El Coyote, the Rebel

by Luis Pérez

  “The only thing I can tell you to do is to get back to Mexico, and enter again, fulfilling all the requirements demanded by the laws of the United States. After you have done so, you can take out your first papers again.”

  “Isn’t there any other way this thing can be fixed besides going back to Mexico? You see, I am graduating from high school next summer, and I would like to stay here and go to college.”

  “There is nothing that I can do for you, but you may go to Room 101 and talk to the immigration inspectors there. They might be able to help and advise you as to what to do in your case.”

  I thanked the young lady for her information and then went to see the immigration officers. After I had talked to one of the inspectors about my trouble, he said, “The only thing you can do that might possibly help is to fill in these papers.” He gave me several legal forms all clipped together and continued, “Get two passport photographs and a twenty-dollar money order addressed to the Immigration Department, Washington, D. C. Then bring everything to me and I will see what I can do for you.”

  The printed matter on the authorized paper was so complicated that I had to pay two dollars and fifty cents to a notary public to help me answer the questions.

  The next day I took the money order, the photographs, and the documents to the immigration inspector. After he had looked everything over and took my fingerprints, he said, “Now all you have to do is to wait until we send for you. If you change your address, let us know.”

  “How long will it take for my papers to come back?” I asked. “Oh—probably from three to six months—sometimes a little longer.”

  “And after I get these papers back, will I be a citizen of the United States?”

  “No. You will get a small card stating that you have entered the United States legally according to the law provided and approved by Congress.”

  Since there was nothing else to do, I thanked the inspector for his help and went back to my school to await developments.

  38

  The twenty-eighth day of June, 1928, I received my diploma from Hollywood High School, and by the beginning of the following school year I was enrolled at one of the universities of Los Angeles, studying to become a teacher and teach my American friends the language of Cervantes. While in college as a regular student I was fortunate in obtaining a school janitor job, which paid sixty-five dollars per month.

  Soon after entering college, I received a small green card from the United States Immigration Department with the following inscription:

  Original CERTIFICATE OF REGISTRY Form No. 658 No. 3446 U.S. DEPARTMENT OF LABOR IMMIGRATION SERVICE

  This is to certify that the registry of entry into the United States of the alien whose name and description appears on the reverse hereof has been made as provided in section I and III of an act of Congress approved March 2, 1929.

  Date of issue—March 10, 1930.

  With said card in my pocket I proceeded to apply for my citizenship papers, but I was informed by the immigration clerk that under the laws of the United States I had to wait from two to five years before getting the final papers. So again, while waiting, I went back to the university.

  One afternoon of the same year a Mexican friend of mine, who was very prominent among the Mexican people of Los Angeles, sent me an invitation to celebrate the Cinco de Mayo, which is one of the Mexican

  Independence Days. The card stated: “Señor Pérez: The Mexican Association of Los Angeles, California, invites you to attend a picnic at Griffith Park, to celebrate the 68th anniversary of the independence of Mexico from the French, the 5th of May, 1862. You are requested to dress in a Mexican costume.”

  I was pleased to receive the invitation, and at the appointed day I was proudly dressed in a Charro suit, sitting under a California live oak tree, talking to a beautiful Mexican señorita.

  The celebration consisted of a brilliant display of color, amateur talent, and patriotic speechmaking. There was plenty of free food and drink for all.

  Dolores Ramirez, the señorita to whom I had been properly introduced, was richly dressed in a China Poblana costume. Her skirt was full and wide, made of vivid red and green silk, luxuriously embroidered with flat beads. The blouse she wore was of fine white cloth, also embroidered. She wore a wide-brimmed Mexican sombrero and a pair of green slippers. A silk scarf carelessly hung over her shoulders. Her neck displayed an expensive necklace. Her wrists were covered with becoming antique bracelets. On her ears hung magnificent, delicately engraved gold earrings. She was very friendly toward everybody, and a bit flirtatious. Once she said, “Luis, I must see you more often—I would like to know you better.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I would like to know why you were so indifferent toward me this morning.”

  “No, Dolores, I was not indifferent. I was just cautious.”

  “Cautious of what?”

  “Of beautiful señoritas such as you.”

  She laughed heartily and as she was doing so, she saw a large bird’s nest on top of the oak. Right away she exclaimed, “I want that nest.” Then she said, “Luis, will you climb and get it for me, please? I’m making a collection of nests.”

