When I got home that evening after work I told my family about the club and Mr. Osterveen. "And he's a teacher?" Papá asked. I was surprised to see him so interested. He usually never asked anything about school.
"Yes, he speaks Spanish just like us," I said enthusiastically.
"Is he from Jalisco?"
"No, but he lived in Mexico for many years."
Papá smiled and nodded his head. I then asked my family to help me think of names for the club.
"How about 'The Little Stinkers'?" Trampita said, chuckling. Roberto gave Trampita a slight punch on the shoulder and laughed.
"You're the stinker," he said. "That's why we call you Trampita."
"Come on, get serious," I said. "How about 'The Spanish Club Saints?"
"Los Santitos," Mamá uttered, "Los Santitos, like all our children."
"Santitos!" Papá exclaimed. "How about Los Diablitos..."
"I like Los Santitos," I said. "It fits with the Santa Maria Saints."
At the next meeting of the Spanish Club I proposed the name Los Santitos. Everyone voted in favor of it. We then elected officers. I was elected president, Abie Gonzales, vice president, Charlotte Woodward, secretary, and Marjorie Ito, coordinator of social events. Our first order of business was to think of an activity for the club. Marjorie suggested having a Thanksgiving fiesta. I liked the idea of celebrating Thanksgiving. It was my favorite holiday because when we picked cotton in Corcoran I started school around that time every year. We all went along with her idea, except Mr. Osterveen. He reminded us that Thanksgiving was only a few days away. "You don't have time to organize a party around Thanksgiving," he said, "but you could for Christmas."
I thought about Christmas and felt sad, recalling living in tent labor camps in Corcoran during that holiday and seeing families struggling to make ends meet.
"What do you think?" Abie said, poking me in the back.
"About Christmas? Well..." I hesitated. I then remembered the Christmas when Papá gave Mamá an embroidered handkerchief he had bought from a young couple who needed money to buy food. "What about collecting food for poor families?" I finally said.
"A Christmas food drive. That's a great idea!" Mr. Osterveen said. Abie and Majorie agreed. "I'll ask teachers to announce it in study hall. Students can drop off food cans in the cafeteria and we'll have the Salvation Army deliver it to needy families," Mr. Osterveen added.
We left the meeting and agreed to meet once again before the Christmas break to make sure everything was in order. Every day the number of food bags increased, and by the end of the second week in December we had collected forty-one bags. On the last day of school before Christmas break, Captain Tracy from the Salvation Army came to collect the food. He thanked Los Santitos and gave us a certificate of appreciation for "rendering eminent and memorable service to the Santa Maria community by helping the Salvation Army to give a happy Christmas."
That evening after I finished cleaning the gas company I waited for Roberto to pick me up. I was excited because he was bringing home a Christmas tree. Ever since Roberto started working at Main Street Elementary School, Mr. Sims told him that he could take the school Christmas tree home on the day the school closed for the holidays. I sat down in the main office of the gas company and admired the large, cheerful Santa Claus painted on the front window and the tall Christmas tree in the middle of the office, with it's tiny white lights blinking off and on like stars in the heavens. I saw my brother drive up. I quickly locked the office and rushed to the parking lot to see the tree. It was in the back seat of the car, strewn with tinsel. "It's a beautiful tree," Roberto said. "Wait till you see it standing up." When we got home Trampita, Rorra, Torito, and Rubén dashed out of the house to see it.
"This is a very special Christmas, mijo," Mamá said excitedly, clasping her hands. "This afternoon the Salvation Army brought us a huge box full of groceries. God is truly watching over us."
Choosing Sides
I became interested in politics in my U.S. history class during my junior year. Miss Kellog, the teacher, required our class to follow the i960 presidential campaign. She talked about Vice President Richard Nixon and Senator John F. Kennedy as though she knew them personally. "It's your responsibility as citizens to be informed about what's happening in politics," she said often. "Our democracy depends on it." Few students shared her enthusiasm. I paid close attention because I was interested and because I wanted Miss Kellog and my classmates to think I was an American citizen.
