America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

As the silent minutes passed, Mano imagined Jo’s words of dismissal: I’m sorry, Manolo. This isn’t working out. You’ve seen for yourself why we have to let you go. He could even picture the pity in her eyes. That was the most painful image of all.

  Looking for a distraction, he noticed a stack of pamphlets on the small table next to him. He opened one of the brochures and began reading.

  JUSTICIA, by José Antonio Marcha. Edited by J. M. Herrera.

  If you are a Latino living in the United States, you are a foreigner in your own country. That’s right. You may not realize it, but you are the rightful heir to significant parts of the territory now called the United States.

  Look around you. Spanish place names prevail throughout most of Texas, California, New Mexico, Arizona, and Florida. The cities of Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Antonio, El Paso, and Albuquerque are just a few of the many places founded by your ancestors. They came from Spain, merged with the indigenous people of the Americas and the slaves brought over from Africa, and created the Hispanic culture. This was a unique and profound fusion of people and traditions. Nothing like it has ever taken place in the United States.

  This new Hispanic culture existed throughout much of North and South America for over four centuries. However, the Hispanic settlements in North America were overrun by the territorial expansion of the United States during the 1800s. These illegal immigrants often squatted on Hispanic lands, then wrested them away by force. The so-called “Battle of the Alamo” is probably the best-known example. The Anglo aggressors crushed the Hispanic societies they conquered, driving away your ancestors or reducing them to positions of servitude.

  Over the last few decades, Hispanics have been returning in large numbers to their former homelands through “immigration.” Yet Hispanics in these U.S.-occupied territories are relegated to the lowest rungs of the social ladder. They are denied the opportunity to work and live where they choose. Most Hispanics are only hired for menial jobs and then frequently paid unfair wages. Through discriminatory housing practices, they are reduced to living in crowded, filthy, crime-infested barrios. Sometimes the prejudice is overt; at other times, the discrimination is indirect. And most galling of all, this injustice is perpetrated on soil that was once their own.

  This must stop. The time has come for you to reclaim the lands that are rightfully yours.

  This is treason, Mano thought as he stopped reading. He was a native-born American who’d fought for his country. This pamphlet was an attack on everything he believed. And yet…

  The words also captured the frustration he fought every day to ignore.

  Despite his rock-hard loyalty to his country, Mano was astonished to find he could not completely reject the ideas in the pamphlet. He was left with a nagging doubt, a feeling gnawing in his belly that something in the words was right. He looked back down at the booklet in his hands and finished reading Justicia.

  Those eight pages would open the first crack in the foundations of his world.

  Ramon was connecting to the Internet when the familiar creak of the steel door announced Jo’s arrival. She entered hurriedly, a laptop case slung over her shoulder. As usual on even-numbered days, she carried two Starbucks lattes. She and Ramon shared an addiction to lattes—Jo from her days at Stanford and Ramon from his movie-producer wife. Now that all the coffee joints in East Los Angeles were closed, the two took turns stopping in Santa Monica to satisfy their morning habit.

  “Buenos días,” Ramon said without looking up from his computer.

  “Good morning, Ramon. You and Maggie have a good weekend?” Jo asked, placing the latte on his desk.

  “We went to see Il Trovatore Saturday night. The singing was tolerable. But the direction hasn’t been very inspired this season. How about you?”

  “It was OK,” Jo said, meticulously tidying the neat stacks of folders on her desk while the laptop powered up.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you worked all weekend again.”

  Jo sighed. “Please don’t tell me again I work too much, Ray.”

  “All right, Josefina. We’ll skip my weekly sermon on overwork.”

  “Muchas gracias. So what’s on our agenda for today?”

  “I think our first order of business is the status of Manolo.”

  Lattes in hand, the two walked to a corner of the office shielded from the door by a partition. The back side of the partition contained six surveillance monitors. In the upper-right screen, Mano was visible inspecting the trucks in the garage. Ramon twisted a switch and the image of Mano moved rapidly in reverse, the time code in the corner of the screen counting backward.

