Breaking Through (11 page)

"I am helping you clean the Western Union."

"You are!" I exclaimed, smiling ear to ear. "This means..."

"Yes, give Papá the keys to the DeSoto. You won't need them."

After cleaning the Western Union, Roberto and I drove up Broadway to school, just like before. The Little Stinker decal did not bother me as much anymore.

At the beginning of my junior year, I went to see my counselor, Mr. Kinkade, to go over my class schedule. On my way to his office, I thought about the first day of my freshman year when I met him. This time I felt much more confident. I walked in his office. He was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. He motioned for me to sit down across from him. He wore the same dark gray suit that he wore two years before. It sagged around his shoulders, and it's color matched his hair. The piles of paper on his desk and the top of his file cabinet had grown. I glanced out the window to the left. The garden in the courtyard looked the same as it did my freshman year. He hung up the phone, picked up my file from his desk, and glanced at it. "You did very well last year," he said, "except in driver education. You made the California Scholarship Federation. Congratulations."

"I had trouble parallel parking," I said, feeling embarrassed.

Everyone had told me that driver education was an easy A, but not for me. Every time I got behind the steering wheel I got nervous because I remembered the time our
Carcachita
was hit from behind by a drunk driver in Selma. None of us was hurt, but it scared me. If it had not been for Roberto and those driving lessons in the van behind the gas company, I would have done worse, and I would not have gotten my driver's license.

"Don't worry about it. Just don't park next to my car," Mr. Kinkade said, laughing. "The important thing is that you're on the right track for college," he added.

"I hear college is really hard," I said, remembering how anxious I felt when Mrs. Taylor, my social studies teacher, told the class how difficult college was compared to high school. She reminded us whenever someone grumbled about homework or grades, which was at least once every class. Mr. Kinkade stared at me briefly, then looked out the window.

"It all depends," he said. "If you're well prepared in high school, you shouldn't have trouble in college."

"But what's the difference?" I asked.

"Difference?" he responded, looking puzzled.

"What's the difference between college and high school?"

Mr. Kinkade grinned, took off his glasses, leaned forward, and said, "Rather than my telling you, why don't you visit one of our local colleges and find out for yourself? In a few weeks we're taking California Scholarship Federation students by bus to Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo to visit the campus. I'll sign you up for it."

I was the first one on the bus the day of the field trip to Cal Poly. I sat toward the front with Ernie and Bob, two of my friends whom I had met in the Squires Club. On our way to Cal Poly we talked about classes and the dance coming up that Saturday night. As soon as they began discussing sports, I tuned out. I looked out the window. The highway snaked through green rolling hills past Nipomo, Arroyo Grande, and Pismo Beach until we reached San Luis Obispo. The bus went up a grade, onto the campus, and parked in front of the administration building. A tall, thin young man greeted us and gave us a walking tour, pointing out buildings and explaining different programs. He talked about majors, semesters, units, and many other things I did not understand.
Maybe this is what my teacher meant when she said college was difficult,
I thought. Surrounded by eucalyptus and pepper trees, the buildings were far apart and scattered throughout the campus. The air smelled fresh and sweet. I kept eyeing students who walked by, trying to see if they looked smart. They appeared to be like many of the older students at
Santa Maria High School, but none looked like my friends from Bonetti Ranch or friends I made in other labor camps, and that made me feel uncomfortable.

In the afternoon we visited one of the dormitories that was far away from the administration building. It was a long concrete building with windows in every room. It looked like a fancy army barrack. We went into the lounge to look around and rest for a few minutes. I saw a student sitting on a light brown couch, reading. He had on a gray sweatshirt that read
CAL POLY
. I wondered if he felt lonely, like Roberto and I did when we lived alone. The student seemed annoyed by the noise we were making. He looked up, made a bad face, and left in a hurry, leaving one of his books behind on the couch. He was gone before I had a chance to tell him. I assumed it was a college book and wondered if I would be able to read it. Just as I was about to move toward the couch, I heard the guide say, "Time to head back." Everyone followed him out the door, but I stayed behind and waited until everyone had left before picking it up. It was an American history textbook. I looked at the table of contents, turned the page, and started reading. "I can read this!" I exclaimed under my breath.
Maybe college isn't as hard as my teacher said it is,
I thought. That evening at work I thought about our visit to Cal Poly. I imagined myself in college and living in the dorm, away from home. I felt excited and sad at the same time.

