The student
Remembering Whaley, I am struck, not by his hat, his nose or the gratuitous nicknames he gave local politicos, but rather by the fact that he was accepted in this valley in a way most outsiders are not. He didn’t attend public schools here, he was not born here, his grandparents’ names are not known here, but Whaley was loved, even by those who would have been better off hating him. As far as I’m concerned, it’s because Whaley understood respect, and the valley’s unspoken rules on respect. “Gringo Lessons” y todo didn’t force him out of the valley, instead it had an opposite effect, and Whaley got waylaid in the land of entrapment.
A chat with Whaley was a trip down memory lane. His lane was longer than mine and walks with him exposed hidden ground not covered in the stories of my childhood. Bill connected dots that others couldn’t or wouldn’t. His love for words and sentences, slopes and turns, philosophy and storytelling, movies, literature, politics, this glorious and painful life and all its imperfections, made it easy to enjoy those many conversations I feel so fortunate to have had.
In my memory Whaley will always be one of the greatest gringos of this valley. His contribution to our shared story is more like a chapter from “Bless Me Ultima” than “To Possess the Land.” Whaley kept track of the horrors of our contemporary history like none other. His big heart propelled him to knock on many a door, to enter rooms swollen in grief, to share the weight of the burden. Whaley told sad stories like he told happy ones, with his whole body. Remembering the needless and unnecessary losses of so many lives here in Taos his eyes would get low, his shoulders heavy, his cadence deliberate, and his words brief and full of consideration. He remembered every name. Whaley was always honest about our valley’s cultural deficiencies, envidia and infighting, values that steal the lives of so many of our beloved neighbors and friends. He was honest about himself, too, which was refreshing in a world of men lacking accountability. He gave his life to the whole valley, he shared the best part of himself with us, for us. True magnanimity is never mistaken or forgotten.
When Patrick (Larkin) died, Whaley inducted him into the court of the famous, infamous and cherished ghosts who haunt Taos Plaza: Manby, Mable, Sakti, Pauly, RoseMary, Huevo Dave, and Lou. I’m sure he recently inducted Andrea Rannefeld as well, and I’m inducting him. I imagine them all currently laughing at those forced to relieve themselves in public while the public restrooms remain closed.
Bill Whaley will always be one of Taos’s great truth-tellers and schemers of dreams, who marveled at dusty chamisas and opined by swelling acequias in spring. A gringo loser and huge ball breaker upon whom Taos mountain gleamed. Vatos locos por vida, que viva. Resist in peace.