  I obliged the señorita, and while I was scaling the rough tree a crowd of men, women, and children gathered around the place shouting, whistling, and making remarks concerning my clumsy way of climbing. Finally I reached the nest, and when I was about to get it, out crawled an enormous black snake, sticking out his tongue at me. I was so frightened that I lost my balance and dropped down, breaking off some branches as I fell, and also fracturing my collarbone as I hit the ground in an unconscious heap.

  I regained consciousness while I was being rushed to the Hollywood Receiving Hospital, where, besides being treated for minor lacerations on the face, limbs, and body, I was supplied with a temporary splint to brace my fractured collarbone. Dolores felt very bad about what had happened. She blamed herself for the accident. On the other hand, I was somewhat glad of the unpredicted turn of events because I became better acquainted with her through her daily visits during my convalescence period, which lasted over a week. After I was well again, I resumed my studies at the university, and went back to my routine work, but I continued to see Dolores frequently.

  Once during the latter part of my last semester a the college, I went to visit her, and upon seeing me she said, “Luis, I am so happy that I can shout with joy.”

  “What is the reason for your happiness, Dolores?” I asked.

  “My papa told me that I may go to visit my aunt in Mexico City. I am going to be away for about six months. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Yes, Dolores, it is, but—”

  “But what?” she interrupted me.

  “Dolores, I was going to ask you to be my wife, but now I—”

  “Were you, my adorable idiot?” she said, interrupting me again and grasping my hand.

  “Yes.”

  “It is about time, but I don’t think I can give you definite answer until I come back from Mexico.”

  “I can wait until then, but no longer,” I said, as she proceeded to tell me all about her plans.

  After a long talk we concluded our conversation with the understanding that I was to take her to the station in my car the next day, which was the date of her departure.

  Outside her house that night, as I was telling her good-by under the romantic California moon, she said, “Luis, if you are able to talk to God, ask Him to bring me back to California safe and sound.”

  “I will,” I said, as she placed her quivering lips on mine, and then hurried away.

  The next afternoon I took my Dolores to the bus station, and soon she was on her way to Mexico. Upon leaving she said, “I will write often, God willing.”

  On the way back to my room I stopped at the Pershing Square Park to look at the scenery. While there I met a swarthy Mexican, who spoke to me in broken English. “Señor,” he said, “my name ees Pablo Calderon, and my wife she
e ees agoeen’ to have one babee, I theenk. Shee wanta leetle cheecken for her for to eat, I theenk. You geeve me feeftee centavos, please, for to buy one for shee, eh?”

  “Why don’t you speak to me in Spanish?” I asked in my native language. “I am a Mexican.”

  At that remark his face brightened, but at the same time he remained with his mouth half open, gazing at me with awe. Finally he asked in his same atrocious English, “Why didn’ you told mee, beefore I espoka the Engleesh?”

  “Because you did not give me a chance to tell you,” I said, handing him the fifty cents.

  As the man took the money, he bowed humbly, hat in hand, and said, “Dios se lo pague, amigo.” Then repeating the same thing in broken English, he continued,

  “May God repay you, friend of mine, and I hope my babee weel be as kind as you are.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “Here take this other fifty cent piece and if your baby is a boy, name him Luis after me.”

  For some reason or other my new friend continued murdering the King’s English and misusing personal pronouns. On taking the second coin, he shrugged his shoulders, and said pathetically, “But, señor, what eef hee ees one shee?”

  “Then you may name her Dolores, after my—”

  “Dolores, after your mama, eh, señor?” he interrupted me.

  “No, my friend, name her Dolores after my sweetheart.”

  “Good, good, I have the name for my babee, and one dola’ for two cheecken for the wife, I theenk,” he mumbled to himself. Then bowing, he continued, “Goor-by Don Luis, eef my babee shee ees one tree I name heen Luis, for you, señor, but eef my babee hee ees one she I name her Dolores for your sweetheart, no?”

  “Sí,” I answered, hoping to get him back to using Spanish.

  As he put on his sombrero I heard him mutter to himself. Then raising his arm and waving, he said, “Goor-by, señor, I onderstan’, I theenk. My papa, he use’ to told mee I was one luckee hombre. Goor-by, señor.”

  “Good-by, amigo,” I shouted, then went to my room to rest.

  A few days later, after I had gone to the post office to apply for my second citizenship papers, I went to the Mexican plaza. While I was there, feeding popcorn to the birds, the same Mexican tapped the back of my shoulder, and as I turned, he addressed me in his native language, “Señor, I named my baby Luis, but the little one only lived three days. He died—may he soon be in Heaven,” he continued, making the sign of the cross.

  “I am sorry to hear it, my friend,” I said.