I liked being at school, and I got involved in school activities whenever I could. I joined the Squires Club, and our main duties were to keep order in the lunch line and stop students from littering. I missed the initiation dinner, which was held on a Thursday evening, because I had to work.

I also became a member of the Spanish Club. In late fall of my junior year, my study hall teacher announced that a meeting was being held after school for students interested in joining the club. I decided to attend and learn more about it. Instead of going straight to the public library to do my math homework as I usually did, I went to the meeting, which was held in one of the classrooms in the old part of the school, next to the tennis courts. Few students were there. Mr. Osterveen, one of the Spanish teachers, ran the meeting. He was a short,
stocky man with a large head and receding hairline. He had a long chin and a thin, black mustache, just like Papá's. As he talked about Mexico, his small, dark eyes lit up like a cat's when it saw a mouse. He said he was from New York but had lived and studied in Mexico City, where he met his wife, who was from Oaxaca. I had heard of Mexico City but not of Oaxaca and I wondered if those places were like El Rancho Blanco or Guadalajara. He rested his right foot on one of the desks in the front row, and each time he got excited, he pushed up, making himself look taller. I felt right at home when he spoke Spanish. I signed up to be a member right there and then. Mr. Osterveen suggested a second meeting to elect officers and to come up with a new name for the club. We all agreed to meet again a few weeks later.

When I got home that evening after work I told my family about the club and Mr. Osterveen. "And he's a teacher?" Papá asked. I was surprised to see him so interested. He usually never asked anything about school.

"Yes, he speaks Spanish just like us," I said enthusiastically.

"Is he from Jalisco?"

"No, but he lived in Mexico for many years."

Papá smiled and nodded his head. I then asked my family to help me think of names for the club.

"How about 'The Little Stinkers'?" Trampita said,
chuckling. Roberto gave Trampita a slight punch on the shoulder and laughed.

"You're the stinker," he said. "That's why we call you Trampita."

"Come on, get serious," I said. "How about 'The Spanish Club Saints?"

"
Los Santitos,
" Mamá uttered, "
Los Santitos,
like all our children."

"
Santitos!
" Papá exclaimed. "How about
Los Diablitos
..."

"I like
Los Santitos,
" I said. "It fits with the Santa Maria Saints."

At the next meeting of the Spanish Club I proposed the name
Los Santitos.
Everyone voted in favor of it. We then elected officers. I was elected president, Abie Gonzales, vice president, Charlotte Woodward, secretary, and Marjorie Ito, coordinator of social events. Our first order of business was to think of an activity for the club. Marjorie suggested having a Thanksgiving fiesta. I liked the idea of celebrating Thanksgiving. It was my favorite holiday because when we picked cotton in Corcoran I started school around that time every year. We all went along with her idea, except Mr. Osterveen. He reminded us that Thanksgiving was only a few days away. "You don't have time to organize a party around Thanksgiving," he said, "but you could for Christmas."

I thought about Christmas and felt sad, recalling living
in tent labor camps in Corcoran during that holiday and seeing families struggling to make ends meet.

"What do you think?" Abie said, poking me in the back.

"About Christmas? Well..." I hesitated. I then remembered the Christmas when Papá gave Mamá an embroidered handkerchief he had bought from a young couple who needed money to buy food. "What about collecting food for poor families?" I finally said.

"A Christmas food drive. That's a great idea!" Mr. Osterveen said. Abie and Majorie agreed. "I'll ask teachers to announce it in study hall. Students can drop off food cans in the cafeteria and we'll have the Salvation Army deliver it to needy families," Mr. Osterveen added.

We left the meeting and agreed to meet once again before the Christmas break to make sure everything was in order. Every day the number of food bags increased, and by the end of the second week in December we had collected forty-one bags. On the last day of school before Christmas break, Captain Tracy from the Salvation Army came to collect the food. He thanked
Los Santitos
and gave us a certificate of appreciation for "rendering eminent and memorable service to the Santa Maria community by helping the Salvation Army to give a happy Christmas."

