Stories from the Life of a Migrant Child (8 page)

Work was always the same, too. We picked from six o'clock in the morning until six in the afternoon. Even though the days were long, I looked forward to seeing Gabriel and having lunch with him every day. I enjoyed listening to him tell stories and talk about Mexico. He was as proud of being from the state of Morelos as my father was about being from Jalisco.

One Sunday, near the end of the strawberry season, Ito sent me to work for a sharecropper who was sick and needed extra help that day. His field was next to Ito's. Gabriel was loaned out to the same farmer. As soon as I arrived, the
contratista
began giving me orders. "Listen,
huerquito,
I want you to hoe weeds. But first, give me and Gabriel a hand," he said. Gabriel and I climbed onto the bed of the truck and helped him unload a plow. The
contratista
tied one end of a thick rope to it and, handing the other end to Gabriel, said, "Here, tie this around your waist. I want you to till the furrows."

"I can't do that," Gabriel said with a painful look in his face.

"What do you mean you can't?" responded the
contratista,
placing his hands on his hips.

"In my country, oxen pull plows, not men," Gabriel replied, tilting his hat back. "I am not an animal."

The contratista walked up to Gabriel and yelled in his face, "Well this isn't your country, idiot! You either do what I say or I'll have you fired!"

"Don't do that, please," Gabriel said. "I have a family to feed."

"I don't give a damn about your family!" the
contratista
replied, grabbing Gabriel by the shirt collar and pushing him. Gabriel lost his balance and fell backward. As he hit the ground, the
contratista
kicked him in the side with the tip of his boot. Gabriel sprung up and, with both hands clenched, lunged at the
contratista.
White as a ghost, Diaz quickly jumped back. "Don't be stupid ... your family," he stammered. Gabriel held back. His face was flushed with rage. Without taking his eyes off Gabriel, the
contratista
slid into his truck and sped off, leaving us in a cloud of dust.

I felt scared. I had not seen men fight before. My mouth felt dry and my hands and legs began to shake. Gabriel threw his hat on the ground and said angrily, "That Diaz is a coward. He thinks he's a big man because he runs the
bracero
camp for the growers. He's nothing but a leech! And now he tries to treat me like an animal. I've had it." Then, picking up his hat and putting it on, he added, "He can cheat me out of my money. He 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!"

All day, while Gabriel and I hoed weeds, I kept thinking about what happened that morning. It made me angry and sad. Gabriel cursed as he hacked at the weeds.

When I got home from work that evening, I felt restless. I went outside to play kick-the-can. "Come on guys, let's play!" Carlos yelled out, resting his right foot on the can.

I went up to Manuelito, who was sitting on the ground and leaning against one of the garbage cans. "You heard Carlos, let's play," I said loudly so that Carlos could hear me.

"He didn't mean me," Manuelito answered, slowly getting up.

"Yes, you too," I insisted.

"Is it true, Carlos?" Manuelito asked.

"No way!" Carlos shouted.

Manuelito put his hands in his pockets and walked away.

"If Manuelito doesn't play, I won't either," I said. As soon as I said it, my heart started pounding. My knees felt weak. Carlos came right up to me. He had fire in his eyes. "Manuelito doesn't play!" he yelled.

He stuck his right foot behind my feet and pushed me. I fell flat on my back. My brothers rushed over to help me up. "You can push me around, but you can't force me to play!" I yelled back, dusting off my clothes and walking away. Trampita, Torito, Rubén, and Manuelito followed me to the front of our barrack.

Carlos stood alone inside the circle in the dirt, looking at the can and glancing at us once in a while. After a few moments, he cocked his head back, spat on the ground, and swaggered toward us, saying, "OK, Manuelito can play."

Screaming with joy, Manuelito and my brothers jumped up and down like grasshoppers. I felt like celebrating, too, but I held back. I did not want Carlos to see how happy I was.

The following morning, when Ito told us that the
contratista
had gotten Gabriel fired and sent back to Mexico, I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. I could not concentrate on work. At times I found myself not moving at all. By the time I had picked one crate, Papá had picked two. He finished his row, started a second, and caught up to me.

