Read Online The Universal Tone: Bringing My Story to Light by Carlos Santana - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carlos Santana
Tags: Biography & Autobiography / Rich & Famous, Biography & Autobiography / Entertainment & Performing Arts, Biography & Autobiography / Composers & Musicians
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and nice?” That priest single-handedly separated me from the church right there and then. I mean, what’s wrong with smiling and laughing in church? Are these not the things that God wants us to be doing—enjoying ourselves? I remember the Bible stories—the Flood; God asking someone to sacrifice his son. “Your God is an angry God; he’s a jealous God,” things like that. Come on, that’s not God—that’s Godzilla. I think God has a sense of humor. He has to.
I learned a few things in church—just the other day I made the gesture of a blessing onstage, like the one a priest would make over his sacred chalice, before I took a sip of wine. We were in Italy, so I figured everyone there would get what I was doing—the sign of the cross, hands like they’re praying, look up to heaven before raising the glass, which these days is usually Silver Oak Cabernet. I didn’t think it was sacrilege. I think any kind of spiritual path should have some humor.
Still, my mom persisted and persisted—two years after I got smacked in the head for laughing in church she was still trying to get me to go back there. She dragged me to confession at five in the afternoon. “We’re going there, and you’re going to tell the priest your sins.” I was twelve at that point. “What sins, Mom?”
“You know what I’m talking about!” She wouldn’t let go of me, and she had a strong grip. I’m young and I’m pissed, and I’mfeeling guilty because you’re not supposed to be angry at your mother—that’s enough sins right there!
So we went to the church, and the little door opened, and I went in. I heard this voice on the other side of the wall say, “Go ahead, tell me your sins… go ahead…
go ahead!
” I didn’t know what to say, so I finally thought, “The hell with this,” and I ran out. My mom was so pissed. I told her the story of being smacked as a choirboy and reminded her that she didn’t want to hear about that. I told her that if God can hear me, I’ll talk with him directly, and that’s it. “You can make me do a lot of things, but you can’t make me do this, because I won’t do it.”
Nothing infuriated my mom more than her children standing up to her. That really pissed her off, and for some reason I was the only one who would argue with her. Everybody else just tucked in and took it. I was getting bigger, but she still would try to beat me. She was right-handed, and by then I had figured out that when she grabbed the belt—or extension cord or anything she could find—to swing at me, if I ran toward the left she would hit nothing but air. My sisters and brothers would start cracking up, which only made her angrier. I would get out of her grip and get out the door like a jackrabbit.
I would run away—I did it three times in Autlán and at least seven times in Tijuana. Then my brother Tony would have to come find me and bring me back. “When are you going to stop doing this?” he would say.
“When she stops hitting me.”
“You just don’t know the stuff she’s going through.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t have to take it out on me!”
I remember wandering around Tijuana after one fight. It was Christmastime, and I was looking at window displays—little trains and toys and puppets, all that stuff. For years after that, every time I saw Christmas decorations those feelings would come up. All that anger and frustration I had toward my mom stayed with me.
My mom had her own special relationship with God, her ownway of getting him on her side. When she needed something for the family, or when she thought something needed to happen, she would sit in a chair, cross her legs, fold her arms, and put all her focus on something far away. You could feel the determination. As kids, we got to know that look of supreme conviction. It was like, “Uh-oh, get out of the way—Mom’s doing that thing.” If we got close, we could hear her saying to herself, “God is going to give me this.” It was
I learned a few things in church—just the other day I made the gesture of a blessing onstage, like the one a priest would make over his sacred chalice, before I took a sip of wine. We were in Italy, so I figured everyone there would get what I was doing—the sign of the cross, hands like they’re praying, look up to heaven before raising the glass, which these days is usually Silver Oak Cabernet. I didn’t think it was sacrilege. I think any kind of spiritual path should have some humor.
Still, my mom persisted and persisted—two years after I got smacked in the head for laughing in church she was still trying to get me to go back there. She dragged me to confession at five in the afternoon. “We’re going there, and you’re going to tell the priest your sins.” I was twelve at that point. “What sins, Mom?”
“You know what I’m talking about!” She wouldn’t let go of me, and she had a strong grip. I’m young and I’m pissed, and I’mfeeling guilty because you’re not supposed to be angry at your mother—that’s enough sins right there!
So we went to the church, and the little door opened, and I went in. I heard this voice on the other side of the wall say, “Go ahead, tell me your sins… go ahead…
go ahead!
” I didn’t know what to say, so I finally thought, “The hell with this,” and I ran out. My mom was so pissed. I told her the story of being smacked as a choirboy and reminded her that she didn’t want to hear about that. I told her that if God can hear me, I’ll talk with him directly, and that’s it. “You can make me do a lot of things, but you can’t make me do this, because I won’t do it.”
Nothing infuriated my mom more than her children standing up to her. That really pissed her off, and for some reason I was the only one who would argue with her. Everybody else just tucked in and took it. I was getting bigger, but she still would try to beat me. She was right-handed, and by then I had figured out that when she grabbed the belt—or extension cord or anything she could find—to swing at me, if I ran toward the left she would hit nothing but air. My sisters and brothers would start cracking up, which only made her angrier. I would get out of her grip and get out the door like a jackrabbit.
I would run away—I did it three times in Autlán and at least seven times in Tijuana. Then my brother Tony would have to come find me and bring me back. “When are you going to stop doing this?” he would say.
“When she stops hitting me.”
“You just don’t know the stuff she’s going through.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t have to take it out on me!”
I remember wandering around Tijuana after one fight. It was Christmastime, and I was looking at window displays—little trains and toys and puppets, all that stuff. For years after that, every time I saw Christmas decorations those feelings would come up. All that anger and frustration I had toward my mom stayed with me.
My mom had her own special relationship with God, her ownway of getting him on her side. When she needed something for the family, or when she thought something needed to happen, she would sit in a chair, cross her legs, fold her arms, and put all her focus on something far away. You could feel the determination. As kids, we got to know that look of supreme conviction. It was like, “Uh-oh, get out of the way—Mom’s doing that thing.” If we got close, we could hear her saying to herself, “God is going to give me this.” It was
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