In about 1954, when gas sold for 30 cents a gallon and a pack of cigarettes went for a quarter, I was riding around with two friends named Fred, a Leroy, and a Paul.


    Minding our own business, we became alarmed when a car parked on north Grand made a u-turn and came right at us. To avoid a collision, our driver pulled way over to the side. That put us in a recessed area between a couple of liquor stores, where a small shopping center now stands.
    We imagined the near-collision was compliments of an inattentive driver or an intoxicated person. We soon realized it was deliberate, as six boys whom we had never seen before piled out of their car carrying bicycle chains, bats and a tire tool. Their driver, sans weapon, actually broke off his own radio aerial to use as a sword.
    About the most lethal thing we were carrying were cigarette lighters. Without actually having studied Shakespeare, we agreed that “discretion is the better part of valor,” and we ran.
    The layout of that area features a sharp dropoff, as Grand leads into Railroad Avenue. There were places where one could fall 10 feet.
    As we were making our way toward the fence we were going to have to jump, we saw several boys coming toward us from the direction of the fence. They tore off pickets and started brandishing them.
    The two Freds, Leroy, Paul and I were elated at the backup. We recognized some of the new arrivals and reasoned that even though we were not particularly close to those Railroad Avenue brethren, when it comes to turf, people form quick alliances.
    Our theorizing was a bit off.
    The “reinforcements” weren’t there to defend us at all—they were there to help out the crew that began the fray.
    We wondered how soon we’d be meeting our Maker and puzzled over the fact that there was absolutely no reason for this attack, no “mala pica,” or bad blood. We soon heard a distant police siren, and someone shouted “la jura!” (more about this term later).
    All of the 15+ participants fanned out in each direction. The police gave only a brief chase.
    No one got arrested; the rumble never really got started; no injuries occurred, and the only damage was to a rickety fence and a radio antenna.
    Days later, we encountered some of our Railroad neighbors and asked why they sided with the bad guys, inasmuch as WE were the ones in need of help, and the instigators already had the situation well in fist.
    The “Railroaders” said they had indeed been in contact with the instigators, but that they had no idea that WE (i.e., two Freds, Leroy and Paul and I) were to be the victims.
    The attack was carefully planned: The attackers would wait until they saw a likely crew to attack, and the “Railroaders” would “hear the commotion” and use fence pickets as weapons, hence the convenient location and the fact that our car drove several yards into the recessed area to avoid being hit. Additionally, we were told, the attempted attack had nothing to do with us; we were not to take it personally. The occupants of the other car were waiting for any car containing a group of boys.
    The results of the evening yielded a number of things which bear some explication. We discovered that every post-pubescent male carries around an over-abundance of testosterone, oozing out of every pore. The term testosterone hadn’t been invented yet, so we called it machismo.
    The two Railroad boys told us they were frustrated over not being able to mix it up that night, because of “la jura.” As a result, they employed the principle of “puro sport.” That means simply pure sport. Followers of that principle feel such a strong urge to engage in fisticuffs that they turn it into a sport.
    Accordingly, the boys told us, the two of them drove to Storrie Lake and punched each other out. This noble act transcends friendship, loyalty or even good sense. Both of them had the bruises to validate their engagement in the sport of “puro sport.” Obviously, they believed the sport was more palpable if you played it with your best friend.
    And after you beat, batter, bloody and bruise your buddy’s body, you have a cigarette and go home. Unlike the previous impersonal gang confrontation, “puro sport” was puro personal.
    The scenario is almost like a plot to “Malcolm in the Middle,” in which many acts of bravado are committed, but what’s the point if there’s no “vata” to witness it? In the fifties, girlfriends were people you took to the movies; vatas were girls you fought for and over.
    Ever the verbologist, I became fascinated at the power of the term “la jura.”
    It means an oath, but in northern New Mexico parlance it’s taken on an extremely specific meaning, so specific that I can’t think of a single comparable word.
    The context of the shout that night is akin to “Cheese it, the cops!” which is uttered in every forties movie.
    Obviously, some concerned neighbors on north Grand called to police. Police at the station are “policia.” A less reverent term is “chota,” now similar to fuzz.
    When the policia leave the station and turn on their siren, they become “la jura.”
    You don’t use la jura when you’re summoning the police or introducing them. You use it only in case of emergency.

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