Reaching Out

by Francisco Jiménez

  The time has come for the liberation of the poor farm worker.

  History is on our side.

  MAY THE STRIKE GO ON!

  ¡VIVA LA CAUSA!

  ¡VIVA LA HUELGA!

  "Viva la causa! Viva la huelga!" we all shouted. Hurray for the cause. Hurray for the strike. I felt a wave of energy I had never experienced before. When César Chavez took the stage, we quieted down. He thanked us for our support and said, "If you are outraged at conditions, then you cannot possibly he free or happy until you devote all your time to changing them and do nothing but that. Fighting for social justice, it seems to me, is one of the profoundest ways in which men can say yes to human dignity, and that really means sacrifice. The best source of power, the best source of hope, is straight from you, the people. The boycott is not just grapes and lettuce. The boycott is essentially people, essentially people's concern for people." His words about sacrificing and caring for others echoed the ideas I had learned in Sodality and in my ethics class. They touched me and gave me courage.

  That evening we were hosted by local families whose homes were like many of the places my family had lived in: small farm workers' cabins with no electricity or running water. Some marchers slept outside on the grass, others underneath trees.

  On Easter Sunday thousands of us entered Sacramento. We swarmed the capitol steps, where César Chavez announced that Schenley had agreed to recognize the union. We all clapped and shouted with joy "Sise puede!" for several minutes. After thanking the unions, the church, and all the students and civil rights workers who had helped win this one victory, César Chavez told us: "Es bueno recorder que debe haber valor, pero también que, en la victoria, debe haber humildad." It is well to remember there must be courage, but also, that in victory there must be humility.

  As he continued speaking, I looked at the banner of the Virgen de Guadalupe and felt deeply the suffering and pain of migrant workers. What can and should I do in my life to help them? I asked myself. I did not have the answer yet.

  Providence

  During my junior year I had begun taking required education courses to become a teacher. Father Louis Bannan, a Jesuit priest, from whom I took Psychology of Education, encouraged me to pursue a high school teaching career. He was gentle and kind like Mr. Lema, my sixth grade teacher. He taught by continually asking questions, which engaged us in heated but respectful discussions. My plans to become a high school teacher, however, were changed a few months before graduation.

  The fall quarter of my senior year, I received a letter in the campus mail from Professor Bernard Kronick, chairman of the Political Science Department and director of fellowships, informing me that I had been nominated by the university for a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship. He asked that I come by his office to pick up the application form. After my afternoon class, I went to see him.

  "Thank you for coming. Please have a seat," he said in a low and reserved voice. He was a short, stocky man with glasses and was bald over the front and top of his head. He Loosened his tie and took off his tight-fitting sport coat and draped it over the back of his chair. "Congratulations, Frank," he said, leaning forward and handing me a large envelope. "This is the application form you need to fill out."

  "Thank you." I took the envelope and placed it on my lap.

  "The Woodrow Wilson Fellowship program is designed to encourage college graduates to consider college teaching as a career."

  "But I am planning to teach high school."

  "Have you thought of teaching at the college level?"

  "No." I shook my head.

  "Well, you shouldn't rule it out. As I said, these national fellowships are to encourage bright students, like you, to pursue college teaching. Think about it."

  "I will," I responded halfheartedly, glancing down at the thick envelope.

  "It's already an honor to be nominated, so don't be too disappointed if you're not awarded one. These fellowships are very competitive."

  I thanked him and went back to my room, sat at my desk, and opened the envelope. I read through the application, thinking, I am not smart enough to teach in college. That evening, after closing the language lab, I told Laura about being nominated for the fellowship.

  "That's wonderful. Congratulations!"

  When I told her that I wasn't sure I should apply, that the application was really long and I didn't have time to fill it out, she said, "You've got to be kidding!"

  I remained silent for a few seconds as she patiently waited for a response. I glanced at her and then looked down and said, "I don't think I have a chance."

