America Libre (4 page)

Two days later, a sheriff’s deputy was shot during a disturbance in El Paso. Over the next week, police and firefighters were
fired on throughout the Southwest.

The new hit-and-run tactics sparked a national debate. Were these the actions of isolated individuals, an organized national
resistance, or the work of foreign enemies?

To America’s pundits, the tragic events unfolding in the Southwest demanded a more momentous cause than the lashing out of
bored, frustrated, jobless teens with nothing to lose. This search for a grander meaning would elevate an obscure intellectual
from Chile into the figurehead of an international movement.

José Antonio Marcha y Huber was a senior aide to Chile’s foreign minister in the government of Salvador Allende when a 1973
CIA-sponsored coup overthrew Allende’s leftist regime. Accompanied by his wife and children, Marcha sought refuge with a sister
in Los Angeles. Inside “the belly of the beast,” as he put it, the former government policymaker was forced to support his
family with the only work he could find—as a hotel clerk.

Despite his reduced circumstances, Marcha wrote voluminously on a battered Smith Corona, chain-smoking Salems late into the
night. Without any prospects of publication, Marcha authored a long series of treatises on the history and politics of the
Americas. After his death in 1997, his manuscripts were published on the Internet by his children to honor his memory. In
this fashion, his views acquired a modest circulation among a small group of academics and intellectuals.

Central to Marcha’s theories was an obscure idea that the media would designate as the cause célèbre for the current civil
disturbances: La República Hispana de América—the Hispanic Republic of America.

Marcha’s vision for the Hispanic Republic of America was inspired by his love/hate relationship with the United States. Before
settling in North America, Marcha thought of himself as a Chilean. But after living in the U.S., Marcha discovered he had
another identity. He was also a “Hispanic.” It was in the U.S. where Marcha first began to feel solidarity with other Latin
Americans. The transformation was not simple.

Marcha was deeply steeped in Chile’s rivalry with its neighbors, Bolivia and Peru. The enmity between the nations harkened
back to a bitter, five-year border war that began in 1879. Putting aside these regional rivalries was only part of Marcha’s
conversion.

Like most upper-crust Chileans, José Antonio Marcha was of European ancestry. He held a smug and barely concealed sense of
superiority over the indigenous people and mestizos in his country. A blueblood in his own land with a German-born grandfather,
Marcha was appalled to learn that as a Hispanic living in the United States, he was lumped into the same racial category as
the people he once disdained.

Marcha’s eventual sense of kinship with all the races of Latin America was forged by the pressure of American prejudice. He
began to see himself the way most Americans saw him—as a member of a downtrodden minority.

At the same time, Marcha also marveled at the diversity and vastness of the United States. In spite of its mélange of people
and unwieldy size, the U.S. had managed to create a nation that spanned a continent. This observation sparked a question in
Marcha’s mind:
Could Latin America ever transform itself from a collection of separate states into a single nation?
In time, he came to believe that the unification of Latin America was not only possible, it was the region’s inevitable destiny.

He spent the rest of his life on this quest.

Most of Marcha’s writings were impeccably researched, supported by numerous references and sources. But buried within his
tedious prose was an idea that threatened to engulf the United States in a bitter civil war.

Marcha asserted that large portions of Texas, California, Florida, New Mexico, and Arizona belonged to the people of the Hispanic
Republic of America, and he demanded reclamation of these territories. His work pointed to several historical precedents,
among them the creation of the State of Israel based on the Zionist movement’s prior claim to Palestine.

There was no denying that all five U.S. states had, at one time, been under Spanish or Mexican control. And, with the exception
of Florida, this was precisely where the turmoil was taking place today. The cause for the calm in Florida lay ninety miles
south of Key West.

Since the end of the Castro regime, the predominantly Cuban community of South Florida had been embroiled in a thorny tangle
of property disputes in Cuba. The returning exiles and their descendants were fighting in the courts—and sometimes in the
streets—to reestablish property rights more than sixty years old. It was apparent that Cuban-Americans were one Hispanic group
with a separate agenda. However, within most other Hispanic communities in the United States, the words of José Antonio Marcha
would soon become a siren song.

M
ano could make out the downtown skyline behind the badly faded sign of the Ultra Care Car Wash. A clear day in August was
rare in the valley and Mano tried to convince himself it was a good omen.

He needed a lift. After eleven years as a mechanic, he couldn’t imagine being back where he started, looking for work at a
car wash.

Inside the door marked “Office,” Mano found a cramped foyer dominated by a bulletproof reception window. With no one in sight,
he rang the speaker box on the wall, and a metallic voice replied from the unit.

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for work, sir,” Mano said into the microphone.

“Fill out an application. They’re on the table,” the voice said.

After completing the application, Mano buzzed again. A balding, middle-aged Anglo appeared at the window—and was immediately
startled by Mano’s intimidating size. “OK, big fella, let’s take a look,” he said warily.

Mano passed the application through a curved slot below the window. The manager grunted as he skimmed the form. “You got work
papers?” he finally said.

Although born in Los Angeles, Mano was used to the question. He had swarthy skin and a Spanish surname. “Yes, sir. Here’s
a copy of my honorable discharge from the Army,” he said, producing the folded document from his pocket.

The manager looked over the photocopy, furrowing his brow suspiciously. He then pointed to Mano’s application. “It says here
you worked as a mechanic, Suarez. But I don’t need a mechanic, see. All we do here is wash cars. Comprende?”

“That’s OK. I’ll work washing cars, sir,” Mano said, trying not to take offense. Like most third-generation Chicanos, Mano
spoke English far better than Spanish.

