Front Sight, Press

  The Alamo, Nikon D70s, May 24, 2008

It’s the foundation myth, and I use the word “myth” carefully, in the technical sense, like a religious icon that points to an inexpressible reality beyond itself: The Alamo. I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t in my consciousness. I think that when babies are given their vaccinations, they give babies in Texas an Alamo shot. I can’t even be sure that I remember the first time that I saw it. I know I was very, very young. I know also that it was the most powerful place I had ever been. In some ways, it still is.

The story is hard-wired into my DNA: 189 Texans fought to the death against somewhere between 2,500 and 5,000 Mexican regulars to prove a point – to make a stand for freedom and independence for Texas. They weakened the Mexican Army and bought the new government time to organize and proclaim independence. The savagery of the massacre at the Alamo galvanized the citizens of Texas to organize and ultimately defeat Santa Anna at the battle of San Jacinto. The names roll off of my tongue as easily as my own: Colonel Travis, Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett, James Bonham. I saw the movie, “The Alamo,” staring John Wayne and Richard Widmark at the old State Theater on Congress Avenue in Austin when I was nine. The movie is an enchanting fiction, and the battle didn’t really happen that way, but it built the myth.

Now, 172 years after the smoke cleared, I had brought my own son to this place, this cradle of legend and identity. Forty years had passed since I last laid eyes on the old mission, but I had to bring him to this place that was so much a part of my own soul. You see, to understand Texas and Texans, you must understand the Alamo. To understand me, you must understand Texas, and I wanted my son to understand me.

The Alamo means that you don’t back down. You don’t surrender. If that means that you die for what you believe in, or even simply for your own honor, you die if that’s the way it has to be. You have been true to yourself. The Alamo is spirit. It is also deeply crazy.

Sam Houston, commander of the army of Texas and the first president of the Republic of Texas, ordered the destruction of the Alamo prior to the battle. Houston knew that 189 men had no hope of defending the Alamo against a Mexican army of thousands of regulars. It was suicide. Col. Travis refused the order and gambled that if he took a stand, the people of Texas would rise up in mass and come to his aid, and in doing so, force Houston to relieve the Alamo with his army of 800 or so. Col. Fannin had another 500 or so at Goliad about 100 miles from San Antonio. (At the time of the final assault, a relief effort was, in fact, being organized but it came too late.) Santa Anna ran up the red flag, blew “El Degüello” and slaughtered the defenders almost to the last man. The bodies were stacked like cord wood and burned. In the thirteen day siege, the 189 Texans cost the Mexican army many men; estimates vary between 200 and 1200. 30 non-combatants were spared and set free to carry the tale to any others who might have the temerity to challenge the authority of Santa Anna.

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We drove into San Antonio from the north. Today, it’s the seventh largest city in the United States. In 1836 it had perhaps seven thousand inhabitants if you counted the jack rabbits. Once we got off of the expressway, San Antonio struck me as a bit “run-down at the heels” especially in comparison to vibrant, glitzy Austin. I thought I could drive right to the Alamo, but the skyline has changed a lot since I was last there. We ended up parking several blocks from the Alamo. From Navarro Street we descended to the “River Walk.” The San Antonio River runs through the middle of town. It’s a small river – in Kentucky we would call it a creek. It sits about one story below street level and winds through the middle of town. There are sidewalks on both banks which open into restaurants and luxury hotels. Water taxis ply the channel filled with tourists armed with little digital snappy cameras. It’s a beautiful spot, like a shady oasis and a refuge from the sun baked streets above.

Before we got to the Alamo, we reached my all-time favorite Mexican food restaurant in the whole world, Casa Rio. It has been in operation since 1946 at the same spot on the River Walk at the Commerce Street Bridge. The Commerce Street Bridge is the oldest bridge over the river and it is the site of an unsuccessful “parley” between the Texans and the Mexican army prior to the battle of the Alamo. We had to stop and get lunch there: enchiladas, tacos, rice, refried beans, chili con carne, and margaritas. It is still, in my opinion, the best Mexican food to be found anywhere. I was delighted that in all of the massive change which has happened in Texas since I was a kid, Casa Rio remains completely unchanged.

