10 Life Lessons to Love like San Juanita

San Juanita Reyna De Leon Valenciano
March 28, 1952 — September 7, 2021

10 Life Lessons to Love like SanJuanita

• Try new things, even if you are scared.
• Each moment is worth celebrating.
• People have struggles, be kind.
• Trust in the Lord, God will always provide.
• Empathy is a super power.
• Magic is real.
• Always take the photo.
• Invest in yourself and a great pair of shoes.
• Never hesitate to tell (or show) someone you love them.
• Never give up.

People who describe themselves as simple are often far from it. Such was the case for my mother, SanJuanita Reyna De Leon Valenciano. She was born in Taft, Texas — -the friendliest cotton picken’ town in Texas, which is fitting considering how friendly she was and she was a cotton picker. On the day of her birth, her mother sent her eldest sister, Cecilia to fetch the midwife. At the tender age of 6, Francisca headed out to trek the half mile journey. She discovered she was unavailable, so she had to head back to help her mother bring her sister into the world. She attempted to keep Andy (age 4), Vique (age 3), Velo (age 2), and Mere (age 1) out of the way. When she made her arrival, my Tia claimed personal responsibility over Janie, not unlike most eldest sisters (right Sam?). This responsibility would extend to the rest of her life, ensuring the promise of educating SanJuanita would be met. I feel it was sheer will and determination that my Tia witnessed my mother’s graduation day, but we will get to that soon.

For the first ten years of my life, I was attached to my mother, unwilling to let her out of my sight. She worked at my daycare and I took comfort in seeing her during snack time. Yes, I remember as far early as age 2 — I know that isn’t normal…have you met me? During those years, I was exposed to more things than most children my age. I had secret access to the adult world and I became quite adept at blending in the background, appearing as if I were busying myself with other things, when in fact, I was rapt with their discussions. This access gave me license to be a witness to her life so that one day I could give this testimony. The women were always platicando, some were chismosas delivering the latest gossip with flare and most were sharing stories, the normal kind that solidifies friendships. The first Saturday of the month, we would wake early to clean church. The smell of Pledge and lingering incense coupled with shining pews were indicative of a job well done. My reward was a maranito, a gingerbread pig shaped pastry from the local panaderia, and momma would get a concha with her cafe…add milk for the color of my skin, 2 sugars. Once a week we would traverse to the bank. If we had to go inside, I dutifully waited near the chairs of the lobby — don’t sit, don’t speak. To encourage my quiet patience, I was allowed two cubes of sugar from the coffee station. Place one in my mouth and let melt, followed by the next, then usually the errand would be complete. My mom and dad played in a softball league. On those evenings, I would joyfully play in the dirt in a mound nearby. Over the course of the season, the other kids and I had slid down the edge so much we carved a slide into the dirt mound. Since it was the 80s, my mother discovered aerobics in a converted meeting space with carpeted floors where ladies would gather around to watch a tape. I don’t think my mother enjoyed it much, but I did! The outfits, the headbands, the movements. We returned a few times after that. The most fun times were the in-home parties! Tupperware, Avon, Home Interiors, Princess House…all of them had delectable tiny snacks, a captivating demo, and fun games to win prizes. Tupperware had the BEST prizes.

Try new things, even if you are scared.

Mom was always enrolling me in things that I may have expressed a passing interest. After a weeklong summer vacation at my Grandma’s home in El Paso, I told her that Grandma taught me how to embroider french knots. I proudly showed her the scrap fabric of my embroidery. Not long after, I found myself at an embroidery class at the library, full of viejitas, senior ladies, and 10 year old me. I know how to embroider to this day.

I was obsessed with MTV and the Mickey Mouse Club, all of the dancing and singing. When we would go to Lubbock to visit our family, my cousins Stephanie and Michael invariably had a church social where we were invited to go along. My mother would goad me onto the dance floor, pointing out that I didn’t know any of the kids and I shouldn’t be embarrassed to dance because I was unlikely to see them ever again. Aside from my cousins, of course, and well, when we got together we danced anyway, so it was no big deal.

