Reaching Out (15 page)

The train to San Francisco jerked and grinded its brakes as it made the first stop. I looked out the window. The sun was beginning to rise.

About an hour later, the train arrived in San Francisco. I
took a city bus to McAllister Street and walked up to the Ceremonial Court Room in the United States Courthouse. The spacious room had a high ceiling and stained-glass windows. It quickly filled up with men and women who had also petitioned for citizenship. Some wore suits and ties, a few dressed in full-length white robes and colorful turbans, others wore casual clothes. I took a seat toward the front and overheard different languages being spoken. The court clerk came in and asked us to stand for the presiding judge. After making a few welcoming remarks, the judge administered the Oath of American Citizenship, and at the end of the ceremony we recited The Pledge of Allegiance, which I knew so well.

I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Our voices filled the Ceremonial Court Room like a prayer. We all had emigrated to the United States from various countries and were now American citizens.
We
were all different yet the same.

A couple of days before going home for the summer at the end of the spring quarter of my junior year, I received a message that my brother had called and to call him right away, collect. I figured Roberto was calling me about the letter I sent him. "It has been the best year in college so far," I had written. "I am now an American citizen and got straight-As in my classes. Please tell the rest of our family." When I returned his call from the pay phone booth on the first floor of Walsh, Roberto accepted the call and told me how proud he was of my grades and citizenship. But I could tell by the sad tone of his voice that something was wrong.

"What's the matter? You sound down." I pressed my back against the glass door to secure it shut. "Is Papa all right?"

"Yes, Panchito. He's fine." His voice cracked. "The house in Bonetti Ranch burned down. No one got hurt, thank God, but almost everything is gone."

I did not want to believe it, I lightly hit my head several times against the black pay phone casing. "How, when?" I asked.

"It happened a few of weeks ago. We—"

"Why didn't you tell me then?"

"We didn't want you to worry during finals."

I should have guessed. "I'm sorry. I'm not angry at you, Toto."

"I know, I understand."

He went on to tell me how the fire began. The electrical wiring in our barrack was faulty, which explained why the fuses blew out frequently. The wires heated up and caused a short circuit, which started the fire. Anticipating my next question, he added, "Mamá, Trampita, Torito, Rorra, and Rubén stayed with us for a few days until we found a rental house in town for them to stay. It's a bit too small for everyone, so you'll be staying with us during the summer."

After our conversation, I went to the Mission Church, knelt down, and prayed before the painting of St. Francis at the Cross. I felt depressed. This wasn't the first time our family had suffered from a fire.

Many years before, in September, the week I was to begin the seventh grade, we moved as usual to the San Joaquin Valley to harvest grapes after spending the summer picking strawberries in Santa Maria for Ito, the Japanese sharecropper. We made our new home in an old two-story yellow house located about fifteen miles outside of Orosi, a small town near Fresno. It was the first house we had ever lived in. Mr. Patrini, the owner for whom we picked grapes, told us we could not use the second level because the floors were unstable. The first
floor had two rooms and a kitchen with a kerosene stove, which sat on a small table underneath a window that had plastic curtains. We bought kerosene for the stove from a gas station in town, using a five-gallon can. One day, the gas station attendant mistakenly filled the can with gasoline, which we poured into the kerosene stove. When my mother lit the range, it burst into flames, setting the wooden house on fire. Pieces of melted plastic fell to the floor, giving off dark smoke that smelled like burned rubber. Roberto picked up a dishpan full of soapy water and hurled it over the stove. It was like adding gasoline to the fire. The flames quickly spread on the floor, and by the time the firefighters came, the house had burned to the ground.

My mother had consoled me after I had lost my prized notepad in that fire. I used the small notepad to jot down words I needed to learn for school and memorized them while I worked in the fields so that I would not be too far behind when I started classes for the first time every year in November. She had reminded me to be thankful to God that none of us in the family was injured and pointed out that all was not lost because I had learned everything I had written in my notepad by heart.

When I returned to my dorm, I told Father Shanks about our house burning down and asked him to pray for my family.

A few days later, when I left for home, he gave me a sympathy note and one hundred dollars from Father
William Perkins, vice president of Student Services. The note read; "Yon and your family are in my prayers."

