Stories from the Life of a Migrant Child (9 page)

It did not take long to unload our
Carcachita
and settle in. Papá, Mamá, and Rorra took one room; Roberto, Trampita, Torito, Rubén, and I moved into the other one. After my brothers and I had put away our few things, I sat on the floor and looked at my pennies. I wanted to make sure they were not rubbing against each other in the box before placing them underneath the mattress. When I looked up, Rorra was standing next to me.

"Can I have one?"

"One what?" I asked.

"A penny," she answered.

"Not one of these," I said. "These are special." She made a face and walked away stomping her tiny feet.

That evening, before going to bed, I checked on my pennies again. I then took off my shirt and carefully hung it on a nail in the wall and made sure my note pad did not fall out the pocket. After our prayers, we slipped into bed. I had trouble falling asleep.
I can't believe we are living in a house,
I thought to myself.

My little brothers must have been excited too because they started whispering and giggling. Roberto tried to quiet them down, but they would not stop. "Listen," Roberto said in a loud whisper. "I hear
La Llorona
weeping upstairs."

"I don't hear anything. You're just trying to scare us," Trampita answered.

"No, I am not," Roberto responded. "Just be quiet and you'll hear her." There was dead silence for the rest of the night.

The next day, before sunrise, Papá, Roberto, Trampita, and I went to pick grapes for Mr. Patrini. Mamá stayed home to take care of my little sister and brothers. I took my note pad with me. I wanted to learn some spelling rules while I worked, but I couldn't. The angry, blistering sun did not let me. By ten o'clock my shirt was soaking wet. I wiped my hands on my pants and carefully removed the note pad from my shirt pocket and took it to the
Carcachita
and left it there. I did not want it to get dirty and wet. By the end of the day, my whole body was covered with dust from the vineyards. My arms and hands looked like they were made of clay. I scraped the muddy layer off them with the hooked knife I used for cutting grapes.

At sundown, when we got home, Mamá and Rorra drove to the store while Papá, Roberto, Trampita, and I stripped to our underwear and bathed in a trough that was behind the house. After we got dressed, I placed the note pad in the pocket of my clean shirt.

When Mamá returned, I helped her with the groceries. "Did you get any pennies in change?" I asked.

She looked in her purse and handed me one. It was made in 1939. "Can I have it?"

"Of course,
mi'jito
" she answered.

I went to our room to add it to my collection. I took out my coin box from underneath the mattress and removed the top. The first layer of white cotton was bare.
No, they have to be here,
I thought to myself. I swiftly removed the cotton and checked the second layer. Nothing. My 1910 and 1865 pennies were gone! I rushed out of the room, shouting, "My pennies! Someone took them!"

When I got to the kitchen, Rorra ran and hid behind Mamá, who was standing by the stove preparing dinner. "Did you take my pennies?" I yelled at my sister. "If you did, give them to me!"

Holding on to Mamá's leg with her left arm, Rorra extended her right hand and offered me two red gumballs. "I don't want your gum, I want my two pennies," I shouted. She dropped the gumballs and started whimpering.

"Calm down, Panchito," Mamá said. Then looking down at my sister, she said, "Mi ja, did you take Panchito's pennies?" Rorra nodded sheepishly. "And what did you do with them?" Mamá continued. Rorra pointed to the gumballs on the floor. "Did you put the pennies in the gum machine at the store?" she asked.

When my sister nodded again, my heart dropped to my stomach. I felt my face on fire. Everything blurred. I stormed out of the house, slammed the door behind me, sat on the front stairs, and cried.

Seconds later, Mamá came out and sat beside me. "I know how disappointed you are,
mi'jito,
but your sister is only four years old," she said tenderly. Then clearing her throat, she continued. "Let me tell you a story I heard when I was a little girl. Long ago there lived a very smart ant who saved her pennies for so many years that she became rich. Many animals wanted to marry her, but they frightened her. The cat mewed too much, the parrot talked too much, and the dog barked too loud. A bull and a goat also scared her, but not a little brown mouse named
El Ratoncito
. He was quiet, intelligent, polite, and mannerly. They got married and lived happily for a very long time. But one day, when the ant was cooking a pot of beans, she fell in it and drowned, leaving
El Ratoncito
with a lot of pennies, but terribly sad and lonely. So you see,
mi'jito,
Rorra is more important than the pennies. Don't be so hard on your little sister."