Each holiday season, our Girl Scout troop would sing Christmas Carols at the nursing home. She would hand me the song booklet to lead our young troop in singing. I’ve not ever had any vocal lessons and I learned that each note on the songbook corresponded to how it should be sung. I had to get over my shyness and sing in a clear and loud voice because “Mija the viejitos don’t hear so well.” I always began with trepidation and embarrassment, but after the first line, it would fade and I became comfortable being in front of people.

For three continuous summers, the start of the season began with swim lessons. My mother was a fantastic swimmer, she had so much endurance and could hold her breath for a really long time. She wanted to be sure we were able to swim on our own without floaties. Summers smelled like plastic vinyl, artificial coconut, and baby oil. We didn’t have sunscreen, it was baby oil with a bit of monkey blood (iodine) to give us that summer glow. On that third summer, my mother didn’t allow me to have the floaties. She knew I was ready. I was too afraid to swim without them. I also wanted to jump off the diving board, but you couldn’t do it unless you could swim the length of the pool without floaties. I wanted to try, but then chickened out at the last minute — erupting into a fit of tears. She picked me up, held me near and let me cry, stroking my head and wiping tears telling me everything was going to be ok. I didn’t realize she was walking to the other side of the pool, toward the deep end. She kissed my cheek, told me, “I love you, Mija!” I thought she was pulling me off of her to set me down, but no, she launched me into the water and walked away. I was shocked, then kicked hard, again, again, again…surfacing to the air, taking a breath, and began to swim to the edge. She directed me to go forward, away from the edge, toward her voice. I saw tears welling up in her eyes yet heard determination in her voice, so I proceeded to swim the length of the pool, earning my right to jump off the diving board. When I made it, she pulled me from the water, even though I felt utterly betrayed, then she said the magic words I’ve heard all of my life, “Good job, mamas! I knew you would do it. I’m so proud.”

Since then, I’ve immersed myself in uncomfortable and new experiences. I gave theater a try — and loved it. I tried water skiing and surfing, failed miserably at both. I snow skiied — I’m ok, but better at the spa. I deliver global speeches to an audience of thousands and I enjoy it. I readily listen and talk with strangers. I became a runner, then stopped, and am trying again. I re-discovered roller skating as an adult.

Try new things, even if you are scared.

Each moment is worth celebrating.

Mom had this infectious enthusiasm over the smallest of things; she had the ability to turn around a negative situation. When I was 12, I tried out for cheerleader at my school. While I was athletic, I was a gangly, awkward looking introvert, who was painfully shy around anyone outside of my immediate circle. I only agreed to try out because my best friend insisted we do it together. We spent the week preparing and planning, my anxiety surfaced into a teenage meltdown about not having the right shoes for the tryout. I only had K-mart white canvas sneakers, but all of the gals were wearing Keds. At the time, I didn’t realize the price differential: K-mart brand was a couple of dollars, Keds were $25. My pair cost less than the equivalent of one hour of my mother’s work. The Keds were 5 hours. Lest you think my father didn’t provide, he absolutely did, but our home wasn’t one where we spent money on things just because of the label. The less expensive version was just fine. The morning of the tryout, at the edge of my bed was a pair of brand new size 9 white canvas Keds with a note on it, “Good luck Mija! Mommy loves you.” complete with her signature red kiss on it. My white shirt and navy shorts were ironed. My hair in a high ponytail with a trensa. My thick black glasses secured with my athletic band. I walked anxiously, yet more confident in my new white shoes. I looked around for my best friend, but she never showed up. Her mother had found the forged permission slip and refused to let her go that morning. I was terrified to continue, but I was already there, so I did my best. When my name wasn’t on the list of people who had made the squad, I was devastated. The concept had become something that I didn’t know that I’d wanted. It was raining and I had to walk to my mother’s car, soiling my brand new white sneakers, tears blended in with the raindrops.

