Jazz Owls_A Novel of the Zoot Suit Riots

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Jazz Owls_A Novel of the Zoot Suit Riots Page 5

by Margarita Engle


  foretold by an upside-down exclamation

  or question mark!

  ¿Will today once again

  be a waking NIGHTMARE

  of violent

  SAILOR RIOTS?

  ¿What about TOMORROW?

  ¿Can this CRAZY city ever

  feel SAFE?

  June 8

  Papá

  Nearly a hundred kids were arrested

  and only two servicemen.

  Blowing off steam, that’s the way politicians

  are defending the sailors’ actions, in all those

  pointless newspaper interviews

  and on la radio.

  One of them even quotes an Army Flying School

  pilot trainee who describes his part in the riots

  as “cleaning up L.A.”

  ¡En mi opinión, it was poison that seeped

  from places where people still think

  the Civil War

  never ended!

  ¡Watcha!

  Ray

  I blame those cops who SEIZED my SHOES.

  They set the hateful example, started that ugly

  pattern,

  showed me that I’m not seen

  as HUMAN in their eyes.

  Sailors were watching; they saw how easily

  a kid like me could be defeated, just by the

  NAKEDNESS

  of FEET.

  Pos, I promise it won’t happen again.

  From now on I’ll ALWAYS

  be armed

  with caution.

  Back to Work

  Lorena

  Eleanor Roosevelt, the president’s wife,

  called it a race riot, so now city officials say,

  “That’s not true, we like Mexicans, just look

  how we go to Olvera Street to eat tacos

  and wear big ranchero hats, listening

  to mariachi music, so lively

  and cheerful.”

  Well, I feel like our brains are being used as piñatas,

  with everyone trying to break open my thoughts

  so they can understand mexicanos, but by now

  they should know me.

  I’m the one

  who makes it possible

  for sailors and soldiers to eat

  overseas,

  where all they have

  is the food

  we slice

  pack

  and seal

  into hard

  round

  metal

  cans.

  Each bite of anything

  that contains

  tomato sauce

  spinach

  or peaches

  should taste

  so bitter and salty

  after being wildly spiced

  with my fears

  and

  tears.

  I don’t know what I can do to change anything,

  but there must be some way to grow

  like one of Abuela’s garden plants,

  changing directions to find

  sunlight.

  Dancing Again

  Marisela

  Returning to work feels as strange as traveling

  through time, trying to reach last week, before

  all that VIOLENCE changed

  everything. . . .

  But at least Ray SURVIVED,

  and Manolito, too, the best jitterbug partner

  who ever helped me

  break free

  from gravity

  to leap

  twirl

  SOAR

  and land

  safely!

  If he asked me to marry him right now,

  I’d shout

  YES!

  Locos

  Manolito

  Crazy, both of us.

  Yes, it’s true, we’re locos,

  because everyone knows

  un cubano negro

  can’t marry

  a brown mexicana,

  not here in Los Angeles,

  where the law turns her

  into a white girl,

  even though sailors, policemen,

  and reporters

  treat her family like enemy

  invaders.

  So I’ll go out on the road,

  but I’ll come back again

  someday soon, when we’re a bit older

  and this hate-crazed city

  regains

  its sanity.

  Awareness

  Ray

  Swimming season passes without a single

  submerged stroke, because my temper

  feels too hot to be cooled

  by water.

  Is the spirit of José Díaz homeless,

  still soaring above Sleepy Lagoon?

  Or is he winged,

  angelic,

  blessed?

  Can he see far beyond

  this haunted

  imitation

  of life?

  How can I ever feel normal/normal

  on streets where my body was stripped,

  my mind peeled, turning me into El Pelado.

  If so many others hadn’t experienced

  the same rage, that could be my new

  nickname instead of Sombra/Shadow,

  a living,

  shifting,

  floating

  ghost.

  We all have many names now, my friends

  who understand one another, this group

  made up of an entire neighborhood,

  los carnales, the kinfolk I choose

  because it’s so much easier

  to understand

  tangled memories

  than shared birth. . . .

  So each time I dance now, the steps

  are my own, a pachuco hop, not the Lindy,

  my new black zoot suit, bought with borrowed

  money, daring those crazy sailors

  to rage again—just let them try,

  because this time

  we’ll WIN.

