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Friday, May 10, 2024 | Back issues
Courthouse News Service Courthouse News Service

There once was a bridge

In one of El Paso’s oldest neighborhoods, historians and activists fought for years to stop construction of a planned sports arena. Then a lawsuit raised a troubling question: Where was the Apache settlement that Spanish colonists had described?

EL PASO, Texas (CN) — Long before the lawsuits over bond elections, historic buildings and Apache archaeology, this area north of the Rio Grande once marked a boundary of Spanish settlement.

It was Indian country, an uncolonized land leading up to the Franklin Mountains. Across the river in what is now Ciudad Juarez, Spanish settlers viewed this place with some apprehension.

Tribes like the Mescalero Apache, which lived nomadic lifestyles and knew the land, held strategic advantages over the Spanish. When conditions were right, they could raid for horses and other goods, wading across shallow parts of the river before disappearing back north.

As Spanish settlement expanded, the colonists looked for ways to bring the north bank under their authority. They built a fort and a wooden bridge. They set up a “peace camp,” where Apaches could adopt sedentary lifestyles in exchange for Spanish subsidies.

Spaniards viewed camps like this as Apache “surrender.” In reality, they were more like “colonialism in reverse,” David Dorado Romo, an El Paso historian and activist, writes in the upcoming book La Otra Banda del Río, “The Other Side of the River.”

“The Spaniards had to concede to the demands of the Ndé [Apache] as much as, if not more than, the reverse,” Romo writes. "The Spanish built acequias, or irrigation canals, to help the tribespeople water crops. They provided them with a range of goods — “a form of war tribute that the Europeans were forced to pay in exchange for temporary and limited truces.”

Fast forward to the present day, and a new conflict is raging over a plot of land between the Rio Grande and downtown El Paso. This time, the battle is happening in U.S. courts.

As officials try to build a sports arena in the historic Duranguito neighborhood, they’ve faced fierce opposition from historians, activists and residents. The court fight has no clear winners yet, though court injunctions have put a pause on redevelopment plans.

The controversy has spawned numerous lawsuits. One of them, which argues the Duranguito might contain remnants of the Apache peace camp, is now before the Texas Supreme Court.

Last month, the El Paso City Council hinted it might be willing to negotiate a settlement that could revitalize the neighborhood while leaving intact some historic structures. That's good news for both preservationists and local business owners, who say the legal fights have stunted neighborhood growth.

For years, Duranguito has waited in limbo for lawsuits to resolve. A central street is blocked off, dividing the neighborhood with fencing.

“Whatever happens, we have to open this whole thing,” said Juan Lara, who runs the El Comalito del Guero food counter out of a neighborhood gas station. “We lose business because everything’s closed.”

Numerous historians, including Romo, have questioned whether there might have been an Apache settlement in this area. Another is Mark Santiago, whose 2018 book “A Bad Peace and a Good War” offers a record of Spanish-Apache relations.

While historians have known about Apache settlements farther down river, Santiago argues they also camped near modern-day El Paso. He stressed that he was a historian — not an archaeologist — and that he wasn’t involved in the El Paso lawsuits. Still, he said, the area around Duranguito was a “logical place” for the camp.

The fights over Duranguito started as most gentrification stories do. In the early 2000s, a neglected neighborhood near downtown El Paso caught the eye of developers.

Investors bought up properties and started the process of evicting and/or buying out longtime residents. In an apartment near the neighborhood’s core, only one resident remains: 93-year-old Antonia Morales, who has so far refused to leave.

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At the time, El Pasoans were facing a debate over the future of their city.

“Old-guard city council members were losing seats to a crew of young reformers who considered themselves urbanists," the journalist Christopher Hooks wrote in Texas Monthly in 2017.

These council members, Hooks wrote, wanted to “jump-start the city’s economy” by turning El Paso into a more “modern city.” From the beginning, such plans sparked tensions. An “infamous” 2006 presentation, designed by a city-hired marketing company, summarized “old” El Paso with buzzwords like “dirty,” “lazy” and “speaks Spanish.”

Then came the bond election.

Parts of the Duranguito neighborhood are closed off behind fencing, condemned as El Paso plans for a proposed sports arena. "We have to open this whole thing,” said local business owner Juan Lara. "We lose business because everything’s closed.” (Stephen Paulsen / Courthouse News)

In 2012, El Paso voters were asked about proposed “quality of life” improvements, including a new performing arts center. By a wide margin, El Pasoans approved that project.

