A few years ago while I was talking about my being Spanish, my father frowned
and asked, "Who's Spanish?"
It's a fair question.
My grandparents immigrated from Asturias, an area of northern Spain, so I'm the third generation to live
here in the US. In what way am I Spanish or Asturian?
Art in his climbing tree
I spent hours in this tree.
Linthicum, MD
Spring 1960
Ethnic Fog
In my first draft of this page, I said that I didn't give much thought to ethnicity
when I was a child. After considering that statement for several days, I realized
this was inaccurate.
No, the truth is that as a child I was in a fog about my own ethnicity and
clumsily aware of others' ethnicity.
Art & his friend David Newcomer with Art's "fort"
One of my many building
projects, this structure had
a hole in the roof into which
a license plate slid as a
door. I used to be able to
climb through that small
hole!
Linthicum, MD
Spring 1960
I remember, now with deep regret, joining a group of classmates on the playground
in taunting a friend of mine with a chant. At the time I wondered what the chant
meant. I thought that it might have an ethnic element, but decided that it had
more rhythm than meaning. In retrospect the taunt didn't address ethnicity at
all, although that memory does demonstrate that I was thinking about my friend's
ethnicity. Using child logic and knowing that his father's name was "Phil," I
concluded that he was Filipino. He was Italian-American.
In fact, a deluge of "polack" jokes made it impossible for me--or any child
of the 1950s--to remain unaware of ethnicity. Ethnic jokes like these are instrumental
in forming our impressions and prejudices about entire groups of people.
Neighborhood Carnival for Muscular Dystrophy
This event, organized by
Art with help from many
neighbors, raised funds to
fight MD.
Linthicum, MD
August 10, 1963
Ethnic Prejudice
Two of my classmates in first grade were Greek. One was a boy with whom I secretly
identified because the teacher treated both of us abusively. This student's infractions were
little things like coming to school with jelly on his face, the result of his
eating breakfast on the bus. I found the harshness with which the teacher criticized him
very disturbing.
I vaguely remember the students talking about how much the teacher hated this
boy. I assumed she abused him because he was Greek. But how did I know that he
was Greek? If the teacher or a parent hadn't pointed out his ethnicity, how would
any of us would have known?
I never considered the possibility that ethnic prejudice might be the reason
she treated me equally poorly. I thought of us as "Americans," not members of
a minority ethnic group. But I was. Just look at those big brown eyes all four
of us have! I look like a young Pablo Picasso.
Big brown eyes
Wagner Family
from left: Hap, Joel, Honnie,
Joyce, Art, & John
c1958
Only recently did I learn of the ethnic prejudice that Asturian immigrants
to America had experienced. Some Americans viewed Spaniards, Italians, Greeks,
and other Mediterranean immigrants as "vermin," a "garlic-chomping" underclass.
The hatred was sometimes obvious. In the 1920s, for example, the Ku Klux Klan
sent threatening letters, marched, and burned crosses in attempts to scare Spaniards
into moving from their homes in Anmoore, West Virginia.
My father was aware of the prejudice. He appreciated his father not interfering
when he asked my mom, a dark-skinned Spanish girl, to marry him.
Conga
Drum Jam
One of my favorite
childhood memories was
this Sunday afternoon jam
session that we happened
upon accidentally.
Although music wasn't part
of my childhood home
experience, it became an
important part of my
adult life.
Druid Hill Park
Baltimore, MD
March 25, 1962
As American as Frozen Pot Pie
In the mid to late 1940s, my mother must have decided--perhaps unconsciously--that
she would do better in life if she identified as "American" rather than "Asturian-American"
or "Spanish-American." In addition to not talking about her Spanish ancestry,
she spoke no Spanish to us when we were children. Even when her father Emilio
came to visit, she spoke to him in English.
I didn't have much contact with my grandpop, but I do remember two details
from one visit that marked his being of a different culture. The first was that
he really wanted some beer in the house--something that had never happened in
our teetotaling Methodist home. My mom wouldn't buy it for him, so we waited in
the car while he went into the store. The second was the way he ate apples: he
would pull a penknife out of his pocket, neatly peel the skin, and then slice
off a wedge, which he would eat before slicing another section. As a kid who just
bit into apples, his process seemed very measured and elegant in comparison to
mine.
A visit from my grandpop
Hap,Art, grandpop (Emilio),
& Joyce
Naval Academy
Annapolis, MD
October 7, 1962
One way in which I did have regular contact with my grandpop was that his paintings
(and my mother's) hung on the walls of our home. The realist tendency of my adult
work no doubt arose from my studying these paintings as a child. Even as third
or fourth grader, I can remember my surprise and delight at having drawn a large
picture of a rabbit under a bush that really looked like a rabbit under
a bush. I wasn't sure how I had done it, though, and I usually wasn't able to
draw with that degree of realism.
