1
Ed Fr
a
nk
e
l
1
9
6
5
–1
9
6
8
In the Lap of the Angel of History
“
I
ti
so
u
rt
a
s
k,t
oi
mp
r
i
n
tt
h
i
st
e
mp
o
r
a
r
y
,p
e
r
i
s
h
a
b
l
ee
a
r
t
hi
n
t
oo
u
r
s
e
l
v
e
ss
od
e
e
p
l
y
,s
op
a
i
n
f
u
l
l
ya
n
d
p
a
s
s
i
o
n
a
t
e
l
y
,
t
h
a
ti
t
se
s
s
e
n
c
ec
a
na
r
i
s
ea
g
a
i
n
,
‘
i
n
v
i
s
i
b
l
y
’
i
n
s
i
d
eu
s
.
”
(Rainer Maria Rilke, Notes to The Duino Elegies)
Our only virtue is to keep alive the memory of whatever has affected us whose only way to say thank you and goodb
y
ei
sb
yt
h
i
sa
c
to
f
ma
g
i
c
,
o
f
s
t
o
r
i
n
gi
no
u
rs
i
l
e
n
c
ewh
a
t
e
v
e
rweh
a
v
el
o
v
e
d
.
”
(Carlos Castaneda)
I can count on my right hand the big things in my life that I can look back on and know they were
100 percent right. Going to Delano and working on the farmworkers' strike is one of them.
I look through a small cardboard box that I keep in the back of my closet: A Western Union
telegraph message, De
l
a
not
oDe
t
r
oi
t
,f
r
om Re
v
e
r
e
ndJ
i
m Dr
a
k
e
,da
t
e
dApr
i
l6
,1
9
6
6
:“
Schenley
s
i
g
nsr
e
c
og
ni
t
i
onofNFWA.Re
l
e
a
s
eNe
wsS
t
a
t
e
me
nt
.S
e
ey
oui
nS
a
c
r
a
me
nt
o”
;abe
a
t
u
p,f
a
de
d
red-and-white NFWA membership card dated October 1965, signed by Cesar and Tony Orendain;
a United Farm Workers Organizing Committee membership card from 1967, signed by Cesar and
Larry Itliong; John Le
wi
s
’
st
hi
nc
ha
pbookofphot
og
r
a
phsFrom This Earth in its rough brown
c
ov
e
r
.Iope
ni
tt
ot
hemi
ddl
e
.The
r
e
’
smye
x
wi
f
e
,Ida Cousino, Mack Lyons, Bill and Irene
Chandler, Luis Valdez, Fred Ross, Manuel Chavez, Cesar, Doug Ada
i
r
,Al
e
xHof
f
ma
n.I
t
’
sa
meeting during the first Di
Gi
or
g
i
oc
a
mpa
i
g
n.He
r
e
’
sGe
neNe
l
s
on’
s1
9
6
5r
u
s
hj
obf
i
r
s
tbook
about the strike, Delano; a black-and-white NFWA button, a red UFWOC button, a black-andwhite picket captain button. A letter of introduction from Cesar that I used in Detroit during the
Schenley time and again during DiGiorgio boycotts.
A copy of the St. Louis Labor Tribune shows Macario Bustos, officials from Meat Cutters Local 88,
a
ndmes
i
t
t
i
nga
r
ou
ndat
a
bl
et
a
l
k
i
ng
.Thec
a
pt
i
onr
e
a
ds
,“
Fa
r
m Wor
k
e
r
sWi
l
lLa
u
nc
hBoy
c
ot
tIn
S
t
.Lou
i
s
,Bu
s
i
ne
s
sRe
pst
ol
d.
”Anot
he
rphot
os
howsJ
e
r
r
yVe
r
aCr
u
z
,t
hes
e
c
r
e
t
a
r
y
t
r
e
a
s
u
r
e
rof
the L.A. Teamster Local 595 (one of the few teamster locals that stuck by the union), Bill Gilbert,
head of AFL-CIO organizing for Los Angeles County, and me on a picket line being interviewed
by CBS News. There are also a couple of old Malcriados, f
r
om 1
9
6
5
.I
noneoft
he
m,I
’
m we
a
r
i
ng
s
u
ng
l
a
s
s
e
sa
ndaLe
v
i
’
sj
a
c
k
e
twi
t
hau
ni
onbu
t
t
onont
hec
ol
l
a
r
.Apa
c
kofu
ni
ons
i
g
nu
pc
a
r
dsf
or
Giumarra are in one top pocket, a pack of Pa
l
lMa
l
l
si
nt
heot
he
r
.I
’
ml
ook
i
ngdowna
tat
a
bl
ea
nd
s
mok
i
ng
.
Tha
t
’
si
t
.
But opening the box sparks an endless association of memories: smells, images, sounds, colors,
tastes, textures, and feelings begin to emerge. The faint tang of purple mimeograph ink. Ih
a
v
e
n
’
t
1
2
smelled that in 20 years, the sound of a hand-cranked mimeograph machine, the feel of the slick,
special paper, the clicking of a typewriter typing a mimeo stencil, as delicate as tissue paper. Handle
it carefully; if it wrinkles, the flyers will be useless. I see John Shroyer and me struggling with El Mosquito
Zumbidor (the Buzzing Mosquito), our jury-rigged bilingual weekly newsletter for the workers on the
DiGiorgio Ranch in Marysville and Yuba City that we were trying to organize. Many of the shed
wor
k
e
r
sa
ndt
r
u
c
kdr
i
v
e
r
sa
r
eAng
l
os
,s
ot
a
l
l
,bl
ond,l
a
nk
yJ
ohnha
shi
swor
kc
u
tou
tf
orhi
m.I
’
m
translating El Mosquito into Spanish and then Manuel Chavez or Eliseo Medina will clean it up.
John is tracing the goofy-looking Mosquito logo that we came up with, the closest we could come to
the notion of a gadfly.
Fear. The smell of it. The taste of it. The sickening black ball in my stomach. My knees shaking
when the Texas Rangers pulled Eliseo and me over on that back road. How everything seemed to
shift into slow motion.
Or
a
ng
e
s
,
t
hes
me
l
l
e
nv
e
l
opsmel
i
k
epe
r
f
u
me
.
I
’
mdr
i
v
i
ngt
hr
ou
g
hc
or
r
i
dor
sofor
a
ng
eg
r
ov
e
s
.
Food cooking in Filipino Hall. Fish, white rice, and bitter melon, an acquired taste. Menudo—t
r
i
pe
with hominy, hot and spicy. An acquired taste. Best on Sunday mornings for el crudo—aha
ng
ov
e
r
.
The nauseating smell of a funeral parlor. Candles burning. The waxy touch of Roger Te
r
r
one
z
’
s
y
e
l
l
owi
s
hs
k
i
n.Hel
ook
sa
l
mos
tbu
l
l
l
i
k
ei
nt
hec
of
f
i
n.Myf
e
e
thu
r
t
.I
’
ms
t
a
ndi
ngmyt
u
r
na
tt
he
he
a
doft
hec
a
s
k
e
t
.Myf
i
r
s
tCa
t
hol
i
cwa
k
e
.I
t
’
sc
ol
dou
t
s
i
debu
tt
hehe
a
t
e
ri
soni
nMa
nu
e
l
Ur
a
nd
a
y
’
sc
a
r
.
Thewhi
s
k
e
ybu
r
nsmyt
hr
oa
t
.
Ir
e
c
a
l
lr
e
a
di
ngt
ha
twhe
nPa
ndor
af
i
na
l
l
ys
hu
the
rma
g
i
cbox
,onl
yhoper
e
ma
i
ne
d—t
heone
source of comfort within our own control. My box of memories is infused with traces of a hope
a
ndpos
s
i
bi
l
i
t
yIha
v
e
n’
tf
e
l
ti
ny
e
a
r
s
.
It is no wonder that Mnemosyne was queen of the muses for the Greeks. Her name means
memory.
*****
Upi
nBi
l
l
’
swa
t
e
rt
owe
r
,
i
nDelano,
in the San J
oa
q
u
i
nVa
l
l
e
y
’
spa
s
t
u
r
e
sofpl
e
nt
y
,
roll-your-own Bull Durhams and pass the bottle round.
“
Wha
t
’
st
hewor
d?Thunderbird.
Wha
t
’
st
hepr
i
c
e
?Fi
f
t
yt
wi
c
e
.
”
Swallow that lump in your throat.
Take these bl
a
nc
os
,
t
he
y
’
l
l
he
l
py
ous
t
a
ya
wa
k
e
.
Drink Dos Eq
u
i
s
—bi
t
et
hel
e
mona
ndl
i
c
kt
hes
a
l
t
.
Menudo for the Sunday morning crudo,
Pa
l
l
Ma
l
l
s
—nof
i
l
t
e
r
s
.
andale pues,
s
por
taLe
v
i
’
sj
a
c
k
e
t
,
bl
u
ewor
ks
hi
r
t
,
a
ndboot
s
.
I
t
’
s1
9
6
5
.
Que viva la Huelga!
2
3
Sal si puedes.
Anything is possible.
Grow out your hair.
*****
Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing. But it is also more than that; it stands on firmer ground, being
based on the reality of forms and the observation of social phenomena, whereas history is based on documents, and the
r
e
a
d
i
n
go
f
p
r
i
n
ta
n
dh
a
n
d
wr
i
t
i
n
g
—o
ns
e
c
o
n
d
h
a
n
di
mp
r
e
s
s
i
o
n
.
Th
u
sf
i
c
t
i
o
ni
sn
e
a
r
e
rt
h
et
r
u
t
h
.Bu
tl
e
tt
h
a
tp
a
s
s
.A
historian may be an artist too, and a novelist is a historian, the preserver, the keeper, the expounder of human
experience.
—J
o
s
e
p
hCo
n
r
a
d
“
Th
eGr
e
e
kss
a
wt
h
ef
u
t
u
r
ea
ss
o
me
t
h
i
n
gt
h
a
tc
a
meu
p
o
nt
h
e
mf
r
o
mb
e
h
i
n
dt
h
e
i
rb
a
c
kswi
t
ht
h
ep
a
s
tr
e
c
e
d
i
n
ga
wa
y
b
e
f
o
r
et
h
e
i
re
y
e
s
.
”
—Ro
b
e
r
tPirsig, Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
*****
I look back to the three years I spent in Delano and with the f
a
r
mwor
k
e
r
s
’s
t
r
i
k
e
,a
ndIi
ma
g
i
ne
my
s
e
l
fi
nt
hel
a
pofWa
l
t
e
rBe
nj
a
mi
n’
sAngel of History. She has me in her arms and her back is
turned to the future. I stare hard toward the past, through the tule fog of the San Joaquin Valley.
