Burro Genius

by Victor Villaseñor

  Sandy quickly whispered something to Karen. “Okay! Okay!” said our publicist. “Great idea! Good thinking! You,” she said, turning back to me, “come with me, but that hat has to go! And could we get him a different shirt? These are educated people.”

  I closed my eyes so I could concentrate on the fact that, I guess, it had just been decided that I’d be the one to give the keynote address, so what I was wearing wasn’t really the main issue.

  I followed Karen and Sandy down the hallway. But then I suddenly realized that I had to pee. This had also happened to me in high school when I’d been a wrestler. I’d get real nervous just before a match and have this terrible feeling that I needed to pee. Then I’d go to the bathroom and I couldn’t pee for the life of me. But I was afraid to say anything about this to Karen and Sandy, so I just kept following the two women down the long, narrow hallway.

  Sandy kept whispering in Karen’s ear, and glancing back at me. I liked Sandy. She didn’t just look at me like I was a head of lettuce that didn’t fit in with the other heads of lettuce. I was able to catch the tail end of their conversation. Sandy was reminding Karen that this was the West Coast and not New York, so a Mexican-American writer might just fit in very well with this group of teachers, especially with all the daily news going on about Cesar Chavez and his fieldworkers.

  “All right,” said Karen, “maybe it will work. But what happened to our backup speaker? You know that we always have to have a backup speaker when we do these big events.”

  Sandy glanced at me. “He’s in the bar,” she said to Karen. “I just saw him. I don’t think we can go with him.”

  “That’s all we need, another drunk author. All right, then we’ll go with this writer. But do we have anything on him? And who will introduce him?”

  “I can do that,” said Sandy, smiling at me. “I just read his bio. It has legs.”

  “Really?” said Karen, sounding impressed.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then he’s our man of the hour.” Then I couldn’t believe it, Karen now turned to me with a big smile—as if I’d really been her first choice all along and said, “How are you feeling? Is there anything we can do for you?”

  I felt like saying, “No, thanks, ma’dam. You’ve already kicked the crap out of me enough.” But I didn’t. Instead I just said, “No, I just need a bathroom, then I’m ready to go.”

  Her face twisted. “Are you getting sick?”

  I had to take a big breath. “No,” I said. “I just need to pee.”

  “Oh, good! That’s wonderful! You take him to the bathroom, Sandy, and I’ll go tell them that we’ll be ready to go on in two minutes. Is that long enough for you to, well, get ready?” she asked me.

  I nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Good, then hurry. This is an important keynote for us. A lot of teachers and entire school districts are going to know about you and your book in just a few minutes. Your English, I mean, you do speak proper English, I take it.”

  I decided to not tell her about my flunking the third grade twice. I also decided to not inform her that I was never able to get into regular lit classes in college because I could never pass remedial English. I turned on my heels. I’d just about taken all I could from her.

  “Please don’t take what Karen says too seriously,” said Sandy to me as we quickly went down the hallway, by the lobby to the restrooms. “She’s really a very fine person once you get to know her. She’s just under a lot of pressure. Being a publicist can be hell at times like this.”

  As we flew pass the bar, I recognized the well-known science fiction writer at the bar, drinking and tossing down peanuts. At the door of the men’s room, I abruptly stopped. Sandy was staying so close to me that I thought she might just come in with me.

  “I’ll wait for you right out here,” she said. “And could you please give me your hat so you can comb your hair?”

  I didn’t want to, but I handed her my hat.

  “You do have a comb, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said, feeling like I suddenly had a new mother.

  “I’m sorry that we’re being so pushy,” she said, “but as you might guess, it can sometimes be very difficult handling writers.”

  I nodded and went inside. Immediately, I walked up to a stall and unbuttoned my Levi’s. I always wore the old, original button-fly Levi’s because of the short crotch. I have long legs for a man my height, but a short torso, so the newer Levi’s with a zipper ride too high up on my waist.

