gone a lot of places, Sterling,” replied the man. “But how many of them have you really been to? How often were you really there? How much did you actually realize and take in all that was going on around you?”
Sterling wasn’t at all sure how to respond, or even what exactly it was that the man meant. But clearly this was a unique opportunity, and he was never one to turn down an adventure.
“I don’t know,” Sterling finally offered. “But I bet you’re going to show me,” he quipped with the smug playfulness he had perfected as a business owner and passionate aficionado of the good life. He always thought of himself as the world’s best salesman and sometime con artist, with the ability to sell pearls to any oyster in the sea.
The man laughed and said, “You catch on quickly, don’t you?”
“Never miss a beat,” Sterling replied, relishing his ability to charm. “By the way,” Sterling added, “I didn’t catch your name.”
The man smiled and replied. “Well, I thought you’d never ask. My name is Chris.”
“Nice to meet you, Chris,” Sterling answered.
“And to see you again, Sterling. You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met before,” Chris added.
“Interesting. I don’t remember,” Sterling interjected.
“Exactly,” added Chris. “That’s what we’re here to do. To help you put it all together again.”
Sterling smiled. He had no idea who Chris was or where all of it was going, but he knew somehow it would all turn out alright. And he was going to enjoy the ride.
Before he realized what was happening, the scene suddenly began to change around him. As he tried to discern the emerging sights, Sterling instantly recognized another sensation. Like a window opening into a world both familiar and distant, Sterling felt immediately transported to childhood as he discerned the sounds of his grandfather’s strumming guitar and booming baritone voice. Now fully immersed in the moment, Sterling recognized the scene around him. He was outside at evening in the back of his family’s farmhouse, the moon beaming gently down on the spreading rows of vines and a small fire burning in the outdoor hearth. Sterling remembered viscerally where he was as he took everything in. Though it was clear that he couldn’t be seen by anyone, he found himself in a familiar place—in fact, one so familiar that he was startled to recognize none other than himself at what must have been age seven or eight. There he was, surrounded by his family, sitting enthralled as his grandfather, abuelo Alfonso, shared the songs he had grown up singing.
His grandfather was the family’s connection to a legacy that went back many generations, all the way to the time when the land stretching out before them had belonged to Spain, and later Mexico. Since at least the early 1800s, Sterling’s family, through his paternal grandfather’s ancestors, had lived on, worked, and eventually owned the land they now called their own. Though his grandfather was a quiet person, he never hesitated to express to Sterling and his other grandchildren the pride he took in their heritage—in the legacy they had received from those who came before. For abuelo Alfonso, there could be no better way to express that pride than through song, especially the traditional folk songs of Mexico that he had learned as a boy and shared with his wife, and Sterling’s grandmother, Lupe. Originally from Jalisco, Mexico, Lupe had made her way north with her own family as a girl to work in the California farm fields that relied on the hard work of so many migrant laborers, and still do. By coincidence, at one point many years before, her family had happened to be working in the area of Alfonso’s farm, and as destiny would have it, the two met and struck up a romance that would soon lead to marriage and a family. Lupe too had grown up singing the songs of rural Mexico, the melodies of love, loss, hope, and humor.
The older Sterling smiled as he observed his younger self swaying and humming along with the music. It would only be a few years later that his abuelo would pass away, and it touched a place deep inside him to be in Alfonso’s presence once again. Often since his passing Sterling had wished he could go back and see his grandfather again. He knew Alfonso had told him stories about his own youth and about their shared ancestors. He knew there had been so many things both of his abuelos had passed on to their grandchildren, and yet it was all too easy to lose track of the contours of those memories as time went by.
What Sterling did know was that Alfonso and Lupe were the last link the family had to the old traditions. In fact, Sterling recalled that he owed not just his life and culture to his grandparents, but his very name. As he observed the scene before him, he smiled to watch his grandfather strum as the nostalgic tunes poured forth, it seemed effortlessly, from somewhere deep within both himself and the guitar. Focusing in more closely on his grandfather’s strong, seasoned hands, he could easily make out the telltale sign of Alfonso’s playing—a small silver coin he used instead of a pick as he strummed the chords of each song. As his parents had told him, in a very real way he was named after his grandfather, and the unusual way that he played the guitar.
Though not called Alfonso, Sterling’s name had come from the proud family tradition that surrounded that little silver coin, whose high quality his parents felt made it seem like sterling, the purest type of silver, and thus a perfect choice as a name for their firstborn child. Though even his abuelo wasn’t exactly sure where it had come from, the firmly held belief in the family was that this unique little silver coin had originated all the way back in the early days of California. According to the story, Alfonso’s own great grandfather had proudly received and kept the coin, which his own father had passed down to him. Apparently, it had originally served as a part of a promissory note from the Spanish government, acknowledging the family’s ownership of the land they had received from the Crown in the early days of the missions, pueblos, and presidios of Old California. While many of their fellow Mexican neighbors had lost their land as the Americans took over in later years, Sterling’s great-great-great-grandfather had found a way to lay claim to his family’s legacy—through the unique vintage of fine wines he had learned to produce on the family land, and, symbolically, through the silver coin he treasured and that he passed on to his children and grandchildren. Ever since, from one generation to the next, the coin had been passed down as a symbol of family pride, heritage, and legacy. It was something that Sterling was very proud of himself—that his name, Sterling, served as a reflection of his family’s endurance and the tenacity of his people over all those many years.
Still, as the older Sterling stood there observing with nostalgia the scene from his youth, he couldn’t help but sense a pang of regret that he had not paid closer attention when his grandfather was singing or telling stories or relating the events of his own youth and the traditions from generations gone by. And then, as he was contemplating the scene, a remarkable thing happened. Finishing his song with a plaintive air of wistfulness and romance, Alfonso lay down his guitar and carefully stowed away the silver coin that still glowed warmly in the light of the fire. Sitting down and calling his children and grandchildren to lean in closer, Alfonso began to speak.
“Sánchez.” The singular word and name emerged from Alfonso’s vigorous throat with solemn authority. “Sánchez is a name, but it is also a story. It is a sign of where our family comes from. It is our legacy.” Sterling marvelled as he took in his grandfather’s words, elated at the chance to hear once more a story he felt as though he had forgotten and yet had always been deeply a part of him.
“Any name has a history,” Alfonso insisted, “but our history is not just any history.” Continuing to speak, Alfonso began to outline the story of the family’s early settlement and later trials and triumphs in Northern California.
“In our family, we trace our origins back to some of the first Mexican settlers of California. At the time, in the late 1700s, Mexico was still part of Spain, and the Spanish were convinced that this area where we now live was in danger. The British, the French, even the Russians, all had an eye on this place, and so the Spanish knew they needed to do something to keep the intruders out. And that’s where we come in. One of your ancestors from many generations ago came as part of the presidios—the military bases the Spanish set up along the coast so they could reinforce their claims.”