One of her class assignments was for us to ask our parents their opinion on politics and the presidential campaign. Papá, who was in one of his bad moods, did not want to talk about it, but Mamá finally convinced him. "I don't know much," Papá said. "I didn't go to school, but I can tell you that in Mexico the rich have all the power. They choose the president, not the people. They tell us we have a vote, but it means nothing."
"But here it's different," I said. "This is a democracy."
"That's what they say, but I believe the rich rule here too," he said. "And the rich don't care about poor people."
"How do you know?" I asked, forgetting that Papá did not like us to question him. He gave me a stern look.
"Because I've lived many years," he responded in a harsh tone of voice. His lips were thin and pale. "I have seen it with my own eyes," he added. He got up from the table and went into his room and slammed the door. Mamá looked at me and shook her head.
"Do you agree with him?" I asked.
"Not completely," she responded, glancing at Papá's room. "I think he's right about the government in Mexico, but in this country..." She hesitated for a moment and then continued, "I heard on the radio that Kennedy will help poor people."
"So you're in favor of the Democratic Party," I said.
"I am in favor of Kennedy. That's all I know," she said.
If he gets elected, he'll help people like us, I thought. At that moment, I decided to be for Kennedy and the Democratic Party from then on.
The next day in class we continued talking about the two presidential candidates. Some students supported Nixon, others favored Kennedy. Miss Kellog did not take sides, but I figured she must have preferred Kennedy because her eyes sparkled whenever she talked about him. Besides, I could not imagine her not supporting the candidate who wanted to aid the poor. When I found out that Kennedy came from a wealthy family, I knew for sure that Papá was wrong about rich people, but I never said anything to him. I knew better.
The next class assignment was for us to watch the presidential debates on television, take notes, and discuss them in class. I missed all four of the debates because I had to work. I did not participate in class discussions, but I listened carefully, always rooting for Kennedy.
At the end of the semester, after the elections, we were to turn in a scrapbook with all the articles about the campaign published in the Santa Maria Times, the local newspaper. We did not get the paper at home, so at work every day I picked up the discarded newspaper from the day before, took it home, and piled it in the shed next to our barrack. I spent one Sunday evening putting the scrapbook together. I brought out the stack of papers and placed them on the kitchen table. Roberto sat next to me, helping me clip articles. Mamá ironed while she listened to the Spanish radio station. "You have enough paper there to plug every hole in all the barracks in Bonetti Ranch," Mamá said, laughing. I explained what I was doing. "I am glad Kennedy won," she said. "He gives us hope."
"I am too," I said, glancing at her and continuing to work. She smiled and turned off the radio. I reread some of the articles and read others for the first time. "I can't believe this!" I exclaimed as I finished reading an editorial on the results of the presidential election.
"What?" Mamá asked, leaning over the ironing board.
"Did you know that some people didn't vote for Kennedy because he is Catholic?" I said, raising my voice and slamming the paper on the table.
"Why are you surprised?" Roberto said, pushing back hi
s chair and leaning back. "Some people don't like Mexicans and wouldn't vote for them either." I knew he was thinking about Susan.
"But why?" I felt upset and angry. "Papá said we should respect everyone."
"It's true, mijo," Mamá said, "but some people are blinded by the devil. He plants evil seeds in their hearts."
Papá appeared in the doorway. "What's all the fuss about?" he said, looking annoyed. He winced as he pulled out a chair and slowly sat next to Roberto.
"Panchito doesn't understand why some people don't like Mexicans," Mamá said, walking over and massaging Papá's shoulders.
"Or Catholics," I quickly added.
"Because people are ignorant," Papá said. "I am proud of being Catholic and Mexican and you must be too."
"I am," Roberto, said, "but some aren't. The janitor at Main Street School who is Mexican told me that Panchito and I could pass for Americans because we're light. 'Don't tell people you're Mexican,' he said. 'You could easily pass for Americans."
"Qué lástima," Mamá said.
"Yes, it's a pity," Roberto agreed.
"I never hide that I am Mexican," I said. "I am proud of it too. Besides, even if I tried to hide it, I couldn't; my accent gives me away. My friends tell me they can cut it with a knife."
