Reaching Out (4 page)

I went back to my room and drank a glass of water, then lay in bed and closed my eyes for a few minutes. Then I headed across campus to Seifert Gym to take the test. The old red-brick rectangular building was on the north end of the campus. As I walked in, I was handed a blue book and
informed that the test results would be posted that afternoon outside the gym. I took a seat at one of the long, narrow tables set up for the test and nervously glanced around. The gym had a row of evenly spaced square windows along the top of the two longer walls, shiny dark wooden floors, and a basketball net on both ends, anchored from the ceiling. My hand trembled as I opened the blue book and began writing on a topic that escaped my mind as soon as I turned in my essay. I left the gym in a daze, wondering whether or not I had really taken the dreaded rest.

When I got back to my room, Smokey was lying in bed, reading the newspaper and listening to the radio. "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" was playing.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, putting down the sports page.

"I hope I passed the English test." I plopped onto the bed.

"Of course you did. It was a snap!"

That afternoon, when I went back to the gym, a crowd of freshmen had already gathered around a large bulletin board on which were posted, in alphabetical order, the list of names of those who had passed the examination. Students whose names did not appear on the list had failed the exam and had to take a remedial English course without academic-credit. Students groaned as they pushed and shoved each other, trying to read the list. Some shouted in joy and others grinned from ear to ear as soon as they spotted their name. I
stayed behind the crowd, waiting for it to disperse. I struggled to muster enough strength to overcome the disappointment I expected was waiting for me. I approached the bulletin board and quickly glanced down the list, beginning with the j's. And there was my name! I could not believe my eyes. I checked and double-checked to make sure. Even though I was exhausted, I felt as happy as I had the day my tenth grade English teacher, Miss Bell, told me I had writing talent.

At the end of the day, Smokey and I went back to Sefiert Gym to attend a general assembly for all freshmen. The Orientation Committee explained the history and traditions of the university. We were informed that Santa Clara was the oldest institution of higher education in California. It was founded as a college in 1851 by the Jesuit John Nobili and became a university in 1912. I knew that in 1961 women were first admitted to Santa Clara, breaking the all-male tradition. As I looked around the auditorium, I was surprised to see so few girls. I had been used to attending public schools where the number of boys and girls was about equal. When it was announced that our class of 1966 was the largest freshman class ever, consisting of 579 students, one-third of which were girls, Smokey leaned over and whispered, "The odds are not good for us guys,"

"Especially at dances," I responded.

What surprised me the most later on was to see how some male upperclassmen treated girls. At supper that
evening I noticed that they refused to sit with girls in the dining hall, and later I found out that girls were barred from the football cheering section. The behavior of these students made me feel sad and angry. I wondered if the girls felt as lonely and alienated as I had felt in first grade when classmates excluded me from playing with them because I did not know English.

That night I was so exhausted when I went to bed that I did not even hear our prefect do room check at eleven. I jumped out of bed at six a.m., thinking I was late for work cleaning the Western Union before it opened at seven. I quickly realized I was at Santa Clara and not at home when I glanced over and saw Smokey still asleep.

After breakfast, I read through the graduation requirements in the university's catalogue. The required and recommended elective courses were listed by major for each semester for the four years. Since most majors had the same requirements for the first two years, I decided to take four required courses; Fundamental Theology; Composition and Literature; Logic and Military Science; and History of Western Civilization; and one elective, Spanish, for a total of sixteen and a half units. I jotted them down on a scrap of paper and headed to Sefiert Gym to register.

The gym was noisy and crammed with freshmen trying to register for classes. None of them looked like my friends from Bonetti Ranch or friends I had made in labor camps. I realized this made me feel uncomfortable even though my
high school had very few students from migrant communities. Large signs indicating the various departments were taped along the south wall of the gym, and beneath each sign faculty sat behind small tables, giving advice and signing up students for courses. There were long waiting lines for each subject. My mouth felt dry and my hands were cold and clammy. I went through the lines for required courses first, hoping that the classes I had selected were not closed. Luck was on my side. I got them all. I then waited in line for Spanish. When I got to the front, the professor manning the table stood up, introduced himself as Dr. Victor Vari, and shook my hand. "I want to make sure you take the right level of Spanish," he said with a slight accent, looking straight into my eyes. "Do you speak Spanish? You should, with the name Jimenez," he said, smiling and pronouncing my name correctly.

"Yes, I do," I said proudly. He and I proceeded to speak in my native language.

"Well," he said, switching to English. "You must take Spanish 100A, which is Advanced Composition and Reading." I agreed, not knowing exactly what I was getting into. I filled out a card with all my classes and handed it to a staff member standing at the entrance to the building.

As I exited the gym, I was greeted by a sophomore who smashed a Ding Dong cake over my head. He handed me a booklet and informed me that I had to fill it with signatures of upperclassmen by the end of the following day, and that if
I failed, I would he taken to "moot court." He laughed loudly as he waited for the next freshman to come out of the gym. I was not amused. I felt embarrassed and humiliated. I knew it was all for fun, but I thought it was disrespectful. I dashed back to my room, trying to avoid running into any upperclassmen. I stayed in my room with the door locked until Smokey came back from registration. As soon as he walked in, he turned on the radio and proudly showed me his booklet half filled with signatures. "I'll have this baby filled in no time," he said. "How many signatures have you got?" I did not respond. Smokey glanced at me and laughed.

"Did you get the classes you wanted?" I asked.

"Yep."

We compared our class schedules and were disappointed not to share any classes, but we had the same English instructor for Composition and Literature, which made me feel a little better.