  “He’s been arriving every morning before seven-thirty,” Ramon said. “So far, his behavior has matched up with our research. He’s got all the qualities we’re looking for in a bodyguard—intelligence, a clean criminal record, and military experience. I think he’s the most promising recruit Mark has ever sent us, Jo.”

  “What’s your take on his politics?”

  “Getting him on our side of the fence won’t be easy. He served two hitches with the Rangers and saw combat in Afghanistan. That’s not exactly the résumé of a radical.”

  “No, but there’s something else, Ray. He saw the first vigilante shooting. He didn’t want to talk about it, which tells me it was pretty bad.”

  “I see what you mean. That’ll certainly help us win him over,” Ramon said, rubbing his chin. “But I wouldn’t bring it up with him, Jo. This could backfire on us if it’s not handled delicately.”

  “Yeah, I feel terrible poaching on a tragedy,” she said, suddenly dispirited.

  Ramon smiled wryly. “Listen, with all due respect to the feminist deities, I think a woman who looks like a movie star and is smarter than Henry Kissinger is going to be a damn good recruiter, no matter what.”

  Jo shook her head in mock disgust. “You’re a closet sexist, Ramon,” she said, smiling.

  “Maybe. But I doubt you’ll spare the charm to bring an asset like Manolo into our camp. A man like that could help us.”

  “I wish he spoke better Spanish. Apparently, he only speaks a few words, though I’m sure he understands a lot more than that.”

  “That’s not unusual for a third-generation Chicano. The genealogy databases show his grandfather came to the U.S. as a field laborer under the Bracero program during World War II. He must have been one of the few who didn’t get sent back to Mexico after the GIs returned. That man must have been one hard worker.”

  “The work ethic must run in the family. It took a full week without specific assignments to get him into the bookstore to read the material.”

  “He’s had the weekend to mull it over. I expect we’ll get his reaction this morning.”

  “You’re usually right about these things, Ramon. It will be interesting to see how Señor Suarez feels about Señor Marcha,” Jo said, taking the first sip of her latte.

  For the third time that morning, Mano scanned the parking lot behind the bookstore. This time, Jo’s Volvo sedan was there. The time had come to confront his boss.

  Even as he walked across the alley, Mano wasn’t sure what he would say. One thing was certain: he needed this job. But he felt himself drawn to this encounter by his sense of duty, a need to defend the principles of his country. He entered the bookstore and saw Jo behind the counter.

  “Buenos días, Manolo,” she said with a smile.

  Without preface, Mano pulled the Justicia pamphlet from his pocket and thrust it toward her. “Ma’am, do you support what’s written here?”

  “Yes, Manolo,” she answered calmly. “In fact, I translated and edited Justicia.”

  Mano looked at the cover of the pamphlet. Edited by J. M. Herrera, it read. He had not noticed the editor’s name. “No disrespect, ma’am, but I’ve been trying to figure out whether this is treason or just plain crazy.”

  “There isn’t a third alternative?”

  “What would that be?”

  “That it’s the trut
h.”

  Mano shook his head, struggling to find the right words. “No, ma’am, it can’t be true. I don’t know how to explain it. But, it’s… it’s just not the way things are.”

  “Manolo, long ago, a wise person said, ‘Time makes more converts than reason.’ Hispanics in America have come to accept the way things are, not because they’re fair or just, but because it’s the way things have been for a very long time.”

  “That sounds anti-American.”

  “The man who said this was Thomas Paine, one of the patriots of the American Revolution… although the Tories considered him a traitorous rabble-rouser.”

  Stymied by her answer, Mano tried another argument. “What you’re proposing isn’t legal, ma’am. You can’t just barge in and take away people’s property.”

  “Do you think the Anglos did anything different? The ground you’re standing on belonged to Hispanic settlers when your great-grandfather was alive. The gabachos didn’t ask permission to come here. They swarmed over the land and overran the locals by sheer numbers. And the Anglo takeover didn’t just happen in California. The first illegal immigrants in Texas came from Tennessee.”

