Reaching Out (17 page)

"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 though 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.

"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 Library 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.

At the end of our conversation, we agreed to meet in front of the Mission Church right after commencement. That same evening I invited Emily and her mother and Laura to my graduation and made reservations for lunch at the Pine Cone Inn, a restaurant in Valley Fair that Father O'Neill had recommended.

Saturday morning, I climbed out of bed late after having spent half the night awake, thinking about graduation and wondering what my life would be like in New York. I took a shower and quickly got dressed in my black gown with long pointed sleeves and a white hood. I raced across campus,
carrying my mortarboard cap in my right hand, and joined my classmates in line, which began in front of the Mission Church and snaked back to O'Connor Hall.

Looking like a lineup of penguins, my classmates and I anxiously waited for the commencement procession to begin. As soon as the U.S. Army band began playing "Pomp and Circumstance," we started moving slowly, passing the front of the Mission Church. We turned right at the end of it and continued under an arbor overflowing with purple wisteria flowers. We circled around the statue of the Sacred Heart, went through an archway in the adobe wall, and entered the Mission Gardens and began filling the rows of plastic chairs, facing a makeshift stage behind the Jesuit residence. The faculty and administrators matched at the end of the line and took their seats on stage. Wearing colorful gowns and caps of various shapes and sizes, they looked like a flock of peacocks. Thousands of spectators filled the Gardens all around, some sitting, others standing with small children on their shoulders.

After the Reverend Philip J. Oliger, chaplain of the university, gave the invocation, William P. Fay, the ambassador to Ireland, delivered the commencement address. I half listened to him, wondering whether or not my family had made the ceremony on time. I craned my neck, trying to spot them. My classmates and I became fidgety as an endless number of degree candidates from the School of Business and the School of Engineering were called individually on stage to receive their diplomas. Our restlessness vanished, however,
when Father Thomas D. Terry, dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, was introduced. We all stood up and cheered as he presented our group to receive our diplomas. As it got closer to my name being called, I became increasingly excited and nervous. Finally I heard it. My heart raced ahead of me as I climbed the stairs to the stage. I felt as though I were in a dream, observing myself gliding in slow motion toward Father Patrick Donohoe, the president of the university, and reaching out for my certificate. Smiling and shaking my hand, he handed it to me. I clutched it against my chest with both hands and returned to my seat. It
happened too quickly,
I thought. I sighed, tuned out everything for a moment, and replayed the experience of graduation over and over in my head.