Red Christian state denying marriage in 1959
: A Virginia judge after sentencing interracial couple said, "Almighty God
created the races, white, black, yellow, Malay and red, and he placed them on separate
continents. And but for the interference with his arrangements there would be no
cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races show that he did
not intend for the races to mix." In other words if you wasn't placed on separate
continents you can marry? HUH
Remember The Alamo: Houston is still great
and carry's Texas independence in a sea of red states Houston's KUHT TV will
show Buster the show that shows lesbian family despite the attempt by Sec. of
education to censor.
Give the guy a medal: General
Mad Dog says, "It's fun to kill a an enemy that has lost his manhood by
slapping women around for not wearing veil. They will give him counseling. HUH
High up in the bell tower, men pull hard on dangling ropes, filling the
square with eardrum-battering clangs. Down below, a man in a sweat-stained
cowboy hat strums a guitar, and a woman's high-pitched voice pierces the air.
"Delicious. Hot," she calls out as sweet corncakes turn brown on her
grill. "How many will you take? How many?"
A few steps away, deep in that vortex of sound, Barbara Beesne, a 1-year-old
with impossibly long, curling eyelashes, lies motionless in her godmother's lap.
It's five minutes before noon and, for Barbara, that means nap time. No megaton
bells or wandering guitarists or street-side chefs can distract her.
Barbara, dressed in white, is surrounded by babies. Shielded from the sun by a
well-worn tent, they are sucking urgently on bottles, squirming, snoozing,
crying, cooing, laughing. And more arrive almost every minute.
Today they will all be baptized in one of the Western Hemisphere's largest
cathedrals, a stone church with sagging floors that sits atop ruins of Aztec
temples. This is a beloved tradition of Mexico City's millions of Catholics -- a
baptism at the Metropolitan Cathedral, followed by tamales back home.
The rich come, and so do the poor. Services in this grand, baroque space, filled
as it is with gilded statues and priceless antiquities, happen to be a bargain.
A baptism at the cathedral costs just under $20, half the price of baptisms at
some local parish churches.
By 12:20, about 20 infants and their parents cluster beneath the tent. A little
girl, oblivious to the heat, races up in a fake fur coat. Her mother tries to
catch up, the wind fluttering her slinky red party dress as she teeters along in
sky-high heels.
Barbara's father, Manuel Beesne, who works as a house painter, looks confused in
the middle of all the comings and goings. He also was baptized here when he was
1, but that was 26 years ago.
"Which side is the beginning of the line?" asks his wife, Jenny Beesne.
"You know," he responds, "I have no idea."
So much for arriving early. He wriggles through the gathering crowd to find
someone who knows what's going on. Ten minutes later, a priest in an
ankle-length tunic with a wide collar steps out from a side door with a
bullhorn.
"Please, listen to me," he says as the crowd converges. "Fathers
and godparents -- only fathers and godparents -- come with me."
Fathers hand babies to mothers and grandmothers. Mothers rustle through purses,
pulling out neatly folded documents and manila folders.
With the dads off handling paperwork, the hawkers descend on those left behind.
A woman with wooden caterpillar toys makes a quick sale. When the fathers
return, hired photographers place stickers on the babies' white baptism dresses
and suits to identify their subjects.
Inside the cathedral, Mass is in full swing -- one of eight today, with two
rounds of baptisms. A soothing chorus seeps out the doorway.
Having lined up a photographer, Silvia Escalante, 26, smiles and fishes two
pesos out of her pocket for a plastic bag filled with lime juice and ground
chili. Escalante is a pro. She's been a godmother here before and she's steering
her less-than-organized brother-in-law, Manuel Beesne, through the process.
Behind Escalante, Martin Hernandez passes the time telling stories about
sneaking across the border to work in Oceanside, Calif. Hernandez, 57, cradles
his granddaughter, Carla Vanessa, who is just 8 months old, then holds her high
and regal as her mom adjusts her white baptism hat.
Like Escalante, Hernandez has been here before, having baptized his oldest son
at the cathedral. Now he is here to serve as godfather to the daughter of his
youngest son, who has gone off looking for tamales.
By 1:15, the wind lifts the enormous flag in the colonial-era square behind
them, known as the Zocalo. Mass ends and worshipers filter out, some hauling
Jesus statues they picked up at the gift store in the cathedral's foyer.
The bullhorn-wielding priest returns, ushering the babies and their entourages
into the building, where chandeliers hang from heavy metal chains, the altar is
resplendent with bouquets of white flowers and the floor is marble. The crowd
fills two columns of pews, each 20 rows deep.
The priest says a few words about commitment to religious faith, then plunges
into the pews with holy water, touching tiny foreheads and saying, "May the
strength of Jesus Christ the savior be yours." At the head of the second
row, he blesses little Carla Vanessa. But the priest steps back when her family
says, "Amen," and frowns.
"You're at the front of the line, and that's all the enthusiasm you
show?" he says. "Let's hear it again."
Carla Vanessa starts to cry.
The grumpy priest gets to Barbara and tears roll down her face. He touches holy
water to her forehead at 1:55. The instant he moves on, Barbara -- newly
baptized -- stops crying and smiles.