Oral history interview with Rupert Garcia, 1996 June 24 -1995 Nov. 10

Oral History Interview With
Rupert García
In Oakland, California
September & November, 1995, & June,  1996
Interviewer: Paul J. Karlstrom

Preface

The following oral history transcript is the result of a tape-recorded interview with Rupert García on September & November, 1995 & June, 1996. The interview took place in Oakland, California, and was conducted by Paul Karlstrom for the Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Interview

RG: Rupert García
PK: Paul Karlstrom

[Session 1]

PK: Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution. A taped interview with Rupert García in the artist’s studio, way up on the top floor of his house in Oakland. The date is September 7, 1995. This is session one, tape one, and the interviewer for the Archives is Paul Karlstrom.

Well, Rupert, we’ve been talking a bit already and, just to reiterate what I would like to do with this interview—which will be in series, several sessions we hope—is to really get as complete a biographical picture as we can. I know that there’s been a fair amount written about you, especially recently, and there have been some shows and so forth, so there are different sources of information. Very often, though, they seem to focus on one aspect of you and your career, and what perhaps you seem to be best known for, which as far as I can tell, as far as I know, has very much a political-activist cast. But we know that that is an important part of you and your work but it’s a part, not the whole story.

A recent catalog that’s very interesting, I thought, was the show in New York at the Alternative Museum and we have the catalog here. That opened in December 1993. There’s an interview in it by your friend Guillermo Gómez-Peña, which I found very interesting. It’s very intelligent, I thought. Focusing though, again, very much on the political dimension. And this just stands as an example of a recent look—something that’s come out recently—a look at you and your career. But it also, if I may say so, reinforces a notion—or an image—of what the essential Rupert García is. And what I’d like to do, by way of introduction, what I’d like to do is get behind that a little bit. One of the things that interested me, though, and then I’ll turn it over to you to really get started, in the chronology which I think is very useful and I hope accurate at the end of this. . . .

RG: Yeah, it’s actually limited in its presentation. I had pages for the. . . . I did the chronology myself.

PK: Oh! Well, that’s good to know.

RG: And the chronology which I had produced was even then incomplete, and when I gave it to be edited and published they cut a lot of things out because of space, and so the chronology, though meaningful and though accurate, is incomplete. In a few places the location of certain events should have been placed elsewhere, in terms of, within a given year, I have events that happen like one, two, three, four, five. Well, maybe event five should really be number two.

PK: Okay. Well, but presumably in your papers there will be the complete version and it’ll be kept up to date.

RG: Right, that’s correct.

PK: So that is what a serious researcher would turn to.

RG: Right.

PK: So that’s reassuring.

RG: Yes, it is.

PK: I wanted to just point to one thing in this chronology to get us started. It jumped out to me in my reading. And that was, under the little paragraph "1966 to ‘69," towards the end of that entry it says "assassination the same year"—and that’s ‘68—"of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the death of Marcel Duchamp strike a deep chord with the artist." And for some reason I find this promising, shall we say, in terms of your interview, and could you expand on that a little?

RG: Yes. You know, I have always—not always—for many, many years I’ve been very interested in Dada and Surrealism and for sure in Marcel Duchamp and the ways in which he upset the perceived notions of what art is supposed to be, what it’s supposed to look like, and the procedure of making something called art. I found that very, very fascinating, very intriguing, and intellectually stimulating because of the challenge it proposed—to me specifically. And then the death of Martin Luther King, his assassination in the same year in which Duchamp died, resonated for me in terms of the challenges that King represented—the social-economic-racial dimension of protest, which, of course, Duchamp was also protesting—more of a cultural protest having with its moments of political ideology. So the event of these two men dying in the same year, for me, rang, as the chronology says, it resonates deeply for me because it kind of combines an aspect of who I think I am—the aesthetic, cultural, artistic dimension with the twist of having a critical bent built into it, not taking things for granted in terms of art and culture, represented by Duchamp, and then Martin Luther King representing that part of me who has always been conscious of the dimensions of racism and class in our society. Even as a kid in high school I knew about that. And even as a kid growing up, the dimensions of being an artist and then being socially conscious were always there. And so when these two men died they kind of represented to me this moment of, yes, this is really . . . these two men represent something that is a part of me, that I can actually point to these two folks and say, "Yes, they represent something that is me." And the ramifications, of course, is in terms of my work, in terms of my thoughts about my work, is, I think, more complex, but they did, nevertheless, symbolize something very great.

To me, it was so interesting when I found out that they both died in ‘68. I mean, I couldn’t believe that they both died in ‘68. Let alone died, but that they both died, and I saw these two symbols that I embrace. On the one hand, this is so sad, but just so wonderful. [chuckling] At the same time it was wonderful that. . . .

PK: There’s sort of a poetic. . . .

RG: Yeah, yeah.

PK: . . . quality to it.

RG: Yeah, yeah. That’s a dimension that really rang true and I can point to that.

PK: Well, so I wasn’t then too far off the mark. . . .

RG: Not at all, not at all.

PK: . . . to sort of focus in on. . . .

RG: Not at all. No, I think it’s a really good thing, because I thought about including that in the chronology a lot. You know, am I putting this in the chronology because it looks flashy? You know, a very convenient thing to do? Or am I doing this because they do ring true. And I said, "Well, I think they ring true," so I put it in. But I didn’t think deeply about it any further than we are now, for example. So your selection to begin with that moment in the chronology I think is very insightful on your part. I’m very glad that you saw that, because it does, in a certain degree, reveal much more of who I am than simply Rupert García, the radical poster-maker, or Rupert García, the socially concerned artist who always is fighting for some cause. And that certainly is a moment in me, an aspect, but not all of who I am.

PK: Well, in the interview towards the—it’s in the second part of this catalog. . . . We’re not going to just sit here and deconstruct this catalog. . . .

RG: [laughing] Which would be great, too.

PK: Well, I mean, it’s one way to go about it, but in Gómez-Peña’s interview with you—which, again, I think is very interesting to read—but one of the points that comes out very strongly in the interview and in your responses is that you refuse to hold any of these—or any phenomena—mutually exclusive, and you cry out against—or you at least object to—the binary approach . . . way of thinking with opposites that are somewhat mutually exclusive.

RG: That’s correct.

PK: And so the notion of being able to simultaneously have a commitment—a social, a political commitment—but then also be a fine artist—which has an aspect of, let’s face it, "Art for art’s sake," that this is something onto itself—you have no problem with that.

RG: No, no, not at all. Because there is no contradiction. I think the contradiction that is perceived is what is constructed for certain kinds of ends by the one doing the constructing. I think to make art is a human activity, which cannot be escaped, and since that is true, then the art will have both the inherent aesthetics of whatever material is used, and it will also necessarily have an aspect that is social, because of the mere fact that human beings are social beings. So they’re never separated, they’re always there. And they may be there in different degrees at different moments, but we can’t escape the work of art being imbued with both the aesthetics and a social concern. Abstract art is socially concerned; there’s a social aspect to it. One may not be able to read it quickly, but if one knows the artist and if one knows the time when the artist produced the work, one can see relationships between the abstract painting—let’s say the artist and the artist’s moment. And one can—which unlike [Clement—Ed.] Greenberg has done in most cases, [he] reduces abstract painting to a vulgar position where he does try to perpetuate the myth of art for art’s sake.

PK: The formalist approach that [the ____] is inherent in _____.

RG: Yeah, and I used to believe that. So both moments are in a piece of art: the social and the aesthetic. We just can’t escape it. Period. And I think the attempt to escape it has within it an agenda that is socially, politically driven. Because we can’t escape the fact that it’s there, both are there.

PK: So, in a sense, again, your patron saints and your heroes, at least at one moment, [are] emblematic in a very important way, Martin Luther King Jr. and Marcel Duchamp. . . .

RG: Absolutely.

PK: . . . again represent this maintaining two stances that are not mutually exclusive.

RG: Correct. Correct, they are not mutually exclusive. I used to believe that they were, because that’s what was taught in school. But when I began to. . . . Even though I always knew art and everyday life was connected, just in terms of. . . . As a child and as a young man, I always strongly felt it and somewhat knew it, but then schooling tried to discourage that. And when I come back from the military in ‘66 and go to San Francisco State, that moment of international protest brings clear to me that art and society and politics are not mutually exclusive, but we have been told that they are, and we were told that for political reasons. Political reasons. And that really gets me thinking systematically about looking at society, looking at culture, looking at history, and the various bodies of knowledge that try to explain human behavior and thought. I began to look at those with a more critical eye, whereas earlier I did not.

PK: I was going to ask you, again, Martin Luther King, Duchamp, this pairing of them—importance to you as an emblem, I suppose—was this something that you became aware of retrospectively? For instance, as you’re putting together a chronology and trying to look back and explain important events. Or do you recall actually at the time this really did have an impact on you? Were you already then, at that point, which is, what, ‘68. . . ?

RG: Yes, oh yes.

PK: So it had, even then, the same kind of meaning to you as it does now.

RG: Yes, it was so fascinating. Very fascinating.

PK: And so by that time, then, you had come to the point where you no longer bought this business that you had been taught.

RG: I began to reject it in. . . . Let’s see, I came back to this country [in] ‘66, began school in the fall of ‘66 at San Francisco State, and by that time the anti-Vietnam War movement was taking hold, and then the developing movements of African-Americans, Chicanos, Asians, Native Americans, was starting to happen as well. And so within that context I began to reexamine—to really reexamine, to really deconstruct. I mean, in the true meaning of that word: to take apart the present moment and then also in retrospect. To understand, "Well, how did I get to this point? Why is there this grand critique around the globe? What happened to cause this?" And so, in the sixties. . . . And by ‘68 it comes to a head, for me because of. . . . And in ‘68 there was this moment, not only in Paris in May and in Mexico, but also at San Francisco State and other moments in our country, too, on the various campuses. So that ‘68 is the moment that I really began to look really consciously, pinpoint what I think I want to do. And to make connections with things that I used to think were separate. And so, indeed, Duchamp and Martin Luther King do that for me. I could point, yeah, that’s it. That certainly is it. Those two guys do that for me, they represent that. And I think, yeah, that’s what.

PK: Well you’re an artist, it seems to me, [that] very much combines art and life, in the fullest sense; you understood, you recognized that that is not only an important and a choice perhaps that you make but that maybe it’s unavoidable.

RG: It’s unavoidable. I mean, life and art are not separate. Life and art can be perceived to be separate. You can construct an argument that they are separate—and this is why they’re separate—but that’s only an argument. That isn’t necessarily a fact; it’s just a perception of the human dynamic, and here is this explanation of why it’s that way.

PK: Well, see, if that’s the case—and it seems true to be the case—then our interview needs to deal very much with the circumstances of your life, which is what we will look forward to during these sessions. But before we jump back to the beginning—which I would like to do, and get you born and so forth. . . .

RG: [laughs]

PK: . . . in a place that I’ve never heard of before but we’ll save that for a little bit: French Camp, California. But before we do that, we were talking earlier about this particular catalog, and you said that you weren’t entirely pleased with the essay, the introduction. . . .

RG: No, no, the. . . .

PK: Apparently there was something important you felt [left out].