Thef
ogt
hi
nsa
ndl
i
f
t
s
,
a
ndi
ti
sS
e
pt
e
mbe
r1
9
6
5
—t
hepe
a
koft
heg
r
a
peha
r
v
e
s
ta
ndt
hebe
g
i
nni
ng
of the strike. I open a telescope and gaze intently. I am so close to my memories that I can kiss
t
he
m,bu
tIha
v
enope
r
s
pe
c
t
i
v
e
—Is
e
ee
v
e
r
y
t
hi
ngf
r
om t
hee
y
e
sofa2
0
y
e
a
r
ol
dy
ou
ngma
n,a
young man with stars in his eyes and the music of hope and change resonating in his ears. I can
feel his joy and pride to be part of La Huelga. But I am frustrated, because when I put down the
t
e
l
e
s
c
ope
,
I
’
ml
e
f
twi
t
ht
hepe
r
s
pe
c
t
i
v
ea
ndmy
opi
cs
i
g
htofa5
8
y
e
a
r
ol
dma
nwa
t
c
hi
ngt
hey
ou
ng
boy
’
sme
mor
i
e
si
nt
hedi
s
t
a
nc
e
.S
ome
t
i
me
st
hepe
opl
es
t
opwha
tt
he
ya
r
edoi
nga
ndl
ooki
nmy
direction, as if they hear a voice or sense a presence. Like shy and careful animals, they keep their
perfect distance. What do I choose to record? What do I write down? Whose words and
perspective do I take? Eddie, the young man? Ed, the older man? How can I ever hope to speak
clearly about all this? How can I get it right? This is not the first time I have tried.
Perhaps if I can get a little closer, it will become clearer. I implore the angel to move toward the
past, but even as she tries to flap her wings, she can make little progress against the winds of time.
Instead of getting closer to the past, we are being blown backwards slowly into the future.
The Angel of History has witnessed it all. She has recorded the past in her memory but it is as if
s
hei
smu
t
e
,
a
nddoe
s
n’
ts
pe
a
k
.
Orwhe
ns
hedoe
ss
pe
a
k
,
i
tis in the chill of a language so foreign I
know I will never translate it. Or she speaks in poetry, conundrums, and riddles like the Sibyl at
De
l
phi
.S
ome
t
i
me
ss
her
e
mi
ndsmeofCa
s
s
a
ndr
a
—e
v
e
ni
fpe
opl
ec
ou
l
dhe
a
rhe
re
v
e
r
ywor
d,no
one would believes her. Her memories are like multifaceted jewels, diamonds, Cubist paintings.
They reflect in multiple, simultaneous perspectives; sharp, angular facets; and interpenetrating
colors, shapes, forms, and dimensions. Many voices are speaking at the same time: Spanish,
3
4
English, Tagalog, Ilocano, Portuguese, fragments of Japanese and Arabic. Some voices are singing.
*****
I worked with the farmworker union from 1965 when the strike began, to 1968. Afterwards, I
made a living as a musician, working sporadically. To support my wife and daughter, I worked for
three years in East L.A. with the Community Service Organization (CSO), the organization where
Cesar first met Fred Ross. In the 1970s, I started a small social-service program in Pasadena, later
taught English as a second language, moved around a bit with my family, and finally started college
and eventually graduate school.
I have taught English at UCLA for 21 years. When things are going right in the classroom, I tell
my disbelieving students that I learn as much as they do, perhaps more. I bring this up because
although I went to Delano to help in the f
a
r
mwor
k
e
r
s
’s
t
r
u
g
g
l
e
,Iwou
ndu
pwi
t
ht
hek
i
ndof
education I would never have gotten in college. I learned so much, perhaps more than I tried to
give, and in those days, like so many people who saw the winds of change rustling the wings and
blowing up the robes of the Angel of History, I was prepared and willing to give a lot.
The teenagers I grew up with were watching American Bandstand, hanging out on the street corners
of northeast Philadelphia singing doo wop, and worrying about what kind of glass packs, skirts,
a
nddu
a
le
x
ha
u
s
tpi
pe
st
opu
tont
he
i
r’
5
7Chevies. Or they were signing up for classes at Temple
University or getting jobs at the Bethlehem Steel mill, the shipyards, and the refineries. While some
of them were signing up or being drafted to join the army and ship out to Vietnam, I was signing
up farmworkers at the Giumarra and DiGiorgio ranches and worrying about what the Texas
Rangers would do the next time we went out on the picket line in Rio Grande.
I saw a world I would never have been privy to otherwise, behind the lace curtain of the American
Dream in Delano, Bakersfield, Lamont, Earlimart, McFarland, Pixley, Visalia, Porterville, Gilroy,
Hollister, Livingston, Merced, Fresno, and Weedpatch (where the film Grapes of Wrath was shot). I
went from house to house with Luis Valdez in Earlimart, listened to him talk about Bertolt Brecht
and agit-prop theater as he was putting together El Teatro Campesino. I helped start the first union
hiring hall with Dolores Hu
e
r
t
aa
nd“
Fa
t
s
”a
f
t
e
rS
c
he
nl
e
ys
i
g
ne
dt
hef
i
r
s
ta
g
r
i
c
u
l
t
u
r
a
lwor
k
e
r
s
’
union contract. At age 22, I was the union representative for the Gallo, Novitiate, and Franzia
ranches. I was sent to Detroit and St. Louis on the boycotts; to Texas with Eliseo Medina, Gilbert
Padilla, and Kathy Lynch to help out with the strike; and to Marysville and Yuba City with Manuel
Chavez to organize the DiGiorgio Ranch. I met with Mexican unions in Tamaulipas and along the
northern Texas-Sonora border to try to keep Mexican nationals from crossing the bridges at
Reynosa, Camargo, and Miguel Aleman and breaking the melon strike. I took 20 strikers to L.A. to
picket the markets. I fell in love with Ida Cousino.
*****
I
t
’
s2i
nt
hemor
ni
nga
ndweha
v
ej
u
s
tf
i
ni
s
he
dl
oa
di
ngu
pt
hef
ooda
ndc
l
ot
hi
ng
.I
’
mr
i
di
ngi
nt
he
back of Paul Ros
e
nf
e
l
d’
s1
9
6
0For
dpi
c
k
u
pt
r
u
c
kt
ha
t
’
sl
a
bor
i
ngu
pt
heGr
a
pe
v
i
neonHi
g
hwa
y9
9
,
heading for the San Joaquin Valley and Delano. Four of us are huddled under blankets and all
4
5
kinds of romantic foolishness i
sg
oi
ngt
hr
ou
g
hmyhe
a
d.
I
’
me
x
c
i
t
e
da
ndne
r
v
ou
s
.
S
t
r
i
k
e
sc
a
nme
a
n
scabs with baseball bats and axe handles, and I have visions of Woody Guthrie, Tom Joad,
Pr
e
a
c
he
rCa
s
e
y
,a
nda
st
hes
ongg
oe
s
,t
heUni
onMa
i
d“
whone
v
e
rwa
sa
f
r
a
i
d/ofg
oonsa
ndginks
a
ndc
ompa
nyf
i
nk
s
,
a
ndde
pu
t
ys
he
r
i
f
f
swhoma
det
her
a
i
ds
.
”I
’
m wonde
r
i
ngwha
tI
’
l
ldoi
foneof
those goons or ginks comes after me with one of those axe handles. More songs come back to me:
“
TheS
pr
i
ng
hi
l
lMi
neDi
s
a
s
t
e
r
”a
nd“
TheHi
g
hS
he
r
i
f
fofHa
z
a
r
d,
”a
sdomov
i
e
s
—Salt of the Earth
about the Chicano copper strikes in Colorado, and The Organizer, with Marcello Mastroianni. I
’
m
r
e
c
a
l
l
i
ngc
i
v
i
lr
i
g
ht
spi
c
k
e
tl
i
ne
sa
ndde
mons
t
r
a
t
i
onsI
’
v
ebe
e
ni
n.“
Re
me
mbe
rt
ot
a
k
eof
fy
ou
r
jewelry, glasses, and watches. Girls, take the earring out of your ears. Cover your face and nose
with the inside of your forearm, and the top of your head with your hand; cross your legs to cover
y
ou
rg
r
oi
na
ndl
i
eony
ou
rba
c
ks
oa
snott
oe
x
pos
ey
ou
rs
pi
ne
.
”Ir
e
me
mbe
rwa
t
c
hi
ngf
r
i
e
nds
be
i
ngdr
a
g
g
e
dt
oj
a
i
la
nds
i
ng
i
ng“
WeS
ha
l
lNotBeMov
e
d”a
nd“
Ai
n’
tGonnaLe
tNobodyTu
r
n
MeRou
nd.
”
We
’
v
ebe
e
nbu
c
k
e
da
ndwe
’
v
ebe
e
ns
c
or
ne
d
We
’
v
ebe
e
nt
a
l
k
e
da
bou
ts
u
r
e
’
sy
ou
’
r
ebor
n
Bu
twe
’
l
l
ne
v
e
rt
u
r
nba
c
k
Nowe
’
l
l
ne
v
e
rt
u
r
nba
c
k
Until everyone is free.
Andwe
’
v
eg
ote
q
u
a
l
i
t
y
.
Just writing the words still gives me the chills.
We pull off of Highway 99 and up to the NFWA headquarters where we are going to drop off the
f
ooda
ndc
l
ot
he
s
.I
t
’
sa
bou
t5i
nt
hemor
ni
nga
ndIha
v
et
ope
e
,bu
tt
he
r
e
’
sahu
g
eGe
r
ma
n
shepherd barking and circling the truck and no one wants to get down. I spend an hour wiggling
a
ndwa
t
c
hi
ngar
e
da
ndor
a
ng
es
u
nc
omeu
pf
r
om ahor
i
z
onf
l
a
ta
nds
t
r
a
i
g
hta
sar
a
z
or
.I
’
m al
i
t
t
l
e
too embarrassed to pee out of the truck bed since there are two girls with us. Finally a man comes
ou
toft
hehou
s
e
,
c
a
l
l
i
ng“
Callate Oso,
”a
ndBe
a
rt
heGe
r
ma
ns
he
phe
r
ds
t
opst
r
y
i
ngt
oc
he
wont
he
rear tire and goes up on the porch. Julio Hernandez shows us to the bathroom in the Pink House,
behind the office where all the volunteers are rolling up their sleeping bags. Then we follow J
u
l
i
o’
s
car to Filipino Hall for breakfast.
*****
Filipino Hall is where the strikers eat and hold meetings. Breakfast is in a cafeteria-style kitchen
where you help yourself to white bread, peanut butter, jam, tortillas, eggs, oatmeal, and coffee
from commercial-size urns. Old Filipino farmworkers sit on chairs around the hall smoking
cigarettes. Young Filipino men joke and jostle each other. Young white kids are scattered among
all the Mexican strikers. Off to picket and then back for lunch: mystery meat, rice, bitter melon,
some kind of fish, and Kool-Aid.
I rode out to the fields in the Pe
r
r
e
r
a
,
apa
ne
l
t
r
u
c
kni
c
k
na
me
dt
he“
DogCa
t
c
he
r
.