  "Of course you do," she said, smiling. "Why would the university nominate you if you didn't?" Suddenly I felt more weight on my shoulders. "If you don't apply, you won't get the fellowship," she added.

  I worked on the application every day for several days. I wrote a personal statement describing my childhood experiences and explaining why I wanted to be a teacher. I asked Father Shanks, Dr. Vari, and Father O'Neill for letters of recommendation. (Unfortunately, Dr. Hard man de Bautista had left the university, so I could not ask her for one.) A few weeks later, after I had mailed the application, I received a letter from the Woodrow Wilson Foundation informing me that I was a regional finalist.

  I felt happy but, again, worried. The possibility of going to graduate school for a doctorate scared me. When I found out that I had an interview the following week at Stanford University where the regional finalists were being screened, I felt even more tense. I rushed to see Father O'Neill to tell him about it.

  "Good for you," he said, in his soft, raspy voice. He stood up and shook my hand. "Good for you," he repeated. He sat down slowly and placed his trembling hands on his lap.

  "I am worried about the interview. I don't think I'll do well."

  "Of course you will. You have to be confident. Remember, God is on your side. When is the interview?"

  "Next week, Wednesday at two o'clock."

  "You should dress nicely. Wear the suit Mrs. Hancock gave you.

  "it's too big," I said. Even though it had been two years, I still couldn't get her husband's pinstriped suit to fit.

  "Oh ... it doesn't matter," he said thoughtfully. "Just be sure to wear a tie." He got up slowly, moved behind his desk chair, and braced himself on the back of it with both hands. "Can you do me a favor and accompany me to Macy's at Valley Fair? I need to buy some socks. It won't take long."

  "Sure. I'd be happy to." I wondered why he invited me, but I thought it would be disrespectful to say no. As we headed to the Jesuit parking lot in the back of Varsi, I noticed he leaned slightly forward and his shoulders drooped a bit more than they had the year before. We drove to the large shopping center, which was about three miles from campus, and parked the white two-door sedan near Macy's. I followed him to the men's department, where he picked up three pairs of black socks. He then made his way to the suit section and began examining various styles and colors, "What size suit do you wear?" he asked.

  "I'm not sure."

  "Here, try this one on." He took a blue suit jacket off the rack, "Its a forty regular."

  "OK, I can't afford to buy a suit."

  "It doesn't cost anything to try it on. Try it." He grabbed on to the side of the rack as I slipped it on.

  "It's too long." I looked at the price tag and frowned.

  He caught my eye, smiled, and shook his head.

  "You must wear a thirty-eight short." He rifled through the row of suits with his right hand while holding on to the top of the rack with his left one. "Here's one! It's light green. Do you like it?"

  At this point I suspected that he was going to offer to buy it for me.

  "Yes," I said, trying on the jacket. It fit perfectly. I grabbed the hanger and hung the jacket back with the trousers. I was about to place the suit back on the rack when Father O'Neill snatched it from me.

  "You're wearing this to your interview," he said firmly. "I'm buying it for you."

  I was speechless, even tho
ugh I had guessed he wanted to buy it. My eyes welled up as I looked up at him. Giving me time to compose myself, he added, "Actually, I am not exactly buying it. The Jesuit community is."

  After what seemed an eternity, I finally said, "Thank you, Father. I'm sorry I don't have the words to tell you how much I appreciate this."

  "You're welcome. Someday, you'll do the same for someone else."

  I had the suit pants tailored to fir, and two days later, Father O'Neill and I picked them up at Macy's. He also bought me a white shirt and tie to match the suit. When we returned to his office, he gave me an apple and an orange and a set of plain square-shaped, gold-colored cufflinks.

  "I want you to have these," he said, grinning. "I've had them for years. I have another pair."

  I thanked him several times. As I was about to leave, he added, "Don't forget—keep your head up. You'll do just fine in your interview. Trust in God."

