El Coyote, the Rebel

by Luis Pérez

  “May I say that same thing to you about Miss Olson and myself?”

  “Mr. Pérez, three days ago Mr. Mingles saw you kissing Miss Olson. Is it true?”

  “Is it a crime for a man to kiss the woman he loves?”

  “Did you kiss Miss Olson?” he shouted.

  “Yes, sir, I kissed Miss Olson. Do you have any objections to that?”

  “Mr. Pérez, I want you to know that this is a seminary for gentlemen—for ministers of the Lord, and not for incorrigible and irresponsible young men such as you. People are talking about the institution and we are losing their respect. Mr. Mingles was very much disturbed and mortified in knowing how the pupils of this great institution of learning have been carrying on with the workers of the Lord. You either have to stop seeing Miss Olson or else we’ll have to take other means to settle these things which are so annoying to the faculty of a Christian school.”

  “Is Mr. Mingles the spy of the seminary?” I asked.

  “I’m not a spy, young man—I want you to know that I was only doing my duty,” said Mr. Mingles angrily.

  “If you are not a spy, how can you say that I was kissing Miss Olson?”

  “Because I saw your silhouettes through the frosted glass windows Saturday night,” said Mr. Mingles, shaking his finger at me.

  “And how can you prove that the silhouettes you saw were ours?”

  “Because I stayed outside of the building until you two came out of the storeroom.”

  “Heh-heh-heh,” laughed a very elderly teacher, who heretofore had been reading his Bible.

  “Mr. Mingles,” I continued, “that proves that you are not only a spy, but also a tattletale and stool pigeon. I feel sorry for Miss Olson because her reputation is at stake, but if she is willing, I am going to keep on seeing her—and—kissing her. Neither the dean, the tattler, nor the faculty of the seminary can stop a man from caring for a woman. Gentlemen—I love Miss Olson. Is that clear? I love her!”

  I was so angry that I could have called them worse names than the ones the wounded sergeant called the Moralistas the night I was trying to bring him into our trenches.

  The dean was so enraged at what I said that he got up and shouted, “Mr. Pérez! You will have to apologize to Mr. Mingles and to all of us, or else you will be expelled from the institution!”

  “Señor dean, I thank God that this is not the only, school in the United States. If I am expelled from here because I love a woman, I consider myself very fortunate. Besides, señor dean, I don’t have to apologize to Mr. Mingles nor to—”

  “You are expelled from the seminary!” he roared a the top of his voice, interrupting me.

  “Thank you, señor dean,” I said, and made a slight bow and walked backwards to the office door. Then stopped and added, “Good-by— Christian friends!” and I walked out.

  I went at once to the dormitories and picked up my belongings, including my black suit, that is, the remains of a suit—the vest and the coat.

  Miss Smith interceded for me, and the following week the dean asked me to come back. I returned to the school, but I was not very happy there. Most of the teachers and students treated me coldly.

  When Miss Olson knew that I had been expelled from the seminary because of our romance, she worried so that she became ill. I did not see her for about a month, and of course that made me feel very miserable. There was nothing I could do; I was so closely watched by the members of the faculty that I had to be extremely careful. By the end of the summer semester of 1924 I decided to quit the seminary for good. While I was pondering over the possibility of leaving the school, I was able to take Miss Olson out to dinner. I was very glad to see and talk to my beloved one. When I had a chance I said, “Caroline, darling, I love you. Will you marry me?”

  “Luis, I love you very much, but I love you as though you were my brother; and I wish that you could love me in the same way.”

  “No, Caroline, I could not love you that way. I have always loved you as a man loves a woman. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. I love you and want you to marry me.”

  “Luis, what will my people think if I marry you? You don’t have a job, and you are too young yet. We wouldn’t be happy—no, darling, we wouldn’t be happy. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Caroline, I understand—I guess we wouldn’t be happy. Shall we go?”

  I was brokenhearted, but a week after our dinner date I saw Miss Olson again. She said, “Luis, I have some news for you.”

  “News for me?” I asked. “Are you going to marry me?”

  “No, you silly boy, I would love to marry you, but you know as well as I do that we could never be happy, and—”

  “And what?” I interrupted her. “Is it because you are ten years older than I am?”

  “Ten years would make a lot of difference,” she said, trying to look stern; then her voice broke and sobbingly she whispered, “Luis, darling, I love you—I cannot think straight—forgive me. I am not able to stand this ordeal any longer, and I have resigned my post as a missionary. Tomorrow evening I am going home. Will you take me to the station? I want you to be a man and face your troubles as I am going to face mine.”

  “Caroline, I will do everything you have asked me to do. I know I will miss you, but your wish is to go—and you shall go.”

  The next evening the school faculty came to the station to see Miss Olson off. After bidding them good-by, she kissed me a fond farewell in their presence; then she climbed into her coach.

  “How scandalous!” mumbled a member of the faculty, as Miss Olson kissed me.

  “Disgusting!” exclaimed another.

  The conductor shouted, “All-l-l aboard!” and in a few minutes Caroline was gone.