RG: Yeah. See, what happened was I was initially given the option to select whom I would like to have write about me. And I wanted to have Carlos [Monsivais] from Mexico, who was one of the world’s greatest cultural critics—an amazing mind, an amazing man. And I called him at his home in Mexico City and I asked him, and he said he would love to do it. He says, "Matter of fact, I have your catalog right next to me from this earlier show you had in Mexico City and I want to do it. I’d love to do it, it would be a pleasure." Well, for whatever reason, Carlos Monsivais couldn’t do it. So, in the meantime, the Alternative Museum gets somebody else to do it. The role of the essay was supposed to help inform the New Yorker—the New York art lover—to help contextualize what it means to be a Chicano. To help contextualize, perhaps, the dynamics of being a Chicano in our society, and the art and the culture of our times. Which to me is a good idea. But I had hoped the article to be broader.

[Here some material was excised by the artist—Ed.]

PK: Well, the theme will reemerge constantly over the interview; there’s no question about it. Your notions, your ideas—as you say, what it means to be Chicano and an artist—and this is something that I’m very much looking forward to. But one thing at the get-go, I guess, we can clear up is that, at least in my understanding of your thinking—and then even what I read in this catalog—that you resist very much this sort of self-imposed—almost a marginalization that’s self-imposed—by being too exclusive or essentialist or restrictive. That you really do insist in your own work—and, I suppose, activities—to be more open.

RG: Always. Even as a child. Raised calling ourselves Mexicanos, or Mexicans, did not preclude any other possibilities. It just meant that this is how I see myself and I also have a lot more I wish to do and have an interest in. And that’s always been with me as a kid—always, always. And whenever I confront—as a child, too—when folks talk about being a Mexican at the exclusion of incorporating other kinds of activities and friends—or even religion—I always got sick in my stomach, because it didn’t feel right, because the friends who I had in grammar school up to this moment have not only been Mexicano/Chicano/Latino, but rather they have been whoever they are. And so as a kid, when I was told that I shouldn’t date this one person because they’re not Mexicano, or you shouldn’t go into other churches because only the Catholic is the right one and closest to God, it didn’t make any sense, because how could my best friends who I dearly loved and trusted completely, how can they not be a part of whatever else is a part of me? I didn’t sense that there was a contradiction. And so as a child I began to reject those rigid codes of perception and behavior. And I think there’s Duchamp there, and there is also Martin Luther King there, back as a kid. And so I have always rejected that kind of convenient and oftentimes rigid political point of view about nationalism, in particular.

PK: Well, it seems. . . . I don’t want to jump ahead of us here, because we’re going to build to this kind of an understanding in terms of your–and these are very, very important ideas I think, particularly with an artist like you who stands very, very solidly in a political or activist arena. And that can’t be separated—but what interests me and what I already get a sense of is that you’re quite skeptical, or have been quite skeptical, about the primacy of, well, really of identity, of group identity—of group identity then determining everything. I gather that you are much more interested, finally, in looking at individuals, whether it’s within this group or _____ _____.

RG: I’m interested in both the group and the individual. I mean, I don’t mean to say that I am preoccupied with this romantic notion of the individual and the ego. Not at all, not at all. I respect the individual and the ego, but the fact that we are social animals, I look at both. But what I do shy away from is the vulgarization of a given person who is of a certain group and make them both one simple experience.

[Break in taping]

PK: Continuing the interview with Rupert García, session one. This is tape one, side B. And we were cut off. Did you want to finish up on that thought, with the individual and the group?

RG: Well, you know, I think it’s an impossibility to separate the individual from the group. You have to look at both of them, because one’s identity is gotten by the interaction of the two. And so when people arbitrarily separate them and say only one is the truth, that creates a lot of problems for me. A lot of problems for me. Because we are a mix of the both—the interaction of both. You know, I probably had something else to say at that moment, so now I’m kind of like reaching out for something, so. . . .

PK: [chuckles] Well, believe me, there’s no question that we’re going to come back to this theme. [both laugh]. Why don’t we. . . .

RG: And the issue of the individual and the group, which adds up to what is called "identity," is an issue—and I mention that in the catalog—that is a human condition. All human beings, willingly or unwillingly, contend with the formula "the group and the individual." Everyone. That’s how it works. And so what I have been so amused by, for the past few years—I should say decades, really—is the whole question of the "identity crisis" of the so-called minority in this country, which is the biggest myth going in the world. I mean, the identity crisis is the condition of the human being. It’s to figure out, Who in the hell are we? Where do we begin? Where are we going? What do we want? How do we want it? All those issues are. . . . The amplification of an ethnic minority identity crisis is given birth in a context, and that context is historical domination. That’s what gives it that twist. And then it’s those who have done the dominating say, "Well, you’ve got a problem!" You know, you got a problem. And then they somehow escape the responsibility that they must confront to make things better. But if they don’t identify you with their humanity, then they don’t care. If they cared, my crisis is their crisis. If they don’t identify with it, they’re racist, or they’re sexist, then they’re saying, "You are not a part of my humanity. There are somehow, arbitrarily, a variety of kinds of humanities, and the one I am in is exclusive of you." And that’s [the whole lot] that binary stuff, too, which is about power. Economic power, culture, political, spiritual.

PK: So another way to say this, I suppose, you’re saying the current vocabulary would be this notion of "the other" that you might. . . . Would you define that word "other" as those who—for one reason or another—are not participating. We don’t perceive them as participating in our humanity?

RG: Yes.

PK: Another way to say it.

RG: Yes, yes.

PK: For you, that’s how. . . .

RG: Yeah, and there are different ways of approaching the notion of "The Other." There’s a capital "O" and there’s the small "o." And "the other" is always somebody else, other than you. That’s just the way it goes. And then there is the social/cultural context in which you are raised which will come up with its version of who "the Other" is. "The Other" always is perceived not only as being somebody else but oftentimes as an enemy, and if you can sufficiently come up with definitions that make that Other, the enemy, appear to be so evil that you can rob him or her of her humanity and, therefore, you can kill them.

PK: Somehow, not human, not fully human.

RG: Not fully human. They’re [not] human at all. I mean, if you look at some literature by organized racists, it is clear that they believe and subscribe to the notion that nonwhite people are . . . some are not human, some are not quite human. They may say that, too. Some who are not quite human, who aren’t as African, perhaps, in their perception. But, basically, it is. . . . One approach to "the Other" is creating the nonhumanity of a human being, so you can, then, destroy them without feeling any kind of guilt. Because if they are not human and you kill them, where’s the guilt? There is none. So you have to somehow create that myth, that perception, and then you got to internalize it, and then really grasp onto it for your existence. And then that gives you the power to kill.

PK: So you do social. . . .

RG: But also "the other". . . . I began thinking about "the other," really, when I began to read Jean-Paul Sartre back then, the existentialist. I really began to think about, you know. . . .

PK: When was that? When did you do that?

RG: Oh, you know, I think I started really thinking about existentialism probably when the Beatniks were out, and stopped and. . . . It was kind of like floating around, that sense of alienation and the sense of rebelliousness and all that kind of stuff was kind of. . . . [chuckles] Even in Stockton it was kind of like hovering about, and so it kind of fashionable, in a way.

PK: Right, right.

RG: You know, so, me being at the time very ignorant but somewhat attracted by this new-found thing, somewhat identified with it as well as being an artist.

PK: This is, what, the late fifties or 1960, perhaps?

RG: The late fifties. Possibly that, yeah, because I leave Stockton in ‘62. And now when I come back to this country in ‘66 from Indochina, and I begin to systematically look at Jean-Paul Sartre, to really look at his stuff—I took a seminar which dealt with one particular book of his—and so, in looking at "the other," I began to [think], okay, "Well, the other, the other, you know, being, non-being," all that kind of stuff. "And the other person is the bad guy because they’re going gobble you up for their own end." And I thought, "Well, that seems to be of interest, kind of makes some sense." But then I began to realize, "Well, you know, it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t make sense. . . ." It doesn’t. . . . "Why is it that ‘the other’—who is, you know, my brother, my sister, and people in the family—how can they be considered to be evil?" Meaning for them to survive they have to gobble me up and deny my singularity. So even though I accepted that that may be true—there is the other—and we all have the potential to manipulate somebody and we do that in varying degrees, but why must it be so absolute in the way in which Jean-Paul Sartre wrote about it in Being and Nothingness? Then later he begins to change his ideas. It becomes more. . . . He contextualizes his existentialism with this his Marxism. He begins to look at the psycho-social dynamics of being and nonbeing, if you will. And so then I began to, "Oh, so ‘the other’ isn’t what I thought it used to be. Well, some of it is still there, because it is true, people who aren’t you are somebody else. So they’re "other." And then I began to think about, "Well, ‘the other’ doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re completely separated from me, because we share certain kinds of things in common. So there is the dialogue, so then we can change things and make things better so I don’t have to think that Paul Karlstrom wants to absolutely manipulate me and deny me of my humanity so he can forward his." So then, when "the Other" comes up for discussion—and in particular with multiculturalism and so-called "people of color"—I did not subscribe to that. I said, "This is bullshit, what you’re trying to do. You’re arbitrarily creating a category that pushes me to the margin and, by implication, you aren’t the Other, you’re just fine. It’s "I got a problem." Well, goddamn it, my problem is created in part by you, and the history which we both share. So we’re both "other." You’re just trying to make my "other" be more sick than your "other."

PK: Aberrant.

RG: Yeah. You know, at a CAA [College Art Association—Ed.] meeting in New York many years ago I gave a presentation of my work, and then there was a Q & A, and somebody asked me about "the Other," what I thought about it, and I said then what I’m saying now, in part—that I do not accept most of the current literature that talks about me as being this Otherness.

PK: You mean, writing about you, Rupert García?

RG: Well, no, no. I mean, when people talk about "the Other" oftentimes they talk about, in this country, those who’re not white.

PK: Right.

RG: And so that’s me.

PK: And so I said, "I do not accept the current literature that creates the idea that "I am of difference, I am Other," as if nobody else is.

PK: Right.

RG: You know, at the exclusion of somebody who is doing the excluding. I mean, I said, "I find it very confusing but very convenient—politically, very convenient—it means that I’ve got a problem that I somehow created and I’ve got to fix it. My response is, "No, no, no, no. We’ve got to fix it. We got a problem." And, furthermore, now there are some who write about "the Other" in different . . . in the context of history, politics, racism, sexism, and class domination. Now, when that is done, then you see the actual dynamics that have created the possibilities to talk about somebody as "Other," then you understand it. Then you understand why "the Other" is created, when it comes down to a discussion of power. I think power is very important. And by power I don’t simply mean, "I can beat you up," although that’s part of it. Power has to do with philosophy, psychology, economics, culture—all the various human aspects that we manifest through time. Built into that is power. At whose expense do things happen and for whose benefit? That’s about power. And so creating categories like "the Other," and discussions of difference without contextualizing it, without doing that, is arbitrary and perpetuates the problems that in fact caused the reason to create these categories. But if you contextualize it, then you understand it and you see that we’re all involved in this issue. All must discuss it, and all must do something about it. And if you don’t do that then we perpetuate the way things are.

