On the shelves of the Arivaca Library is a row of books whose subjects are so crucial to understanding our Mexican border country, the lives we live here, and our future. They are hard to read, hard to believe, yet they tell it like it really is. Some years ago, Chuck Bowden took on the life-long job of reporting the dark truth. These are his books. I never knew him until I came to be librarian at the Caviglia-Arivaca Branch Library in 2000. Chuck was well established in Arivaca then. Back in the late 1980s, he had been coming out to visit his friend Chris Clarke and write in the peace and quiet of his ranch. The locals had been politicking for a library and from them Chuck learned how important it would be to have one out here in this border outpost. As a reporter, Chuck loved libraries, so he took on the mantle of patron, working his magic in the smoke filled rooms of Pima County. Thank you, Chuck. We do so appreciate our Library.
—Mary Kasulaitis
Mary Kasulaitis is a retired librarian who managed the Caviglia-Arivaca branch.
I’m grateful for those afternoons that turned into late nights sitting in his back yard, drinking red wine, and listening to that voice. It was a privilege to be there when you knew Chuck was working on a piece out loud, testing the structure, testing the sound, sometimes sitting back and letting the birds and the insects and the panting dog and the desert hum fill the air. You got the feeling you were being let in on the truth at such times. It was up to you to follow it. Chuck followed it. Chuck followed it and he wrote about it and we’re all the better for it.
Before you get the impression that they were solemn, academic affairs, those evenings in the yard. They weren’t. Chuck’s beat was a grim one - sorrow and death were regular companions - but he was resolute in acknowledging the joys of life. Whether it was food, drink, music, or other, earthier endeavors, Chuck’s passion existed side-by-side with his outrage. He refused to become numb. A few moments I was privy to:
Chuck collapsed on his couch, utterly exhausted after returning from Aspen where he had been assisting Hunter S. Thompson at his editor’s request. As he struggled to stay awake, he confirmed and dispelled some of the mythology surrounding the good doctor. Through it all, the fax machine whirred, churning out message after message bearing the notorious gonzo logo. Hunter was clearly in an agitated state, the faxes alternating between lavish compliments and outrageous threats. Chuck didn’t seem to care either way.
Chuck leading me to his new computer with a gleam in his eye. He wanted to show me one of the features. The screen saver was a random series of primary colored raindrops splattering across the black. It was called something like “Acid Rain,” or “Nuclear Raindrops.” Whatever it was, it tickled Chuck immensely and we watched the drops splatter for a few minutes accompanied by his throaty laugh.
Chuck in his tiny kitchen recounting the cooking class he’d taken in Italy with Marcella Hazan. His impersonation of the culinary icon hunched over a simmering pot of red sauce, her cigarette ash dangling long and precariously over the top yet never falling, was comic perfection, and led to another deep round of laughter.
I will miss that laugh. I will miss Chuck and those long nights in the yard. But while his absence leaves a huge void, his words remain. If you haven’t read the man yet, then shame on you, put this down and seek him out. Trust me, you will be better for it.
—Sean Murphy
Sean Murphy is a freelance writer.
I loved talking with Chuck Bowden. You had to hold your own. He was not diplomatic. He would never say things like, “It’s ALL good!” He didn’t believe in making things pretty or softening sharp edges. But it could get tense. Once, over dinner, he made a friend cry. I agreed with Chuck’s argument, but I disliked his tone of voice. I blamed the alcoholism. (And the patriarchy of his generation).
Chuck was dramatic and funny. One time I came over to the house he had shared with his former partner, writer and editor Mary Martha Miles. I wanted to talk about photography, and my upcoming doctoral research in Ireland.
“Europe’s dead!” he announced. “Why would you go there?”
“So you’re saying you’re going to miss me?”
“I’m saying this is the place to live.”
The borderlands. The first time I met Chuck was at the signing of his book, “Juárez: The Laboratory of Our Future.” I told him I had just moved to Tucson and that I admired his work. He signed my book, “Darcy: welcome to the laboratory!”
Before leaving for Europe I stopped by to say farewell. I returned the photography books he had lent me. We watched a video of a filmmaker he respected. We were talking about something contentious of which I can’t remember, and I used the word, “problematic.” Chuck stopped cold.
“What are you saying? Don’t use shit-ass academic words that mean nothing! No. It is not problematic. It is detestable, it is wrong, but it is decidedly not problematic. You need to say what it is. Say what it is.”
He was right, and to this day I am grateful for the reminder. I only need to say what it is. Say what it is. How to say what it is?
Chuck was generous. On that last evening he gave me a copy of a photography book with perfect, glowing images from the Grand Canyon. Chuck had written the forward. He signed the book for me: “Well, it doesn’t look like this—thank God!”
Rest in peace, dear Chuck.
—Darcy Alexandra