The city started planning a sports arena with the money. Critics were outraged. They called the move a “bait-and-switch” and denounced plans to put the arena in the Duranguito, which includes several historic buildings, including a former Chinese laundry and a stash house used by Pancho Villa.

Sensing controversy, El Paso filed a lawsuit in 2017 to certify the results of its bond election. Max Grossman, an art history professor at the University of Texas at El Paso, intervened.

In a petition, Grossman argued that the city was now planning to build not an arts center, but a sports “arena” — a term that “does not appear in either the Election Ordinance or the Election ballot.” The city, he argued, was using bond money “in a manner that voters did not approve.”

That lawsuit — the first of several filed by Grossman — wound through the courts for more than a year. A judge agreed with Grossman, ruling that the city could not “lawfully expend” money raised through the 2012 bond “for a sports arena.” The city appealed to the Third Court of Appeals in Austin, which reversed that decision. The Texas Supreme Court declined to hear it.

City leaders declared victory. “By allowing sporting events,” then-Mayor Dee Margo said in a statement, the city would be able to build "a world class regional amenity.”

Others saw the decision as a loss for Texas citizens. At stake was “how honest [city officials] have to be in bond language,” said Alexsandra Annello, an El Paso City Council member who has opposed the arena plans.

“They didn’t put sports on the ballot because they knew that wouldn’t pass,” she said. “This was such an important lawsuit. It literally had a city manager saying they were not honest on purpose.”

Shortly after intervening in the bond case, Grossman filed another lawsuit against the city.

This suit argued El Paso had violated the Texas Antiquities Code by not informing the Texas Historical Commission of its arena plans. The footprint of the arena contained buildings with “historical and architectural significance,” he argued. It was “El Paso’s first community,” a ranch established by the Spanish settler Juan María Ponce de León and the likely site of the Apache peace camp.

That case eventually ended up before the Eighth Court of Appeals in El Paso. Last November, the court delivered a victory for preservationists.

In a 2-1 ruling, the court held that because the city had done an “incomplete survey” for archaeology, the arena project should be paused until “the maximum amount of historic, scientific, archeological, and educational information may be recovered and preserved.”

Justice Alley dissented, arguing the court was giving Grossman “a powerful weapon to delay and likely kill a project that prevailed in the ballot box.” El Paso in December appealed the case to the Texas Supreme Court, where it remains today.

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Grossman declined to comment for this story, citing the ongoing litigation and discussions with the city. Laura Cruz-Acosta, a spokesperson for the city, did not agree to an interview and ultimately stopped responding to press requests.

Grossman's lawsuits have been funded by J.P. Bryan, a Houston-based oilman with a passion for history. Bryan explained his involvement in the case in a 2019 op-ed for the El Paso Times, writing that “my heart truly lies with...preservation of the historical assets of our state.”

As for Grossman, he’s spent almost two decades teaching art history and once served on the El Paso County Historical Commission. Yet his opposition to the city’s arena plans is also animated by his belief that it’s an unapproved waste of taxpayer money. Texas Monthly described him as a "committed conservative."

Grossman has argued El Paso “cannot afford” to build an arena, including in an op-ed from 2020. The idea that a new sports facility would “somehow drive development” was a “false hope,” he wrote.

A crumbling home in the Duranguito that housed El Paso's first official Yom Kippur celebration, according to local historian and activist David Dorado Romo. Structures like this one are important, Romo said, because they show people here "assimilated into fronterizo [frontier] culture” — not Anglo society. (Stephen Paulsen / Courthouse News)

These complex motivations against the arena — coupled with the involvement of an out-of-town billionaire — have led some El Pasoans to bristle. In the 2018 and 2020 elections, El Paso Matters reported, Bryan gave almost $40,000 to city candidates, more than anyone else outside the city.

Grossman’s goal “is not really historic preservation, it’s to the beat the city,” said Adair Margo, wife of former mayor Dee Margo and a booster for the arena plans. A “warped” sense of pride was driving the lawsuits, she said. In the meantime, the area around the proposed arena remained “undeveloped” and “in squalor.”

Jason Hunt, owner of nearby DeadBeach Brewery, is also frustrated with the lawsuits. He wants the city and Grossman to reach a deal, so that the neighborhood can progress and “not be frozen in time.”

Hunt sees Grossman as an outsider fighting a voter-approved project.

“He isn’t down here every day,” he said. “We see the needles on the ground, and we see people struggling.” He recalled a local meeting several years ago, where he says Grossman tried to rally local businesses and residents against the arena project. “At one point I raised my hand and said, ‘I’m sorry sir, but who are you and where are you from?’”