My mother had seen the sadness and disappointment on my face. She patted my leg and we rode in silence over to a small family restaurant. We sat in that cafe and she told me about how life’s disappointments can be opportunities. She told me that this was going the be the first of many disappointments in my life, but I needed to be resilient and look for the good. She handed me a celebratory banana nut muffin and said this moment is worth remembering. The rain continued to tumble down outside, but I felt lighter within, thinking ahead to the future and the myriad of possibilities for my 8th grade year. (Two weeks later, I had a phone call saying that I was the first alternate and was offered the role as a cheerleader. There was a vacancy because one of the gals didn’t meet the grade requirement — something I didn’t have a problem with. I ended up being a cheerleader that year.)

As an adult, I used to call her up on days just to hear her voice. I could always tell when she was not having one of her better days. I would tease and poke fun at her telling her, “Momma, you got out of bed today and put on pants, yay!” “Verdad que si! We did it mamas. Good job.”

Each moment is worth celebrating.

People have struggles, be kind.

Once we were in a McDonald’s celebrating my niece’s birthday. My sister had reserved the area that included the indoor play place. It was supposed to have been dedicated to only her invited guests. Another kid had shown up to play and it was no big deal, until this kid began to push and shove all of the other kids. It was an uncomfortable thing to see, but I didn’t say anything, uncertain of what to say. But not my mom. She walked up to that kid, put herself down to his level, gently placed her hand on his small shoulder and asked him, “Why are you pushing the other children?” He stared in disbelief, attempting to wiggle away from her hand and gaze. Not long after, his mother appeared, upset that my mother had touched her son. My mom tried to explain the situation and the woman was beside herself with rage. The lady was in mom’s face, spittle forming around the edges, so much anger. She yelled some racially insensitive slurs, followed up with, “Do you know who I am? You gon’ find out who I am.” My mother interrupted her and said, “No, I don’t know who you are. My name is SanJuanita Valenciano, pleased to meet you.” Unfazed whatsoever about the provocation. The lady stared at my mother, mouth agape and replied her name. Then my mother said to her, “I mean no disrespect. I was trying to ask for your son to not push around the children at the play place. This is my granddaughter’s birthday party and we have this area reserved. He is welcome to stay and there is room enough for him to have cake. The world is hard enough, we should lift each other up and include each other, especially the children.”

The lady had tears in her eyes. Emerging from her core were complex emotions of sadness, frustration, and anger then she grabbed her son to hustle away. In the distance I heard her scolding and reprimanding the small boy. My mother said an open prayer for the son and the mother. She told me, “We don’t see the struggles and burdens people carry. It is important to try to be kind anyway.”

Trust in the Lord, God will provide.

Near the start of my Freshman year of high school, my father earned a promotion and we were to move from Dallas to Lubbock. At least one weekend a month, we would drive up to Lubbock to see Daddy, the other times, he would come meet us. It was a tough time being separated, I saw the struggle on both of my parents faces. Not enough time for them to share together to say the words they needed to say. My mother working her jobs at the school cafeteria and Furr’s cafeteria. If she had a shorter evening shift, she would take Brother and I to work, we’d reap the benefits af an all you can eat cafeteria eating all we wanted, sitting at our table where she could watch over us from the cashier stand. I would do some of my homework or read a book and help my brother with whatever he had to do. On evenings where she had to work longer, I would feed us a microwave meal after homework, and we had a treat of watching a movie. At 9 PM the phone would ring and it was time for the evening phone call from Daddy.