“Well, that’s the thing, see. The minute a mechanic job opens up, you’re gone.”

“With all due respect, sir, would you rather hire some crackhead who’s going to quit the next time he makes a big score?”

“All right, all right, big guy, I’ll put you on the list. But I gotta tell you. Business ain’t so good and I got about fifteen
guys ahead of you waiting for the next opening. Comprende?”

“Yes, I understand,” Mano said calmly. “Thank you for accepting my application.”

“Yeah, sure.” The manager sounded relieved.

Mano returned to the pavement outside the car wash. The bright sky was doing little to raise his mood.

When the Ford dealership he worked at for eight years had gone out of business, Mano had stayed hopeful. He combed the want
ads each day, looking for other dealership positions. When that failed, he tried garages and gas stations, often appearing
in person. When his tools were repossessed, he gave up on work as a mechanic and applied at department stores, restaurants,
even fast-food joints. No luck. Absolutely nada. If La Migra hadn’t put an end to it years ago, he would have joined the illegals
outside a Home Depot and taken day work. Now, after nearly six months of rejection, his confidence was fading.

There’s no one else to blame
, he told himself. This country gave a man the freedom to shape his own destiny—for better or worse. Still, he could not figure
out where he’d gone wrong. For sure, his luck had not been good.

The insurance company had declared his family’s station wagon destroyed in “an act of civil unrest” and nullified the claim.
Since then, he’d been forced to search for work on foot.

Mano stared at the cracks in the sidewalk. This job opening had been his last hope. Now he’d have to tell Rosa about the grim
deadline that loomed next week: the end of his unemployment benefits.

Looking up from the pavement, Mano saw the spires of Holy Trinity Church glinting in the sunshine above the clutter of signs
along the street. Without knowing why, he began walking in their direction. A short while later, he stood in front of the
church.

Mano had never been devout. He relied on Rosa to tend to the religion for the family. On the day he’d lost his job, Rosa lit
a votive candle on the family’s small shrine to La Virgen Morena and had prayed over it daily ever since. Maybe it was time
he prayed as well.
There’s not much left for me to do
, he told himself, entering the carved wood door.

Kneeling in the empty church, Mano heard footsteps behind him. “Good morning,” a warm voice said from the aisle.

Mano turned and saw a blond-haired man in his mid-thirties wearing the collar of a priest. “Good morning, Father,” Mano said,
feeling strange calling a man his own age “Father.”

The priest extended his palm. “I’m Father Johnson.”

Mano stood and shook his hand. “My name is Manolo Suarez.”

“Please, sit down,” the priest said, settling into the pew next to Mano. “What brings you to church so early on such a fine
day, Manolo?”

Mano did not want to air his problems, but he could not bring himself to lie. “I felt a need to pray,” he said finally.

“Most people come to pray during Mass. I’ve found that those who come in to pray at other times are usually facing something
serious,” the priest said slowly.

“I’d rather not talk about it, Father. It’s nothing.”

“Then why not talk about it? Sometimes talking helps.”

Father Johnson’s calm and open manner put Mano at ease. Speaking quietly, he told the priest about his six-month struggle
to find a job, the loss of his car, and the end of his unemployment benefits next week. “I’ve used up all my ideas, Father.
So I figured there was only one thing left that could help my family… and that was to pray. That’s why I’m here.”

The priest put his hand on Mano’s shoulder, showing no fear of his bulk. “May I tell you a story about prayer, Manolo?”

“I think that’s your job, isn’t it, Padre?” Mano answered with a small smile.

The priest laughed. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor, Manolo. I think your family is in good hands.”

“I don’t know, Father. Lately, I haven’t done so well,” Mano said, looking down.

“Is that your fault? Did you ask to lose your job? Haven’t you looked for work every day? You’re doing everything you can,
Manolo. It’s our society that’s letting you down,” the priest said with a sudden burst of passion.

“With all due respect, Padre, no one owes me anything. It’s
my
responsibility to take care of my family.”

“You’re right, Manolo. You do have a personal responsibility. But perhaps it’s your duty to make the world a better place
for everyone, not just for yourself and your family.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Let me tell you my story about prayer, Manolo. Perhaps that will help. There once was a woman who wanted very badly to win
the lottery. Every morning, she would kneel by her bed and pray. ‘Lord, please, please, please let me win the lottery so I
can buy a home for my poor parents.’ Every night, she would pray again. ‘Lord, please, please, please let me win the lottery.
It’s not for me—it’s for my poor parents who don’t have a home.’ This went on for months. Every day without fail, she would
pray, morning and night. And then one day, the Lord finally answered her prayers. He said, ‘Give me a break, lady. Buy a lottery
ticket.’ ”

Mano laughed harder than he had for quite some time.

And then, without warning, he felt the shame and despair he’d been holding back for months flood over him. He covered his
face and wept quietly.

When he finally composed himself, he was surprised to find his confidence returning. “Thanks, Padre,” he whispered.

“Don’t thank me. You’ve bought a ticket, Manolo,” the priest said gently. “But it might be in the wrong lottery.”

“I still don’t understand you, Father.”

“I’m going to put you in touch with someone who can explain it to you… and perhaps give you a job.”

Mano strode briskly across the weed-choked turf of Belvedere Park, still wondering why Father Johnson had insisted he memorize
his destination rather than write it down. He repeated it to himself once again:
Joe Herrera, Cielo Azul Bookstore, four blocks north of Belvedere Park.

Crossing Fisher Street, he saw the bookstore. The shop was undamaged by the rioting, its large front window stacked to the
ceiling with a haphazard clutter of books that blocked the view inside.