Reaching Out (16 page)

A wave of sadness and anger came over me. I had to join the pilgrimage to Sacramento.

At the end of my ethics class, I told Father Charles McQuillan, the instructor, that I would be missing class on Thursday because I had decided to join the march to Sacramento. He reminded me that we had an exam on that day. "I am assuming you thought about this carefully and
know the consequences," he said, adjusting his Roman collar.

"Yes. But I was hoping you would let me make up the test."

"You know I don't give makeups."

"Yes, I know, but..."

"So, is sacrificing your grade to go on the march worth it?" he asked, looking me in the eye.

I didn't hesitate. "It is."

"Then go ahead. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for what we believe in." He smiled and shook my hand.

I thanked him and headed to see Jerry McGrath, the dean of students, who had hired me again that year to be a prefect. I needed his approval to leave campus. I was glad that he was already aware of the march and supported it. He authorized my request. I then asked Tim Taormina, my roommate with whom I shared prefect responsibilities, if he would cover for me. Tim agreed to take over my duties in exchange for my standing in for him the following two weekends.

Three days before Easter, on Holy Thursday morning, April 7, at five a.m., jerry McGrath drove four other students and me in an eight-passenger van for an hour and a half until we spotted the tail end of the pilgrimage. It was a long, thin, serpentine line inching its way along the flat Central Valley on Highway 99, near the city of Lodi. He dropped us off and we joined the peaceful journey to Sacramento, I hurried toward the front of the procession, leaving my schoolmates behind.

Several feet in front of me walked César Chavez. He was flanked by farm workers carrying the American flag, the Mexican flag, the flag from the Philippines, and a large banner of the Virgen de Guadalupe. Excited to see him, I tried to bypass other marchers to get closer, but one of the monitors stopped me and asked me to fall back in line. I ended up behind a young man who wore shorts, a white T-shirt, a Giants cap, and a red armband with an Aztec black eagle. I looked behind me and saw an older man who reminded me of my father. His face and hands were weather-beaten. He wore khaki pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and a sweat-stained cap. In each hand he carried a
huelga,
a flag. When I smiled at him, he stretched out his arm to hand me one of his Strike flags.

The blazing sun hung above the pale blue sky. I could feel the blistering asphalt on the bottoms of my tired feet as we continued walking by hundreds of acres of green fields that stretched for miles on either side of Highway 99. My family had traveled this same road every year, for nine years, looking for work during the grape and cotton seasons. We had passed through Tulare, Visalia, Selma, Fowler, Parlier, and Fresno. At a distance, I spotted a yellow crop-duster sweeping over the fields, leaving a trail of gray clouds behind. It reminded me of picking strawberries and having to crouch down as crop-dusters flew above our heads and sprayed the fields with chemicals that caused our eyes to burn and water for days. Today I felt anger and pity
when I saw farm workers bent over thinning sugar beets with the same type of short-handle hoes that Roberto and I used when we thinned lettuce in Santa Maria. I could feel their back pain from stooping all day. The farm workers slowly straightened up and watched us. "
Vénganse con nosotors
," one of the organizers yelled out, trying to persuade them to join the march. The farm workers waved and continued working. The} must
be afraid, like my
mother, to lose
their jobs,
I thought.

As passersby honked their car horns and waved, I smiled and raised my flag. One pickup driver flipped us off and yelled out the window, "Go back to Mexico!"

What an idiot,
I thought, fuming inside. Along the way, local supporters joined us for a while; others offered us rice and bean tacos and water for lunch.

That night we gathered outside of Gait, a small town where the organizers had planned a program for us. They passed out flyers to residents, asking them to boycott table grapes and all Schenley products until Schenley recognized the National Farm Workers Association. We were given copies of "El Plan de Delano," which described the purpose for the march to Sacramento. We chanted "
Sí se puede.
" Yes we can. We sang songs like "De Colores." Luis Valdez, a stocky and vigorous young man with jet black hair and a Zapata-style mustache, jumped onto a makeshift wooden platform and began reading "El Plan de Delano" in a deep and powerful voice.

 

This is the beginning of a social movement in fact and not in pronouncements. We seek our basic, God-given rights as human beings. Because we have suffered—and are not afraid to suffer—in order to survive, we are ready to give up everything, even our lives, in our fight for social justice. We shail do it without violence because that is our destiny...

We seek, and have, the support of the Churc/i in what we do. At the head of the Pilgrimage we carry LA VIR-GEN DE LA GUADALUPE because she is ours, all ours, Patroness of the Mexican people. We also carry the Sacred Cross and the Star of David because we are not sectarians, and because we ask the help and prayers of all religions. All men are brothers, sons of the same God ...

Our men, women, and children have suffered not only the basic brutality of stoop labor, and the most obvious injustices of the system; they have also suffered the desperation of knowing that the system caters to the greed of callous men and not to our needs. Now we will suffer for the purpose of ending the poverty, the miser), and the injustice, with the hope that our children will not be exploited as we have been...

We shall unite. We have learned the meaning of UNITY. We know why these United States are just that—united. The strength of the poor is a!so in union. We know that the poverty of the Mexican or Filipino
worker in California is the same as that of all farm workers across the country, the Negroes and poor whites, the Puerto Ricans, Japanese, and Arabians; in short, all of the races that comprise the oppressed minorities of the United States. The majority of the people on our Pilgrimage are of Mexican descent, but the triumph of our race depends on a national association of all farm workers...

We shall strike ... We want to be equal with a!f the working men in the nation; we want a just wage, better working conditions, a decent future for our children. To those who oppose us... we say that we are going to continue fighting until we die, or we win. WE SHALL OVERCOME.

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.

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.