"What's the matter, Panchito?" he asked. "You're moving too slow. You need to speed it up."

"I keep thinking about Gabriel," I answered.

"What Díaz did was wrong, and someday he'll pay for it, if not in this life, in the next one," he said. "Gabriel did what he had to do."

Papá pushed me along, handing me several handfuls of strawberries he picked from my row. With his help, I got through that long day.

When we got home from work, I did not want to play kick-the-can. I wanted to be alone, but my brothers would not let me. They followed me around, asking me to play.

I finally gave in when Manuelito came over and joined them. "Please, just one game," he pleaded.

"OK, just one," I answered.

We drew sticks to see who would play guard. Carlos was it. While he counted to twenty with his eyes closed, we ran and hid. I went behind a pepper tree that was next to the outhouse. When Carlos spotted me, he shouted, "I spy Panchito!" We both raced to the can. I got to it first and kicked it with all my might. It went up in the air and landed in one of the garbage cans. That was the last time I played the game.

As usual, after the strawberry season was over in Santa Maria, Papá decided to move to the San Joaquin Valley in Central California to pick grapes. Like the year before, we had spent the summer months picking strawberries for Ito, the Japanese sharecropper. This time, however, we were not going to Fresno to harvest Mr. Sullivan's vineyards. Papá did not want us to live in Mr. Sullivan's old garage again. So we headed for Orosi, a small town a few miles southeast of Fresno. Papá had heard that a grape grower there, named Mr. Patrini, had nice places for farm workers to live.

We packed our belongings and left Santa Maria in September, the week school started. Papá drove. Mamá and Roberto sat in the front seat. My younger brothers, Trampita, Torito, and Rubén, and I sat in the back. Rorra, my little sister, slept on Mamá's lap. Everyone was quiet. The only noise came from passing cars and the droning of the
Carcachita's
motor. As we passed by Main Street School, I reached underneath the front seat and pulled out my penny collection, which I kept in a small, white cardboard box. I then felt my shirt pocket for my blue note pad. I took it out, placed it on the box, and held them both tightly in my hands as I stared out the window, wondering what Orosi would be like.

After we had been traveling for a few miles, I put my note pad back in my shirt pocket, took the top off my coin box, and starting looking at my pennies. I divided them into two layers separated by cotton. On top were my two favorites: a 1910 Lincoln Head and an 1865 Indian Head.

The 1910 Lincoln Head penny had belonged to Papá, but he gave it to me. We were living in Delano, and every day after coming home from picking grapes, Papá took out his small metal box where he kept our savings and placed the day's earnings inside. One Sunday evening, when he emptied the box on the table to count the money, a penny rolled off and landed next to me. I picked it up and handed it to him.

"Do you know how old this coin is?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"It was made in 1910, the year I was born," he said proudly.

"It's a very old penny!" Mamá said, chuckling as she cooked supper on our kerosene stove.

Papá glanced over at Mamá, laughed, and replied, "It's only a couple of years older than you,
vieja.
" Holding it in his hand, Papá continued, "The Revolution started that same year."

"What revolution?" I asked.

"The Mexican Revolution," he responded. "I don't know the whole story," he said apologetically. "I didn't go to school, but what I do know I learned from listening to
corridos
and to your
abuelita
Estefanía. She told me that during that time, many of the rich
hacendados
treated the
campesinos
like slaves."

"Did
abuelito
Hilario fight in the Revolution?" I asked.

"No,
mi'jo.
My father died six months after I was born. But your
abuelita
favored the Revolution, just like all poor people did. I also heard that many
hacendados
buried their money and jewels in the ground to hide them from the revolutionaries. Many of those treasures have never been found. But they say that yellowish red flames shoot out from underneath the ground where the treasure is buried, and that you can see the blazes from far away at night." Then with a twinkle in his eyes, he added, "I don't know if that's true, but that's what they say."

Papá reached out, took my right hand, and placed the penny in it, saying, "You can have it. This way you'll never forget the year I was born. And, if you keep on saving pennies, someday you'll have your own treasure."