"A knife! You need a machete," Roberto said. We all laughed.
It was late in the evening when I finally finished reading and pasting the last article. Everyone had gone to bed. I reread the editorial and thought of Susan and Peggy and became angry again. I felt like shredding it. I closed the scrapbook and went to bed. I had a hard time falling asleep.
Junior Scandals
Many of my classmates knew I was Mexican and those who did not found out when I participated in Junior Scandals, an annual event sponsored by the junior class. Marvin Bell, our junior class president, who sat next to me in Miss Kellog's class, asked me to be part of it that year. "Frankie, how about doing something for Junior Scandals?" he said enthusiastically as we walked into class.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Okay, class, let's get settled," Miss Kellog said, directing her attention to Marvin and me.
"Here, read this," he whispered. He handed me a copy of The Breeze, the school newspaper, and pointed to the article on the front page.
I glanced at the article. It read "Junior Scandals Slated for March Showing." I folded it and placed it underneath my desk. At the end of class, Marvin again insisted.
"You gotta help our class, man. Don't chicken out." He gave me a slight shove and added, "I am counting on you."
I read the article during study hall.
Attention student body! "Tenth Anniversary," this year's Junior Scandals, will be presented Friday, March 4, beginning at 8:00 p.m. in the boys' gym. Pantomimes, dancing, singing, the familiar chorus line, and a boys' fashion show will be a few of the acts. Marvin Bell, junior class president, will preside over the scandals as master of ceremonies. Be sure not to miss this year's presentation of Junior Scandals, as this will be the finest Scandals ever presented.
I looked up the word scandal in my dictionary. I did not like the sound of it.
"Why would our class want to put on a shameful show?" I asked Marvin the next day after class.
"It's not shameful," he said. "It's entertaining."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Didn't you read the article? Some of the guys are dressing up as girls and modeling," he said, laughing. "You could join them."
"That's crazy! Why would guys want to dress up as girls?"
"You don't get it, man. It's all for fun."
"Can I do something that's not disrespectful ... I mean, that's not funny?"
"Sure, you can do whatever you want," he said, giving me an odd look. "Everyone who's participating will meet in the boys gym next Monday, right after school. Be there or be square!"
Before I got a chance to respond, he said, "See you later, alligator," and rushed off. I had a hard time making up my mind about performing in front of a crowd. What if they made fun of my accent? Then I remembered making a lot of friends in the eighth grade when I sang an Elvis Presley song. I wanted to be a part of my class, so I decided to participate. Trampita offered to help me clean the gas company on Friday so that I could finish work in time to make the performance at eight o'clock. Now I had to think of a skit. I did not have much time. By Sunday early evening I was still struggling for an idea. I asked Roberto to help me.
"Why don't you do Elvis Presley, like in El Camino?" he said.
Just as Roberto said Elvis Presley, Papá walked in. He had been cutting wood for Bonetti on a power saw in the shed. "Who's El Vez?" he asked, dusting off his pants. "I never heard of him.
"He's an American singer."
"Que El Vez ni que El Vez. Jorge Negrete!" he said sharply, stating his preference for the Mexican star. He turned on the radio and searched for a Mexican station. "Mi Tierra" by Pedro Infante came on. As a child I loved listening to him and Jorge Negrete. Papá and Roberto often whistled their songs when we worked in the fields. Suddenly a strange and strong emotion took over me: I felt homesick. Roberto must have read my mind because he said, "Why don't you sing a Mexican song?"
"I was thinking the same thing. What song should I sing?"
"'Cielito Lindo,'" Roberto said. "You've always liked that song."
"That's it," I said. "I know it by heart and I don't have to worry about my accent!" Papá's eyes watered. He smiled and lowered the volume on the radio. All three of us sat at the kitchen table in silence and listened to music.
On Monday after school I headed for the gym. Many of my classmates were already there checking in. Marvin announced that Mr. Ward Kinkade, my counselor, and Mr. Wesley Hodges, my P.E. coach, would be supervising the performance, and Bobbie Sue Winters and Glenna Burns were coordinating the event.