  I couldn’t pee, no matter how much I tried. And I really needed to go, too. Finally, I walked across the huge bathroom. I was all alone. I washed my hands in the sink, then washed my face with cold water. Then I remembered how this girl that I’d met up in San Francisco right after I’d gotten out of the Army would always turn on the water in the sink when she went to pee. I’d thought that she did it because she didn’t want anyone to hear her waterfall echoing in the toilet, but she’d explained to me that the sound of running water actually relaxed her so she could pee more easily. I decided to give it a try.

  I dried my hands and face, left the water running in the sink, re-crossed the bathroom, and put myself in front of a stall once again. Closing my eyes and breathing real slowly, I was finally able to start peeing. And man, it just kept coming and coming, and it was still coming fast when the knocking started on the door. But I just ignored the knocking and kept on peeing. I mean, it was like I was never going to stop.

  Then, I couldn’t believe it, someone opened the door. “Are you okay?” said a woman’s voice. It was Karen. “Everyone is waiting.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling irritated as hell.

  “It’s been two minutes, you know.”

  “Please,” I said. “I’m busy! I’ll be right out!”

  “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just shut the door, please.”

  She closed the door and I finished peeing, buttoned up, went back to the sink, washed my face with cold water again, then turned off the water. I wondered if she’d thought that the sound of the water from the faucet had been me peeing. I laughed. That was really funny. I took another couple of paper towels, dried my hands and face, then glanced into the mirror, saw my wide, high-cheek-boned face, my straight black hair, took two or three deep breaths just as I’d always done in high school before a wrestling match, then said in Spanish—not ever in English—“Papito Dios,” meaning little Daddy God, “please, Papito, You got to stick close to me right now. I need Your help, no kidding. Gracias.”

  Saying this, I quickly made the sign of the cross over myself, felt better, and knew that I was now as ready as I’d ever be, con el favor de Dios. Hell, my freshman year in high school I’d made the varsity team, won nine out of twelve matches, and I’d been wrestling against juniors and seniors, guys two and three years older than me. I felt if I could do that, I could do this. No problema. I turned and walked out of the bathroom.

  Both Karen and Sandy were waiting for me right outside of the door. Karen got hold of my arm. She was really strong. Quickly she started walking me as fast as she could back across the lobby, then up the hallway towards the rear entrance of the convention center. I kept trying to get my hat back from Sandy, but Karen finally said, “Absolutely not! We’ll keep it for you until after your talk.”

  But I always wore hats. I’d learned this as a little kid from watching Beeny and Cecil, the sea serpent on kid’s TV. Beeny had always put on his thinking hat before he did anything important. And my dad, who’d sometimes taken the time to watch the little kids’ TV shows with me, had told me that he entirely agreed with Beeny 110 percent, because he, too, always wore a hat when he played poker or had any important thinking to do.

  “Look, I want my hat,” I said to Karen as we came to the end of the hallway.

  “No,” said Karen, taking my hat from Sandy and holding it behind herself. “I will not have one of our authors going out there with a ridiculous-lookin
g old hat. It’s bad enough that you’re wearing that loud Western shirt and big belt buckle. Don’t you get it, you’re a published author now. You’re in the majors.”

  I took a big breath. That did it. She’d just pushed one too many of my buttons. Women got to wear colorful clothes and even padded bras in the majors, didn’t they? So why couldn’t a guy wear a bright turquoise shirt and a big belt buckle? Hell, her bra was probably even padded. Sandy opened the door for us, and suddenly here I was along with Karen and the five other authors in a gigantic room that stretched out forever in all directions. The whole place was packed full of people sitting at large round tables, about ten to a table. It looked like acres and acres of people, and you could see that they’d already eaten, were into their dessert and coffee, and were looking pretty antsy.

  I froze. This was one hell of a lot bigger affair than I’d ever imagined. Sandy immediately went to the microphone. She had a copy of my book Macho! in hand. Glancing at the back cover, she began to read, introducing me to the audience. I glanced around. I really needed my dad’s hat right now, at least in my hands. I glanced at Karen. She was smiling radiantly at the audience and she now had my hat behind her shirt, like she was trying to hide it from me. I took a big breath. She’d been treating me like a little kid ever since they’d walked me to the bathroom.