In my childhood home, meals were often inspired by the recipes and ads in Better
Homes and Gardens magazine: Jell-O, instant mashed potatoes, corn on the
cob, spaghetti, tuna fish salad, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, meatloaf,
angel food cake, and even frozen pot pies. There were, however, a few subtle carry-overs
from an Asturian/Spanish diet. We probably ate more soups, stuffed olives, dried
beans, rice, and fish than most Americans.
Visiting my aunt Mary Louise
& uncle Arnold Guedes in
their store
Because my aunts and
uncles had moved all over
the US, we missed out on
seeing our relatives
frequently and building
better relationships.
Elizabeth, New Jersey
August 12, 1965
Ethnic Identity as Prideless Burden
My last name was "Wagner," so as a child I assumed that I was ethnically German.
In reality, I was more Asturian than German because my father was only half of
German descent, whereas my mother was fully Asturian Spanish. Once ethnic identity
slips into fractions, how do we assign names to our identities?
As I child I never gave a thought to my being part Spanish. I can't remember
ever talking with my parents about my mother's roots in Asturias and Spain. Perhaps
we carefully avoided acknowledging any ethnic heritage out of a desire to blend
into the mainstream. At the very least, we clearly weren't as interested then
in genealogy and ethnicity. We didn't even know the origins of my father's mother,
Annie Cokeley Wagner. We were surprised years later to learn that she was Scottish, English, and Irish,
and related to Lady Godiva.
Little Bo Peep
Honnie Amor Wagner
painted this and other
nursery rhyme illustrations
on our bedroom wall.
1950s
Believing I was German led to troubling thoughts. Ethnicity was an indelible
burden. Early in high school, I read several books on wars the United States had
fought. What did it mean if I was German and my country had struggled with the
Germans twice? Was it bad to be German? Was I a "dirty Kraut?" What was it like
for my father's father, John Robert Wagner, to join the US Army and fight the
Germans in WWI?
Even after experiencing all the negative images of Germans in war movies,
books, and comic books, I still thought of myself as German. When I signed up
to study French, I worried that I was betraying my German origins.
Camping on vacation
Montreal World's Fair
We traveled to the South,
New England, the West
Coast, & West Virginia on
family vacations.
New York State
August 1967
France
See America First
I studied psychology in college. Toward the end of college, my interests leaned
tentatively toward art. I took a few art classes, then backed away. In 1976 I
got married and entered Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, DC.
One of the conditions for marriage that my then wife, JoAnne, insisted upon was
that I go with her to Europe. I resisted the idea, saying "I'd rather see America
first," a reference to patriotic auto advertisements with a jingle that said,
"See the USA in a Chevrolet." Earlier in our relationship JoAnne had told me,
"The only thing wrong with you is that you aren't French." Given her strong feelings
for French culture, I knew there would be no negotiating over her demand. I agreed
to go to Europe, hoping that she'd change her mind later.
Seeing America First
with the Wagner family
Our biggest family
adventure was a month
long vacation in California
& the Southwest.
Sequoia National Forest
California, 1968
In 1977 my parents visited Europe and Spain for the first time. My mother came
back excited about having met her Aunt Lola, Uncle Pepe, Uncle Jesus, and many cousins. Suddenly,
Spanish words peppered her speech. Chick peas, for example, became garbanzos
with the Castilian th sound for the z, and rice became
arroz. She began cooking Spanish recipes: gazpacho, paella,
and arroz con pollo (chicken and rice flavored with olives, capers, and
saffron). My mother was thinking of herself as Spanish for the first time in her
adult life.
My parents' example loosened me up, so in 1979 JoAnne and I made our first
trip to Europe. We spent about a month in France, and a week each in England and
Germany. We hadn't planned to visit Spain, but begrudgingly accepted when a French
friend insisted on taking us to Barcelona for an overnight. We didn't know any
Spanish, so our attempts at ordering food in Spain were disappointing. I remember
being surprised and disgusted when the "meal" I ordered, judias a la cubana,
turned out to be green beans topped with a fried egg. I was glad to get back to
France the next day.
Art in a Cloister
The modulated light,
quietude, & antiquity of
cloisters attracted me.
Avignon, France
June 1979
Toward the end of the trip, I began thinking about ways I could stay in France.