  While we were in the station after Miss Olson had gone, I told the dean that I was going to leave the seminary. I also said, “Señor, I don’t think I was ever cut out to be a minister of the Lord.”

  “Mr. Pérez,” he replied, “you haven’t been called by the Lord yet to be one of His ministers. Pray, pray, and pray without ceasing to the Mighty God for understanding, for guidance, and for forgiveness.”

  “Thank you, señor dean,” I said; then I left him and some of the members of the faculty in the station and went to the dormitories to get my belongings. This time I left my black suit in the rag bag.

  36

  By the early part of September, 1924, I had saved ninety-five dollars, and a friend of mine owed me thirty. With a hundred and twenty-five dollars to my credit I decided to enroll in a public school.

  When I was in the seminary doing missionary work I had met a Mexican who was staying in a private home owned by a widow. And when I was looking for a place to stay, I came upon the Mexican again and told him that I was going back to school.

  “Back to the seminary?” he asked.

  “No, I am going to try my luck in a public school this time. No more seminary for me; I have had enough of it.”

  “Well, I wish you luck, but it takes money to live while attending school.”

  “That is true, and my mission just now is to look for a cheap place in which to live.”

  “Why don’t you come to the house where I’m staying? The landlady is an American woman, and a very good Christian. She might let you have a corner of a room, and board for a very reasonable amount. Come over tonight and meet her.”

  “All right, Pedro, I’ll be there,” I said to my friend as I took leave of him.

  That evening I went to visit Pedro’s landlady, and after I had heard a long discourse upon the divinity and resurrection of the crucified Christ, and the purity of the Virgin Mary, the owner of the house concluded by saying, “Young man, seeing that you are a Christian boy, saved by the precious blood of the Lamb of God, I’m going to let you share one of my rooms and have two meals a day for the nominal price of fifteen dollars per month. I love the Mexican people and I want to help them. Now, shall we bow our heads and thank God for His kindness?”

 
; “Hallelujah! Praise be His Holy Name by every tongue in His universe,” mumbled my friend Pedro, while the landlady finished by repeating the Lord’s Prayer in a very high-pitched voice.

  On the sixteenth day of September, 1924, I was eating a hamburger sandwich at a little counter near the Hollywood High School. Sitting next to me was an elderly gentleman eating a rather sumptuous meal. As he was served, he turned to me and asked, “Young man, will you pass the salt?”

  “Yes, señor, con mucho gusto.”

  He looked at me, asking, “So you speak Spanish, eh?”

  Yes, señor, soy Mexicano.”

  “You are a Mexican—fine, fine. I talk to you in Spanish. I’m a Spanish teacher in the Hollywood High School, but I seldom find anyone who knows the language.”

  After a short pause he asked, “What is your name?”

  “Luis Peréz.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Cement mixer. That is, I have been working for a contractor, building concrete sidewalks.”

  “How interesting!”

  “Not to me.”

  “Don’t you have some kind of a trade?”

  “No, señor, I don’t.”

  “Have you finished high school?”

  “I do not know what you mean by high school.” Then I told him about my previous education, and also that I wished to attend some public school.

  “Well, I doubt very much whether you’ll be able to enter any public school.”

  “Why, señor?”

  “Because you don’t have the credits demanded by the public-school system. However, you can come with me to the school and we will talk to the principal. He is a very fine man. We like him very much.”

  “I will be glad to go with you right away,” I said eagerly.

  “Not so fast, son. Wait until I eat this delicious beef steak.”

  After the Spanish teacher had finished his dinner both of us went to the school office. While we were going through the hall of the administration building he said to a man whom we met, “This boy wants to enroll in the school, but he doesn’t speak English very well, and he doesn’t have any public-school credits. He is also twenty years old.”

  The man whom we met looked me over and said to the Spanish teacher, in a rather serious tone of voice, “Give him a chance, give him a chance!”

  The man who gave me a chance was Dr. W. H. Snyder, the principal of Hollywood High School. He was kind enough to give me an opportunity and I took it.

  When Dr. Snyder left us, the Spanish instructor turned to me and said, “He is a grand old man!” Then he took me to the registrar’s office.

  The first two weeks in Hollywood High School were very pleasant for me. I always managed to sit next to a pretty girl and carefully planned to walk out of the classroom with one, and quite often with two.

  The first day in my roll-call room a boy in an army uniform spoke to me and asked, “What is your name?’

  “Luis Pérez,” I answered.

  “Louise?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that is a girl’s name.”

  “No, in Spanish my name is spelled L-u-i-s, and sounds the same as the name used for the American girls.”

  “That is funny—you should change it. I will call you Louie, for short.” After some conversation he asked, “Louie, why don’t you join the R.O.T.C., and learn to be a soldier? You will wear a uniform like me and you will save your ‘civvies.’”

  “What do you mean by R.O.T.C.?”

  “It means Reserve Officers Training Corps. If you wish to join us I can take you to the office.”

  During one of my free periods the soldier boy took me to the army office, and there he saluted the captain, saying, “Sir, I got another candidate for the company.”

  “Good work, soldier,” said the commander. “Take him to the sergeant to get his uniform.”