  Sandy was almost done with my introduction. She was now telling the crowd that I was one of their newly published authors. “He’s written an excellent book called Macho! but it isn’t really about machismo. It tells the story of a young Tarascan Indian boy who journeys from Michoacán, Mexico, to the United States and toils in the fields with Cesar Chavez.” Everyone started clapping, including Karen, and in that split second, with her holding my hat in front of her body as she clapped, I leaped forward and snatched it from her, then turned on my heels and walked up to the mike before she could say or do anything.

  I was terror-stricken, but felt better now that I had my dad’s hat with me. This was my padded bra with which to face the world. I put on the old sweat-stained Stetson and instantly felt better. Then I took hold of Sandy, who was handing me the microphone, and I gave her un abrazo, meaning a hug, wanting to thank her for her beautiful introduction. But I felt her tense her body and start to panic. Then, hearing my words of thanks in her ear, she relaxed and hugged me back. This felt good. I was set. I’d gotten to that calm, safe place inside of me that I’d needed to get to. She turned me around but didn’t hand me the mike. Instead she slipped it into the metal gadget that was built into top of the boxlike podium, which was made of beautiful oak. I breathed. She’d been smart to do this. My hands were shaking too much for me to have handled the mike. But I wasn’t really very worried. I’d had some of my best wrestling matches when I’d been this wound up.

  Sandy left my side and now I was all alone, standing before one of the largest crowds of people that I’d ever seen assembled, except of course, at the Del Mar racetrack. I had no idea what to do, much less where to begin. In the bathroom, I’d thought of maybe just opening up my book and reading to them about the Paricutín Volcano in the state of Michoacán, Mexico, where my novel begins.

  But then, I’d also remembered how all my life, I’d had so much trouble reading, especially aloud, that this wouldn’t be the best bet for me. Hell, by the time I’d gotten to the fifth grade I was so gun-shy of reading aloud that I’d rather have had the teacher hit me with her ruler than put me through the embarrassment of all the kids finding out what a terrible reader I was.

  My head was beginning to get hot. I took off my hat, put it on the podium, and continued to look out at the crowd of mostly all Anglo people. There were only a few Blacks scattered here and there. Nowhere did I see a wide brown face like mine.

  I took another big breath and decided to just talk, to simply tell them how I’d researched this book by interviewing some of the guys on our ranch, and then how I’d combined the story of one main guy with two other of our vaqueros. Then I’d explain that I’d found out that interviewing people didn’t quite do it, so I’d then had to actually cross the border myself, illegally, at Mexicali, and work in the field picking melon from the border up through Bakersfield and then Fireball, the world capital del melon.

  Then I don’t know what exactly happened to me, but as I looked out at this sea of faces, and I realized that they were all…English teachers, I suddenly felt my heart EXPLODE! But not with fear. No, with white-hot rage, and I now knew exactly what it was that I really wanted to say.

  I took in another deep breath. Some of these teachers were now getting up to leave, but this didn’t frighten me. Just as it hadn’t frightened me to go into wrestling matches where I had seen that my opponent didn’t have much respect for me. In some of those matches I’d gone in with lightning speed, taken the older, more experienced guy by complete surprise, and pinned him within seconds.

  “EXCUSE ME!” I shouted, not realizing the microphone would amplify my voice into a thunderous sound. “BUT I UNDERSTAND that all of you here are English teachers!” My booming voice stopped everyone in their tracks. I glanced at Karen and Sandy, who were over to the right of me some twenty feet away. It looked like Karen was just about ready to shit a brick.

