brethren, professional colleagues, mechanics, you-name-it, was a throwback to my childhood in El Pao and purlieus. It was coming home to a home you did not know you had. 

When it came time to leave, in late 1988, we kept coming back to visit, as one would come see parents or siblings whenever possible. Friendships made then, continue to be friendships now. Our most recent visit was in 2015; and I do hope it won’t be our last.

We used to say, “You can take the man out of Arthur Andersen but you cannot take Arthur Andersen out of the man.” 

I can also say, “You can take the man out of Kalamazoo but you cannot take Kalamazoo out of the man.”

We’d play Christmas music – classical, hymns, popular – beginning late November and well into January. One little hymn has persistently remained in my memory: Lullaby (Music: J. Frederick Keel, English composer of Elizabethan songs; Lyrics: Alfred Noyes, English poet).

The first time I heard it, the sun had disappeared over the horizon, light snowflakes mysteriously reflected moonlight as they drifted silently onto the ground and forest preserve just beyond our apartment. The hymn is eerily perfect for a quiet Christmastime night.

And especially if you have a baby or young child in your home.

Although the hymn says nothing about snow, I cannot help but think of it as I listen to Lullaby whether in Georgia, Texas, or even in Puerto Rico. But what it evokes most in me are thoughts of a Babe in a manger, Christmas, Kalamazoo winter, and our young home.

One day, in the El Pao playgrounds, my childhood friends were again teasing me about America. In reactionary mode, I taunted my friend, Lizbeth, “Well, look at you! You are more German than Venezuelan!” 

All became quiet, as she calmly replied, “I love Germany.”

I learned from her. That should have been my reply too, and henceforth, it was: “I love America.” 

And I loved Kalamazoo, and am grateful for my years there and for our friends there.

Lullaby (circa 1925)

Sleep little Baby I love Thee, I love Thee
Sleep Little King, I am bending above Thee
How shall I know what to sing?
How shall I know what to sing
Here are my arms as I swing Thee to sleep?
Hushaby Low,
Rockaby so,
Hushaby Low.

Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring
Mother has only a kiss for her King
Only a kiss for her King.
Why should my singing so make me to weep?
Only I know that I love Thee
Only I know that I love Thee
Love Thee my little one,
Love Thee my little one,
Sleep! Hushaby low,
Rockaby so, Hushaby low.