PK: Well, let’s now, given all that—and these are important subjects to which we’ll return. . . .

RG: I know we will.

PK: . . . but let’s go back and try to lay in a story about you—about your life and those experiences. . . .

RG: Oh, yeah.

PK: . . . like where you come from—that ultimately these issues become, not only important to you, but personal.

RG: Yes.

PK: And, if we may, why don’t you talk about your own family background, where you come from, who you are in that respect.

RG: Yeah, like you said earlier, wondering, "Where in the hell is French Camp?"

PK: [laughs]

RG: Well, I was born in French Camp, which is right outside of Stockton, California, in the San Joaquin Valley. French Camp is as big as the snap of a finger.

PK: [laughs] How big is that?

RG: [snaps finger] That big. [laughs]

PK: You can go through it in that _____.

RG: You go through it and, truly, if you blink you miss it. Truly. Now I was born in French Camp, which is to say simply this: I was born at the general hospital, and all poor folks, or working-class folks, are born there, because it’s the cheapest place. So I was born there.

PK: French Camp has a general hospital?

RG: Oh, a big one. They have the general hospital in. . . .

PK: What county is that?

RG: San Joaquin County.

PK: Okay.

RG: Yeah.

PK: Central Valley.

RG: I’m sorry?

PK: Central Valley.

RG: Yeah, yeah. So then ‘41, September 29th, born there. My dad, Frank García, and my Mom, Dolores Atilano.

PK: Will you spell that, please?

RG: Which one?

PK: [chuckles] The second one, your mom’s. . . .

RG: Atilano? A-t-i-l-a-n-o. At-tee-lano. Then she became García and then she then became Warren. Then we go to Manteca, California, and I have no consciousness of that. Then we moved to Stockton a few years later, so somewhere in the forties I’m in Stockton, and when I gained consciousness [laughs] of my surroundings and what’s going on, I’m in Stockton. And I was raised . . . see my brothers and my mom and my grandmother, Guadalupe Cuevas Atilano, and then eventually my aunt and uncle lived with us for a while. And I recall having a great life as a kid. It was wonderful. I couldn’t have it any better. When I think about it, it’s wonderful.

PK: Well, going back a little further, you’re first generation?

RG: Second generation.

PK: Second generation. Carry it back. Let’s go back a little earlier in terms of the people. . . .

RG: Well, maybe the third. See, my grandmother came from Mexico, my mother was born in California, and then me. That makes me third or second? I get confused.

PK: Second.

RG: Second, yeah.

PK: Isn’t that right? Yeah, isn’t the first generation the one that’s actually born here?

RG: Born here. I’m second, oh yeah. [Actually, I think it is based on the generation living, not necessarily born, in the U.S. This would make RG third generation.—JR]

PK: Yeah. If we’re wrong, somebody will [write us a note]. [laughing]

RG: Yeah.

PK: But, now, where did your ancestors then come from?

RG: My grandmother and grandfather on my mom’s side came from a place called Jalostotitlán, which is outside of Guadalajara in Jalisco, Mexico. And on my dad’s side, at this time, El Paso, Texas.

PK: Oh, really!

RG: And I’m sure that that’s only partially true, which is to say. . . .

PK: It was really Juarez?

RG: Back then, when they were living there, many came from Mexico, especially during and following the revolution of 1910 to 1920 in Mexico. As a matter of fact, that’s why my maternal grandparents came to the U.S., was because of the Revolution. The Civil War caused many people to move, as we are finding today around the world. People want to leave the war situation.

PK: So in a sense, then, they were typical émigrés, coming to this country for the usual reasons.

RG: In their case, yes. And there are many who. . . . Yeah, those who came here probably came for the classic reasons of immigration, just as the Surrealists leave Europe in the late thirties and early forties come to Mexico because of the War [World War II—Ed.] so they immigrate, and so my grandparents immigrated for the War of 1910-1920, the Revolution in Mexico.

PK: How did they, then, connect? How and where did they come together?

RG: My parents?

PK: Well, parents, yes, that’s right. Or did the grandparents actually converge in California?

RG: You know, that is a little confusing to me. I hear stories that the families knew each other in California—either in Stockton, Modesto, or Manteca—because I have family in those three places. And elsewhere, too. And they must have met at some kind of a function, because they didn’t go to the same high school. As a matter of fact, my dad didn’t finish high school; my mom did. So they must have met at some kind of family thing or a dance or a fiesta or something like that. I don’t know. . . .

PK: They never told you. They never shared that.

RG: Not in a clear way, no. No. And I want . . . I think it’s always fascinating to know that about your parents, you know. How’d they get together, those kinds of things. I think one would find it very interesting. I would.

PK: Are your parents living still?

RG: Oh, yeah, they’re still alive. My mom is seventy five, seventy six. My dad is about the same age. Both are retired. [My father died in 1997, after completion of this interview—RG]

PK: So you could ask them, you see.

RG: Oh, yeah. Absolutely, and I will. Yes, absolutely. I’m very much interested in that. Because for years I just never thought to ask about those kinds of questions. And only recently, when I began to do the chronology and then when you invited me to join the Archives and then when another fellow wanted to do some work on me, I begin to think, "You know, I don’t know all that much about those early kinds of questions." [both laugh] And so I began to think about it and I don’t have them all at my fingertips. I have to do some oral history, if you will.

PK: Well, it is interesting, and it seems to me this is a case where you as an individual, this is your specific, exclusive story—unique story.

RG: Yeah.

PK: And with your concern about your identity—who you are and what it means to be who you are—this then is the individual story put up against or included within this group experience.

RG: Yeah, absolutely.

PK: Then there’s the other great story, on one hand, in which you participate in Mexico and so forth

RG: Absolutely, yeah.

PK: So it’s all important.

RG: It’s all important and I find it real exciting.

PK: But is this something that. . . . I gather from what you say that it really is still evolving or developing, that earlier on you didn’t have this same kind of interest in your own . . . certainly the details of your own background, except maybe in a more general way, which would be, you know, this Latino or Chicano experience.

RG: Well, you know, when you’re raised. . . . Well, I was raised [like] that much earlier. We all called ourselves Méxicano or Mexicans, nothing else.

PK: Even though you were born in California?

RG: Here. Oh, yeah, and I never thought about being an American. I mean, calling myself a Mexican did not negate being an American.

PK: So these weren’t really in opposition?

RG: No, no, no. It’s just, "I’m here and this is what I call myself because. . . ." I mean, at school maybe things come up about, "What is an American?" But I never felt. . . . The only time I felt any kind of conflict is when some of the kids used to make fun of some of the braceros [migrant farm workers from Mexico—RG].

PK: Oh, yeah.

RG: And they would, like, point and say disparaging remarks and that would separate the Mexican national from the Mexican born here or who has been here for decades. So there was that. And I always felt. . . .

PK: So that’s a classist thing, I suppose, in some ways, or country-of-origin classism?

RG: Well, it’s a combination of. . . . You can give a contrast. . . .

PK: . . . it’s complex. . . .

RG: It’s very interesting. But it’s a classic. . . . In this culture, it’s classic, because this culture defines what is good by being as Anglo as possible, so if you could put someone else down and put yourself seemingly closer to being a "genuine American," you’re better off.

PK: So you were a little more Anglo than those braceros, right?

RG: I’m not saying this is me. I’m saying there were those who did that, whom I observed. Well, because people in my immediate and extended family were farm laborers]. I didn’t want to, I mean, ridiculous. I mean, never. Crazy.

PK: Right.

RG: But those who did do that and who would bad-mouth them . . . I was introduced to the perception that there is this difference. And it was class, and it also was cultural. By that I mean those who were more Méxicano than those who were. . . .

PK: Mas Méxicano.

RG: . . . were "less Méxicano" were better off, because they don’t have those trappings. And those trappings that they perceived in the Mexican national farm workers were cultural and class-based, because of the economic and Eurocentric situation. I mean, I used to work in the fields as a kid myself, so how could I. . . . I mean, there was no sense. . . . It was like self-negation if I were to do that. But that’s what some of these people were doing—this denial thing. It was denial. And so that introduction of that kind of perception, to negate true Méxicanos, also made me sick, just as it made me sick when people in my family would tell me, "You shouldn’t date that girl, you should date Méxicanas." As a matter of fact, my grandmother told me that. And I told her—and I had never done this but I just couldn’t hold myself back—she asked me, "Where are you going?" "I’m going to see my girlfriend." "What’s her name?" "Oh, mí hijo [my child—RG]." "Oh, no buenos. . . ." "What do you mean?" She says, "Well, you know, keep to your people." This high school girl was Japanese. And so I told my grandmother, I said, "Grandma, you go to hell." Cursed at her.

PK: No!

RG: Oh, yeah. And I stormed out of the house. Because I knew, I felt that she was absolutely wrong. There was no way that she could be right. So I experienced it both within the family and outside the family, this way of trying to create this convenient "Other," if you will. So I grew up having a perception of being Mexican, which later in the seventies I have a great experience and a story to tell about confronting the reality that I’m not a Méxicano.

PK: Well, why don’t you tell it now, so we don’t miss it.

RG: Oh, okay. In the mid-seventies, late seventies, I was teaching at San Francisco Art Institute a course on . . . I believe it was culture of Mexico. And it was during the spring and we had a break, an Easter break, and I went to Mexico. First time. No, second time. I came back—I went to Mexico City, as a matter of fact—I came back to the seminar at the Art Institute, and I began to talk about my experiences and my feelings. And I said, "You know, I felt, being in Mexico, a variety of sensations. Excitement. Overwhelmed. Couldn’t believe the architecture, couldn’t believe the wonderment of Teotihuacan, etc. But . . . but I felt disconnected. I didn’t really feel as if I could say, as I did, as a kid and for many, many years, ‘Yo soy Méxicano,’ ‘I am a Mexican.’ And I felt nauseous about that, and I felt guilty about that. All those things came to me." And everybody’s hand in the class went up and they all had stories that were identical—or very similar. And so we talked about that, and I said, "Well, in my case, calling yourself a Méxicano and then actually going to Mexico, especially Mexico City, and you have this perception of you, and that there in Mexico City you realize that you are not Méxicano in the sense in which those in Mexico are Méxicano. And I began to realize the complexity and reality of the adventure of my family from Mexico coming to here, then I began to weigh it and understand. And that’s how I came to realize that my responses of guilt and nauseous were absolutely natural. There was nothing wrong with it.

PK: It’s like you were thrown off balance that that which. . . .

RG: Oh, yeah, I felt askew.

PK: . . . [you] had ____ by yourself was really not?

RG: I’m sorry? Yeah. I felt askew from what I had perceived myself to be earlier.

[Break in taping]

PK: This is continuing the interview with Rupert García. This is session one on 7 September 1995. This is tape two, side A. Rupert, you were cut off right in the middle of a good run.

RG: Yeah! Boy, it felt good for a moment, didn’t it?

