(This week’s blog begins a multi-part web series – a look behind-the-scenes as I start writing the book, Californio. The novel, Californio, is available NOW. Look at the end of this post for a link to Amazon and Barnes & Noble)

They called my father a spic.

I haven’t heard the word used in years.  Now, other words have taken its place – more descriptive perhaps, but just as derogatory.  What I knew it to mean was the color brown – a skin darker than the all-powerful color of white.  Of course no skins are really white or brown, but for some reason the darker the skin tone, the greater the insults.

I never thought of my father as dark.  His hair was jet black, that’s true, and his eyes were the deepest of browns.  I knew him only as a working man – an iron worker and welder who toiled outside under the sun on most days when he wasn’t in the shop, running the business. The sun darkened him, I thought.  It didn’t have more meaning to me than that.

But to other people that deep pigment meant something else.  I learned what that something was through my father’s own perception of what “being brown” meant to him.  From the story he told about being a young soldier in a bar while another soldier spit that spic word in his direction, to the fights he almost got into until he learned he could always just say, “I’m Italian.”


My father wasn’t lying when he’d use “Italian” as a reason for turning his back on being brown.  His grandfather’s father was an Italian immigrant – the owner of my father’s name, a name that had come from thousands of miles away, from Genoa.  A name that I now own as my father’s blue-eyed, once-blonde-haired daughter.


My father loved holding me as a baby because people would ask him, “Who’s baby is that?”  He’d always answer them proudly (knowing they were only questioning him because I was blonde and he wasn’t), “She’s mine!”

When I was old enough to hear these stories, and to notice a different language, other than English, that was spoken between my grandparents, I only assumed that what made our family what it was came from being Italian.  My grandmother, Nanie, had an accent, and so did Bobbie, my grandfather.  I was too little to know what Italian sounded like, or to notice that my grandmother spoke a different language with her sisters and sheep-herding brother than she did with her own husband.  All I really understood was that my father didn’t like it. “Ma, speak English!” he’d tell her, and she’d shush him and keep speaking in words to her siblings that I didn’t understand.  Until Bobbie would “Tsk!” in disgust and shake his head, barking a word – foreign again – and Nanie would go silent.

I was in kindergarten when I learned Nanie was French Basque. That our family wasn’t only Italian, we were Basque too.  I listened closer to those strange words that she spoke and realized they were different than the other ones she used with my grandfather.  Both were languages that my father never spoke at all.  Not with his parents.  Not with me.  Not with absolutely anyone in this world. It would be a few years later that I learned my grandparents weren’t speaking Italian at all.

It was Spanish.

Family Secrets

Every family has its share of secrets and I guess that was ours, that my grandparents spoke exclusively in Spanish to each other, throwing the odd slang word at us every now and then, whether we knew what it meant or not.  In spite of my father’s protestations, we were told to wipe our “colinos” and that girls had “chi-chis” but boys didn’t.  Someone was either a “cabron” or a “pendejo” when they were acting silly, or a “boboso” if they weren’t too smart.  We were told “cholos” lived down the street and not to play with them, but we were also instructed never to use that word “cholo” because it could cause a fight if someone heard you call them that.  “Vino” was wine, “Tia Marquesa” was what we called our old aunt, and “Quieres cafe?” were always the words my grandmother asked my grandfather when it was time for coffee and dessert.    We never questioned why they spoke in Spanish, or why our table had frijoles or salsa at all of our barbecues.  Our special Christmas enchiladas (made of cheese, onions, and chopped hard boiled eggs) didn’t seem out of place, nor did the chile rellenos my Nanie would sometimes make along with empaniditas, tamales, and homemade tortillas – flour, never corn.   It just seemed normal to us; it was family, our family.  And when I was little, I just assumed everyone’s family was like ours.

Then, I grew up.

I became aware that the Craviottos weren’t like any other family I saw on television, in the movies, or in the living rooms and backyards of my friends.  In my teens, as my body started to feel uncomfortable with its new changes, so too did my perceptions of my family begin to grow less certain.  Who were we?  The only places that had salsa on the table, frijoles on the plates, enchiladas, tamales, and the sound of a language that made me feel l was home were Mexican restaurants.  And for some reason, we never went to “those” kind of restaurants.  Not if my father had anything to say about it.