I was so excited I almost forgot to thank Papá. I examined the penny closely. The year 1910 was worn.

That is when I started collecting pennies. I liked the older ones best.

As we made our way up the San Luis Obispo grade, I placed the Lincoln Head penny back in the box and took out my 1865 Indian Head coin.

Carl had given it to me when I was in the fifth grade in Corcoran. He and I were good friends in school. And when we found out that we both collected coins, we became the best of friends. We made sure we got on each other's team when we played ball during recess, and we ate our lunch together every day.

One Friday after school, Carl invited me to his home to see his coin collection. As soon as the last bell rang, we ran to his house, which was only three blocks away. When I walked in, I was amazed. I had never been inside a house before. The rug under my feet felt like a sack full of cotton. The living room was warm and as big as the one-room cabin we lived in. The light was soft and soothing. Carl then showed me his room. He had his own bed and his own desk. From the closet, which was half full of clothes, he pulled out a cigar box and several dark blue folders.

"These are my pennies," he said, opening one of the folders. His coins were all neatly organized by year. My eyes and fingers went straight to the oldest. "That's an 1860 Indian Head," he said.

"I thought all pennies were Lincoln Heads," I said in surprise.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed, opening his cigar box. "See, I have lots of them."

"I'll give you one of my Lincoln pennies for one of your Indian Heads," I said.

Carl thought about it for a while and then said, "You don't have to. I'll give you one. Pick the one you want."

"Thanks," I said excitedly. I quickly went through the loose pennies in his box and picked one made in 1865. It was the oldest one I could find.

On the way back to school to catch my bus, Carl said, "When can I come to your house and see your collection?" His question took me by surprise. I never thought he would want to visit me at our home. And after seeing his house, I was not sure I wanted him to see where I lived. "Well ... when?" he asked again, looking a bit confused because I did not answer him.

After thinking of possible excuses, I finally said, "I live too far. I'll bring my collection to school. It's not much, just a few Lincoln Head pennies."

"That's okay, I'd like to see it anyway," he said.

I never got the chance to show Carl my collection. That weekend we moved to Five Points, and I never saw my friend again.

I placed the penny back in the box and closed it. I looked straight ahead through the windshield, between Papá and Mamá, to see how far we had traveled, and to look for road signs to Orosi.

"What does
Orosi
mean?" I asked Papá.

"I am not sure,
mi'jo,
" he responded. "But I have a feeling we're going to like it there."

I took out my note pad and wrote the word down, breaking it into two syllables. Oro-si.
Oro
meant "gold" in Spanish, and
si
meant either "yes" or "if." Based on what Papá said, I figured it meant "yes" in this case.

I closed the note pad and held it in the palm of my hand. It was almost brand new when I found it in the city dump in Santa Maria. Now its blue soft covers were beginning to fade and its corners were frayed. As I smoothed them out with my fingers, I recalled when I first started to use it.

I was in Miss Martin's sixth-grade class in Santa Maria. It was the end of January, and we had just returned from Fresno where I had started the sixth grade in Mr. Lema's class in November. I was behind in English, Miss Martin's favorite subject. Every day she would write a different English word on the blackboard and ask the class to look it up in our dictionaries as fast as we could. The student who found the word the quickest would get a point, and, at the end of the week, the one with the most points would get a gold star. I never got a star or a point. It took me too long to find the words, and I did not know what many of them meant. So I got the idea of writing the words down in my note pad, along with their definitions, and memorizing them. I did this for the rest of the year. And after I left Miss Martin's class, I continued adding new words and their definitions to my note pad. I also wrote other things I needed to learn for school and things I wanted to know by heart, like spelling words, and math and grammar rules. I carried the note pad in my shirt pocket and, while I worked in the fields, memorized the information I had written in it. I took my
librito
with me wherever I went.

After traveling for about five hours, we arrived at our new home in Orosi. It was an old, two-story, yellow wooden house. It was located about fifteen miles outside the city limits. Mr. Patrini, the owner, told us that the house was seventy years old. We could not use the second level because the floors were unstable. The first floor had two rooms and a kitchen. Behind the house was a large barn and hundreds of vineyards.