PK: [laughs]

RG: So, we were talking about being askew and then gaining balance from the experience of going to Mexico and finding out experientially that I am not Mexicano in the sense which Mexicans are Mexicano living in Mexico. And I guess specifically in Mexico City—because, you know, Paul, there are truly many Mexicos. Based upon class, race, ethnicity, the culture you embrace—it’s just very, very complicated. In any event, so in this class, after talking about this and everybody saying, "Oh, I thought I was crazy." I thought something was wrong with me." We all realized that, well, we’re not all crazy. This is simply part and parcel of what happens . . . the way it happens in this country, with folks coming from places that are perceived, when coming to this country, as being not American, and when there is this whole cultural bias of not only language, but food, how you look, that dynamic of stereotyping and ethnocentrism which we began to talk about. It gave us a handle to understand why we felt all these different kinds of things. Well, what was really interesting was in being in Mexico and seeing all these people, the variety of people—from blonde Mexicans to Mestizo mixing of cultures, to African-Mexicans, to Asian-Mexicans, Arab-Mexicans, and I began to think, "Well, what the hell is a Mexican?" And I began to think and ponder that and I began to do a lot of new research and reading and learned about the historical development of what we call Mexico. And began to learn that there are all kinds of Mexicos at different times in history. And so that helped me understand . . . helped me gain balance in terms of my earlier doubting of being a Mexican. As I began to realize that, "Well, I am of Mexico, and in many kinds of ways, but that’s only part of who I am potentially, and who I am at the moment."

And so that began to open up the spectrum for experience and to include whatever I want to include. So since I didn’t buy any kind of really vulgar Mexican nationalism—which some people in the family did—I was able not only as a kid but also even after going to Mexico to truly embrace a lot of aspects of being of Mexico. Just in the food alone. Let’s just take food. As a child, up until before I leave home, never gave a second thought about the food that we ate and what it symbolically means. I knew that it was different from eating baloney sandwiches and eating hotogs. I knew it was different than spaghetti. I knew it was different. But I did not know that the food that I was raised on was basically Mexican indigenous cuisine. It was nothing that was discussed. It was just a fact of life. A fact of life. There was no need—it seemed at the time—not to do that. Later—and the issues in the mid-sixties, late sixties, begun to be discussed for ethnic studies, Third World studies, and those kinds of issues; in the context, again, of what I call "the grand critique," which occurred in the sixties and seventies—began to think about all kinds of things. And among them was food. And so I began to like do research on the food and, wow, it was amazing what it means—symbolically, what it means—because of its resonance of a certain aspect of being a Mexican who maintains, through food, a cultural tie with an ancient people. It was an incredible experience to become aware of that, to know what that really, really means for me. I don’t know about my other brothers and sisters—I have no idea—but I know for me. But to realize, it was just so exciting.

PK: But this is mainly after your visit to Mexico, is that right? Or was this. . . .

RG: That’s before. Actually before.

PK: Before?

RG: It was before.

PK: And so this self-awareness or this. . . .

RG: Well, it’s not so much a self. . . . It is kind of a self-awareness, but it’s like a reclamation—a conscious reclamation of something that you have done all of your life but didn’t . . . well, it was done unwittingly. I mean, you didn’t reflect on, "Well, let me see now, is this food . . . what part of Mexico did it come. . . ?" No. We ate the food and we lived. But later when we began to raise many questions. . . . See, I began to raise questions about everything.

PK: Well, it would seem to me that there. . . . I won’t say there’s a self-consciousness there, except in the sense of you’re conscious of yourself and those habits, those experiences, as a child. . . . You mentioned food. . . .

RG: Yes, absolutely, food in particular.

PK: . . . [which would] contribute to who you are.

RG: Yes, in my family never did I experience open denial of being Mexican. Never. They were always . . . now, in retrospect, the embracing of the Mexican was very strong, and it was demonstrated in a variety of kinds of ways. Not only in the food, but in the activities, the fiestas and the jamaicas [pronounced "hah-mike-uhs"—Ed.], and my aunts and uncles who were in the local Ballet Folklorico, and my grandmother would design and produce all of the Ballet Folklorico dance garb. I mean, it was always around me. The music. . . . But it wasn’t like. . . . It was no big deal. [laughs] But it becomes a big deal with the Chicano movement, the Chicano cultural-political movement. Because when folks call themselves Chicanos. . . . I mean, I didn’t have a problem with the identity of being Mexican. That wasn’t my problem. I didn’t have a problem. But some did and some still do. That wasn’t it. My problem was finding out what the hell caused it all to get where it is. That was very curious about that. So I didn’t have any denial stuff. That wasn’t it. But what I was curious about was [the] before story of Mexico. Before our story of how people . . . Mexican linkage got to this country. The story of those who had been here for centuries—in the Southwest, in particular. That I wanted to know about. Now that I was curious to know. But I didn’t have necessarily an identity crisis. The crisis that I had lasted for half an hour after going to Mexico and coming back. That was something, I think. . . .

PK: Right, nausea.

RG: Yeah.

PK: Like Sartre.

RG: Yeah, exactly. Yeah, really. It was like, "Wow, man, those folks are ‘other.’ " No, it was just. . . . [laughs] But. . . . I’m losing thought in here.

PK: Well, let’s pick up on this. You said in a jesting way, of course, that you were in Mexico saying, "Well, those folks are ‘others.’ " That was your epiphany.

RG: Well, for the moment they were. Because my framework that explained to me what being a Mexican was didn’t fit any more. It was too narrow. It was too narrow. And so my framework is, let’s say, five inches wide and that which I am perceiving is a mile wide. . . .

PK: Right, right.

RG: . . .conocido, and so there was that separation and sense of alienation. And so for the moment they were an "Other."

PK: Well, you know it’s a very complicated business, and it’s not something, of course, that everybody is concerned about this and writes about it, and there’s all sorts of books on the subject.

RG: Oh, yeah.

PK: But it does seem to me very, very interesting, because you, as an American—and you can get into sort of politically charged discussions about even these terms; you know, what I am first and foremost?—but you, as an American, find yourself then confronting your background in Mexico and finding, apparently, that your experience and your understanding of being Mexican. . . .

RG: Yeah, incomplete.

PK: . . . is incomplete, quite different and, indeed, there is a kind of separation.

RG: Oh, yeah.

PK: So I guess the question I would ask: At that point did you find your own self-discovery involving more fully understanding this broader picture of being Mexican?

RG: Yes.

PK: And that was the most important thing for you on this journey to self-discovery, if I can put it that way?

RG: Well, it was not a journey of self-discovery. No. It was not an odyssey. It may be perceived as such, but that wasn’t the intent.

PK: Okay, but. . . .

RG: [pauses, thinking] Having arrived and being there for a while in Mexico City, seeing things, I felt, "Damn, I have a limited historical knowledge about Mexico. All I know and what I learned from experience back home with my family and the. . . . It was a limitation that was imposed because of economics. Some finished high school. Virtually nobody went on to college. So their interest was a mode in survival, and so there was no one to talk about all these vast, divine, Teotihuacan, and all that stuff, you know.—or the writings of [Octavio—Ed.] Paz and all that. That was not a part of my experience. Not at all. But going to Mexico and seeing all this stuff, I realized, "Wow!" "Wow," the weight of what is there to investigate about Mexico is so deep it’s bottomless. Okay, on the one hand nauseous, on the other hand so elated. And I didn’t blame anybody in my family for not giving me that because they didn’t have it. They have what they have. But I was so elated that I really . . . I taught myself the complete history of Mexico from the Olmecas to the present.

PK: Wait a minute. I have to think of how I’m going to phrase this. Because this is a big subject. I was going to ask you . . . you said that you went to Mexico and you discovered that you really didn’t know about this stuff, see.

RG: Nor did the schools I attended ever tell me anything about it either.

PK: Okay, my question is—and I think this is an important question, it’s not a flippant one—what difference did it make? What does that have to do with you, that civilization, Teotihuacan? What does that really have to do with you? You have, of course, your own experience. Your immediate experience was being born in California, growing up within that circumstance.

RG: Yeah.

PK: One could argue that that is your true experience, modest as it may be compared to the great accomplishments of Pre-Columbian Mexico.

RG: Well, it made me realize that the dynamics of anybody who was born anyplace and goes to somewhere else and who is not conscious or aware of a full spectrum of who they are, existentially and historically, who does not know that, is to a certain degree and in certain contexts, limited in their true potential of grasping. . . . See, I’m interested in knowing the whole thing. I want to know everything about the world. Everything. So this is part of that. Not only was it a journey. But it matters in the same way in which it matters for anybody who learns, "Damn, you know what? My family . . . they’re from Ireland. I just really found that out, that they’re from Ireland. They never talked about it, or maybe there were things around, and then I did some work on it and I went to Ireland, and, wow, it’s just amazing. I can now see these things I saw when Grandma and Grandpa and whatever . . . I can see the connections and I can see. . . . It’s just amazing. It’s amazing." And what it does, it amplifies your sensibility of who you are. You are more than whom you thought you were. You’re more than that. And so for me that’s what happened. It just opened up this. . . . And it resonated with a psychological elation as well as with, more important for me, an intellectual resonance and heightening. That awe: There’s just so much out there to know about and to learn about. And go to Teotihuacan.

You know, I studied before I went. I studied the philosophy of Mexico from ancient times to the twentieth century as well as I did art history. I learned all that information. So I went and looking at what I studied, and then I’m going, "Jeez, this is absolutely astounding to look at the production of this culture." And also understanding that while all of it is wonderful and profound, there was also certain aspects in Teotihuacan and the Aztecs that I found to be problematic. Which is the case for all cultures—high or low, so-called high or low. But the opening . . . see, the experience . . . it matters because it told me, it demonstrated to me, "Rupert, you are who you thought you were and more. If you look at, in an orderly fashion, if you look at how you got here, how you got to French Camp, how you got to Manteca, Modesto, and Stockton, how you got to San Antonio, Texas, for basic training, how you got to Indochina—all those kinds of connections, relationships, I wanted to know. And then experiencing the thing in Mexico gave me the opportunity to feel that and to sense it and to realize. Because for some people it doesn’t matter. For me it mattered. Wow, I was like stimulated, like I said earlier, intellectually and emotionally, to get into this thing and just get as close as I can. Because what it did, it made me understand the significance of the cuisine on which I was raised. It made me understand why we had cactus plants in our backyard, nopales. It made me understand that a Nopal is more than simply a Nopal. It’s more than that. It resonates, that’s why. It amplifies, it rearticulates, it opens these doors of experience that made me feel that I am who I am—yes, I am. But I’m also part of something much larger than who I am. And I feel the same way when I meet people from anywhere—that I am who I am, but I’m also a part of you. And perhaps knowing you I know in some way is going to enhance me. And anybody who says—I know you just raised a question, what does it matter?—anyone that raised that question in a way to demean or to diminish the significance of same is one who is questioning their own selves and at the same time wished to deny the humanity of another. You’re denying the intelligence of another who wishes to use that intelligence and imagination to enlarge their world view, their point of view. I’m not saying that’s you.

PK: No, I understand.

RG: There are those who want to fight true multiculturalism, that’s what they’re doing. They’re doing, in part, that. They want to deny the true complexity of, not only this country, but the world. They want to deny others’ existence and meanings and sense of music, all that is one’s culture. They want to deny, because they want to perpetuate their myth.

