The Meaning of Ascensión

Words form stories and take people along journeys. Names can have renowned significance on how those stories are played out. I’ve thought about this a lot since 2020 became a time of introspection both on societal and individual levels. Some friends told me they didn’t want to think about all the things but wanted to continue with normal life as much as possible. As a highly sensitive person, I empathize with the need for internal peace, however, I couldn’t reconcile my struggles and the struggles of the world until I worked through processing certain things.

As I embarked into the unknown, I found a word that kept coming to mind over and over again like a song that wouldn’t leave my head. The word that kept coming to mind was my Grandpa’s middle name,“Ascensión,” which in English is “Ascending.” I thought of the meanings of its synonyms, “climbing,” “rising,” “soaring,” and the word became my mantra for the year.

When I was eleven years old, I went on a quest to fill in some journal notes with our family history. My dad’s Mexican-American family was guarded with their stories and would often reply, “Oh, I don’t know. It’s been so long I don’t remember.” My mom’s Cajun family talked a whole bunch about nothing. Most of the conversation focused on which family members made them the angriest.

I’d always hoped to discover exciting stories, photographs or journals, but both sides of the family were just “normal” and it was difficult for me to get them to share exciting things. I jotted down birthdays, anniversaries, and a few memories they offered with my persistent questions. I think they were all a bit concerned I was writing stuff down in my journal.

Now that I am a stay-at-home-mom, I decided to look back at some of these memories and compile the memories I had before I started journaling. I was disappointed when I realized there were only a few facts that I knew about my paternal grandfather. My notes stated that he was born in Mexico in 1916, at some point his family moved from Mexico to Austin or San Marcos, Texas. He served in the US Army in World War II and married my grandmother in the summer of 1948. He died on July 9, 1991 when I was seven years old.

I remember that he loved Post Toasties. He would play copycat with me and even stand on his head to make me laugh. He could fall asleep in seconds and take ten-minute power naps. He loved the outdoors, and his garden was beautiful. One summer, he built a cuartito (in Spanish it means “little room”) at the back of the yard. Grandma didn’t use the dryer but line dried their clothes which meant that he could store his potato chips in the electric dryer. He loved carpentry and added on to their home bit by bit. He laughed at his own jokes and ordered hamburgers off the menu at Mexican restaurants because he only trusted Grandma to make real Mexican food. He could barely handle spicy foods and his nose and forehead would break out into a sweat if he tried it. He would continue eating and say to my Grandma, “Olivia! It’s too spicy!” She would roll her eyes, shake her head and exclaim, “Ay! That man!”

I wrote these things down for my son because I want him to know who his great-grandfather was, but I was left with a lot of questions. I wish my seven-year-old self had known the right questions to ask in order to know him more. I regret that even my eleven-year-old self didn’t quite know how to ask engaging questions to help unearth some of his life’s stories. I wondered now if I was much better. It is still hard for me to break out of my comfortable conversation and approach things with engaging, non-judgmental inquiries.

After some further research, I discovered that he had so many stories left untold. He was born in the city of Silao in the state of Guanajuato, Mexico. His parents immigrated to Texas with him when he was eight-months-old. He attended six years of grade school. He migrated to Elmore, Ohio to work as a sixteen-year-old harvesting beets before eventually heading back to Texas. My cousin found his army photo and sent it to me. I’m thankful for the pieces that I’ve found, and I’m always excited to learn more.

Sometimes I downplay my heritage to fit in with what’s considered “normal.” Although it has been minimal compared to some, I have dealt with unfortunate actions and comments because of my brown skin. I haven’t always “fit in” with our Mexican-American family either because I didn’t learn Spanish and I was an embarrassment to some of them. I’m learning more, and the more I learn the freer I become to embrace every part of who I am and continue to work on who I am becoming.

I finally came across my Grandpa’s military papers. In 1942 he was still considered an “alien”. He entered the US with the name of “Encarnacion Arzola”, but at some point, his name was changed to Jose Ascensión Rodriquez-Arzola. I’m assuming his parents changed his name, but not sure yet when or why. I pondered how beautiful it means to “embody Christ” and wondered if that is what his mother meant as they named their son.

As a Christ-follower, my goal is to be Christ-like to others in word and in deed. I fail at this many times due to my own selfish words and actions. Last year, I continued the journey to further empathy and awareness. I want to impart stories of my heritage to my son, but, more importantly, I desire to show Christ’s love to others, especially to the ones who feel lost and alone. Maybe that is part of what it means to ascend beyond ourselves. I’m thankful for my grandpa’s story and the significance of his name.