  Cannery Blues

  Marisela

  With the Sailor Riots already fading

  into a troubling vagueness of memories,

  los duraznos shed peach fuzz all over

  my boring clothes, so I’m surprised

  to find myself wishing

  for more work,

  not less.

  I need to stay busy, or I’ll go crazy with longing!

  There’s no point dressing nicely, when Mami and Papá

  won’t let me stay out late anymore, only allowing us

  to work day shifts, even though refusing

  odd hours

  puts me and Lorena at risk

  for getting fired.

  My worst fear isn’t more violence.

  It’s never seeing Manolito

  again.

  Growing

  Lorena

  Sorrowful

  danceless

  joyless

  both of us

  are girls

  who move

  like gazelles

  inside our tiny

  zoo cage of limitations,

  unable to slide

  leap

  glide

  except within

  our ever-increasingly wide

  imaginations.

  I can see Marisela’s new strength

  as clearly as if it were built

  of bricks.

  This Slow Life

  Marisela

  Time SAGGED

  as soon as he left.

  I receive letters and postcards

  from all over México, where he claims

  that la música cubana is almost as popular

  as mexicano movies are in his island

  homeland.

  Different accents.

  Unique rhythms.

  Each country of Latin America

  sounds so special

  the way he describes them.

&nb
sp; How will I EVER be able to travel

  with his band

  when I can’t even go to the

  All Nations Church

  dance club?

  Thinking of all the words we enjoyed comparing,

  I remember the way he said lechuza

  instead of tecolote

  when he called me a night owl,

  and mondongo instead of menudo

  when we shared a bowl of tripe soup,

  maní in place of cacahuate

  as a name for roasted peanuts,

  fruta bomba, not papaya,

  and pavo instead of guajolote

  for a turkey on Thanksgiving. . . .

  To Manolito, the word tortilla

  meant “omelet,” and a bus was la guagua,

  a campesino, farmworker, un guajiro. . . .

  The one thing we agreed on was that el español

  is NOT a foreign language in California, because

  it was spoken here long before el inglés

  invaded.

  So we found it easy to follow the habit

  of letting SWEET words mix and roll like a river

  tumbling toward a waterfall

  of meanings.

  Decisions

  Lorena

  Union organizers

  prowl near the cannery.

  We’re warned by checkers

  to keep our distance . . .

  but Marisela and I finally know

  our own minds.

  Yes, we’re tired of taking orders

  from narrow-brained men who don’t care

  about my brother or my father, or the way

  we’ve worked here for so long but still

  can’t qualify for men’s jobs, men’s pay,

  respect.

  Papá decided that he isn’t old enough

  to stay out of the war anymore, so he just

  signed up and shipped out,

  hoping to find some clue

  to the disappearance

  of Nicolás.

  Now my sister and I stand up boldly

  singing

  at a secret meeting,

  agreeing that it’s time

  for the unity

  of a union.

  If we can’t receive

  the same hourly wage as a man,

  at least we can display our own

  female

  courage.

  Organizing My Own Voice

  Marisela

  Manolito used to say that jazz

  grew from SADNESS, a desperate need

  to invite dance moves

  into our hearts,

  one wildly

  hopeful rhythm

  at a time, like musical

  birds in a forest

  creating a territory marked

  by natural melodies

  and wingbeats.

  So when I finally have a chance

  to speak my mind at a union meeting,

  I say EXACTLY what I’m thinking

  in the form

  of a PROTEST song.

  Lorena wrote the strong words,

  but I’m the one who SINGS so

  powerfully!

  Our Demands

  Lorena

  We need dry floors

  so we won’t slip

  on peach juice,

  and gloves and goggles

  in hot pepper season

  to keep our fingers and eyes

  from burning so fiercely

  that flesh turns to blisters

  and vision

  is blurred.

  Women like Mami, at walnut packing plants,

  should never lose their hammers as a punishment

  for cracking hard shells too rapidly

  in an effort to make more money

  for their families—no, it’s not right,

  forcing her to crush nuts

  with bare knuckles,

  bruised,

  bleeding.

  A Growing Chorus

  Marisela

  Safe, healthy working conditions.

  THAT’S ALL WE ASK IN OUR HEARTFELT

  SONG.

  The rhythm

  is traditional.

  The song is

  told in the form

  of a ballad,

  a STORY,

  un corrido,

  not jazz.