”Mikey Vasquez,
the driver, is wearing a cowboy hat with one side pinned up with an NFWA button like an
Australian bush ranger, and sitting next to him is a Chicana woman wearing a red bandana and a
5
6
pair of binoculars and talking into a CB radio. A skinny blond boy, about 17 years old, is rolling a
cigarette from a Bugler bag, and Ron Ca
pl
a
n,
Ce
s
a
r
’
ss
e
c
r
e
t
a
r
y
,
a
l
l
6f
e
e
t
,
6i
nc
he
sofhi
m,
i
spu
l
l
i
ng
his hair into a short ponytail. He looks like a lumberjack, but when we begin talking it turns out
he
’
sapoe
ta
ndwr
i
t
e
rf
r
om Pi
t
t
s
bu
r
g
hwhoha
sa bad back and can barely lift up his typewriter. He
ha
dq
u
i
tVI
S
TAi
nAr
i
z
onaamont
hors
oa
g
owhe
r
ehea
ndhi
sg
i
r
l
f
r
i
e
ndha
dbe
e
n“
g
i
v
i
ngou
t
c
of
f
e
ea
nddou
g
hnu
t
st
ot
heI
ndi
a
ns
.
”Thet
hr
e
eofu
swi
l
lbe
c
omef
r
i
e
nds
.Thr
e
emont
hsf
r
om
now, Bob will get dressed in three layers of clothes and Cesar will give him $50 and a bottle of
brandy and Bob will jump one of the trains to find out where the reefer cars with the scab grapes
are going. The beginning of the grape boycott. Desperate measures for desperate times, I suppose.
Amont
hl
a
t
e
r
,he
’
l
lr
u
nof
fwi
t
hCe
s
a
r
’
sne
ws
e
c
r
e
t
a
r
y
,J
a
neO’
Ha
r
e
.Several years down the road,
I will join Ron at Frontier Press in Pittsburgh, where he will publish small high-quality books and
poe
t
r
y
:
Wi
l
l
i
a
mCa
r
l
osWi
l
l
i
a
ms
’
sSpring and All, Haniel Long
’
sIf We Can Make It So, and Alexander
Be
r
k
ma
nn’
sMemoirs of a Prison Anarchist (written while serving a lengthy sentence in jail for
shooting Ford Frick during the Carnegie Steel Strike).
The picket line stretches along the side of fields divided by numbered narrow roads: Avenue 36,
Avenue 38, Avenue 40. From the crop duster above, it must look like an endless chessboard. The
f
a
r
mwor
k
e
r
sa
r
et
hepa
wns
.Ma
y
bet
hes
he
r
i
f
f
sa
r
et
hebl
a
c
kk
ni
g
ht
s
.Wha
ta
r
et
heg
r
owe
r
s
—t
he
kings? Who are we? Perhaps the game has changed and we are playing off the board. The rules of
engagement no longer hold. Ron tells me that a similar plane had sprayed a group of strikers by the
Dispoto Ranch last week. Back in the Pink House that night, Marshall Ganz, Augie Lira, and I
trade folk songs on Au
g
i
e
’
sg
u
i
t
a
r
.Monda
y
,be
f
or
ewedr
i
v
eba
c
kt
oLA,Ig
oi
nt
ot
heof
f
i
c
ea
nd
ask Dolores Hu
e
r
t
a
’
spe
r
mi
s
s
i
ont
omov
eu
pt
oDelano and join the strike. I head back to L.A.,
pa
c
ka
l
l
mybook
si
nt
oaf
oot
l
oc
k
e
r
,
a
ndl
e
a
v
emyt
hi
ng
swi
t
hmyGe
r
ma
nu
nc
l
e
,
“
Gu
mpy
,
”ou
ti
n
the San Fernando Valley. I packed a duffel bag with a pea coat, a wool cap, (someone said it would
get cold in November), a few clothes and books, a leather-bound Obras Completas—t
hepoe
t
r
y
,
prose, and plays of Garcia Lorca that my grandfather gave me when I left home for California. I
was fairly fluent in Spanish.
*****
At the beginning of the World War II, Franklin D. Roosevelt drafted all of the Filipino armed
forces, 140,000 soldiers, into service under the U. S. military. A recession act, passed by Congress
shortly after the war, prohibited Filipino veterans from receiving full military benefits for their
service. Only recently have the 25,000 or so Filipino veterans who still survive received those
benefits. Several thousand live in the United States today. After the war, many Filipino men came
to this country to work as farm laborers in the San Joaquin Valley. The Delano grape strike, which
began September 8, 1965, was started by the primarily Filipino union, the Agricultural Workers
Organizing Committee, AFL-CIO. Two weeks after the Filipinos struck, Cesar Cha
v
e
z
’
sNa
t
i
ona
l
Farm Workers Association voted to walk out of the fields. Because many of the Filipino men came
alone to the U. S. to work, they never married or returned to their wives in the Philippines.
*****
Filipino Town, 1965
6
7
Atni
g
htonMa
i
nS
t
r
e
e
t
—r
e
dl
i
g
ht
s
string muted rubies in the tule fog,
histories of Three-Card Monte, and Acey Deucy,
s
hyv
i
s
i
t
st
oEl
e
na
’
spl
a
c
ebe
hi
ndt
heS
t
a
r
l
i
g
htbowl
i
nga
l
l
e
y
,
cockfights, knife fights retold in Ilocano, Tagalog, and pidgin English,
Escrima dreams, bahala na, whatever happens, happens.
Lucky Lucay, Julian Balidoy, Edgar Sulite, Angel Cabales,
winners of purple hearts, silver stars, and government commendations,
scouts, point men, coast watchers,
slick-haired boys who jitterbugged in pre-war Manila,
dove for oysters with goggles made from Coke bottle bottoms
in the lagoons of Cebu and Mindanao,
led G.I.s from Hollywood and Chicago
through the bamboo jungles.
Now they water gardens of winter squash and bitter melon.
Men without women, behind the barracks in the labor camp,
cook adobo in outdoor kitchens in Earlimart and Delano,
fieldpack the ladyfingers, ribeiras and flaming reds.
Thi
n’
e
m,
pi
c
k
’
e
m,
pa
c
k
’
e
m,
Nail the lugs shut.
S
wa
mp’
e
mi
nt
or
e
e
f
e
rt
r
u
c
k
s
,
c
ol
ds
t
or
a
g
e
,
ov
e
rt
heGr
a
pe
v
i
ne
,
south past Castaic Junction into another valley.
Angel Cabales could hammer the fruit crates shut
faster than the machine that killed John Henry,
The seeds still warm, the flesh of the fruit still trembling.
Now in winter, in chill fog and thicket,
in Army surplus parkas,
Anting Anting tattoos fade on their calves and chests.
Blood tugs from their limbs back to their hearts.
They huddle around fires in 50-gallon barrels,
searching for their women, they dream
Histories of Lapu Lapu,
who killed Magellan in his armor, in the shallows,
with a fire-hardened wooden stick and a bow and arrow.
They walk toward vanishing points and perimeters,
pruning shears slung over their shoulders.
Thes
t
r
a
wbos
sc
a
n’
tg
e
tt
he
i
rna
me
sr
i
g
ht
.
Asparagus knives and Texas shorties
in hands as hard as the soles of your shoes.
During the strike, I hung around the edges of their fires,
warmed my hands, darkened
7
8
my own soft face over the smoking drums.
A heart with two ears, two thin wings flapping,
The least of my glorious brothers,
the earnest listener of stories,
the sidekick, the unspoken son,
installing in his silent ear the braveries of others,
relics of the future past, their stories,
like your telltale mirrors
leaning in corridors and hallways,
solemn statues draped with sheets.
My friends are my flowers,
I told you years later,
Whe
ny
oua
s
k
e
dmewhyIdi
dn’
tg
a
r
de
n.
I could never tell the story right.
My fear, that I took for cowardice,
the rising gorge of embarrassed romances,
invisible, confused betrayals, a crow for a tongue,
clucks and bitters in my throat,
A boy looking at the world of men
through his thick horn-rimmed glasses.
Let yourself off that hook, you told me.
We
’
r
ea
l
l
l
ook
i
ngou
tt
hebot
t
omsofs
odabot
t
l
e
s
,
All that bleary thick-marbled, shopworn glass.
“
Thedr
e
a
mwor
l
di
s
n’
tmu
c
hr
e
a
l
e
rt
ha
nt
her
e
a
l
wor
l
d,
whi
c
hi
s
n’
tt
e
r
r
i
bl
yg
odda
mnr
e
a
l
t
obe
g
i
nwi
t
h.
”
And Angel Cabales, in the cold storage,
who fought his way through five Anglos
and laid them out cold
with a 20-inch bamboo escrima stick,
Edgar Sulite, Julian Balidoy, Lucky Lukay,
those slick-haired island boys,
their silver stars and faded purple hearts
in beat-up wicker suitcases,
are as real, now, as this poem,
which stand on firmer ground than history.
*****
As the grape harvest was finishing, someone came up with the idea to find out where the grapes
were going in L.A. and to picket the produce terminals, the distributors, or the markets themselves.
This might have been after the longshoremen in San Francisco had refused to load scab grapes on
a boat, one of the first concrete showings of union solidarity beyond donations of food and
8
9
money. And we were still not even a union at the time nor were we affiliated with the AFL-CIO,
or anyone else.
We borrowed Ida Cou
s
i
no’
s1
9
6
3br
ownFor
dFa
l
c
on(
“
J
u
s
tf
ort
heni
g
ht
,Miz I
da
—we
’
l
lbr
i
ngi
t
ba
c
ki
nt
hemor
ni
ng
”
)a
ndf
ol
l
owe
da
na
i
r
c
ondi
t
i
one
dr
e
e
f
e
rt
r
u
c
kou
toft
hef
i
e
l
dswhe
r
ei
twa
s
loaded with table grapes. South on Highway 99, past Bakersfield, up over the Grapevine and into
L.A. The driver parked to sleep near the central produce terminal downtown at 6th and Central
a
ndwe
—Ma
nu
e
lUranday, Pete Cardenas or Robert Bu
s
t
os
,a
ndI
—pa
r
k
e
dc
l
os
eby
.Whe
nt
he
driver took his load to the cold storage, we dragged signs out of the trunk and threw up a picket
line. Teamster swampers, mostly Chicanos, were getting ready to unload the truck. We told them
where the grapes came from, and asked them not to unload them. They called their business agent,
Big Bill Williams, a big black man from Teamster Local 626 who rolled up in a big black Cadillac
an hour later. He told them not to do anything until he checked with Archie Neal, the president of
the local. It took several days before the grapes finally got unloaded. We knew we were onto
something.
I think Dolores Huerta was in Los Angeles at that time, staying over in East L.A., either with Suzy
Vi
l
l
a
l
obos
,Ce
s
a
r
’
sa
u
nt
,orwi
t
hDelfino Varela, an immigration attorney with a house and office
on Soto Street that we turned into NFWA’
sLosAng
e
l
e
sof
f
i
c
eofs
or
t
s
.Wes
l
e
ptt
he
r
eont
he
floor in sleeping bags. People were always driving up with boxes of food and clothing. We talked
about following the trucks in a more organized way, and someone from SNCC (the Student
Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) offered to put a radio in I
da
’
sFa
l
c
ona
ndhooku
su
pwi
t
h
short-wave radios in the Delano office. Miz I
dawou
l
dn’
tmi
ndj
u
s
tac
ou
pl
eofhol
e
si
nt
her
oofof
he
rne
w Fa
l
c
onf
ort
hea
nt
e
nna
e
.Idon’
tt
hi
nkwebr
ou
g
hthe
rc
a
rba
c
kf
ort
wowe
e
k
s
.Para la
Causa, Miz Ida.
