César Chávez was the gutsy genius with the vision and foresight to engineer the boycott. An effective leader of El Movimiento who believed in peaceful protest. “¡Sí Se Puede!” (“Yes, we can!”) A call to activism to inspire Mexican American workers to unionize and fight for civil liberties. Years later, the first black American president borrowed the slogan for his winning campaign.
Five years before César Chávez’s death in 1993, he did a fast to end the use of pesticides in agriculture, he told his son, “I haven’t done enough with my life. I will do this fast to bring attention to the cause.” César Chávez and his wife Helen, awoke early, every day to say the Rosary on their knees, next to the bed.
Alongside César Chávez was Dolores Huerta, a Civil Rights activist and co-founder of the United Farm Workers of America. A rebel veteran of immigrant rights and the feminist movement. She suffered the harsh treatment of the macho and narrow-minded males of the union. The workers called her the Madonna of the Fields. The growers called her the Dragon Lady. When told she couldn’t do in Arizona what was accomplished in California; she coined the brilliant MeXicana mantra, “¡Sí Se Puede!”
She strived on after César’s death to found the Dolores Huerta Foundation for Community Organizing continuing to fight in her late-eighties, weaving together voter and immigrant rights, LGBT, feminist, environmental and labor activist issues. She inspires and leads by helping the downtrodden and diminished, the forgotten poor, and the outcasts. Those who don’t have lobbyists in Washington to fight for them. “We can’t let people drive wedges between us…because there’s only one human race,” writes Dolores Huerta.
In the same journal, I had a copy of Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales famous poem; I am Joaquín, it described the economic, cultural, and political battles Chicanos face in this country.
If we stopped looking forward and backward, we would see the Kingdom of God right beneath our feet. Right under our noses. Everything is given to us. Rich beyond our dreams. What will my life contribute to the centuries, to the eternal concord?
14
Love is Color Blind
Love begets Love. Love knows no rules —Virgil
Jack calls me every night around 10:30 p.m. or after the prefect of Hedley Hall goes to sleep. He slips quietly into the pay phone booth at the end of the hallway in the dorm. I keep the family phone with the extra, long cord in my bedroom. We visit for hours, some nights until 1:00 a.m. during the lively conversations, in his quiet and measured way, he downright charms me.
We discuss everything including Watergate, Vietnam, favorite music, and authors. I crave the confident sound of his voice and swell with contentment during the long hours courting on the telephone. I strive to be the best version of myself.
He speaks in a singsong cadence with short pauses, numbering points sucking in air, ta-ta-ta tapping the tongue on the roof of the mouth while calculating the next comment. “Hmmm” could be judgmental but mostly used as a stalling tactic. His crystal voice and golden laughter is pure joy. Calls begin formal and stiff until he relaxes and wades into the warm, conversational flow that opens him up.
We have similar views on most subjects, which was unusual considering our different backgrounds. Jack has a temper. During a disagreement, I said offhandedly, “The juice isn’t worth the squeeze.” He demanded to know what I meant. When I tried to explain, he got even more agitated. The eye-opening dust-ups point to his calculating and cold nature. He sees the world through a sharp analytical prism. Computer analytics is the perfect career choice as an adult. It’s difficult for him to grasp complicated emotions, to feel deeply, and Love completely.
I always manage to smooth the ruffled feathers. His eloquent intelligence is his most attractive quality. I fall in Love with his mind. Women fall in Love with what they hear, and men fall in Love with what they see.
His father is an executive for a shipping company, and the family lived all over the world. They’re living in New Zealand, the reason why Jack is at the college preparatory high school. He’s a natural learner; a straight A student who made Honor Roll every semester. School is easy for him—even stoned.
We see each other on the sly—sneaking around town. My parents aren’t aware that we’re dating. They’re strict, cradle to grave Catholics; girls, don’t date until age eighteen. My curfew is 11:00 p.m. until I graduate from high school. I am the jewel of the family; they have big hopes for me. I’m to be the first to graduate from college, have a career, the first of my generation to lead a creative life and break out of the poverty cycle.
I’m Daddy’s little princess: la consentida, no one’s going to be good enough for me. I need excellent grades to get into college, distractions must be kept to a minimum.
Jack calls on a Friday night after I return from cheering at a football game.
“Wanna meet tomorrow?” He asks, first thing.
“Of course, where?” That’s the big issue now. The River’s so popular, going there involves partying with half of his class. “How about the softball field behind the high school? Let’s meet at 1:00 p.m. That’ll give you a chance to return for dinner.” He agrees.
The following day, I ride my bike and lock it to the softball field fence. We meet at the baseball diamond on a pleasant, winter day. The bright, incandescent sky is warm when the clouds clear but cool when blocked by the sun. The field is empty except for us. We climb the metal bleachers, tunk, tunk, tunk. We eagerly hold hands. I pull out of my backpack a small, lap blanket, and lay it over our legs to keep warm.
I’m awed by how funny Jack is, his dry sense of humor catches me off guard. One hour into our visit, we see a car approaching the dirt road entrance. It’s not just any car—a cherry red and white 1957, Ford Galaxy 500, one of kind. My tough, butch older sister Rae is about to bust our clandestine meeting.
We’re trapped; there’s no other way out. I stiffen and warn Jack. “This is my sister Rae, she’s got a terrible temper and will be super pissed I’m here with you, don’t argue with her. Please, don’t hurt her.”
Jack understands the gravity of the situation, “Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be grounded for life, but she’ll be more pissed that you’re white. He leans over and tenderly kisses my cheek. I bite my lip, fear leaks out of me. I jiggle my leg, against the metal bleachers, it vibrates and makes a tinny, rattling sound.
Rae’s beautiful, red and white car comes to a violent, abrupt stop—dust, dirt and small rocks spray in all directions. She’s short, about 4’11, but built like a brick shithouse. Rae’s the ultra-protective—“I’m the boss of you” older big sister by six years. We Love each other, we just aren’t friends. She’s the oldest of four kids, entitling her to feel responsible for me. Her angry, swirling Tasmanian Devil energy, hurls invisible punches. The squinted dagger-eyes look like she’s caught a stranger molesting me. She explodes out of the car, leaving the door open.
“What the HELL are you doing here? Who the fuck are you?” She screams at Jack. He stands up nervously, then sits back down. Rae charges up the bleachers and throws a right cross blow hitting him on the cheek. He stands up with a jerk, steadies himself, hands me the lap blanket, and looks helplessly at me for direction.
“Leave him alone. Jack get outta here now!” I scream and shield him with my body. He stumbles down the loud, metal clanking bleachers.
Her head looks like Mount Vesuvius about to blow. To her, I’d always be the