"Okay, you guys, break up into groups according to your skits and tell us what your skit is going to be," Bobbie Sue shouted. Her high-pitched voice echoed throughout the gym. Mr. Kinkade and Mr. Hodges leaned against the wall, arms folded and whispering to each other. The large crowd separated into small groups. I stood alone underneath the basketball hoop, listening and waiting for my turn.
Greg Kudron, who was closest to Bobbie Sue, reported first. "We're going to dress up as girls and model," he said, pointing behind him to a large group of guys who wore football jerseys. The gym filled with laughter. I felt uneasy. Once the noise faded, Judy Treankler, one of the most popular girls in our class, stepped forward and introduced her skit.
"We're the chorus line," she said, pushing her hair back with her right hand. The nine girls in her group kicked up their right legs in unison. The boys gyrated, whistled, and screamed. When I saw Mr. Kinkade and Mr. Hodges laughing, I laughed too.
The different groups and individuals continued to report on their skits one by one. George Harshbarger and his trio and I were the last two. George played the banjo and Jim Hodges and Roger Brown played the guitar. I had seen them perform at several school dances.
"Go ahead, Frankie," George said.
"No, you go next," I responded, feeling tense.
"Thanks," he said. Jim and Roger followed behind him, strumming their guitars. "We're going to sing a few folk songs," he said, picking his banjo.
"Like the Kingston Trio," someone yelled out from the back of the crowd.
"Exactly," George responded.
"You're next, Frankie," Bobbie Sue said.
I stepped forward, took a deep breath, and said, "I am going to sing 'Cielito Lindo,' a Mexican song." I glanced at Mr. Kinkade. He nodded and applauded. I heard a few cheers from the crowd. I felt more at ease.
"Good job. It's going to be the best Junior Scandals ever!" Bobbie Sue said. "Tell your friends to buy tickets. They're now on sale in the student activities room. The price is seventy-five cents for students and one dollar for adults."
"What are you going to do for music?" George asked as we headed out of the gym.
&nbs
p; "I haven't figured that out yet," I said.
"Do you play the guitar?"
"No, I wish I did."
"Maybe I can play for you," he said.
"Would you?" I exclaimed. "Do you know 'Cielito Lindo'?" I asked.
"No, but I can come up with the chords if you sing it," he said.
We went in the cafeteria and sat at an empty table. I hummed it while George listened carefully, trying to follow me. We went over it until he could play it all the way through. He gave me some hints on how to project my voice, and before we left, we agreed to meet a few times after school to practice together.
The school gym was packed the night of the event. A makeshift stage was set up at the south end of the basketball court, closest to the boys locker room, where we dressed and waited to perform. The girls got ready in their locker room, located on the north end. Tension and excitement filled the air. Some boys buzzed around the locker room like sleepless flies, banging on the metal lockers and walls; others shadowboxed. George and his trio huddled in the corner, tuning their instruments. I paced the floor holding my wide-brimmed Mexican hat against my chest to protect it from being crushed. As the cheers and applause at the end of each act got louder, I became more and more nervous. I was next. "You're up, Frankie," Marvin shouted. I put on my hat, wiped my sweaty hands on my pants, and lightly kissed my Saint Christopher medal. George followed behind me, strumming his guitar. As I walked up to the stage, my legs wobbled. I grabbed the microphone with both hands and glanced at the crowd. I was petrified.
"Are you ready?" George said.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. Then I heard Roberto holler from the back of the bleachers, "No te rajes, Panchito!" As his words of support echoed throughout the gym, Papá's face flashed in my mind. I slowly released the microphone, took a deep breath, tilted my hat, and said, "Okay, I am ready." The words to "Cielito Lindo" flowed like a stream. Halfway through the song, several people in the audience sang along to the refrain, "Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores," and at the end they cheered and applauded. George and I bowed and left. Marvin then went to the microphone and asked all of the participants to join him onstage. We all got a standing ovation. After the audience had left, we cleared the stage, played rock 'n' roll, and danced the Chicken, the Mash Potato, the Twist, the Stroll, and many other dances. On the way home that evening and for days after, I kept hearing "Cielito Lindo" in my mind.
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