  “Why haven’t I heard this before?”

  “The history they teach in American schools glosses over the fact that most Anglo families in Texas were uninvited squatters. The Anglos not only grabbed up Mexican land, they refused to pay taxes on it. That’s why General Santa Anna marched his army to a place called the Alamo—to evict the illegal immigrants.”

  “No matter how we got the land, there’s no other country on earth where people are as free as the United States.”

  “That’s true, Manolo,” Jo agreed. “But did you know that England was the most progressive nation in Europe at the time of the American Revolution? No other monarchy had an active parliament and a Magna Carta protecting the rights of its citizens. Yet all those privileges didn’t stop the American colonists from asserting their independence.” Jo paused, letting her words sink in. “Do you think our cause seems any less justified than that of the American colonists?”

  Mano knew he was outmatched in a debate with Jo. His strongest argument came from the gut, and it told him her ideas were dangerous. “I don’t have your education, ma’am. But I still believe you’re wrong,” he said tersely.

  “I realize I’m not going to change your views, Manolo,” she said gently. “I can see you find Marcha’s ideas difficult to accept.”

  “I think they border on treason.”

  “Surely you agree that people have the right of free speech in this country.”

  “Treason is not protected by any rights, ma’am.”

  Jo reached for the Justicia pamphlet he was holding, gently cradling his hand in her own. “Look at this, Manolo,” she said, pointing to the back cover. “The works of José Antonio Marcha are registered with the Library of Congress. If there was anything illegal in his writings, I wouldn’t be allowed to publish them.”

  The warm softness of her hand left him speechless for a moment. “I… see your point,” he finally managed to say.

  “So you agree this document does not break any laws?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “That’s good to hear. From what I know about you, I can’t imagine you’d work for an organization that did something illegal,” she said with a soft smile.

  Mano’s throat tightened. Talk of ending his job was territory he did not want to cross.

  Without waiting for an answer, Jo continued. “Manolo, I realize Marcha’s ideas seem strange to you. But you should know there are a lot of others who share them—and I have a suggestion that may help. There’s a community rally next Saturday at Salazar Park. Why don’t you come and listen to the speakers? After that, if you feel that working here compromises your principles, you can quit. What do you say?”

  “Look, ma’am, I’m starting to think there won’t be a job for me here much longer anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “How long can you carry a salary for someone who isn’t doing very much?”

  “You let me worry about that, Manolo. I know we haven’t had much for you to do yet. But that’s temporary. We’re planning to expand our routes. Your job is safe.”

  Mano rubbed his face, trying to mask his relief. He’d listen to these crazy ideas if it meant a chance to protect his family. After all, Jo seemed to mean well—the drivers certainly believed that. Besides, attending a rally didn’t mean you supported the cause. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go,” he said finally.

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” Jo said, leaning closer. “I’ll be driving with Ramon to save parking space. Do you want a ride?”

  “Thanks, but I think it’d be best… for family reasons, if I walked, ma’am.” The thought of Rosa seeing him get into Jo’s car made him uneasy.

  “I understand,” she said, nodding. “There’s something else, though. This ‘ma’am’ thing is starting to get very old. Would you mind calling me Jo?”

  “Sure… Jo,” he said, almost whispering her name. “Most people call me Mano.”

  She reached out and shook his hand firmly. “It’s a deal, Mano,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I think you may be surprised by what you hear at the rally.”

  THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:

  Month 2, Day 22

  Intellectuals are the prime ingredient of social ferment. Their ideas are the yeast that raises the masses into rebellion.

  —José Antonio Marcha, 1979

  Translated by J. M. Herrera

  I don’t understand why you have to go to this rally,” Rosa said, bringing her husband an espresso. She’d risen at 6 a.m. to prepare Mano’s breakfast, making this Saturday morning feel like a workday.

  Mano reached distractedly for the small cup. “I gave Jo my word.”

  “It doesn’t seem right, Mano. A boss shouldn’t force her politics on you.”

  “That’s not what Jo is doing.”