One snowy weekend, it was up to us to drive to Lubbock. Mom was determined to make the trip. Our cousin Joe was with us in our little car, we were bundled together, enjoying the road trip. But there was a lot of snow and black ice. We’d seen some cars drift off the road. My mom went from silently praying to openly praying. We weren’t worried, though because we had made this trip many times. Sometimes with snow, sometimes with torrential downpour…road trips were old hat. And then we hit a patch of ice and fishtailed into a ditch. It was freezing outside. In a ditch, 35 minutes away from Seymour , Texas— on clear days it was a 35 minute drive. Too far and too cold to run there. After a few feeble attempts to get us out, my mom made the decision that she would flag down a trucker to help us. Joe and I both looked at each other when I said, “Um, mom there are ZERO cars, let alone a trucker.” She said, “Well, ok, we will just need to ask for help.” I looked around, shrugging my shoulders, shaking my head, doing my best to calculate how much fuel, water, and food we had to withstand the storm. “Who can we ask mom?” She blessed herself, bowed her head and began to pray. She nudged us to bow our heads. We collectively said an Our Father, when she went quieter, stating her request as clear as possible. “Amen.” We waited for 15 minutes, which felt like 15 hours. She saw the doubt and worry on my face. “Mija, faith like a mustard seed. It takes time. Be patient. God will provide.” Then, there it was, a trucker who appeared and stopped.

Faith like a mustard seed, God will provide.

When I look back to think about how we all managed those short few months, I remembered we did a lot of trusting in the Lord. Daddy taking on the new role at work away from his family. Mom working her jobs, volunteering, and making sure we were ok. Sam a Sophomore in college. Brother in second grade. I was also planning my Quince. But we relied on our family, community, and our friends. Everyone stepped up to lend a hand and when things seemed like they were going to be too much, we asked for help, from God first, then our friends and family.

Trust in the Lord, God will always provide.

Empathy is a superpower.

The joy my mother carried with her was a choice she made a long while ago. One of her many long-term hospital stays, I was able to visit my mom. Cell phones weren’t as advanced as they are today, meaning I couldn’t immeidately FaceTime my mother. Making the trek from Dallas required a bit of scheduling to make sure I would arrive in time to see her. Her hospital room was small, yet cozy. Surrounding her were some plants, an old get well soon mylar balloon, and a homemade blanket. Mom was so happy to have me there, smiling and showing me her space. “Look Mija, I have a window! I get to look out!” Then she stepped up and walked over to the window. “Mira, I can see Tech from here. And the birds flying, and the students going to class. I hope I will go back to school one day to finish up.”

I was overjoyed that my mother had walked to her window. It was during this stay where she’d had issues with her back and back surgery. It was this time where she had been confined to her bed, flat for a few days, then upright for several more after. We weren’t certain if she would ever walk again. To see her walking was incredible!! I smiled back at her stating matter-of-factly, “Mom, It is great to see you walk and look out of the window.”

“Mija, it is a blessing to wake my eyes to welcome the new day. I’m able to see you with my eyes. I’m able to hear your voice. When I couldn’t sit up, I was happy to have a window and be able to see the sky. I got better and I was able to sit up and look out of the window to see more things. Now, I can walk to see even more things! It is easy to be depressed and say pobre mi. But I understand other people have it harder. Not just the people who can’t walk, but others who are unable to feel complete. I choose to find the joy and accept others for who they are. I hope they do the same for me and see me as I am.

This empathy extended to beloved furry friends. Once we were at a gas station and a man came up to my mother and started talking to her. He had tears in his eyes. My mom listened to him and I saw her nod her head. Next thing I knew, a beautiful golden retriever was jumping into the back of the station wagon. Her name was Savannah and she was a great dog! She was so smart and caring. Most of our family pets were rescues of some sort, finding their way into our home through her caring heart. Her most recent beloved rescue, Heylee, passed away exactly one week after Mom’s death.

Mom made it her life’s mission to help others, especially children. To her being a Christian had more to do with your acts of service rather than platitudes of false testimony. Modeling your faith in how you are to the world mattered most. The most precious gift you can give is your time because it is something you can never make more. A philanthropic spirit has been instilled in us since the very beginning. As I grew older, my mother never admonished me for my questioning of the religion. I never lacked faith, I simple had a lot of questions. She readily accepted me as I am. She would rib me about missing church, but forgave me when I told her of the other things I was involved in to try to change the world, not just from one particular lens. She is the reason my life’s motto has become “Make it better.” My mother modeled this behavior every day of her life.