Sometimes you get so busy growing up you forget to ask questions.  Or maybe you just get the message as a kid that some things are okay to ask, and other things are off limits.  We were Italian and that was okay to talk about.  We were also French Basque and that was also fine to discuss.  My mother’s family was Scotch/Irish and that was certainly no secret.  But I never asked my father why his parents spoke Spanish, or why it embarrassed him so much.  When our town celebrated Old Spanish Days Fiesta every August, commemorating its Spanish/Mexican early beginnings and my dad never participated, never wanted to dress up in Spanish costumes, or go down to El Mercado De La Guera to have Mexican food, I never wanted to know why.  We went to Hawaii instead of El Mercado, or to Sea World, Yosemite, or even Bass Lake instead of La Noches de Ronda, or the Mission steps for La Fiesta Pequena.  Dad wanted nothing to do with the celebration of anything Spanish, anything Mexican, and I never questioned or asked him why.

We were an old-time Santa Barbara family that had lived in that one small coastal California town for generations. “Everybody back in the old days in Santa Barbara spoke Spanish,” my father once admitted.  End of story.  That was a good enough explanation, I thought.  It made sense to me:  why look any deeper?

And I didn’t.

Unraveling the Past

The years passed, and so did Nanie and Bobbie, my only connection to those lyrical Spanish sounds, and to the answers of questions I never asked, but maybe should’ve.  Occasionally, as my father and his brother aged, I’d overhear conversations, and  names like “Gonzales,” and “Buelna.”  My uncle would share some bit of information he’d discovered about some relative or some piece of the past, but dad would always stop him with: “You’re going to look so deep some day, Danny, you’re going to find something you don’t want to know.”  And that would stop my uncle in his tracks; the conversation would just peter out, and they’d switch the subject to Notre Dame football, or some job they had to go measure for work.

Now, my father and my uncle are both gone – the last links to our family’s past, to the old days and customs long ago forgotten, to the old-timers who never spoke English but who shared a past that held all the answers to every question I now want to ask.  I can’t ask those questions now because there’s no one left who can answer me.

Somehow I don’t think that will stop me from asking them.

I’m a writer and my imagination is restless.  My ability to research is tireless; my talent for using words, and for creating stories is boundless.  I will ask those questions anyway.  And if I have to, I will be the one now to provide the answers.

(NEXT WEEK: Opening doors that have been locked for years. The 2nd CALIFORNIO post:  Facebook Friends & Cousins.)


Read the blog series, then read the novel, Californio, available July 17, 2017 at Amazon, Barnes&Noble, and other fine bookstores.Californio ebook cover REV

37 thoughts on “Californio

  1. As you know, Diane, I once was “Bob Wiener,” my original name through my father. He came to the U.S. from the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, more specifically from a part of Hungary that was ceded to Romania after WWI. It was during the Free Speech Movement of the 1960s that I learned and used in some of my classes the awareness that “Honky” derived from the way some immigrants pronounced “Hungary.” I said, with some pride, that thanks to my father I was a Honky. It was not meant to be derogatory, and I didn’t take it that way.


      • No question about it. The “N” word is the best example of that. I said what I said not meaning to suggest that “Honky” should be slung about hatefully (and of course it was in that historical period)..


  2. Darlene,
    This was an interesting post for me. I realized through my genealogy work on my family I was able to unravel some of the mysteries of my heritage, but I still felt a void even after finding out my direct ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War. I am proud of the history, but in some ways I can understand your grandpa’s reluctance or your Dad’s to bring up the past. Living in the present is so vital. Yet–discovering our past seems to bring a feeling of belonging. Thank you for sharing.


    • So eloquently put, Alesia. And yes, I agree with what you’ve said about “living in the present is so vital.” However, as my adventure into learning about my family’s ancestral roots has progressed (and as you’ll see in the next few posts) my family’s memory loss about certain ancestors parallels a similar silence on a larger historical scale. As I continued my research I didn’t find many written fictional narratives about the people and their past. That’s what has prompted me to write the book.


      • I agree with you . As I thought about your family roots, I realized I have seen very little written on your heritage. I am looking forward to what you write and especially what I will learn.


  3. There have always been, and probably will always be, derogatory terms, but I think you are right, the use of derogatory names is getting worse. I suspect that it is because self esteem is lower than ever. People try to elevate themselves by pushing down some other ethnic group.