Shortly after I arrived at my brother's house, he and I drove to see the rest of my family in our new rental home. It was a two-bedroom tract house built in the late 1940s on the west side of the city. When I walked in the door, they were as happy to see me as I was to see them. My mother looked tired but calm. She was wearing lipstick, which I had never seen her use before. "I am glad to see you." She gave me a hug.

"I am sorry the house burned down." I wasn't sure what else to say.

"
Así es la vida, mijo,
" she said. Such is life, son. "
Pero no hay mal que por bien no venga.
" But every dark cloud has a silver lining. She told me how it was more comfortable living there than in Bonetti Ranch. The house had a toilet and shower and the water was drinkable. "And the rent is only a little bit higher," she added.

"I'm glad, Mamá." I handed her the envelope that Father Perkins had given me. "It's a gift from the Jesuits."

She opened it. "Gracias
a Dios!
" she exclaimed. Her eyes welled up. "This will help us get a few more things we need. And with your summer earnings, we'll be okay."

Rubén and Rorra excitedly told me that they now could sleep longer in the mornings because they could walk to school instead of taking a bus. Torito talked about his freshman year in high school. "I wanted to take shop classes," he said, "but Mr. Penney, my counselor, told me I had to take
college prep courses. 'You have to go to college,' he told me."

"Good," I said.

"Torito has a girlfriend," Rorra said.

My brother blushed and rolled his eyes.

"Show Panchito her picture," Rubén said. He and Rorra glanced at each other and giggled.

"Go on,
mijo,
" my mother said. "Show it to him, Marcy is a very nice and beautiful girl."

Torito went to his room and brought back a small color photo of his girlfriend and handed it to me. She had a round face, brown skin, short jet black hair, and almond-shaped eyes.

"She's beautiful," I said, passing it back to him.

"Marcy is really smart," Roberto said. "She helps Torito with his homework."

I was surprised that Trampita did not tease Torito about Marcy's helping him with his schoolwork. He listened to our conversation but remained silent.

"How are things going?" I asked after a few minutes, directing my attention to him.

"Okay," he said, glancing at a smoke-damaged crucifix hanging on the wall that was salvaged from the fire.

"Just okay?"

"I like it here, but I miss Bonetti Ranch."

"Why?" Roberto asked.

"It's hard to explain. I've written a poem about it," he added.

"Read it to us," I said.

"No, I'll give it to you. You can read it later."

As Roberto and I were leaving, Trampita gave me his poem in a large manila envelope. That evening, before going to bed, I read it. The title was "Mi
Casa
No Longer Shames Me."

 

Mouth is wet
With seasons met
Recalling ...
Living in barracks
Of war's pretense
Trophies of ruins,
Old and worn
To house the scorned
For being born
Poor.

***

After school we were the first
Off the bus.
My friends asked where I lived.
Ashamed I would say:
"That one." Then I would get off
At a house that was
Not my own;
White like snow,
Grass like jade,
And walked home ashamed and confused;
Feeling used.

***

I recall that house
Ashamed I was
Of where I lived.
I never told my mamá
For I could not understand
This feeling I knew
Was not right
That I should feel ashamed
Of the warmth she gave,
Of the home she made.

***

We finally moved to town.
It was after that night
That I came home
And found our house
Burning down.
The sky was red
With flames it spat,
Flashing lights, fire trucks,
Faces made of stone.
All hope gone,
Destroyed by the flames
Of mighty feat.
Eyes watering, flooding our sighs
Already so familiar with pain,
Wondering why our tears did not
Extinguish those flames.
My soul died again and again.

I've visited that place again
Many times.
Still, families live there.
New faces, familiar sounds,
Familiar souls.

Yes! I recall that house.
The
casa
that no longer
Shames me.

 

The next morning I drove to Bonetti Ranch and visited the place where our barrack once stood. Only bits of broken glass and scorched metal and twisted wire and ashes remained. The large pepper tree that had provided shade was also damaged. Its charred branches hung down, mourning the loss of a good friend. I remained there for a long time remembering our old barrack, which provided us
with shelter for so many years, protecting us from cold, wind, and rain, and from an outside world that at times was confusing and unfriendly.