That evening after I finished cleaning the gas company I waited for Roberto to pick me up. I was excited because he was bringing home a Christmas tree. Ever since Roberto
started working at Main Street Elementary School, Mr. Sims told him that he could take the school Christmas tree home on the day the school closed for the holidays. I sat down in the main office of the gas company and admired the large, cheerful Santa Claus painted on the front window and the tall Christmas tree in the middle of the office, with it's tiny white lights blinking off and on like stars in the heavens. I saw my brother drive up. I quickly locked the office and rushed to the parking lot to see the tree. It was in the back seat of the car, strewn with tinsel. "It's a beautiful tree," Roberto said. "Wait till you see it standing up." When we got home Trampita, Rorra, Torito, and Rubén dashed out of the house to see it.

"This is a very special Christmas,
mijo,
" Mamá said excitedly, clasping her hands. "This afternoon the Salvation Army brought us a huge box full of groceries. God is truly watching over us."

I became interested in politics in my U.S. history class during my junior year. Miss Kellog, the teacher, required our class to follow the i960 presidential campaign. She talked about Vice President Richard Nixon and Senator John F. Kennedy as though she knew them personally. "It's your responsibility as citizens to be informed about what's happening in politics," she said often. "Our democracy depends on it." Few students shared her enthusiasm. I paid close attention because I was interested and because I wanted Miss Kellog and my classmates to think I was an American citizen.

One of her class assignments was for us to ask our parents their opinion on politics and the presidential campaign. Papá, who was in one of his bad moods, did not want to talk about it, but Mamá finally convinced him. "I don't know much," Papá said. "I didn't go to school, but
I can tell you that in Mexico the rich have all the power. They choose the president, not the people. They tell us we have a vote, but it means nothing."

"But here it's different," I said. "This is a democracy."

"That's what they say, but I believe the rich rule here too," he said. "And the rich don't care about poor people."

"How do you know?" I asked, forgetting that Papá did not like us to question him. He gave me a stern look.

"Because I've lived many years," he responded in a harsh tone of voice. His lips were thin and pale. "I have seen it with my own eyes," he added. He got up from the table and went into his room and slammed the door. Mamá looked at me and shook her head.

"Do you agree with him?" I asked.

"Not completely," she responded, glancing at Papá's room. "I think he's right about the government in Mexico, but in this country..." She hesitated for a moment and then continued, "I heard on the radio that Kennedy will help poor people."

"So you're in favor of the Democratic Party," I said.

"I am in favor of Kennedy. That's all I know," she said.

If he gets elected, he'll help people like us,
I thought. At that moment, I decided to be for Kennedy and the Democratic Party from then on.

The next day in class we continued talking about the two presidential candidates. Some students supported
Nixon, others favored Kennedy. Miss Kellog did not take sides, but I figured she must have preferred Kennedy because her eyes sparkled whenever she talked about him. Besides, I could not imagine her not supporting the candidate who wanted to aid the poor. When I found out that Kennedy came from a wealthy family, I knew for sure that Papá was wrong about rich people, but I never said anything to him. I knew better.

The next class assignment was for us to watch the presidential debates on television, take notes, and discuss them in class. I missed all four of the debates because I had to work. I did not participate in class discussions, but I listened carefully, always rooting for Kennedy.

At the end of the semester, after the elections, we were to turn in a scrapbook with all the articles about the campaign published in the
Santa Maria Times,
the local newspaper. We did not get the paper at home, so at work every day I picked up the discarded newspaper from the day before, took it home, and piled it in the shed next to our barrack. I spent one Sunday evening putting the scrapbook together. I brought out the stack of papers and placed them on the kitchen table. Roberto sat next to me, helping me clip articles. Mamá ironed while she listened to the Spanish radio station. "You have enough paper there to plug every hole in all the barracks in Bonetti Ranch," Mamá said, laughing. I explained what I
was doing. "I am glad Kennedy won," she said. "He gives us hope."