"He's a very generous man," I said.
"An extraordinary man. He owns and operates Rosemary Farm and the Santa Maria Valley Railroad, which runs between Santa Maria and Guadalulpe. His favorite steam engine is 'Old Twenty-one.' It's now a museum piece. Have you seen it.?"
When we first arrived in Santa Maria from Mexico, I would watch the trains go by behind the migrant labor tent camp we lived in, Roberto and I played on the railroad tracks and waited every day at noon for the train to pass by. We always wondered where it came from. We called it the Moon Train. Could this be the same one?
"Have you seen the engine?" Mrs. Williams repeated.
"I am sorry. No, I haven't. But I'd like to."
She proceeded to tell me that it was located near the railroad offices on South McClelland and suggested that I stop by to see it.
"Oh, gosh, I almost forgot. You need to be on your way." She jotted down Mrs. Hancock's address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "Rosemary Farm is easy to get to..."
I had seen Rosemary Farm from a distance many times. The long cluster of low white-roofed buildings looked like mushrooms growing in the middle of hundreds of acres of green fields. I was amazed that Mr. and Mrs. Hancock lived there. I expected them to live in neighborhoods like the ones I had seen the past two days while delivering gifts.
"I know where it is," I said. "We can see it from Bonetti Ranch, where my family lives."
Before I left she gave me an envelope with money in it for my work delivering presents. I opened it in the car. I was flabbergasted when I saw three fifty-dollar bills. How generous! My father and I would have had to work sixty hours each picking strawberries to earn this much. I wished I could have shared this moment with him. He would have been very pleased.
The private entrance to the farm was on the west side. On both sides of the narrow paved road were small white wooden houses and cottages with flower gardens. They were numbered consecutively, starting with one. Mrs. Hancock's house was number 10. The facade of her house was no different from that of the other houses except for two white wooden pillars that framed the entrance. The rest of it was hidden from view with tall hedges and trees. I nervously rang the doorbell. Mrs. Hancock opened the door. I introduced myself.
"How nice to finally meet you," she said, ushering me in and motioning for me to sit next to a coffee table. She sat down across from me in a high-backed armchair. She had a soft, pleasing voice, a radiant face, sweet almond-shaped brown eyes, and graying blond hair pinned back in a bun with curls in the front. A string of white pearls adorned her collar. She was elegant like a swan. Behind her on the wall hung a floral tapestry with shades of black, brown, white, rose, blue, and green. On a small table next to her chair was a small sculpture of the Virgin Mary and a leather-bound copy of the Bible with gold lettering. I thanked her for the jacket and the job and gave her Father O'Neill's regards.
"I am so pleased he brought us together," she said, clasping her small, slender hands. "Unfortunately, the Captain won't be able meet you. He's ill,"
"The Captain?" I wondered to whom she was referring.
"I apologize! I call my husband the Captain. You see, when he was a child, he was fascinated by boats. He rowed a flatboat on lakes at the tar pits in Los Angeles, and when he got older, he designed and built several vessels. Then he got his mariner's license. Ever since, he became known in our family as Captain Hancock. I simply call him the Captain."
"I am sorry he's not well," I responded. "Mrs. Williams told me a little about him. He is an amazing man."
"He certainly is," she said. "He's been a blessing to me. We'll be celebrating his eighty-eighth birthday this year. Since you won't be able to see him, I'd like to show you one of my favorite pictures of him." She stood up, went to an adjacent room, and returned with a red photo album, then showed me a photo of Mr. Hancock receiving an honorary doctorate of science degree from the University of Santa Clara in 1959.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "I am glad he was honored by Santa Clara." I felt proud of my school. The Captain clearly seemed a leader, I thought, recalling what Father Shanks would call a leader. He had certainly lived life to its fullest extent.
"I knew you'd enjoy seeing it," she said, smiling. "Now, before you leave, I have another gift for you," she said. She left and came back with a navy blue pinstriped suit on a wooden hanger. "This suit belongs to the Captain. We would like you to have it."
I was as surprised and moved by this gesture as I had been the time my father had given me his prized Saint Christopher medal for my eighth grade graduation. He had worn it ever since I could remember. I stood up and said, "Oh, it's beautiful. Thank you very much, Mrs. Hancock. Are you sure...?" I took the suit and folded it over my left arm. It was smooth, like silk.
"It would make us happy to have you wear it."
Noticing that she did not sit back down, I realized it was time for me to leave. "It was a pleasure meeting you," I said. "I appreciate all you've done for me."
"You're welcome. Please keep in touch and give my love to Father O'Neill."
When I got home, I gave my mother the envelope. "It's for Christmas presents for our family," I said.
"Gracias a Dios, mijo," she said, giving me a hug. I then showed her the jacket and the suit and explained to her who gave them to me. She looked surprised but thankful.
"Como hay gente buena en el mundo," she said. There are many good people in the world.
When I tried the suit on, the pants were too big in the waist and the coat was too large in the front.
"It doesn't fit," I said, coming out of my room and modeling it for my mother.
"You're right, mijo; it's too big for you," she said with disappointment.