PK: To what extent does racism in America and then that whole history of not allowing different groups—usually people of color—to have full participation in our society, and in the promise here, what does that have to do with the great importance that’s attached to these national origins or to the ethnic background? Do you see a correlation there?

RG: Between, on the one hand. . . ?

PK: Well, I didn’t ask this very well. Institutional racism and the experiences of discrimination that various groups—Mexican-Americans—have experienced. To what extent has that experience, in your view, led to this effort to discover and retrieve national origin in the experience?

RG: Okay, I’ve always been curious as a kid, always very curious. Always interested in discovering things, period. I used to redesign my mom’s jewelry. I would take toys apart and put them back together. So there was this sense of discovery always there, really strong. Well, as a kid and a young man in Stockton I grew up with rampant racism and rampant class divisions.

PK: That really was your experience, your first experience.

RG: Absolutely! Damn, I knew where I lived and why I lived there. Absolutely. I knew why my friends lived where they lived. No question about it. I knew why I went to that high school where I went to. It was a good one, too. [both chuckle] You know, I knew why we used go up on the north side of town and beat up white kids, steal their cars, rob ‘em, kick their ass. Absolutely.

PK: Oh, my!

RG: Absolutely. I was very angry, very upset. And so I knew all that stuff—from experience. I knew why I had to work in the fields every now and then, why other people in the family worked in the fields or the cannery. I knew why they had these certain kinds of jobs. Tired. . . . And it was terrible, terrible. So I grew up experiencing discrimination not only because of Mexicanismo, but also my friends who were African-Americans. And who were Asians. I grew up with friends who were born in the camps for Japanese-Americans—in grammar school.

PK: Sure, yeah.

RG: You know, these friends of mine that I went to their house and they told me, "Don’t talk about. . . ." [whispers the dialogue—Trans.] I said, "Why not?" "Well, the family didn’t want to talk about the camps." I said, "Wow! It’s too deep, you know, deep, you know, wow." So I didn’t. So I knew that. I knew friends of mine weren’t allowed to be in the Boy Scouts because they were black. I knew I was shuttled into an all-Asian Boy Scout troup because I was a Mexican. You’re not blind! So, yes. Now, so having experienced that, knowing that, and simultaneously feeling the hurt and having the anger, the wanting to get back for this, you have that, and what you do with it depends upon a lot of factors. And I at a few moments got involved in some self-destructive stuff, but fortunately I was able to curtail that by seeing that people die from doing these certain kinds of things. I mean, drugs, gangs, robbing—serious stuff. And I saw that this for me didn’t make any sense.

PK: Did you ever get caught or in trouble with all of that?

RG: Never got caught. My friends got caught [at that time].

PK: You were lucky.

RG: I was lucky, simple as that. Simple as that. Just lucky. One time they got picked up for robbing a guy when I was there with them when it happened, and they caught my friends and the sheriff was driving a car down the street and I saw my friends in the car. The cop stopped. I had in my hand a wallet that we stole so I threw it in the bush. And I said, "I want to go with my friends." And the sheriff said, "No, I don’t think you want to go where these guys are going." "Yeah, but these are. . . ." "No I don’t think you want to have anything to do with this. These guys are going away. They’re going to go to juvenile camp." Whatever it was called. CYA, California Youth Authority. And to me it was about being with them; it was not about anything else. So, yeah, I had this self-destructive avenue that was available to me to deal with, the context of

being—let’s call it what it is—being dominated. When you are dominated you are not being allowed to be your true potential and so when you sense that, this frustration and anxiety. . . .

PK: You want to get back.

RG: . . . you want to get back, you want to do something. And so I did. And then I realized, "Oh, man, this is. . . ." People dying, people getting hooked on drugs, that didn’t seem like the kind of thing that I wanted to do. And fortunately the friends that I ran with also were not so much in that kind of a mode. We used to be singers. [laughs] We used to have a singing group, a capella.

PK: Los Lobos?

RG: No, no, no. Nothing was. . . . That was the furthest thing from our mind. We were singing rhythm and blues [à la the Five Satins or the Meadowlarks—RG]. And so that was an avenue, and the guys I hung around with were very, very smart guys. Smart. And so, in other words, I had those experiences of class, race, and cultural domination—by the true "Other." There is a true "Other." The one who does the dominating, that’s the root of it.

PK: That’s the real. . . .

RG: That’s the root of it, who creates the semblance of Otherness. So these. . . . But you asked the question for what reason now?

PK: Let me dodge that and let’s flip the tape and I’ll get into that.

[Break in taping]

PK: Rupert García, continuing our interview, session one, this is tape two, side B. Okay.

RG: You were asking me something about the oppressed minority of this country—are they more keen to know about their roots or their past because of the oppression, because [some] kind of denial and such, as opposed to those who haven’t been, in quotation marks, "denied" certain aspects or possibilities in human experience. And my answer is a very complex answer, because to ask that question has with it questions that I need to ask and clarify, because the way in which questions are stated often has a subprogram built into it. Or certain kinds of assumptions are there. And I asked that question by simply saying, this country in which we now live has, in part, historically survived on denial, and by that [I] simply mean to deny the true history of the development of what we call America. If we were to really analyze how we got to this moment in history today—I mean, if it was done authentically, and some have attempted this—we would be amazed at the complexity of what’s taken place. Not only by those who have been oppressed but by the oppressors themselves. They [the hegemonies—RG] create a myth about who they are—as being the true Americans—and in so doing they deny or mask their authentic history. I was asked at a conference by a white guy in the audience, "Gee, you know, I’m just a white guy, working class, an artist, and I don’t have all these wonderful things that you have about your roots and your history." I said, "Look it, man, look it. You have been fed and have accepted a magnificently constructed myth about who you are. You are pretending not to know who you are. You have accepted something that denies who you really are. If you really want to know who you are, talk to your mama, talk to your daddy, talk to your grandma, blah, blah, blah, and find out who you are as an American. However, if you adopt and believe the myth of what an American is then you have no need to investigate who you really are. But once you find out that what you have been fed is incomplete, which is what all oppressed people say: "I am not complete. I have been denied the right to exercise the human potential of my imagination and my mind. On the same hand, if you don’t accept that myth about being American, and if you realize it’s only part and parcel of who you are, you will be very excited and stimulated to do the research. To go back to wherever it is your family comes from." Absolutely. And those who say, "Nah, it doesn’t matter." I said, "Man, it matters so much, you’re going to cry. That’s how much it matters because if you don’t deal with it you’re going to be part of the problem. See, if you can’t accept the myth of America, we have to really redefine it. Or rather, to truly define it in all of its complexities and all of its problems and all of its wonderment."

So everybody cares in one way or another. Why do so many people who are not, let’s say, Mexican really care about what we do? I mean, they embrace it, they love it. Well, they sense something is happening. God, there is a driving concern. There is an exercising of the imagination, there’s this intelligence, there is this love, this vitality. So they’re probably sensing within themselves that something is missing that they might like to do. Maybe unwittingly, or maybe they’re still denying, because they see . . . they love. . . . I mean, they’re so many books out recently about the African-American biography. A lot of them came out. They sell like crazy. Why are people buying them? What is in there that’s being said. Well, there are personal stories about, I think we can say, a life’s journey that has within it this incredible sense of discovery, of making connections, of struggle, of overcoming—which all human beings experience. But those who are in the denial mode [have] got a problem of discovery, not me. They may say, "I know who I am; I’m an American. Why should it matter to me?" It doesn’t matter to me, but it matters to them. But they [the deniers—RG] buy these books so much, they go to these movies, they listen to this music, with which they identify with the other person’s journey of their humanness, but they deny their own. They’re not investigating their historical own. It’s as if it’s not their problem. There’s a denial there. There’s a denial. And it may be an unwitting exercise, or it may be very self-conscious. Or there are those who feel very good within themselves, who they are. So it seems as if there is more of an intensity for the oppressed minorities in—I hate that word "minorities"—for the oppressed people of culture in this country called America to want to discover and investigate because of the need to understand historical domination. ____ _____ _____.

PK: And perhaps the fact that they maybe don’t feel that they fully belong.

RG: Oh, we have never felt. . . . We have never, never. . . . From the beginning of the making of this country, it’s [hegemonic—RG] job was to deny you feeling a part of it. That was part of its philosophy—to keep you out. Better keep you out, try to make you feel marginized, make you feel as if you are "the Other," make you feel less than your potential. "Why would you want this?" you know. So from the beginning there is the necessity, in terms of the dynamics of domination, to come in and, if you will, push aside the indigenous—move ‘em aside. Create a social dynamic that makes the exploiter superior and the exploited less. So therefore, at the founding of this hemisphere. . . . You know, let’s say, at least since Columbus. You can say that. The need to marginalize and to move aside, to make you feel not part of the picture of America—which was a constructed picture to begin with and which you were the main painter heretofore—you are now made to feel as if you’re not an important part of it. As a matter of fact, the conqueror says, "We’re going to call this hemisphere ‘America,’ and you don’t fit in because you’re aren’t part of how I define it." So from the beginning that’s what it is. So, I mean, we grew up . . . I grew up knowing that . . . feeling not a part of certain locations in Stockton, California. Having never gone to the museum as a kid, maybe once.

PK: I was going to ask you about that.

RG: You know, once. And knowing that, you know, I’d been led to believe that this is not for me. Not of me.

PK: This high culture was then not for you.

RG: Whatever it was. We can now say "high culture." I have no idea what it was then. But whatever it was, it wasn’t supposed to be for me. And what was supposed to be only for me was boxing matches, going to the circus—which was all fine and dandy—carnival, movies, playing baseball, and the like. But not the museum, not going to the symphony. So most working class people of color—not all, not all—but most know from the beginning that they are not. . . . They get the sense that they are not supposed to be a part—a significant part—of the dynamic called America. They knew that they were a part because they work in America. . . . Well, they know that, but they know that their contributions are not perceived as significant, and they’re not often, if at all, called upon to contribute meaningfully. You know or feel that you are not a meaningful part, you are not being allowed to be a meaningful part. That creates all kinds of issues inside somebody.

PK: This is getting us very neatly, I think, then back to your arena, or that part of your arena that’s really the reason for this interview, which is your connection with culture—in the sense of the arts, the visual arts—and what you have just described is a situation in which you grew up feeling that this was not available to you. The museum, for instance; you mentioned the symphony and the museum and these kinds of things.

RG: Yeah, I mean the museum was not placed near where I lived or where I hung out. It was not on the south side of Stockton. No. It was located in what we called the "Four-O" district on the north side.

PK: The "Four-O"?

RG: The "Four-O" referring to the number of circles behind the digit you got in your check. [laughter] In the tens of thousands, in other words.

PK: Right.

RG: At that time, in the late forties, early fifties, that was a lot of money.

PK: Yeah, yeah, right.

RG: A lot of money. So the museum wasn’t placed near my home, and so it was never. . . . And I don’t recall people in my family going to museums, symphonies. Nobody even mentioned it. But I did go. And so when I went to the Haggin Museum, I walked in and I saw things and I felt completely disconnected from them. Nothing—as I recall, walking in, looking around, looking at paintings and looking at historical artifacts—nothing seemed to ring as being personally a part of my life in an honest way. So it was as if "This is really not for me. I do not see me here."