When we returned to Delano we set up the system. We parked a radio car on the top of the
Grapevine. Strikers in Delano would try and follow a reefer truck south and radio us. We would
pick up the semi at the Tejon Pass or Castaic Junction, and the strikers would return to Delano,
while we followed the truck into L.A. We would sit for hours, cold and tired in Manuel Ur
a
nda
y
’
s
big white boat of a Ford Fairlane. A young white boy and a couple of seasoned Chicano
farmworkers from Earlimart sharing thermoses of coffee, cold bean burritos, and the occasional
joint or benny, just to stay awake. Talking to each other about our very different lives. We raised
holy hell throwing up picket lines at the cold storage units at the produce terminal. We sent more
s
t
r
i
k
e
r
sdowna
ndr
a
i
s
e
dmor
ehol
yhe
l
l
.
Loc
a
l
6
2
6c
ou
l
dn’
tt
e
l
l
i
t
sme
mbe
r
sof
f
i
c
i
a
l
l
ynott
ou
nl
oa
d
the grapes, but every time we threw up a picket line, work would stop, union reps would roll up,
and there would be long debates and discussions. Many times the swampers would walk away from
the load and go back to the hiring hall to wait to be called to another truck and another job. We
got a lot of publicity, caused a lot of confusion, and set the stage for the first real secondary
boycotts of markets that sold scab grapes.
All the loading and unloading was done during the night when there was room for the semis to
mov
ef
r
e
e
l
yt
hr
ou
g
ht
hedownt
own’
sde
s
e
r
t
e
ds
t
r
e
e
t
s
.Ev
e
nwi
t
ht
hes
t
r
e
e
t
smos
t
l
ye
mpt
y
,i
ft
he
trucks were pulling doubles, they would stash one in a holding yard or a vacant lot, unload, then
come back and switch trailers. When the swampers tried to take the grapes off the truck, we would
9
10
stand or sit in front of the back door of the semis to keep the swampers from running their dollies
into the trucks and off loading the grapes. Even Dolores Huerta took her share of knocks. During
the day, we went around to the unions in town, trying to raise money and support. Dolores was
unstoppable. She begged, argued, cajoled, and took whatever she could get. We made all the
rounds, waiting in anterooms and speaking at local meetings. We spread news of the strike to the
union longshoreman, autoworkers, retail clerks, teamsters, meat cutters and butchers; to the
International Ladies Garment Workers Union; to civic organizations like the GI Forum, LULAC,
CORE, NAACP; to students at UCLA and East L.A. Junior College. Just give Dolores a podium
ora
nor
a
ng
ec
r
a
t
ea
ndf
or
g
e
tt
hemi
c
r
ophone
.Fa
t
su
s
e
dt
oc
a
l
lhe
r“
Chi
s
pa
s
”
—Sparky. She
reminded me a little of the famous Spanish Civil War Leader La Pasionaria. In 15 minutes, Dolores
Huerta could have the toughest roomful of union guys wiping their eyes and reaching for their
wallets. She would walk out of a local meeting with $2000 stuffed into her long secondhand winter
coat. I had stars in my eyes for Dolores. I suppose I always will.
*****
Upi
nBi
l
l
’
sWa
t
e
rTowe
r
I
In the San J
oa
q
u
i
nVa
l
l
e
y
’
spa
s
t
u
r
e
sofpl
e
nt
y
,
from our Lady of Gu
a
da
l
u
pe
’
ss
i
deoft
het
r
a
c
k
s
,
we dreamed of Joe Hill, and the Wobblies
r
i
di
ngt
her
a
i
l
st
hr
ou
g
hhi
s
t
or
y
’
spa
nde
moni
u
m,
We were volunteers and reluctant, conscripted players.
Up in the water tower, we sang
“
De
por
t
e
e
s
,
”“
Siete Le
g
u
a
s
,
”a
nd“
DeCol
or
e
s
.
”
Folks who sing and dance together can be dangerous.
We watched another sun drop a scarlet slipstream
into fields of Ladyfingers, Ribeiras, Flaming Reds,
strung out on wires in their sugary sweat,
gilded, and filigreed under dusted green.
I
nt
heCe
nt
r
a
l
Va
l
l
e
y
’
ss
l
owmot
i
ons
we
e
pa
nds
t
r
e
t
c
h,
the ten original dimensions had collapsed
into petrified histories, heatscapes, and vanishing points,
while friends and children worked the perfumed corridors,
the corporate orchards and the stoop crops.
A widening into some original time.
Another pale of settlement.
II
Epifanio Ca
ma
c
ho’
s’
5
1pi
c
k
u
p
drives past the water tower,
A bull for a hood ornament,
10
11
tricked out with running lights,
hand-painted on the hood in black letters:
“
Whe
nIg
oIf
l
y
,
”
Cuando me voy me vuelo.
Children in the back of the pickup smile and wave.
Born and raised in Earlimart,
t
he
y
’
v
ene
v
e
rs
e
e
nt
heoc
e
a
n7
0mi
l
e
sa
wa
y
,
the other side of Tehachapi.
They think the hippies are gypsies.
The
y
’
v
ene
v
e
re
a
t
e
ni
naDe
nny
’
s
or an International House of Pancakes.
The
yt
ou
c
hmyhe
a
dt
os
e
et
ha
tJ
e
wsr
e
a
l
l
ydon’
tha
v
ehor
ns
.
Ca
ma
c
ho’
sr
a
di
opl
a
y
scorridos and rancheros,
“
Jacinto Tr
e
v
i
no,
”i
nbor
de
rS
pa
ni
s
h,
outdrawing the Rangers in Laredo
on the wrong side of the border.
“
J
u
a
nCha
r
a
s
q
u
i
a
d
o,
”J
ohnnyScarface
dances a two-step to a norteño accordion.
Vi
l
l
ar
i
de
s
—c
ha
s
i
ngt
het
r
a
i
nsi
nIrapuato,
“
Siete Le
g
u
a
s
,
”hi
sg
i
a
ntbay, lathered in full gallop.
Thet
r
a
i
n’
ss
u
ndi
a
l
whe
e
l
sma
r
kwha
twi
l
l
s
t
i
f
f
e
ni
nt
ot
i
me
.
The twin smokestacks breathe heavy,
like the volcano lovers who will never be reunited.
The train hisses to a stop.
Vi
l
l
a
’
sc
a
v
a
l
r
yc
i
r
c
l
i
ng
,
Federales lined up and shot,
passengers searched, jewelry pulled off fingers,
the loosened angles of powdered necks
Where are your children tonight, Pancho?
Where is the Army of the North when we need them?
Where is the army of the south?
In San Cristobal de Las Casas
Za
pa
t
as
i
t
shi
shor
s
ei
nt
hec
hu
r
c
hy
a
r
d’
ss
ha
dow,
cocks back his sombrero, one leg over the pommel
and searches the sky for rain.
*****
What I saw of the strike was remarkably, though not entirely, nonviolent. Once, on the picket line
at the DiGiorgio ranch, before the first Schenley contract, one of the foremen pulled a gun and
s
ome
onec
a
meu
pwi
t
ht
hei
de
at
oma
k
eac
i
t
i
z
e
n’
sa
r
r
e
s
t
.Ida Cousino was selected, or perhaps
s
hev
ol
u
nt
e
e
r
e
d.S
hewe
ntu
pt
ohi
ma
ndpu
the
rha
ndonhi
sa
r
ma
nds
a
i
dhewa
su
nde
rc
i
t
i
z
e
n’
s
arrest. He pushed her away, maybe knocked her down, and then pandemonium began. All the
11
12
Mexican strikers loved Miz Ida; she was the sweetheart of the rodeo. She had set up a child-care
center in Earlimart and everyone knew her. Manuel Vasquez tore across the picket line and tackled
the guard. The sheriffs, who were lined up with their helmets and clubs waded through the crowd
that was enveloped in dust, separating ranch foremen, guards, and strikers. Fists were flying, bodies
were flying, and the very reverend Jim Drake, head and shoulders above most of us, hands up in
the air in supplication, was pleading for everyone to stop. No matter how many times Cesar
s
t
r
e
s
s
e
di
t
,
noma
t
t
e
rhowma
nyt
i
me
swes
a
ng“
WeS
ha
l
lOv
e
r
c
ome
,
”e
v
e
r
yonc
ei
nag
r
e
a
twhi
l
e
,
things just fell apart.
At the beginning of the DiGiorgio campaign, one of the hired guards, maybe a teamster, was
wa
l
k
i
ngu
pa
nddownt
hepi
c
k
e
tl
i
nec
u
r
s
i
nga
ndi
ns
u
l
t
i
nge
v
e
r
y
one
’
sma
nhood,c
ha
l
l
e
ng
i
ng
a
ny
onet
oaf
i
g
ht
,Hewa
st
wi
r
l
i
ngag
ol
fc
l
u
b,bu
thedi
dn’
tl
ookl
i
k
ehe
’
de
v
e
rpl
a
y
e
dt
heg
a
me
very well. A small Mexican man stepped out of the crowd of strikers and crossed the picket line.
Hec
ou
l
dn’
tha
v
ebe
e
nmor
et
ha
n1
3
5pou
nds
.Theg
u
a
r
dha
dhi
m bya
tl
e
a
s
t5
0pou
nds
.The
r
e
was a heated exchange of words, three seconds of sparring, and a quick exchange of chingazos. I
think the Mexican guy threw one good punch, knocked the guard out, and disappeared back into
t
hec
r
owd.Hewa
s
n’
tar
e
g
u
l
a
rs
t
r
i
k
e
r
,a
ndIne
v
e
rs
a
whi
ma
g
a
i
n,bu
tIr
e
me
mbe
rhowf
a
s
thehi
t
him and how hard the guy dropped.
There were shadows of darker stories. An AFL-CIO organizer had a run-in with the teamsters
during the beginning of the DiGiorgio election. They caught up with him at a motel and stuck a
br
ooms
t
i
c
kwi
t
hana
i
lont
hee
ndofi
tu
phi
sr
e
c
t
u
m.Iwa
s
n’
ti
nt
hei
nne
rc
i
r
c
l
ea
ndIne
v
e
rg
ot
the details.
*****
I was most impressed with the practice of nonviolence when I was I was sent to Texas in 1967
with Gil Padilla, Eliseo Medina, and Kathy Lynch. Starr County in southern Texas was like a glitch
in time. The first day of the melon strike, Ranger Randall Nye promptly showed up and arrested
Gene Nelson. I was told that there was a law making it illegal to be a union organizer. Eliseo and I
were in jail before our first week there had finished.