Empathy is a superpower.

Magic is real.

Christmas morning in the Valenciano household was utter magic. Christmas and our birthdays were moments where each member of the family felt the love and magic of the season. Mom always fell “ill” on Christmas Eve and had to quarantine in the room to feel better. We had to let her rest and heal up, so we stayed up just beyond normal bedtime before Daddy shuttled us to bed. Egg nog and cookies were set out for Santa. Adorning our walls for almost two decades was this papered Santa in a sleigh, cartoon reindeer connected together with a this red yarn harness. Our red and white felt stockings adorned with our names in green glitter, stapled to our wall, until we had a home with a fireplace. The tree brightly decorated with mismatched handmade ornaments, gold tinsel, lights, and a simple tree skirt below. We had a small silver star at the top, until we had the giant bow, then the angel. There would only ever be the gifts from us children to our parents and some gifts from friends on Christmas Eve. BUT on Christmas morning, there was always a 3–4 foot mountain of brightly wrapped gifts piled all around the tree, melting out into the living area, nearly touching the couch. We dared not move a single gift until the parents were awake. And even then, we weren’t able to do anything until the Bible verse of the arrival of Jesus was read. “He is the reason for the season.”

“As long as you believe, you will receive.” That was the phrase and so went every Valenciano Christmas all the way through to 2020.

Christmas was also funny because mom often confused the gifts she’d wrapped, accidentally swapping out the names. Forgetting several of them, not finding them until Spring…a few we have discovered in the past week! We always had a good chuckle about it. Invariably, she would run out of wrapping paper and things had to be wrapped with the colored comics from Sunday’s paper, then regular newspaper, then slivers of wrapping paper taped to cover the label, even though you could see that you were getting a bright blue sleeping bag.

Mom never made a fuss over the gifts we gave her at Christmas. She loved the gifts we gave her throughout the year. I made it a point to share my gift of words to her. I was never certain if they had an impact on her until I’ve found so very many of my old musings. She intentionally kept so many treasures from her children and grandchildren and other loved ones, indicative of the deep love and connection she had for us all.

After opening the gifts, she would not let us clean up the mess too soon. She would say, “Don’t clean the mess. When you do, then it is over. Leave it for a while longer.” She would sit there perched in the corner, Santa hat affixed as a permanent head piece — her official uniform for the entire Christmas season, observing the chaos of it all, smiling. This is the gift of having someone whose love language is giving tokens of affection. You feel special and seen because the gift was something she thought you would like.

Our birthdays were also special — even on the years when they were forgotten. We ALWAYS had a cake for a birthday wish. We each had our own birthday traditions, me I enjoyed looking at my baby book and talking about each photo. Every year, she’d indulge me and patiently repeat each moment, recalling as best as she could. She let me direct the planning of my birthdays, theme and food, since I was four— I remember this one, because I wanted a clown who could make balloon animals. My party was in our garage and I had a clown, who could make balloon animals! Another year, I mentioned I wanted a surprise party. I’d made the comment months before, forgetting I asked for it. After my softball game, my mom rushed me home to do a quick change, and we headed to Putt-Putt. I wasn’t certain why we were going. Before walking in she said we are here for a birthday! When I walked in, there were my friends and they yelled, “Surprise!” So much fun! And then there was the year that I told Sam I thought I was having a surprise party because Mom and Dad had been so coy all day pretending they didn’t know it was my birthday. Sam has always been honest with me. It is something I appreciate about my sister, even if the truth is difficult to hear. She said, “Bianca, there isn’t a surprise party. Mom and Dad forgot.” Then, she told my parents that it was my birthday. Daddy whisked me out the door and took me to the store. I could buy ANYTHING in it that I wanted — any one thing. I chose a small black portable tape player/radio. Jamboxes were popular, but I wanted something sleeker and more portable. We still have that radio to this day and it still works. By the time we made it home, I had two friends who’d come over, a small cake, and cheeseburgers for dinner. It was all very good.

