Breaking Through

by Francisco Jiménez

  After I finished reading the novel, I could not get it out of my mind. I thought about it for days, even after I had turned in the book report to Miss Bell. She must have liked what I wrote, because she gave me a good grade. My success made me happy, but, this time, the grade seemed less important than what I had learned from reading the book.

  Broken Heart

  I did not have a lot of free time to make close friends and do things with them on weekends. Papá allowed us to go out only once a week, and we had to be home by midnight. I did meet many nice classmates at school, and some of us hung around together at lunchtime in the cafeteria. Most of them bought their lunch, but I always brought mine from home. I asked Mamá not to make taquitos for my lunch, because a few guys made fun of me when they saw me eat them. They called me "chile stomper" or "tamale wrapper." I pretended not to get upset. I knew that if they saw me get mad, they would make fun of me even more. So Mamá made baloney sandwiches instead. I ate jalapeño chiles with my sandwiches to give them flavor.

  I also made friends, many of them girls, at school dances, which took place after football or basketball games. Because we had to work, Roberto and I usually skipped the games on Friday nights and went only to the dances. They were held in the school cafeteria, and like the Vets dances, the girls stood on one side and the boys on the other. I thought it was strange that some boys drank to get the courage to ask girls to dance. I spent more time on the girls side, dancing one song after another. The faster the song, the more I liked it. Listening to music and dancing made me forget my troubles.

  At one of the dances, I saw Roberto standing on the side, next to a girl who was slightly taller than he was. I did not think anything about it. The room was warm and stuffy, so I walked out to cool off and to get a drink of water. When I returned, my brother was dancing a slow dance with the same girl. I watched him as they danced past me. He caught my eye and moved his cheek away from hers. As they swirled around, I saw that he had his eyes closed. At the end of the song, they strolled across the floor, holding hands, and stood on the side, away from the crowd. I did not want to lose sight of them, so during the next fast song, I purposely moved closer to them, swung around, and bumped into Roberto. "Sorry!" I said. He gave me an annoyed look. The girl I was dancing with did too. As the song was about to end, I quickly walked my dance partner back to the girls side, thanked her, and raced back to the boys side, where Roberto and the girl were standing, holding hands. "What do you think you're doing, Panchito?" he whispered, placing his left hand on my left shoulder and digging in his fingers. His large hand felt like a vise.

  "Nothing," I said, wincing. "I just lost my balance." Roberto sneered at me. The girl stood behind him, looking around the room, pretending not to pay attention to us. She was slender and had short brown hair, large, droopy brown eyes, a small mouth, and thin lips.

  "Well?" I said, gesturing to him to introduce me. Roberto let go of the girl's hand and moved to her side.

  "Susan, this is my brother."

  "Hi," she said softly.

  "You and my brother are good dancers," I said. She smiled and blushed.

  Roberto continued dancing with her until we had to leave. The next day I saw them together at school between classes. On our way home from work he told me that he had asked her out to the movies for next Saturday. "That means you won't be going to the dance Saturday?" I was disappointed. Roberto and I did everything together. I did not like the idea of being apart.

  "Don't worry, Panchito. I can drop you off at the dance before I go to the movies."

  "Wouldn't you rather go dancing?" I insisted.

  "No! I am going to the movies with Susan," he said sharply.

  I was so upset with my brother that I decided not to go out at all. I stayed home that Saturday night and tried to study, but I did not get much work done.

  Roberto was happy all day at work on Sunday. He whistled and sang while we cleaned offices. "You must've had a good time last night," I said, still feeling hurt because he did not go to the dance.

  "I did. And I think I am in love!" he exclaimed.

  "Sure, after one date! Are you crazy?"

  "I know it's weird," he said, "but I have this strange feeling; it's hard to explain." He placed his right hand on his chest and added, "It's like nothing I felt before. I can't stop thinking about her!"

  I liked seeing my brother happy, but I was upset that we were not going to dances together anymore.

  Roberto continued going out with Susan once a week. Eventually he asked her to go steady. She wore his jacket at school as a sign that she was his girl. But it did not last.

  One rainy Monday evening when Roberto came to pick me up from work, he looked weary and sad. "What's wrong?" I asked as we drove home.

  "Susan's parents don't want her to go out with me anymore," he said, teary-eyed.

  "Why?" I asked, putting my arm around him.

  "Because I am Mexican," he said, raising his voice and hitting the steering wheel with both hands.

  "Because you're Mexican! What do you mean?"

  Roberto took a deep breath and explained. "Well, Susan invited me to dinner at her house last Saturday. She said her parents wanted to get to know me. I was very nervous, but once we sat at the table and started talking, I felt better. During the conversation her father asked me what my nationality was."

  "Why did he ask you?" I said, recalling the time I met Peggy's parents.