  The day of the interview, I was as nervous as I had been the first day of classes my freshman year. I felt sick to my stomach. I attended early-morning Mass at the Mission Church and had a slice of toast with strawberry jam and a cup of tea for breakfast. After my two morning classes, I went back to my room, put on my new suit, had a light lunch in Benson, and drove to Stanford University in Ernie DeGasparis's Volkswagen, which I had borrowed from him the night before. As I headed north on Highway 101, I regretted having to miss my afternoon class on contemporary Latin American literature. This was the third time I had missed a class in college.

  The closer I got to Stanford, the more anxious I became. I took the Embarcadero Road exit, which turned into Galvez Street. The entrance to the campus was lined with palm trees, just like the entrance to the University of Santa Clara. I parked the car near a cluster of eucalyptus trees, which smelled like sweet gum. Their distinct odor reminded me of the time my family and I first arrived in Santa Maria from Mexico when I was four years old. We had only seven dollars and no place to stay, so we spent the night on a bed of leaves underneath eucalyptus trees. I closed my eyes for a few seconds. This feels like a dream, I thought to myself.

  I climbed out of the car and followed the directions to the quad, which had sandstone arches all around. I entered the main door to the History Corner and spotted a small sign that read WOODROW WILSON INTERVIEWS, RM. 105. I took a deep breath, wiped my clammy hands on the sides of my coat, straightened my clip-on tie, and knocked on the door.

  A tall, thin man wearing a navy blue suit came out, greeted me, and introduced himself as Dr. Otis Pease. I remembered his name because it registered in my mind as Dr. Chícharos, the Spanish word for peas; however, I was so nervous that I did not learn the names of the other two men, who were also wearing suits and were very friendly. I sat at a rectangular wooden table facing them with my feet wrapped around the legs of the chair to stop my legs from shaking. Each committee member had a file folder, which I assumed contained my application and letters of recommendation. Dr. Pease, the chairman of the interview committee, began by commenting on my grades.

  "Your academic record is impressive," he said, opening his folder and glancing at it. "You have a 3.8 GPA overall in your last two years and a 3.9 in your major. Now tell us about yourself and why you're interested in a teaching career."

  While I spoke, the three men smiled periodically and glanced at each other. This made me feel more at ease. Once I finished my response, the other two interviewers engaged me in a discussion about Spanish literature and Latin American literature and history, for which I was thankful because I had taken several courses in the history of Mexico and South America from Dr. Matt Meier, one of my favorite professors. At the end of the interview, Dr. Pease informed me that his committee would be making a recommendation to the Woodrow Wilson National Committee, who in turn would be making a final decision.

  A few days later, I received a letter from Hans Rosenhaupt, national director of the Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship Foundation. It read:

  The Selection Committee which interviewed yow has recommended you for an award and the National Selection Committee has accepted the recommendation. I am happy to offer you a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship for the academic year 1966–1967.

  Since only 1,400 Fellows were elected this year from over 13,000 carefully chosen nominees, this election demonstrates great confidence in your promise as a teacher and scholar. From funds supplied by the Ford Foundation, Woodrow Wilson Fellows receive a living stipend, free tuition and fees at a graduate school of their choice, and their graduate school receives an additional subvention.

  While a Woodrow Wilson Fellow is not obliged to become a college teacher, he is expected to complete one year of graduate study and to give serious thought to a career in college teaching....

  The members of the National Selection Committee and the trustees join me in warm congratulations on the honor bestowed upon you.

  I could not believe it. I read the letter twice to make sure it was addressed to me. That I would not have to work as a prefect for room and board or take out loans from the federal government was also impossible to believe. I said a prayer before the image of the Virgen de Guadalupe tacked above my desk and dashed out of my room to thank and share the good news with everyone at the university who was close to me—Father Shanks, Father O'Neill, Dr. Vari, Laura, Emily, and Smokey. I called Roberto and Darlene and told them. They were as thrilled as I was and promised to tell the rest of the family.

