Lady Quijote

I knew I needed to block Sally Alonso’s number after our second or third phone call. I didn’t — and now I’m kicking myself.

We met after she found me on 23andMe, in her dogged pursuit of members of the Alonso family — the extended family, which had scattered and sprawled all over west Texas and New Mexico.

Sally was consumed with her Spanish heritage — she was the Onate’s foot debacle come to life, and it just so happened that I had inherited responsibility for her. She was the Spanish foot that I had to bear, because I was one of the only cousins willing to talk to her. And I was tolerant. I would let her kick up dust here and there — even if it got all over me. But I wouldn’t let her trample me. I couldn’t let her put her foot on my neck.

We had a shared interest in environmentalism and animals, and that made our early conversations tolerable. My husband and I were trying to embrace sustainability and clean energy, and we’d come to install a small-scale wind farm on the open flatlands at the back of our ranch. The Ramos family, my family, didn’t have a big ranch. But it was a ranch all the same. We were proud of our land, proud of the place we cared for. It was a part of how we saw ourselves.

It’s hard to describe Sally, because it’s difficult to sound fair. Even the most charitable description seems a bit cruel. Sally was someone who had a rather clueless enthusiasm about things that didn’t mirror reality for the rest of us. It wasn’t a simple thing, like mere ignorance about the true costs of running a farm, or a lack of understanding factual information. It wasn’t a lack of access to the facts, or a simple misunderstanding of the facts, or anything like that. It was that Sally had convinced herself that her ideas were correct, that her values were more altruistic than yours. Sally thought she was full-hearted, and maybe she was, but she was also big-headed.

It sounds cruel, I know, but it’s true. Sally was stubborn. She would have her things her way on your land. So when I told her about our new solar panels, she lost it. Sally despised solar farms, which she believed led birds to plummet to untimely deaths.

I tried to reason with her, to get her to see that the risks were low and that none of our grazing cattle would be harmed. The windmills and the solar farm would be off in their own area, away from people and animals. Away from any trees, even, because we only had one juniper tree. No one could possibly get hurt.

“We did months of research before deciding to buy some solar panels,” I said. “We still haven’t installed them, but it’s the right thing for us.”

“Oh, I just can’t stand all these people, cutting down trees just to put in solar panels,” Sally said. Her voice crackled, and I could tell she was hurt. I wanted to reassure her, to let her know we would never knowingly do anything cruel.

“We won’t have to cut down a single tree, not one,” I said. “The panels will be like the wind turbines. We’ve got enough empty space out there to put up a few rows of — ”

“That’s another thing I’d like to talk to you about,” she said. “Between the windmills and the solar panels, I really think the birds will have a hard time. You need to dismantle those turbines. There’s no telling how many birds you’ve personally killed. It’s violent. It’s evil — it’s killing the birds.”

“Oh, well,” I said. “I haven’t noticed any dead birds near the turbines before, and they’ve been up for five years, so … so I would think if it were a problem, we’d already be noticing it.”

“That’s the thing,” Sally said. Her tone was scalding, erratic, unhinged. “Maybe you just aren’t looking hard enough. Maybe you just don’t care enough.”

I went silent. I felt like I’d been slapped, but I also felt myself getting angry. I didn’t know what I would say to her. What response is appropriate, when someone is questioning your ability to conduct your own business?

As a matter of fact, I realized that was why I found Sally annoying. Her presence was an interference. So I told her what I thought would get her off of my back.

“Sally Alonso, you’re acting like Don Quixote,” I said, trying to force a laugh to sound more lighthearted. “It must be that Spaniards have a fear of windmills!”

She was absolutely silent on the other end of the call. At first, I thought she was preparing an insult. My second thought, rather selfishly, was that I’d shocked her so badly — in pushing back — that she’d had a heart attack. I could picture her slumped over, phone on the floor, struggling to get back to —

“You are a bigot, Carmen Ramos,” Sally spat. I’d almost gotten used to the idea of her never speaking again, and I felt more upset to hear her voice than to hear her words.

I said nothing, and we sat in silence for at least a minute.

“You are closed-minded,” Sally finally said. “You have so much hate for Spain and Spanish history.”

“Sally,” I said, trying my damndest to sound kind. “Sally, my family has lived in Texas since before it was a republic. And I’m part Spanish, which you know well. I mean, you’re one of my cousins. So I feel like I’m well within my rights to make a joke about an old book.”

“You’re joking about my compassion for the birds. You’re also being derogatory and disrespectful.”

I almost told her that Don Quixote wasn’t real, and that she herself wasn’t acting like a real person, but I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to be a bad person. I’m not a nice person, but I’m not hateful. And I didn’t want to be hateful to my own family. For better or worse, Sally was family.

And Sally being passionate wasn’t necessarily a bad thing — but this wasn’t about passion. Her attitude was awful. She was dismissive of other peoples’ real needs in pursuit of something more “meaningful.” It felt, in some ways, like she didn’t want to see reality.

I felt like Sally might be trying to be difficult as a way of getting attention — that that might be the only way she received any attention at all. I felt sorry for her.

But I still didn’t like her.

“Sally, I — I’m sorry that anything I said made you feel that uncomfortable. But I also want to let you know you’re not changing my mind about either the solar farm or the windmills. I’ll be hanging up now.”

I didn’t wait for her answer. I just ended the call.

“Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could have ever hoped,” Don Quixote foolishly told Sancho Panza, the day they attacked the windmills on the plain.

Fortune, however, was on my side. A week after our phone call, Sally Alonso had attempted to dismantle another farmer’s solar panels and a pump jack, both of which were on some politician’s cousin’s ranch. She was looking at some sort of felony property-damage-type charges. Her trial was set for June. I knew which date, and which courtroom, but I didn’t plan on going.

Part of me wanted to feel sorry for Sally, but I felt relief at the prospect of being out of her domineering reach. I wasn’t Dulcinea. I wasn’t Sancha Panza. I wasn’t Rocinante — and I wouldn’t let her ride me roughshod.

I was my own person. And my windmills? Well, they’re not mills — they’re turbines. But they’re not so easily dismantled.

They only bend to the wind.