  “No? Then what do you call it?” she asked, buttering slices of toast.

  “She wants to make sure I’m OK with the things she believes.”

  Rosa looked up suspiciously. “Why is it so important to her what you think?”

  “Because she doesn’t want me to quit my job,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Do you?”

  Without answering, Rosa placed the toast in front of him and retreated to their bedroom. Mano finished his breakfast alone and quietly left the apartment. The walk to Salazar Park would take a good part of the morning.

  Turning west on Whittier, Mano saw fresh evidence of rioting. The blackened husk of a warehouse was surrounded by piles of ashes still soggy from the fire department’s hoses. Such a waste, he thought, walking past the burned-out building. Destroying businesses was no way to bring jobs to the barrios. Yet he had to admit his own feelings were no less confused. He was troubled by Jo’s ideas but wanted desperately to keep his job. These conflicting thoughts swirled in his head as he paced steadily toward the rally.

  It was almost noon when he reached Salazar Park. Although a gray sky threatened rain, the crowd was nearly shoulder to shoulder. Above the sea of bodies on the scruffy grass, he saw a large banner behind the makeshift grandstand.

  RALLY FOR JUSTICIA

  Unity. Community. Strength.

  A couple dozen Anglos with professionally lettered signs supporting the rally stood near the large media contingent ringing the platform. The rest of the crowd appeared to be Eslos—Chicanos from the barrios of East Los Angeles.

  As he walked toward the grandstand, Mano spotted several bands of young men in sports jerseys, many in the 49er uniforms of the 19th Street Gang, as well as the UNLV gear worn by their bitter rivals, the Pachucos. Ordinarily, this would have meant heavy trouble, but for some reason, the vatos seemed content to coexist today.

  Deployed in a ragged line along the west edge of the park were over a hundred LAPD officers in riot gear. Their slumping postures worried Mano. He knew exhausted men had short f
uses.

  Near the east stairway to the podium, where Jo had arranged to meet him, Mano saw a posh group of people who looked like dignitaries. Suddenly, a woman among them waved to him.

  “Mano… over here,” she said. It was Jo.

  She wore an elegant blue dress, her golden hair styled in an upward sweep that showcased a gleaming pearl necklace and matching earrings. Ramon, standing beside her, was also transformed, his denim and fatigues replaced by a tweed sports coat and maroon tie, which gave his graying ponytail a look of scholarly sophistication.

  Mano was suddenly embarrassed. He’d worn a freshly pressed dress shirt and slacks, the outfit he’d used for his many job interviews. But compared to those in this crowd of dignitaries, he felt coarse and out of place.

  As if reading Mano’s mind, Ramon produced a handful of silk neckties from his briefcase. “I haven’t got a coat that would even come close to fitting you, Mano, but I did bring along a few ties. Maybe you’ll find one you like.”

  Mano ran his calloused fingers hesitantly over the sleek fabric, not sure if he remembered how to tie a knot. The last time he’d worn a tie was for his Army portrait.

  “Here… this gray one goes well with your blue shirt,” Jo said, looping the tie around his neck. Mano stood frozen as she wove the tie into a knot. “I always loved doing this for my father,” she said, smoothing the tie down after she’d finished, lightly caressing Mano’s muscular chest. The trail of her fingers left an electric tingle on Mano’s skin. Against his will, he looked into Jo’s eyes. She met his gaze steadily. “How does that feel?”

  Mano cleared his throat. “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Good. Let’s meet the other speakers.”

  “Other speakers? Are you speaking today, Jo?”

  “No, Mano,” Ramon answered. “I am.”

  Mano’s eyes widened. Clearly, Ramon Garcia was more than a clerk in a bookstore. He should have noticed that before.

  “I see you’re surprised,” Ramon said, smiling.

  “Yes,” Mano admitted as an angry chant erupted from the crowd. He nodded toward the Anglo contingent making most of the noise. “What wouldn’t surprise me is if there’s trouble here today. Do you have a plan in case things get out of hand?”