Mamá's story calmed me down a little, but I was still angry at Rorra. I took a deep breath and went back inside to our room. I sat on the mattress and pulled out my note pad from my shirt pocket. I turned to the page where I listed my pennies, and crossed out Lincoln Head, 1910, and Indian Head, 1865.

The following morning, before going to work, Mamá and I covered my note pad with waxed paper to keep it clean. I then marked the spelling rules I wanted to memorize that day. As I picked grapes, I went over them in my mind, looking at my notes only when I had to. This made the time go by faster.

On our way home from work, we stopped at a gas station to get kerosene for our stove. The attendant filled our five-gallon tank and placed it in the trunk of the
Carcachita.
When we arrived home, Papá gave Roberto the car keys and asked us to unload the tank and refill the stove with it.

"Panchito, this does not smell like kerosene," Roberto said as he took out the tank from the trunk. "It smells like gasoline. You'd better go tell Papá."

I went inside and told Papá. He was nailing a wall board that had come loose in our room. "I am sure it's fine,
mi'jo.
It's probably cheap kerosene," he answered as he continued hammering.

I took off my shirt, placed it on the mattress, and then went back outside. "Papá said it's okay," I told Roberto.

He shrugged his shoulders, picked up the tank, and carried it to the kitchen. Mamá was getting ready to cook dinner. She cleared the stove to make it easier for Roberto to refill it. The stove sat on a small table underneath a window that had plastic curtains. When Roberto was finished, Mamá placed the pot of beans on one of the burners. She then lit a match. As soon as she touched it to the burner, the stove burst into flames, setting the curtains on fire.

"
¡Ay, Dios mío!
" Mamá exclaimed, pushing Roberto and me away from the stove. "
Viejo
, the kitchen is on fire," she yelled. I was terrified. The plastic curtains curled up. Pieces of melted plastic fell to the floor, giving off dark smoke that smelled like burned rubber. Roberto picked up the dishpan full of soapy water and hurled it over the stove. It made the fire worse. Like thirsty tongues, the flames chased the water as it ran and spread on the floor.

"Get out," Papá shouted as he rushed in the kitchen and saw the flames. "Out, out!" he repeated. Mamá, Roberto, and I ran to the front of the house. Trampita, Rubén, Rorra, and Torito were already outside. We all stood by the
Carcachita.
When I saw Mamá sobbing, I felt more scared. A few moments later Papá came out coughing and clenching in his arms something wrapped in a blanket. His hair was singed. He placed the bundle on the ground and uncovered it.

The instant 1 saw the silver metal box, I thought of my note pad. "
¡Mi librito!
" I screamed out, recalling that I had left it in my shirt on the mattress.

I dashed toward the house, but Roberto quickly caught up to me and grabbed me by the back of the T-shirt and yelled, "Are you crazy?"

"I have to save it!" I cried out, pulling away from him.

Papá hurried over and stood in front of me. "
¡Ya! ¡No seas tonto,
Pancho!" he shouted angrily. His glare frightened me. I stopped struggling to get away. Roberto let go of me. I clenched my fists and tried to hold back my tears.

By the time the firemen came, the house had burned down completely. The dying flames looked like they were coming from under the ground.

Papá picked up our savings box, started walking toward the barn, and said wearily, "Let's stay in the barn tonight. Tomorrow we'll look for another place."

Everyone followed him except me. I stayed behind.

"Come on, Panchito," Mamá said.

When she saw I was not moving, she came up to me and placed her arm around me. I burst out crying. Lifting my chin with her right hand and looking me straight in the eyes, Mamá said, "We're safe and we have each other,
gracias a Dios.
"

"Yes, but what about my
librito.
It's gone, just like my pennies," I responded.

After a long pause she said, "Do you know what was in your
librito?
"

"Yes," I answered, wondering why she asked.

"Well ... if you
know
what was in your
librito,
then it's not all lost."