Sometimes magic exists simply because you pay attention and you want something to come to fruition.

Magic is real.

Always take the photo.

We had the privilege to have MANY experiences in our lives. When my mother was younger, among the favorite gifts she’d received from her father was a small brownie camera. She treasured that little thing because she was able to capture the world from her own eyes. I can’t remember a time where my mom didn’t have some kind of camera. She had the classic thin black one that looked like a longer version of an iPhone. She had a LeClic and then later all sorts of Nikons and Canons (34 that we’ve discovered this week, some still with film inside). Mom would shoot so many rolls of film and every other year, she would get the film developed. She would take in between 50 and 75 rolls! She was so excited to get the film back. Some of the images were too dark, many were nice candid shots, often, we didn’t remember her taking the images. Which is a kind of a surprise in and of itself.

I do remember when we were on vacation, we’d be in the moment and mom would make us stop, then pose for a photo. We’d groan, roll our eyes, uttering, “Ugh, not another one. We already have enough!” She’d shush us and wave us off, making sure she’d have several just in case one didn’t turn out quite right. The cameras were autofocus, so you never really knew how they would turn out. Sometimes she bought black and white only film, you really never knew what you were gonna have until after they were developed, which led to more fun when we would look through the images.

I have a treasured image of Brother holding Mari the first time he met her. There’s another of my Bisabuela blessing me on my 21st birthday. There’s one of me on skates for the first time. So many of me when I’m a small person with my sister, long before my brother arrived. And an image with Margie and me at a swimming pool. Frozen moments to comfort me.

Even before that, she was always looking for specials at the photography studios. She told me that she couldn’t afford the big package, but had a few dollars aside for us to get an 8x10 and a wallet. This is how I had the images from my baby book. As we grew older, the tradition continued with visits to Olan Mills for several years, then other photography studios. These photos weren’t just for milestone events, either, but simply for her to have. She said it was important for us to have them and once she was gone, we would treasure them. She’s absolutely right.

Invest in yourself…and a great pair of shoes.

My mother had a curiosity for things that intrigued her and if there was no intrigue, then she didn’t think twice on it. She took cake decorating classes because she was fascinated by the icing roses. For a number of years, all of my birthday cakes were handmade by her, my favorite being the yellow sheet cake topped with a funfetti cake in the shape of a purple mushroom on top of it for my 12th birthday.

She went to Tarrant County Junior College to get a certificate in nutrition. She had always worked in cafeterias and wanted to learn more about the business side and nutritional value. She was determined to figure out how to take regular family meals and scale them to feed the masses, but within a budget.

Later, she attended the Lubbock Hair Academy and her focus was on being a barber. She cut so many of our hairs and allowed us to have fun with colors. All of the blonde highlights, frosted tips, and chunky colors!

With each of these accomplishments, she always stated that one day she was going to go back to finish her degree, but at that moment it wasn’t the time.

For as far back as I can remember, I have been obsessed with footwear: socks and shoes alike. I was told of a story when I learned to walk that my father had bought me magic socks and that meant I would walk. No sooner had he put them on me that I started to take my first steps. For the first few days, my father said it was only when I wore those knee high striped socks that I would take independent steps.

When my parents would go out on date night, she always knew that I would raid her closet and walk around the house in her highest heels, loving every elevated minute! She didn’t mind that I did that, so long as I put them back to where I found them. I loved the click-clack of the tacones on the tile.

A few years later, mom had to wear special orthotic shoes when she had foot pain as a result of her rheumatoid arthritis and from standing most of the day. She agonized over the cost of them, telling me that we could use that money on other things. When I commented back that I could duct tape together some of my volleyball shoes, she said, “No Mija. It is ok. It is important to wear quality shoes! You don’t know how important that will be until later in life. This goes for heels, athletic shoes, anything. Protect your feet!”