PK: You don’t see yourself making those kinds of things?

RG: No. No, I don’t see me represented here.

PK: But at that point. . . . Well, let me ask you this. . . .

RG: I was very young.

PK: Yeah, what led you to the museum?

RG: It was a school trip.

PK: A field trip.

RG: A field trip. You know, just went. And I probably otherwise would never have gone.

PK: But were you interested already in art? In making objects, pictures?

RG: I was interested in making objects since I was about five years old. I am writing a short story about the first time I became aware of combining different things together. I was, I believe, five years old, and me and my brother and my cousin made some fake tamales. You know, we got mud for the masa—or dirt and water to make mud for the masa—and then we would grind together red bricks to make this red powder which, when mixed with water, looked like mole—that’s a kind of a sauce—and then we would wash used corn husks. Not the husks but the corn, the jackets of corn, to make tamales. So I remember doing that and, like, it was just so exciting to see what was happening by bringing together different things—you know, water, dirt, bricks, and used corn shells. It was awe-experiencing. It was almost overwhelming and then at the same time just plain exciting. And that moment of doing that had some of kind clarity for me. And it was just like, "Damn!" Just like, "Wow!"

PK: In terms of a vocation for you. . . .

RG: No, no, no, no.

PK: I don’t mean a job, necessarily.

RG: Just doing it. Just doing it. The act of doing and the sensation experienced therefrom was such, so great, that it rang true. It just felt amazing.

PK: Well, how did you understand that, though?

RG: Oh, then it was just a feeling. As a child you don’t understand it. As a child, you just do it and you go, "Ooh, gee, isn’t that great?"

PK: Oh, that’s right, you were about what? You said five or six?

RG: Five, yes. It was just wonderful. But that activity was reinforced by what other people in my family did. People were dancers, people sang, people made clothes, people made hats out of feathers.

PK: You would call this crafts, I suppose.

RG: No. We didn’t call it nothing. It was life; it was about what my family did.

PK: No, one would. . . .

RG: Oh, now. Now, in retrospect, you call it craft, but to me it was meaningful. . . . It was just meaningful, period. There was no categorization of what it was. It was just meaningful. It was real and it mattered and it was stimulating. That’s what it was.

PK: Do you have any stories about how you were reinforced in these feelings.

RG: I want to do it now. [laughs] People in my family were involved in all this activity—I mentioned singing, playing instruments, dancers, designing and making their own clothes, designing and making hats out of feathers, my mom who wanted to be an artist herself (she was a very good drawer), and I had other people in the family who wanted to do theatre in high school. People played accordion, and my older brother was a superior athlete. So all this was around. And so the activity. . . . I mean, seeing this and experiencing the water and the mud and what it took to make these fake tamales, was supported by experiencing my family members’ activities in a variety of. . . . Making the clothes and such, it all seemed to be connected. It didn’t seem to be disconnected. And so nobody said, "Hey, are you stupid or what?" And my grandmother used to make vignettes of people and animals out of Kleenex. And the first time I saw that, which was after I experienced making fake tamales, was one of exalted wonderment. She would squat down on the floor in the living room and pull from under her long-sleeved dress pieces of napkins or Kleenex, and she would twist these things and make animals and people. I’m looking at this on the floor and I’m going, "Wow, what’s going on!?" It was amazing. It was a certain kind of mystery happening, actually. And so that, and working with the mud stuff making tamales, seeing people dancing, people singing, it all seemed to be part of everything else. Nothing was considered insignificant. It all seemed important. And I, unlike my other siblings, took it in. For whatever reasons. It just rang true. It just felt like this is . . . great! Why in the hell not? It’s just great. And so I got involved in drawing at a very young age, in making little sculptures out of wooden clothespins and carving it out and, like I said, redesigning my mom’s jewelry. And so it was always there. I mean, I cannot recall not being amazed by making things and seeing people make things and seeing people perform. It was just amazing. It’s just amazing.

PK: Was there a point when you saw that all of this interesting activity might could lead to an occupation, to a career being an artist?

RG: I knew in high school I wanted to be an artist, someone who made things.

PK: So you had this concept. . . .

RG: Oh, yeah.

PK: . . . of making a life as an artist.

RG: I don’t know about a life. It wasn’t like that. It was just "I want to do it." It wasn’t like, "Oh, I can be a cop or I can be whatever." It was just like. . . . It was, "I’m going to do that."

PK: Well, that’s not too ____ ____.

RG: I mean, I’m going to be that. I mean, It wasn’t a life choice being, "Oh, you had to look at these five options, and you pick this one for your life." No, it wasn’t like that. It was as if. . . . See, choice implies some kind of an "intellectual exercise." I’m sure that was there that, but it was as if I was somehow profoundly attracted to it or it into me.

PK: Well, let me ask this a different way.

RG: And then I saw people who were artists—"real artists."

PK: Artists, that’s it. It’s the idea of the artist.

RG: In high school I had friends who were in theatre and played music and some who were in art classes in high school. And they were really good. As a matter fact, in grammar school [Nobi, Noby] Oshidari and [Jess, Jesse] Oji, in fourth grade or whatever it was, made drawings and they were spectacular drawings. I’d see their drawings and I couldn’t believe it. It was amazing! In high school I had friends who made drawings and the like. And so at that level, being a teenager, there was approval by peers. It seemed right. And then, while still in high school—I think that’s true—I went to my first gallery opening. In Stockton, California, on Main Street, a small gallery right next to the Esquire Theatre. One of the artists showing was a friend of the family, and he used to work at this store called [Brown & McKeegan], men’s clothier. I don’t know if I was going to the movie or why I was downtown. I walked by and I saw these people inside talking and fooling around, and I must have thought, "What the hell is this?" And then I see Peter Rodriquez. Peter is the founder of the Mexican Museum [San Francisco—Ed.]. He also was cofounder with the Galería de la Raza, 1970—the museum in ‘75—and he was an old friend of the family. So I walked in to see Peter. I said, "Peter, what’s going on?" And I see all these paintings, these drawings, I’m looking around, these people talking, and having a little bit of wine, and whatever they’re doing, and I said, "This show’s really good, man." [laughs] "This is all right." And I met Terry St. John there, too.

PK: Really?

RG: Yeah.

PK: Did Terry grow up there?

RG: Well, he was in the show.

PK: Oh, he was in the show.

RG: Yeah. I don’t know where he was living. And everybody. . . .

PK: When was this? This was really early.

RG: Oh, yeah. Maybe in ‘59, at the latest 1960, at the latest. And so I see all this activity, I see these interesting paintings and drawings, and, you know, seem interesting. And it didn’t seem harmful, you know. [chuckles]. No one told me to get out.

PK: Well, it beat running around in gangs.

RG: Yeah, and it seemed really interesting to me, and it seemed different from making hats and folk dancing. And so by that time I had entered a couple of contests and won first place in my age group and got a big book on Monet. My first art book. I think I was eighteen years old.

PK: One of the first art books you’d even seen?

RG: The first art book I had ever seen—on Monet. A big sucker. Abrams, you know, a serious book, whoa! Hard back with a dust cover no less.

PK: Oooh!

RG: A real book.

PK: Probably tipped in plates.

RG: I think they were. Absolutely. I think I might still have that. So these kinds of things came while I was in high school and while I was senior class president and that was when I was expelled. I got impeached and expelled from school because I went to the high school junior prom as a guest, because I was senior class president, and I got plastered. Absolutely plastered. Made a complete fool of myself. The principle escorted me out. And come the next Monday, I learned that not only am I expelled from school, but I am impeached from the presidency as senior class president.

PK: That’s worse!

RG: Well, it was during that time that I was being seriously considered for a scholarship to San Francisco Art Institute. And that went down the rathole—or whatever it was. And I say this to tell you that I knew about art schools, and I knew somehow that this art school in San Francisco was the place that you go to if you want to be a genuine artist. So I knew there was study involved.

PK: Were you a pretty good student?

RG: I was a very good student.

PK: And, obviously, you were popular and one might even say political, because you were class president then.

RG: Yeah, I guess, I guess.

PK: You were interested in power yourself already maybe.

RG: No, you know what, that’s funny. It had nothing to do with power at all, not at all. Well, not at that time.

PK: Was it validation? You enjoyed that?

RG: No, I don’t know what it was. I wasn’t even going to run, and my friend—a guy who was in the class in front of me—said, "You know, you should run for senior class president." I said, "What for? I don’t give a damn about this, man." "Hey no, man, you really should." And he always seemed to me to be kind of serious. Roy Sánchez was his name. So I said, "Well, you know, why not?" It was like, "Why not?" Not, "Well, what can I get out of this?" And I was always gregarious—always gregarious—and my mom used to say, "You’re so sarcastic." She said, "I can’t believe your friends still come to your house to pick you up in the morning and go to school, because you’re so sarcastic I can’t believe it." I said, "Well, I don’t know what to say." [chuckles] But I don’t think it was about . . . it had nothing to do with power. You know, not about power. Popularity, perhaps.

PK: Did you like to be the center of attention?

RG: No! No, no, no. No! I may end up being, but not because that’s my intention. I may end up being, because I feel so strongly moved by something I’m the one who sticks out, and then function like a magnet. But the intention is not. . . . That’s a fine point, because it’s a point which many people who write about me make a mistake. They think I’m trying to attract attention, where in fact what’s happening is I am moved and feel very strongly about something and I do it and because of that something happens. You see what I mean? It’s not trying to achieve the end results because of what occurred. I’m not trying to become rich and famous—although that’s not bad either—but it’s because I feel so strongly about something and I’m able to in some way articulate it that attracts. I’m not trying to attract anybody. In my own painting and in my own work, I’m trying to figure something out for me. That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. For me. You may not get it. But I got it. I got it. That’s what it’s about. Me understanding, getting some kind of meaning out of existence through the activity of making a picture. Making a picture and gaining knowledge both emotionally and intellectually is a total process.

PK: Unfortunately, though, then with your misadventure at the prom. . . .

RG: Oh, yeah, [loss].

PK: . . . you lost a chance. . . . And I guess you were encouraged. There was probably a decent chance you could have gotten that scholarship to the Art Institute so it was ____ ____.

RG: Evidently. But it was a mystery to me that it even was discussed. I had no idea about this phantom scholarship.

PK: But you were aware of this. Was this something that in some way you were saying, "Hey, maybe this is what I should do. I can go there and be an artist"?

RG: No, it’s as if the connection with the school possibility came from somebody else, not me. But the fact that it was proposed, and maybe never realized, put in my mind, "Hey, it’s out there. It exists."

PK: So you weren’t hugely disappointed by that. This was not something that you were striving towards?

RG: No, no. I was more depleted from being expelled and dethroned.

PK: [chuckles]

[Break in taping]

PK: Continuing the interview with Rupert García after a break, this is session one on September 7, 1995, tape three, side A. We got you through high school. That’s what we’ve managed to accomplish so far, and I had one question. I know you have a few more things to say about that time. But I would like to know just what kind of art training you had received at that point. I know you had some drawing classes, but what was the nature of the art training?

RG: In high school?