  Once I calmed down that evening, a wave of fear came over me. What if I didn't have time to work while I was in graduate school to help my family? What if I failed graduate school? These thoughts kept me awake all night. The next morning, I felt exhausted and discouraged. I reread the letter and hurried to Walsh Hall to see Father Shanks.

  "You need to have more self-confidence, Frank, There is no doubt in my mind that you'll succeed in graduate school. You wouldn't have been awarded the fellowship if you weren't capable of handling graduate work. Just think, with a doctorate you'll be able to teach at a university or be a consultant to our government on international relations. With regard to your family, don't worry. Graduate fellowships provide stipends for dependents." Learning that fellowships made funds available for dependents, and his confidence in me, eased my worries. I could use grant money to help support my family.

  Two weeks before graduation I received a second letter from Hans Rosenhaupt encouraging me to attend Columbia University rather than Emory University, the two graduate schools to which I was advised to apply at the time I was nominated for the Woodrow Wilson Fellowship. He wrote; "Considering the academic advantages, also the possibility of continued support at Columbia, I would urge you to accept Columbia's offer. Let me know by collect telegram if you are willing to attend Columbia University."

  After sending the telegram to the Woodrow Wilson Foundation informing them that I would be attending Columbia, I made a visit to the Mission Church and gave thanks for this unexpected blessing.

  Commencement

  "In a couple of days I'll be graduating from Santa Clara," I told myself as I finished taking my ethics final, the last exam of my college career. I turned in my blue book to Father McQullian and left the classroom feeling happy and relieved. On the way to my room in Dunne, I passed by the olive trees lining the Mission Gardens and looked at the lush green lawn and the tall date palms. The beds of red, pink, yellow, and white flowers planted around their base looked like colorful skirts. I sat on the front stairs of Varsi thinking about graduation and going to Columbia. I watched the little goldfish silently gliding in the pond. I glanced up and spotted a white cloud moving slowly across the light blue sky and followed it with my eyes as it changed shapes several times until it faded away.

  Suddenly the thought of leaving Santa Clara made me feel sad. After graduation, I would no longer spend time with Laura, I would no longer visit Father O'Neill in his office and take walks with him, I would no longer see Emily and Smokey or go to after-game school dances or browse through the stacks in Orradre L
ibrary for enjoyment. My freshman year I had been eager to see time pass by quickly, especially when things were difficult at home. Now I wished for time to stop. I went back across the Mission Gardens and entered the Mission Church, where time often seemed to stand still. I knelt down and said a prayer before the painting of St. Francis at the Cross, the same one I had prayed to so many times before, and enjoyed the silence and the scent of incense and burning candles. I remained there for a long while and then returned to my room, feeling happy and sad at the same time.

  On Friday night I called Roberto from the pay phone booth, which was two doors down the hall from my room, to give him the details about graduation. I shut the glass door tight and held my hand to my right ear to block out the noise coming from students who were celebrating the end of the school year.

  "We're all excited, Panchito—tomorrow is the big day! We're driving up really early."

  "Who's coming?

  "Mom, Torito, Rubén, and Rorra are coming too, but not Trampita."

  "Why not?"

  "He couldn't get out of work."

  I immediately felt disappointed and guilty. The noise in the hallway annoyed me. I opened the door halfway, poked my head out, and told students who were horsing around to be quiet. They gave me a dirty look.

  "Whatever you say, Mr. Big Shot Prefect," I heard one of them say.

  I won't be missing this, I thought. I slammed the door shut. "Sorry for the interruption," I said. "I feel really bad that Trampita is not coming."

  "I know. Me too."

  After a brief silence, Roberto added, "But he'll be there in spirit, just like Dad."

  I felt my throat tighten. The last we had heard from Tía Chana about my father was that he was recovering from his depression but continued to suffer back problems. My mother and younger siblings had not lost hope for his return, but, like Trampita, Roberto and I had doubts. Our family talked about going to see him once we could afford the trip.