I remembered what she said and to this day, I invest in quality shoes. After my first marathon, she held my running shoes in her hands joyful for my accomplishment, marveling at how many miles I’d just run and the many miles I’d trained to complete the race. She told me about when there was a time in her childhood when they took some old tires and string to make some shoes because they had no money.

One birthday, she gifted me a card that said, “Change your shoes, change your life.” She said, “Mija, this made me think of you. You always have fancy shoes and I can always tell when you are going to conquer the world depending on what you have on. I smiled and nodded, but pointed out one missing detail. “Momma, you are right, but I also wear red lipstick, too.” “Verdad que si!” “I wear it to honor the most beautiful woman I know. I wear it when I run, too. That way you are always with me, because you are unable to run.”

She was a lifelong learner, hungry for knowledge. She also liked trying on my pairs of shoes. Anytime I would get a new pair, I thought of her, enthusiastic about the next time I would see her to show them off. She would always kick off her shoes and put them on. One of my precious memories is of the day when I let her try on a pair of my custom heels. Momma was so tall in them, well tall for her. This is how I always pictured how my mom was if she had never had her back issues. She stood straight and confident.

Invest in yourself…and a great pair of shoes.

Never hesitate to tell (or show) someone you love them.

“Sometimes people tell you they love you in the way they are, not in the words they say. Sometimes people will tell you they love you, but their actions show otherwise. AND if someone means something special to you, don’t hesitate to tell them you love them, especially your friends.”

My mother knew the world and had a some precious people not related to us who had a long and deep impact on her life — these kinds of people were like bonus tias and tios. Their children were like my cousin-sisters/brothers. Uncle Tente, Tencha, los Compadres (we had many of those in our lives, but the Ramirez family are always the main ones I associate with that label) and the ladies from church.

My mother’s upbringing was a difficult one. Her mother passed away at the tender age of 12. Her eldest sister elevating to the matriarch position, doing her best in earnest to figure out a way to keep the siblings together. They stayed for a brief period of time with La Tia, who already had a large brood of her own. Because of the sacrifices and perseverance of my parents, I have never known a life of that kind of struggle. Yet, when my mother spoke of those times, it was never acid laden. She looked back on those formative years as a lesson in compassion and forgiveness. Any time she saw that side of the family in later years, she didn’t hesitate to let them know how much they meant to her. She maintained close contact with her prima Jany (Queta) until her passing. She took her death hard. Her face would light up with joy at the thought of Linda. And it was many, many years before I realized that Guero was actually her real cousin and not another cousin-brother.

We were able to share time together at the Reyna family reunion. I remember sitting there at that first family reunion, the sacrifices of my elders before me, and I had a sense of urgency to achieve, to honor them in the best way that I could. With each achievement my mother always reminded me “Nunca olivides quien eres and where you came from.” I am a literal person, so early on, I thought to myself, I know my address! But she meant my family lineage and my ancestors, to not forget that I come from them. Mom always had a celebratory trophy for me, a token, to mark the moment and say “Good job mamas! I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it.” Pause “What is next?” I continue this tradition with myself to this day, a celebratory trophy for each milestone, then on to the next.

I learned from her that even when you have been hurt by someone, you can love them enough to tell them, even when you don’t like them very much. You aren’t promised another tomorrow, so tell them or show them. I think this is why she saved every.single.card. someone gave her because they were reminders that others cared for her. If you are someone who sent her cards, thank you. Those words meant the world to her, even if she couldn’t readily respond.

Never give up.