  “Me too, señor,” he replied, taking from his hip pocket a doublesized red handkerchief, and wiping his eyes and nose.

  “Don’t take it so hard, amigo, you can always adopt—”

  “Yes, señor, but the wife she is sorry too,” he interrupted.

  “Crying will not bring him back,” I said, as I put my arm around his shoulder and asked him to take a ride with me. He accepted and we went. As I, too, was feeling sad because I had to be separated from Dolores, we had something in common.

  Later we went to his house where I met Doña Luz, his wife. She was a typical Mexican-Indian, friendly, neat, and a good worker. At the time she was brokenhearted over the death of their child, but she told me that her husband had promised to take her to Yosemite National Park for a short vacation.

  I visited my friend Pablo and his wife almost every day. We talked of many things, including my love for Dolores. Once, about five months after I met him, I went to his house and told him that I was going to take a month’s vacation. Immediately he smiled and said, “Ah, Luis, you can take me and Luz to Yosemite Park. We can hunt, hike, and fish there, yes, no?”

  After a moment of consideration I said, “Yes, Pablo, we’ll go, but first we must get plenty of food.”

  “Sí, sí,” he mumbled, rushing to look for his hat, after which we went to town and made what purchases we needed.

  Two days later, with plenty of beans, rice, canned goods, and coffee in my car, Pablo, his wife, and I found ourselves on the way to Yosemite National Park. There we spent a happy month’s vacation fishing, hunting, hiking, and resting.

  39

  The day Pablo and I returned from Yosemite I found a lot of correspondence from Dolores, and in one of her letters she told me that she was coming home Wednesday, December 12—the following Wednesday. She asked me to meet her at the Los Angeles bus station at three o’clock in the afternoon. On Monday, the day after we had returned from our vacation, I received a letter from the United States Department of Labor advising me to appear in the immigration office, December 12, at ten o’clock, to be sworn in by a court judge to receive my certificate of citizenship. That news made me so happy that immediately I went out and bought a new suit for the occasion.

  On Wednesday morning, as I was preparing to leave for the Post Office, I received a telegram from Dolores which read:

  DEAR LUIS STOP SCHEDULE CHANGED STOP

  WILL ARRIVE TODAY WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 12TH AT ELEVEN THIRTY AM INSTEAD OF THREE PM STOP MEET ME AT GREYHOUND STATION WITHOUT FAIL STOP WILL GIVE YOU A DEFINITE ANSWER TO THE QUESTION WHICH YOU ASKED THE NIGHT BEFORE I LEFT LOS ANGELES STOP DOLORES.

  Dolores’s telegram made me so happy that for a moment I did not know what to do. I was happy beyond words. She was coming the same day on which I was to get my final citizenship papers, which represented one of my very greatest desires. And the last line of her telegram aroused my hopes so high that I went down stairs and kissed the landlady. Also I handed a dollar tip to the garbage collector, who happened to be on his route as I stepped out the door on my way to get my car to go to the Federal Building.

  At ten-thirty, Wednesday, December 12, at the Los Angeles Post Office, I was conducted to a large room where a court judge gave me a very rigid examination on the Constitution of the United States. Upon completing the verbal inquiry I was led to another room where a second judge administered to me the oath of allegiance to the American Government. From the second courtroom I was taken to the immigration office, where the clerk in charge said, “Raise your right hand.” When I had my arm in the air, he chanted, “Do you solemnly swear that the statements you have made are, to the best of your knowledge, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—so help you God?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Ten dollars, please,” he said, handing me the pen to sign the papers.

  After, I had paid my fee, he added, “Mr. Pérez, we will send your certificate of citizenship to you soon. I hope you will become an outstanding citizen of the United States, and will enjoy the privileges and protection which this country extends to every person who, by choice, has sworn allegiance to the Government, the Flag, and the Constitution. Good-by, and good luck.”

  At the end of his speech I shook hands with him and left. At the door, a jovial, fat, colored guard patted my shoulder and said, “Congratulations, mistah, now you is an American citizen. Yeah, suh—you is one of us.”

  When I stepped out of the building I happened to glance to the right, and high on top of the steel mast the flag of my newly adopted country proudly waved with the breeze. As I beheld it, I stood motionless in a gesture of reverence. Then, after performing a military salute, I walked fast to the parking lot, got into my car, and drove to the bus station to meet Dolores.

  On my way to the station I said to myself, “If Dolores will say ‘yes’ to my question, that will be the climax of a perfect today, and the beginning of a new tomorrow.”