You felt like you were in a John Wayne movie set in the 1800s, except in Rio Grande, the Lone
Ranger was not your friend and Jay Silverheels and Clayton Moore were back in Hollywood
somewhere, smoking cigarettes behind their dressing trailers. The Rangers in Texas all wore white
Stetsons, holsters, and revolvers, For decades, contraband had been smuggled across the Rio
Grande: tequila and mezcal, people, marijuana, and later, harder drugs. Because it was illegal to
bring a car from the U.S. into Mexico and leave it there, even cars in pieces and sections went
across the ankle-deep parts of the river. There was a long history of border conflicts, altercations,
a
nds
hoot
ou
t
sbe
t
we
e
n“
Ri
nc
he
s
”a
ndMe
x
i
c
a
nst
hr
ou
g
hou
tt
heValle Mágico. Many of the
Chicanos kept 22s and shotguns in the back of their pickup trucks to hunt Chachalaca birds down
byt
heRi
oGr
a
nde
.
Ma
nyoft
he
mk
ne
wt
hewor
dst
o“El Corrido de Jacinto Trevino”byhe
a
r
t
:
Cantina de El Elefanta
Donde el caso sucedio
12
13
En donde Ignacio Trevino
Con los Rinches se topo
Cuando los primeros tiros
La cantina quedo sola
No mas Jacinto Trevino
Su canana y su pistola
Decia Jacinto Trevino
Con su pistola en su mano
No corra rinches cobardes
Con un solo Mexicano
At the Elephant Saloon
Tha
t
’
swhe
r
et
hee
v
e
nt
st
ookpl
a
c
e
Tha
t
’
swhe
r
eJacinto Trevino
Locked horns with the Rangers
At the sound of the first shots,
The Saloon was deserted
Only Ignacio Trevino remained
With his pistol and his cartridge belt
Then said Jacinto Trevino
With his pistol in his hand
“
Don’
tr
u
ny
ouc
owa
r
dl
yRa
ng
e
r
s
Fr
omj
u
s
toneMe
x
i
c
a
n.
”
With his pistol in his hand. Nonviolence was a hard sell, but remarkably, it stuck. The only
violence I saw during my three months in Texas was on the part of the Rangers, who beat
Magdaleno Dimas, one of the strikers, very badly one night.
The sheriffs in Starr County were considerably less intimidating. In fact, in Rio Grande, several of
them were Chicanos. We got to know the sheriff, Roberto Pena, and we got to know his jail. I
remember what was scratched on one of the walls, maybe a fragment of a homegrown corrido, or
just some jailhouse poetry.
I
’
l
l
g
i
v
eat
wodol
l
a
rbou
nt
y
For the sheriff of Starr County
And his crooked brand of order
On the north side of the border.
The community of Chicanos in South Texas must have been a bit ingrown and interrelated
be
c
a
u
s
es
omeoft
hes
t
r
i
k
e
r
sIwa
si
nj
a
i
lwi
t
hwe
r
er
e
l
a
t
e
dt
ot
hes
he
r
i
f
f
.Whe
nt
he
ydi
dn’
tl
i
k
et
he
13
14
f
ood,
t
he
ys
t
a
r
t
e
dba
ng
i
ngont
heba
r
swi
t
ht
he
i
rc
u
psy
e
l
l
i
ng“
cunado, cunado (cousin, cousin), if you
don’
tbr
i
ngu
ss
ome
t
hi
ngde
c
e
ntt
oe
a
twe
’
r
eg
oi
ngt
ot
e
l
l
y
ou
rmot
he
r
.
”
Theu
ni
onha
ds
e
tu
papi
c
k
e
tl
i
nea
tar
a
i
l
r
oa
dc
r
os
s
i
ngi
noneoft
hene
a
r
byt
owns
—Ha
r
l
i
ng
e
n,I
be
l
i
e
v
e
.Wewe
r
e
n’
tbl
oc
k
i
ngt
het
r
a
i
nsnordi
dwei
nt
e
ndt
o,bu
twhe
nt
het
r
a
i
na
ppr
oa
c
he
d,
carrying fruit from the struck ranches, heavily armed Texas Rangers were riding on it carrying rifles
and shotguns. It looked like a scene out of Black Jack Pe
r
s
hi
ng
’
sEx
pe
di
t
i
ona
r
yFor
c
eg
oi
ngi
nt
o
Mexico to chase Pancho Villa. Very military. Maybe the Rangers thought the ghost of Pancho Villa
was going to ambush the train and steal the cantaloupes and melons, and this time there would be
no wild-goose chases through the Sonora Desert; they were going to get him. A large group of
strikers and volunteers had just been arrested. Eliseo Medina, a volunteer from Austin, and I were
walking back from our car with more leaflets when the arrests began. We ran back to our car with
two Rangers chasing us. We jumped in the car and took off. We saw them running for their patrol
car but they never caught us. We stopped a half an hour later, scraped the union stickers off the
bumper and put all the union leaflets and flyers in the trunk of the car. We waited until dark and
headed back to Rio Grande on the backroads. We called the office but Gilbert Padilla said that
there were Rangers all over the place. We went to Doug Ada
i
r
’
shou
s
ei
nMacAllen, where he was
publishing the Texas version of the union paper, El Malcriado. He had been arrested, but we
jimmied open a window and stayed there for a couple of days. When we returned to Rio Grande,
Gilbert told us that a Ranger car had been driving around the office all night. A black
representative from CORE (the Congress of Racial Equality) was visiting at the time. He had come
to express solidarity, see what was going on firsthand, and give us money. He said that watching
the Ranger car cruising the office reminded him of the bad days in Mississippi.
*****
The spirit of the strike in Delano hit its low point during November and December of
1
9
6
5
.“
La apoda”(
t
hepr
u
ni
ng
)ha
dbe
g
u
na
ndt
hec
ol
dtule fog hung over the fields on
what seemed like every morning. We still used to picket every day, but the large numbers
of workers were gone, and you could hardly see the pruners through the fog. A lot of the
volunteers had left, and lots of strikers had found work in other parts of the county that
we
r
e
n’
tbe
i
ngs
t
r
u
c
k
.Theda
y
sg
ots
hor
t
e
ra
ndi
tf
e
l
tl
i
k
eLaHuelga was winding down.
Most of the young Filipino strikers were gone by now, but the old Filipino men were on
the picket lines like clockwork in their green-hooded Army surplus parkas. Not many of
t
hev
ol
u
nt
e
e
r
shu
ngou
twi
t
ht
heol
dFi
l
i
pi
nome
n.The
ywe
r
e
n’
ta
sf
l
a
s
hy
,e
ne
r
g
e
t
i
c
,a
nd
colorful as the Chicano strikers. I liked to hear their stories. Tall tales from the Merchant
Marines. Jungle war stories from World War II. Stories of knife fights from the fisheries
and packing sheds in Alaska. Being taught Escrima and Kali, the Filipino martial art that
uses rattan sticks and bladed weapons. The pineapple and sugar cane strikes in Hawaii. I
started learning a few words in Filipino, but Julian Balidoy took me aside one day laughing
a
nds
ha
k
i
nghi
she
a
d.“
No,no,l
i
t
t
l
ebr
ot
he
r
.
”(
TheFi
l
i
pi
noss
t
r
i
k
e
r
sc
a
l
l
e
de
v
e
r
y
one
br
ot
he
r
)
.“
Ru
dyi
st
e
a
c
hi
ngy
ouIlocano. You want to learn my di
a
l
e
c
t
—mano—Ta
g
a
l
og
.
”
Politics, even among the Filipino strikers was complicated and messy.
*****
14
15
How to get it right? Maybe as Joseph Conrad proposed, history really is secondhand
impression, secondhand experience. Maybe fiction and the embellishment of memory are
hu
ma
nhi
s
t
or
y
.Ma
y
benoneofu
se
v
e
r“
g
e
t
si
tr
i
g
ht
.
”Ov
e
rt
hewe
e
k
sIc
ompos
et
he
s
e
words, I am constantly reminded how evanescent, how unreliable memory is. I wonder
how much my Filipino friends must have embellished their stories. And now, how I
remember those Filipino friends and their stories inaccurately or doctor them up a bit
myself; how I am tempted, compelled to smooth out the edges of my own stories, soften
the embarrassing moments or leave them out completely, recast myself to look better for
posterity, present myself in a more flattering light. I know I am not going to remember
a
c
c
u
r
a
t
e
l
y
;I
’
m notg
oi
ngt
og
e
ti
t1
0
0pe
r
c
e
ntr
i
g
ht
.Tha
tj
u
s
ti
s
n’
tg
oi
ngt
oha
ppe
n.My
me
mor
i
e
s
,t
hr
ou
g
hay
ou
ngma
n’
ss
t
a
r
r
ye
y
e
s
,r
e
mi
ndmeofaS
pi
e
l
be
r
gf
i
l
m,wi
t
ht
he
honey-colored Vaseline smeared across the lens. I need to reframe my questions. Perhaps
what is most essential are the feelings that Julian Balidoy and I experienced as we stood out
in the fog, stamping our feet, blowing on our hands, at one of the entrances to Jack
Pa
ndol
’
sr
a
nc
h,whi
l
eJ
u
l
i
a
nt
ol
dmehi
ss
t
or
i
e
s
.Ou
rs
ha
r
e
de
x
pe
r
i
e
nc
ei
nt
hemome
nt
.
Whatever it was that we exchanged between us. Dare I call it a form of love? Subception,
the unconscious communication of feelings and information between people. Perhaps our
a
c
t
i
onsa
r
ewha
tma
t
t
e
r
.
Pe
r
ha
psi
t
’
st
heme
s
s
y
,
c
ompl
i
c
a
t
e
d,
a
dmi
x
t
u
r
eofa
l
l
oft
hi
s
.
S
omeJ
e
wsbe
l
i
e
v
et
ha
tGoddoe
s
n’
tme
a
s
u
r
eu
sbyou
rt
hou
g
ht
s
,be
c
a
u
s
ewedon’
tc
hoos
e
our thoughts, but by our deeds, for we can exercise our will over our actions. The German
mystic Meister Ec
k
e
ha
r
ts
a
i
di
nhi
sf
i
r
s
tGe
r
ma
nS
e
r
mon,t
ha
ty
ouc
ou
l
dn’
tt
r
ya
ndc
u
ta
business deal with God. No quid pro quos. No good works exchanged for salvation. God
wi
l
lnotbes
pe
a
k
i
ngt
ou
ss
oona
ndmos
tofu
swon’
te
v
e
nhe
a
rHi
mc
l
e
a
r
i
nghi
st
hr
oa
ti
n
the room, as Eckehart claims he once did. You might as well be a mensch, a true man, who
does the right thing. Maybe that is better than trying to get it right.
*****
Just before Christmas, Cesar put Jim Drake in charge of organizing what would become
the first nationwide grape boycott. Jim asked me if I would go to Detroit. I was just 21 and
I felt like had been selected to go to the moon for NASA.
New Year, 1966. Ida Cou
s
i
noa
ndIwou
ndu
pa
tCe
s
a
ra
ndHe
l
e
n’
shou
s
ea
f
t
e
rs
t
oppi
nga
t
Pe
opl
e
’
sf
orabe
e
r
.Ri
c
ha
r
da
ndMa
nu
e
lChavez were there, and the living room was
packed with strikers and volunteers. Ida and I even managed a little norteño two-step after
another beer or two. Lots of singing and dancing that night. Lots of me
nu
doa
tPe
t
r
a
’
st
he
next morning.