  “Yes, sir,” saluted the cadet again; then he took me to the supply room. Here another R.O.T.C. boy issued me an army blouse, a pair of trousers, two woolen shirts, a black necktie, two belts, a cap, and a pair of leggings. When I had my uniform in my arms the sergeant called me and said, “Son, you come here and sign these papers.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  “What is your name?”

  I told him my name.

  “What is your nationality?”

  “Mexican.”

  “Are you a citizen of the United States?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Son, we can’t do anything for you. You have to be an American citizen before you can join the army. You’d better take the uniform back.”

  “What can I do to become an American citizen?” I asked. “If you want to be naturalized, go to the Los Angeles Post Office and take out your first papers, and when you have them we can enlist you in the R.O.T.C. Good-by, son.”

  That afternoon I went to the Los Angeles Post Office, and within five minutes the clerk of the immigration department said, “Raise your right hand. ‘Do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and that these statements you have stated in this document are true to the best of your knowledge, so help you God.’”

  “I do.”

  Then he handed me my first papers and said, “One dollar, please.”

  I paid my dollar and the next day I was assigned to the Hollywood High School R.O.T.C. band to play third trombone.

  The next thing that happened to me during my first week in high school was an unexpected experience as a result of an intelligence test. One day during roll call a large group of students were herded to a study hall. Here-several men and women gave out booklets to each one of the students. As the instructors were passing the pamphlets, one of them said, “Don’t look at the papers until we tell you to do so.”

  After all of us had the papers on our desks, the head examiner said, “First of all, put your last name first and your roll-call room at the top of your paper. Then, when we tell you, ‘Go,’ you mark after each statement a plus or a minus sign as the case may be. When we tell you, ‘Stop,’ do so.”

  Soon we were at work, and at the end of half an hour of marking plus and minus signs after each statement, the chief examiner shouted, “Stop! Pass your papers to your right, and go back to your classes.”

  Several days later I was called to one of the classrooms, and one of the people who had given the psychology test to us was in the room alone. When I knocked to attract his attention, he said, “Come in, come in.” As I came in he offered me a chair, asking, “Your name is Luis, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are two times two? Quick, quick!”

  “Four, señor.”

  “Was Christ a carpenter, teacher, philosopher, or a Savior?”

  “He was all of them, señor.”

  “What do you mean by ‘sayñor’?”

  “‘Señor’ means ‘mister’ or ‘sir,’ señor,” I explained.

  “Cross your legs,” commanded the man.

  As I obeyed his command, he took a small, hard rubber mallet out of his pocket. Then he came closer to me and sat down swinging the mallet carelessly. Suddenly he asked, “Where were you born?”

  “I was born in Mex—ouch! Why are you doing that to me?” I asked, as I stood holding my knee.

  “Don’t worry, son. I am only studying reflexes. I hit you below your kneecap to see if you responded like other normal children. The intelligence test that we gave the other day showed that your I.Q. was very low. We thought that we had found a real idiot. But you are normal. You may go. No doubt this error was due to the fact that you do not understand English. Your I.Q. in Spanish might be high. Good-by, young man.”

  “You are certainly very strange people. You are always speaking in the terms of letters. If I say something to someone, the answer is ‘O.K.’ or ‘I’ll be damned if I know.’ A boy asked me the other day to join the R.O.T.C. I have a piece of paper in my pocket which says ‘I.O.U. thirty dollars.’ Last week I received a
package C.O.D., and now you tell me that my I.Q. is very low. What do you mean by I.Q.?”

  “Young man, I.Q. means Intelligence Quotient.”

  “Ah! Okay. Now everything is clear to me. Thank you—good-by, señor,” I replied. Then I limped to my next class.

  37

  June twenty-eighth, 1928, was the date set for my graduation and I was very busy. One of my greatest desires was to take my second citizenship papers on or about the same time I would graduate from high school. With that in mind, one day during my 1927 Christmas vacation, I went to the Los Angeles Post Office. In the immigration room a lady clerk came to assist me.

  “What is it that you want?” she asked.

  “I would like to get my citizenship papers.”

  “The first ones?”

  “No, ma’am, the second ones.”

  “Have you the first papers with you?”

  “Yes, ma’am—here they are.” She looked them over and went back to the files, taking the papers with her.

  While I was waiting for the clerk to come back from the file room, I saw that there were several other applicants for citizenship papers. In one corner of the room there was a judge examining an old Irishman.

  “Mr. O’Neal,” the judge asked, “have you read the United States Constitution?”

  “Your honor, I’ll tell you—I want to be honest with you. The only thing I have red are these few hairs I have in the back of me neck.”

  After that remark the judge sent Mr. O’Neal to sober up and to study the Constitution of the United States.

  After a long wait, the clerk who had my petition came back with a bunch of papers in her hand and questioned me, “Young man, where have you been? We have been looking for you for the last three and a half years.”

  “Why, I have been attending Hollywood High School. I have stated so in the papers.”

  “Do you know that you are illegally in the United States?”

  “No, ma’am, I do not know.”

  “Yes, you should have gone back to Mexico a year after you entered this country.”

  “What do you think I should do now? I want to get my papers and stay in the United States.”