Smokey changed clothes and invited me to help create a dummy to represent the "image of the Santa Clara man." It was a contest between male freshman dorms, sponsored by the sophomore class, to build school spirit. My Kenna Hall classmates dressed a mannequin in a red sweater, white shirt, and narrow black tie, and had him pointing to a sign that read NOBILI HALL. I did not participate because I was still upset about the Ding Dong prank. I stayed in my room, missing my family, worrying about the classes I had enrolled in for that semester, and hoping that time at Santa Clara would go by fast.

I woke up early the next morning after having spent half the night awake, worrying about not making my first class at eight o'clock on time. I stumbled out of bed, took a quick shower, got dressed, and rushed to Montgomery Labs, an old wooden two-story building on the north side of campus. The classroom, located on the ground floor, looked like the interior of an old warehouse. It was long and narrow and filled with movable desks lined in rows. Sun rays fanned through its large soiled windows and reflected off the gray concrete floor, creating a haze throughout the room. I took a seat in the front, second row, near a window, and waited for class to begin. I did not know what to expect. The classroom became increasingly loud as it quickly filled with students who were talking and getting acquainted.

Suddenly there was silence. The teacher had entered the room. He was young, tall and thin, and wore a sport coat, tie, and vest. Standing behind the podium, he announced in a strong and forceful voice, "I am Mr. Peter Phillips, your instructor for History of Western Civilization. This class is a
yearlong general survey of Western culture from its beginning to the present. This first semester, I'll be emphasizing those ancient and classic institutions which have shaped our modern civilization." I was going to enjoy this course. I liked history and was interested in learning more about the Greeks and the Romans and the Spanish explorers.

"I'll be assigning short essays during the course, and if your paper, which you must type, has one misspelled word in it, it'll be an automatic D." Immediately, my anxiety returned. He proceeded to take roll, calling out names with ease. When he got to mine, he pronounced it "Gymenez." I did not say anything because I did not want to be disrespectful.

I was worried about my history class, but looked forward to my Spanish class, which was held in one of the classrooms in the basement of O'Connor Hall, one of the oldest buildings in the university. Dr. Vari shook hands with everyone and asked us to introduce ourselves. His warmth and genuine interest in students immediately created a welcoming atmosphere. Most of the students in the class were from Central America. They seemed self-assured and used Spanish vocabulary and expressions I was not familiar with. Halfway through the class, Dr. Vari passed out blank sheets of paper and asked us to write a brief composition. He said he wanted to assess our writing ability and knowledge of grammar. Even though I spoke Spanish, I had never written any essays in my native language before, and neither had I read Spanish literature. I struggled to write down my thoughts, not knowing
whether I was spelling words correctly. From the corner of my eye, I saw the student sitting to my right writing rapidly and effortlessly. I left the class wondering what opinion my instructor would have of me once he read my essay.

Later that afternoon I attended the course I dreaded the most; English Composition and Literature. The classroom was on the first floor of O'Connor Hall. The worn wooden chairs were fixed to the floor. In front was a small rectangular platform with a desk, and behind it, on the wall, a scratched blackboard. The instructor walked in carrying a bulging briefcase. He was a short, stocky man with short, wavy brown hair and glasses, and he had a small gap between his two front teeth. He reached into his briefcase, took out several books and papers, and spread them on the top of his desk. He introduced himself as Dr. James Quinn and informed us that he was the chairman of the English Department. He lit up a cigarette and proceeded to explain the nature of the course.

"In this course, you'll be writing expository, argumentative, persuasive, descriptive, and narrative essays," he said, taking a puff and placing his cigarette on a tarnished and chipped ashtray. As he talked, the knot in my stomach tightened. My pain got worse when he announced that we were to turn in an essay at the end of every week on a topic assigned the previous Friday. "You'll have a full week to work on it," he said calmly, "so I will not accept any excuses for late papers." I glanced around the room, expecting students
to complain or moan like in high school, but no one did. They must
all be really smart and know what they're doing,
I thought, sliding lower into my seat.

"Your writing assignment for next Friday is to comment on and interpret Virginia Woolf's essay 'Life Itself,'" he said, handing out mimeographed copies of the literary piece to the class. I had never heard of the author before.

That evening, after supper, I went to Varsi Library to work on my English paper. On the way I visited the Mission Church and silently prayed for my family. Exiting from the side front door, I passed the large yellowish statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the Mission Gardens and stopped to admire the old adobe wall, which was part of the original Mission Santa Clara. I wondered what the Native Americans and Mexicans thought and felt as they walked these same grounds centuries ago. As I was about to enter the library, I heard the Mission bells toll. I sat on the front steps to Varsi and gazed at the Mission tower and listened to their melancholy sound.

After sitting there for a while, I went into the reading room of the library, which had high ceilings and long rectangular tables with two chairs on each side. A painting of the Mission Santa Clara hung on the back wall. I took out the mimeographed essay and began reading it, I read it several times, trying to understand the point of the three-page work. It was a very brief biography of a man named Parson Woodforde. The essay was based on his diary, written almost
daily over many years. There was no mention of his dare of birth or the year of his death. He lived a routine and ordinary but stable life. I thought about how this man's secure life contrasted with my own life of constant change, especially during my younger years. I looked up information about Virginia Woolf in the card catalogue and checked out several books on her. I read through them over the next few days but found nothing specific about her essay. I reread the essay a few more times, jotting down ideas. Time was running out. Perhaps the meaning of her essay was that people are happier living a stable and ordinary life rather than living an unstable life of historical significance. Or that it's a challenge to live a stable life in a constantly changing world. On Tuesday evening I wrote the first draft and a second one on Wednesday. I borrowed Smokey's portable typewriter and began typing my paper on Thursday evening, using erasable bond paper so that I could make corrections easily. As I was typing, Smokey came in from football practice. He looked like he had been in a battle. He was sweaty and his pants and jersey were full of grass stains.

"Did someone use your body to mow the lawn?" I asked, laughing.