Two days later, Ida and I took her Falcon to the union garage where they removed the
radio and antennae and sealed up the hole in the roof with Bondo. Four new tires and four
of us were ready to go back east to the boycott. Me to Detroit, Ida to Cleveland, Bob
Fisher to Philadelphia, and Sal Gonzales to Boston. We stuffed the trunk with leaflets,
15
16
copies of pictures from the strike that George Ballis had taken, letters of introduction from
Cesar, names of people who offered to put us up, a short list of union and church contacts.
We each got $100 and some gas money for the trip. Somewhere around New Mexico, Bob
and S
a
lbe
g
a
nt
odr
i
nk“
S
i
e
t
e
”(
S
e
a
g
r
a
m’
sS
e
v
e
n)i
nt
heba
c
k
.Ida and I did most of the
dr
i
v
i
ng
.I
nTe
x
a
s
,t
hec
a
rwou
l
dn’
ts
t
a
r
t
.Wej
u
mpe
di
t
,dr
ov
es
t
r
a
i
g
htt
hr
ou
g
ha
nddi
d
n’
t
s
hu
ti
tof
fu
nt
i
lweg
ott
oChi
c
a
g
o,whe
r
ewewe
ntt
os
ome
one
’
shou
s
e
,t
ooks
howe
r
s
,a
nd
got the car fixed. Then I was dropped in Detroit and Ida, Sal, and Bob headed east. Sal and
Bob took buses from Cleveland to Boston and Philadelphia, respectively. Bob stayed with
my parents in Philadelphia.
I lived with Eizu Nishiura, a Japanese-American art teacher and painter who had a loft just
off the John C. Lodge Expressway near Wayne State University. I contacted unions,
s
t
u
de
ntor
g
a
ni
z
a
t
i
ons
,c
hu
r
c
hg
r
ou
ps
—whoe
v
e
rwou
l
dl
i
s
t
e
n.Thea
u
t
owor
k
e
r
swe
r
et
he
key players in Detroit and provided the most assistance. Eventually we were picketing
liquor stores and markets that carried Schenley products. Ida used to drive in and visit me
every couple of weeks and twice I went to Cleveland. Myf
i
r
s
tr
oma
nc
e
.S
a
m Pol
l
oc
k
’
s
meat cutters and butcher workmen took Miz Ida under their powerful wing. A friend of
Ei
z
u
’
sha
dl
e
ntmea
nol
dRa
mbl
e
r
.
Idr
ov
et
oCl
e
v
e
l
a
ndonc
et
os
e
eIda in the middle of a
snowstorm. We went to a civil rights benefit where a then-very-fat Dick Gregory, with a
cigarette and a drink in his hand, told dirty jokes and bantered back and forth about race to
a loud and responsive crowd. Someone lent Ida and me an apartment in the all-black
Hough district. When Ida and I returned east in several months for the DiGiorgio boycott,
we were in the Hough District again when the riots broke out. Fires, sirens, helicopters
ov
e
r
he
a
d,g
u
ns
hot
s
,a
nds
ha
t
t
e
r
e
dg
l
a
s
s
.Wewe
r
ei
nt
hemi
ddl
eoft
he1
0o’
c
l
oc
kCBS
News. Fred told us to stay inside and that he and the neighbors would keep an eye on us.
Nott
owor
r
y
;
we
’
dbeok
.
When the boycott finished and Schenley signed, Jim Drake sent us plane tickets home. Ida
drove her car to Detroit, left it there, and we flew back together to Sacramento, for the
final day of the big march at the capitol. We were so high, so elated, we could have flown
ba
c
kwi
t
hou
tt
hepl
a
ne
.Ic
a
n’
tt
hi
nkoft
ooma
nyt
i
me
swhe
nIf
e
l
tha
ppi
e
r
,mor
e
c
ompl
e
t
e
,ormor
ef
u
l
f
i
l
l
e
d—pr
ou
d
,s
ome
how,t
obepa
r
tofs
ome
t
hi
ngbi
g
g
e
ra
ndmor
e
important than myself. Two weeks or so later we were back east again on the DiGiorgio
boycott.
*****
In the early 1980s, Ida and I were living in Venice, California. We were walking down S
t
r
ong
’
s
Drive, the alley next to the one of the canals. A pile of books was stacked next to a trash can and
we looked through them. Ida picked up a big official-looking hardback book, The State of California
House Un-American Activities Committee Report. She found her name in the index. We read her short
pr
of
i
l
e
.I
twa
ss
pook
y
,u
ns
e
t
t
l
i
ng
,bu
ti
tdi
dn’
ts
u
r
pr
i
s
eme
.Whe
nIda left the UFW, she had her
gallbladder removed and recuperated at Sam and Flo Ku
s
hne
r
’
shou
s
e
.S
a
m wa
st
hee
di
t
or
,ofThe
Pe
o
p
l
e
’
sWo
r
l
d
,
aCommu
ni
s
tne
ws
pa
pe
r
.
Iwa
sal
i
t
t
l
es
u
r
pr
i
s
e
dmyna
mewa
s
n’
ti
nt
he
r
ea
swe
l
l
.
16
17
I
’
mnots
u
r
eIha
v
et
hes
t
or
ye
x
a
c
t
l
ys
t
r
a
i
g
ht
,
bu
tIbe
l
i
e
v
ei
twa
sS
a
m Kushner who first broke the
news of the strike in 1965 by giving the story to the L.A. Times after reporting it in Th
ePe
o
p
l
e
’
s
World, his very small-time, low-circulation newspaper. Sam was in Delano a lot during the early
days of the strike, carelessly dressed, smoking his pipe, interviewing people and taking notes in his
l
i
t
t
l
er
e
por
t
e
r
’
spa
d.
Al
otoft
hee
a
r
l
yv
ol
u
nt
e
e
r
sc
a
mewi
t
hl
e
f
t
wi
nga
f
f
i
l
i
a
t
i
ons
.
Iwa
s
n’
te
x
a
c
t
l
yar
e
ddi
a
pe
rba
by
,
bu
tu
ni
oni
s
ma
ndl
e
f
t
wi
ngpol
i
t
i
c
swe
r
ei
nt
hea
i
ri
nmyf
a
mi
l
y
.
My parents leaned toward a gentle kind of socialism, pink rather than red, but they were never
politically active or involved. My grandfather, however, used to march in the Mayday parades in
the 1930s. My German Trotskyite uncle, Gumpy, had been in the camps. Before I was 16 I had
read Jack London, not just The Sea Wolf and his adventure stories, but The Iron Heel.Howa
r
dFa
s
t
’
s
Spartacus and Freedom Road we
r
eonmyg
r
a
ndf
a
t
he
r
’
sbook
s
he
l
f
.Whe
nIl
i
v
e
dbr
i
e
f
l
ywi
t
hGumpy
a
sat
e
e
na
g
e
rhepu
tmeonac
r
a
s
hc
ou
r
s
er
e
a
di
ngr
e
g
i
me
—Upton Sinclair, Bertolt Brecht, George
Or
we
l
l
’
sDown and Out in Paris and London and Homage to Catalonia. and E.L. Voy
ni
c
h’
sThe Gadfly.
I knew adults who had fought in the Spanish Civil War with the Lincoln Brigade. When I was little,
my father used to sing me songs from Th
ePe
o
p
l
e
’
sSong Book l
i
k
e“
Ca
s
e
yJ
one
s
”a
nd“
Da
r
l
i
ng
Cl
e
me
nt
i
ne
,
”bu
ta
l
s
o“
Los Cuatro Generales”a
nd“
ThePe
a
t
BogS
ol
di
e
r
s
.
”Iha
daWe
a
v
e
r
s
’a
l
bu
m
on which Pete Seeger, Ronnie Gilbert, Lee Hayes, and Fred Hellerman sang the Spanish Civil War
s
ong
s“
Venga Jaleo”a
nd“
Si Me Quieres Escribir.
”Ir
e
me
mbe
rmyg
r
a
ndmot
he
rf
l
u
s
hi
nghe
rol
dCI
O
and socialist party pins down the toilet during the 1950s when the HUAC trials were raging and
McCarthy was on the rampage. When I came to L.A., I not only hung around with folks from
CORE and SNCC but also SDS and the left-wing Dubois Club.
As the strike began to grow, Cesar began to distance himself more and more from any connection
t
ol
e
f
t
wi
ngs
u
ppor
t
e
r
s
,mor
ef
orpr
a
g
ma
t
i
cr
e
a
s
ons
—t
hene
e
df
ors
i
g
ni
f
i
c
a
nts
u
ppor
tf
r
om
ma
i
ns
t
r
e
a
mu
ni
ons
—t
ha
nf
orl
a
c
kofa
ppr
e
c
i
a
t
i
onf
ort
he
i
rhe
l
p.S
a
m Kushner was no longer
welcome in Delano. I remember debates about whether to join the AFL-CIO or not, whether that
meant selling out, compromising ideals. A lot of volunteers engaged in this debate. Some left as
Cesar moved more toward affiliation with the AFL-CIO. I was working outside of Delano at the
time. But I
dat
ol
dmeCe
s
a
rg
a
v
ef
ol
k
st
heopt
i
ont
ol
e
a
v
eorj
oi
ni
na
nda
c
c
e
ptt
heu
ni
on’
sl
i
be
r
a
l
but not radical politics. Ida, Eli Risco, and other volunteers left. I had decided that this was a
Chicano and Filipino movement, and I was there to help. I was not going to participate in policy
unless asked, and when my help was no longer essential I was going to leave.
*****
My mother read that Cesar was going to speak in Philadelphia at a church downtown. It was the
middle of winter, maybe 1967. My father was working nights driving a cab. It was a very cold
night. She puts on a little makeup and lipstick, then a heavy dress, long overcoat, headscarf, and
g
l
ov
e
s
.S
he
’
sol
df
a
s
hi
one
da
ndha
s
n’
ty
e
tbe
g
u
nt
owe
a
rpa
nt
s
.S
het
a
k
e
st
henu
mbe
r5
9bu
st
o
Fr
a
nk
f
or
t
,t
he
nt
hes
u
bwa
ydownt
own,a
ndwa
l
k
st
hes
i
xbl
oc
k
sdownBr
oa
dS
t
r
e
e
t
.Af
t
e
rCe
s
a
r
’
s
speech, when the crowd begins to thin out and Cesar is getting ready to leave, she makes her way
u
pt
ohi
m.S
he
’
sas
ma
l
l
,s
hywoma
n.S
het
ou
c
he
sCe
s
a
r
’
sa
r
ma
ndhet
u
r
nst
ohe
r
.S
hei
nt
r
odu
c
e
s
herself.
17
18
“
Youk
now,
Mr
.
Cha
v
e
z
,
Il
os
tmys
ont
oy
ou
.
”
Ce
s
a
rt
a
k
e
she
rha
nd.
“
Bu
tIg
a
i
ne
das
on,
Mr
s
.
Fr
a
nk
e
l
.
