I’ve been blogging since November 2001 and have tons of stuff, good and bad, in the old blog. You’ll get to read some of it for the first time, if you’re relatively new, or again if you’ve been following Lotería Chicana for a while. This piece was written nearly two years ago. It was inspired by my frequently achy right wrist and an LA Times Opinion piece by Luis Alberto Urrea on non-Western healing practices, particularly Mexican curanderismo. I strongly recommend his novel, The Hummingbird’s Daughter.

Don Bartolo, el Sobador de Boyle Heights
05.25.05 // 12:34 p.m.

My wrist hurts. This is rather normal. It’s been acting up since 1998. Every single time it acts up I wish I could go see Grandpa at the house with the nice porch on Hicks Street in Boyle Heights.

My Grandpa Bartolo was an amazing man. He passed away on December 28, 1996 after a short fight with renal cancer. I saw him wither away. The last time I visited him he hardly appeared like the man I remembered. He was no longer husky with a similar frame as my dad. Instead, I saw an incredibly thin man gasping for breath in his hospital bed. I hate to remember Grandpa on his deathbed, but that was the last time I saw him alive.

I’d rather remember Sunday visits to see my dad’s parents at their home in Boyle Heights. Danny and I would play games like Freeze Tag and Mother May I? with our cousins while my parents and other adults were in the cool house relaxing.

Since we were always outside, we were the first ones to see the strangers arrive. We quickly learned to identify them, and in some ways resent them. They kept our Grandpa away from us (which might have been a good thing, because we were traviesos and he was strict).

I never knew how they found out about Grandpa. He wasn’t listed in the yellow pages, didn’t have business cards, nor did he have a website. In the 1980s, people just told each other about Don Bartolo.

The strangers always arrived with their families — a couple, a few kids, and maybe another adult. Sometimes we could tell which person (or people) was the reason for the visit and other times it wasn’t so clear. The strangers were always Mexican and spoke Spanish. They probably were one of the millions in this country without health insurance.

Buscamos a Don Bartolo, el que soba. ¿Está ocupado?

I just stared blankly at them, as if I didn’t understand Spanish (even though I knew what they were asking). I let my older cousins speak for me. Vicky, Juan or Robert would send them to the back where they could wait for Grandpa in the detached garage which had been converted into a workroom.

The long and narrow room was split in half. If it was a doctor’s office, the first half of the room near the door would have been the waiting room and the second half would have been the examining room.

Grandpa kept the room a little musty and dark for some reason. Despite the odd mix of Vicks, Vaseline, matches and rubbing alcohol, I always liked the smell. If he didn’t mind, I’d watch him work his magic.

And yeah… he was magical.

Grandpa was a Sobador (closest translation, masseur). He had a healing touch. My mom once explained to me that he was basically a doctor, just in different practices handed down by our ancestors. He didn’t prescribe antibiotics or other medications and instead gave important consejos. My mom always followed his advice about nursing and other child rearing practices.

As a kid, I never truly appreciated Grandpa’s talents. In fact, sometimes I was scared to have him sobarme. Although the pain would go away quickly afterwards, the sobada itself was sometimes painful and I’d always get scolded for doing something to injure myself as if the injury was not enough of a penalty. Still, he’d always end with a smile and a hug. After all, he was my grandfather and he loved me.

My interest in Grandpa’s healing practices piqued in my late teens when I started reading more about Mexican history and culture and talking to friends who used to go see their local sobador. I had so many questions. Where did you learn this? Who else in the family has this talent? Is this something that comes from our indigenous ancestors? Sadly, I never got to ask him these questions because they came after his death in 1996.

I asked my dad once. I know that in my family some of us do have this healing touch, most notably Adrian and my tío Johnny. Of course they’re not as knowledgable as Grandpa. My dad replied:

It’s good that you feel that way [proud of Grandpa's talents]. I always did because I know Dad was loved by so many for who he was and what he did to help others especially in the area of sobadura. He was the only one in his family that was gifted with this talent, which he basically inherited from Papá Esteban, his grandfather, because his dad could not sobar to heal anyone if his life depended on it (he he). I guess God just chooses certain people from all those that are called, the Bible says it’s to perform his acts of love and kindness. In our family, Adrian may be that special person, besides your tío Johnny, who may have inherited that talent. Mom says he’s [Adrian] good at cracking backs, even better than Dad.

I’m sure if I could see Grandpa about this wrist of mine, he’d help me out. He’d also tell me to stop typing. I’m sure of it.

For months maybe even a year or so after Grandpa passed away, the strangers would still come. Whoever was at the house on Hicks would have to break the news.

Ya falleció. Cáncer de los riñones. Hace ____ meses (o un año).

They were always shocked at the news that Grandpa had passed away.

Pero todavía estaba bien jovén. Parecía que tenía buen salud. Que lástima. Espero que en paz descanse.

They would walk back to their late model cars and return to their homes in some Southern California (or beyond) town. They were clearly disappointed, but not as much as we were. They lost Don Bartolo, el Sobador, and we lost a husband, father, grandfather, and tío.

The strangers were right. Grandpa was young and did appear to be healthy. He was only a few years into his 70s when he was diagnosed with cancer. He fought for a few months and then lost the battle. Prior to the cancer, he may have looked healthy, but he had lived a life of hard labor and struggle that could wear down the strongest of men.

Eight and half years [now ten] after his death I still find it ironic that Grandpa, a man whose hands helped heal so many Mexicanos, ultimately succumbed to a disease that couldn’t be healed con una buen sobada.