Breaking Through

by Francisco Jiménez

  The bottles rattled in the back of the trunk as my brother left without me. I went back into the house feeling furious with Papá and myself.

  Saint Christopher Medal

  We had lost our three acres of strawberries, and I felt sad for Papá. But I was also relieved, because I did not have to work late in the evenings and miss days of school anymore. I had more time to study. I caught up in math and took the second seat in the first row. Margie Ito continued to take the first seat. She was unmovable. In social studies I scored ninety-nine percent on the final test on the United States Constitution. I struggled in my English class but always did well on spelling tests, which we had once a week. I wrote the spelling words in my notepad and studied them as I worked.

  The hardest task for me was writing a final paper for my science class. We were to pick any science topic, research it, and write a report on it. I had a hard time deciding on a topic. Nothing came to mind. Then one day as I was flipping through a history book, I came across a brief section on Christopher Columbus and the discovery of the New World. As I skimmed it, my eye caught the name Hernán Cortés. I was fascinated. It was the first time I had read about someone with a Spanish name. I read the paragraph several times and said the name Hernán Cortés out loud. I liked the sound of it. His name ended with a "z" sound just like my family's last name. I felt proud. I began to wonder what it was like to be an explorer over four hundred years ago.

  Then an idea for my report came to me: I would explore the solar system. I went to the library, checked out books on the moon and the planets, and read them, taking notes. I created a story about a group of six scientists who decide to explore part of the solar system. The scientists were Roberto and I, cocaptains; and Trampita, Torito, Rorra, and Rubén, our assistants. We built a spaceship and traveled to seven planets and the moon. We explored each planet, in order of increasing distance from the sun: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, and Pluto. I kept a journal on our explorations and made drawings to illustrate our findings. Mr. Milo, also my science teacher, gave me an A+ on the report, even though I had made several grammatical mistakes in it. He told me I had a good imagination and said he had displayed my report at Open House the night before. I did not know what he meant by Open House, and I was more confused when he said he missed meeting my parents on that evening.

  A few days before the end of the school year, our class practiced for graduation in the auditorium, which also served as the cafeteria. We lined up outside in the corridor in alphabetical order and marched in to music played on a record player. We walked up the stairs to the stage, where we sat in cold metal chairs. We repeated this exercise several times until we got it right. We were told to wear dark pants and a white shirt. Girls were to wear a white blouse and dark skirt.

  All day Saturday, I kept thinking about graduation. I was excited about leaving El Camino Junior High School and starting Santa Maria High School on time in the fall. When Papá and I got home from work at six o'clock, Mamá had already heated water in a pot for my bath. I washed my hair with Fab detergent and scrubbed my hands extra hard with Ajax to get rid of the strawberry stains. I put on a clean pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. "You can't wear that T-shirt, mijo," Mamá cried out. "It's yellowish and frayed."

  "It's the best one I have."

  "Here, Panchito, wear this one. It's whiter than yours," Roberto said, handing me one of his T-shirts. I tried it on. It was a little big, but it was better than the one I had. "You look pretty good," he said, chuckling. "All you need are a few more muscles like me to fill it."

  "Thanks, Mr. Atlas," I said, laughing.

  "You'd better hurry. It's getting late," Mamá said. She rubbed Tres Rosas oil in my hair and helped me comb it. Papá, who was in a rare good mood, splashed some of his Old Spice aftershave lotion on my face. His large, callused hands felt like old leather gloves.

  "I don't want you to smell like rotten strawberries," he said, smiling. "If you smell like me, nobody will want to get near you." He took off his Saint Christopher medal, which he wore around his neck, and handed it to me. "Here, mijo," he said, "I want you to have this. It will guide you."

  "Gracias, Papá," I said, admiring the worn-out image between my fingers. The medal was linked to a chain similar to the pull-cord attached to the light bulb hanging in the middle of our kitchen. Papá had worn the medal ever since I could remember. "Are you sure you want to give it to me?"

  "Of course," he answered. "It's your present for finishing the eighth grade." He stood up slowly and hugged me. I noticed the necklace had left a white ring around his sunburned neck.

  "You'd better get going!" Mamá insisted, giving Roberto and me a slight shove. "May God bless you."