  I closed my eyes, got my publicists and everything else out of my head, and put myself astride a thousand-pound horse a lo charro chingón! Ten feet tall! Faster and stronger than any human in all the world! Opening my eyes, I grabbed hold of the podium before me like I’d do to a calf in calf roping. “Once, I had an English teacher!” I said, feeling my heart leaping into my throat. People smiled. Others laughed. And the ones who’d been getting up to leave now sat back down. “And to this day…I hope to God…with all my heart…that that English teacher DIES A PAINFUL DEATH THAT LASTS AT LEAST ONE WEEK! BECAUSE! BECAUSE!” I barked into the microphone as I grabbed the podium with such force, that I shook its heavy oak up and down. “I can forgive bad parents! Because maybe it was an accident! Maybe they didn’t even want to be parents! But teachers are no accident! You study to become a teacher! You work at it for years. So I cannot, and will not forgive teachers who are abusive, mean, and torture kids with commas and periods and misspelling, making them feel like they are less than human because they don’t or can’t seem to get it right.

  “But on the other hand, I pray to God, with all my heart and soul, that all good teachers…who are patient…attentive…considerate and kind go to heaven when they die and they are rewarded with vanilla ice cream and apple pie FOR ALL ETERNITY! Because, you see, a bad teacher, like Moses, the abusive English teacher that I had in Carlsbad, kills kids, here in the heart, and not just with their tests, but with their superior attitude and those sly smiles that they like to give to their A students, but never to the ones who are also working hard, or maybe even harder, like me, but just couldn’t get it!

  “I was TORTURED by teachers! You hear me, TORTURED!” I yelled, jerking the whole podium off the floor. “Hell, I flunked the third grade twice because—BECAUSE—” I was crying so hard that I had to wipe the tears out of my eyes with the back of my hand, but this wasn’t going to stop me. I was all guts up front now. I was in that smooth-feeling, all-true place that I got into when I’d go to my room and start writing each morning before daybreak…with all my heart and soul.

  “TRULY!” I shouted. “UNDERSTAND that this, that I’m talking about, is IMPORTANT! I wrote for ten years before I got published! I’d written over six books…sixty-five short stories and four plays…and received more than two hundred sixty rejections before I got published! And it was hate and rage towards abusive teachers that kept me going year after year…with the hope that one day I’d get published, and have a voice, so I could make a difference down here in our hearts and guts,” I said, grabbing hold of my own gut, “where we really live, if we’re going to live a life worth living! Because, you see, real teaching isn’t just about teaching the brain up here,” I said, hitting my forehead, “but it’s also about inspiring your students t
o have heart…compassion, guts, understanding, and hope!

  “My grandmother—God bless her soul—a Yaqui Indian from northern Mexico, was the greatest teacher I’d ever had! And do you know what she taught me, she taught me that each and every day is un milagro given to us by God, and that work, that planting corn and squash with our two hands is holy. She taught me all this with kindness and invitation. Not with ridicule and looking down her nose at me and making me feel like less than human when I didn’t get it at first.”

  I was crying so hard that I had to stop talking to catch my breath. Quickly, out of nowhere, Sandy was at my side, patting me on the back and handing me a glass of water. I drank the whole glass down. I suddenly had to pee again, but I figured that I could probably hold it, I hoped.

  “Are you okay?” asked Sandy, stroking my arm. “Can you go on?”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said, feeling my heart beat, beat, beating like a mighty drum. “I can go on. I got to!” I added. My grandmother was here at my side. I could feel-see sense her, completely.

  “Okay,” said Sandy. “You’re doing fine. This isn’t exactly what they were expecting, but…you do have their attention.”

  I almost laughed. Sandy was right. Looking out at the crowd, I could see that I really did have everyone’s attention. In fact, some were at the edge of their seats, ready to take in my every word. But others were shaking their heads, and looking like they wanted to get up and leave. I glanced at Karen, who looked like she’d already shit her brick, and she was now running her index finger across her throat. I guessed that she was telling me that she was going to cut my throat once she got hold of me. I only laughed at her, too. Hell, there was no way on earth that I was now going to be silenced. I’d been holding back all this fire inside me ever since I’d started school.