”
*****
Fred Ross had put me in charge of a group of Filipino and Chicano strikers. Perhaps it was the fall
of 1967. We were staying in an African-American church in the heart of south central L.A. I
remember only a few names: the sisters Maria and Antonia S
a
l
u
da
do,
whoa
l
wa
y
ss
a
ng“
De Colores”
in perfect harmony and led the singing on the picket lines, Tavo, Julian Balidoy, Eliseo Medina
(Antonia Saludado was sweet on him and called him mi capirucho, my captain), John Shroyer,
Johnny Rodriguez. I remember the cook was Señor Agundez. He was a big man, and although he
was probably only in his early 40s, everyone, everyone called him Señor Agundez. We were
picketing Mayfair Markets in East L.A. and Echo Park. Following good Saul Alinsky/Fred
Ross/Cesar Chavez community-organizing strategy, we were going door to door in the
neighborhoods directly around the markets asking the residents to support the secondary boycott
and not buy grapes (or maybe not even shop) at the markets. I used to get sick with worry trying to
keep track of everyone when we first got down there. The old Filipino guys had some of the best
cars, and they kept them immaculate and in perfect condition, so they brought them to L.A. They
used to get lost on the freeways, so I began sending a young Filipino or Mexican striker with them
as navigator; folks would get stuck in traffic; folks would disappear for hours.
I
ni
t
i
a
l
l
yIdi
dn’
tk
nowhowwewou
l
dber
e
c
e
i
v
e
di
nt
hebl
a
c
kc
ommu
ni
t
y
.I
twa
sj
u
s
tt
hr
e
ey
e
a
r
s
after the Watts riots. But everyone in the neighborhood seemed to know who we were and we
were treated with respect and consideration. We slept on cots and in the gym after the local
teenagers finished with their evening basketball games. Once Cesar came to L.A. for a couple of
days to speak, and he stayed with us. After dinner I watched him slip into the kitchen and begin
doi
ngt
hedi
s
he
s
.Af
t
e
rs
ome
onet
ookov
e
rf
orhi
m Is
a
i
d,“
Youl
e
a
dbye
x
a
mpl
e
,d
on’
ty
ou
,
Ce
s
a
r
?
”Hej
u
s
ts
mi
l
e
d.
Ir
e
me
mbe
ra
not
he
rt
i
mewhe
nhewa
s
n’
ts
mi
l
i
ng
.Whe
nwes
t
a
r
t
e
dt
hef
i
r
s
tor
g
a
ni
z
i
ngc
a
mpa
i
g
n
a
g
a
i
ns
tt
het
e
a
ms
t
e
r
si
n1
9
6
6hes
a
i
d,“
Whe
ny
ouha
v
et
og
odownt
hes
e
we
ri
nt
hes
t
r
u
g
g
l
e
,y
ou
a
r
eg
oi
ngt
og
e
tdi
r
t
y
.
”
*****
Idi
dn’
tha
v
ev
e
r
yt
hi
c
ks
k
i
norat
ou
g
hdi
s
pos
i
t
i
on,a
l
t
hou
g
hIu
s
e
dt
owi
s
hot
he
r
wi
s
e
.Myk
ne
e
s
used to shake when things got rough at civil rights demonstrations. I used to get sick to my
stomach when the Rangers would stop us on some dirt road down by the Rio Grande, throw us up
against the car, and threaten us. Ranger Captain Al
l
e
eonc
es
t
u
c
kas
hot
g
u
nu
nde
rmyc
hi
n:“
Wha
t
a
r
eweg
onnadowi
t
ht
hi
she
r
eJ
e
wi
s
hboya
ndwha
t
’
shedoi
ng
,ya suppose, hanging around with
a
l
lt
he
s
eMe
x
i
c
a
ns
?
”Is
we
a
rt
ot
hi
sda
y
,
Il
e
f
tmybodya
ndwe
nts
ome
pl
a
c
ee
l
s
e
.Emergency astral
traveling. Maybe it was all catching up with me. I wish I could have been tougher, had more
e
ndu
r
a
nc
e
,
mor
es
t
i
c
k
i
ngpowe
r
,
bu
tIg
u
e
s
sIdi
dn’
t
.
I
n1
9
6
8
,
Iwa
sl
i
v
i
ngbymy
s
e
l
fi
nt
heba
c
kof
the union office in Livingston, a dusty little town about the size of a truck stop, a diner, and one
block of Main Street. I was the union representative for the Gallo, Novitiate, and Franzia
18
19
r
a
nc
he
s
—r
u
nni
ngt
hehi
r
i
ngha
l
l
,g
oi
ngou
tt
ot
hef
i
e
l
dst
os
e
t
t
l
eg
r
i
e
v
a
nc
e
s
,Li
s
t
e
ni
ngt
o
Portuguese music on the AM radio. A lot of the workers on the Gallo ranch had been brought in
from the Canary Islands years ago. Every once in a while I would visit John H., a Berkeleyeducated Japanese-American farmer with a small almond and grape ranch who supported the
strike. His wife would do my laundry and cook me a meal. When I first got there, I had him teach
mea
l
lt
hes
k
i
l
l
sofg
r
a
peg
r
owi
ng
—pi
c
k
i
ng
,pr
u
ni
ng
,i
r
r
i
g
a
t
i
ng
.Ine
e
de
dt
ok
nowwha
tt
hewor
k
wa
sr
e
a
l
l
yl
i
k
e
.
I
twa
si
nt
e
r
e
s
t
i
ng
,
bu
tmyhe
a
r
twa
s
n’
ti
ni
t
.
I
fmys
t
oma
c
hha
dn’
thu
r
ta
l
lt
het
i
me
,Ipr
oba
bl
ywou
l
dha
v
ebe
e
ndr
i
nk
i
ng
.Iwa
sr
u
nni
ngon
empty, tired and lonely. There were two sweet VISTA girls (Volunteer In Service to America)
l
i
v
i
nga
ndwor
k
i
ngne
a
r
by
,
bu
tIwa
ss
l
i
di
ngi
nt
os
u
c
hahol
e
,
Ic
ou
l
dn’
tf
i
ndmu
c
ht
os
a
yt
ot
he
m.
I
was cooking on a hot plate, then going next door to the greasy spoon diner for apple pie. I was
sleeping on a cot in the dark back room, smoking my Pall-Malls and reading mystery books from
the dinky Merced public library to get to sleep. On top of it all, Jim Drake had informed me that I
was supposed to get involved with local Democratic political groups to marshal support for Bobby
Ke
nne
d
y
’
spr
e
s
i
de
nt
i
a
lc
a
mpa
i
g
n.Ik
ne
wt
ha
tKe
nne
dy
’
se
l
e
c
t
i
onwou
l
dbeg
oodf
ort
heu
ni
on,
bu
tIa
l
s
ok
ne
wt
ha
te
v
e
ni
fIc
ou
l
dpu
taDe
moc
r
a
t
i
cs
mi
l
eonmyf
a
c
e
,
Iwou
l
dn’
tbea
bl
et
oma
k
e
it stick. I would never be able to talk the talk or crank up the energy for that kind of project. I was
too embarrassed to talk to anyone in the union about any of this, and it never occurred to me to
a
s
kf
orar
e
s
tors
omet
i
meof
f
.Iha
dn’
ts
e
e
nmypa
r
e
nt
sf
ort
woy
e
a
r
s
.Ida and I had split up a
while ago and she was living in Big Sur or San Francisco somewhere. We would eventually get
back together and marry. I called somebody, maybe Jim Drake, told him where I was leaving the
keys and the car, and my old friend from the early days in Delano, Bob Coffman, came down from
Point Reyes and picked me up and took me away.
*****
The histories still vex my sleep.
Recurring headlights in my rearview mirror
break me into a sweat,
and I lose my voice to a stutter,
when police pull me over for a routine vehicle check.
How to flush out the old crow, the ragged familiar,
that nests and settles in the back of my throat,
How long can a fear stretch?
where is Our Lady, skin like polished madrone,
necklace of marigolds, tiny apples and sugar skulls,
where is Our Lady,
splinters from the true cross holding up her hair,
where is our lady when we need her?
Our Chocolate Lady graces breakfast cereal boxes,
the backs of milk containers, video games,
playing cards, and bumper stickers.
Where is our Lady
when we need her?
19
20
Rangers still stalk my orchards,
in Sam Brown belts of tooled leather,
mirrored sunglasses, with high-powered rifles
slung casually over their shoulders.
Unmarked cars with blind-darkened windows still
circle the house, cruise by, roll to a stop.
Electric windows drop and mirrored eyes peer over.
“
Le
t
’
ss
e
es
omeI
D,
a
s
s
u
met
hepos
i
t
i
on.
”
Friends scatter like dry leaves,
shrouded crows cast flatiron shadows.
Bruised scarecrows on fence posts and barbed wire
clutch and embrace, backpedaling into beauty.
Magdaleno, squinting in the headlights
holds his arms out to ward off the blows
i
nac
hi
l
d’
su
s
e
l
e
s
sg
e
s
t
u
r
e
.
like the executed prisoner in the Goya painting,
Lie on your sides, children, cross your legs,
Take off your glasses and jewelry.
shield your head with you trembling palms,
a broken hand instead of a concussion.
Cover your nose and mouth with the inside of your forearm
t
heba
c
kofy
ou
rhe
a
da
nde
a
rwi
t
ht
heot
he
ra
r
m—y
e
s
,
Choose your own impossible beatings.
I remember little Andre, outside the jail in Tu
pa
l
o—
1964, blood still on his overalls,
hi
sg
l
a
s
s
e
sf
og
g
e
dwi
t
ht
e
a
r
swhe
nhek
i
s
s
e
dmeont
hemou
t
h—
“
S
e
ey
oui
nt
hepr
omi
s
e
dl
a
nd.
”
pe
opl
ej
u
s
tdon’
tt
a
l
kt
ha
twa
ya
ny
mor
e
,
a
ndf
ol
k
sdon’
ts
i
ng
,
a
ndf
ol
k
sdon’
tda
nc
e
.
and Little Andre is doing hardtime.
Eldridge Cleaver is selling books on prizewinning barbecue,
and friends are talking about mutual funds,
and pictures of our Lady appear on playing cards,
candy bars, T-shirts, and alcoholic beverages.
*****
In her apartment in Silver Lake, Rosa lays a path of cempasuchiles—br
i
g
htor
a
ng
ema
r
i
g
ol
ds
—f
r
om
her apartment door to the altar. There will be no cold wind from the north in Los Angeles to bring
in the spirits of the children tomorrow or the adults the day after, for the Day of the Dead, Dia De
20
21
Los Muertos, If she were in Oaxaca, she would scatter breadcrumbs and flower seeds, which are the
souls of children, and go to the cemetery and sweep the graves clean, but ni modo, the altar is
perfect. The stalks of corn, bamboo, and sugarcane tied to the legs of the table arch across time
a
ndt
hec
y
c
l
e
soft
hes
ou
l
s
’r
e
s
u
r
r
e
c
t
i
ons
.S
hepu
t
sou
tt
he
i
rf
a
v
or
i
t
ef
oods
,me
me
nt
os
,a
nd
pictures, and leaves a glass of water because the souls, having journeyed far, are thirsty. Candles,
yes, lots of candles to light their way. She arranges their favorite foods, the seven moles,
homemade mescal and fresh elotes, c
a
ndi
e
dpu
mpk
i
n,f
r
e
s
hba
k
e
d“
br
e
a
doft
hede
a
d.