    My ancestry is a mix of central Europeans. Here in New Mexico I am called an Anglo and Anglos are in the minority. Anglo is not derogatory, but when I taught school, the recently arrived Mexican students tried to get my goat by calling me white. Coming from them, that was supposed to be an insult. Our Spanish teacher, and Anglo, grew up in Mexico as the daughter of an embassy employee, but in spite of her excellent Spanish, one of the students called her a Gringa as though he had just tasted rotten food.

    I think it is about time we recognize that we are all humans. While we can be proud of our roots, we need to accept everyone as people of worth. We also need to recognize that most of us are a mix of various cultures and ethnic groups. Thus even if there were some basis to ethnic discrimination, it would not be accurate to insult people on the basis of skin color, or ethnicity of last name.


  4. I’m thoroughly enjoying this, Darlene. I, too, would love to know about my family’s past both on my mum’s side (Italian) and my dad’s (English/Irish)…both sides have those “mysteries” and I have no family left who can shed light on them. I do know, however, that once my mum’s family set foot in the “new world” – in their case, Canada, English became the only language the 4 kids were allowed to speak – it seems as if that generation came to the new world to be part of the new world and to blend in rather than stand out as Italian-Canadians. I have a cleaner genealogy on my dad’s side but with a few interesting references to unmarried great great grand mothers who had been servants in the homes of aristocrats in England!! I’m looking forward to your next instalments!


    • Sounds like there are some fascinating stories on both sides of your family. Unmarried great great grandmothers who had been servants in the homes of aristocrats in England?! Oh my, no wonder you love Downton Abbey.


      • you’re so right, Darlene!! I’m hot on the trail of that branch of the family – actually have the name of the Duke involved but of course there’s no way to “prove” anything because they forced my great grandmother to write “unknown” for the father on the birth certificate of which I have a copy!


  5. Darlene…I related to you when you wrote about not asking questions and your reasons for not doing so. There were suicides in my family, and that continued, even into my own immediate family later on. My grandfather had drowned in the Russian River with his secretary on board, and in those days, this was front page news. I became the matriarch of my family when I was just 38-years-old…too late to ask questions! I recently found out that my great-grandparents, parents of my grandfather that drowned when my mother was a teen, were still alive when I was a toddler. I never heard their names or met them. Silence. I am so looking forward to this next book of yours!


    • Silences are never good in families, no matter what the reason. But I can understand with your family – with the pain of suicides, why silence was chosen over words. Maybe one of the reasons we become writers is to find a way to channel those feelings, to process that pain – to vent what couldn’t be vented, and to move past our past.


  6. I didn’t find out about all the details of my heritage until I had to write a paper for a college sociology course. You’re so right……we don’t question these things when we are kids. It’s just “our family”.

    We always considered ourselves Jewish, rather than Lithuanian or Russian and I’m not totally sure why. My father was traumatized for life by anti-Semitism as a young man and because I wasn’t I thought it was done but it’s far from over. I live in southern Florida where prejudices run high. It’s sometimes associated with violence and physical attacks so we don’t let anyone know we are Jewish. It’s such a shame to hide who you really are.

    Like everyone else, I look forward to reading the rest of your fascinating story.


    • It’s so sad when people have to deny who they are or what, where, or who they came from. This is one of the reasons that people sometimes cling together according to how society “defines” them. Most people are hesitant to cross cultural borders, and yet, how rich we can all be by doing so.


  7. SO interesting! I look forward to the next installment. And you have made me think……………I wanted to be a dancer from a very young age (ballet, classical) and was never allowed to even think about ballet lessons. THEN, more recently I found out I had a cousin who was a professional ballet dancer with the Joffrey Ballet.Growing up I was never allowed to meet her. I thought I was the only one in the family who ever wanted to dance. Thanks Darlene.


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  12. hi darlene-
    i loved this post. it made me cry. we should talk. i had many many conversations with my dad about our brown color. maybe because i was kind of like your dad and heard more “stuff”. and experienced things differently because of my color. and of course my other set of grandparents were always talking in spanish. i spent a lot of time in my young adult years trying to figure this out. trying to find a place to attach myself to. i found it also confusing because it seemed no one else had the questions i did. but i guess i was wrong. you had them too. well, our dads aren’t here now. but we are. so now we can figure it out.
    love you prima,


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