  Roberto and I arrived at El Camino Junior High School a few minutes late. I ran down the corridor looking for my spot in line. My classmates were already waiting. I saw Robert Lindsay and moved in front of him. I was glad to see that he was wearing a T-shirt too, because most of the boys were wearing collared white shirts. They looked like penguins. Mr. McEacheron, the P.E. coach, walked up and down the hall, trying to keep us from making too much noise. Parents and friends milled around the cafeteria, waiting for the ceremony to start. As soon as we heard the music, we quieted down and began the procession. When we entered the auditorium, I spotted Roberto in the audience. I imagined Papá and Mamá sitting next to him, their faces glowing as my name was called to receive my diploma.

  Summer Skirmishes

  The summer after graduation from junior high was pretty much the same as those of previous years, except that I was the only one who joined Papá in picking strawberries for Ito. Roberto came only on Saturdays and Sundays because he worked full-time as a janitor for the Santa Maria school district. I looked forward to weekends, when my brother, Papá, and I worked together. Roberto and I found ways to have fun. We raced to see who could pick faster and fill more crates. He was a much faster picker than I was, so I lost every time, except when Papá helped me. Whenever Papá and I picked side by side, he handed me handfuls of strawberries. Papá never let on that he knew about our game, but I figured he must have known, because one time when I filled my crate faster than Roberto he glanced at my brother and winked at me.

  One morning I started a strawberry war. I had learned the spelling and definition of the word skirmish, which I had added to my notepad to memorize that day. I was bored and tired of picking on my knees, so I stood up to stretch. Roberto was ahead of me, two rows away. I could not resist the perfect target. I picked up a rotten strawberry, looked around to make sure Papá was not looking, and threw it at Roberto. The mushy bullet splashed on his back, leaving a reddish, purplish wound the size of a baseball. My brother turned around, startled. He knew I was the enemy when he saw me snickering. He raised his clenched fist at me, turned back, and kept on picking.

  I glanced at Ito. He had a puzzled look on his face but did not say anything. I hope he didn't see me, I thought. I continued working and, to keep my mind occupied, began whistling rock 'n' roll tunes and daydreaming about Peggy and the Vets. I danced song after song with her. Suddenly I felt a blow on the back of my right shoulder. I instinctively reached behind with my left hand and scooped up a rotten strawberry. I turned around. Roberto was picking on his knees behind me, four rows away. He had his head down, trying to hide his smirk. At lunchtime Roberto and I put on our jackets to hide our strawberry stains.

  When we got home, we quickly took off our shirts. Mamá saw the stains, shook her head, and gave us a stern look. I knew she would not tell Papá because she did not want to upset him.

  That evening, Ito was coming to our house to deliver our paychecks for the week. I was afraid he might have seen me throw the strawberry at Roberto and say something to Papá. I was terribly nervous.

  In preparation for his visit, we all made sure the house was in order. Roberto swept and wet-mopped the floors. I cleaned the kitchen. Trampita and Torito picked up papers and trash outside the house that dogs had scatt
ered from the garbage cans. Rorra followed them, making sure they did not miss anything. Mamá made a fresh batch of flour tortillas and refried beans to give to Ito. Papá sat at the kitchen table, giving orders and going over our savings, which he kept in a small metal box.

  Ito arrived shortly after we had finished our chores. He was dressed up as usual, in khaki pants and shirt and brown shoes. His dark, straight hair was combed back, and his tan face looked smooth and shiny. I fixed my eyes on every move he made and hung on every word he said, trying to see if he was upset with me. He and Papá shook hands and bowed. Ito took a seat at the head of the table, took out his checkbook, and placed it in front of him. Mamá offered him taquitos. "No, gracias," he said in a thick American accent.

  There were long periods of silence, because Ito spoke only English and Papá spoke only Spanish. Mamá, Roberto, and I interpreted for both of them. Ito began to write the three checks. I knew Papá's check was for sixtyfive dollars, because he got paid a dollar an hour. Roberto and I received eighty-five cents per hour, just like the braceros. Ito paid Papá more than us because Papá was a better picker and because he had worked for Ito for several summers. Papá felt special and looked for ways to show Ito his gratitude. When it was time to quit work at the end of the day, Papá kept on picking for another ten or fifteen minutes even though he did not receive pay for the extra time.