PK: Yeah.

RG: In high school, I only took a class in art, and it was a class that was set up for students who misbehaved. Now I didn’t get there because I misbehaved. I took it because that was the only class they had to offer, and I also took a course to design the yearbook. So my training in high school in all certainty was by default. In grammar school, however, I had an instructor who introduced us to painting and to mural painting when I was in the sixth grade.

PK: Really?

RG: Yeah. So I directed a team of students in making a mural in ‘53, or something.

PK: What was the subject?

RG: I forget what that was.

PK: Something probably celebrating. . . .

RG: I have no idea.

PK: . . . agriculture in the Central [Valley].

RG: I have no idea. It could have been for all I know.

PK: That would be a WPA Project.

RG: I have no idea. So in grammar school and in high school, I had no real art training as such. The only introduction I had in terms of making things was in industrial trade classes such as woodshop, metal shop, and a couple of courses in drafting, which I really enjoyed. And that’s it.

PK: Well, did you learn about, like, perspective? You know what I mean, that sort of really basic. . . .

RG: I learned that in drafting, because we did isometric, oblique drawings. So I learned that. No, training in perspective and other art-related concerns I got at a junior college in Stockton but not in high school.

PK: Okay. Well, we can save that until you get to junior college.

RG: Yeah

PK: But you had a couple of other anecdotes.

RG: Oh, yeah. While I was in high school, my mom had a boyfriend, Henry Olivier, who went to my high school. One of my instructors spoke of him, unbeknownst to me that that was the same guy whom my mom was dating. I learned about that later on. But, nevertheless, Henry Olivier was a real good artist—a really good artist. Went to his studio, met his dad, and all that. And I was so impressed by his work that he gave me a photograph of one of his drawings of an old Chinese man that I carried it in my wallet for years. You know, it was so wonderful to know an adult who had made these great drawings and it was so fantastic. So it was especially precious. And he was a very nice guy, and so I kind of got a sense of a person who has their own space and who makes things and feels good about it.

PK: Did he have a studio there in Stockton?

RG: He had a studio in Stockton. He had a studio.

PK: He was an illustrator?

RG: I don’t know. I just know he made what at the time seemed to be real good stuff, you know, and he had a space in which to work. And so that was encouraging. And that my mom was with him, that was also encouraging. And a little after that is when I actually go to that gallery in Stockton. I used to know the name of it; I can’t recall it anymore.

PK: Maybe it’s in your chronology.

RG: Ah, I don’t think so. Because I would remember that one. What was the other anecdote? Did I say I had two?

PK: Maybe, but it doesn’t matter. If it comes up. . . . Well, so we left you disgraced in high school; you were impeached and you were expelled. Then did you go back to finish up or what?

RG: Well, what happened was I was expelled for so many weeks, then I went back and it was very embarrassing going back. You’re at the top one day; the next day you’re at the bottom. And you have to go to your classes and everyone in the whole school knows about it. But, I guess the story about the chemistry instructor. . . . He welcomed me back into his class. And he explained to the students, "We all know what happened to Rupert. Let’s talk about it and let’s bring him back." It was marvelous. So he really, like he welcomed me back to school. He knew it was a mistake. But he allowed me and the other students to deal with it in a way in which it enfolded me back to normal. And it was fantastic. He could have gone the other way and said, "You know, Rupert is an example of what you should not do." But he didn’t do that. And so I guess it was, in terms of developing what’s called a character, that was an important moment. That it’s possible to make a mistake, but it’s also possible in the right circumstances to rectify it in some way.

PK: Well, then so you did graduate and you finished?

RG: I did graduate [after that].

PK: Good for you. Congratulations. [both laugh] And then you went on to what they call community college, or junior college.

RG: Yeah, it was called Stockton Junior College, and it was wonderful. I took many art courses—jewelry-making, art metalwork, ceramics, drawing, color, a lot of painting classes. It was a very good experience. I mean, I learned a lot about color. We just had a whole semester of nothing but color, so I learned a lot about the technical aspects of color: how color works, how the eye works, how different media can produce colors differently. And painting—I think I had two or three courses in oil painting and I just learned a lot just by practicing and watching, not so much what was instructed. Unfortunately, the guy who taught painting, his love was ceramics and jewelry-making. But we had some good fellow students who were very good painters. I think I got a very good foundation in junior college in Stockton, a really good foundation. And then after graduation me and two friends from junior college, one who I’ve known since grammar school, come to San Francisco. My two friends come to go to school at San Francisco State. I had no money even to go to a state college, so what I did was I made plans to become an "artiste" in San Francisco, having no idea what that really meant or how to go about it, having that romantic vision you spoke of earlier. And we end up living in an apartment in what’s now called The Haight, on Cole and Haight Street in San Francisco in 1962. I’m drawing in pencil and crayon, maybe some pastels . . . I mean, maybe some chalk, I’m not quite sure. And also I’m washing dishes at a restaurant in the Mission District, on 22nd and Capp, washing dishes and I hated it. Just couldn’t stand it. And I disliked the people I worked for, couldn’t stand it. But I had to pay the rent. And then we had a show at a place called Papa’s Pizza in San Francisco, across the street from Kezar Stadium [home of the San Francisco 49ers—RG]. Three-person show. I had drawings—I think there may have been Elizabeth Taylor and some musicians I was making drawings of. And it was great. As far as we were concerned, we had arrived in San Francisco, showing at Papa’s Pizza—across from Kezar Stadium, no less. [chuckles] And then I quit my job, I go home to Stockton, stay at my brother’s, and for the moment feeling a little lost. . . .

PK: Mainly for financial reasons you went back to Stockton?

RG: Absolutely, absolutely. And I knew I could get a job at the cannery if I wanted one, and I had no interest in doing that because it seemed deadly and many of my family were working in the cannery and did for years. So I took a walk during the week, and went to the post office, and began talking to the various military. . . . What do you call them?

PK: Recruiters.

RG: Recruiters. And none seemed to be what I wanted to do, because I was looking for a job. I went to the air force recruiter and he seemed the most sane. And I said, "Well, I wouldn’t mind working there." See, I went for a job interview. I wasn’t going for patriotism, flag, America, democracy, none of that crap. Not at all. I was going to get a job. And a four year job, hey! So I do that, and the guy says, "You look really good. You look like you could be an officer candidate and look like you’d be pretty good in doing some kind of flying." So, "Hey, you know, wow!" But anyway, so I go, I join, sign up, go to San Antonio, Texas, and what happens? Well, when I first arrived at San Antonio in 1962 the moment I get off the bus and I hear this drill instructor crowing at us, I know it’s a mistake. I said, "It’s a mistake, Rupert. You made a mistake." But I’m the kind of person who makes a commitment and I stick with it. For good or for bad. So I stayed and I realized that, "God, I wish I didn’t have to do this." And I took a test for OCS [Officer Candidate School—Ed.]. My scores were too low. And then, the Cuban Missile Crisis happens, and so the whole base went on alert, and so we all knew then that we’re either going to be cooks or air police. And I ended up being air police. I got to my first base in Montana—Great Falls, Montana—1963. It’s after Christmas of ‘62, I think. Yeah, it’s in the beginning of ‘63. Malmstrom Air Force Base. And what happens, I find out that I’m going to be working at a secret air base, secret fighter squadron, with nuclear weapons on the fighter jets for the NORAD [North American Aerospace Defense Command—Ed.]. Our job was to protect the northern part of the U.S. from invasion by the Communists from Russia. And so for three years that’s what I did. I secured people, information, nuclear weapons, fighter-bombers. Three years, man, almost three years. I hated it. Hated it.

One incident happens while I’m in the Air Force in Montana that really helps me believe in myself as a maker of pictures. One afternoon I’m securing—now mind you, this is nuclear manned fighter-bombers, secret mission—I’m securing an access route—instead of doing that I’m making drawings. I’m drawing the landscape. My weapon is laid almost on the gravel. I am so wrapped up in the drawing that I don’t hear a big truck drive up with the sergeant of the day coming to inspect the posts, and he comes to mine. I don’t hear a thing. I’m just drawing like crazy, just drawing. He walks up to me and he shouts, "García, what in the blank are you doing!?" I say, "I’m drawing the landscape, Sarge. Look, it’s fabulous." He says, "García, don’t you know your mission?" "Yeah, Sarge, but look at this great. . . ." So he grabbed my drawings out of my hand, just took them up, crushed them, threw ‘em in the garbage can. I reached in the garbage can, pulled the drawings out, straightened ‘em out, and I commenced to tell him that he has no right to stop me from making a drawing, from making art. And I went on for quite a while. At this time, he had the right to shoot me.

PK: Insubordination?

RG: Absolutely. Hey, this is a real deal, this is a secret mission.

PK: Right. Different rules, probably.

RG: People’s lives were at stake. I mean, it was just real serious. I didn’t give a damn. I was making my drawing. I was so intense about the drawing I totally forgot about the mission. [both laugh] What mission? And I must have told it in such a way where he was affected, because he just looked at me and walked away and never reported it. Nothing. As if nothing ever happened.

PK: Hmmm, he was a closet art patron.

RG: I don’t know what he was, but he was known to be a hard butt. You know, a really hard guy. But he just didn’t do a thing about it.

PK: You were three years at that base?

RG: Yes.

PK: What’s it called? What’s it’s name?

RG: Maelstrom Air Force Base.

PK: Maelstrom?

RG: Maelstrom, M-a-e-l-s-t-r-o-m. [This was probably a joke; the correct spelling is Malmstrom—Ed.]

PK: Maelstrom.

RG: I loved the landscape on location, and I loved some of the people. A lot of the people downtown were racist.

PK: Really?

RG: Oh, yeah, man. I go into a bar and they say, "Who are you? Who are you? What are you?" I say, "Hey, it’s time to go, man. It’s time to get out of this place." Didn’t like it, man, didn’t like it. But I met some real nice folks, but I didn’t have no soft touch for that city at all. I didn’t like it. You know, there was a lot of racial violence on base and downtown.

PK: What was the town again?

RG: Great Falls, Montana.

PK: Great Falls, Montana.

RG: Yeah. And while I was there, though, I made drawings of models based upon photos in magazines, and I was asked to make holiday cards for some friends. They wanted to send a card home; I’d make them a card.

And then I realized that. . . . After being told, I realized the following: "If you are stationed at this base in Great Falls you will be here until your duty is fulfilled." And I thought, "Oh, my God, I gotta’ get out’a here." The only way to get out of here is to volunteer for a location that nobody wants to go to. Well, in ‘65 there was already this discussion on base about Vietnam. So I volunteered. I went to Vietnam. And before I volunteered for Vietnam, I volunteered to become part of what’s called the. . . . What did they call that? It was special forces for the Air Force, and I forget what they’re called. So I volunteered, signed a bunch of papers, and I decided at the last minute, "I don’t want to do this. Why do I want to do this?" I felt it would really be injurious to me. So I went to tell the Sergeant, "Hey, Sarge, I have decided not to go into Special Forces. I think that it would really be bad for me." And he says, "García, you see this stack of papers here on your behalf? You’re gonna tell me that you’re not gonna go now?" "Yes, Sarge, I’m not gonna go because I. . . ." "See that stack of papers?" "Yeah, Sarge, I mean I don’t want to go." And he was like this guilt trip. But I didn’t go. But I volunteered to go to Vietnam as a way to get out of this place and so I get sent to a secret air base.