  "He wanted to know where the name Jiménez came from. I told him."

  "You didn't tell him..."

  "No, I didn't tell him I was born in Mexico," he said, anticipating my question. "But when I said I was Mexican there was dead silence. After a while we continued talking, but they seemed uncomfortable and less friendly. I thought it was strange, but I didn't think much about it until Susan told me today at school. She couldn't stop crying. I felt terrible." Roberto choked up. "Her father even promised to buy her a car if she stopped seeing me. Can you believe it?"

  Then, like a flash, it became clear why Peggy stopped seeing me. I felt angry and insulted, but most of all, confused. I could not understand why anyone would not like us because we were Mexican. Mamá told us everyone was equal in the eyes of God and Papá told us we should respect everyone.

  "What are you going to do?" I asked after a long pause.

  "She still wants to go out with me, but doesn't want her parents to know," he responded. "I don't feel right doing that."

  Roberto went out with Susan a few more times, but it was not the same. My brother picked her up at her friend's house, where she told her parents she was spending the night. He did not like her to be sneaking out, and when her father found out she had been lying he did not allow her to go out at all. Eventually she started seeing someone else. My brother stopped dating for a long time.

  Behind the Wheel

  The summer at the end of my sophomore year, Roberto taught me how to drive the Santa Maria Window Cleaners van on weekends. I started my lessons in the parking lot behind the gas company. The van and I did not get along. Every time I got behind the wheel, it jerked and sputtered. When I applied the brakes, which I did every few feet, brooms and mops ended up in the front seat. My brother's patience got shorter and his prayers got longer as I drove around in circles as if I were on a merry-go-round. I perfected my right turns, but the rest of my driving skills needed a lot of work. When I finally took the exam for my driver's license, I got a hundred percent on the written section but barely passed the driving test.

  Once I got my driver's license, I was anxious to drive any car other than our DeSoto. The car had been in a wreck. The window on the driver's side did not close all the way. The front left door was smashed in and did not close either, so we secured it with a rope. I begged Roberto like a child to let me drive his Buick. He often gave in, but one time when he did not, I got mad and yelled at him. Papá heard me. "What's the matter with you, Panchito?" he said angrily. "You can't yell at Roberto. He's your older brother. Apolog
ize."

  "I am sorry," I said, lowering my head.

  "Why don't you give him the keys to the DeSoto, viejo?" Mamá said to Papá.

  "You mean the DeSoto viejo," Trampita said.

  "It's not that old," Papá said. "It still runs."

  "Like a turtle," Trampita responded, laughing. "It's Panchito's speed."

  Knowing that Trampita and Torito hid in the back seat so their friends would not see them in the DeSoto when Mamá drove them to school every time they missed the bus, I said, "I'll drive you to school in it tomorrow." Trampita made a face. I knew he liked to drive in my brother's car. Sometimes he and Torito would get up extra early to get a ride to school in the Buick with Roberto and me.

  But no one liked the Buick as much as Roberto. It was his pride and joy. He took care of it as though it were part of him. He washed and polished it once a week and dusted it every day with a rag he kept underneath the front seat. The interior was spotless. His high school friend who worked at an upholstery shop tucked and rolled the dashboard in exchange for a record player cabinet my brother made in wood shop. On the side of both fenders, Roberto installed six-inch chrome pipes in the three portals and strung tiny white lights underneath the car frame. He took a broken portable record player that someone had thrown away, fixed it, placed it on the floor of the front seat, rewired it, and plugged it in to the cigarette lighter in the car. He played records on it when the car was parked. Next to the gas tank door he painted a small skunk with a sign above it that read LITTLE STINKER. I tried to convince him not to do it because I thought it was silly, but he ignored me. "I like it!" he told me proudly. "Besides, it's my car." Papá must have liked it too, because he did not say anything about it to my brother.

  Most of the high school guys who had cars decorated them. On Saturday nights they cruised up and down Broadway, showing them off and dragging when the police were not around. Roberto did not have time to cruise, but he took pride when people gawked at his car.

  My joy of going to school with Roberto in his Buick and driving home with him after work ended when Mike Nevel asked me to clean the Western Union every morning before it opened at seven o'clock. I was tempted to say no because I had to get up extra early and drive the DeSoto, but Papá taught us never to turn down work. Besides, we needed the extra money. After I cleaned the Western Union, I would drive to school, taking side streets so that my classmates would not see me. I would park the car several blocks away from school, behind the county fairgrounds, and walk to class.

  One day Roberto passed by as I was walking out of the fairgrounds on my way to school. I looked the other way, hoping he did not see me. The next morning he got up at the same time I did. "Why are you getting up so early?" I asked.

  "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.

  Turning a Page

  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.

  Los Santitos

  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 l
ine 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.