Crossroads
The thought of not seeing my father for a long time, even in his worst moods, left a deep sorrow in my family and me. Every day, my sister would wait for him on the front steps and would cry because he did not show up at the end of the day. At college, I stayed awake at night, praying and thinking about what to do: stay in college or return home? I yearned to finish college, but my father's absence had left a void in my family that I felt I had the responsibility to fill. Family always came first, so I felt torn. After going back and forth many times, I made the decision to withdraw from college at the end of the first semester of my sophomore year and return home.
After Christmas break, I went back to Santa Clara to finish the last two weeks of classes. I was preoccupied and irritable. Smokey, sensing something was wrong, asked what was troubling me. "I am just worried about finals," I told him. I decided to let him know about my decision after final exams, because I did not want to bother him with my problems before then. I visited Father O'Neill on Friday and gave him Mrs. Hancock's regards and told him about my visit with her and the two gifts she gave me.
"Good," he said. "I am glad you got to meet her. She has a heart of gold."
"Yes, she does."
When he told me I looked tired and asked if something was wrong, I shook my head and told him what had happened at home and what I had decided to do.
"Oh, no! I am so sorry. I can understand your feelings." He paused for a while and then added firmly, "But I disagree with your decision to leave Santa Clara."
"But I feel responsible for my family, especially now that my father has left."
"Don't you think that finishing college is also your responsibility? Think of the sacrifices your family made for you to be here. Think of the people who believe in you and contributed to your scholarships. Don't you think you have a responsibility to them too? Besides, remember what I told you. Everything happens for a reason, and you must have trust in God."
"I do have trust in God, Father. And I appreciate the sacrifices people have made for me and I don't want to let them down but..."
"Look, son, I know how difficult this is for you, but I think you should take more time to reflect on your decision in light of our discussion. Meantime, I will offer a novena for you and your family
."
The more I thought about Father O'Neill's advice, the less sure I was about my decision. That evening, I walked around the Mission Gardens, trying to clear my mind. Was I being selfish if I stayed in college? What about my dream of being a teacher? I thought about how hard Trampita, Torito, and my mother were working to get by. I felt guilty, I returned to my room and struggled to get started on a paper for my philosophy final, I put it aside and went to bed but had a hard time sleeping.
I was so depressed and discouraged by Sunday that I did not feel like going to the first meeting for new Sodality candidates that afternoon. At Smokey's insistence, I dragged myself to it and took an aisle seat in the back of the room and tried to pay attention to Father Shanks. After he welcomed us, we joined him in a prayer for the new year. He then wrote on the blackboard:
What is the meaning and purpose of my life?
The question held my attention because I often wondered why my family and I suffered so much. My father would say we were cursed.
"I want you to answer this question to yourselves," Father Shanks said, pacing up and down the room, "It's not easy, but it's one we must all seek to answer. "
He moved to the back of the room, stood next to me, and continued. "Where can we find clues? In our faith and life experiences. Each one of us must reflect on our faith and life experiences and try to draw strength and meaning from them." He paused, placed his right hand on my shoulder, and explained that sometimes we would be baffled by our experiences because they did not come neatly packaged and labeled. He encouraged us not to give up and told us that the struggle was as important as finding the answer. He leaned over and whispered to me, "Can you please come see me in my office after this meeting?"
He walked back to the front of the room, picked up the chalk, underlined the question on the board several times, and said, "As Sodalists I want you to wrestle with this question. Your education and the deepening of your faith here at Santa Clara will guide you in your quest."
At the end of the meeting, several students went up to talk to him. I left and waited for him in the lobby outside his office in Walsh Hall. Through the glass doors to the main entrance of the building, I saw him plodding up the front stairs carrying a bundle of file folders in his left arm. I opened the door for him. "Thanks," he said, catching his breath. He unlocked the door to his office and invited me in.
"Take a seat," he said. He dropped the folders on top of a heap of papers on his desk, sat down next to me, and lit a cigarette. "What's this I hear about your leaving Santa Clara?"
I was surprised he knew. Father O'Neill must have told him. He must have read my mind because he said, "Yes, Father O'Neill talked to me."
"The reason—"
"I know your reason," he said, interrupting me. "Father O'Neill explained it to me. And I agree with him. I think you're making a big mistake. I know that in your culture children are expected to live for and honor their families. I admire that, but you must also think about yourself."
"But you said that we have the responsibility to act as 'my brother's keeper,'"
"Yes, it's true. But in this case, think of the long-term consequences, Don't you think that you would be in a better position to help your family once you finish college and become a teacher? It's a sacrifice you're making now to fashion a better future for your family, yourself, and others like you. Don't you agree?"
"It makes sense." I paused. "I'd like to think more about it." I felt pain in the back of my neck and shoulders.
"I agree. You should take more time to reflect on it. I'm confident you'll make the right decision."