My mother realized her dream to graduate from Texas Tech forty plus years after she began. She was the first person in her family to attend university. When she took a hiatus, several of her siblings went on to study themselves, some matriculating. When I was younger, she would tell me about how she started back up when she was pregnant with me, but then took another extended break. I often thought about my mother’s dream and I knew that I would have to work with others to help encourage her to go back to school. The semester before I graduated we were discussing what kind of token I wanted to commemorate the moment. I told her the only thing I wanted was for her to finish with me the way I started. I was in utero when my journey at Texas Tech began and I needed my mother to go back and try again. We took the History of Cinema together that semester. Each Wednesday night was our night to watch movies, have discussion, and write papers about films. It was wonderful! Sometimes Mom would sneak in snacks.

In elementary school, I had horrible handwriting. My father introduced me to fancy words. My mother introduced me to school supplies. I was never without a writing instrument and paper. So it went that I had to practice my handwriting over and over again, so I could raise my grade from a B to an A. When she saw my name scrawled at the top of one of my assignments, she delivered a lecture about how I should be proud of my name. Of all of the names in the world, Bianca Renee Valenciano was meant for me. Then she handed me another spiral notebook, where I had to fill it with nothing but my name in legible writing. Not a signature, but a name that was noteworthy. I’d moan and groan, but she would said, “Don’t give up, you are almost there. You are My Bianca Renee and you are very unique and special.”

In those days, I kept myself company with my active imagination. I was always dancing and twirling in the living room, babies and stuffed animals surrounding me, talking to them. If I ever mentioned boredom, mom insisted I write my stories. I did. I wrote and wrote and wrote, the satisfaction came from the pride on my mother’s face after I finished reading it aloud to her. Thus I began to write more fiction and took notes of things that gave me inspiration. Later I would journal out my thoughts and things that I witnessed, but took a break from it all. Most writers are readers and well, life happened and I stopped reading, only recently picking it back up. I read to her in the hospital, some of the current novel I am reading. I made sure to read in voices, emphasizing words to bring color to the story. This was the way my mother read to me growing up. It is the way she read to her grandchildren, too. I knew she liked my reading, because she squeezed my hand. Even though she was sedated and intubated, she could hear me. When I would stop, she would squeeze my hand, insisting I continue.

Years ago, I told her that I wanted to publish a book one day. I’m so sad I won’t hear her say, “Good job mamas. I knew you would do it. I’m so proud.” The words are waiting for me for when I am ready. Never give up.

When I ran my first marathon, I trained hard for it. I prepared by running so very many miles and raising more than $10K for Robin Hood. At mile 20, my I turned the corner and there was mom, with Don and Mari. I ran over and hugged them, she let out her signature whistle. “Con ganas, mija! Don’t give up!” I pushed through that final 10K toward Central Park to make that finish to meet my goal of under 5 hours — so that my name would be published in the New York Times. Then, I was lost trying to navigate Manhattan with everything blocked off and a nearly dead cell phone. It was prayers and kindness that led me back to my hotel room. She was so happy for me. I sat there on the floor, excited to be done, ready to shower when Mari took her first steps at 9 months of age. I’m so very glad Momma was there to witness that moment.

In December of 2019, dressed in her cap and gown, adorned with all of the stoles from the many organizations she was a part of, she rolled up to the front of the stage at Texas Tech University. She got out of her red scooter, walked across the stage, beaming at everyone. Tears streaming down our faces, the crowd erupting in applause. Hands raw from clapping, voices hoarse from shouting, energy coursing through our veins with a collective sense of pride. She would say it was one of the greatest days of her life.

Never give up.

Many of you have asked how you can help us during this time. We have been blanketed with so many generous gestures of love and affection!! Another lasting gift would be to love without hesitation, look for the good, spread joy like glitter.

I encourage you to be like my momma, love like San Juanita.

**If you would like to donate to the Texas Tech Raiders Rojos for a scholarship in her name, visit this link, select in memory of SanJuanita, then be sure to include her name, SanJuanita Valenciano in the in memory area. If she reaches $10,000, then the scholarship will be endowed in perpetuity. This donation also qualifies for a corporate match if your corporation does that.