PK: Another secret air base?

RG: Oh, yeah, everything. I had top secret, I mean, secret status in terms of security clearance.

PK: Clearance, yeah.

RG: So we go to this secret air base in a place called Ubal Rachatani in up-country Thailand near the Laotian border. In 1965 I arrived there—via, by the way, Hawaii and the Philippines (we do some training there) and then we fly to Japan from the Philippines. Flying into Vietnam to refuel or something, and when we land at a Vietnam airbase, I’m looking out the window and I see all these foxholes and all these weapons and everyone at the ready. I’m thinking once again, "This is a mistake. This is a major mistake. What the hell am I doing?" [laughing] So then we take off to go to our base. [laughing]. So we arrive at our base on a rainy night, as I recall, and they were still in the process of preparing this air base, which is really a Thai Air Force base in conjunction with an Australian Air Force base. See, we aren’t supposed to be there. We are there illegally. So I believe we were there with the group called MAAG.

PK: MAX?

RG: MAAGS, Military Assistance and Air Advisory Group, something like that. Along with, as I recall, the CIA. And so we were supposed to wear a kind of a hat and look like Australians, with these bush hats. And so we arrive on a wet night and I don’t know [literally] where we are or what’s going on. And so we were taken here, there, and just [untranscribable sound]. We just go to sleep, wake up the next morning, and look around and, hey, we don’t know where the hell we are. You don’t know where you are. But what we do know is that we’re going to meet what we have to secure—and that’s people, information, ordnance, and jet fighter bombers, napalm. I don’t know how many jet fighter bombers we had. I mean, God damn, it was a lot. Then, we would learn we were going to have to also secure a munitions dump in the jungle. And so we go out there and, man, once again we don’t know where the hell we are. We don’t know nothin’ except this little piece of geography we have to take care of—you know, guard it with our lives. And so I did that for a year, and every day saying, "This is a mistake, this is a mistake." [laughs] And so during that year I maintained staying in great shape. I was in the best shape I’ve ever been in my life—for the simple purpose of survival. Taking self defense, karate, judo, all that stuff, and really ready, at any moment, to go to do what you’ve got to do. And eventually some of the guys started to get strung out on dope, and a lot of booze, and they would come to work loaded. So you go on duty, and your every movement is potentially something quite disastrous. And there these guys are, you know, they can barely stand up to keep their eyes open, and they’re supposed to be lookin’ out for your butt as they look out for the security of the aircraft and so on and so forth. Now I know this is really not where I’m supposed to be. One guy tried to commit suicide, just to get out, to go home. They got a little strange. A little weird.

Let’s see, what else happened? Oh, I learned then, while I’m in Indochina at Ubol Rachatani, I learn about the antiwar movement back in the U.S.

PK: Now how did you learn about that?

RG: You know, I don’t know how we got word of it, but we got word of it because I led a discussion about why we should be flown back to the United States with our M-16’s, with which we would shoot these students protesting, to show them what’s really going on. [laughs] You know, I was stupid. But that’s what I felt.

PK: Yeah.

RG: I felt very strongly about that, that we should. . . . And I was very ignorant.

PK: Well, you part of it. I mean, you were stationed there, right?

RG: Yeah, and very ignorant about why even we were there in the first place. For me it was a way of getting out of Montana, as far as I was concerned.

PK: But by that time, I gather, that at least in terms of your eagerness to fly back and show those protesters the truth, by then you at least had come to believe that there was a reason for our being over there in Vietnam?

RG: I don’t know if it was a reason or if it was just a defensive gesture. For my own well-being, how dare somebody question me being here. Having my life on the line twenty four hours a day and some son-of-a-bitch back in the United States drinking coffee, just protesting. . . . I said, "You go shoot ‘em. That’ll teach ‘em. [both laugh]

PK: Did your colleagues agree? You were leading the discussion.

RG: Hey, we’re ready to go. "Where’s the plane?"

PK: You said, "Hey, Sarge, let’s go!"

RG: Yeah, "We’ll go. Just point us in the direction of where they are and we’ll get ‘em for you."

PK: What kind of a story, though. . . . Well, you said you don’t remember. . . .

RG: I don’t remember how we got it.

PK: Because it would be interesting to know how that kind of information got to those in service, those stationed. . . .

RG: It would be fantastic! Absolutely. It really would. . . . I don’t know if it began as a rumor or if we read it in the paper in the library.

PK: Stars and Stripes, you mean, or something like that? Or whatever you got.

RG: Well, we had a library with different kinds of publications. And then down—called downtown, _____ small place—there was a. . . . What do you. . . ? It was a U.S. governmental library. Ah, God, it was a classic anti-Communist setup. It was propaganda for democracy as to why we should fight the Communists, and I can’t think of the name of the organization that set it up, but they had like a library and books, and, I think, newspapers, and I may have come across it there or at the library on the base or through somebody who knew and just talked about it. I forget exactly how I knew. But nevertheless we got it. And we felt very strongly about it.

PK: You probably viewed these characters as traitors, basically.

RG: Yeah, I think there’s no question about that. I think, like they say, we felt that we were the true Americans and that they were just. . . .

PK: They were "Other."

RG: . . . riding on our. . . . Huh?

PK: They were "other."

RG: They were "the Other." [laughs] Yeah. It was crazy. I volunteered. . . . See, our planes would go up and drop bombs in Vietnam, and then would come back, and on the way back from the sortie, if the bomb didn’t go off, they had to drop it someplace. They couldn’t land with it. See, what they would do, they would drop it in someplace, some jungle with water somewhere. And this happened once, and we had to have a mission go out and secure it, and they needed volunteers and I volunteered to lead the first team to go out. And so I did. So we flew by helicopter and, again, going to a place who knows where or what’s happening in the drop. Like a big lake, surrounded with tall palm trees, lot of greenery. What we landed on wasn’t bigger than this platform. What was it? Maybe six or

seven by eight or nine or whatever that is. [Bigger than that.] That was about how much we had to sit on, three guys. And our job was to make sure nobody went towards the bomb—whose location was unknown to us. [laughs] It’s crazy. And so people would come by, animals and. . . .

[Break in taping]

PK: Continuing the interview with Rupert García, September 7, 1995. This is tape three, side B.

RG: Continuing with—this’ll be very short—continuing with being in this location to secure a dropped bomb that didn’t go off from one of our fighter-bombers coming back from North Vietnam, as we were securing the area, we noticed a lot of people and animals walking around us, some at a distance, some real close and we wanted to determine who were the bad guys and who were the good guys and it got to the point where I was in charge and I said, "Look, we can’t tell what’s going on. Let’s go to sleep and we will be notified of the change of guard by the sound of a chopper. Who will know the difference? They’ll be too far away to see us, as to what we’re doing, because the sound. . . ." So we did. I said, "Forget it." So we went back to sleep and waited for the sound of the chopper to wake us up. And it did, and put our clothes on, changed the guard, and went back and said, "Sarge, everything is fine." [laughter]

PK: And all your buddies, they thought that was fine, too?

RG: They didn’t care. I mean, they didn’t care meaning, what’s to care about? I mean, even our fear for our own life didn’t matter because we didn’t know what to . . . how to determine like if. . . .

PK: What was a threat?

RG: Yeah, we didn’t know the signal or the codes. We just said, "Forget it. Let’s go to sleep."

PK: So, your entire time there. . . .

RG: I made two drawings.

PK: Only two drawings.

RG: I made two drawings while I’m in Indochina, just two.

PK: Of what?

RG: One is a portrait of a Sikh man. I was surprised to learn that they were in this town. A lot of Indians-India and Chinese—who were merchants in this village-town. And I did a drawing of one of the older Sikh men with whose family I became friendly. I taught some of his daughters English. And the other drawing is of a traditional Thai house on stilts. Both are in pencil. And that’s all I do, although I am approached by the base to do some art work for the base. And I, by this time, realized that I don’t want my work to have anything to do with the base or with the military, and so I refused. And so this one other guy who decided he was going to work for the base asked me, "Hey, man," he says, "it’s great!" "I don’t give. . . . I don’t want my work to be associated with the base at all."

PK: Now why was that, Rupert, though, because you just said that. . . .

RG: I know, I know, seems contradictory.

PK: Even though you have been saying all along every time you’d show up in a new place you say it’s a mistake. Every day you kept saying it’s a mistake.

RG: Oh yeah, a mistake.

PK: But it didn’t sound to me as if you were, at that point, philosophically opposed to the, well, to the military or certainly to the involvement there.

RG: Not at all, not at all. Not at all. That happens later.

PK: Yeah. So can you figure out why you didn’t want to have your work associated with the base?

RG: I think I felt that it would debase it.

PK: Now that’s a good one: debase it.

RG: Yeah, that’s. . . . [laughs] To be debased. That’s all I could think of. I felt it would lessen it. It would lessen the truth of my vision.

PK: I see.

RG: It had to be pure. Unconnected. As well as with like, with selling art at that time, I felt like. . . . I never considered selling art. It seemed to be debasing to equate art with money.

PK: So you really had a fairly exalted idea then of. . . .

RG: Yes.

PK: . . . making art and what it meant to be an artist.

RG: Oh, yes, yes. Very, very strong. Very strong. Absolutely.

PK: Well, how did you finally conclude this tour of duty and how did you get back?

RG: Well, it seemed like forever, I’ll tell you. So after the year was up—I think it was in May of ‘66. . . . Oh, I failed to mention, while I was in—to digress for a moment—while I was in Montana at Great Falls I saw JFK [John F. Kennedy—Ed.]. It was later, during the time that JFK was assassinated, we went on a major alert, an absolutely high security alert, as you can imagine. And so, what I’m saying, I was able to experience in the Air Force for those four years, the Cuban Missile Crisis, seeing JFK, JFK’s assassination, and involvement in the Vietnam War. You know, that was really something!. While at the same time, hearing about the different kinds of civil rights Movements in the United States. So all this is happening. All these things are happening, these layers of events that are happening, I’m hearing and somewhat thinking and feeling about all of them. Anyway, so in May 1966 it’s time to go home. I was at this base for one-year—it was called "one-year isolated duty"—at a secret air base. So it was time to go home, and I was ready to get out.

PK: So it was one year?

RG: One year. And if you wanted to volunteer for one more year you could. Not me, man, I want to get out. [laughs] [There was a moment when a rumor was going around that we were to stay for the war’s duration!—RG]

PK: And then that concluded your service?

RG: Absolutely. Yeah, I got an early out. They gave me a few months because leaving Indochina—it was in May . . .

PK: Is that sixty. . . ?

RG: ‘66. And so the government said, "You got a few months left; we’ll give you early out." And I also argued that I was going to go to school in the fall, so it was getting time, dah-dah-dah." So they gave it to me. So I got home and one of my high school buddies came and picked me up, drove me home from Sacramento. I was stunned. When we landed in Seattle, we changed planes and I remember walking into someplace and I saw this big glass door wi