The magic of being in a different culture with such old buildings, rich stores
of art, and wonderful sights and tastes had an irresistible hold on me. I asked JoAnne if she'd
mind if I stayed behind when she returned. She wasn't amused. I returned with
her, but my dreams still roamed Europe. I had become a "See France First" kind
of guy. Spain was still not on my radar screen.
A Beret takes me from Ché to L'Artiste
JoAnne's Aunt Xenia had given us a French beret as a creative wedding gift.
I had needed a hat, so it became mine. That's when the daydreams began. At first,
I drew from 1960s imagery, envisioning myself as "Ché Guevara, Revolutionary,"
as I clomped around campus with my WWII "Ike" jacket, beret, and boots. After our
trip to Europe, though, I became "Frenchy, L'Artiste." Sure, it was silly,
but it really happened. Hats are props that support the roles we choose to play.
My then wife JoAnne (wearing a red bandana) in the Louvre
Studying ancient & modern
masters firsthand in the
museums of France &
Germany reawakened my
interest in art as a career.
Paris, France
June, 1979
Seeing so much spectacular art in France had reopened me to being an artist.
I began visiting Washington, DC's amazingly rich art museums, which were just
minutes from the seminary. Then, as soon as I finished seminary, I started taking
art classes again.
Soon, we had moved to Iowa to be campus ministers, and I was working on a second
B.A. in Art. Studying art history brought me into contact with Spanish culture.
I was especially taken with the paintings of Juan Gris and Joan Miró. Identifying
with these artists and knowing that my artist-grandfather was Spanish, my ethnic
identity shifted from German to Spanish. My French beret became a Spanish boina
(tam or beret).
While studying art, I took a year of beginning Spanish. After finishing my
degree, JoAnne and I moved back to Maryland to look for work. Hoping to become
a journalist, she networked and interviewed for jobs. On a lark, she had also
applied for a Masters in English as a Second Language program. When she got an
acceptance letter offering a scholarship and stipend to study ESL in Chicago,
we were stunned.
The Headless Horseman
My goriest Halloween costume
didn't look as scary as I had
hoped. My mother helped me
create this one. It won a prize
in the local Halloween parade.
October 12, 1963
Hold onto your Boina
Having just moved all of our possessions east, it seemed crazy to move back
to the Midwest, but if she got the MA, we'd have a ticket to live in Spain. We
decided to take a gamble: we would make a light move to Chicago and then, immediately
after her graduation, go to Spain. This is when I discovered that to feel most
alive, I need to hold a dream and work toward making it come true. My new dream
was to experience the culture of my grandparents for myself.
The year in Chicago went quickly. JoAnne finished her degree and my painting
improved to the point that I felt like a painter. Lourdes Fuentes, a friend from
Spain's Basque area, encouraged my growing Spanish identity. We left for Madrid
in August of 1983.
In Madrid I'd often be walking down a sidewalk when I'd think, "I'm HERE!"
I'd laugh aloud at my good fortune. Then I'd look around to see if anyone was
looking at me like I was crazy.
Fruit & Vegetable Man
This friend used to joke
with me about selling "conejos de Avila" (rabbits
from Avila). His family was
from Avila, so anything
good came from Avila.
I loved being able to shop
for food by walking around
my neighborhood.
Moratalaz, Madrid
March 1984
Many aspects of Spanish culture were different from the life I had known in
the US. I particularly liked the fresh fruits and fish, the regional cheeses,
the recipes using dry beans, the ability to walk to do my shopping, the plentiful
public transportation that went almost anywhere I wanted to go, the many free
or inexpensive flamenco and ancient music concerts, and the many top-quality art
exhibits.
After getting settled in, I was painting regularly and loving the results. In subtle ways, my work was influenced by the art I saw in Madrid. I was especially interested in the very old altarpieces in the Prado and some of the contemporary Spanish psychological realism I saw in Madrid galleries and exhibits. Some of my work combined these ideas.
Works in Progress
Art's Studio
Moratalaz, Madrid
May 1984
El Abono (manure): Culture Shock
After the first couple months of bliss, we went into culture shock. I was particularly
unhappy with the public behavior of some Spaniards. If I was carrying something
heavy, a Spaniard who was blocking the sidewalk while talking to a friend would
be unlikely to move aside. When it rained we had to keep an eye out for other
people's umbrellas, to avoid getting an eye poked out. After JoAnne's coat got
burned, we also learned to watch for smokers gesturing with cigarettes, especially
on the steps out of subway stops. Young people, especially males, frequently smoked
on subways, trains, and buses in spite of the signs saying "no fumar."
Levantar la Persiana
A painting done in Madrid.