After lunch, we walked a couple of blocks further on the River Walk and then decided to ascend to street level at Travis Street and head for The Alamo. I tripped climbing the stairs, and since I had my beloved F3 in my hand, I tried to prevent the camera from hitting the stone steps, and in doing so, cracked my knee. The lens filter was bent, but the camera was otherwise unscathed. My knee was not so fortunate. It hurt like hell. I thought I had broken my knee cap. So, I made my final approach to The Alamo limping and sweating with the pain.

When The Alamo finally came into sight, I was struck first by how small it looks. The building we call “The Alamo” was the chapel of a frontier mission whose cornerstone was laid in 1744, and it is longer than it is wide. The city has grown up around it, and the comparison with the modern high-rise structures around it accentuates the diminutive scale of the old church. But, surely it used to be bigger. Time had shrunk my Alamo. In my mental gallery of legendary sites, the Alamo was at least as tall as Mt. Rushmore.

At the entrance of The Alamo, there is a sign that says, “Gentleman on entering the Alamo will please remove their hats, and all visitors will speak in low tones, in recognition of the sacredness of this shrine.” Even though crowds of tourists rush through the site, The Alamo feels like a church. In the chancel area where the altar would be are bronze plaques bearing the names of the defenders of The Alamo. In the sacristy and confessional rooms are artifacts. There is a Bowie knife and rifles which once belonged to Davy Crockett. Spooky stuff. There are little bronze plaques all around the grounds describing mayhem that occurred on the spot.

I have to admit that some of the magic of the shrine had worn off for me. Perhaps it was the pain I was feeling, but my primary interest was in finding somewhere shady to sit and take the weight off of my leg. Maybe some pain was fitting – after all, this place is about pain, major pain, pain that still echoes through our minds 172 years later. But perhaps, it’s the difference between the way a little boy and grown man see a place where men fought desperately and died savagely. There is glory in these stones, but there is pain. There is viciousness and the darkness that can pour out of the soul of human beings.

The Alamo is rich in paradox. It is a church consecrated to the God who said, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” but it is remembered for the fight and the massacre that happened there. Had Santa Anna behaved differently at The Alamo and Goliad, perhaps the Texans would not have been motivated to mount the resistance to him that ultimately led to the independence of Texas. Texas might still be a Mexican state had Santa Anna acted more humanely to those he vanquished. The defenders of The Alamo lost everything, and they lost in the worst way imaginable, but they won. They convinced Texas that there was but one course: Santa Anna had to be defeated. And there is a final moral paradox about the Alamo: whether it was a cold political calculation or a rare example of our better angels breaking through, the defeated Mexican army was treated humanely at San Jacinto. It was not massacred as happened at the Alamo and Goliad. Their officers and soldiers were allowed to return to their homes in Mexico. Even Santa Anna was spared and lived to fight another day.

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I could tell that Alex was a bit under whelmed with the cradle of Texas independence. He thought the Bowie knife was cool and he liked the fact that they fly a Mexican flag along with the other national flags that fly in the Alamo, but the gift shop struck him as tacky. I had a similar reaction to the gift shop, but I also recall that at the age of nine, a genuine Davy Crockett cap and cap musket from the Alamo gift shop was like a gift from heaven. Alex didn’t grow up with the passionate rhetoric about the place that I did. He didn’t have the cultural context. I’m OK with that; I probably got too much.

I tried to focus on shooting pictures, and I shot a few, but I was worried about my leg and the eight-block walk I was facing to get back to the car. If you’re a Texan, you never really walk away from The Alamo; you just leave for awhile, and that’s what we did. We shot a couple of parting photos from the street and found our way back to the River Walk. I made it back to the car, but Alex drove us back to Austin. We stopped at a quick stop and I bought a bottle of water and a bottle of Aleve. I had survived The Alamo, but just barely.