  When Ito finished making out the checks, he handed them to Papá.

  "Pregúntale si quiere algo para tomar," Papá said, bowing his head and smiling.

  "Papá asked if you would like something to drink," I said.

  "No, gracias, Don Francisco," Ito responded, bowing to Papá.

  "I made some taquitos for you to take home," Mamá said proudly. She handed Ito a bundle of refried bean tacos wrapped in waxed paper. Ito's eyes lit up.

  "My wife and kids love your tacos," he said.

  "Don Gabriel really liked Mamá's taquitos too," I said. "Remember him, Mr. Ito?"

  "Of course I remember him," Ito responded. "He worked for me a few years ago. Díaz, the labor contractor, had it in for him and sent him back to Mexico." Ito paused, looked straight into my eyes, and, raising his voice, added, "He was a good, serious worker." I lowered my head. Ito looked at his watch and excused himself. Papá and Mamá walked him to the door. I followed behind. He got in his pickup truck, waved, and said, chuckling: "You have a good arm, Panchito." I blushed and looked away.

  "What did he say?" Papá asked.

  "He said Panchito is a good worker," Mamá responded, coming to my rescue.

  I looked up at Mamá and smiled sheepishly.

  On weekdays, after work, Roberto and I regularly went to the city dump with Trampita and Torito to look for discarded treasures, like wood, paint, and broken toys. On one of our trips I found an old copy of Dr. Doolittle. I tried reading five pages every evening, but often I was too tired to concentrate and did not understand what I read. Other times my younger brothers played kick-the-can in front of our barrack and tried to get me to play with them, but I refused because Carlos, a bully, never allowed my friend Manuelito to play too.

  Roberto did not play games outside with the boys. Papá said he was too old to play sports. So he worked on his car. He kept it spotless and shiny.

  Sometimes Trampita and I watched tadpoles and little fish in the nearby reservoir. Trampita came up with a plan one day to catch fish and sell them for a nickel apiece to kids in our neighborhood. It took us a few evenings after work to finish the project. The first day we made a trip to the city dump to look for empty glass jars to put the fish in and for materials to build a stand. We found old splintered boards, two-by-fours, and cardboard. The following evening we began construction under the watchful eye of Carlos and his two friends, who played all day. They seemed fascinated by our skills. We cleaned the wood, pulling out rusty nails and rubbing the boards together to smooth out the splinters. The third day, Roberto helped us build a stand. We then covered it with cardboard and hung a sign that read GOLDFISH, 5¢ EACH.

  The next step was to catch fish. We walked to the reservoir, which looked like a barren hill. It was at the edge of the two-lane road leading to Santa Maria, about a quarter of a mile from Bonetti Ranch. An old, lonely pepper tree stood guard next to it. It's lower branches slumped to the ground, bent from the weight of kids who swung on them, playing cowboys and Indians. Trampita yanked off two of it's broken branches and gave me one. Carrying the branch in one hand and an empty coffee can and a glass jar in the other, we stepped back a few yards from the base of the reservoir to gain speed and ran up to the top, which was about five feet wide all around. We took off our shoes, rolled up our pants, and carefully slid down the crater to the edge of the water. Using our branches, we cleared the algae and removed empty beer bottles, crushed cans, and paper. We threw in tortilla bits, trying to attract the little gray fish and goldfish that hid under murky waters. Hundreds of tadpoles squirted around, but no fish. We waited and waited. Nothing.

  That evening we went home empty-handed and disappointed, but we did not give up. The next day we returned to the same spot. We sprinkled the clearing with fresh tortilla bits and waited. I kissed my Saint Christopher medal. The croaking sound of frogs broke the silence, and within seconds a swarm of tadpoles followed by a pair of goldfish filled the clearing. I could feel my heart thumping faster and faster. I gently put the can in the water and quickly scooped it up, catching one of the fish and several tadpoles. "I got one!" I yelled out. Trampita darted over excitedly. He put his hand in the can and carefully grabbed the tiny goldfish and put it in the jar. Holding the container steady, we climbed back up to the top and placed it on the ground. We lay on our stomachs, facing each other with the jar between our faces, and watched the little fish swim rapidly up and down and around. My brother's face looked huge. He opened and closed his lips rapidly, pretending to be a fish, and chuckled. I stuck out my tongue and made faces. We both burst out laughing.

