Raising Bakersfield

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Finding myself: A Californian reporter's genealogical journey
Topics: Geneology, Louis Medina, Family Hertiage, LDS church
Posted by RaisingBakersfield Tue Nov 30, 1999 00:00:00 PST
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It was a long shot.

While vacationing in Salt Lake City after Christmas, I decided to go into the multistoried Family History Library of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and do the touristy thing of beginning a genealogical search.

Initially, some friendly volunteers gave me the hope that I would find some information about my family. After awhile, however, it became clear that there was just one microfilm reel that was likely to contain the birth records of only my paternal grandparents, Elena and Gonzalo Medina, and that it ended with entries from 1910.

But I wasn’t sure of their birth years. They died in the 1990s, when they were, I thought, in their 80s. So I figured they were probably born toward the end of the first decade of the 20th century.

And I didn’t know their birthdays: They were simple rural folk who never celebrated themselves or expected others to celebrate them in that way. But from what I thought my mother — the de facto recorder of family birthdays — had said, August and October sounded about right for their birth months.

I was also assuming that the birth records of “Mamá Nena” (from her name, Elena) and “Papá Chalo” (from his middle name, Gonzalo, by which he was known) would be entered in the town hall registry of the small coffee-growing mountain village of Comasagua, in El Salvador, where they had lived — and died. It hadn’t occurred to me they might have been born elsewhere.

And I wasn’t even sure whether Grandma’s maiden name, “Henriquez,” was spelled with or without a silent “h” at the beginning.

But there was no time to think about all these possible limitations.

I simply had to search.

Thank you, LDS Church!

One of the things that fascinates me most about Mormons is their emphasis on the spiritual “sealing” of entire families so they can be united for all eternity in heaven.

By proxy, Mormons perform baptisms and other “temple work” for the dead who may not have heard the Mormon message in this life, in the hope that they will have a chance to hear and accept it in the next. They therefore make great efforts to gather genealogical data from all over the world so believers can go back as many generations as possible and find ancestors whose salvation they can try to ensure.

With that end in mind, the Genealogical Society of Utah had photographers shoot, page by page, the Registry of Births of the Municipality of Comasagua, Province of La Libertad, for all those years.

MOMENT OF DISCOVERY

As the microfilm reel advanced, I read many Catholic and Castilian names common to that era. They were hopelessly old-school but charming: Leandra, Aurelia, Felicita, Erminia, Coronado, Gabino, Macario, Rómulo. They sounded so classical, elegant and Hollywood-cool to me that I found myself wishing I had been named “Coronado” or “Rómulo Medina.”

When I got to 1906 I slowed down and started looking at each entry more carefully. 1907. 1908.

“Oh, my God!” I broke the silence in the quiet library.

Entry number 131 on page 144, in very legible cursive handwriting in Spanish, said:

“Comasagua Town Hall, Aug. 27, 1908: Elena Henriquez, a girl, was born on the twentieth of the current month at four in the morning in Hacienda San Luis of this jurisdiction, the illegitimate daughter of Emilia Henriquez, a native of San Salvador. This information was provided by Mr. Reyes Henriquez, who did not sign because he does not know how.” The signature of someone named Narciso Sandoval, who I gathered was the mayor, followed. Below it was that of Mariano Lobos, who was the town hall secretary and a witness.

There was Grandma, “illegitimate” because she was born to a single mom, Emilia, whom I had heard mentioned as “Mamá Mila,” my great-grandmother, a native of the capital who, for some reason, had moved to the countryside.

The baby’s birth had been reported seven days after the fact by Reyes Henriquez, who could have been my great-great-grandfather or my great-great-uncle — I couldn’t be sure. What I knew from the entry, of course, was that he had been illiterate.

I was on a roll now: If I had been able to find Grandma, I would surely be able to find Grandpa. So I kept scrolling through entries: 135, 140, 145, and there, very soon, at the bottom of page 150, was entry 149:

“Comasagua Town Hall, Sept. 20, 1908. José Gonzalo Medina, a boy, was born on the eighth day of the current month at two-thirty in the afternoon in this municipality, the illegitimate child of Catalina Medina, a native of this municipality. This information was provided by the natural father, Mr. Francisco Quiteño Jr., whose signature appears in this entry.” There were the signatures of Sandoval and Lobos again, and to the left of them, with the proud and fancy flourish of a newborn dad’s, was the signature of my great-grandfather.

As children, my brothers and I got to meet my Medina great-grandmother. We called her “Mamá Cata” (from Catalina). She used to smoke cigars, and whenever we visited her, my father, after whom I am named, would be sure to stop at a handmade cigar factory and buy her a bagful.

She had cheeks like a whiskerless walrus, and it was wonderful to sink into their fleshiness when we leaned up to give her a kiss.

She was the source of my family name, not my great-grandfather, who, not being married to her when Papá Chalo was born, was only the “natural” father, not the “legitimate” one, and therefore could not pass on his name. So my last name could have been Quiteño, which has both a “q” and an “ñ” in it, two of my favorite letters in the Spanish language. I felt cheated. Guess what the name of my next pet is going to be?

Grandpa was born in September, not in October as I had thought. Less than three weeks after Grandma. In the same town. They could have been playmates as children. Maybe they were.

I knew my ancestors and myself a little better now, after having taken that hopeful tourist’s detour into the library. My universe had expanded. I had gained a little more life.

I shared my find with some workers at the library who hear testimonies of finds like mine every day, but kindly rejoiced with me as though mine were the first.

“It wasn’t long ago I saw a gal start dancing,” said Rachel Creswell, a part-time volunteer.

“We see tears many times, tears of joy,” said Heidi Sugden, a reference consultant.

I myself didn’t dance. My eyes stayed dry and my hands stayed by my sides. But my heart understood the feeling perfectly.

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Source: The Bakersfield Californian, Friday, Feb 15 2008

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