Still, the legal fight has galvanized historians and activists, who say El Paso is trying to pave over an important part of its history.

The activist group Paso del Sur intervened, collecting thousands of signatures against the arena. In a statement, the group said it stood "in solidarity" with the neighborhood and called on city leaders to “move the arena, not the people.”

The National Trust for Historic Preservation has warned the arena would “destroy the heart of an area many Mexican Americans consider the ‘Ellis Island of the border.’” The group Preservation Texas added Duranguito to its list of “most endangered places,” citing the arena fight. In a 59-0 vote, the Texas Historical Foundation also came out in favor of preserving the neighborhood.

Even the Bishop of El Paso, Mark Seitz, got involved. In a 2017 letter supporting preservation efforts, he said he was praying for the neighborhood.

Quoting Pope Francis, he said there was “a need to protect those common areas…which increase our sense of belonging.” He called the Duranguito "an important part of the cultural and religious heritage of the Catholic community in El Paso."

Local historians have also joined the fight. David Carmichael, an archaeology professor with the University of Texas at El Paso who has studied Mescalero Apache sites, served as an expert witness in Grossman’s antiquities lawsuit.

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“My concern is that people will come in and do a slapdash job and completely miss what we’ve spent our whole lives looking for," he said.

Carmichael agrees the Duranguito is a likely location for the former peace camp. Still, he admits that finding remnants of it would be an “extremely challenging task.”

Apache sites "don’t leave much behind,” he said. “That’s part of their philosophy, to tread softly on the earth.”

Bernie Sargent, former chair of the El Paso County Historical Commission, said he voted yes for the quality of life bond. But when he did, he "didn’t envision” it being in the Duranguito.

“Somebody within the city has this burning desire to locate [the arena] right there," Sargent said, but “heritage tourism draws a lot more people than sports tourism does.”

Sargent and Grossman were both booted from the county historical commission in 2017 after they were accused of open-meetings violations. At the time, Sargent and Grossman saw the move as retaliation for their efforts to preserve the Duranguito.

Veronica Escobar, then the county judge of El Paso, disputed this characterization. "I felt that it was time for new leadership," she told El Paso Times. The local district attorney’s office later dropped the investigation, citing “insufficient evidence.”

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These days, it’s hard to find people who outspokenly support the arena. The city’s new mayor, Oscar Leeser, has come out largely against it. Several investors and officials who have previously supported the project did not respond to requests for comment by press time.

On a recent afternoon, Romo, the historian and activist, sat on a bench in the Duranguito, pointing out some of the neighborhood’s landmarks. In front of him was the building where he says the city's first Yom Kippur held. Next to it, a simple pink-and-beige building housed newcomers throughout the 19th century, from a Japanese migrants to an Italian cook and his family.

“It questions the history of America,” he added. “Here, you assimilated into fronterizo [frontier] culture” — not Anglo society. After the Italian cook arrived in El Paso and married a Mexican woman, he changed his name from Luigi to Luis. The Duranguito helps tell "the story of the other America," he said, and contests the mainstream narrative of a white “monocultural nation-state."

Just a few blocks away, an upscale hotel in downtown El Paso towers over the now mostly abandoned Duranguito neighborhood. (Stephen Paulsen / Courthouse News)

Romo turned his attention to Paisano Street, a drab thoroughfare a few yards to the south. Long ago, the Rio Grande roughly followed its path. The Spanish built a wooden bridge nearby, part of an effort to gain an upper hand against Mescalero Apaches. That history has been “totally obliterated,” Romo said. “It’s hidden underneath the pavement and concrete.”

Even today, there are echoes of what Duranguito used to be. Romo made a call, and a few minutes later a small old woman came out of her apartment. It was Antonia Morales, one of the last remaining residents here.

Now in her 90s, Morales has lived in the Duranguito since 1967. She recalled in Spanish how children ran and played along this street. Then, around 2017, her landlord started evicting tenants from the building. The city offered $10,000 for residents who agreed to relocate.

Everyone took the deal — except Morales. These days, she said, she deposits her $300 rent checks into an escrow account. While her landlord could theoretically evict her, Romo argued he hasn't because doing so might backfire.

"She has a voice now," he said. "She's become a symbol for the struggle against displacement."

"I’m very happy here,” Morales said. “It’s peaceful, and there are no bad people.”

She didn't understand why the city wanted her gone. She sauntered back into her apartment. The old building was showing signs of disrepair, but Morales’ home was immaculate, decorated with antiques.

“Why do they destroy instead of building?" she asked.

Follow @stephentpaulsen
Categories / Civil Rights, Government

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