Art Zoller Wagner
oil on canvas
Some of the norms for acceptable physical contact between strangers were also
disturbingly different. Once when I was on a bus which stopped quickly, a matronly
woman with a heavy shopping bag leaned into me with all her weight in order to
brace herself. She was killing my back, so I flicked her away with my butt. Incensed,
she loudly called me grosero (an ill-mannered or vulgar person).
Bondad (goodness, kindness)
After a while I realized that Spanish public behavior was as heartwarming as
often as it was irritating. Some of the shop keepers, for example, were especially
friendly and helpful.
Shopkeeper Friends
Victor Múgica Robledo &
Orquídea Vicente Pérez, in
their herbolario (health
food store).
Moratalaz, Madrid
March 1984
Once when we were preparing a trip to Barcelona, I went across town to the
bus station to buy tickets in advance. I had underestimated the cost, so I didn't
have enough cash. To my surprise, the man behind me just handed me the equivalent
of several dollars.
Another time when JoAnne was getting onto a crowded bus, she couldn't get her
leg in the door before the driver closed it. She cried out in English, "My leg!"
Concerned passengers told the driver what was wrong and gave her a seat.
Abono (manure, especially as fertilizer) can be bondad (goodness),
too.
Old Men and Me
In 1980s Spain, you could pick out the Americans because they wore hats. I
didn't identify with Americans, but I was one of the hat people. A Spanish
artist would have worn all black or all white, but no hat. Since I was the only
guy under 60 wearing a boina, I might as well have worn a t-shirt saying
"I'm not from here!"
Boina and Bull
Art, wearing a boina (beret),
is leaning on a replica (?)
of Celtic-Iberian bull
sculpture in stone.
Avila, February 11, 1984
During our stay, we visited my cousins in Avilés twice. I was impressed with
their warmth and their incredibly good cooking. Our first visit was at Christmas.
To our surprise, the Christmas meal was fish! My cousin Ramona walked us around
to meet all of my cousins and aunts and uncles. My second cousin Maribel and her
husband Manolo took us for walks in Avilés and Salinas, and drives around the
nearby towns. Manolo demonstrated the traditions associated with Asturian hard
cider.
Jesus Menéndez Conde
My great uncle, sharpening
the blade of his scythe, is
wearing the madreñas or
zuecos (wooden shoes)
which are typical of
Asturias.
San Cristóbal, Avilés
February 11, 1984
Did I experience something of what my grandparents had left behind? Yes.
Was I Spanish? Yes and no. Although I had hoped to blend in, I knew I hadn't.
Moreover, living in Spain had made me particularly aware that I carry a deluxe
set of Puritan cultural baggage.
On the other hand, when we returned to the US after two years, we went through
a reverse culture shock for a month. Americans seemed loud, pushy, and ostentatious
with their wealth. I had become "third culture," stuck in a netherland, feeling
neither Spanish nor American.
We spent the next fifteen years working and earning more graduate degrees.
Finally, in 2000, JoAnne and I returned to Spain, to visit family and learn about
the Stone Age and Bronze Age cultures which existed in northern Spain and western
France.
Reconstructed Celtic Hut
Art standing before an
example of a Celtic
round hut in a settlement
dating to the 6th and 5th
century BCE.
Castro de Campa Torres
Gijón, Asturias
June 6, 2000
Spending several weeks in Gijón, Avilés, and Oviedo gave me a new affection
for the hardworking and sociable people of Asturias, the mountainous green terrain,
and the Asturian foods and music. I felt so profoundly at home that I began considering
myself Asturian-American.
While in Gijón, we met an American who was living in Asturias and supporting
himself by freelancing as a technical writer for US companies. This was a eureka
moment in which I realized that there were a number of ways that a person like
me could spend more time in Asturias. I had been talking with Asturian galleries
about selling my paintings. Meeting this stranger had shown me that I didn't have
to find a Spanish source of income. I could telecommute or just visit more often.
Working on this Web site and another for the Asturian-American
Migration Forum has made me much more aware of Asturian history and language,
and of the experiences of my grandparent's generation. When I see a photo like
the one below of my grandpop with his arm around me, a Neil Young song, "Old man,
look at me now, I'm a lot like you are" runs through my mind. I wish I had known
grandpop better, but in many ways there is a glimmer of Emilio in my own experiences,
thoughts, and feelings. Old patterns repeat themselves down the generations.
Grandpop tries to connect
to his skittish grandkids
My grandpop (Emilio), Art,
& my sister Joyce
Conowingo Dam, MD
July 29, 1961
Today my dream is to spend more time in Asturias while I still can. Although
part of me continues to wrestle with the puzzle of how to swap the baseball cap
of my life in Maryland for the old man's boina, another part is packing
for a visit!
Conga
Drum Jam