I heard Mamá's words but did not understand what she meant until a few days later. We had moved to a labor camp also owned by Mr. Patrini and were picking grapes again. It was a scorching, hot day. My clothes were drenched in sweat. I crouched underneath the vines for shade, but the heat pierced right through. I recalled the fire and placed my right hand over my shirt pocket. It was empty. Feeling a lump in my throat, I started thinking about Carl, my pennies, the house. Then, for a long time, I thought about my
librito
and what Mamá said. I could see in my mind every word, every number, every rule, I had written in my note pad. I knew everything in it by heart. Mamá was right. It was not all lost.

For days, when I got home from school, I found Papá lying flat and complaining about not being able to pick cotton because his back was killing him. He often talked about leaving Corcoran and going back to Santa Maria, but he kept changing his mind, hoping to get better. He constantly worried that we would not have enough money saved at the end of the cotton season to carry us over the winter months. It was already the end of December, and Roberto, my older brother, was the only one working. Mamá stayed home to take care of Papá, Rorra, and Rubén. My other two younger brothers, Torito and Trampita, went to school with me, and on weekends, when it did not rain, we went to work with Roberto. The only cotton left for us to harvest was
la bola,
the leftovers from the first picking, which paid one and a half cents a pound.

But one day when I got home, Papá did not complain about anything, not even his back. As soon as I entered the cabin, he strained to straighten up from the mattress that lay on the floor and exclaimed, "
Mi'jo
, are you all right?"

"
Sí,
Papá," I responded, wondering why he looked so worried.

"
Gracias a Dios,
" he said. "
La migra
swept through the camp about an hour ago, and I didn't know if the immigration officers searched your school too."

Mamá must have noticed the fright in my eyes when I heard the word "
migra
" because she immediately came and hugged me.

That word evoked fear ever since the immigration raid in Tent City, a labor camp in Santa Maria where we sometimes lived. It was a Saturday, late afternoon. I was playing marbles with Trampita in front of our tent when I heard someone holler, "
¡La migra! ¡La migra!
" I looked over my shoulder and saw several vans screech to a halt, blocking the entrance to the camp. The vans' doors flew open. Out dashed armed men dressed in green uniforms. They invaded the camp, moving through tents, searching for undocumented workers who ran into the wilderness behind the camp, trying to escape. Many, like Doña María,
la curandera,
were caught, herded, and hauled away in the Border Patrol vehicles. A few managed to get away. We were lucky. Mamá and Roberto had gone to town to buy groceries. Papá showed the officers his "green card" that Ito had helped him get, and they did not ask about Trampita or me.

When Roberto came home from work that evening, Papá and Mamá were relieved to see him. "You didn't see
la migra?
" Papá asked.

"It came to our camp but missed us," Mamá said, rubbing her hands together.

"It didn't come to the field," Roberto responded.

"So you didn't go out with
la migra,
" Papá said jokingly, trying to ease the tension.

Roberto went along with Papá's joke. "No, Papá, she's not my type," he answered. We all laughed nervously.

When Papá stopped laughing and bit his lower lip, I knew what was coming. "You have to be careful," he warned us, waving his index finger at Roberto and me. "You can't tell a soul you were born in Mexico. You can't trust anyone, not even your best friends. If they know, they can turn you in." I had heard those words so many times, I had memorized them. "Now, where were you born, Panchito?" he asked in a firm tone, giving me a piercing look.

"Colton, California," I answered.

"Good,
mi'jo,
" he said.

Roberto then handed Papá the money he had earned that day. Papá clenched his fists, looked away toward the wall, and said, "I am useless; I can't work; I can't feed my family; I can't even protect you from
la migra.
"

"Don't say that, Papá," Roberto answered. "You know that's not so."

Papá glanced at Roberto, lowered his eyes, and asked me to bring him the small, silver metal box where he kept our savings. When I brought it, he sat up slightly, opened it, and counted the money inside. "If I work in Santa Maria, we might be able get through this winter with what we've saved," he said worriedly. "But what if my back won't let me?"

"Don't worry, Papá," Roberto responded. "Panchito and I can find work in Santa Maria thinning lettuce and topping carrots."