”t
hes
u
g
a
r
skulls, with maraschino eyes. Nothing must be touched by anyone. Rosa cooks the food with extra
flavor. The dead cannot eat but will kiss the food, and extract the aromas and moisture of the
preparations. When they are satisfied they will look for Rosa to leave behind their goodwill and
their blessings.
Myf
r
i
e
nds
,l
i
v
i
nga
ndde
a
d—Ik
e
e
pt
he
i
rme
me
nt
osa
ndme
mor
i
e
si
nac
a
r
dboa
r
dboxi
nmy
closet and in the trunk at the foot of my bed that is covered with blankets from Oaxaca that Rosa
gave me. We are nomads and borrowers who come by it honestly, first-world scavengers who hunt
and gather our belongings in a world that is not our own.
Sometimes my memories of Delano are like the calaveras drawn by the Mexican artist J. G. Posada.
The people are all skeletons: skeleton growers and foreman in their air-conditioned pickup trucks
and Ford Rancheros; skeleton contratistas, contractors and purveyors of other men and the labor of
other men; skeleton farmworkers handpicking table grapes under the dust-covered vines in Delano
and Earlimart, or thinning sugar beets with short-handled hoes; farmworker children skeletons,
helping their parents pick peaches on the DiGiorgio Ranch in Marysville and Yuba City or playing
in the mud in the Woodlake labor camps. There are calaveras of old Filipino men in army fatigues
picketing the Dispoto ranch in the fog and telling me stories from World War II; calaveras of
Texas Rangers driving their white unmarked cruisers with blinds covering the side windows, slowly
circling the union office in Rio Grande, Texas; a long line of skeletons marching up Highway 99 to
Sacramento. I am there too, the skeleton of a 20-year-old boy with thick-framed glasses and a
serious look. All the scenes freeze in the stillness of a black-and-white tableau. One of the skeleton
s
t
r
i
k
e
r
st
u
r
nst
ome
:
“
Hemos llegados, somos iguales”(
Ha
v
i
nga
r
r
i
v
e
d,
wea
r
ea
l
l
e
q
u
a
l
)
.
The Angel of History closes her eyes and flesh returns to all the bodies. The tableau shifts from
black and white to color. She opens her eye and the skeletons reappear again and fade into the
black-and-white tableau. The Angel of History turns into Mnemosyne, the queen of the muses.
Mnemosyne turns into the Virgin of Guadalupe and I hear my old friends the Saludado sisters
s
i
ng
i
ng“
De Colores,”“
Y por esos los grandes amores/de muchos colores, me gustan a mi.
”
*****
A number of years ago, Ida and I were invited by Cesar and Helen to the wedding of one of their
daughters. I remember Cesar, excited and smiling; his face had a certain way of lighting up, a kind
of glow from the inside. He was taking pictures with a cheap camera as the bride and groom came
ou
toft
hec
hu
r
c
h.Weme
tpe
opl
eweha
dn’
ts
e
e
nf
ora
l
mos
t2
0y
e
a
r
s
,c
hi
l
dr
e
nwhowe
r
enow
grown men and women, in a city that we could barely recognize. The principal of Delano High
School was a Chicano. A Chicano. The children of farmworkers were doctors and lawyers. We went
21
22
t
oPe
t
r
a(
Ce
s
a
r
’
ss
i
s
t
e
r
i
nl
a
w)a
ndFi
s
h’
shou
s
ene
a
rt
heS
t
a
r
l
i
g
htbowl
i
nga
l
l
e
y
.Ida and I used to
s
t
a
yt
he
r
es
ome
t
i
me
s
.Pe
t
r
a
’
sha
i
rwa
sg
r
a
y
i
ngbu
ts
t
i
l
lu
pi
nhe
rs
i
g
na
t
u
r
ebe
e
hi
v
e
,a
nds
hewa
s
feisty as ever. She used to take care of Dolores Hu
e
r
t
a
’
sda
u
g
ht
e
r“
Pe
a
nu
t
s
.
”Fi
s
hwa
saf
or
e
ma
na
t
the Perrelli-Minetti Winery. We ate menudo, drank some of Pe
r
r
e
l
l
i
Mi
nne
t
t
i
’
spr
i
v
a
t
es
t
oc
k
,
t
a
l
k
e
d
about old friends, and reminisced. Petra imitated little Moc
hi
,f
r
om Pe
opl
e
’
sBa
ra
ndGr
i
l
l
e
,t
he
wa
ys
heu
s
e
dt
ot
e
a
s
ehe
rg
i
r
l
f
r
i
e
ndAnn.“
S
hel
i
e
sl
i
k
eadog
,doe
s
n’
ts
he
,Miz Ida? She lies like a
dog
.
”
*****
I
’
m notopt
i
mi
s
t
i
cwhe
nIl
ookou
ta
tt
hes
t
a
t
eoft
hewor
l
dt
oda
y
,a
ndt
hes
t
a
t
eofou
rc
ou
nt
r
y
’
s
c
ol
l
e
c
t
i
v
es
ou
l
,
i
ft
he
r
ei
ss
u
c
hat
hi
ng
.
Themu
s
i
cofhopea
ndc
ha
ng
ei
snotr
e
s
ona
t
i
ngi
nEd’
se
a
r
s
now t
hewa
yi
tdi
di
nt
hee
a
r
sofy
ou
ngEddi
e
.Re
ma
r
k
a
bl
y
,Is
t
i
l
lr
e
me
mbe
rt
hewor
dst
o“
El
Corrido de Delano,
”“
De Colores,
”a
nd“
Uni
onMa
i
d,
bu
tIdon’
ts
i
ngmu
c
ha
ta
l
l
t
he
s
eda
y
s
.
Ipi
c
kmy
battles and guard my energy carefully. But when I returned to Delano f
orCe
s
a
r
’
sda
u
g
ht
e
r
’
s
wedding, or when Ida and I went to the celebration to honor Fred Ross at the CSO in L.A. and
me
tLu
i
sVa
l
de
z
’
ss
on,a
ndDol
or
e
s
’
sdaughter, Laurie, and the second and third generations of
Delano, I am reminded that quantum social changes are possible. I am reminded how quickly class
lines can be blurred, social borders erased and moved. I am reminded what can happen when one
pe
r
s
ondoe
s
n’
tmov
et
ot
heba
c
koft
hebu
s
,whe
noney
ou
ngma
ns
t
a
ndsu
pont
her
oofofac
a
r
outside of Sproul Hall in Berkeley, when four children walk a gauntlet of hate into a school in
Little Rock, Arkansas. I am reminded how a ragtag collection of people who constellated around
Cesar Chavez and the NFWA at the perfect historical moment could court and then spark
significant cultural change.
In the late 1960s, the rules of engagement no longer held, all bets were off, and the conventions
t
ha
tha
dk
e
ptma
nyofAme
r
i
c
a
’
ss
t
a
i
ds
oc
i
a
lc
ont
r
a
c
t
si
npl
a
c
ewe
r
eu
pf
org
r
a
bs
.Thet
e
ntoft
he
“
a
ne
s
t
he
t
i
z
e
d’
5
0
s
”ha
dbl
ownof
ft
hec
i
r
c
u
s
.I
nDelano, farmworkers would marry middle-class
white women. Middle-class white men would have Mexican wives and girlfriends. Farmworkers
would become serious social movers. The children of farmworkers would become politicians,
educators, doctors, and lawyers. Cruz Bustamante is the lieutenant governor of California. Dolores
Huerta was recently appointed a U.C. regent.
*****
Sometimes I have my students read Letters From Birmingham Jail, or Gloria Anz
a
l
du
a
’
sBorderlands,
J
a
c
kLondon’
sIron Heel, Michael Onda
a
t
j
e
’
sIn The Skin of a Lion, about immigrant workers in
Ca
na
d
a
.
S
ome
t
i
me
swewa
t
c
hLu
i
sVa
l
de
z
’
sZoot Suit and contrast it with Tupac S
ha
k
u
r
’
spoe
t
r
yor
early hip hop. Sometimes we read about the early immigrants of the 1900s, the Jewish, Italian, and
Eastern Europeans, some of them younger than my students, who worked piecework 60 hours a
we
e
kont
heLowe
rEa
s
tS
i
deofMa
nha
t
t
a
n.Wer
e
a
dt
hey
ou
ngwome
ng
a
r
me
ntwor
k
e
r
s
’
memoirs, written in their own words. We look at the grainy black-and-white pictures, women in
white shirtwaists and funny-looking hats, marching arm and arm, their fists in the air, looking the
camera right in the eye and smiling. We read about the Triangle Factory fire in New York, in
which 156 of these young women died, and we read about the strikes in the garment factories.
22
23
Sometimes I ask the students, whether they are Chicanos, African-Americans, Filipinos, whites, or
Vietnamese, to talk to their grandparents or great aunts and uncles and interview them, to seek out
the stories of where they came from, and how they wound up in America. The students return
with tales about a Mexican-American uncle who was slapped for speaking Spanish in school in the
1950s, stories about the pineapple strikes in Hawaii, segregation and discrimination in Chinatown
or in the armed forces, stories about the Tuskegee airmen in the highly decorated black fighter
squadron, and the 442 Brigade of Japanese-American soldiers during World War II. I tell my
students that in some ways these memories, blurred and frayed around the edges, sometimes
s
hi
ne
du
pa
nde
mbe
l
l
i
s
he
d,“
s
t
a
ndonf
i
r
me
rg
r
ou
ndt
ha
nhi
s
t
or
y
,ahi
s
t
or
yba
s
e
dondoc
u
me
nt
s
,
ons
e
c
ondha
ndi
mpr
e
s
s
i
ons
.
”
To this day, I am reminded of Delano when I get a young Mexican-American girl in my class who
is articulate and dark-skinned with Indian features. She may be pre-med or pre-law, and she has
already read Sandra Ci
s
ne
r
os
’
sHouse on Mango Street, Gloria Anz
a
l
du
a
’
sBorderlands, Richard
Rodr
i
g
u
e
z
’
sHunger of Memory, and Gabriel Garcia Ma
r
q
u
e
z
’
sOne Hundred Years of Solitude, as well as
The Scarlet Letter, The Great Gatsby, and The Odyssey. She tells me she comes from Coachella, or
Vi
s
a
l
i
a
,ors
omes
ma
l
lt
own“
y
ou
’
v
epr
oba
bl
yne
v
e
rhe
a
r
dof
”i
nt
heS
a
nJoaquin Valley, like
Livingston or Earlimart. And she tells me her parents or grandparents were farmworkers.
Sometimes I begin talking to her in Spanish and her eyes get big, and I tell her I know Visalia,
Coachella, and Earlimart. And I struggle some more in my rusty Spanish.
23