At the beginning of the third quarter of my senior year, I made a decision with which my mother strongly disagreed and which affected my midterm grade in my ethics class: I decided to support César Chavez's efforts to unionize farm workers. "We'll lose our jobs; we'll get fired if we go on strike, mijo," my mother told me. "Who's going to feed our family while we're out of work?" I explained to her that by workers' going on strike and joining the National Farm Worker's Association growers would be forced to provide us and other farm workers with unemployment insurance and better working conditions and guarantee a minimum wage. "Ay,
mijo, piénsalo bien,
" she said. Think about it carefully. "Growers have all the power. Poor farm workers like us don't have a chance against them." I stopped arguing with her out of respect. Besides, I understood her fears.

I became more convinced I had made the right decision after attending a forum on the issue of farm workers that took place at noon on Monday, April 4, in front of the student union. Father Tenant Wright, a young and energetic
Jesuit priest who organized the event, stood in the middle of a small group of students and asked, "Is it necessary to form a union to represent farm labor?" He looked around and shouted the same question, beckoning students who were passing by to join the growing crowd. As the gathering grew, I spotted Laura several feet away. I elbowed my way through and stood next to her. I was glad she was there.

Father Wright explained the purpose of the forum. He said that the Delano grape strike began seven months before when farm workers in Delano walked off the farms of table grape growers, demanding wages on a level with the federal minimum wage. The strike was being led by César Chavez and Dolores Huerta of the National Farm Workers Association. They were asking farm workers to join their tabor union. "Again, is this necessary?" Father Wright asked. "To help us answer this question, I have invited two people to speak to this issue."

Father Wright introduced Frank Bergon, the son of a grower, who presented the growers' position, and Les Grube, an egg distributor and longtime activist in Catholic welfare programs, who defended the NFWA's viewpoint. Bergon argued that the farm laborers were already well paid and that the number of strikers was small.

"How can he say that?" I whispered, rolling my eyes and shaking my head. Farm laborers were paid eighty-five cents an hour and sometimes less.

"Why don't you say something?" Laura whispered.

I felt my heart pounding and a fire in my stomach, but I was still shy about speaking out in groups. I knew I was disappointing Laura and wished I had not been with her at that moment. She excused herself and left for class.

After the debate I picked up a flyer from the NFWA representative and hurried back to my room to prepare for my ethics class that afternoon. I completed the reading assignment in our textbook Rig/it and Reason and then read the flyer. It was an open invitation from César Chavez to join him on a march to Sacramento.

 

On March 17, 1966, the National Farm Workers Association will begin a 300-mile "Peregrinación" from Delano to Sacramento. It is a march of farm workers. It will begin in Delano and will involve workers from all parts of the state.... It will be a pilgrimage by members of all races and religions. In order to be successful, we will need the help of our friends around the state and nation. We ask you to ... join ws for a day on the march and especially for the last day in Sacramento. Although this is primarily a march of farm workers, it is important that all who have a concern for social justice and human dignity demonstrate their unity with us.

 

I set the flyer down on my desk and paced the floor, thinking about whether or not I should join the march. I had learned in Sodality and my religion and philosophy classes
that it was a moral obligation to fight for social justice. Father Shanks had told us that leaders must have a strong sense of personal responsibility and give something of themselves to make a difference in society. In my mind joining the march was the right thing to do, but I also felt this in my heart as I thought of my family and other migrant laborers working in the fields from dawn to dusk, seven days a week, living in army tents and suffering hunger during cold winter months when there was no work. I remembered my mother weeping and praying for Torito, who was dying, and we had no money to take him to the doctor. I remembered my father agonizing from constant back pain and reaching out to me when I found him alone in the storage shed. I remembered Gabriel, a
bracero,
being fired because he refused to tie a rope around his waist and pull a plow like an ox. I heard his words in my head: "
Diaz me puede correr. Pero no puede forzarme a hacer lo que
no
es justo. El
no
puede quitarme la dignidad. Eso no lo puede hacer,
" Diaz can fire me. But he can't force me to do what isn't right. He can't take away my dignity. That he can't do.