After I left his office, I went to the Mission Church. It was empty and silent. I knelt down before the painting of Saint Francis at the Cross and prayed. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned anything to Father O'Neill about it. But out of respect, I had had to tell him. He was my friend and I trusted him. O/i, it would be so much easier if someone would just make the decision for me! I got up and sat down in the front pew and looked at the painting of Saint Anthony adoring the Christ Child that was to the right of the altar. The Christ Child figure seemed so pure and peaceful. I went up to the side of the altar, lit a candle, and said a Hail Mary.
I returned to my room and wrote down more memories of my childhood, keeping in mind what Father Shanks had said about finding purpose and meaning to our lives. I wrote about Torito, who almost died from an illness he contracted during the time we lived in Tent City. He was a few months old when he began suffering convulsions and diarrhea. My parents gave him mint tea, prayed, and consulted a curandera, a healer, who Tubbed raw eggs on his stomach. When he got worse, my parents finally took him to the county hospital even though they had no money to pay for medical care. The doctor told my parents that Torito was going to die. My parents refused to believe the doctor. They brought Torito home and our whole family prayed every day to El Santo Nino de Atocha, the little baby Jesus, until my brother got well.
I put my notes aside and went over the assignment for my philosophy class. We were to write a short essay on one of the works we read in the course and relate it to our lives, I chose the "Allegory of the Cave" in Plato's Republic. I compared my childhood of growing up in a family of migrant workers with the prisoners who were in a dark cave chained to the floor and facing a blank wall. I wrote that, like the captives, my family and other migrant workers were shackled to the fields day after day, seven days a week, week after week, being paid very little and living in tents or old garages that had dirt floors, no indoor plumbing, no electricity. I described how the daily struggle to simply put food on our tables kept us from breaking the shackles, from turning our lives around. I explained that faith and hope for a better life kept us going. I identified with the prisoner who managed to escape and with his sense of obligation to return to the cave and help others to break free.
After finishing the paper, I thought about Father Shanks's question and the advice he and Father O'Neill had given me. They were right. I had to sacrifice and finish college.
Soul Mate
I began the second half of my sophomore year feeling less worried about my family and more confident about school. My Tía Chana, who was taking care of my father in Mexico, wrote to my mother, telling her that our father continued to be ill physically and mentally but that, with the help of a curandera, he was slowly recovering. She told my mother that he prayed for us every day, Roberto and his wife provided support and comfort to my family by visiting often and helping them out financially. My mother began working in a vegetable processing freezer during the week. Trampita kept on working as a custodian for the Santa Maria Window Cleaners, and my other siblings helped my mother work in the fields on weekends. I continued sending money home whenever I could.
Besides taking seventeen and a half units of course work that second semester and enjoying all of my classes, I found a soul mate who made me feel more at home in college.
I met Laura Facchini in the Survey of Latin American Literature 11, taught by Dr. Hardman de Bautista. Laura stood out in the small class because everyone else in it had taken the first part of that course the previous semester and because she was the only freshman and the only one who was not a native Spanish speaker. The other students were from Central and South America and the Caribbean. She caught my attention immediately when I saw her for the first time. She had big brown eyes, a light olive complexion, a high forehead, a narrow, slightly rounded chin, and short brown hair turned under. She reminded me of a girl with whom I was secretly infatuated when I was in junior high school. I always sat next to Laura because I seldom saw her outside of class, and when I did, she always seemed to be in a hurry, scurrying across campus, clutching her books and binders.
One day she came to class a few minutes late, looking hassled. She sat down next to me and opened her Latin American literature anthology to the section on Rubén Dario, a Nicaraguan writer whose poetry we were to have read and studied for homework. I glanced over and saw that she had written in pencil
numerous notes in the margins and the English translation of practically every Spanish word in the text. She caught my eye, smiled, and pulled her book closer to her and closed it halfway. I felt embarrassed and looked away. Professor Hardman de Bautista made a few remarks about Dario and assigned each one of us a different poem to read aloud and analyze. I felt nervous and intimidated as I listened to students read with drama and confidence. However, I was surprised that Professor Hardman de Bautista had to guide them so closely through the analyses. This was not the case with Laura. Even though she had a slight accent when she spoke, her reading was smooth and her interpretation impressed everyone, especially the teacher. At the end of the class period, I followed her out of the classroom.
"Where did you learn Spanish so well?" I asked, trying to keep up with her fast pace. A light breeze pressed her floral cotton dress against her slightly bowed legs.
"Oh, I don't know Spanish that well." She glanced at me from the corner of her eye and smiled.
"But you do." I liked her modesty.
"I like Spanish and work hard at it. That's why I decided to major in it. I enjoy learning languages. I guess I take after my grandfather, who studies French and Spanish on his own."
When I told her I was impressed with her interpretation of Rubén Dario's Canción de otoño en primavera, she explained that her high school English teacher had taught her how to analyze literature.
"I am still struggling with English."
"I wish I knew Spanish as well as you know English."
"Maybe we can study together." We were approaching Nobili Hall. "I'll help you with Spanish and you can help me with English."
She frowned and said, "Well, here we are. Luckily I don't have to climb too many stairs. I live on the second floor. Thanks for walking with me."
"You're welcome. See you in class." I opened the entry door and she dashed up the stairs. Maybe she thought I was being too forward.
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