  Soon even the older women join in,

  SINGING of ESPERANZA/HOPE

  for EQUALITY!

  It’s Not Enough

  Lorena

  Safe conditions are important,

  but I want more, so much more,

  I need

  dignidad.

  Dignity.

  Yes/sí, I demand my bilingual freedom/libertad

  to speak openly, without fear of getting fired

  for being a troublemaker.

  In my opinión, the real trouble is made

  by people who don’t listen

  to our song,

  our story.

  Living Dangerously

  Marisela

  Some of the union songs at meetings

  teach HISTORY.

  1903

  Mexican and Japanese farmworkers

  joined together in Oxnard, SUCCEEDING

  because their strike was UNIFIED.

  That’s what the word unión

  means.

  1920s

  More walkouts, but farmers never

  took the refusal to work seriously, until:

  1930s

  Agricultural strikes ALL OVER California.

  Mexican Americans, Filipinos, and dust-bowl

  refugees from Oklahoma and Arkansas

  ALL WORKED TOGETHER, demanding

  better wages—unity, that’s what

  helped them, even though

  some were deported

  or beaten,

  even KILLED.

  When The Grapes of Wrath

  was being filmed, the Motion Picture Guild

  showed up in Shafter, a little town near Bakersfield,

  to throw a party with food and praise

  for ten thousand migrant

  farmworkers.

  I could read that book to find out

  what people are talking about when they say

  that John Steinbeck

  learned from US.

  Pamphlets.

  Mimeograph machines.

  I could learn it ALL, how to SPEAK UP

  on paper, translating into many

  languages, so that every woman

  at this cannery knows how to ask

  for fair treatment.

  I could be just as calm and sensible

  as my sister, without losing my own eager

  ENERGY!

  By the time I’ve painted my first poster

  asking everyone to donate blood to the Red Cross

  as proof of patriotic loyalty, I feel so USEFUL

  that I almost forget what it felt like to have

  un novio,

  a boyfriend—

  Manolito,

  my heart’s

  true partner.

  These days only my fingers

  know how to

  DANCE

  on paper.

  What Will the Future Be Like?

  Lorena

  While peach season leads to tomatoes,

  Marisela is gradually transformed

  from one person into another,

  without losing her original

  self.

  I’m changing

  too, my hair bobbed short,

  my clothes so deliberately dull

  that no one would dream of wearing them

  to a dance.

  I spend part of my paycheck on union dues

  for dignity

  and part on war bonds to help Papá and Nico

  fight for liberty

  from the Nazis’ hateful ways . . .

  but who will struggle for f
reedom from racial hatred

  here

  at home?

  Scarred

  Ray

  None of those boys who were

  PEELED

  during the Sailor Riots

  will ever be able to forget

  how we

  vanished.

  When your clothes are STRIPPED AWAY

  by raging strangers, something invisible

  happens inside your rib cage.

  ¡Corazón!

  Heart!

  That’s what I exposed

  by SURVIVING.

  So now when I fight, each PUNCH

  is like a dance move, natural

  and strategically planned,

  all at the same rhythmic TIEMPO/TIME.

  Expelled from School

  Ray

  Kicked out.

  Busted.

  Booted.

  Defeated.

  Too many battles

  with other angry guys,

  carnales—brotherlike neighbors

  who got peeled

  and ended up

  scarred

  scared

  lonely

  just

  like

  me.

  Swing Shift

  Lorena

  Deciding to leave the cannery is easy.

  One of our neighbors helps me apply

  to a parachute factory so far out in the desert

  that we have to share the price of an old car

  and take turns learning to drive,

  instead of relying on buses

  and streetcars.

  Sewing is a skill all the girls know,

  taught by our grandmothers when we were little.

  My stitches are perfect, the parachute cloth

  so fiercely strong that I feel certain

  this sharp needle and sturdy thread

  will save lives,

  maybe my own.

  Yes, why shouldn’t women

  learn to fly, just like men?

  We sit in a circle, female workers

  from so many places, dark and light

  together.

  Some were born in Mississippi,

  others are refugees from Armenia, Russia,

  Poland, but there aren’t any language barriers

  when we dream

  of seeing

  our parachutes

  on newsreels,

  unfolding over

  the grateful

  smiles

  of rescued

  pilots.

  Signs

 

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