  "We'd better catch a few more before it gets dark," I said, still laughing. We went back, caught nine more fish, and skipped home, whistling. As we reached Bonetti Ranch and turned the corner, we ran into Carlos and his two friends. They were standing behind a large wooden box in front of an empty barrack. On the wall behind the stand was a sign: GOLDFISH, 2 FOR 5¢.

  From that day on, I spent more time struggling through Dr. Doolittle.

  Toward the end of the summer, when the peak of the strawberry season was over and when work was slow, Ito gave us Saturday afternoons off. Papá took advantage of one of those afternoons to try his new hair clippers on my younger brothers and me. He found the old rusty pair at the city dump. The right handle was broken and a few teeth were missing. Papá oiled it and set up his barbershop in the shed, using an unstable wooden box as a chair.

  I was his first customer. I stripped to my waist and climbed onto the box. Papá began to cut with his new tool. As he clipped, hair fell on my shoulders, pricking me like needles. I squirmed and wiped it off. The box creaked. I moved again. Papá quickly moved the clippers away from my head and yelled, "Don't move!" It was too late. A chunk of hair fell on my lap. I reached up to feel the nicked spot. "I said stay still!" Papá yelled again, slapping my hand. Using his left hand like a vice, he held my head still and clipped away with his right. As he cut, he put more and more weight on his left hand, making my neck twist to the right. It felt as though he was trying to push me into the ground. I tried to straighten it, pushing up against my Papá's hand. The box creaked. Another clump of hair rolled down my shoulders. Tears came to my eyes. I clenched my teeth and clasped my hands together until it was over. I climbed off the crate, rushed to the bedroom, and picked up the hand mirror. I slowly scanned my face, wiping away the hair clippings from my chin and nose. As I brought the mirror upward to my forehead, I closed my eyes, said a silent prayer, and quickly opened them. I was shocked. My front wave was gone. I had short bangs and nicks on both sides. I looked like the stray dogs with mange that populated Bone
tti Ranch. I felt like yelling at Papá, but I knew I couldn't. It would be worse. I complained to Mamá.

  "You don't look too bad, mijo," she said tenderly. "In a couple of weeks it'll grow back." She picked up my cap and put it on me. "There, you look just fine," she added cheerfully.

  I knew Mamá did not mean it because she bought Papá a new set of clippers at the Goodwill Store the following week. I wore my cap all the time for days and only took it off when I went to bed. I skipped going to the Vets dances with Roberto for the rest of the summer.

  Becoming a Saint

  I could hardly contain myself. It was Sunday, September third, the last day of work before school started. Tomorrow I would start my freshman year at Santa Maria High School on the first day of classes. I would not have to move to Fresno to pick grapes and cotton and miss school for two and a half months. My shoulders felt light even though I was tired.

  "I have never seen you so happy, mijo," Mamá said when we got home from work.

  "He's excited because he gets to ride to school with me," Roberto said, slapping me on the back.

  My brother was going into his junior year. He should have graduated last year, but, like me, he had failed first grade because he did not speak English well enough. He fell behind another year because he missed so much school. Every year, for nine years, he started school sometime in January, after the cotton season was over.

  "He kept right up with me the whole day," Roberto said. "I couldn't believe it. What did you put in his tacos?"

  "Same thing I put in yours," she responded, chuckling. "Puros frijoles."

  "That explains it," Roberto said laughing. "Beans will do it every time."

  That evening I tried reading a few more pages of Dr. Doolittle, but I could not focus. I put the book down and laid out on the bed the clothes I was going to wear for school: a new pair of tan corduroy pants, a white T-shirt, and a light brown sleeveless vest with black buttons. Roberto suggested that I wear blue jeans because most boys wore them in high school, but I did not want to wear the same type of pants I wore to work. I took a bath and scrubbed my hands with bleach to get rid of the strawberry stains. I whistled and sang, forgetting that my brothers had to take a bath too. "Are you stuck in there?" Roberto shouted, knocking on the shed door several times. I quickly stepped out of the tub, dried myself, and put on my underwear and pants. "It's about time, Panchito," my brother said as I walked past him. "Your hands look like prunes."