John Shallman - Return from Siberia

Copyright 2020 by John Shallman

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Amy Duncan, Target Marketing, and Ray Campbell, Superoxygen

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-6337-1

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-6340-1

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to my beloved mother, Saralie Rakow Shallman (19342020).

My grandmother Saralie was pure sweetnessa masterclass in unconditional love, quiet courage, and compassion. Youve never met a better listener, or a better judge of character. Grandma was brilliant and beautiful, pragmatic and very funny. Good and kind to her core, thoughtful and full of dignity.

Nina Juliette Barrameda Shallman

Table of Contents

NOTE TO READER

The story that follows is true, by and large.

It is my familys history.

Certain places, people, and circumstances have been changed or consolidated to streamline the narrative and add drama.

But this mostly happened.

And it changed our lives.

PART I

THE EAST

Chapter 1

Ancestors

She threw the line out like a fisherman: Each one of us came from somewhere else. Quickly, but with stealth. Testing the waters. Hoping for a bite. None was forthcoming.

John Simon bit his lip, worried this might happen. He surveyed the crowd like a litigator reading a jury. Was anyone on their side?

Its what all of us have in common, the woman continued, holding the podium with both hands as if trying to steer it in the right direction. Were all strangers to this land.

Migrants! John winced. Migrants to this land was the line he wrote. Rookie politicians never stick to the script. Number one job hazard. This particular transgression was not that big a deal. But sometimes a client goes rogue on a single word and suddenly it becomes a demeaning meme on social media. Then everyone blames the communications guy.

John prided himself on being very good at his joba policy wonk, with an encyclopedic knowledge of all things political. But he had trouble sometimes being taken seriouslydue to the fact that, despite his forty-plus years, John could still pass for a teenager were it not for his red Van Dyke beard. Accepting with chagrin that hed likely be carded at liquor stores for life, John knew many folks would die to have his genes, which made him grudgingly thankful. He also felt gratitude about being able to make a living doing something he lovedpolitics, particularly in the throes of a long-odds race like this one. In moments like these, John felt like a defensive coordinator for the underdog team at the Super Bowl. It was all about staying focused and calling the right plays.

John scanned his phone to see if people were live-tweeting the speechunlikely, given the underwhelming crowd. But one never knew. There were sixty-five in attendancefew enough to count by hand. Not that he had. He knew the number within seconds of their arrival. In his two decades as a political consultant, John had developed the ability to guess the size of a crowd with uncanny accuracy. He could also read their political leanings, predict laughs, applause lines, and standing ovations. That wasnt going to happen anytime soon. People were standing. But clapping? No.

Our parents came from somewhere else, said the Latina at the microphone. Or our grandparents, or our great-grandparents. She paused, noticing a cluster of Native Americans eyeing her with reserve from one corner of the grassy field. John had spotted them, too. Karankawa, he suspected, or Comanche. Clearly outliers in this predominantly Hispanic crowd, along with the five bikers and two dozen rednecks, curious but unlikely to be swayed. John swiveled back to the stage, wondering why his client had stopped speaking. Shes flustered by the Comanche, he guessed. Dont do it, he pleaded mentally stick to the script .

She couldnt help herself. Even indigenous people moved from time to time, when food was scarce. And this beautiful landMother Earth welcomed them.

Mother Earth? John frowned. Dont go New Age. Youll lose everybody.

Thats what happened to me in my time of need. This great country opened her arms and took me in, which is why I can proudly say to you today that my name is Patricia Alvarado and I am running for Congress.

Polite applause. It was better than boos. You gotta start somewhere.

The crowd dispersed, and a cute schoolgirlin plaited hair and a pleated skirtapproached the platform. Can I get a picture with you, Ms. Alvarado?

Call me Patti, said the candidate, flashing her contagious smile.

Stand by the statue, John intervened, positioning them near the memorial for the singer Selena, a local landmark hed carefully curated for its symbolic resonance. Selena, the Queen of Tejano music, was adored by the Hispanic community for having busted through barriers in the male-dominated Tex-Mex music scene. Patti had brought white roses, Selenas favorite, to the monument overlooking Corpus Christi Bay. And now she retrieved one of those flowers as a gift to her schoolgirl fan before taking the selfie. The girl beamed. Patti worked her pearly whites, framed by that perfect shade of lipstick.

Camera sure loves her , thought John. Patti had passion in spades, along with undeniable charisma. She was attractive and young, just shy of forty. Magnetic, a go-getter. Everything you needed in a candidate. While her experience in politics was slimhence her reliance on Johnhaving a blank slate was often better than having a bad record. And no ones record was nearly as atrocious as that of her opponent, Ralph Trent, the eight-term incumbent in Texas 27th District.

Trent was, without exaggeration, to the right of Attila the Hun. John found his politics repugnant. Trent had called for LGBTQ internment camps, so that those folks could do their business out of public view. YepRalph Trent proudly went on the record with that one. His A+ rating from the NRA sat in a spit-shined frame on Trents mahogany desk, alongside hero shots of Barry Goldwater, David Duke, and George Lincoln Rockwell, founder of the American Nazi Party. Ralph Trent was rabidly anti-immigrant. He once made incendiary remarks calling for federally sanctioned lynchings of illegal aliens along the border as a way to dissuade new asylum seekers, just as Ancient Romans used to line their city walls with Jews on crucifixes.

Provocation was Trents modus operandi the more extreme, the more the media attacked him, and the more his base rallied around him. That was the Ralph Trent playbook. Hed been at it long before the Trump era. And it worked. Trent had been a shoe-in in his district for almost two decadesin fact, his colleagues in Congress called it the Ralph Trent Seat.